Prophet of ConFree (The Prophet of ConFree)

by Marshall S. Thomas

  "So you started as a fighter pilot?" I asked again.

  "No, I started as a student on Quaba. Got degrees in aeronautical engineering, spaceflight engineering, air-space engineering and maritime engineering. I worked for some of the big firms, mostly doing spaceflight engineering. I loved flying and flew whenever I could. Finally they started using me as a test pilot. Those were fun times! I was either flying or designing new craft – spacecraft and starfighters. "

  "Man!" Arie exclaimed. "How long did all that take? You're a young guy, right?"

  He smiled. "No, I'm a bit older than you folks."

  "How did you get to be a fighter pilot?"

  "Well, that wasn't until later. First I got tired of working as a small cog in a huge machine so I got out and started up my own design firm."

  "Your own firm! So you were the boss?"

  "Yep. Took a few years but I had some good ideas that I knew would work, so I went to work – with some young and brilliant colleagues that I could depend on – and we were very successful. We produced a high-performance craft that could function in space, air, and on or under water. A submersible air and spacecraft. The military and the spooks in Galactic Information loved it. That was our first big success. After that, we worked on updating these Phantoms. That worked out, too – another big government contract. And we had plenty of other projects as well."

  "That's amazing! Well – you must have gotten rich!"

  "Oh, filthy rich. We're all set up for life."

  "But – um – how did you get to be a fighter pilot?"

  "Well, I told you I loved flying. I volunteered for Fleetcom. They gave me a commission. And next thing I knew I was flying fighters. That was my real love. But Fleetcom decided they wanted me working on the Phantoms because that was my expertise, as they knew it. So I took the transfer. I don't mind being a bus driver. I love the Phantom. And Fleetcom checks with me often with questions that arise."

  "One thing I don't get," I said. "You said you were wealthy – filthy rich, you said. So you could have stayed home in your palace, presumably, counting your credits and enjoying life with as many girls as you wanted – for the rest of your life. Right?"

  "Right. But wrong. I could have done that, but I didn’t. I'm not made like that. I've got to be doing things. I've got to be creating things – worthwhile things. Things that will contribute to my society, to my culture, to my people. I have to help."

  "You’re a millionaire?"

  "Many times over."

  "What is the name of your firm?"

  "Matheson Engineering."

  "Good lord! I've seen those words on the interior of the Phantoms. Matheson Engineering!"

  "Well, sure. We design and manufacture them. And I'm Ken Matheson, the founder of the firm."

  "Who's taking care of the company for you while you're here?"

  "One of my partners. He checks with me on any major issues."

  "He's a millionaire, too?"

  "Yep. Are you surprised he's still working?"

  "Maybe a little," I said.

  "Well, don't be. Our people are extraordinary. And when I say 'our people' I don't mean people that work for my firm. I mean people who are citizens or nationals of ConFree. I've done a lot of travel in my professional capacity and seen how people live and work and act, in our society and in plenty of other societies – especially those ex-system worlds that are structured differently than we are. I can assure you that ConFree is superior to all those societies in every way. It's the difference between being a slave and being a free man. I know a lot of wealthy people in ConFree as well, and I can assure you that most of them are not lying around enjoying the good life. A lot of people who are born into this society do not really appreciate it and maybe do not pay attention to what is going on around them. But some people do. You know what a lot of newly wealthy people do? Or even people who are moderately well off and don't have to worry too much about making a living? They look around for something to do – that's the first thing that they do. And that's because ConFree has educated them that way. We all feel good when we're doing something worthwhile. The free people of ConFree are an amazing bunch. They are almost all experts in something or other and if they're not doing something active for the society, they are becoming experts in whatever hobby or subject that has attracted them. And sooner or later that hobby or subject develops into something worthwhile."

  "Well, here's to the Bird," I said, raising my dox cup. "We're glad you're here. And I agree with what you just said. I was born into ConFree but I didn't appreciate it until I joined the Legion."

  Bird smiled, a bit sadly. "Yes, that's where most of our citizens come from – from the military. That's because of our history. If you weren't in the military in those days, you were not fighting for our survival. But things have changed now. National service takes many forms, now. There are millions of ConFree citizens who have never served in the military. But their contributions are invaluable, and that's why they are citizens. They made me a citizen before I signed up for Fleetcom. But you don't have to design a spacecraft to become a citizen. Teach a child, that's one way. Nurse the sick, that's another. Patrol the streets as a policeman or rescue a child as a fireman. There are a growing number of ways to earn your citizenship in ConFree. But they all involve national service, shaping the future. The difference between a ConFree citizen and a ConFree national is the citizen is shaping the future and the national is just along for the ride. But anyone can become a citizen, with a little effort. You want a voice in our future? Contribute! Serve the Supreme Commander. And you know who that is – a mother and her kids. They're handing out little medallions now, national service medallions, indicating citizenship. The image on the little medallion shows an anonymous mother and three kids. It’s just like a religious icon – it’s perfect! That's what we worship."

  "You're obviously an enthusiast," I said. "So tell us – who is Ruthie?"

  "Ah, you've zeroed in on my weakness. She's the girl I left behind. There are plenty of memories there, all good. But she's in the past. I remember her every day."

  "Yeah, I've got one of those, too," I admitted.

  "So do I," Arie said.

  Δ

  We were seeing more and more of those mysterious alien ships in the Gulf. The Professor told me about it. It wasn't in the news yet; the ConFree public presumably didn't know about it yet, but it was big news out here. The four cruisers of the Andrion Deep were kept quite busy. The Wasp didn't run into too many of these alien ships, but we did pursue a few when we were within range. They were always in normal vac and they always disappeared – popping right off scope – shortly after we exited stardrive.

  "It means they detect our exit from stardrive," the Prof said. "That's a worry because we spent billions to muffle the exit signature to virtual invisibility, but it's not working with these ships. They are aware of our exit from stardrive and for all we know they may be able to see right through our cloaking as well." We were in the science library. The Prof had been encouraging me to improve my mind, and tutoring me in the little spare time we had from our official duties.

  "What are they up to, Prof?" I asked.

  "Recon. It's clearly recon. Lately we’ve had reports of landings – from quite a few Gulf worlds. We can't make any conclusions about what they're after or why they choose the worlds they do. But they’re landing, and exiting their craft, and walking around. They don’t stay long. It's almost as if they're picking worlds at random, and poking around to see what’s there. There are no dependable eyewitnesses yet to describe these aliens, but a few locals have gone missing in the aftermath of these landings, and that's a worry."

  "A worry? That's terrifying! Some innocent is minding his own business and suddenly he's snatched up by aliens? What are the Gulf governments doing about this?"

  "Well, most of the sightings and landings have been in either the Gulf frontier sector – which no government controls – or in the Pegal Stelcom or the Gulf Union. Th
e Asumara Holy Commune has not yet reported any sightings. Neither the Stelcom nor the Union has seen fit to inform its peoples about these incidents. And neither has any plans to deal with the issue, as far as we can tell. They're probably hoping the ships will go away if they ignore them."

  "Well, ConFree hasn't informed its people yet, either, have we?"

  "No. But this is a fairly recent development and ConFree will be deciding what to do. There have as yet not been any sightings in the Outvac or the Crista Cluster, as far as I know. And none yet in the Gassies or the Inners. But ConFree is dealing with the issue, I know that. Remember that immediate Q-link we received from Fleetcom when we spotted that first alien craft? Fleetcom knew about these aliens already. They'll be informing the citizenry as soon as they make decisions on a proper course of action."

  "A proper course of action. What will that be?"

  "Well, the first thing we need is information. Who or what are we dealing with? What are their intentions? And what are their capabilities? Can we resist them, if necessary? Or are they so advanced that they will simply swat us like bugs – if they want to?"

  "And how do we find that out?"

  "Simple. ConFree sends in the Legion. Fleetcom and the Legion. We find out the answers. That's what we do. That's what we signed up for." Prof smiled.

  "Perfect. I can hardly wait."

  Δ

  "ATTENTION OUTLAW YACHT! YOU HAVE BEEN IDENTIFIED AS A STARJACKED SHIP BY MILITARY UNITS OF THE CONFEDERATION OF FREE WORLDS! YOUR SHIP IS HEREBY DECLARED CONTRABAND AND IS TO BE BOARDED FORCIBLY AND CONFISCATED. WARNING! UNLOCK YOUR ENTRY HATCHES IMMEDIATELY! IF YOU FAIL TO UNLOCK YOUR HATCHES OUR BOARDING PARTIES WILL BREACH YOUR HATCHES AND RESPOND WITH LETHAL FORCE. WARNING! ANY ATTEMPT TO EJECT ANY PASSENGERS OR CARGO INTO THE VAC WILL BE GROUNDS FOR SUMMARY EXECUTION. ATTENTION! IF YOU FAIL TO RESPOND TO THIS MESSAGE WE WILL PRESUME YOU ARE HOSTILE AND WE WILL REACT APPROPRIATELY. ATTENTION OUTLAW YACHT! REPLY TO THIS MESSAGE IMMEDIATELY OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES!"

  Well, nobody could say our intentions were not clear. Delta squad was nearing the target yacht in an assault tug named Tarantula. It looked kind of like a giant black spider, so it was a good name. We were all in our party suits, armed to the teeth, ready for the festivities. Of course I was terrified, but I never admit that to anybody. There were plenty of imaginative ways you could die when forcing your way into some hostile ship, and they were all running through my mind as we neared the target. It was a beautiful white ship, formerly the Personal Ship Linda Lee, likely owned by some rich fool who thought he was invulnerable. But nobody cruising these Gulf stars was invulnerable.

  The bad guys didn’t answer us. Their ship cruised silently through the vac. We watched the antimat torpedo from the Wasp leisurely approach the Linda Lee and smash into its stern with a little puff of gas.

  "ATTENTION OUTLAW YACHT! WE HAVE SUCCESSFULLY PENETRATED YOUR HULL WITH AN ANTIMAT TORPEDO. IF YOU RESIST US WE WILL DETONATE THE TORPEDO AND DESTROY YOUR SHIP! YOUR ONLY OPTION IS SURRENDER! RESPOND IMMEDIATELY TO THIS MESSAGE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS AND LIE ON THE DECKS DISPLAYING OPEN AND EMPTY HANDS. IF YOU FAIL TO ANSWER, OUR BOARDING PARTIES WILL ASSUME YOU ARE HOSTILE AND WILL BOARD YOU USING LETHAL FORCE. IF YOU SURRENDER YOU WILL BE TURNED OVER TO THE RESPONSIBLE AUTHORITIES. SURRENDER OR DIE! REPEAT, SURRENDER OR DIE!"

  Left unsaid was what would happen to the boarding party if the Wasp detonated the missile. I thought it better not to ask.

  There was no answer. We smashed up against their ship with a great metallic bang, grappling for position, our own boarding ports closing over the Linda Lee's primary port. Since it was such a small ship, there was only our one squad handling the boarding. We hustled into the boarding pod and sealed our internal hatch behind us. My adrenalin was at max. I clutched my E tightly. These bastards were going to fight to the death – they knew we'd kill them anyway, no matter what we said. There weren't any "responsible authorities" in these parts, and they knew it.

  We blew away the yacht's entry hatch, then our own external hatch snapped open and Doggie and Smiley leaped in simultaneously and both fired, Doggie with auto xmax and Smiley with a tacstar on low power. A tacstar blast on low power at that range is kind of like the end of the world and that was our intent except we didn't want to penetrate the hull of the ship. In instants, we were all in the corridor, which was black with smoke and sparkling with tacstar debris. As Honey cleared the smoke for me, I saw a shredded corridor and a giant hole ripped out of midshsips.

  "Cease fire! Cease fire!" Honey advised. "No life. Correction, one unit alive, unarmed, no armor, position noted, numerous dead, count unclear. Threat appears minimal, suggest investigate one suspect hostile, position noted." The hostile was located on the bridge and was not moving.

  "All right, let's take our time," Doggie ordered. We moved slowly forward, along the remnants of the corridor, through the tangled, glowing debris. Blood was splattered everywhere, along with bleeding shreds of flesh and shattered bones.

  "You blew them away, Smiley," Scout said.

  "Negative, Delta," our squad tacmod, Dolly, responded. "We had no hits." Delta Dolly had the same capabilities as our individual tacmods but she dealt with us all as a squad.

  "Well, what killed them?" Doggie asked. "The hatch detonation?"

  "Negative, Delta. Cause of death is unknown. Insufficient information."

  This brought a little silence on the net.

  "All right, guys. I want 100 percent alert," Doggie said. "Let's check out that live hostile."

  We moved forward cautiously, past the blast radius of the tacstar, along a main corridor with metal deck, walls and overhead that was strangely rippled and black and shredded from some unknown disaster. And there was more – lots and lots of bloody little chunks of flesh, bits of shattered bones, bloody scalp flesh with hair, shredded clothing torn to bits, toasted fragments of internal organs. It was everywhere, all over the deck, embedded in the walls and ground into the ceiling.

  "What the hell is this?" There – a bloody hand, fingers snapped off, a blackened shattered skull like a lunatic bowl, grey brain matter splattered around. Bone fragments. Awful bloody unidentifiable chunks of corpses. Body parts, everywhere. Fragments of shredded, burnt armor.

  "This is kind of grim," Arie said.

  We came to an intersecting corridor. It was the same way – the corridor had undergone some terrible blast and a whole lot of people had been violently torn to pieces. The walls were soaked in blood. Shredded viscera and guts and unidentifiable internal organs and excreta were splattered everywhere, cooked black. I saw part of the stock of an SG battle rifle, ripped up like paper. I was happy I was inside my A-suit; the stink must have been intolerable. What could have done this? The blackened corridors told of an awful weapon that cut like a tacstsar and burnt like plasma.

  We found the survivor near the bridge, curled up like a corpse, hidden behind a couple of large scorched but intact metal cases, wedged underneath a narrow ledge that supported startrack instrumentation. His coveralls were burnt black. The bridge was not too badly damaged but it, too, was slick with blood and the dismembered remains of several bodies.

  Bees examined the survivor after we carefully pulled him out from under the ledge. An Outworlder male, unconscious, face scorched red, breathing shallowly.

  "He's alive – just barely." Bees said. "We need to get him to triage on the Wasp – now."

  Δ

  The Professor was monitoring our survivor in the Wasp's hospital unit when he finally regained consciousness a few days later and was cleared for interrogation. He lay in bed, his scorched face gleaming with healing gel. The Wasp's forensic staff had found out a great deal about events on the Linda Lee – but there was a lot more to be learned and we were hopeful that the one survivor could help us.

  "So – you're feeling better?" the Prof began. We were seated by the pirate's bed, and I was at the Prof's side as usual.

  "I'm alive," he said, hoarsely, "and I can hardly believe
it." He was a good-looking guy, other than the red face. He had a scraggly mustache and traces of a beard. His originally long dark hair had been scorched and crisped. He wore golden button earrings. I suppose females might have thought him handsome, but his profession was not admirable.

  "You can call me Professor. I have a lot to ask you and it's very important that you answer truthfully and not leave anything out. What is your name?"

  "Name? Oh, um, Charles Baxter."

  "All right, Dwayne," I said. "Let me explain something. You are hooked up to a brainscan. The Professor's function is to ask you questions. Mine is to ensure you are telling the truth. As the Professor just said, it is very important that we determine the truth. And we want to know exactly what happened on the Linda Lee. We already know who you are, Dwayne Pfeiffer. We know you are a slaver and a member of Foster's Fortuneers. Since you starjacked the Linda Lee three years ago, you and your cowardly gang have been attacking defenseless outposts, kidnapping defenseless females and selling them as slaves. Now we can do this one of two ways. You can cooperate and tell us everything, and we will treat you nicely, or you can resist and lie, and I will start cutting off body parts and finish the job that your attackers did not finish on the Linda Lee. Tell me how you would like to proceed. It's entirely up to you."

  "Oh, that's a hard one. Let's see…tell you what, let's do it the first way, where I tell the truth and you treat me nice."

  "Fine with me. Professor, please proceed."

  "Oh good," the Prof said. "Again, what is your name?"

  "My name is Dwayne Pfeiffer."

  "Good start! Would you like some more cold water?"

  "Yes, please."

  "Prophet?"

  "Certainly." I got him some more water, and he started talking, prompted by the Prof's questions.

  "What was your last port, and where were you bound when we boarded you?"

  "Our last port was Foster's Hideaway on the planet Greyfriars. It's not on anybody's map, but I can zero it for you if you like. We built the place and it was nice and isolated. It was home. We loved it."