When they disembarked, they passed through a series of sections that hummed, blinked and buzzed. In one place, Engels was directed in machine-generated Earthan to stand on specific spots on the deck, while Zaxby was directed in Ruxin to another. There they were examined for several minutes from all angles by sensors on arms which descended from the low ceiling.
Once past the examination, they found themselves in a large entrance hall where green-tinged humanoids directed them to separate, small, doorless booths. As soon as she stepped into hers, Engels’ comlink to the Redwolf reported loss of signal.
“Greetings, I am Overnica. Do not be alarmed,” an idealized holographic woman said in a smooth, academic voice—the warm voice of a kind, friendly teacher to a bright student. Engels couldn’t tell whether the projection was of an organic, or some form of AI-generated avatar. “Your communication will be restored once you finish your interview.”
“Interview?”
“All first-time clients must complete an interview for our records. Along with your biometrics, the baseline interview provides with the ability to positively identify every client and meet their needs. It is also used to establish and refine our ability to weed out disruptive influences.”
“Disruptive?”
“Anything that harms business will be mitigated. By entering Crossroads, you agree to abide by Conglomerate regulations and mitigation.”
Engels frowned. “Mitigation like what?”
“That is up to us. Mitigations range from warnings and nominal fines, up to termination of access for egregious or repeated breaches of major regulations. Additionally, any crimes committed on Crossroads or in Conglomerate space may be cause for punitive action.”
“How will I know what not to do?”
The hologram-woman smiled gently. “Any terminal, public or private, fixed or mobile, including this one, will provide instruction in our regulations. You may stay here in this booth for as long as you need in order to absorb them. If you have a personal device, you may register it and connect it with my systems. This is highly recommended. The regulations can be downloaded for your convenience. If you appear to be about to engage in prohibited activity aboard Crossroads, I will attempt to warn you. Do not fear! The Conglomerate is here to do business, not to trap you into a violation. Regulation Number One is as follows: do not do to others what you would not have done to you. Some call it the Silver Rule.”
Engels chuckled. “So you’ve had Earthan-speaking humans here before.”
“Of course. Many.”
“Are you an AI, Overnica?”
“Yes and no. I am not a machine consciousness. In fact, I am a synthesis of more than ten thousand brainlinked individual consciousnesses, processed and projected through Crossroads operating systems. Think of me as an ever-present client assistant, available around the clock to help you with your business.”
“Can you project yourself away from a terminal?”
“In many cases, yes. Simply call my name and I will try to help. Now, let’s get on with the interview.”
“What if I don’t want to do the interview?”
“Then there can be no business relationship between us, or the Conglomerate and your corporation. You will be escorted back to your ship and sent on your way with our regrets.”
Engels thought she saw a flaw. “There then could be some other kind of relationship, other than business?”
“For the conglomerate, there is no other kind of relationship except business.”
“Well, that simplifies things.”
“That is our goal. Business is a complex undertaking, and we seek to simplify it, or at least to manage its complexities, to the benefit of all concerned. Shall we begin?”
Three hours and hundreds of questions later, Engels stepped out of the booth, exhausted. “Cosmos, I need a drink.”
“Me too,” Zaxby said from a bench seat nearby. He stood, adjusting his water suit. “I found this interview process annoying and invasive, especially as I had grown accustomed to a great deal of power and autonomy as Grand Marshal of Ruxin. I am again reduced to being a sidekick. And, we need access to credit, I presume, to purchase foodstuffs.”
Engels shrugged. “If we want to use Crossroads, we have to play the Conglomerate’s game.”
“I still wonder if it wouldn’t have been better to remain outside the Crossroads system, making our own deals. In fact, that’s what we’ve done with the Salamanders. Despite all assurances, the contract Straker signed with them isn’t worth a quantum memory stick without some form of enforcement mechanism… which means, I suppose, I’ve argued myself back to needing this place.” Zaxby glanced pointedly around at the large hall, with its many booths and aliens.
Engels copied Zaxby, surveying the room. Around the edges there were purveyors of food and drink. Various beings consumed a wide variety of ingestibles. Humanoids predominated, many of them indistinguishable from Earth-derived stock, but there were others who apparently were comfortable in a human-style environment. She saw a herd of creatures that could pass for kangaroos in clothing—and a group of giant pink spiders clustered at one food stand, sipping from containers shaped like the green, headless bodies of puppy-sized beetles.
Or perhaps they were the green, headless bodies of puppy-sized beetles.
She frowned. “Look. Those guys that attacked us. The Art—, Ark—”
“Arattak—I see them,” Zaxby said. “But they’re unarmed and under Conglomerate law. Notice they are causing no trouble. Let’s simply stay out of their way.”
“Fine. I need something to drink and eat. One of these booths must sell human food—and something for Ruxins. You said we don’t have any credit? How do we get some?” Engels snapped her fingers. “Overnica?”
A hologram appeared. “How may I assist?”
“Can we draw on Breakers credit yet?”
“I have set up a provisional account for you with a limit of one thousand credits, payable according to standard terms. Your biometrics will be used to confirm your identity.”
“Put Zaxby on the account as well.”
“It is done.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Overnica vanished. Rather, the hologram vanished—Overnica was still watching and listening, Engels reminded herself.
“I wonder if they have any snails?” Zaxby drifted toward the line of food booths.
“Fine, but nothing extravagant,” Engels said as she followed. “Everything we buy, the Breakers have to pay for.”
“I will repay the Breaker credit with my personal funds.”
“In what form?”
“My research indicates pure platinum coinage is a common petty currency.” He dipped into a pouch on his water suit and showed a tentacle-full of one-centimeter silvery discs. “We are flush, as they say. I only have to exchange it.”
“Flush... That reminds me—I need to use the facilities. What about you?”
“My water suit is capable of processing my wastes for several more days.”
“Ugh. Forget I asked.” Engels headed for the marked privacy stalls. As she entered, a voice and hologram text told her she was being debited one credit to use it.
“What a racket,” she muttered. On the other hand, the stall was extremely well equipped, clean and efficient.
It turned out Zaxby was allowed to pay for the food in platinum. The change was returned to them in the form of account credit.
“The Conglomerate is clever,” he said. “Hard goods that enter the system are always converted into credit, allowing for conversion charges—a percentage point here, a percentage point there adds up. It also means they control the currency. Conglomerate regulations prohibit direct barter within Crossroads space. This means, in effect, that they track and control all lawful trade, and take their cut.”
“No wonder they’re so rich—and so protective. This place is a prize worth more than planets.”
They sat at available tables, and were debited
another credit each for the privilege. “I can see why the Arattak are standing,” Engels said as she set to work on her curried tofu and naan. “A credit saved is a credit earned.”
A condiment tray rose from the table, providing salt, spices and sauces, some familiar, some unknown, but clearly labeled—and included in the price of the seat, it seemed. “Ah, Trox puree!” Zaxby cried, snatching a bottle of sauce and sprinkling droplets into his snail bucket. “While the propensity to demand payment for everything is annoying, at least they provide value for money. And these snails are excellent.”
While Zaxby slurped up his slimy sustenance and Engels dipped her naan in her curry, she allowed her eyes to roam the bustling room. The Arattak seemed to be staring at her, though it was hard to tell with their wide-set compound eyes. “Zaxby, do Arattak have it in for humans?”
“My limited information suggests they see most other species in adversarial terms—as threats, competitors, or prey.”
“I’m feeling like prey right now. Overnica?”
The hologram woman appeared sitting at the table, prompting Engels to wryly wonder if Overnica charged herself for the privilege. “How may I help you?”
“Do the Arattak dislike humans? Because they seem to be staring at us.”
“The Arattak are xenophobic.” Overnica smiled. “They need training and psychoactive drugs to cope with Crossroads. In fact, the beetle juice they are drinking is a mild intoxicant. Don’t worry; we keep a close eye on them. I do suggest avoiding unnecessary interactions with them, however. Occasionally one of them can’t control herself. There have been incidents.”
“What kind of incidents?”
“Fatal ones. Consequently, their insurance requirements are quite high.”
“Why don’t you simply ban them from the station? Or restrict them to their own section?”
“Our actuarial analyses allow for the occasional fatality, as long as the expected profit exceeds the expected loss.”
Engels shivered. “So what you really mean is, if someone’s willing to pay, they can get away with murder.”
“If by ‘pay’ you refer to damages both compensatory and punitive, as well as the possibility of detention, banishment and revocation of trading privileges, then yes.” Overnica gave Engels a severe look. “Is the usual human system of punishment without compensation to the victim’s associates somehow fairer, or a better deterrent? I can assure you, ours is based on sound statistical models.”
“I’m not sure why, but I’m not reassured.”
Overnica shrugged. “You can always provide official feedback that will be considered at the weekly Regulations Committee meeting. Otherwise, business must go on.” She winked out.
“Fear not, Carla Engels,” Zaxby said. “I am a warrior. I shall defend you against any and all threats—assuming I am present. However, at the moment, as a sailor in a strange port, I intend to seek at least one traditional form of entertainment. You may accompany or not, as you wish.”
Engels finished her drink and stared skeptically at the octopoid. “You’re gonna drink too much and get a tattoo?”
“No. I’m going to get laid.”
Part 2: Mercenary
Chapter 11
Straker aboard Independence
Straker paced in laps around the perimeter of Independence’s Combat Control Center, the CCC, commonly termed “triple-cee,” in the heart of the great ship. The original Victory design had provided a state-of-the-art facility for the commanders and staff of a task force to run system-wide operations. Indy and the Breakers’ engineers had modified the complex—one large oval-shaped situation room surrounded by many smaller ones—to suit their own needs, but the layout was recognizable enough.
In the center, a retractable holotank rose from a large conference table. If the precision and detail of a holotank wasn’t needed, holograms could be projected in the air above the table. Holo-capable screens and mini-consoles were inset flat into the table itself in order not to clutter up the meeting space. Modular, portable displays could be added as needed.
Around this, in the first oval ring, were the Breakers’ divisional senior staff stations—Personnel, Intelligence, Command and Control, Logistics, Planning, Communications, and so on. The second ring contained support stations for these functions. These two rings and the meeting space in the middle made up the Pit.
The Pit had been so named because the third, outermost ring was set one meter above it, with a railing and an inner walk. Against the outer bulkhead, beneath a smart-wall of infinitely configurable screens and displays, various modular stations formed mini-control centers for designated combat units—ground force brigades, warship squadrons, or any other grouping the Breakers set up.
And, if needed, Indy’s maintenance bots and Gurung’s technicians could reconfigure anything within a surprisingly short time.
Outside the third ring, accessed via twelve doors that led to as many passageways, stood suites of rooms for staff. Beyond that were all the more usual parts of a warship—quarters now full to bursting with people, mess halls and galleys, cargo bays and flight decks and weapons systems with their associated controllers.
Straker tried to walk every hall and look into every space over the past two months, but still there was more to see.
Now, though, he only walked the inner third ring, overlooking the Pit, as his commanders and staff showed up in their best and freshest working uniforms—not so fresh at all, he thought to himself as he sniffed the air. The Independence was under environmental strain, as all the ships were, with so many troops and civilians packed aboard, and laundry was a very low priority on the list of necessities.
“Good morning, sir,” a voice at his elbow murmured. He turned to see Commodore Ellen Gray in her dress uniform and forced himself not to frown. He and Gray had never really clicked, but Carla swore by the woman’s competence and trustworthiness. He didn’t need to personally like someone to respect and have confidence in them.
And now, Gray would be running the fleet battle to seize Premdor orbital space in Carla’s absence.
He had to resist the temptation to take over. He was no space tactician. He also had to resist the temptation to micromanage. The woman knew her job. Let her do it, he told himself sternly.
Yet, for the first time, the Breakers were going into battle as a community, not strictly as a military unit, with their fragile civilians on transports as an anchor to their maneuverability. Murdock and his teams had upgraded the transports’ defenses as much as possible, but they were no warships.
“Morning,” he replied. “One more hour.”
Gray glanced at the chrono numbers on the smart wall that counted down the time to in-system arrival at Premdor. “Do you have any last-minute instructions, sir?” she asked.
He studied the older woman’s face—not a pretty face, but a handsome one, full of character held in rigid check by the traditions of the service. “Yes, I do,” he told her. “Unless I say something, try to forget I’m here. This is your show until we secure Premdor orbital space. You’re in charge—and you’re a Breaker now. A rebel, according to Steel and his gang.” A smile quirked across his lips and he held out his hand. “I expect you to kick ass.”
Her prominent nostrils flared and her black eyebrows flew up to match Straker’s sand-colored ones, as if surprised. She extended her hand and shook his firmly with an answering, if cautious, smile. “I will, sir.”
“I’ll be on my link. Carry on, Commodore.” He stuck the comlink in his ear to emphasize the point and strolled out of the CCC.
He’d much rather remain there, but he wanted to give Gray the breathing space to take command of the operation. If he remained, he’d cast a shadow over her. Showing trust in her in front of the commanders and staff would bolster her authority and the Breakers’ confidence in the chain of command.
Straker quietly returned minutes before transit, to take a seat in the First Battalion’s mini-control center, next to Colonel Winter, i
ts only occupant. The man nodded to Straker, but remained watching the transit countdown with his arms and ankles crossed, relaxed, his seat reclined. Nothing ground-force related would be happening for hours at the soonest, more likely for days.
“First Bat will get some heavy use, I think,” Straker murmured. “The Salamanders should cover the wetlands, and our armor can hold the coastal plains for a while but for the inland areas, it’s gonna be mechsuit-battlesuit teams for the speed and flexibility.”
Winter nodded again, still watching the chrono countdown. “I’m still concerned about resupply. The Rhinos’ ADA is pretty thick, so it’ll all have to be brought up on the ground.”
“Once we clear and hold orbit, we can suppress the worst of it.”
“Assuming the intel the Salamanders gave us is accurate.”
“Supposedly they don’t lie.”
Winter turned his hawkish face to Straker’s and blinked. “Religious taboos aren’t foolproof. Everybody lies. What about omission? Or mistakes? Or just bad intel? No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.”
“Noted. We’ll have the initiative, though. I won’t fight a battle we can’t win.”
“We?”
Straker showed his teeth. “I sure as hell won’t be sitting on my ass up here in the flagship, Martin. Don’t worry, you’ll be in command of First Bat—but I’ll be on the ground, with the Guard.”
“Good to hear… but I’d prefer if you didn’t have to send in the Guard at all.”
While First Battalion’s standard complement was eight companies of sixteen mechsuits each, equaling 128, the Liberator’s Guard was a special unit under Straker’s personal control. It consisted of two companies, plus Straker and Loco, and the Breakers’ battlesuit training unit, titled Cadre. Straker also added in the Hok Company battlesuiters. The Guard’s role was to remain with the command element to secure the rear, or to act as a needed reserve—to plug a hole or exploit a breakthrough, much as Napoleon’s Old Guard had done throughout his campaigns.
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