So It Begins (Defending The Future)

by James Chambers

  Finally, a security team of six soldiers arrived. One look at the carnage that had occurred drove them to immediate action. Several of them opened fire on the creature. There was no effect. The creature grabbed the nearest soldier and dispatched him quickly by sending his body and head in two separate directions. One soldier called for reinforcements.

  Finally, after four more soldiers had been maimed or killed, eight soldiers were physically able to restrain the creature by chaining his wrists and legs together. When the area had been secured, a colonel stepped forward to examine him.

  “We should waste it, sir,” one of the junior soldiers said. “We’ve lost many good men.”

  “I would love to accommodate you in that request,” the colonel said as he looked around the room at the carnage. “But we have orders to keep it alive. Admiral Rector thinks that the abilities of Corporal Vanner, or what was once Corporal Vanner, might be useful if it can be modified.”

  Vanner’s name was removed from his unit roster. What exactly happened to him after that is not clear. There was no trial. There was no hearing. In fact, after a while, people were not sure what the real story was. As to Vanner, there was speculation, well not exactly speculation, more like a rumor, that whatever happened to him on that shore leave on Ziron, it was something that helped the Corps. Some said that he found something on the planet and had to keep it a secret from everyone. Some said that he changed so much from what he discovered, that he went insane. Regardless of what story you believed, from that point on, Unit 666, the Death Dealers were consigned to their own ships and no longer allowed to mix with any other units. The military brass gave several reasons: some say they disestablished the unit, others say that Vanner became the new model soldier that they wanted and used him as breeding stock to start a new era of soldiering. There were so many rumors about them that no one was really sure whether they existed or not anymore. The only issue that arose which raised speculation was that they changed the patch for their unit: they added the pointed teeth and the red glow from the sockets where the eyes used to be.

  Some say that it even looks like Vanner—well the new him anyway.

  EVERYTHING’S BETTER WITH MONKEYS

  C.J. Henderson

  “What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! In form and moving, how express and admirable! In action, how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a god! The beauty of the work! The paragon of animals!”

  William Shakespeare

  “Were it not for the presence of the unwashed and the half-educated, the formless, queer and incomplete, the unreasonable and absurd, the infinite shapes of the delightful human tadpole, the horizon would not wear so wide a grin.”

  F.M. Colby

  The Roosevelt was the first of the long-awaited Dreadnought class, a single ship stretching for nearly half a mile, inconceivable tons of metal and plastics, crystal and biomechanical feeds, brought together from Earth, the Moon and the asteroids that, when ultimately combined into an end product, became something unheard of—something utterly incomprehensible. And thus . . . so the thinking went . . . unbeatable, as well.

  She was, in the end, a sum far greater than her parts. The Roosevelt was known as “the cowboy ship,” for it had been that cocky gang of rocketeers labeled as the Moonpie Prairie Riders who had built her. They were the wildmen of the mightiest nation in the system’s Advanced R&D Team, and it was their spirit that infested her—as well as programmed her still not-quite-understood artificial mind.

  The Roosevelt was the opening number of a new kind of show, the all or nothing-at-all first born of the Confederation of Planets—big, because she had to be. The first ship with functional energy shields, she needed room for the massive protonic engines essential in powering such revolutionary devices. And for her thousands of attack aircraft, hundreds of them merely hanging off her sides. And for her extensive guns, her big ticket—the whisperers and the pounders—and all her hundreds of thousands of missiles and bombs.

  She was the solar system’s first spacecraft carrier, a mobile prairie outpost, a relentlessly strong, self-determining fortress in space. Capable of housing as many as 10,000 sailors and marines, the great ship was meant to explore the galaxy, to chart the universe, and to bring prestige and riches to the human race in general.

  But, that had been when that particular track meet had thought it controlled the only runner on the field. Reaching the edge of the system’s outer planet’s orbit, the Roosevelt was hailed, in English, Spanish, Dutch, Jamaican, and eighty-three other standard languages, by a small, obnoxiously shiny craft commanded by a small, and equally obnoxious alien life form that was all too happy to deliver its news.

  The quite unexpected messenger announced to the finally-capable-of-interstellar-traveling human race that this accomplishment had gotten them an invitation to join the awe-inspiring Pan-Galactic League of Suns, an organization of worlds begun by the Five Great Races. It was an announcement that, essentially, the party was over before it had begun, that all the planets worth anything were all sewn up, all intelligent species discovered, all franchises in all the marketplaces possible well-established and even better protected.

  The news came as a crushing blow to the adventure-craving crew of the Roosevelt, and for their first two years, eight months and fifteen days in space they showed their resentment in many a creative and colorful manner. And then, suddenly, all the rules changed. Thanks to that first, bold human crew in space, the entire galaxy discovered the League was a sham, that their claims to have everything under control were simply so much eye-wash, and that there was still plenty of unknown universe out there, teeming with mysteries and excitement—enough even to satisfy the collective curiosity of the crew of the Roosevelt.

  Within weeks of that revelation, more than a dozen trans-galactic federations had begun to struggle into existence, including the Roosevelt’s hometown group. Once made up of only six of the Earth’s neighboring planets, because of its pivotal role in pulling the Pan-Galactic wool from the galaxy’s eyes, the Confederation of Planets had already expanded to a membership of some seventy-eight worlds, proving, quite nicely, the old adage that everyone does, indeed, “love a winner.”

  Which is why the crew of the Roosevelt, one fine galactic star date, from its stalwart captain down to the lowest chef’s assistants and protonic bolt tighteners, was in a rousing, near giddy, mood. They had started their space-bound careers in defeat and through a luck understood by only the most perverse of gods had rolled it over into unbridled victory. So recent had their triumph been that, truthfully, most on board were still at a loss for words when it came to explaining exactly how their good fortune had come about.

  “I’m tellin’ ya, Noodles,” announced Chief Gunnery Officer Rockland Vespucci, more commonly known to bartenders and military police officers across the galaxy as Rocky, “there ain’t nuthin’ that’s gonna trip things up for us again.”

  “Incautious words,” answered the aforementioned Noodles, better known to top notch wire-and-screw jockeys everywhere as Machinist First Mate Li Qui Kon. “As Confucius said, ‘he who stops watching for falling fruit will be first to get bonked by an apple.’ ”

  “So, we just reinvent gravity.”

  Both sailors turned at the sound of a new voice indicating their being joined on the observation deck. As they did so, Technician Second Class Thorner and Quartermaster Harris came into view. As Noodles took exception with the tech’s off-handed comment, accusing him of not taking theoretical physics seriously enough, Thorner spread his meaty hands wide, answering;

  “Hey, it was just a joke. But com’on, really, look at the way things have been cruising for us. Earth is out in front. We’ve got the edge. It’s our game from now on.”

  “I’ve got to agree,” chimed in Harris. Taking a deck chair, he leaned back, putting his hands behind his head as he added, “Fate keeps lobbing us softballs, and we keep knocking them out of the park.”

  “He
’s right, little buddy,” added Rocky. Grinning from ear to ear, staring out into the vast black, Rocky cavalierly added, “Criminey, it’s almost enough to make a guy wish for some trouble.”

  And, it was at that moment that Fate, as she so often does when those bound to her decrees begin to act as if they had somehow negated her sway over their existence, chose to prompt the commander of the good ship Roosevelt to broadcast an announcement.

  “Attention, this is your captain speaking. We’ve just received orders to proceed to the Kebb Quadrant to begin negotiations with the inhabitants of the planet Edilson. More information will be zimmed to us shortly, but we’re to make best possible speed, which means, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to once more bend the fabric of space and time and be on our merry way.”

  “Edilson,” asked Harris, “where in the wonderful world of color is Edilson?”

  “And so it begins.” All heads turned to the latest voice to join the conversation. As they did, one of the thinnest individuals to ever muster enough soaking-wet-weight to make it into the Navy added;

  “The MI boys are just beginning to appreciate galactic rotation. Which meant that mudball was absolutely destined to hit our radar.”

  The speaker was Mac Michaels, a balding, bespectacled razormind out of the science division. As the others continued to stare at him, scratching their heads, he spread his hands like a high school math teacher about to share the wondrous joys of algebra as he said;

  “Right now Edilson is nowhere, a low rent piece of real estate totally off the charts. But, if you calculate the rotation of the galaxy’s set pieces, four hundred years from now, it’s going to be in the veritable center of everything.” Noting the group stare of complete lack of comprehension slamming at him from every angle, Michaels sighed, then added;

  “It means that those who are far thinking will want to strike an alliance with Edilson now, so that when the time comes, they’ll have an ally situated smack in the center of everything.”

  Michael’s words made sense. Earth was expanding, making friends and teammates everywhere its representatives went. Enemies as well. If the Confederation of Planets was to maintain its presence, to continue advancing in power and prestige, let alone to be able to handle itself in the political and economic arenas of the universe against the likes of the Pan-Galactic League of Suns and others, this was just the kind of advanced cogitation they should be pursuing.

  And, as the gobs headed off cheerfully to their various posts, their pride in the planet of their birth swelled. They came, after all, from a forward-thinking world, one clever enough to send them off to negotiate with a solar system that would not really be worth having as a pal for centuries. That, they knew, whistling merrily as they took up their duties, took foresight. It took brains.

  If they had possessed the brains to realize just how much desperate luck they were going to need to survive their upcoming expedition, however, they might have thrown in a few prayers in between all the whistling.

  “All right then,” growled Captain Alexander Benjamin Valance, as he reached for what was to be the first of several large drinks, “tell me someone has discovered something to explain whatever in hell that was.”

  The Roosevelt had arrived at the Edilson Well far in advance of the time required for their diplomatic team’s meeting with the planetary council. In their best dress uniforms, the captain and his senior staff along with the ship’s resident diplomatic officers had disembarked, prepared to put the Confederation’s collective best foot forward. “An unmitigated disaster of incalculable proportions” was the phrase one might use to describe their meeting with the Edilsoni who came to greet them—but then, only if that one were trying to put the best spin possible on the most unfortunate encounter between dissimilar species since the Log Cabin Republicans first came across the D.A.R.

  “Ahhh, if you’re willing to consider some non-sanctioned information, sir . . . ”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” answered Valance’s aide in a slightly lowered voice, “data acquired from outside official circles.” When the captain only stared, the look in his eyes indicating his aide should just simply speak, the woman cleared her throat, then said;

  “I did a records swap with a Chambrin starsweeper a few months back. Running a search through those files, I’ve managed to pull up some records from a couple of freelance Embrian traders who passed through this sector a few years ago—Iggzy and Cosentino Shipping.”

  At first, everything had seemed swell. The planet’s inhabitants turned out to be an semi-amorphous life-form. Neither male or female, the Edilsoni could, with some difficulty, stretch and remold themselves into any manner of shapes if they desired. Normally, however, they were rubbery, blue-skinned, watermelon-shaped folk who walked on three appendages roughly two to three feet in length. The melon of them—their torso as well as skull—was surrounded by three tentacle-like arms, as well as three eye-stalks, their disturbingly large mouths sprouting from the center of their heads.

  “And what did these shippers report?”

  The captain and the others, of course, were no strangers to aliens. They had encountered all manner of varied life forms since hitting deep space, and not once had any of them so much as raised an offending eyebrow at anyone or thing they had met. Not when they had watched the Georgths groom each other and subsequently devour their findings, or when they labored to decider the language of the Mauzrieni, the only race in the galaxy to communicate through farting. But the Edilsoni, they . . . well . . . they were different.

  “Their report tallies pretty much with what we just crashed through.” As the aide read through her findings, the captain and his diplomatic squad fell further into the abysmally deep funk they had brought on board with them. For a while they had been able to hold onto the hope they had simply not understood what had been happening. But, sadly, they had.

  The planet Edilson possessed a singularly peculiar make-up. Much of it was formed on unstable rock. Not the kind given over to earthquakes—or edilsonquakes, if you would—but the kind that produced the type of environment found in Earthspots such as Japan or Yellowstone National Park. Edilson was, in short, one great big steam-manufacturing ball, and due to its odd rock formations, anywhere the steam leaked out, it filled the air with various streams of continual sound.

  Over the millennia, the Edilsoni had cultivated these passage ways, giving their planet an unending steam-driven soundtrack. They filled vents with crystals and cymbals, fashioned all manner of horns and harmonicas, even planted bamboo-like reeds where the steam could leak through, making music in every corner of their world. Of course, as one might imagine, this had more of an effect on the population than to simply dress up their days.

  “There’s no doubt about it, sir,” said the aide hopelessly. “The Edilsoni sing and dance to make conversation. It seems they can’t even understand races that simply ‘talk’ at them. In fact, they distrust any species that isn’t comfortable doing so.”

  “Distrust?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the woman, absently as she continued to read from the stream crossing her handscreen. “Seems they even went to war with one of their in-system neighbors when they stopped up the steam vents on the grounds of their consulate here.”

  Captain Alexander Benjamin Valance found himself as close to despair as ever he had been since taking command of the Roosevelt. “Why,” he thought, imploring what gods might be left in his ever-shrinking corner of the galaxy, “do these things keep happening to me?”

  This was worse than when his crew had shaved the sacred monkeys of Templeworld. Or when they had conned the guards of the Pen’dwaker Holding Facility into allowing them to transform the prison into a gambling den for their Intergalactic Crap Shoot of the Millennium tournament. Or even when they had sponsored their infamous inter-species mixer where they introduced the debutante daughters of the leading politicians of the Pan-Galactic League of Suns to the various bears, cows, pigs, and chimps they
were transporting to the Inter-Galaxy Zoo on Chamre XI.

  It was worse than when they had stolen the Roosevelt and declared war on a cookie factory, more disastrous than when their pie fight had clogged the ship’s protonic engines with strawberry, pineapple, and cheesecake filling, along with graham cracker crumbs, whipped creme, and rhubarb. Of course, such nonsense could not impede the performance of such mighty machines, but it did play havoc with Admiral Morey’s white-glove-and-I’m-not-kidding inspection.

  It was, in his opinion, worse than anything they had ever done before and most likely would do any time soon. Because, quite simply, for once his insane-as-a-flock-of-dice-addled-cephalopods crew had not done anything. He had no one upon whom he might cast the blame for this one. For once, the captain of the Roosevelt was as stuck as stuck could be, with no options in sight.

  “So,” he said, weakly, looking for a third highball while turning to the others in the room, those others besides himself responsible for getting the most important treaty in the history of Earth signed, “who’s got any really bright ideas?”

  The thundering lack of enthusiastic response did not surprise him greatly.

  “Tell me again,” asked Noodles, not at all certain about the wisdom involved in what he and Rocky were attempting, “why is it we’re stealing a shuttle craft and heading for the surface?”

  “Look, little buddy,” answered the gunnery officer while he gave Quartermaster Harris the high-sign that they were ready to launch. “The captain is tied up in knots about his meetin’ with these beachballs down below—right? Now, it seems gettin’ these mugs on board with the Confederation is a big deal and so, I was thinkin’, if we could crack whatever the big problem is, we could kinda make up for some of the little improprieties we’ve . . . well, you know . . .”