Tethered Worlds: Blue Star Setting

by Gregory Faccone

  A hatch to an auxiliary compartment off the bay opened suddenly. A half dozen combat bots approached the Commodore. They were the new model Auscultare had begun carrying the year before. Powerful but relatively less massive legs supported a large, black, triangular torso. The arms were thick with integral weapons, and the angular heads, like their rest of their bodies, were supranameled matte black.

  "I am charged to take the object into custody, Commodore," Auscultare said, a hint of distance in his voice.

  The man broke out of his trance and seemed to be listening again. He pulled the object away from the oncoming bots.

  "What do you think you are?" The man started sub-whispering.

  Auscultare felt the unpleasant sensation again, but the formidable combat bots did not. They subdued the man. Even his extraordinary strength paled in comparison to theirs. They tore the ring off his finger and pulled the object from his clutches.

  "I'm sorry Commodore. My master would see this object secured. Setting course for Numen."

  "I'm not dead."

  He said it quietly, though behind the sound buffers of his so-called command chair, it made no difference. Why did he find himself saying it so much? Was it a reminder he had escaped the ultimate penalty? No. Perhaps this was the ultimate penalty.

  Pheron Xammetrix had once been a rear admiral, a position achieved through perseverance and strength of intellect, not political patronage. A notable achievement considering getting anywhere without the backing of a consul or orator was getting harder with each passing decade. It was almost as if the Perigeum was trying to choke out talent.

  The diminutive bridge was dimmed for third shift. Its only other occupant was an extremely bored junior officer manning, quite unnecessarily, the front consoles. He listed to one side for the second time. His body twitched, no doubt his AI attempting to keep him awake. Between micros and pharma-stims, it was difficult to fall asleep on shift.

  "You're relieved, sub-ensign. Extra duty for one week." It took energy just to say the words. "Dismissed."

  The sub-ensign stood, blinking his eyes as if awaking from a bad dream only to realize it was real.

  "Yes, Field Commander." There was no point in further reprimand. "Sorry sir." He looked only slightly abashed, but it wasn't meant as disrespect. Apathy had stolen his will and his pride. The sub-ensign left the bridge with the same drone-like shuffle that the entire once-crack crew now exhibited.

  The only one left on the bridge had also once been appointed field commander of a most important task force. The initiative to place an egress at Adams Rush had been historic. Now his field commander appointment, the task force, and the egress were all history.

  Technically, the egress still existed, but there was little chance the grimes in the Asterfraeo could get it in working order any time soon. Even if they did, no egress within the Perigeum would ever sync with it. They could try to build another egress to pair with it, but that astronomical cost couldn't be levied by the loose Asterfraeo government, the Cohortium.

  What would they do with it anyway, start egressing Asterfraeo worlds? The giant transporters were the impetus behind the establishment of the Asterfraeo in the first place. He shook his head. Both major divisions of humanity seemed to be losing their way. These days, the Strident Cluster, a ghost system, or even the Sino Worlds were starting to look good.

  He admitted the last was a stretch. Desperation had not reached that level, had it? He looked out the forward bulkhead display. Isarn was a dull, dreary, hopeless world, but it was still better than those other alternatives.

  Isarn had the unfortunate timing of being settled just as the egress network was spreading. As a result, it was the victim of a whole new set of interplanetary market forces. At the time, it wasn't prosperous enough, nor did it hold the promise of great prosperity, to warrant an egress. Yet, it was habitable to a reasonable level of comfort without overly extensive arability terraformation.

  And there Isarn remained. Too habitable to be abandoned and relegated to ghost system status, yet too growth-stunted and economically hobbled to prosper. No one wanted to emigrate to Isarn. A chief source of employment were the giant labor prisons populated with criminals and political undesirables from many Perigeum worlds. Operation of these prisons brought a much-needed Perigeum stipend for every head incarcerated.

  A vessel rounded the crescent of Isarn. It was roughly the tonnage of a corvette, and though armed, not designed particularly for space warfare. His ship AI added an identification overlay, "revenue cutter."

  "Regulators."

  It was a sure sign that you were still a contributing member of the Perigeum when you received a visit from the universally reviled Regulators. They enforced government edicts, oversaw prisoner reeducation, and collected taxes. If it took intimidation, that was okay. There was no place to hide within the Perigeum—outside of the Overtrade Autonomy or a ghost system—to elude quasi-governmental ownership. An impossible task over impossible distances if not for the egresses.

  Isarn's other problem was the slow, inexorable growth of Consortium interests. The Perigeum governed under the illusion that they controlled everything, but on a local level, people often found a way around crippling regulations. However, aligning yourself with the lawyer-heavy Consortium, whom many considered mobsters, was merely exchanging one master for another.

  The Regulators could operate legally as "judge, jury, and executioner," as the old phrase went. Supposedly, they avoided such measures, as the backlash often proved counterproductive. A battle on the streets, or even in legal halls between Consortium and Regulator sounded far more interesting than his deployment.

  But Regulators had no power over Starmada affairs. He would sooner space one than let him aboard. Their purview was commoners, workers, and plebes.

  "Time to command gruppe rendezvous?"

  "Ten minutes," the ship AI said.

  "Let me see it."

  The view changed to show three approaching ships, a recently repaired command cruiser with two flanking destroyers. He felt a pang. He wasn't used to such emotions and had to objectively analyze it. Was it envy? Not exactly. Regret? Not really. Irony? Perhaps. For that was once his command cruiser.

  Pheron couldn't be killed, but he had no future. He was like the walking dead. Maybe that was why he took to standing the bridge's night watches. Perigeum Starmada High Command couldn't execute him in light of his sterling record and lack of overt error during the Adams Rush Egress Incident. But he still had to face consequences for such a dismal failure.

  The crew of his former task force, most of whom evenetually managed to limp back to Perigeum territory, were assigned to this hastily formed wing. They were kept together to "reduce contamination" with other units. The crew of his command cruiser was dispersed to the frigate he now inhabited, and the other two in close formation. The obsolete hulks were refuse from the mothball fleet.

  That was the new glorious command of Gruppe Lieutenant Xammetrix. Out of old habit, he almost glanced to the left where his First used to be a fixture. Aetaire would have shown suitable outrage for such an "insult," but he was long gone, transferred to Logistics. Loading out colliers for fleet resupply was a better use of his skills than standing on this dusty ship in the middle of nowhere. He had always been good with the details, after all.

  A course conflict alert chimed. The officer in charge of the entire wing, Commander Decard, was also the walking dead. But he had earned his status through incompetence and stupidity.

  "Hold position," Pheron told the ship AI.

  He replayed the order of operations for regrouping after this most pointless exercise. The whole wing was, unsurprisingly, deployed poorly. It should have been broken up into three undersized squadrons, each led by one of the destroyers and the command cruiser. The frigates should have been divided equally among them.

  But Commander Decard liked surrounding himself with the most powerful ships. Those three were supposed to merge with his little gruppe into a r
otating claw formation. According to the plan, their courses were to never intersect.

  The alert chimed again. The bridge hatch opened, and the relieved sub-ensign reentered, offering a crisp nod. When there was actually something to do, his old crew emerged.

  "Permission to return to station, sir," the sub-ensign said.

  "Granted."

  Two more junior officers, all veterans of the Egress Incident, came in quietly and took their stations. Pheron suppressed a smile.

  "The command cruiser is requesting we alter our plot, Gruppe Lieutenant," one of them said.

  Though he used Pheron's new rank, it was said as if still rear admiral.

  "Send a confirmation of the exercise maneuvers."

  Thrust rings on his three frigates fired, and they aligned themselves to take up their positions in the rotating claw. The command gruppe did not follow suit. Pheron's ship AI indicated it was about to bring the shields up to combat strength in lieu of the apparent proximity danger. Pheron didn't stop it.

  A command VAD appeared showing a ruffled Decard.

  "Are you going hot shields, Gruppe Lieutenant?" he asked.

  "The rebuilt shield controllers on this tub are unreliable," he lied. "Apparently, my ship AI thinks we're in danger. Preposterous, I know, considering the maneuvers preprogrammed into this exercise."

  Decard appeared to grind his teeth. "Plot new maneuver vectors to accommodate the command gruppe."

  The pale man had a crooked face. Why had he never straightened out that obviously broken nose? Pheron wondered if his own appearance seemed equally strange. His dark, ashy skin wasn't common, nor was the gray colortat band running around the back of his hairless head.

  "I can do that, sir," Pheron said,"but three other gruppes are minutes away from merging with our formation. They have existing maneuver orders, and I might endanger them by being out of position." Pheron's gruppe increased speed as scheduled for assuming the aggressive attack formation. "Are you sending new orders to the wing?"

  Decard looked off screen, probably to his nav or data rider. Apparently, he had not thought through his move of obvious bravado. Typical. They were one minute from rendezvous. The three other gruppes flared to life on the trimensional VAD only minutes from their own merge.

  Pheron's group accelerated further, separating slightly and spiraling into a formation ready to accept the command gruppe. But the command gruppe was not following the plan.

  Emotionally numb after the events of the past year, he didn't even have the energy to be disgusted by the puerile antics of a commander with the intellectual capacity of a food-jerk dispenser. He was used to analyzing deep strategies, moves, and counter moves, plans within plans... This mind-numbing deployment was eating away at his mental discipline, and his life energy. He was reduced to the equivalent of a firstschool gymnasium shoving match.

  He pressed his mind to think deeper, like he used to. Why was their wing really out there in the middle of nowhere? He doubted his current moronic commander knew the real reason. But something niggled at the back of Pheron's brain, where deep strategies once formed.

  Proximity alarms sounded. The commander still had not changed course. Pheron's apathy was serving as bravery, because he just didn't care if they collided. His steely crew trusted him, though. In the end, he knew Decard liked himself too much to risk life over this idiotic game of chicken.

  At 30 seconds to rendezvous the command cruiser and two destroyers broke formation in radical, ungraceful maneuvers. They botched their formation merge completely, but with Pheron holding on track, at least the other frigate pocket gruppes could continue as planned. The commander would be forced into ungainly and somewhat embarrassing maneuvers to catch up and spearhead the growing formation.

  A command VAD appeared again, displaying an obviously angry Decard. "Failure to stay flexible in the field of battle may get you killed, Gruppe Lieut. Xammetrix." Had the man ever really been in battle? Pheron doubted it. "Rest assured, the failure of this exercise is going in what's left of your permanent file." The VAD buzzed out angrily, if such a thing was possible.

  Pheron was going to pay for making the commander look small, although that wasn't very hard. It might come in inadequate supplies, substandard repairs, or even a dangerous assignment, but it would come. This was going to be a long, and likely final, deployment.

  But to where?

  A TIME OF SOJOURNERS

  By Sparber Quintile, Historian (22??-2450?)

  The Early Asterfraeo: Sojourners Amongst Them

  (excerpt from the series)

  The outward migration spawned by the growing egress network took on forms that shadowed the past. On Adams Rush, some called it "the Age of Enlightenment brought to the stars." The artistic spires and culture of Utica Cyr are often associated with the ancient Renaissance. Few doubt the likening of Patram's founders to historical Pilgrims of Earth seeking religious freedom. And on a number of Palisades worlds, a militaristic "Don't Tread on Me" mindset developed.

  Direction was provided by the Freespace Movement and the swelling ranks of imprimaturs. They, in turn, drew inspiration from the reserved Sojourners, who largely stayed away from everyday governing. But to whom did the Sojourners, themselves, turn?

  The imprimaturs tell of the Sojourners' reverence for the Creator, a belief often stimulated by their deeper forays into mystic technology. Their other major influence is almost as hard to quantify. I speak of the mysterious Khromas, a group of five legendary individuals who transcended ordinary names and even Sojourner understanding.

  They were known by curious monikers: The Will, The Spirit, The Strength, The Mass, and The Wisdom. The mightiest of these, with the possible exception of The Spirit, was The Will, who, through sheer force of determination, could operate within the specialties of the others. But like the characteristics from which they drew their names, the upper limits of The Will's abilities, and those of The Spirit, have never been established.

  The final fates of the Khromas are steeped in hearsay and mystery. Like giants who walked before us, only their footprints remain in the soft soil of the early Asterfraeo.

  A once blackened owl rested in a wooded clearing at the foot of the Thule-Riss Range. The fact that it was no ordinary Perigeum Starmada owl was little-known. When salvage rights were negotiated—a rather hectic time for the newly seated Adams Rush government—that detail wasn't volunteered. Nor did the images of its carbon-scored hull clearly display Archiver stripes of silver and purple rather than the standard double gray.

  As lean as the Adams Rush government and its Navy was intended to be, there was still enough bureaucracy to mishandle a job in which there was more intelligence to gain than they were equipped to extract. Kord had the connections, the know-how, and the resources to do the job right. And if the family reaped a fancy new flying machine along the way, all the better. If they could get it to work, that is. It had not moved in seven months.

  The nonmilitary market for owls consisted of freight lines looking for a little sting capacity, or security contractors. Certainly the salvage operation wasn't cheap, and buying an owl would be easier. But no one out there was selling owls outfitted with mystic/scientum hybrid technology. And there was no family line on Adams Rush better suited to that than the Wilkrests.

  Despite cosmopolitan opposition, the rustic Asterfraeo world had demonstrated once again that most of its civilians took the planet's security seriously. The Hodges family had endured a tremendous loss with the sacrificial destruction of their largest orbital farm. Various other enterprises took losses in orbit and elsewhere. Even the Adams Rush Navy was scrambling to appropriate funds for a new battlestation on top of replenishing personnel and ships lost or damaged during the Egress Incident.

  "Each day has enough trouble unto itself," Kord mused, "take them one at a time."

  "True words, gefera," Vittora said.

  Her quiet voice touched his ears as if she were nearby, but she was kilometers away at the cabin. Sometimes
Kord and his wife ran with open comms. It was easy to forget, and at such times a response to a musing thought could be surprising.

  "Don't take on too much," she continued. "You've got backup."

  He nodded, though she couldn't see it. "Yeah."

  Vittora was adding another layer of security around the cabin while overseeing its ongoing rebuild. Assisting her were a number of rented construction bots whose memories would be wiped at the end of the contract.

  Kord ran his hand over the purplish gray exterior of the owl, now stripped down to the granix. It was going to come in handy someday.

  "Sir," Highearn said, "the hybrid shield controller on the starboard side that's been giving us trouble has failed completely."

  He sighed. "Goldy. Goldy!"

  The bots head appeared over the top of the owl. "Yes sir?"

  "Just pull that shield controller, will you? The mystic side is too problematic."

  "Yes sir."

  Although not designed for it, the fine motor control of a combat bot could be applied quite successfully to maintenance. Of course, it did take a rather uncommon, and expensive, maintenance software package that he procured through his network of military connections.

  A moment later Goldy came around the owl holding the malfunctioning shield controller, followed by Jordahk. "Come on metal monster," Jordahk said, "just let me hold it for a minute to see if I can tell what's going on inside."

  "I believe your father does not want you to interface with the hybrid technology. For your own good, I cannot relinquish this piece until your father tells me otherwise."

  Jordahk looked at his father and lifted his hands palm-up in frustration. There was little societal tolerance for recalcitrant machines.

  "Give him a break, Jordahk," Kord said. "He's just following the spirit of my orders."

  The more Goldy interacted with the family, the more they were able to influence the newly forming quadnapse structures of its personality. The bot was a powerful, but dangerous tool. Kord would be held legally liable for any misdeeds it performed. Its brain wasn't designed for longterm social interaction with humans. But with each passing day, it built a safer and more predictable personality.