Tethered Worlds: Blue Star Setting

by Gregory Faccone

  He wasn't looking for luxury, but was it too much to ask for a ship younger than him?

  "Well, it far exceeds the Roulette," Aristahl said.

  His grandfather's straight delivery made it hard to tell if he was being optimistic, excessively dry humored, or just stating the facts. But he was right, of course. The Monte Crest's launch bordered on hunk-of-junk status when they had conscripted it for crazy missions during the Egress Incident. And when they finished with it, that's exactly what it was.

  "That's not a very high bar," Jordahk said.

  The trip out to the nowhere star around which the secret asteroid lab of Alb-Sone Whaye orbited was weeks long by their route. But their decrepit people transporter was outfitted with 22 short-term cryo pods known commonly as "no-dream." It wasn't popular, but it was the most common and safe suspension method for up to 30-day increments.

  People didn't care for the way the dreamless period left one unrefreshed upon exit. But more undesirable was that the body still aged at one-third of its normal rate. Cargo haulers, certain military units, anyone who used this method regularly felt cheated. Why should they burn precious days of their life?

  Their "bus" had only the most basic provisions. It wasn't the kind of conveyance one would want to stay awake in for weeks. Jordahk had a vague sensation, perhaps it was a subtle smell the scrubbers couldn't eradicate completely, that the bus had been used for a party gone terribly overboard.

  They came out of no-dream two days before their scheduled arrival and took the time to rest up and get ready. But ready for what? If nothing else, it felt good to be out doing something. He needed a break from training, and he had not been off-world since the Egress Incident. That was the way with Aristahl, he seemed to know just when to show up.

  "So," Jordahk asked with trepidation, "you have a ship?"

  He knew not to expect straight answers in regard to personal growth. He needed to learn those on his own in Aristahl's view. But surely some answers could be forthcoming about things relegated to history, perhaps for centuries.

  "Many of my old possessions are scattered about inhabited space," Aristahl said. He looked out the viewport, his eyes moving past the colors into the darkness. "I had different ideas about the war and reconstruction than some of my... peers."

  That was startling. His grandfather disclosed little about himself over the years, and Jordahk still felt heavy with knowledge learned during the Egress Incident. The anticipation of more revelations was tempered by foreboding.

  "Yes, a ship." Aristahl seemed light years away. "There was a time, earlier in the war, when most of us still thought the best path was to win it outright. There were powerful Centurions amongst us, and they only lacked the tools necessary to rain hell upon the Perigeum squadrons."

  Jordahk was surprised to hear such a description from his grandfather. It made him a little apprehensive.

  "Advanced Sojourner shipwrights designed five special hulls," Aristahl continued, "each created to be completed by the touch of a different Khromas. Have you ever heard of the Hesperus class?"

  Some historians looked to liven up their writing with exaggeration. But what many considered war-era tall tales could be taken as fact from Aristahl.

  "Well, sure. I mean, what relic hunter worth his platinum hasn't heard of them? The Draconem Battle of Numen and all that." A brief, pained expression crossed Aristahl's face. Immediately, Jordahk wanted to take his words back. But the expression was gone so fast that he wondered if he had seen it at all. "But most were not accounted for, and none seen since the war. They disappeared with the rest of the Sojourners, or so they say. Some docuVADs deny their origins, and experts argue their attributes."

  Aristahl remained silent.

  "There's a lot of controversy about the Centurions, too" Jordahk went on. "Their abilities, their place in Sojourner hierarchy, their role in the war..." He knew his information had to be wrong in so many ways, but he was familiar with the current theories and speculations regarding Sojourners. "And don't even get me going about The Mad Sailor. Entire sectors of the nexus are taken up with arguments about him."

  "The Centurions..." Aristahl trailed off.

  "You knew Centurions?"

  "I was married to one."

  Jordahk was a little stunned. The silence stretched. He didn't know what to say. "Dard never speaks of her."

  "He never knew her."

  One year away from Investiture, Jordahk was mature enough to realize what an exceptional woman his mother was. He was blessed with two fine parents. Though they pushed him pretty hard, it was an experience his father never had.

  "The power of a Sojourner is hard enough to control," Aristahl said. "Centurions skirted dangerous thresholds within the sub-quantum circus. The deepest within is for the Creator alone. Too close leads to frenzy, or madness, or the Onus."

  "A year ago I wouldn't have understood. Now maybe I do, a little." Jordahk's recent forays into foundation space changed him both physically and emotionally.

  "Your father inherited great power, but the ability to control it is another gift altogether. There is much of my wife in him."

  "I think he was trying to warn me before we left."

  The silence hung for another moment before Aristahl looked Jordahk in the eye. "Heed it. For in you there is much of my father. Greatly gifted with a fraction of the Creator's ability to constitute... or destroy. Power tapped but never fully harnessed. The will to control it must be your own forging, for it has never been reduced to a proto-genetic formula."

  A curtain limiting what Jordahk sensed was pulled back, and he could feel the thin, distant ardor in his grandfather's words. The mystic compies on both of their wrists became brighter in space. So did other mystic devices on the bus. The new sensation expanded into manifold space, and he looked out the viewport with a strange understanding of the vista. A new set of white streaks coalesced out of the colors and blazed past their ship. It startled Jordahk out of his vision.

  Aristahl was looking at him, nodding subtly with narrowed eyes. "Misuse of the gift can lead to physical damage, like your father experienced, or even to corruption of emotional capacity. The victories and defeats, the trials of becoming skilled can cost, perhaps sealing away a fraction of one's humanity."

  Now that Jordahk thought about it, his grandfather never expressed emotional extremes. How much had his mystic life choices changed him?

  "It is a path few can trod," Aristahl continued, "where life's greatest joys or even its sorrows must be guarded." Another moment of silence stretched in their strange conversation. "My wife and I disagreed on how to prosecute the war, and what our roles and responsibilities to mankind might be beyond it. It was a turning point for humanity, for the Asterfraeo... and the Sojourners found their own way."

  "And, Thule-Riss?" Jordahk felt unsure somehow, like he was asking about a fictional character in the midst of a serious conversation. But he wanted answers. Why was the war left at a stalemate? Why did the Sojourners up and leave? Why leave the advancement of mystic technology to a deteriorating class of imprimaturs, or worse, the Archivers?

  "Thule-Riss Quext moved beyond the war, the Asterfraeo, even the TransVex."

  Jordahk knew that last reference referred to the huge, turbulent swath of space through which, or beyond which, the Ajurian Realm supposedly lay. Some thought it more than mythical and believed it was the final destination of the Sojourners.

  His grandfather was not finished. Jordahk felt the temperature drop in their pilot pod.

  Aristahl's eyes narrowed with far away thoughts that could not be fathomed. "Some say he moved beyond humanity." His grandfather stood abruptly and moved to the hatch, half turning his head. "You have heard much said about Sojourners. Perhaps now you have more understanding."

  The hatch opened, seemingly of its own accord, and Aristahl passed through into seclusion.

  Aristahl didn't return to the pilot pod for hours. There was little to do until they reached the bottom of the hill, a
nyway. Staring into the shifting colors of manifold space, pondering what had been said wasn't helping Jordahk's countenance.

  Finally, an alert pinged their imminent arrival. Unsurprisingly, Aristahl entered just before.

  "The rudimentary detensor on this tub is barely good enough to keep us from flying into a star," Jordahk said, trying to keep things light. "If there's anything out of the ordinary going on, I don't think were going to pick it up before we drop out of downhill."

  Aristahl seemed his usual self, apparently content to leave their previous conversation where it was.

  "It is adequate, at least, to rule out ambush," Aristahl said.

  The manifold space colors transitioned away from cool blues and purples. The kaleidoscopic effect moved through greens into warmer reds and orange, followed by a burst of opaque white streaks. When they cleared, a dreary place was before them. It was a mostly empty system. Only the strange, small sun and asteroid belts offered enough gravity to interfere with their downhill drive.

  Aristahl cocked his head. That small action was enough to convince Jordahk something was wrong.

  "There is another ship here," Barrister said.

  "Larger then Alb-Sone's scout," Max said. "Doesn't match Perigeum Starmada."

  "Great," Jordahk said. "You don't think they found him, do you? You know how hard it was for us last time."

  "Unfortunately," Barrister said, "the ship in question is in the estimated vicinity of Alb-Sone's laboratory asteroid."

  Jordahk shook his head. "We probably left quite the fresh trail of debris from the old Roulette."

  "I also detect something else," Barrister added.

  A VAD appeared showing their detensor readings. Another ship was approaching the system.

  "Look at the speed. It's double-keeling," Jordahk said.

  "A commship or sneakership," Max said.

  "Certainly no one would waste one this far out without reason."

  "There is significant disturbance and debris in-system," Barrister said. "Judging by spread pattern, I would say violent activity started nearly four weeks ago."

  Aristahl took on an expression of deep concentration, as if seeing something far away. Jordahk could sense something, a sort of dimensional feeling below physical perception. It touched the part of his mind where mystic was created. Then his grandfather nodded and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  "Max, give me maximum magnification with whatever this tub can bring to bear," Jordahk ordered.

  "These systems really rot, but I'll see what I can do," Max replied. A VAD appeared, showing an unhelpful, grainy blob near the asteroids. "Barrister may have a tricky algorithm to clean that up, but it's the best I can muster."

  Barrister remained uncharacteristically silent, perhaps under orders from Aristahl. Jordahk sensed new and deeper activity on his wrist. He lifted it, as if peering inside. So, Wixom had decided to join the party.

  "With your brother near," Jordahk said, "you suddenly have interest. How about earning your teslanium and cleaning up this image?"

  Wixom said nothing, but Jordahk felt a burst of activity. Calculations upon calculations. The bus's systems came alive in a flurry of activity across control VADs and hard panels. The image blurred and distorted in every spectrum the cheap equipment could be modified to see. The thrust rings sputtered, and the ship reoriented slightly while the gravity fluxed.

  "Is such a show really necessary, Wixom?" Aristahl asked.

  The image was washed over by every color of the spectrum, both visible and beyond. Finally, it crystallized into the image of a ship. It wasn't sharp, but it revealed enough. The ship was built in the same vein of technology as a certain squadron of frigates above Adams Rush during the Egress Incident. Wixom's information overlay showed it to be just over half their size. It was more sleek than a frigate, with oversized engine clusters held horizontally off the side of the main fuselage with outriggers.

  "A hybrid corvette," Wixom said.

  Most revealing was its color scheme. The AI managed a clear shot of it. Dark gray with two diagonal stripes toward the back. One silver, one purple.

  Jordahk sighed. "Archivers."

  Dim Starmada proxies couldn't appreciate his ship. Even some Archivers couldn't fully appreciate mystic workmanship created in an era of personal craftsmanship. Sure, Auscultare could be annoying, even downright dangerous when others were pulling his strings. But he was also fast, tough, and resourceful with first-hand memories.

  Archiver arkhons could appreciate such things. Whether or not he was still the fifth among that group was debatable. The second arkhon, the Dragon, had been running him around since the disaster at Adams Rush. The higher you looked into the secret "Ring" of seven ruling arkhons, the more inscrutable, powerful, and dangerous they became.

  If only those Starmada incompetents in orbit had held. His setback on the ground would have been easier to rectify had a Perigeum presence been maintained.

  The drakking Prime Orator!

  Once politicians got involved, someone had to take the fall, someone other than them, that is. Rewe took small solace knowing the Starmada Field Commander was also on his way to oblivion. Since he was so high-profile, it was just going to take a little longer. But sooner or later he would die "gloriously" in battle, or ignominiously when a lift failed, or a shuttle blew, or his heart "just stopped" one night in his sleep.

  Legion Hektors made fearsome assassins. It was amazing what a body could do when one was willing to give up humanity. There was no going back for those pitiful fools. Individually, they were powerful, even against ones such as he. That was remarkable, and worthy of caution.

  His lip curled. Society had become so touchy about "modifications that took away from the perfection of man." To hell with the Mark One movement.

  He lifted a semi-synthetic arm and felt the power coursing through it. He clenched his fist and imagined crushing the bones of that deluded, snobby imprimatur Kord Wilkrest. Imagined his hand going limp as his radius and ulna were turned to splinters. No ravelen-enhanced bone hardness could stand up to synthetics. One might as well wrestle a combat bot.

  With their scapegoats sacrificed, the politicians were back to ambition. Janus got himself a fancy new leviathan of a First Cruiser. Someone high up in the Ring decided to share Archiver-developed, mystic/scientum hybrid technology with the Starmada pukes. The feeling of superiority he so enjoyed when surrounded by those hybrid Archiver frigates at Adams Rush was now a thing of the past.

  What was the "first among orators" going to do with that battleship-sized behemoth? Would he dare take it into battle, even as enhanced and superior as it probably was, without an aegis cruiser to shield it?

  Politicians. Dim, dim proxies.

  Rewe brought his brows down in consternation. He wanted to lash out. He wanted to change his destiny. Instead, it was being stripped away layer by layer. He wanted to examine what Auscultare found, not ferry it to the Dragon like an errand boy. Just touching it was exhilarating. It was mystically modified to a very advanced state, and not long ago. Its new substructure still resonated with energy. It was an enigma, for he thought only Sojourners could do such things, and someday he as well.

  But Auscultare could not be swayed from the heavy-handed directives forced upon him. They waited five days at the ugly Earth egress for an opportunity to sync to Garlande. From there, after about a week, they could sync directly to Numen.

  Garlande was located centrally within the Perigeum, and one of its premier tourist destinations. Its egress had frequent sync windows to many member worlds. Rewe suspected it was easily in the top five of most-active egresses. He almost asked Auscultare, but the AI was insufferable while in this direct, order-driven mode.

  He sat back in the command chair on Auscultare's darkened bridge. His pet autobuss legacy shell stood in its usual place on the console before him. He longed to shoot it in the fullness of its creator's intention.

  The forward bulkhead viewport was set, as usual, to act like a
window, with no overlays or enhancement. He wanted to interpret, and mold the universe according to his vision. The prototype egress was surrounded by black as they approached, but within was the bright, pinkish system of Garlande. In front of them, a luxury transport shuttled the well-to-do. It had graceful, variable wings capable of landing in a variety of atmospheres, no doubt offering nonstop, direct touchdown service.

  The boring black of Earth space disappeared off the viewport, leaving only the exposed plumbing of the first egress. Pink brightness loomed closer, surrounding and coloring the transport. He could still see it, though technically, it was many light-years away. The bright light of Garlande washed the shadows from its hull.

  "Commodore." The tone was reminiscent of old Auscultare.

  "What do you want, machine?"

  "I just decrypted a message waiting for us at Garlande. We have a new mission, and it's open-ended."

  Rewe started abruptly from his usual slouch. "What?"

  "Checking an updated egress schedule. It looks like an additional sync has been added in three days. You and I will be heading for the Overtrade Autonomy."

  At that very moment, their ship passed through the egress event horizon. Rewe's body wasn't normal, and in many ways far from human. He imagined the majority of those tourists in the ship before him experiencing some discomfort and nausea as they passed through. But for him, the subtle spatial distortion was more than his over-modified body could tolerate.

  Auscultare's revelation was a welcome distraction from anticipating the racking nausea and vomiting now thrust upon him. Even when he had not eaten, his body found something to upchuck. Unconsciousness wouldn't stop the involuntary reaction. His only recourse was suspension, and he had no desire to do so for what he thought would be a short trip.

  His stomach spasmed, excessive muscular enhancement contracting painfully. His body wrenched itself off the control chair. Landing on his knees, he vomited, then curled up in a ball to ride it out. It was a very long moment.