Tethered Worlds: Blue Star Setting

by Gregory Faccone

  Theirs was a hard and humorless society. The chaos of the Strident Cluster allowed them to flourish, because they were paid to guard commerce, and, occasionally, attack it. They took contracts from powers within the cluster, the Sino Worlds, and even a number of Asterfraeo societies. But none from the Perigeum.

  Some believed it was policing by the Svalbergen Blacksea Corporation that kept the Strident Cluster from unifying. But Pheron didn't believe those who lived there were the unifying type.

  Were the Svals a threat to the Perigeum? Not with the egress network. But the Perigeum didn't want to see them become any more powerful and was glad to keep Novotna out of their hands. Any ship "adopted" into the Svalbergen Blacksea Corporation somehow became twice as tough, twice as formidable. It wasn't talked about in official channels, but no Perigeum Starmada captain wanted to go one-on-one against such determined crews and unknown technology.

  "Five minutes until closest approach, sir," his sub-ensign said.

  Pheron watched his little squadron of frigates approach an intimidating wall of dark ships. The trimensional tactical VAD started to fritz again. He employed the age-old technique of slamming his fist into the side of the console. The image cleared up, although still polluted with lines of digital static. His obsolete frigate, no, his entire squadron was long overdue for a trip to the smelters.

  "Commander Moron," at least that's how Pheron had come to think of his keeper, Commander Decard, was all but openly trying to get him killed. For decades the Perigeum Starmada and the Svals had shadowed each other, intimidated each other, and provoked each other in supposedly neutral Novotna space. An alarming number of times it had become a shooting incident. The Svals didn't care, and the Perigeum would gain nothing trying to adjudicate incidents. There wasn't even enough diplomacy for a "diplomatic incident." Novotna's small space forces could barely enforce their immediate territory. Of paramount interest to them was growing a food empire and raising their quality of life.

  Pheron used his gruppe lieutenant discretion to put his impotent frigates into the most un-threatening formation he could imagine. Commander Moron, watching from his command cruiser a safe distance away, was hoping for fireworks. The Svals had been flying a slow, precise wall formation well outside Novotna's hilltop since the Perigeum Starmada squadrons arrived. They clearly had right-of-way in regard to foolishly crossing in front of their guns for no other reason but to insult.

  Dying in battle didn't irk Pheron as much is dying in a stupid battle.

  Is a firing squad really so bad?

  He wondered if he still loved life enough to keep living it. He had no love for anything, nor any hate. Just a numb existence. To his eyes, the Perigeum was swirling down, soon to be broken or irrelevant. He had no allegiance to it. If not for the lives of his old crew, scattered amongst the malcontents in these aging frigates, he might chuck it all and find his own hole somewhere in the Strident Cluster.

  "Their shields just went hot," his sub-ensign said. They slipped into a nonchalance hearkening back to his field commander days.

  "Maintain course. Keep shields at warm."

  The Svals's wall was a self-contained task force comprised of ships as small as corvettes, up to one reading as an old battleship. Packed in between were supply colliers that looked more like armored haulers. All the ships were painted matte black. Each had vertical stripes near the bow supposedly indicating how many battles they had survived. A gray stripe for one battle, a white stripe for five battles. No ship had fewer than two gray stripes, not even the colliers.

  There was nothing he could do about his suicide course, unless he was willing to disobey orders—a decision that would just as likely result in death. He could only glide forward, putting his life and those of his crewmen at the mercy and whim of the Svalbergen Blacksea Corporation task force commander.

  He pulled up a private message from Aetaire, routed to him at the last egress. With all of their communications monitored, he was trying to figure out what his old First was trying to say to him below the top context. He skimmed it again.

  "...certainly learned enough managing our task force at Adams Rush to be an asset managing a few Perigeum Starmada colliers. But my probationary status acts as a reminder of why I am here in the support sector.

  Without a doubt the Perigeum tenets we have experienced will continue on and win out. I am more convinced of that than ever. Wherever we spread equality and fairness, the oppressed will rise up against those leaders who resist it. People yearn for real peace and security, and sooner or later they will get it when they see the light.

  There's a lot of egalitarian talk in the Governor's Chamber this term. It all reminds me of a fanicle chase we once observed, and a comment you made about society.

  Well, our course is set here, and I have to go. Hopefully, we will have opportunity to rendezvous at some future destination. My colliers are ready to perform their truest duty. Just open the airlocks and I will bring the necessary supplies."

  Aetaire's detail oriented mindset was what what made him a good First and why he would succeed in the support sector, given opportunity. Pheron wondered about the culture shock experienced by his old adjutant. Had he finally witnessed a side of the Perigeum someone of his previously elite status would never see?

  "Three minutes, sir," his sub-ensign said. "Shall we go to battle status?"

  He glanced at the details growing like branches off the VAD depictions of the Blacksea ships. They were certainly powering up. It would be no contest, of course. His dilapidated frigates would offer little more than target practice.

  A transmission came in over the command comm. "Look smart there, gruppe lieutenant," Commander Decard said. "Do hold up Perigeum honor."

  "No change," Pheron said to his sub-ensign. He accessed the squadron net. "I don't want variance in our formation. Not even a meter." He wanted to say stupid formation. It certainly was no good for battle. He trusted most of his frigate commanders, but a couple were newly added malcontents.

  More of a meritocracy society than the Perigeum, the Svals were brutal and direct. Incompetents didn't last long, and valuable assets wouldn't be wasted on them. Only the most naive Starmada commander thought of the Svals as unsophisticated primitives. They took what they wanted if they felt the circumstances justified it. It was as if they were daring others to respond.

  He knew Aetaire well enough to know elements included in his message had meaning. Logistical support for the fleet probably gave him access to a bigger picture. He wasn't going to be allowed to succeed, although perhaps more subtly than this suicide mission assigned by Commander Moron.

  A fanicle chase back at Adams Rush? What had he said to Aetaire? "You can't save a society from itself." Had Aetaire become a pessimist?

  "One minute, sir," his sub-ensign said.

  Their tightly packed diamond formation had no fighting value. He could only hope the Svals would think them foolish rather than conniving. If they thought it was a trick, it would get ugly. An alert sounded, and a ship highlighted on the tactical VAD. It was not one of the Svals.

  "Flebille just went shields hot," the sub-ensign said.

  One of his malcontent ship commanders was losing his nerve. His ship was also drifting to the opposite side of the diamond, away from the Svals. It looked suspicious.

  "Flebille," Pheron said, "you're only making yourself a target. Rejoin the formation, return your shields to warm or be relieved." Alarms pinged all over the displays. The Svals were on the move. "All ships hold formation, dammit."

  The Svals's wall melted into a dangerous, blunt cone. It swung to aim at Pheron's formation. A dozen Svals lit up their smallest ship-to-ship T-beams. Space filled briefly with many thin, pink lines. Both formations were illuminated, but only one by bright, staccato explosions. The shots were surgically precise, boring through pitiful shields and blasting key points, especially propulsion. But only Flebille's frigate was hit. No follow-up rocks were fired. Destruction wasn't the goal.

 
; Shrapnel flew, flaring briefly on Perigeum shields. Pheron's squadron came alive with alarms and warnings. He used every command override and sheer force of will to keep them from a suicidal response. They continued on, minus one ship. Flebille's had shuddered violently at the initial hits, and now continued on its last course, systems dark. It didn't even tumble, likely by design, for two colliers swung out of the Sval formation and pulled along its flanks. The largest Sval vessels, including the battleship, placed themselves between the colliers and Commander Decard's distant formation. The VADs came alive with chatter and activity.

  "Flebille's ship is being boarded. It's launching boats," the sub-ensign said. His delivery was dry and emotionless. Most of Pheron's original crew also made no allowance for fools.

  The situation was delicate, and Pheron initiated delicate orders. At a certain distance his formation would soften and catch the incoming boats. "If Flebille survived, make sure we pick him up."

  There would be some well-deserved comeuppance, at least where he could enact it. As for the frigate, it would be a new edition to the Svalbergen Blacksea Corporation unless Commander Moron wanted to make a play for it. Even with superior numbers from the new squadrons added at the last egress, the dimwit would make a mess of it. He didn't have a strategic mind. Even he had to know that.

  Their opponents knew the game. The substantial Perigeum forces could have, with the right maneuvers, shown strength without firing a shot. This entire expensive charade could have been avoided. The Svals despised weakness. It would have been a much better contest had Pheron been in command. A new set of internal alarms went off at his command seat.

  Internal?

  "We've got fights. The crewroom and the bay," his sub-ensign said.

  With so many malcontents purposely seeded in all his crews, it wasn't the first fight. "Send the vets to the bay. I don't want anything funny happening with the incoming boats. I'm headed to the crew room." "The vets" were a core group of trusted crew from the Adams Rush mission and before.

  Pheron hit the lift a little too fast and had to push off its back wall. Physical confrontations were not his specialty. His heart was beating too fast, despite micro commands, by the time he got to the crew room. The hatch opened to a chaotic scene one might expect in a Lawless Space cluster brawl.

  Something, maybe furniture, flew into him. He tumbled awkwardly. From the floor he saw more people stream into the crewroom—malcontents and some of his vets alike. Over his link, Commander Moron was yelling.

  A ship that fought for the Freespace Movement, before the Vallum Corps was even official, flew rapidly through manifold space. The mystic scout class was one of the fastest, human habitable downhill ships. Like many hulls designed by and for Sojourners, it had an observation dome.

  Jordahk had spent much time in the dome, perhaps too much. He whiled away numerous hours in deep thought, reclined in a fully fitted command chair. Perhaps there were things Sojourners liked to do with a direct line of sight. The super-hard transparent crystal dome was probably harder than the hull.

  The colors of manifold space skewed even farther up the spectrum, probably due to the scout's speed. The tones were dark blues, purples, and ultramarine. He could sense the speed difference. The phenomena was soothing, almost mesmerizing. It made the bright white streaks that routinely populated manifold space stand out all the more. Like many things lately, he experienced even them differently. When they passed close, he could sense them beyond sight.

  What happened to make him retreat? Sure, it was a little crazy leaving Drekka. But Jordahk had been in tough scrapes before. It was the kind of crazy he was trained for and, sadly, becoming used to. It was his experience with the girl that disconcerted him. She had peered into him, recognizing him in a way he couldn't recognize himself. In his heart, he wasn't prepared to embrace what she saw.

  He was aware, suddenly, of his grandfather. A section of floor across the chamber dropped to form stairs. Doors to a lift opened on the newly exposed sunken wall. Aristahl stepped out onto the stairs. Slowly, majestically, they raised him into the dome. His grandfather could make anything look regal.

  Jordahk brought his chair fully upright and stood. Aristahl's eyes penetrated to the soul, and Jordahk was quite sure his feelings were not a mystery to his grandfather.

  "Quite the view." Aristahl said. "I am partial to it myself." He walked near Jordahk, and another command chair formed out of the deck. Jordahk didn't even know there was another chair. His grandfather sat, posture erect and back straight, yet still looking comfortable. "There is a time to reflect, and a time to act. I do not think you need convincing to do what is right."

  Jordahk sat, too. It reminded him of a conversation he had with Aristahl a year ago, aboard the Monte Crest. That was when he received Wixom and his grandfather's special numenium coupling, the one with the two strange creations within.

  The unusual data construct, Ohrias, was a stingy sharer of information. Judicum was just plain undefinable. It saved him once when he delved too far into the sub-quantum circus. An AI couldn't do that, could it? Then what was it?

  "It's strange, Pops. Half of me feels like it's walking someone else's path. And what if I make mistakes?"

  "Just walk your own path. That one is most fitting."

  "If I can find it..."

  Aristahl's eyes bored into him. Jordahk could not hold his gaze.

  "The path is long," Aristahl said. "Who can see its twists and turns beyond the next bend? Emotions can come in like a storm and knock us off. Let them pass you by. You have the benefit of a solid foundation."

  Jordahk wondered again about his grandfather's own foundational years, about the turbulence of that era, and about a father that defied explanation.

  "Your mother knows the Creator," Aristahl continued. "Never lose that element, for it is what keeps us rooted. And my son... He is very resourceful. He will not take 'no' for an answer. That is The Will even in him."

  His grandfather's words achieved their desired effect, and Jordahk was reinvigorated to keep on. He sat up straighter, ready to address the here and now.

  "Isn't losing the bus going to incur a significant fee?" Jordahk asked. He never really talked finances with Aristahl.

  "Yes, I am out a substantial bond, and that is with the cost defrayed by an expensive insurance policy. It would not have cost much more to buy the musty craft. Which reminds me, I have set up Platinum Endeavors Incorporated at Grjot. You and Glick are board members, and I am chairman, all emeritus."

  "Board member? Platinum Endeavors?"

  "Do not be concerned. Feliz Navidad is running the day-to-day operations. He has been elected Grjot's first governor, you know."

  "I didn't know." To Jordahk it was sudden, but no doubt his busy grandfather had been working on it since the Egress Incident.

  "As shareholder and cofounder, Glick is entitled to yard privileges. She took the Monte Crest over for a complete overall. I know, because the corporation is running on a coin line I fund until it starts showing a profit. But that will be soon."

  "I suppose our crusades are not cheap." His grandfather seemed to pause at the word choice.

  "I would consider us lucky if the cost was only in coin."

  Jordahk nodded in solemn acknowledgment but was determined to keep the man who had just pulled him out of a funk from slipping into one his own.

  "So, your ship," Jordahk said, pressing forward, "a Hesperus. The Perigeum doesn't know the value under their nose. And the Archivers? They'd give half their fleet for it."

  "Yes. They would consider it quite a prize."

  "I'm assuming then, that it's not hidden in a member world system." Member worlds had egresses. Associate worlds were non-egressed protectorates that paid taxes and participated in commerce, what little there was. The best would be if it was hidden in a ghost system, early colony worlds that made more sense before the egress network was built up. Ones that couldn't justify their post-egress, post-original-trade-routes existence, d
ried up and went "to ghost."

  "No, no egress," Aristahl said. "It is in an associate system of low status. A capture during the war when the location had strategic significance." Aristahl looked distant for a few seconds. "That whole sector fell to the Perigeum." He blinked, and was back in the dome. "With the strategic significance gone and no egress to artificially pump up its economy, the system has wallowed. It is not their fault. They were a hard-working, industrious people. That combined with proximity to an egress, which is just barely practical, has probably kept the system from going ghost."

  "You knew them, then?"

  "Briefly. Ancient, and likely forgotten history."

  "What do they do there?" Jordahk asked.

  "Historically, mining and construction. I hear lately they have tried to branch off and host thrill-seekers." Aristahl paused. "Oh, and there is also khromathyst."

  Jordahk raised his eyebrows. "Khromathyst?" In a universe of dead worlds, the natural crystalline growth was the closest thing to life to be found. Its only practical use was to act as a sort of waveguide for imprimaturs and new Sojourners. There was a small supply within Wixom, which Jordahk had used the previous year in the dangerously unplanned operation to resurrect Max. "There can't be much demand."

  "There is not. The Perigeum likes to have a moderate supply for authorized imprimaturs and academia. Innovators on the fringe like to work with it from time to time, and, of course, there are the Archivers."

  Jordahk made an effort to relax his face muscles at the mention of those creeps. "So in what dark, out-of-the-way corner did you hide the ship?"

  "Actually, it is at the center of the khromathyst mine."

  "What?"

  "Oh, we will work it out." A number of retorts formed in Jordahk's mind, but Aristahl interrupted before any of them were aired. "She asked for you again."

  It was an abrupt subject change. Jordahk didn't want to talk about it regardless of how it was broached.