Pilot X

by Tom Merritt

  “Well, well, so the Secretary couldn’t make it after all. I thought you were time travelers! Ha-ha, come in, come in. I’m Overseer Gaemmae. This is Progon Representative 1367 and High Sensaurian Outreach Coordinator Thraw.”

  “Outrage!” droned the drone.

  “We knew this would happen,” gurgled the Sensaurian.

  “I was not told they would be here,” managed Pilot X. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The Progon drone was a head taller than Pilot X. It was a thin metal shaft with four articulated limbs, two on each side, and treads for locomotion. Sensor pods ringed the top of the shaft in two rows and blinked occasionally.

  Pilot X could hardly look at the Sensaurian. It was a green slug of a creature about half Pilot X’s height contained in a yellow translucent life-support cylinder that made it look like the remains of something that had died. It smelled almost as bad.

  “Now, now, this shouldn’t come as a shock. If I’m about to sign an agreement to forgo the offerings of these two civilizations, you can’t expect they won’t try to talk me out of it, can you?” answered the Overseer. “Do you have the agreement?”

  It took Pilot X a moment to realize the Overseer meant him. He tore his eyes away from the mortal enemies of the Alendans. He had never seen either species—if species was the right word for Progons—in real life.

  He stuttered to life. “Y-yes, Overseer. Here.” He handed the copies to the Overseer, who flipped through and then placed them on the desk.

  “Now. I have heard all your arguments, and I understand. But the Alendans have proven themselves trustworthy and willing to benefit my people. I am sorry I can’t give you what you want, honored representatives of the Progons and Sensaurians. I must sign.”

  “Outrage!” intoned the Progon again. Pilot X thought it odd for a machine to yell such an emotional response, but then the Progons were not machines at heart, only in body. He wondered if this was an actual Progon then, not just a mechanized drone. The thought of the incorporeal essence animating the machine gave him chills.

  The drone continued. “I will return to my masters. We blame the Alendans, not you, Overseer. If you come to a realization, you know how to contact us. Do so quickly. We will take action, and we cannot guarantee this system’s safety!”

  So not an actual Progon. Just a drone. Before Pilot X could think more about what it had said, the Sensaurian responded.

  “The Sensaurian Mind is one, as always. We must defend your system from the fraud of the Alendans and also”—the bulk of the sluglike beast shifted as if to indicate the Progon—“defend against Progon aggression, which the representative has made clear will not take your safety into account! We know you will do the right thing, Overseer, and you will see that we will as well. Take care.”

  The Sensaurian rolled out of the room, crushing Pilot X’s toe in the process. The Progon made no pretense to hide its technology and disappeared. It looked like it transported itself out of the room, but Pilot X knew it was more likely just highspeed maneuvering, faster than Mersenne or Alendan eyes could see.

  “My apologies, uh . . .” the Overseer stammered.

  “Pilot X.”

  “Pilot? Interesting. My apologies, Pilot X.” The Overseer signed the copies and picked one out to hand back. He held one hand up toward Pilot X’s forehead.

  The briefing had prepared Pilot X for this. He held his hand toward the Overseer’s forehead, and they lightly rested their hands on each other’s heads for a brief moment. Pilot X noticed the Overseer had two thumbs on his hand.

  “It has been our duty and our privilege to serve you with such distinction,” the Overseer then said, holding out one copy gripped formally at each top corner between his thumbs.

  Pilot X recalled the proper response he had read in the briefing. Barely. “Your distinction is great, but the privilege and duty have been ours, pleasantly.” Pilot X took the signed copy.

  “Yeoman Alphaea will show you out, Pilot X. Thank you.” The Overseer sat down and Pilot X turned to find a young man, probably about Pilot X’s age, standing in the doorway.

  “This way.” The man smiled. Everyone on Mersenne was so cheery.

  “It’s not necessary, Yeoman,” Pilot X said as they left the reception area. “I found my own way in, so I can find my own way back, I suppose.”

  “Not a problem. The Overseer was a little more concerned than he let on about your safety. I’ll only accompany you to the city limits. I won’t try to peek at your spaceship.” He winked.

  Pilot X liked the Yeoman.

  As they walked, Pilot X asked the Yeoman about life on Mersenne. Was it as ideal as it looked?

  “The woods were much bigger when I was young,” the Yeoman said. “I know how important industry is for the betterment of all of us . . . but it makes me sad. I wish it didn’t encroach on the beauty of nature. When we were young, we used to play in the forest. We’d pretend we were explorers on the Pineapple Planet.”

  “There are no pineapples there,” Pilot X said without thinking.

  The Yeoman laughed. “Ha-ha! Exactly. I’m glad you know the legend too. Those were such good times. But I can’t take my boys there. Not to the Pineapple Planet, I mean, to the forest. It’s been cut down for lumber and developed into housing. Mind you, I’m just sentimental. There are plenty of other woods. But when I was a boy, that’s where we went to learn. Not some children’s center.”

  “Children’s center?” Pilot X asked.

  “Oh yeah. That’s the new consolidated schooling. It does work wonders. My boys are three times as smart as I’ll ever be already. But I miss the old ways. Doesn’t seem as fun. They seem to like it, though. Ah. Here we are. It was lovely making your acquaintance, Pilot X.”

  The Yeoman somewhat tentatively held his arm out toward Pilot X’s forehead. Pilot X didn’t hesitate but heartily thrust his arm out and grasped Yeoman Alphaea’s head gently but firmly. This brought a smile to the Yeoman’s face.

  “Like a native,” he said grinning. “Take care, Pilot X. Don’t let them get you down.” He looked up. “We’re on your side.”

  Pilot X smiled at this and felt a bit better. He gave an Alendan salute as a last bit of punctuation, turned, and began the long walk back to the Verity.

  On the way he wondered how dangerous it would be to leave the planet. You couldn’t time-jump too close to a gravity well’s center point. He should be able to time-jump as soon as he was out of the atmosphere, but that would be the trick. He understood the Secretary’s motivations now. Having an unimportant Pilot show up meant Alenda’s enemies would not act as aggressive. It meant less of a loss to Alenda should something go wrong, and a Pilot in a timeship had a better chance of getting away clean.

  At least he hoped so. The Verity was still camouflaged, but he was a trained professional and found the place in the thin woods where he left her. Now that he was looking, he didn’t think the camouflage was very good. From his point of view, the Verity looked like a big cylinder painted with leaves. She only blended in as well as a painted mural of autumn leaves would with real trees.

  Verity sensed him coming and slid the entryway open. He walked in, and it closed behind him. It was as if he’d never been in the forest at all.

  “I have launched a dozen signal replication probes in advance of our departure,” Verity said. “Sensaurian ships are taking a defensive perimeter and ignoring them, but the Progons are actively chasing. Shall I launch another round?”

  “You did what?” Was Verity provoking them?

  “I monitored your conversation and several open ship channels from the Sensaurian and Progon fleets. The Sensaurians plan to intercept you as you leave. The Progons intend to shoot you down. I thought it wise to begin evasive maneuvers,” she responded.

  “Oh,” Pilot X said. He’d been in combat on big Alendan ships with massive crews. The Alendans almost always outnumbered their opposition. He’d never contemplated being in battle alone. Assigned scouting missions wi
th a fleet, sure, but entirely alone?

  “Should we call for help?” he asked plaintively.

  “I have sent an emergency alert to Alendan Central. However, response times may be as much as two Mersenne days.”

  “Two days?!” Pilot X yelled. “Why can’t they just jump right to this point in time?”

  “The response time includes factors of personnel availability and prioritization of resources weighed against known time-stream risks and hostile-troop strength.”

  “In other words, I’m not important enough to risk jumping in and saving.”

  “You are not important enough to risk jumping in and saving,” Verity agreed.

  “Ouch.” Pilot X was stung by Verity’s lack of hesitation.

  “Under such conditions, protocol allows for latitude to preserve the assignment and personnel. The assignment is to return safely so the preservation conditions are easily merged.”

  Preservation conditions. Verity was trying to save his life. That made him feel a little better.

  “Launch the second round of signal replicators,” Pilot X finally said. “Is there a launch vector that—”

  “The Sensaurians have left all starward paths open. It is likely they do not anticipate much preparation from you. The Progons have left only three viable departure vectors. Shall I choose the one with the lowest percentage chance of detection?”

  “Yes,” Pilot X said, trying to sound as if it had been a weighty decision. But then, whom was he trying to impress? Verity? His ship? Yes. He guessed he was.

  “How many replicators have been launched and how many in operation?” he asked, showing a little initiative. Verity could report on how he handled this to any officer, he supposed.

  “I have launched twenty-four. Ten remain in operation. Our departure vector options have dropped to two. One has a fifty-four percent chance of success. The other twelve percent. Shall we delay departure?”

  “No!” he said. “But don’t choose a departure vector.” He had an idea.

  “Go straight up, but launch twelve more signal replicators, this time replicating Progon, Mersenne, Sensaurian, and Alendan ships in equal measure.”

  “The chance of this stratagem succeeding is—”

  “Just do it. And blast our signals in rotation,” he cut her off. He didn’t want to know.

  “Verity on record protesting that forty-three percent chance departure vector was better plan. Verity conf—Departure vector options down to one at twelve percent. Verity on record supporting Pilot X decision for confrontational stratagem.”

  The Progons destroyed every signal replicator as soon as it left the atmosphere. The signal replicators could look to all sensors like any ship they had specs on. They were easily unmasked but caused enough confusion to buy time. Verity could mask her signals but not as effectively. She couldn’t mask how much space she displaced. The gravitational effects were too fine in atmosphere. Pilot X’s best bet was to pretend to be something else.

  “Make sure at least three of the replicators—”

  “Four signal replication probes have been sent on the previous high-probability successful departure vectors. Masking as meteor.”

  “Thanks, Verity.”

  “You’re welcome,” the ship said sweetly. Was it sweet? Could the ship sound sweet? He needed to focus.

  “We have left atmosphere,” Verity interrupted his thoughts.

  This was the moment. Possibly his last moment. If he experienced another moment after this, it meant the plan had worked.

  He experienced another moment.

  Hanging before him was Alenda. Verity said, “Time jump initiated and complete. We are back at assignment return point. Beginning descent to twenty-five minutes after last departure. Apologies for the delay from assignment optimum of twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks, Verity. The Secretary can wait a few minutes,” Pilot X grumbled. “I want an explanation.”

  But the Secretary wasn’t there anyway.

  “You just missed him,” said a tall woman with dark skin. Her bearing was severe, but she looked at him with kind eyes. “He told me you’d be along and said I could take the contracts from you. He said you’d know what he meant.” She smiled.

  Pilot X almost pulled out the contracts, but he was angry. This was not a backwater assignment, and the Secretary had sent him into danger without preparation. He had almost died, and he didn’t want to forgive that easily. If he argued with this person, he would lose his fire and end up handing over the contracts. So he chose not to fight. He didn’t want to lose his anger, not just yet.

  “That’s all right,” he said, grinning. “He’ll know where to find me.” Pilot X turned and left.

  “Wait!” he heard the woman shout, but he didn’t turn around. In fact he had the perverse idea that if he hurried, he could catch up with himself and stop him going at all. But he knew it would never work. Physics abhors a paradox. It took a lot more energy than a little anger to rip causality from its rails and change the course of a whole reality.

  So instead he went to get a drink and a bite to eat. He felt his communication device buzz, so he turned it off. The only thing that bothered him was that the Secretary, being the Secretary, likely knew this is what he’d do. So why the charade?

  Pilot X finished off his Alendaller sandwich. The fried beef patty within two thin but sturdy slices of Gorber bread was delicious. His only regret was that he hadn’t ordered cheese. He looked at the small amount of beer left in his glass. He shouldn’t have another. But he’d had enough of this one that he wanted another. But he needed to keep his head clear for when the Secretary found him. But his head would still be mostly clear after another. It was a third he needed to stay away from. But once he had another, he knew a third would sound like a grand idea.

  The bartender started walking his way over to ask if he’d like another. The Secretary sat down next to Pilot X. The bartender did an about-face and left them alone.

  “Assistant Le told me you didn’t give her the contracts,” the Secretary said without preamble. “Why didn’t you give her the contracts?”

  Pilot X looked the Secretary in the eye. The beer had kept the anger simmering. It began to boil again.

  “My instructions were to return the contracts to you. I didn’t know her. So I waited for you.” Pilot X waved dramatically. “And here you are?”

  “Are you drunk?” the Secretary asked, laughing.

  “No,” Pilot X said firmly. He was not. At least he was pretty sure he wasn’t. Not on one beer. He couldn’t be.

  “So you didn’t give Assistant Le the contracts because you were sure I’d chase you down in a bar?” the Secretary said.

  Pilot X wagged his finger. He knew intellectually that was not an appropriate way to address the Secretary. Was he drunk? He put his finger down. No. He wasn’t. “No,” he said simply. “I did not know Assistant Le was called Assistant Le. I did not know she worked for you. You said you would meet me for a debriefing. You weren’t there. The contracts were obtained under combat conditions, and I felt strict adherence was called for in following your orders.” He felt like somehow he had rambled, but it all made sense to him. It was all true. And it all needed to be said. How long had he been talking?

  “So you were afraid Assistant Le was a Progon spy?”

  “I made no such assessment,” Pilot X said. “It was not mine to make in either direction.”

  The Secretary sat back at this, looking impressed. “It’s a fair point. If you were lately of combat, you shouldn’t give critical mission documents to anyone without requiring a determination of identity. I’m impressed, X. You studied your regs, it seems. At least if there was truly combat. But come now. What kind of combat would you see on Mersenne? Some rifles aimed at you? Did a bandit on a horse mug you? What?” The Secretary chuckled.

  There it was again. This time it wasn’t funny. “I am Pilot X, Secretary. And the Verity has filed my flight report. We came under direct attack by Progons an
d defensive threat by Sensaurians when leaving Mersenne. Their representatives threatened me directly in the Overseer’s chambers.” Pilot X tried not to look smug, but he expected he looked smug.

  “Well. Pilot.” The Secretary left the X off this time. “That is another matter indeed. There was no intelligence that either race would be there. I will review your report. The documents?”

  The Secretary was implying he was surprised, but he wasn’t acting at all surprised. And he shouldn’t be. He was the Secretary. Not knowing about Progon or Sensaurian presence at any important point in space-time would be gross incompetence or worse.

  Pilot X handed over the papers.

  “Thank you, Pilot. X. We’ll be talking soon.” The Secretary turned and left.

  The bartender finally sauntered over, looking sympathetic. “Boss?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said Pilot X.

  “Another?” asked the bartender.

  “Yeah.”

  THE RECOMMENDATION

  Puffy pink clouds drifted through the Alendan skies, hinting at coming rain, but the day was otherwise excellent as Pilot X met Ambassador Uy in the shipyard. Ambassador Uy was one of his favorite diplomats. Pilot X often received assignments from the Ambassadorial staff, though usually not in person.

  “You’ve been an excellent Pilot,” Ambassador Uy said as they stood outside the Verity. “I have to say, more than just a Pilot. Your understanding of the tripartite peace ranges far beyond what I would expect from someone driving a timeship. No offense intended.”

  Unlike many diplomats, Ambassador Uy seemed to mean what he said.

  “Well, I’ve had some experience with the Sensaurians and the Progons directly. It helps.” Pilot X hadn’t had any more direct assignments from the Secretary since his blowup in the bar, but his assignments seemed to always put him somewhere near a Progon mech ship or a Sensaurian pod flight. He had wanted to apologize for his attitude but then never got the chance.