The Pilots of Borealis

by David Nabhan

  “Helmsman, the course is to Valerian-3.” It was one of the few, laconic phrases Rittener had uttered to anyone since the crew had come aboard. “Max speed.”

  Lieutenant Andrews had certainly noticed Rittener’s reluctance to waste words and he responded with nothing more than requisite.

  “Roger, Valerian-3, max speed.”

  The Peerless nimbly darted toward the black ink of space, her acceleration bringing the blessed feeling of artificial gravity. The crew could finally sink into their chairs and feel the comforting reassurance of their own, albeit Martian, weight. Rittener now addressed the ship’s second officer as he rose and exited the bridge.

  “Ensign Gutierrez, I’ll have a word with the entire crew in the contingency galley, at the top of the hour. All hands.”

  “Aye, Captain. As ordered,” she answered.

  THERE WAS NOTHING PERFUNCTORY about Rittener’s address to his assembled crew, it was all pure business.

  “I’m going to dispense with the ‘welcome aboard’ speech. I’m sure every crewman has a pretty good idea of what this mission is about. There’s not much more really I need add. We’ve been tasked with the mission to bring the mining settlements on the Asteroid Belt into compliance with an executive order of the Archonate itself, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. They’ve suspended all shipments of vital materials and have given every indication that they haven’t the slightest interest in further negotiation. It’s going to be our job to change their minds and get those shipments flowing again.”

  Rittener paused a moment, surveying his crew.

  “Our first destination is Valerian-3. It’s not the biggest of the settlements but it exports quite respectable quantities of manganese and titanium.”

  Again he gave each crew member a hard look. He couldn’t discern a flicker of anything coming back.

  “Also, Valerian-3, according to reports, can be considered one of the ringleaders of this rebellion. With all of us pulling together and a bit of luck, this might be over in short order.” Rittener slowly leaned back, propped with his fist under his jaw, and waited for comments. When he realized they weren’t coming he asked.

  “Questions?”

  Ensign Araceli Gutierrez had one. “Well, sir, are we just showing the flag, or what?”

  RITTENER THOUGHT GUTIERREZ BORE a striking resemblance to her amanuensis; he just wasn’t sure if that were good or bad. One’s amanuensis said a lot about the person—as much as clothes, hair style, jewelry, or anything else. The selection was as wide as the universe, from among every entity who ever lived, might have lived, or only existed in the mind. Some of the more popular choices were angels, elves, or leprechauns. Historical figures were just as popular though. Strolling through any of the Great Concourses on the Terran Ring, for example, one might see anyone from Aristotle to Zorthian II.

  Gutierrez’s amanuensis was a bandolero-wrapped “Adelita,” a ranchera volunteer who rode with Pancho Villa during the Mexican Revolution. These one-foot-tall, all-knowing, three-dimensional marvels of cyber and holographic science were one’s personal portal into the System. Plugged into every piece of information there ever was, and every nanosecond being apprised of all the data streaming in the present by the petabyte from every corner of the Solar System, they had the resources to resolve any question or problem ever conceived and became teacher, secretary, confidant, advisor. As genii, they stood almost as an alter-ego, recognizing facial expressions and voice timbres, allowing them to almost read human minds and moods, including most assuredly those of their host. For many, an amanuensis was a constant, indefatigable, infallible companion. Everyone recognized Gutierrez’s current avatar.

  Even the older models were miniaturized to such an extent that they were worn on wrist bands. Now it was rare to see a version other than those small enough to slip around a finger. Everywhere one went though—Earth, Terra, Borealis, or anywhere else under the umbrella of the System—billions of amanuenses were to be seen, and now with humanity thoroughly addicted to the synergy, often open with the avatar floating over the host’s right shoulder in active mode.

  RITTENER, OF COURSE, DIDN’T like the question. “Come again, Ensign?”

  Gutierrez would have been one of the very last souls of the five billion on the Terran Ring to come away with an award for naivety. One look into her coal black eyes is all it usually took for people to realize what a strong personality dwelt behind them. She spoke plainly, like she was doing now, never parsing her words. Rittener had reviewed her file, what there was of it anyway. She’d joined the Service at the first opportunity, just a few days after her eighteenth birthday. Gutierrez hadn’t opted for the officers’ corps though. It hadn’t taken long for her superiors to recognize that she possessed potential talent for operations of the nanocryptology at the heart of much of the ship’s vital systems. She was given a commission in her mid-twenties, having spent her entire career so far on the Terran Ring itself.

  “Explain what you mean about showing the flag, Ensign Gutierrez.” “Permission to speak candidly, Sir?” That question never preceded anything good and Rittener would just have soon declined. He pretended that he was pleased by it nonetheless.

  “Of course, Ensign. By all means, speak your mind.”

  “Well, we must be just showing the flag.” She gestured with a self-explanatory and yet almost exasperated wave of her hand. “There are twelve of us. How are we supposed to enforce the orders of the Archonate? This is one hell of an occupation force for an entire Asteroid Belt. Do you think they sent too many of us, Captain?”

  Berti Werth and Nicholas Yeshenko, both inseparable, both nearly indistinguishable, let out barely restrained snickers.

  Werth and Yeshenko were two “Tartars” in the flesh, but who were yet born long after the time that the fad had started to fade. Their perfectly spherical and thick-boned skulls were shaven, save for tufts of straight, blonde hair left growing at the crown and braided to the nape of the neck. They had the Tartar mantra, “a thousand before I die,” tattooed across the jugular in red and black Old Mongolian script. No self-respecting Borelian would have even breathed the same air in their vicinity, for they were walking, talking advertisements of everything that was loathed about Terrans and their Ring. Both were huge, strapping horses of men. Taking in the measure of these two, Rittener wondered how the Terran Ring had managed the sagacity to escape being dragged into the incalculable, planet-wide cataclysm that had ravaged Earth. There were tens of millions of Werths and Yeshenkos on the Ring.

  “SEAMAN 2ND CLASS YESHENKO, tell me something,” Rittener asked matter-of-factly. “You’re obviously in pretty good shape. I guess what they say about the artificial gravity on the Ring is true after all, huh?”

  It was a fact. You could definitely feel the difference on the Ring—1.08 g’s. New arrivals from Earth took a little time to get used to it. Of course, the slight, nagging malaise that it produced in the native-born on Earth was a crushing weight for Borelians. They were accustomed to one sixth Earth’s gravity. Lunar diplomats, businessmen, and other visitors had to be quartered in those “higher” sections of the Ring which mimicked perfectly the Moon’s gravity and in which Terran pilots trained. Since the gravity on Terra was artificial, it weakened progressively the further “up” one ventured from the deck. As pilots’ strength invariably gave out and as they sank lower to the “Ground” floors, the stronger the force of artificial gravity became. So Terran pilots could fly almost interminably in the loftiest concentric layers of the Ring, but the mettle of flyers was tested as pilots dared to fly lower and lower.

  “It’s simple physics, skipper,” Yeshenko answered in perfect New English. “It’s all inertia. Once you get something spinning, well, that’s the hard part. After that it’s all downhill and you can coast.”

  He smiled broadly now, happy to have shed some light on this aspect of Terran civilization for his foreign commander. Rittener could see his muscles flex, the rippling effect obvious under th
e military tunic that barely contained his formidable torso.

  “But, you’re right. You can’t get ramjets like these any place other than Terra.” He glanced down at his bulging biceps to make sure Rittener understood his slang.

  Yeshenko’s chortle was now followed by a slight smirk. The prior chuckle might have been spontaneous; this monkey grin was definitely purposeful. It widened the longer Rittener’s icy stare was ignored.

  “Well, about the gravity,” Rittener continued, “I’ve also wondered if it doesn’t also deprive the brain of the necessary blood required to form cogent thoughts?”

  Yeshenko’s expression changed instantly. He leaned forward, jutting out his square Slavic jaw as if challenging Rittener to swing at this menacing target. There were no grins or chuckles now. Whatever he was going to say though was now vetoed by Lieutenant Drake Andrews—Lieutenant, Junior Grade.

  “Belay that, Yeshenko.” It didn’t take a mind-reader to guess that Yeshenko’s retort would be better off unsaid. Andrews was always quick with a smile and even after the reprimand managed to purse his thin lips into something that looked like one.

  “Captain, I think what is on everyone’s mind . . .” Andrews began.

  “I’m not a captain, Lieutenant Andrews,” Rittener cut him off. “In fact, I have no commission whatsoever in the Terran Service.”

  Andrews was shaking his head. He understood this, of course. “Point well taken. How should we address you?”

  Rittener looked again at Yeshenko, and then used his word. “Skipper.”

  “Skipper it is then.” Now Andrews’ lips went flat. C-class freighters, smugglers, and pirates had “skippers.”

  “The point Ensign Gutierrez is making, though, is a valid one. From what I understand, we’re not going to be joined by any other force at some point prior to the Asteroid Belt? We’re it?”

  Rittener’s words came out slowly, in a monotone, with as much emotion as someone instructing the mess monitor about the mid-watch meal selections. “There is to be no rendezvous in transit. Our destination is Valerian-3. I just said as much.”

  Andrews reminded him of his tensor calculus teacher in Shanghai. He was a professor at the Loo Keng-Hua Institute. The European Union picked up quite a hefty stipend to have had such a renowned mathematician tutor the ambassador’s son. Andrews opened his eyes wide like Ch’in Tsu. “So it’s just us, then?”

  Rittener was tiring of this. He didn’t like being cornered into discussing classified orders with a crew member.

  “Our actions will be determined by exigencies in the Field, Lieutenant. I’m not going to go into anything more specific at this time. I can assure you though that you’ll be apprised of everything you need to know, as you need to know it. Until I advise the crew otherwise, what I’m now repeating for the third time is that Valerian-3 is our destination, and our mission is to convince that settlement and the rest on the Belt that it’s in their interest to abide by the executive order of the Archonate that we’re enforcing. You may consider those your orders.”

  Each man was sizing the other up. Rittener noticed the five stars embroidered above Andrews’ name on his tunic—one for each of the five-year tours of duty under his belt. Yet there wasn’t another single badge or ribbon pinned or sewed anywhere. A fifty-two-year-old lieutenant—junior grade? Could such a thing actually be possible—and if so, were there any others in existence? Rittener’s amazement was well-founded; there were only two others in the Service—if the one currently posted to the Virgo Brig awaiting court-martial were counted. Somehow, such a competent imaging specialist such as Andrews had managed a lifetime in the Service and had accrued just a single lousy promotion to show for it.

  Andrews pushed on.

  “Not to put too fine a point on it then, Skipper . . .” Andrews stopped himself, opened his eyes wide again and asked, “Are we still speaking candidly?”

  Rittener nodded affirmatively.

  “Well, this ship is hardly anything more than a floating electron laser platform. If we’re going into combat, where, may I ask, are prisoners going to be held?”

  Now Yeshenko jumped in with both feet.

  “Prisoners?” The laugh that followed was too loud and abrasive to be smoothed over by Lieutenant Andrews, who just stared at Yeshenko with blank eyes. “Come on, Lieutenant. Even slow-witted, blood-deprived Terrans like us can figure that one out. You know how Earthers fight. Dirt crawlers don’t take prisoners.”

  He turned to Rittener, and in the same tone he used with a drinking buddy called on to settle a boozy debate, invited him to chime in. “You’ve been in a hundred battles—hell, maybe even a thousand—against dirt crawlers. They ever take one of your guys prisoner?”

  Rittener, born and raised on Earth, was himself, of course, a “dirt crawler” too. He had heard the pejorative so many times that its power to sting had long since faded into insignificance. Being labeled one, however, in front of every single crewman on board made it easy for Rittener to choose how he’d couch his next comments.

  Rittener withdrew from his waistcoat pocket an impressive-looking document. It was bound in a leather sheath—real leather—and was embossed with the seal of the Terran Archonate, the image inlaid with gold. There were still a few records kept on paper, but it took the crew a moment to recognize what the credentials actually were. Now Rittener was speaking to no one—not Yeshenko nor Andrews nor anyone else really. He was just speaking the words, by law required to be said out loud. He’d planned on making this speech in a perfunctory way, as gentle as possible. He now decided on a different course. He started speaking as he passed the document to Lieutenant Andrews to verify.

  “As per the War Act, section nine, codicil five, and in accordance with the Interplanetary Conventions articles twenty six and twenty seven, I am hereby formally advising all officers and crew of the following. This letter of marque gives absolute and complete authority over the ship Peerless to the holder of this marque. Any and all orders given by the holder of this letter shall be lawfully and strictly obeyed by any and all Terran crew and/or passengers aboard the Peerless.”

  He paused. “You’ll sign that please, Mr. Andrews, and then pass it to Ensign Gutierrez.” Noticing that the lieutenant was at sea regarding how this old-fashioned paper and pen stuff went, he slid a handsome stylograph which even worked in zero gravity across the desk to him. “Your signature, at the bottom, by your name.” He then went on.

  “The holder of this marque is granted the authority to pursue the legitimate interests of the Terran Archonate in dealings with its enemies in whatever manner the holder deems necessary, prudent, and efficient, subject to the above mentioned interplanetary conventions.”

  While Ensign Gutierrez was reading and signing the letter, Seaman Werth came to an overjoyed epiphany.

  “Gott im himmel! I’m on a pirate ship!” He slapped his friend’s muscled back. “We’re damned pirates now, Yeshenko—and with double pay and a promotion waiting for us when we get back to the Ring! Ah . . . and I was the German donkey too stupid to know that no one with a whit of sense volunteered for anything, no? What do you say now?”

  Rittener gave him a real smile, showing a perfect set of teeth. Of course no teeth could be that perfect, but nineteen of them were actually real; the rest were lost in countless battles. His eyes lit up listening to Werth’s blunt translation of the letter of marque. Well, the green one lit up anyway, not the blue one. There were so many parts of Rittener’s body that were biosynthetic that he himself had long forgotten what it felt like to have been at one time in one single piece. The biosynthetic eye had over the years changed from the original green to aqua blue. This was not unusual and there were remedies for it. Rittener just opted to leave it as it was.

  Gutierrez made to hand the document back to Rittener, but he waved her off. “Seaman Werth, you’re absolutely correct. This isn’t a Terran ship; this is my ship.” And with that he dropped the other shoe. “Ensign Gutierrez, please count the number o
f ‘up to and including the penalty of death’ admonitions in that document. The number escapes me now.”

  Rittener wasn’t smiling now. He looked like a Celtic warrior—after a long, hard, lost battle. Or perhaps a closer approximation, especially with the long, swooping, ochre mustache, would be a tough trooper of the US 7th Cavalry from the time of the Little Big Horn. His blonde hair was parted in the middle and fell to his collar. It was straight and very fine and hadn’t receded in the least. That feature was boyish still, unlike very much else about him. Having called various purgatories his home since his youth, and surrounded by the denizens of these cruel precincts, he had allowed himself to be influenced by them. His face was long, narrowing to a blunt jaw and accentuated with a meandering, deep scar that ran from his left cheek bone to the cleft in his chin. In Rittener’s profession, as with 19th century students in duel-crazed Prussia, scars were almost prized and it was far from rare to forego having them cosmetically erased. The eyes though, in Rittener’s case, were almost hypnotic. The green one, the real one, still reflected a virtuous humanity, an eye that seemed to want to shed tears for what it had seen. The blue one warned of another side, a dead side, one that had seen very little other than ruin and destruction.

  The only sound in the room was that of Gutierrez nervously flipping through the paperwork, her agitated hands rustling the document. After what seemed an interminable duration, she answered bluntly. “Six, Sir.”