Torchship Pilot

by Karl K Gallagher

  “Fleet staff has about a hundred questions on my after-action report. I’m supposed to have them all answered tomorrow.”

  “Right. Have you eaten anything?”

  She thought a moment. “No.”

  “Pancakes it is.” He started breakfast, being gentle with the pans on the stove. The younger members of the crew spent last night drinking on Mitchie’s tab to celebrate her promotion. He didn’t want to wake them with clanging pots until the hangovers wore off. He mixed up the batter recipe at full size. The excess could go in the fridge for when they staggered out.

  “How the fuck would I know?” muttered Mitchie.

  Guo offered a “Mmm?” as an excuse for her to talk more.

  “This damn question. They want all the details on every decision I made. I was too damn busy to write down notes.” She stretched her arms over her head. “Right. The warships have continuous video records on the bridge. I bet they just send back a video clip for this chickenshit.”

  He flipped the pancakes. “So tell them ‘Unknown, data not recorded’ for every question. What are they going to do, take your medal away?”

  She chuckled. “Ha. They can have it.” She went back to writing.

  To his relief she slid the datasheet out of the way to make room for her plate without him needing to pressure her. She freely applied butter and syrup.

  BZZZ. They both looked up at the sound of the airlock buzzer. The current batch was about finished. “I’ll get it,” said Guo. “You eat.” He flipped the pancakes onto the platter and turned the burner off.

  Bonaventure had just a bit too much gravity for him to try sliding the whole way down the cargo hold ladder. But he did cheat in the middle, since there were no crewmen to watch him setting a bad example.

  Opening the airlock revealed Ambassador Bakhunin. “Senior Chief! Good morning. I’ve come to offer my congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” He accepted a handshake. The diplomat must have seen the promotion announcements. Guo hadn’t bothered putting on a uniform this morning.

  “May I see the commander?”

  “Of course. After you.”

  Bakhunin took the ladder faster than when he’d first been on board the Joshua Chamberlain, but he’d lost some speed from the end of the trip. Guo followed patiently, not starting a conversation when the visitor paused for breath two-thirds of the way up.

  Announcing Bakhunin didn’t keep Guo from dropping three more pancakes on Mitchie’s plate. “Have you eaten, Ambassador?” he asked.

  “Well, yes, I have, but that smells delightful.”

  “We have plenty.” A new plate went down next to Guo’s. The mechanic started some more pancakes.

  Bakhunin traded pleasantries with Mitchie then grew more serious. “The DCC appreciates the victory you won. Our casualties were barely more than the best-case simulations. The prisoners exceeded the sims.”

  “I wish I’d done better by the prisoners,” said Mitchie. “There was one who unzipped his bubble at the bottom of the pile. It deflated and suffocated him. We couldn’t tell if it was accident or suicide. I wonder if the Fusion will charge me with another war crime for that one?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” answered Bakhunin. “About a quarter of their crews ran out of air before we could recover them. The salvage crews are still finding bodies here or there missed on the first pass. The envoys have been shocked by the numbers.”

  Guo dropped some pancakes on the diplomat’s plate. “There’s already a Fusion delegation here?”

  “Yes. We’re keeping it quiet until the formal negotiations start. Which brings me to you.” Bakhunin locked his eyes on Mitchie. “You know one of them.”

  She lowered her fork. “Crap. Stakeholder Ping.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why tell me? He hates me.”

  “Yes, he does. Which makes you very well suited for a task the DCC needs done.”

  Guo watched Mitchie react. A stranger might not have noticed any change. Guo saw her spine straighten, her shoulders pull out of their slump, and her eyes lock into focus. Mitchie cast off the fog her husband had spent two weeks futilely trying to rescue her from.

  “What’s the job?” she asked.

  “Organizing a joint attack on the Betrayers is our best hope for a peaceful settlement. It also lets us get rid of all those prisoners before the Bonnies decide to kill and eat them. But it will only work if they suggest it. So we want you to have an informal chat and drop the idea.”

  “Why me?”

  “Flaunting your promotion to drive home at the emotional level that they’re losing is a bonus.”

  “Any formal instructions?”

  Bakhunin took a folded hardcopy from his jacket. “Here. Please destroy it once you’ve memorized it.”

  After that the conversation turned to trivialities until they’d all had their fill of pancakes. When Guo returned from showing the visitor out Mitchie was editing her report again. This time she was typing quickly, eager to get it out of her way.

  Guo sat across from her. “Have you had enough revenge?” he asked.

  Mitchie slid the datasheet out from between them. “The battle, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. The spacers were tools. I don’t want revenge on them. It’s all the men who ordered them to hurt us that I’m after.”

  Guo cursed himself for loving the passion in her eyes. “Do you want the war to continue?”

  “Smashing the Betrayers destroys the Fusion’s whole reason for existence. All their top boys would wind up in the street. That will satisfy me.”

  He reached out to take her hand. “Good. I was afraid nothing would.”

  She offered him a wry smile. “I’m not that vindictive.”

  “Can’t blame me for wondering. You weren’t happy about crushing the Navy.”

  “I’m glad we won. I’ve been brooding over all the Stakeholders and Directors sitting in their palaces not bothered at all while everyone in this system suffered, on both sides.” A real smile appeared. “Now I get to bother one.”

  ***

  Two Fusion Marines stood guard in front of the door to the delegation’s quarters. Mitchie walked past the Senior Private to the Corporal First Class. “Please tell Stakeholder Ping that his dancing partner is here.”

  This was not on the Corporal’s list of expected inputs. “Um, I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

  “Please inform the Stakeholder that someone has come to see him,” said Mitchie patiently.

  “And you are?”

  “His dancing partner.” The Akiak Space Guard had name tags on the undress uniform. He could read hers if he wanted her name.

  The Marine turned to the intercom panel behind him. The husher kept her from hearing any of the conversation. He looked back at her several times. Presumably he’d passed on her name and rank. Then he stood facing the panel without talking for a few minutes. Are they arguing on the inside?

  At last he received orders. A crisp about-face brought him back to her. “You may go in, ma’am, but I need to scan you for weapons first.”

  “Go ahead,” she said. Everything dangerous was in her head.

  The wand made multiple passes over her body before the Marine would open the door. Mitchie entered, resisting the temptation to look around. If they’d left anything interesting lying around she’d spot it later in the conversation.

  Stakeholder Ping waited for her with a pair of other suits. He had a few more worry lines than when she’d met him on Demeter. “Lieutenant Long. How unexpected.”

  “I’m pleased to see you too. But it’s Commander Long now.” Which he should have noticed. The Space Guard used the same pattern of rings as the Fusion Navy, just in different colors.

  “The Disconnect promotes people for violating the laws of war?”

  Mitchie put on a fixed smile. “I’ve been promoted for achieving results, not following rules.”

  “What results?” probed Ping.

 
; “Among other things, keeping them secret.”

  One of the suits broke in. “I thought you said you’d danced with her, Ping, not fenced.”

  Stakeholder Ping took a deep breath. “Yes. Commander, allow me to introduce you to Ambassador Singh,” indicating the interrupter, “and Director Tepes. My fellow delegates, behold Michigan Long, torturer and spy.”

  “Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” said Mitchie. The suits made the proper replies. Singh insisted on shifting everyone to some comfortable chairs over Ping’s objections.

  “So, other than annoying the Stakeholder, what brings you to us, Commander?” asked Tepes.

  “I just want to informally pass along a suggestion. Not mine, my husband came up with it, actually.”

  Ping snorted in disbelief. The other two were politer. “We understand that you don’t represent anyone and cannot bind the Disconnected Worlds to any concession,” said Ambassador Singh.

  “I can’t. But I predict that you could ask for a particular concession and they’d grant it,” said Mitchie. No one offered a straight line. She continued, “All the ships and all the prisoners of war. Given back to you to use in operations.”

  Mitchie could tell that got their attention, not just the twitches in their impassive expressions but the way their eyes locked on to her.

  “Every prisoner?” asked Tepes.

  “All the ones not on trial for war crimes,” she answered.

  “Why should they stand trial while you walk around free?” asked Ping.

  “We won,” said Mitchie.

  She let the silence after that go on.

  “What would be expected of us in exchange for that concession?” asked the ambassador.

  “That you take them to Demeter, accompanied by much of our fleet, and we cooperate to make that a human world again by smashing every Betrayer machine on it.” Mitchie focused on Ping. “It was a beautiful world while we were there, Stakeholder. We should go there again and free it.”

  Director Tepes spoke first. “Preposterous.”

  “Is it? The Disconnected Worlds have built up our fleet. Yours has grown as well, and you’ve added capital ships stronger than anything we’ve seen from the Betrayers.”

  “The Betrayers don’t need battleships,” said Tepes. “They can coordinate small ships far more effectively than humans can.”

  “Not effectively enough to take a system before you moved your fleet away from the real threat and attacked us.”

  Ambassador Singh broke in. “The practicality of military actions is a question for the General Staff to decide. We’d need to receive their input before formally negotiating a proposal. Of course, they’d need information on how much firepower the Disconnected Worlds would be contributing.” The sort of information hundreds of security officers were working hard to keep away from the Fusion.

  Mitchie said, “I can’t speak for the DCC, but I would guess that a formal request to engage in joint planning for the liberation of Demeter would have a warm response.” From the civilians.

  “I see. And would you be part of the Disconnect force?”

  “That depends on my orders, but I expect I’d be part of the reconnaissance team. I’ve made several visits to the planet already.”

  “As part of reconnaissance teams?” asked Ping.

  No, I worked solo. “In my prior career as a merchant crewman.”

  “Of course,” said Singh.

  Ping snarled, “You just want to bring your ships into our space so you can bombard our worlds.”

  She put on her sweetest tones. “If we wanted to do that we would have done it instead of sending a courier to invite your delegation. It’s not like you have enough ships left to stop us. Unless you want to turn all the innermost worlds over to the next Betrayer incursion.”

  Singh tried a less confrontational topic. “What do the Disconnected Worlds gain from recovering Demeter?”

  “A start. An existence proof that the Betrayers aren’t actually superhuman, they’re just programs obeying obsolete orders. A precedent for clearing them off every world. Including Old Earth.”

  “You’re insane,” said Ping.

  Mitchie tossed a data crystal onto the coffee table. “Here’s proof by one of your own analysts that the Ushuaia AI is working to analyzable orders.” Not that Chetty was one of their analysts any more.

  None of them reached for it.

  “You’ve spent generations living in fear of the Betrayers even while beating them off repeatedly. It’s time to take the fight to them. Take back Demeter. Resettle it. Push on the other AI worlds and take one. Then the next. Keep it up, and we can end the threat. Let our grandchildren grow up not being afraid of the sky.”

  “Settle who on Demeter?” asked Tepes. “All our pioneers have gone to you.”

  She shrugged. “If you invite us some Diskers may come along. You have all those stipend kids playing in imaginary worlds. Give them a real world to conquer. Conscript them if you have to. They’re playing soldier, let them do it for real.”

  Ping laughed. “I think you overestimate the usefulness of our underclass. They’re on stipends because they’re not productive enough to be worth giving a job. Moving them to the ruins of Demeter won’t change that.”

  “You might be surprised. I’m not talking about your underclass, anyway. Virtual people don’t make good settlers. I’m talking about taking the stipend kids just above them and getting them motivated to fight a war.”

  All three men became poker-faced. “How would you motivate those game players to fight for real?” asked Tepes.

  “You tell them they’re part of a grand crusade to restore the human race to its proper place. Inspire them to free Old Earth from the machines. Or,” she paused, “we could tell them how they’ve been lied to. That the contests they’ve won weren’t against real opponents. That they’re the bottom of the heap and millions of people are laughing at them for being dupes. I think we’d see some real fighting from them after that.”

  Ambassador Singh said, “You seem to have some misunderstanding about our society, Commander. There’s no such lies. Our games and contests are fair. And public morale is firm.”

  “Then stipend kids knocking on the doors of their opponents won’t find empty rooms? Tracking down everyone will find a face for every name?”

  “Of course they will,” said the ambassador.

  “Then I suppose there’s no need to conscript them for war against the Betrayers. Thank you for a memorable chat, gentlemen. I’ll see myself out.”

  ***

  The new freight run schedule let Joshua Chamberlain’s crew have weekends off at Bulkwark Port, an easy ride from Commerce City’s night life. Guo came out of an ice cream shop with two cones. Looking around for Mitchie he found her down the block watching a construction site.

  “I didn’t think you were a fan of earth-moving machines,” he said, handing her a cone.

  “Thanks. I’m not. I’m watching the crew. See anyone unarmed?”

  He looked over the safety fence. It bore a sign listing those killed and wounded in the Fusion bombardment which wrecked the building being demolished. Most of the workers wore rifles slung over their backs. Equipment operators had racks on the windows of the cabs. “The foreman only has a pistol. Hmmm. What about the guy in the green shirt?”

  “His is on the wall of the supply shack. You can see it when the door is open,” said Mitchie.

  “Yep, I see it. That’s everyone.”

  Mitchie looked at the crowds on the sidewalk, many of them visibly armed. “This place has changed.”

  “Not that much,” said Guo. “The proposal to limit voting to combat veterans was shouted down fast.”

  A passer-by stopped dead in the street, entranced by his HUD. He lifted it up and shouted, “Hey, go watch the peace negotiations! This is great!”

  Mitchie pulled out her datasheet. The live feed for the negotiation chamber declared “ADJOURNED FOR THE DAY.” She muttered, “That’s not goo
d.”

  The archive timeline showed intense popularity for the last two minutes of the session. Mitchie pulled them up.

  A Bonaventure delegate yelled, “If you don’t want to pay restitution we can bring our fleet to your worlds and take what we’re owed!”

  Director Tepes yelled back, “Every ship in the Navy will stop you!”

  “We’ll destroy them as we did your invasion!”

  “Then the Betrayers will atomize you and your loot!”

  “That’s your fault for fighting humans instead of machines!”

  Both men started climbing on the table, their fellow delegates pulled them back, gavel-pounding drowned out the voices, and the video cut off.

  “Professional diplomats at work,” said Guo. “I think the generals stayed calmer negotiating the expeditionary force’s surrender.”

  “Knowing you can shoot the other guy when you get tired of talking has to be a stress reducer,” quipped Mitchie.

  They took in a show and dinner before returning to their ship. When the autocab dropped them off a man emerged from a government limo parked nearby.

  “Commander Long?” he called.

  “Yes?” she said.

  As he came closer she recognized Stakeholder Ping. “May I speak with you privately?”

  “Of course,” said Mitchie. Guo nodded and started walking toward the ship.

  “No, not here,” said Ping. He waved toward the Commerce skyline. “A thousand sensors could be monitoring us. We’d be much more secure in your ship.”

  Mitchie led him up to her office, dropping her datasheet on the galley table as they passed. Ping left a couple of his own gadgets on the table.

  When the door closed behind them Ping asked, “There’s nothing that can record us in here?”

  “No, nothing.”

  The stakeholder took a thumb-sized device out of his pocket and pressed the button on the end. Mitchie’s skin prickled, almost painfully around her wedding ring. The PA speaker in the corridor hissed static.

  Mitchie pressed the intercom button. “Captain to bridge. Comm check.”

  The mechanic on radio watch answered, “I hear you clear, Skipper. The PA’s acting up though.”