The Jovian Sweep (Asteroid Scrabble Book 1)

by Martin Bourne

  He sat down and pored over the message yet again. A field command! An actual opportunity to get off this rock and do what he was actually trained for. In the final analysis the motivations and manoeuvrings behind the offer were immaterial. It was enough that one had been made. He had been on shore duty for so long he would have taken anything. The clever people at VSB would have known that too, would have known how to manipulate him, and that didn’t matter either. He sat down, wrapped his arms about his knees, and rocked back and forth with excitement.

  He sensed rather than saw Rose Courage standing by. She was looking at him with a mixture of shock, outrage and contempt.

  “What ARE you doing?”

  “Nothing, I was just thinking…”

  “You look ridiculous!”

  He snapped himself into an upright posture and tried not to look guilty. Rose bustled past him towards the kitchen. Well, that could have been worse. Rose was a Belter through and through. Overt displays of excitement were simply unacceptable.

  “Did I hear an incoming message alert?”

  Courage felt his spirits sink. It was worse. He thought he had gone over the message and extracted every morsel of information from it, but Rose would be far more thorough. He had suffered this attention before. She would pick over an event to the nth degree, before eventually coming to the conclusion that it was very bad, and probably a personal insult. However, he could not lie.

  “Yes. It was a communication from High Command.”

  “Courage Admiralty?”

  “No, Virtue Confederation High Command.”

  “Oh, what do they want now?”

  He drew a breath. “They are offering me a commission.”

  “Then they’ve got more sense than I credited them with.” Not the response he was expecting. There was the unmistakeable fizz of another dispensed drink. Rose came back into the room. She was only carrying one cup. “What commission?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “You must have some idea!”

  “Honestly, the message didn’t say.”

  “Well who forwarded it? It must have a department id.”

  He hadn’t thought of that. He pressed the view on his perscomp again so he could check. That gave Rose the chance to peer at it too.

  “Who’s this Coordinator Wentworth?”

  “He’s in charge of naval operations. I think you’ve met him.”

  Rose sniffed. “I don’t recall.”

  “A rather stout gentleman, very effusive, it was at that dinner-dance, or was it? I don't remember exactly.”

  “’Coordinator of naval operations'. Humph. Sounds like a made up job to me. Probably spends his time sailing a desk. I bet he’s never been in a battle. Imagine that - a naval man that’s never been in a fight.”

  “I’m not sure what his background is.”

  “Makes you wonder where our taxes go.”

  It didn’t seem appropriate to point out that Rose hadn’t paid any taxes since her business has gone into liquidation, so Courage preserved a tactful silence.

  “I suppose it’s another problem with the Kleptocracy?” she continued.

  “Sis, I do wish you wouldn’t refer to the Triangle League as the ‘Kleptocracy’”

  “What else should I call them? A collection of greedy, money-grubbing, thieving ingrates! That’s all they are! They’re out to get us, mark my words!”

  “Yes Rose.”

  “People are too soft these days. They don’t mean what they say, and they don’t say what they mean, and certainly never what they really think! They call it ‘being polite’. Well I call it cowardice.”

  “Well not all…”

  “I had a run-in with someone from the Triangle League when I was studying on Miranda. The instructor for the 3rd level textiles course was a Trig. Horrible man! Wouldn’t let you finish a question without butting in. Couldn’t care less about his students! All he was interested in was money. Money, money, money!”

  “Well…”

  “Once, in the middle of a practical session no less, his perscomp went off and he spent ten whole minutes blathering on to some administrator about contracts! Now I know his daughter was very ill. I respect that, and I was sorry for him, but at the same time it’s no reason for the whole class having to suffer, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “I’m sure that’s the main reason I fell behind, and ended up having to re-sit the examination. I wrote a formal complaint, but of course I never got a reply.”

  That needed a long answer or none at all.

  “Do you like this material?”

  The sudden change in tack was typical of Rose. She was holding up a shimmering piece of textile.

  “Umm…very nice.”

  “I think it could be just the thing needed for project 351.”

  Courage thought quickly. “That’s the safety wear one isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Jack internally congratulated himself. “I think I can get it out for the new season, if I act quickly," continued Rose, "but it’s going to be hard work. I was counting on you being around to help me.”

  “This assignment might take me anywhere.”

  “That is highly inconvenient.”

  “Yes, well, the Confederation calls.”

  He watched as Rose’s facial muscles twitched, mirroring the massive internal struggle she was undergoing – personal needs versus patriotism. Eventually she gave a grudging nod.

  "I'll give you a hand when I get back sis. I promise."

  He saw Rose's face slump. "Just be sure you do come back Jack."

  "Sis, we've been through all this before. I'll be alright." He stood and clenched her upper arm. "It's very rare for naval personnel to be killed, even in a big battle. And this will hardly be that."

  "Space is dangerous enough without people shooting at each other."

  One of the problems with arguing with Rose was that her emotional appeals were always based on reason and fact. She was right of course, even if she was overstating her case. He held back a sigh. The first battle of this assignment had just started.

  Chapter 5.

  Delaney Military Academy, Courage asteroid.

  “Atten…shun!”

  The double line of cadets brought legs together and arms to their sides in what, charitably, was approximately the same time. What should have been a simultaneous, lightning crack of movement was more of a long drawn out thunderous shuffle. It was the one area where the months of training had failed to bring any significant improvement. Link warriors were notoriously averse to drilling. They could see little point to it. Why act like a robot in real life when their very purpose was to instil real robots with Human creativity?

  It was an open secret that most instructors at Delaney Military Academy shared this opinion. After all most of them were ex-link warriors themselves. Indeed, the staff had been the driving force behind several attempts to reform the practice over the last few years. The Courage High Admiralty hierarchy remained steadfastly obdurate. Regulations said cadets had to drill, and that was that.

  The man shouting at the front was Instructor Mohan. He was a severe looking individual, whipcord thin and notoriously close-mouthed. No one knew his thoughts on drill. The only expression he ever gave was disapproval, and what everyone assigned to his tender care soon found was that what he most disapproved of was lack of competence.

  He started haranguing them. “I did NOT like that. I did not like that at all!” He paced in front of the assembled mass of Training class 502. “You are an utter shambles. All of you! If the Virtue Confederation is relying on you lot for its survival it might be time to emigrate!”

  Few of the cadets bothered to look contrite. Good link warriors were uncommon, and therefore in demand. Their scarcity protected them from punishment for all but the most severe infractions, and the smart and unscrupulous ones knew it. Besides, their employment contracts were tortuously well written, even the basic one Josie had been able to afford. Grim
acing, Mohan unclipped a vidscroll. “Right, let's see if we can do better this time. Right face…quick march!”

  The cadets stepped off in another approximate semblance of order. Mohan took up position at the right front of the column and struggled to keep them together. “Left, right, left, right, pick up those feet! Smarten yourself up Lavalle! Left, left, left, right, left. Training class 502, left wheel! I said left, you sleep-walking…”

  The cadets marched past the basic training simulators, where the latest batch, Training class 504, would be attempting to master the basics of war drone operation. 502 had long since progressed past computer simulations. They had been virtually connecting to actual training drones for nearly six weeks. It didn’t seem to Josie that it was getting much easier, although dispassionate reports confirmed that her handling was becoming surer and steadier.

  Beyond the simulator rooms they marched past the docking tubes, the ones that contained the actual drones. They weren’t frontline war drones, naturally. They were “Carousel” class general-purpose trainers, row after row of them. Technicians swarmed over some, making checks or minor adjustments. Josie felt a lump in her throat at the sight. Carousels were large, clumsy, ovoid-shaped bubbles, studded with jet nozzles, sensor dishes and electronic warfare globes. They were completely functional. There were no design concessions to grace, lines or style. Nonetheless like most trainees Josie thought the ugly Carousel was beyond beautiful. They were, after all, the first real drones that trainee link warriors came into contact with.

  And they would be the last ones if they didn’t make the grade.

  By a combination of pointed sarcasm and loud shouting Mohan got his charges past the launch tubes and into the port flight deck below. It was a simple open area with subdued lighting and a few stylishly extravagant desks and chairs randomly dotted around. Several large vidscreens, all currently dark, hung from the walls. The medical station opposite was positively cluttered. That was odd. The only time Josie had ever seen a full complement of medical staff stationed in the flight deck was for their first lesson with live drones. That was an understandable precaution. Link fatigue was unlikely with new recruits and total link rejection almost unknown, but you could never be too careful. The number of medical staff had steadily dropped since. Training sessions were usually attended now by a couple of bored paramedics.

  Josie noticed several of the current crowd did not have the strange double twisted snake emblem medics wore on their shoulder patches, indicating they had not qualified yet. So, they were in a training session too. She hoped she would not be dragooned in as a ‘volunteer’ for their clumsy ministrations. Not today. Celene had received bad news from home and she had stayed up to offer comfort. She could feel the exhaustion building up in her head. In a few hours she knew the fatigue would take her and she would be useless for anything.

  Never mind. This was the last class scheduled for today.

  On the opposite wall from the medical station two arched openings led to the drone control rooms. Curiously, unfamiliar instructors guarded both entrances. They stood stiffly, faces carefully blank, cradling large vidscrolls.

  Mohan barked orders from the centre of the room. “Right, settle down! Silence in the ranks!" He hefted a large vidscroll himself. "This is not, as had been scheduled in your duty rosters, a combined advanced training session. It is, in fact, your advanced practical piloting examination.” Mohan beamed into the appalled silence. Josie felt very sick. “Yes boys and girls. Good link warriors have to deal with the unexpected. Your finals are today. Right here and now. Your performance in the next few hours will determine your Piloting ratings.”

  Worried glances were exchanged left and right. Josie did not join in. She was shaking too much. This was a disaster.

  “Eyes front!” Mohan stalked the deck, sure now of everyone’s attention. “As I call your names you will go to Instructor Hill over there” - he indicated the leftmost vidscroll holder - “who will direct you to your assigned bay. Inside you will find two experienced warriors who will act as the other crewmembers on your drones. Your task is simple. You will launch your drones, safely, and proceed to the Depot Ship Cresta, which is in geostationary orbit above this very facility, again safely. Then taking instructions from Cresta’s flight control, you will dock your drone with the Depot Ship. Along the way little challenges will be set which you will circumvent, using the skills you have gained during your training at this academy.”

  Mohan paused to look over the long lines of cadets. “Those who manage to complete the task in less than ninety standard minutes, and/or who demonstrate superior handling of their drones, will receive gold wings. Those who complete in less than two hours and demonstrate competent handling will receive silver wings. Those who complete in less than three standard hours will only get bronze wings. Those who take longer than that, or who fail to complete, or in any way damage any of the Confederation’s precious military equipment, will flunk, and get a good kicking from me too!” He swept them with a terrifying gaze. “I do not expect any of the cadets I have trained to flunk.”

  There was an uneasy stir. Josie felt her gorge rising.

  “Quiet!” growled Mohan. “I expect at least two of you to get gold wings. I have trained fourteen piloting classes and every one of them has graduated at least two pilots with gold wings. I am very proud of this record and I do not want it broken. If this class is the one that breaks it, you will all be very sorry.”

  Josie looked around. No one seemed to be paying too much attention to the threat. Everyone just looked very nervous. Probably none of them were in as bad a shape as she was – although, miraculously, the fatigue that had been threatening to rise up within her seemed to have receded. It was amazing what the Human body was capable of when pushed.

  Mohan checked his vidscroll and began to reel off names. “Jiang, Houston, Sadler, Tallion…” Josie did not hear the rest of the list. Numbly she walked over to Sergeant Hill and saluted. He did not return the courtesy. Impassive, he handed her a key and said one word. “Fifteen.”

  She must have walked into the port flight deck and found bay fifteen, but she couldn’t remember doing it. The bay was little more than a small shell of plastisteel, with four blocky and rather bare consoles. Two of the accompanying chairs had people lounging in them. Her heart sank when she saw one of them was Instructor Hollins. He had been lead instructor for Josie’s basic training and he had never disguised his dislike of her. The other she did not recognise, but he was a middle-aged man with an expression that somehow managed to combine surliness and amusement in equal measure.

  “Right Tallion, get yourself ready!” barked Hollins. “Quickly now! None of your usual dawdling!”

  Josie was shaking but she still bristled at the injustice of Hollin’s sneer. She most definitely did NOT dawdle. She had never been last in any of his classes. Ever. Then she saw the gleam in his eye and realised this was all part of the plan to unnerve her. Breathing deeply, she sat down and began to attach the multiple link leads that would connect her to the drone.

  Linking in had long since replaced clumsy keyboards and point/click devices as the preferred method of interacting with computers. Most linking in was by simple wires attached to either the temples or to the limbs - Perscomps used the wrist. Nerve firings were picked up and translated directly into instructions to the computer.

  Linking in to a war drone was a vastly more complex affair. The majority of minds simply could not handle it. When linked into a drone one became a virtual part of the machine. Its sensors became your eyes, its engines became your limbs, and its electronic pathways became your nervous system. That meant more links were needed. The newer drones tapped directly into the neural links in the brain, but older ones still used connections to the limb extremities. As cadets might have to handle any drone in their career they had to learn on a drone that used the older method. The ‘Carousel’ training drone could emulate anything.

  Hurrying, Josie attached the temple links, as
they were the easiest to put on, but she forgot they also constricted her movements. She almost garrotted herself in reaching for her ankle links, and was forced to take off the temple attachments. Hollins gave a thin laugh, a perfectly timed sneer filled with contempt. It flailed savagely at her self-confidence. She fumbled the link leads in response.

  “You should be ready by now Tallion!” snapped Hollins. “Come on, move it! I’ve already started your clock.”

  Josie began attaching the link leads to her ankles. Her hands were shaking, from fatigue or nerves or anger she could not tell. Somehow she slipped the ankle connections on and began to work on the wrist ones.

  Hollins pointedly looked at his perscomp and make a very obvious entry on an official looking vidscroll. Josie ground her teeth. She knew a complaint would be useless. He would simply claim that he was testing her reaction to stress, which would be a fully acceptable explanation because it would be a perfectly valid test to. It was just that he wouldn’t have applied it quite like that to anyone else.

  Josie redoubled her efforts to connect the wrist links and promptly dropped the left one. Unless you were very experienced or triple-jointed it was always difficult. With her head spinning it was far worse. Hollins gave a contemptuous twist of his lips and clipped on his own links with precise, practiced ease. Quickly Josie picked up the errant wrist link and somehow forced it on. It wasn’t perfectly in place. That might cause strain and discomfort over time but she moved onto the temple connections and linked in anyway. Hollins’ neat application of time pressure was already making its mark.

  There was a short and faint whirl of disorientation, and then her mind was tied to the piloting controls of the Carousel. Simulations, no matter how good, were never quite the same. No civilian link was even close. Linking to a military drone was in a league of its own, and utterly unexplainable to the uninitiated. She was not operating the controls of the drone. She was now part of its controls. She could feel the engines, the sensor arrays, and the internal powering, all as if it were an extension of her own mind and body. Most link warriors, if they concentrated hard enough, could catch sounds and sensations from their real locations, but she resisted the temptation to try. The separate sensory inputs might confuse her, and she desperately needed to concentrate right now.