by Rolf Nelson
“She looks pretty well-equipped to me,” Kaminski says. Allonia snorts and rolls her eyes.
“Yeah,” Vera says dryly. “Equipped with a great double-breasted brass catcher.”
“That’s what I meant,” he says defensively.
“Yeah. Right,” Vera responds.
Kaminski takes another look. “Five gets you ten we get a brass-dance on the first mag.”
Vera shakes her head. “No dice. Not with that much cleavage.” She turns back to Allonia, who’s looking at them like they’re speaking a different language. “Okay, then. Know what you want to start with?”
“Well, she’s already done a bit of shooting,” Kaminski says. “I think we’ll start in the middle and work our way out. How about a Duty 9mm?”
“Good choice. Right here.” Kaminski waves his wallet at a scanner, it beeps, and Vera sets a box of ammo and a gun rug on the counter. She opens the case, pulls out a 9mm handgun, drops the magazine and checks it to make sure it’s empty, racks the slide to check the chamber, inserts the empty mag, and zips it up. “Eyes and ears?”
“Just for her.”
Vera reaches under the counter and pulls out protective eyewear and ear muffs and hands them to Allonia. Kaminski opens his bag, pulls out his own, puts them on, and they head through the double doors onto the range.
Kaminski picks an empty shooting booth and makes sure all is in order. Allonia picks up the pistol, a sleek silvery 9mm. She inserts the magazine, works the action, takes a careful stance, and squeezes off a few rounds. She sets it down, shrugging noncommittally.
There are shots from down the line a little ways, then a shriek and the clatter of a dropped gun. The well-dressed floozy is dancing around, brushing at her chest, trying to get something out of her cleavage. She stops, grabs the edge of her top, pulls it up far enough to grab the bottom of her bra. Two brass cases drop out and clatter onto the floor.
“Brass-branded in the first mag!” Kaminski says, with a full-sized grin. “Fashion is one thing. Common sense is another.”
Allonia smiles and tugs at the collar of her turtleneck shirt. “I wondered why you were so specific.”
“Not that I’d mind you wearing something like that,” Kaminski adds. “Just not at the range.”
The floozy and her sugar daddy start arguing. Kaminski and Allonia get back to finding the perfect bullet launcher. She tries guns large and small, high-tech and old-fashioned, high-powered and “ladies' guns”, fancy and plain:
A black semi-auto, with a bottom rail
A small stainless steel revolver, no flash and almost no recoil
A large stainless steel revolver, longer barrel, huge flash and lots of recoil
A black polymer semi-auto
A huge blued revolver with very long barrel, just for grins
A small sleek black plastic semi-auto
A midsized, mid-caliber, shiny revolver
A futuristic fancy target pistol, hard to carry but easy to make bulls-eyes with
A tiny .22 pocket pistol
An ugly, blocky polymer pistol with triple rail, light, laser, micro-bayonet, just because they could
A blued 1911 Govt. Model, because it was traditional
A silvery/stainless long-slide 1911-style with a rail
“The small ones are okay, I guess, but they just don’t feel…”
“Substantial?” Vera says knowingly. “Like they aren’t enough to do the job?”
“Yes, exactly!”
“So you really like that one, eh?” Kaminski asks.
“It’s kind of plain looking, but it’s comfortable. Good balance, just … feels right in my hand.”
“Not what I would have expected, but if you’re sure…”
Allonia holds up a target with dozens of holes in a good group in the middle. “Pretty sure.”
“How it feels and shoots is what counts,” says Vera. “If it’s just looks that bother you, I’m sure we can dress it up a bit. A bit of engraving or inlay, grips, good leather…”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“We can look at standard engraving designs and patterns,” Kaminski says, “and if they don’t have something you like with the gunsmith here, we’ll see if perhaps Stenson can do something more to your liking.”
“Or maybe Sergeant Kaushik, I think his Komenagen had something to do with metal-working. Okay, wrap it up. We can figure out what sort of pattern we want after–”
Vera cuts her off. “Not we. You. It’s your gun, it’s going to be an extension of you. You pick the pattern you want on it. What other people think is their problem.” Kaminski nods in firm agreement.
Allonia smiles at both of them. “Right. I will figure out what pattern I want after I see what people can do.”
“Absolutely right,” says Vera. “Be sure you bring it in when it’s done; I want to see how you dress it up.”
Histories
“Remember when I told you that if anyone tells you they can fix this ship up like new they are either lying, incompetent, or God’s Own Watchmaker?”
Stenson, dirty and tired, leans against the bulkhead, looking thoughtfully at Helton as he extricates himself from an access port in a storage and machinery room, surrounded by a clutter of tools, e-readers, storage boxes, electronic parts and machinery, a pistol belt.
“Yeah?”
“I was more correct than I knew,” Stenson says. “How’s your history?”
“Other than the normal childhood fascination with the Chi-Stan wars, the colony terraforming and conflicts, and the Romans, just the normal bit of this and that. Why?”
“This ship is unique. More than just a professional challenge. From a distance it looks like an ordinary old Meridian class transport. Then it appeared to be an Assault Transport, an ALAT Mark 4A or something. Though after getting inside its systems a bit, I told you it was a modified Orion. They made a couple of hundred of those early trans-light armored assault ships when the colonies were new and folks were afraid of finding the Planet Movers around every other corner, before they went to carriers. While ancient history now, they’re famous, especially for their involvement in the first interstellar conflicts and the Corporation-Nation wars.”
“So … it’s not an Orion?” asks Helton.
“Well. Combat losses, training losses, and crashes are expected with warships. Being lost without a trace isn’t. After a couple of Orions vanished with all hands, the military got scared, because Orions were designed to go anywhere with a company of space marines, under any circumstances, to take care of things, and get their crews home.
“Heavy armor. Multiple power sources, with extra backup auxiliary systems. Multiple power delivery paths. Redundant environmental systems. Every different weapon system known to man: conventional guns, missiles, particle beams, lasers, torpedoes, rail guns, weapons pods. Inboard independent mobiles, outboard attachments, hardpoints for bolt-ons. Tanks inboard and surface mounted. Automatic and manned systems.
“Not just three main drives, but three each of both Harmon and Sokolov drives. Redundant primary, secondary, and tertiary power. Enough sensor and computer power to cover a deep survey ship. Redundant independent control computers for each system, as well as central integrated controls and manual locals. Able to deal with any atmo or grav conditions.
“It had interchangeable modular internal components to make it specialized for any mission, which is why all the port hatches open forward, and the starboard open aft; the modules could be fit on either side. More redundancy than a Calcutta Government department of interagency paperwork processing in the bureau of permitting division. Yet, some just … vanished.”
“Then, if I recall correctly,” says Helton, “one turned up with nobody on board, the computers wiped, totally on failsafe autopilot. A sort of Flying Dutchman. Kind of like this one.”
“Yup. Scared the crap out of people with stars on their shoulders. So a secret and high-level program was started, the Selene project.”
Helton shakes his head and frowns. “Never heard of it.”
“Its history was pretty well scrubbed; easy to do when it’s all electrons, controlled from the center. Anyway. They had been working on fully self-aware, ship-integrated AI for a while. A crash program installed the first operationally fully self-aware AI on board a ship. They only made a couple dozen of ’em. Some were retrofits on modified Orions, but some were brand new ships, a sort of upgraded Orion where everything was just a little bit better. They called them the Armadillo class; every can of kickass they opened was just a little extra frosty. The hull was the toughest ever built. They still had a full human crew and complement, but apparently there were some problems, because the Armadillos were all canceled, lost, converted or decommissioned, records scrubbed, and disappeared, shortly after the third Chi-Stan war. Or so I thought,” he looks up and around, “until now.”
“This has a complete self-aware AI?” Helton asks, worried.
Stenson waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, God no. Aside from full AI having been outlawed long ago, shortly after the war, this particular ship has been stripped, updated, modified, bought, sold and tweaked for at least a dozen different jobs, with stuff bolted on and hacked away with abandon.
“But all that redundancy has not been maintained properly, probably confused the hell out of most of its owners, and this ship is running at maybe, maybe, 30% efficiency overall. It has more systems down or out-of-spec than most ships this size have, yet it can still fly, because others were doing their best to take up the slack. It’s getting close to the breaking point, though. Hell, it doesn’t even have acceleration compensators anymore.”
“Yes, it does!” Helton insists, confused.
“‘Fraid not. It’s got the A-grav system pulling extra duty simulating accelacomps. Hell, I didn’t even know it was possible in theory, and this ship’s doing it in practice. I’m still kind of sketchy on how, but there it is. If they go, things will get interesting fast.”
“Interesting?”
“Snarge.”
“Snarge?”
“The gunk left on the leading edge after flying through a bird at high speed.”
Helton winces. “So, can you fix her?”
“At an Earth Fleet Primary Space Maintenance Depot with an unlimited budget, yes. Mostly. Eventually. If it were legal. Which due to the AI prohibition laws it isn’t. Out here, with a lot of time, more money than we’ve got, good luck on parts procurement, and some seriously brilliant help, I can get it to fly again, mostly safely, but never to full original spec.
“We’ve made a lot of progress getting things smoothed out after our test flight and have a better handle on what we need the most next,” Stenson says. “Here’s a list of the most important items I just can’t get here in this backwater, or even track down at the Eridani boneyard. Maybe get them made at a Geminorum custom shop or something. With those, we can do a lot more. For now, though, I’m afraid to say it, but after centuries and untold abuse…”
“But … not dead, quite yet?”
“No. She’s not quite dead yet, and she seems to be getting better.”
Allonia sits at the work table in her cabin sewing with fancy brocade cloth, intent on her work. A chime calls for her attention. She ignores it and keeps sewing. She stops a moment to make an adjustment and the chime sounds again. She sits up, stretches her shoulders up and back, then replies to the ship’s computer.
“Yes?”
The Ship AI speaks in a calm, quiet, female voice. “As directed by Captain Strom, the health of all persons aboard has been monitored.”
“And…?”
“Did you know that you are illegal?”
“What do you mean, illegal?”
“You are not legal.”
Allonia shakes her head in confusion. “I know what illegal means. I don’t know what you mean by me being illegal.”
“Your existence is in violation of the law. You are engineered. Not legal.”
“I’m not an engineer! And engineers are legal!”
“Not an engineer. Genetically engineered.”
“No I’m not!”
“Yes, you are. Or your immediate lineage was.”
“Of course they weren’t!”
“Do you look like your parents?”
“Not really, but they said I was the spitting image of … my … aunt…”
“You have very few markers for a predisposition to any genetic disease. You have a number of extremely rare mutations that tend to express as moderately enhanced strength, endurance, reflexes, pain tolerance, vision, coordination, bone structure, oxygen utilization and carrying capacity, stress tolerance, intelligence, and disease resistance. You have several gene sequences that are not recorded as having occurred naturally, and which this ship is not equipped to properly analyze. Those are hallmarks of the prohibited engineered soldiers from the 22nd-century Corporate-National war debacle.”
Allonia inhales sharply. “WHAT? HOW? And what does that have to do with monitoring my health?”
“All crew and passengers are fast-screened for dietary or common genetic problems as a matter of routine meat-space safety and maintenance.”
“How does that make me illegal?”
“On some planets, including this one, such highly engineered people are explicitly illegal and officially subject to summary execution upon identification. On most of the rest they are subject to immediate sterilization, imprisonment, and/or close monitoring.”
Allonia looks dazed and stares at the wall, slumping back a bit into her chair. “What do I do?”
“Be yourself. Avoid genetic scans from anywhere off-ship.”
“That’s it?”
“You do not appear to be a threat to the crew or ship. Quite the contrary, you appear to be a valuable asset. The laws were intended to safeguard against excessive genetic engineering that might pose a species threat. You do not fit that profile. The history of irrational fear, bigotry, and hatred of those perceived as “other” or “potentially dangerous” is well-documented. No one will be informed if there is no need. You are being informed so you may avoid unnecessary exposure.”
“Uh, thanks, I guess.”
“You are welcome.”
Allonia thinks about it a minute. “Why tell me now?”
“Inquiries were made about genetic compatibility, and a full genetic screen was done.”
“Who asked?”
“It would be impolite to say.”
“Who?”
“Perhaps ‘privileged information’ would be a better term. None of them will be informed of the results or identified to you, unless you are interested in reproducing with them. It should be noted that you would be an extremely good genetic match for any of them, illegality on most planets aside. On those planets where you are legal, demand for your reproductive services could command a very high price; more than enough to live comfortably.”
“Uh, wow. I, uh, guess that would be, um…”
“Good night.”
“Mmm. Not sure how well I’ll sleep. But, g’night.”
Contract
Lag is at his desk in his office in building 1701, reading from a built-in screen, when a beep sounds from his door. “Come in!” he calls.
Helton opens the door and walks in, flops down in a chair. “What a week!”
“Ready to fly again?”
“Not right this moment, but Stenson says soon.”
“What does Bipasha say?”
“We go broke no matter what we do,” Helton says. “We need a paying customer yesterday, or we get both fuel and shore power cut in a couple of days. She’s having fun getting ready to take a job she’s sure we’ll lose money on. She’s searching hard for jobs, but between the unions and Seymore…” He shrugs.
“Kwon?”
“Other than having flashbacks to the Navy? He’s prepared for anything up to a week buttoned up, with current recruits and crew.”
“Ready to transport about
a hundred injured soldiers and some military equipment from the far side out to Transfer Station Two?”
“You found us a job? Really?”
“Haven’t signed anything for you yet,” Lag says. “There has been some fighting on the far side. Things are busy and they’re short on transport. A brigade took heavy casualties. They have a company-sized number that are stable but need off-planet R&R, prosthetics, re-gen therapy, physical therapy, and things that are not readily available here. They also have some equipment they need to send back for repair, and transporting military hardware can be … problematic. Several civilian craft have been shot at. It seemed a natural job for you to put in a bid on the transport contract to the transfer station.”
“Yes!”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, sure I’m sure! Sounds like a milk run; fly in and load up, hit the transfer station, hand them over, and come home to fix whatever broke.”
“You know the exact terms of the contract?”
“Uh … good point. But I’m sure you’d–”
“Run the number past Bipasha?”
“That sounds … fun.”
“There are a few things I expect you’ll need to lay in before you lift. I will forward the list to you and your crew to look over.”
“Great, that’ll be great. Thanks. Thanks for everything.”
“You can thank me when the contract is signed, paid, and done,” Lag says quietly. “If you still think you should.”
Helton nods thoughtfully, turns and heads out the door, closing it behind him.
“The medical support supplies I understand,” Bipasha complains, “but this is way too much food. For a hundred guys on a two-day run more than a thousand kilos is ridiculous!”