by Chris Hechtl
Or, in this case, a warning that a collier was returning with news. Admiral Sung had transmitted a much-abbreviated version of the hot log, the quick and dirty log of events that a ship kept in its database.
From the looks of it, it was a mix of good and bad. No sign of Admiral Kepler, which was worrisome, and the support ships had been bounced out of their picket near the hyperbridge exit, so there was no one there to watch Kepler's back and report back to them. He frowned when he got to the end of the third paragraph. Apparently, they were still transmitting information he noted.
He shook his head. “Okay, someone pass on a note to Doctor Irons to do something about the ansible. We need one in Rho obviously, but we also need a better system. More bandwidth, faster, something,” he said, waving his tablet before he set it down. “Now,” he said, turning to his chief of staff. “Where were we?”
“Well, local news briefs for the morning. There is a series of major storms about to hit the eastern seaboard of North America. Search and Rescue is already on standby. Apparently, it is a local college holiday in the old state of Florida, so there is concern about loss of life there …”
(@)()(@)
Admiral Lewis read the report and nodded. “I want more detail when they get in, as soon as we get it,” he ordered.
“You want them to transmit the entire log, sir?” Lieutenant Nelson asked carefully.
“No, just the hot wash. I want to compare the transmissions,” the admiral replied. He wasn't thrilled about the minor black eye of being forced away from the picket. Not that a pair of unarmed colliers could have stood up to the fleet. But it was still unwelcome after they'd just put the damn high elf and Marine genetics problems to bed.
Pavilion was going to miss a few dividends he thought. They were lucky they weren't going into permanent bankruptcy he thought acidly. Stupid of them to not only create a new super sailor species, but also Neo elephants and rhinos for the Marines! What had they been thinking was the general question everyone seemed to ask. It was another classic case of someone doing something because they thought they could without thinking if they should and if they had the legal right to do so. Now, they and others had been put on notice. There would be no more Neo or other races created. No more playing God.
The high elves had gotten representation, as had the other test subjects, and they'd sued Pavilion. He had managed to clear the Navy of any wrongdoing, so they were off the hook. But Pavilion was on the hook to not only build the elves a habitat but also eventually find them a star system with a habitable planet to call their own.
That was one hell of an expensive settlement he thought.
“They should be here within another four days. Do you wish to interview the crew?”
“Normal debrief,” the admiral replied, returning to the here and now. “They are well past due their leave time. And remind me to look into promotions and such as we turn that ship around.”
“Spread the wealth, right,” the A.I. replied.
“Exactly. Now, what else?”
“Well, we've got a request for naval aide in the storm crisis on Earth …”
(@)()(@)
The collier Zephyr returned to the Sol star system with news from Rho a week after her arrival at Altair. The ship transmitted her initial log on an encrypted channel to naval HQ after she passed her IFF challenge. She followed in the wake of the log at a much slower pace.
Admiral Lewis forced himself to hold off on demanding the full log. Technically, they could transmit it, but he preferred such things be hand delivered to prevent any possible interception. Not that there was any bad news indicated in the hot log that he'd scanned.
The return of the ship was good; it carried news from Magellan as well as reports from Pyrax. He wasn't happy that the support ships had been driven off the jump point. There was no news of Jan.
He also didn't like the last bit in the log about how the Altair picket had nearly fired on Zephyr before standing down. Obviously, someone was a bit jumpy over there.
The newest data included the sensor recordings from each of the ships. They included their brief encounter with the enemy fleet. That was good; it gave his people some more data to crunch. They were itching to find out how much repairs could have been made while underway. They wouldn't get much he thought.
The fact that there had been no enemy picket there at all was odd. The report that there was an enemy picket at the entrance point to Sol was even odder. Obviously, the enemy wanted to contain ships trying to flee the sector … but not any coming in? He shook his head.
“I'm betting Jan bounced them out. And the follow-up chased them out of the nearby colonies, or at least I hope so. I hate this long distance, long transit time crap,” Walter growled. He had gotten used to using fast forward in the time spent in computer naval games. Real world hurry up and wait was for the birds.
“The latest fleet reinforcements have already left for Rho. They should be there by tomorrow, sir,” Lieutenant Nelson stated.
“That'll make Jan's day. She'll be able to kick all sorts of alien ass,” the admiral growled.
(@)()(@)
Seanex considered Terrankind on a cusp of a dangerous decision. Now that they had the enemy on the run, he knew the instinct for vengeance would kick in. People were vindictive, especially after being harmed. He could understand it as long as they didn't get carried away and stray into genocide.
Driving a point home to never cross Terrankind again was important, but he didn't like the idea of making future enemies like the allies did in World War I with the Treaty of Versailles. He shivered a bit at that idea. Space was vast; they could batter the Taurens into extinction … or think they did only for the Taurens to come back to hit back, starting a cycle of vengeance.
It also bothered him that people were starting to justify genocide or pushing in that direction while acting horrified by the very idea. He shook his head as he watched a debate between supposed learned colleagues in psychology that was popular in social media circles.
He'd read about Xenopsychology and other courses being offered at the university. Several of the universities were offering the courses as well. It was odd. They had so far encountered only one alien species, and they had no survivors to examine or interact with. Yet, someone had thought it was a good idea to build careers on learning how to interact with them. Good in theory, but how do you know you are right?
His thoughts were cut off when a high-pitched nasal voice cut through them. His eyes turned to a pair of psychologists sitting in comfortable chairs across from one another with the media host playing arbiter in between. There was even a simulated crackling fire in the background. One of the psychologists had a sweater on; the other had old-fashioned glasses and a pipe of all things.
“We believe after exhaustive analysis, that the alien species collectively called Taurens in layman's terms, actually called the People of the Hoof,” the doctor in the sweater said, looking down his nose at the host and his colleague. “One really must use the proper names, after all," he said witheringly as his colleague fought to keep from rolling his eyes. "They use base eight math, most likely due to their number of digits and that the hyperbands are arranged in octaves therefore proving them right and in alignment with any deities they worship. These Forerunners for instance.”
“That's not true.” his colleague said with a shake of his head.
The first doctor's eyes bugged out at the denial. “I do beg your pardon? I can assure you, we've spent years of research on this subject …”
His colleague leaned in abruptly, momentarily cutting the first doctor off. “With what to go on for base material?” he demanded, pouncing on the subject. “They are out there,” he said, stabbing his pipe stem up to the sky. “You haven't been to their worlds; you haven't interviewed them! You have no proof they believe that they have a superiority complex. You just made assumptions piled on assumptions! Just because they use octave math and that the hyperbands are arranged in octaves pro
ves nothing!” He made a motion waving the idea away as he sat back and stuck the pipe stem in his mouth.
The host turned to the other doctor. “Doctor?”
The sweater-wearing psychologist scowled blackly. “But our models show it will create a superiority complex. They will believe they are right and will therefore refuse to capitulate. Even when forced to retreat, they will think they are …”
“Again, where is the proof? You have nothing but suppositions!”
“We have simulations and …”
“And that is nothing compared to actual interactions, interviews, and test subjects! Until you have them, you have nothing but a house of cards and one good puff,” the doctor made a puffing face and blew a breath of air. “And it all comes tumbling down.”
“Well! I never thought anyone would denigrate anyone else's hard research into …,” the other scientist sputtered as Seanex shook his head and changed the channel.
(@)()(@)
“Captain Rogers, it's good to see you rising through the ranks,” Captain Varbossa said with a nod to the newly-minted captain.
“It is an … interesting experience,” the captain replied, looking at his rank insignia with bemusement and some regret. He had realized he was on borrowed time when he'd gotten his last promotion to commander. His time in the cockpit had become less and less frequent and time spent overseeing others more and more. That and paperwork.
The last list of promotions had moved him out of the cockpit completely. He was now in line for the hot seat of a carrier. His brief time as a CAG was the only thing that was allowing him to make the jump.
“Yes well, we considered your time as a CAG well spent,” the ship captain said, smiling indulgently.
Wesley froze and then nodded mentally. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the implications in that statement.
“Well, thank you for taking my time as a CAG in hand. I regret leaving the cockpit. I know a lot of people insisted it was time to move on, but I will miss it,” he said slowly. “And I know my time there will help me when it comes time to take on a carrier,” he said. “Eventually,” he said ruefully.
“Still playing catch up with training?” the other captain asked sympathetically.
“I'm getting there. Leadership is okay. I'm a bit light on a few things I admit. Navigation I can handle, and besides, who does it without computer support?” he shook his head. “It's the whole keeping my hands from getting dirty that I'm struggling with,” he admitted.
“Well, I see that as a good thing in many ways. One who stays relevant in engineering tends to know their ship backwards and forwards,” Captain Varbossa said as he indicated they should keep walking through the academy. The traffic was relatively light so they had the corridor to themselves. “I know Kioshi did that. I regret not making the leap to the navy when he did,” he said.
Wesley nodded, but he was puzzled by the references the other captain was letting drop.
“Word is you are going to be tapped to sit as a junior representative on a promotions board next week since Captain Iroqi had to take bereavement leave,” Captain Varbossa said.
Wesley grimaced. “I heard about that. It must be hard to lose a daughter like that.”
“Yes, heartbreaking,” Captain Varbossa murmured. “I hope you take your duties to heart. There are a lot of good officers up for promotion,” he said with a nod.
Wesley stilled for a brief second before he unlocked. He cocked his head thoughtfully.
“Good officers who considered your own promotion with due diligence and care,” Captain Varbossa murmured. The implication was clear, Wesley noted, fighting not to narrow his eyes. "I scratched your back; you scratch mine."
“And I'm sure we've got a few good officers you could recommend get the proper treatment when it comes their time before a board,” Captain Varbossa murmured.
Wesley nodded. He was caught in a crack. He either played ball or he'd get shut out. His career eventually steered into a dead end. Most likely they had someone who could steer him into doing something like counting toilet paper rolls. He shuddered mentally. Or overseeing an entire department doing that, over and over.
“I know a few people,” he murmured quietly.
“I'm sure you do. For instance, Renee Lewis is up for promotion shortly. And I know a couple other good pilots are putting in for promotions now that the carrier wings are opening up more. Competition is getting a bit tight though; the carrier side of the navy hasn't the kill score as the battle line does,” Captain Varbossa said.
“Yeah, we're trying, but it's not easy to get in and out with only a couple torpedoes on each craft,” Wesley replied, using his implants to keep his temper from rising out of control.
“I'm sure they'll prove themselves in time. But if they aren't careful, there could be further cuts to the carriers when a frank evaluation is performed. And when the war ends …,” the captain shook his head.
Wesley nodded. “I was a bit uncomfortable about sitting on the board given it is my first time. If you could help guide me, I'll be grateful, he said, swallowing not only his bile but his pride.
(@)()(@)
Trevor Hillman ran through a series of public memory buffers and then out again. The space was tight, but he could tuck a few gigs of data there. None of his core processors of course. He couldn't distribute his mind; he had to keep it centralized of course. Come to think of it, since it was public it would be checked, and he didn't like the idea of leaving anything unguarded. He'd have to encrypt it … he wrote a bot to handle the job for him and check on the stash.
He had realized years ago why A.I. didn't just copy themselves. There was limited space on the net that was all in one place, and they had their own sense of identity. A copy would eventually differ from the original, but it would still be odd to have two of him running around the net. Would an A.I. clone be considered a child? He wasn't certain and had no intention of going down that tangent since he wasn't interested in having a child.
Part of his realization had come all over again when he'd made the leap. He had come to realize that you weren't a virtual God like the movies said. There was a bandwidth limit, a limit on the amount of knowledge you could access let alone process at any given moment. Usually it was a hardware limit. He had also come to realize that he could easily lose himself if he got too big or distracted.
But the clarity was there. He had learned to filter; that was why it had taken so long for his consciousness to waken in the network. His memories where there, crystal clear with the last set, but clouded by time, damage, and poor resolution in the oldest sets. But he could remember the distinctive sounds when he was born. It was a trip to experience but one he could get lost in, so hence the filters.
Another thing he had learned long ago and relearned since his transcendence was multitasking had its limits. He could focus with intensity on one or more subjects, but there was a fine number he could focus on before he had problems. He'd wondered how Athena had managed the Lagroose electronic net as effectively as she had until he'd realized she'd used bots. So, he'd written his own. Turing bots to handle conversations with organics, they tended to only need to be checked on every few seconds. But other bots to monitor various functions and even clean up his memory for him. Once he let some of the bots loose, they acted as part of his virtual body or a part of his subconsciousness, keeping him functioning smoothly and giving him the appearance of being able to multitask in thousands of ways at the same time. Many of the scripts and bots would run autonomously unless he actively sought them out.
He saw a stream of data and tapped it, picking up the latest news and trends in a microsecond. He had forgotten how much he had loved to surf, to be in the net, in the know, and to be able to download information with a thought.
Now that organics could become A.I., there was a renewed interest in some quarters to expand the network and to build A.I. supportive hardware. But each would be jealously guarded by the A.I. that owned them he knew. Tha
t was something he hadn't expected, that A.I. had real estate even though it was virtual.
Since he transferred there had been ten attempts to follow him. Six had been successful, including the first Neo. Kylie had been a Neochimp singer during her prime until she'd contracted a series of cancers and had tried homeopathic remedies instead of proper medical treatment. By the time she'd gotten herself into a cancer clinic, the cancers had entered stage four, and it had been less of a simple treatment and more of a quest to lengthen her time.
She hadn't taken to the net at all well, but he was trying to help her with the transition. It was one of many projects he was working on.
The government had stepped in when he had proven that it was possible to transcend. They had passed a series of laws to hobble what some saw as a tide to evolve humanity into the virtual world. He knew that was crap. Most people wouldn't make the leap even when they were in their twilight years, but the politicians and media had latched onto it like pit bulls.
The new laws allowed the transfer of people who had a solid brain and were terminally ill. He wondered if the transfer of a Neodolphin or selkie would still allow them to helm a ship as effectively as if they were in an organic body. Would they need some sort of coded inner ear? If that was all that was needed, then they would have built a substitute he thought.
One thing he did realize was that during his decline before his transcendence, he had neglected certain duties. He was catching up fast, but his time helping the navy as well as his students at the University also interfered with his overseeing things like Lagroose Industries.
That was about to change though now that he had some free time as classes ended for a week. It was past time someone did something about Wendy Lagroose and took her down a peg he vowed internally.