Tethered Worlds: Blue Star Setting

by Gregory Faccone

  BLUE STAR SETTING

  GREGORY FACCONE

  Tethered Worlds: Blue Star Setting

  (Book 2 in the Tethered Worlds series.)

  Text Copyright © 2014 Gregory Faccone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  https://www.facebook.com/gregoryfaccone

  http://gregoryfaccone.com/

  https://www.facebook.com/tetheredworlds

  http://tetheredworlds.com/

  ISBN-13: 978-1500704742

  Cover Art: Lorenz Hideyoshi Ruwwe

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author takes no responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author would like to express gratitude to the first and still stalwart, M.Carl. You went the extra parsec. Also thanks to Dr.S.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER • ONE

  CHAPTER • TWO

  CHAPTER • THREE

  CHAPTER • FOUR

  CHAPTER • FIVE

  CHAPTER • SIX

  CHAPTER • SEVEN

  CHAPTER • EIGHT

  CHAPTER • NINE

  CHAPTER • TEN

  CHAPTER • ELEVEN

  CHAPTER • TWELVE

  CHAPTER • THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER • FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER • FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER • SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER • SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER • EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER • NINETEEN

  CHAPTER • TWENTY

  CHAPTER • TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER • TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER • TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER • TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER • TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER • TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER • TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER • TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER • TWENTY NINE

  EPILOGUE •

  The TETHERED WORLDS Series

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  My grandfather, Aristahl, is a complex man. He once told me that Sojourners never cry...

  Jordahk crept along the frozen ground. He carefully placed each foot, though no crunchy leaves would give his position away. Conifers were king on the arability terraformed land of Adams Rush. It produced a continuous smattering of dry evergreen needles, blown into patterns by a crisp winter breeze.

  He stepped around patches with the ease of lifelong familiarity. Winter was nine standard months long on Adams Rush, and his favorite season. Tiny pricks of cold studded his hands where icy snowflakes alighted. It was his only exposed skin; an indulgence that risked future pain. Still, hot from exertion, he longed to feel the sharp coolness on his face.

  The field helmet's hard air prevented that. A gray sky, tinted with lavender, hung above air sparsely populated with fine snow. It appeared constantly blown aloft, never hitting the ground. He didn't need nor want protection from the precipitation.

  The fancy coat his grandfather gave him was atypically versatile. He had detached the length of it, leaving only an upper body vest that connected with his field cap to form his hard air helmet. Protection for his neck and face would have to suffice.

  Stopped dead before a clearing, Jordahk scanned to see if anything was amiss. The squinting was out of habit and unnecessary. His eyesight had never been sharper. In fact, the platinum flecks which recently formed in his irises enhanced his vision. Nothing moved amidst the stumps and meter-high seedlings. There was no way around it, not if he wanted to get where he must. The entrance to a series of roughhewn timber walls beckoned on the far side.

  I don't like it.

  It wasn't said aloud, nor even sub-whispered. He didn't want his AIs responding. This battle was to be won or lost with his own senses and intuition. The grister in his hand was a large bore, slow-firing, scientum clunker given by his father. Undoubtedly the intention was to roughly mimic the characteristics of his mystic autobuss, lost months ago at the dawn of winter.

  The pistol was toned olive green. Apparently oversized ammo and full-second recharges between shots was more acceptable to hunters than the high-speed tactical crowd. There was nothing in space like a genuine mystic autobuss, especially the earlier ones. This pistol weighed about the same. Its recoil was similar, though sharper than the old mystic device's push. Considering that, he opted for a two-handed grip.

  Did he hear a distant whirring? Synth-sound amplification was off. It could have been his imagination. Jordahk shook his head.

  Not likely.

  Well, standing at the edge of the clearing was just making him a target. He took a deep breath. The exhalation steamed out ports on his cap.

  He dashed forward and raised the grister. The targeting reticule floating before him was actually generated on his rets. It moved across the frozen openness wherever he pointed. The world didn't erupt around him. He remained expectant, knowing it wasn't going to be that easy.

  He instinctively heaved to one side at the sudden sound of breaking earth and rubble. A pop preceded a whistle by his head. Jordahk contorted his body midair, bringing the grister around. Across the clearing, a black-and-white bot had unearthed. The rounded machine was supported by four squat legs, and came no higher than his knee.

  Poppers!

  He tried to get a bead on the sneaky thing while still in air, but didn't fire. No AI usage meant no smart barrel adjustment for shots. His first shot had to hit or this popper, or one of its friends, would nail him with its next round. He landed hard on elbows, a stinging reminder why he should have left his armored coat on. The maneuver was to steady a shot as soon as possible. The popper turned toward him with the short staccato movement of a small animal.

  Jordahk forced the reticule still atop the bot's black eye and squeezed the trigger studs smooth and quick. The report wasn't like the thunk of his old autobuss, rather it sounded like the muted banging of an old-fashioned military drum. Orange shards erupted off the popper, and it flipped backwards. Landing upside down, one leg trembled, but the machine was otherwise inert.

  Even before the sound of more crumbling earth, he knew he had made a mistake. His father's words echoed in his mind. "Don't admire your handiwork. Don't get tunnel vision. Keep your head on a swivel."

  I just did the first two.

  He sighed while rolling along the ground like a log.

  Orange dirt burst from where he just lay, and debris bounced off the hard air before his face. He stopped rolling and tried to acquire the new popper while lying prone. With two hands on the grister, squeezing the studs brought the expected recoil, but not the expected orange explosion. Instead the popper had popped into the air where it fired a rather haphazard shot in his direction. It missed, but another popper was breaking through the earth behind him.

  The rhythm was going against him and he was behind the curve. "All things entail rising and falling timing."

  Is this really the time for ancient stratagems?

  He cynically blamed his father's incessant tactical inculcation, even while knowing Musashi's ancient quote might be his way through this. If he waited for the airborne popper to land, the one behind would nail him. He had to mix up the timing.

  He leaped off the ground, turned, and charged the popp
er behind him. If he could just dodge its first shot, the rhythm would be on his side. The popper acquired him with its jerky movement, but he was already twisting through a juke that would make a professional athlete envious. His knee torqued in pain, but no impact from the popper's shot was felt.

  The machine was running through its own one-second recharge as he bolted up to it and shot at point-blank range. A halo of orange debris blossomed from the bot as Jordahk slid next to it. He clumsily grabbed it while still holding the grister, and thrust it outward toward the formally airborne popper. He knew that machine was about the fire upon him, and he was proven right when his makeshift shield was blown out of his grip in an orange cloud.

  But now he was ahead of the curve. He efficiently reacquired a two-handed grip, and found the jumpy popper almost directly in his sights. The grister's percussion yielded the satisfaction of watching the annoying bot cartwheel out of action.

  Now, get across, into the—

  His stomach began to rumble, and then shake. Then he realized it wasn't him.

  His torso heaved upward, and he dropped the grister. A popper was unearthing directly beneath him.

  "Wha—"

  Jordahk rolled off and made the snap decision to grab the bot. If he let go, the little machine would scamper a few meters away and shoot him. He had a firm grip on the popper's grister barrel. He had to keep it from pointing at him. But then what?

  Who buries two poppers right next to each other? That doesn't even make tactical sense!

  The machine's stubby legs tried to gain leverage. It rotated along its midpoint with significant torque. Deflecting its barrel was taking all his effort, with none left to gain control. And every second he spent wrestling, totally exposed without his grister, made him more vulnerable.

  He rolled the machine over. It bought him enough time to reach for the platinum rod on his belt. His AI, Max, would have needed no instruction to help Jordahk accomplish his next move, but that wasn't an option. Using his compy for basic voice rec had to be acceptable though.

  "Menu."

  An options tree formed on his rets. He rarely used it.

  "Extend."

  The rod sprang to a length matching his slightly taller-than-average height. Its circumference grew thick and easy to grasp. There was no time for anything fancy. Snapping to his knees, he swung the staff ancient ball sport style. It was ultra hard, longchain metal. The bot was not, and it tumbled from the impact with a cheap clank.

  But he wasn't going to finish it that way. Already the machine was righting itself in preparation to shoot. Jordahk eyed the distance between him and the popper for a split-second before leaping into the air.

  "Spear point!"

  The forward end of his staff reshaped into an ultra-fine point. He experienced that sense of satisfaction once again knowing the fine instrument's significant expense was worth it. The popper angled up to shoot him midair. He drove the spear point down with all the enhanced strength he could muster. It penetrated next to the machine's grister barrel, grinding through cheap metal and machinery. He landed, two hands still holding the metal pole that pinned the bot to the ground.

  Amazingly, it still squirmed. He took his staff out and thrust it down into the machine again. With a squawk and burst of sparks, it was finished. For some reason he still felt animus toward this particularly persistent popper. Placing his foot on the machine he wrenched his staff out and speared it one more time. He must have struck the power cap, because a jolt of current traveled up into his body.

  If his AIs were active, they might have been able to reconfigure the staff on the fly to buffer the conductivity. But they were not. Jordahk's body convulsed violently once, twice, before he was thrown back onto his butt. He blinked, trying to focus. His hands tingled.

  Serves me so right. I hope Mother doesn't find out about that stupid, angry lapse.

  He scooped up the grister, not daring to touch the staff again, and trotted across to the timber walls, feeling less triumphant than he actually was.

  Against his better judgment, he deactivated the hard air helmet. Leaning back against the chunky planks, he breathed deeply, exhaling great plumes of steam. Real wood had such a naturally solid feel. It grew fast and well. There was little demand for it as a building material, though, and vat-grown pulper had replaced wood pulp paper for all but the most traditional.

  In the decades since this classic blockhouse structure was built, it had taken on character. Pocked and damaged, it seemed as much a natural part of the Thule-Riss Range as the trees and boulders. The region's quiet strength put him at ease. Is that what his grandsire had seen in this place two centuries before? Did the mighty Thule-Riss Quext seek respite from the burdens of leadership and his own growing, legendary reputation in this wooded mountain range named after him? Jordahk felt intuitively that he had, though he could offer no proof.

  In the seven winter months since what was now being called the "Egress Incident," he had taken a few forays deep into the range looking for the rumored Thule-Riss hold. Since the incident, and for reasons he couldn't fathom, his father seemed more convinced the hold existed. Jordahk had not found it, not knowing what to look for, nor sharing his father's newfound certainty. It wasn't the most comprehensive search anyway using fanpack and airbike in the winter cold. And burning coin renting a flyer wasn't an option until he had more definitive ideas of how or where to look. He had a suspicion his father had more definitive ideas. Perhaps someday soon he would share them.

  Movement caught his eye back at the tree line where he had entered originally. As a precaution, Jordahk stepped to the right to make himself a moving target. A torso-sized, orange explosion erupted off the wood where he had just been standing.

  So, another popper had been placed there to keep him "moving along" in case he started waxing philosophical. He hated being predictable.

  He timed another sharp step to the right as the machine's one-second recharge elapsed. He heard a whistle, and another orange explosion blossomed next to him. Thankfully, the cheap devices didn't have smart barrels, and at this range he could dodge their fire if he kept moving erratically or at the right instant. But he was going to get hit sooner or later if he didn't take it out. And leaving an enemy at his back before entering the block house was unwise.

  The machine was at extreme range for a pistol. Not that a grister was incapable. Rather, the limitation was a human's inability to hold steady and aim an unbraced handgun without smart barrels, zoomie rets, and auto stocks. He couldn't stand still and walk multiple shots onto the target, not with only a one-second window between the machine's firings.

  The little black and white bot could see him clearly. It didn't even bother with evasive maneuvers since Jordahk wasn't pointing in. A sudden confidence rose up within him. Instead of sidestepping the next shot, he dropped to one knee as fast as gravity allowed. A whistle and a trail of disturbed air grazed his head followed by orange debris and wood bits bouncing off him from above. He rested his elbow on upraised knee and settled into a braced firing position with a quick exhale. The second seemed to stretch as he put the reticule on the metal speck in the distance. He fired one clean shot, and the popper spun satisfyingly like a top amidst an orange cloud.

  He smiled, but not too much, knowing his father could have made that shot without taking a knee.

  Diligent trainers, his parents had been pushing him extra hard since they all recovered from their injuries. It was often grueling, and early morning exercise was certainly no fun, but he had come to realize what a mentally helpful practice it was. He didn't have time to dwell on the deeper issues touching his life now. Not that avoiding deeper issues was a good thing, but everything in its time.

  The sky was bright in the way cloud cover dispersed light evenly. He felt the ice crystals on his face and realized the hard air helmet had not been reactivated for the last encounter. That was going to incur a reprimand. Above the snow and lavender gray clouds, almost directly above where he stood, his l
ife had changed in orbit not even a standard year ago.

  Many events had brought him to it, but it was the climax that changed, or quickened, attributes within him he was not ready to embrace. And the future implications were downright scary. While he didn't know where it would all lead, he knew it wasn't going to be running the family business.

  Unlike some of his old friends, he had not developed excessive disdain for his parents during long adolescence. He had gone through a phase like most, but it was mild and short-lived. He really did enjoy helping them administer training seminars. Teaching citizens how to shoot and be security conscious was interesting, and sadly, handy. Occasionally, they had contracts to teach police or even military. Sometimes those events garnered experience with high-end, and yes, fun hardware.

  One of the best parts was visiting other worlds and having days to hunt mystic technology relics. During one such trip he had found a small, abandoned Sojourner shelter. It was untouched, though there was nothing of value inside. The place emanated a sad, still eeriness. Another time, when his father was feeling adventurous, they explored an abandoned moon outpost rumored to have been co-inhabited with Sojourners. Though the small facility had long since been picked clean, it was fascinating to see the curved, almost artistic structures from a time before war made everything so practical.

  A whirring sound interrupted his thoughts. He reactivated the field helmet and checked the grister's ammunition readout on his rets. There was nothing left but to do it.

  He poked his head around the corner, getting a quick peek into the blockhouse complex. The walls of roughly milled, squared-off planks formed numerous right angles, a few U-shaped enclosures, and at the far end, he knew, a small rectangular cabin. All but the cabin were open to the sky.

  Nothing moved. He eased back from the entrance, and, step by sideways step, started "slicing the pie," as his father had taught him, to gain visibility on the interior bit by bit. When he had revealed as much as possible, he dashed through the entrance. He cast a look over his shoulder to make sure nothing was waiting to ambush him.