“Not what you’d call a match made in heaven, then,” said Bernie.
“No. Made in the wardroom of the SS Spartan, I gather.”
“You proposed to her in the wardroom?” said Chuck.
“No,” said Guns in exasperation. “The admiral – that’s my grandfather – suggested the match to the captain of the Spartan. Well, I say suggested but I don’t think anyone had very much say in the matter, though my new father-in-law got himself promoted to flag captain so at least he managed to get something out of it.”
“An arranged marriage?” said Chuck.
“Guns comes from a bit of an old fashioned family,” said Bernie. “Isn’t that right, Guns?”
Guns could only wonder about that. The way he was brought up was the way he was brought up and it never really occurred to him that it might be old-fashioned. His family had a tradition, a way of doing things, and it wasn’t for him to question the wisdom of his ancestors, especially since they all outranked him.
Guns had joined the military, or the navy as it was still known at the time, when he was fourteen years old. It was the old-fashioned way but it transformed faint hearted boys into stout hearted men. At least, that was the theory. Guns couldn’t remember much of his evolution into manhood, unless you counted the harsh discipline, the systematic bullying and the unrelenting physical and occasional sexual abuse, all of which he could remember very well indeed.
His grandfather had trodden the same path before him, joining as a boy sailor, graduating to midshipman when he was eighteen and retiring as a vice admiral forty years later. On the occasional visit to his elder brother Bertie, who inherited the family home, Guns could still look up at his grandfather’s portrait hanging at the top of the staircase, resplendent in a uniform awash with gold braid, his handsome face gazing imperiously down, challenging him to succeed and daring him not to fail.
In his grandfather’s time the government had still maintained a sizable fleet of warships, mainly because they reasoned that as mankind travelled further and further out into space they might eventually meet other intelligent species, some of which might well be hostile. As it turned out, mankind never did meet any other intelligent species, hostile or otherwise, and over the years the navy was scaled down to meet the somewhat lesser threat of the occasional pirate, smuggler or drug runner.
Nevertheless, two generations later, Leslie Graham took up the post of gunnery officer aboard a heavy cruiser and, in the best traditions of the navy, was thereafter known as ‘Guns’. But Guns had never really felt at home in the navy. He didn’t feel that he was born to it and knew in his heart that he’d never uphold the family tradition of rising through the ranks. True, he excelled at working through the calculations that would ensure that a projectile fired from vessel ‘A’ travelling at velocity ‘V1’ on course ‘C1’ would intercept vessel ‘B’, travelling at velocity ‘V2’ on course ‘C2’, but it had never really been a necessary skill even in his grandfather’s day, simply because fire control computers would have had the job done while a human was still reaching for a slide rule. Still, the navy liked its personnel to be able to do things in the time honored fashion because, well, it was time honored and that’s the way it was.
Guns had been a late addition to the Graham family and was still in his early thirties when his father, Commodore Graham (retired), passed away peacefully in his sleep. With brother Bertie ably carrying on the family tradition Guns felt no particular obligation to stay in the military and resigned his commission, joining the civilian Space Corps. He didn’t see any particular reason to continue in an unhappy marriage either, a matter resolved by the simple expedient of not going home any more. His wife chased him around for a while but gave up after ten years or so, leaving Guns more or less unmolested save for the annulment papers which eventually caught up with him.
The rest of his career had been smooth enough; his military training made him excellent material for the Space Corps and he soon found himself in a comfortable job aboard an interstellar research vessel. Guns began to enjoy life for a change; it was one that suited him well and he gradually found himself with fewer and fewer ties to the shore. The only downside was that forty years on he found himself with so few ties that as Commander Jacobs suspected, he really didn’t have anywhere else to go. There weren’t all that many openings for someone of his years either. Orbital One was his last chance saloon.
The sound of footsteps outside brought him out of his reverie and he rose to his feet as the door opened and Commander Jacobs entered the room alone. “Morning, gentlemen. Seems our cadet has been delayed for a few hours so stand easy, Guns.”
“Only a few hours?”
“Probably. Stuck on Phoenix where they apparently have more problems with air traffic.” With no cadet in sight Guns breathed a sigh of relief and poured himself another cup of coffee.
Phoenix Station
Pascal Delacroix, the station administrator, gazed impassively at the circle of faces seated around him in the executive conference room. “I have just spent an exceedingly unpleasant hour in video conference with the board of directors. Our recent problems have, at the present count, resulted in a total of two hundred and seventy four separate claims being filed against Phoenix Corporation.”
“How many?” said Mike Pederson.
“Two hundred… seventy four. And I fear that’s just the start. Here’s one,” he said, picking the top paper from a sheaf in front of him and holding it up for the others to see. “A private lawsuit from a lady whose finger was scalded by hot cocoa. She’s demanding fifty thousand credits in compensation for pain, suffering and subsequent post traumatic stress, a claim I think we can class as frivolous even though we’ll probably end up paying. Then we have a series of claims from the mercantile association for rent rebates, damage to furnishings and loss of revenue, which is rather more serious. And at the other end of the scale we have Ambassador Spaceways and the Skymartin Hotel Group who have lodged major lawsuits that could easily run into millions. To cut a long story short, we need answers and we need them quickly.”
“How quickly?” asked one of the department heads.
“Perhaps as long as it will take the board to head-hunt your replacement – and that goes for the rest of you too. The clock is ticking, gentlemen.” Delacroix suddenly had the undivided attention of the other department heads. Only two people seemed relatively unperturbed, the representative from Comtec and Lt. James, the commanding officer of Phoenix’s military detachment. “Mr. Lister, I assume that I.T. has had sufficient time to co-ordinate with the engineers from Comtec?”
“We ran our checks and they ran theirs,” said Lister coolly.
“And you compared data…?”
“You’d better ask him,” said Lister with a shrug.
The administrator looked to Jack Taggart, the Comtec rep, who checked his notes.
“Our engineers have run a full spectrum of diagnostic checks, all of which indicate that Ulysses is operating at peak efficiency. There is no evidence to suggest any malfunction within the core.”
“Do you concur, Lister?”
“How would I know? They won’t share any of their data and they won’t let us near the core,” said Lister in exasperation. “I can’t make any judgments if I’m not in possession of the facts.”
“The data is classified,” said Taggart. “Even if we did allow you access, you wouldn’t understand anything we showed you.”
“Don’t you think I could be the judge of that?”
“In this case, no,” said Taggart. “In any case, it’s out of my hands.”
“Lister,” said the administrator tiredly, “What do you have?”
“We’ve identified several fragments of code that are not associated with any known programs or sub-routines. We are still trying to analyze the code but as yet we have been unable to obtain any meaningful results. There is evidence to suggest a connection with Server 6 – the code may have originated there. Other than that we are
still pretty much in the dark.”
“Mr. Taggart, have your engineers had a chance to study the code?”
“It’s meaningless,” he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Even if it was malicious, it wouldn’t get past Ulysses’ firewalls. It’s impossible.”
“How… do… you… know?!” said Lister.
“As I said, it’s impossible,” said Taggart.
Lister snorted in disgust and looked away.
“Let’s see if I’ve got this right,” said Delacroix. “Despite all the recent problems we have a computer core that is operating at peak efficiency.”
“Correct,” said Taggart.
“How very interesting,” said Delacroix, “Do you know that within a thirty minute period yesterday, a total of forty four attitude thrusters and eight fusion engines engaged, sometimes independently and sometimes in unison? Now if, as Mr. Taggart contends, Ulysses is operating at peak efficiency we can only conclude that the human hand is somehow responsible for our woes, either by accident or design.”
“Our conclusion also,” said Taggart forcibly.
“The trouble is,” continued Delacroix,” That given the time frame, I calculate that it would require upwards of one hundred personnel acting in unison for so many incidents to occur in so many locations in such a short space of time.”
“A terrorist cell?”
“More like a small army, don’t you think? And quite a feat to achieve so many acts of sabotage without any of our security personnel noticing anything either before, during or after.”
“As opposed perhaps, to a single act of sabotage against the core…?” suggested Lister.
Taggart slammed his hand on the table and opened his mouth to speak but to the surprise of everyone he was cut off by Lt. James.
“Gentlemen, you should know that in the event of sabotage I am obliged to notify my superiors, who will in turn be obliged to conduct their own investigation.”
“No-one is really suggesting sabotage–” began Taggart.
“But you just did, Mr. Taggart,” said Lt. James. “And so did you, Mr. Lister. With the greatest respect, gentlemen, you have spent the last thirty minutes squabbling and passing the buck. Phoenix may be a civilian station but is also home to a military detachment. As such, any act of sabotage must be considered an attack on the military by implication an attack on the state. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a report to make.”
Well said that man, thought Delacroix as Lt. James left the room.
Military Headquarters, Sector 12
Commodore Daniel Rodham Jacks studied the communiqué that had just arrived from Lt. James on Phoenix. About bloody time, he thought, jabbing a button on his console.
“Yes, sir?” said his adjutant.
“Pack your bags, Primrose. We’re off to Phoenix.”
“The Phoenix, in the Atlas system?”
“The very one, lieutenant.”
“Should be fun, sir.”
“With any luck,” said Jacks. As a matter of fact, I can positively guarantee it.
Orbital One
It was late afternoon by the time Penny’s shuttle finally arrived at O1. Commander Jacobs met her at the airlock and showed her to her quarters, after which he dropped her off at the crew room where Chuck was still waiting and Bernie was still drinking coffee. Guns had beaten a retreat and was nowhere to be seen.
“Hello. How do you do,” said Chuck. “Have a good trip?” She was extremely pretty, he thought, if in a girlish sort of way, and reminded him very much of one of his nieces. It made him feel rather old.
“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir! And a very good afternoon to you too, sir!” replied Penny.
Chuck noted that she was standing rigidly to attention, and almost on tip toes at that. Is that the way they did it nowadays?
“Well, I think we can dispense with the ‘sir’. I’m an operations officer, not an admiral. ‘Chuck’ will do fine”, he said with a smile. “And you really don’t have to stand to attention either. It must be terribly uncomfortable.”
“Sorry, sir. Force of habit. And in any case, if I understand correctly, you are technically an officer of the auxiliary services.”
“Very technically and even more auxiliary, and only in the very loosest sense of the word. Don’t expect I’ll ever get called up. Certainly hope not, anyway. All that saluting and stomping about… I’m afraid it just isn’t me. Had a go at it once but never could get used to it. I imagine you must be made of sterner stuff.”
“Oh, not really, sir, but at least it gives you something to do. If in doubt, stamp your feet and salute. Works every time.”
“OK… So you’re here to get some practical experience?”
“That’s right, sir. All cadets have to complete six months in an operational environment in order to graduate. It’s a very important time for me.”
“I’m not sure you can call O1 an operational environment, to be truthful. We’ve been working with a skeleton crew just to keep things ticking over, though with the Titan contract I guess we’ll be a bit busier so we can use an extra hand.”
“How big is the crew?” said Penny.
“About thirty in all. There are eight of us in Ops, and then there are the maintenance and reactor crews. Oh, and old Maurice, who runs the café and the shop. He’s been on the station almost since it was built. How’d you end up here, anyway? I’d have thought there would have been more exciting postings. Who did you manage to offend?” he joked.
“Bit of a long story,” said Penny, looking suddenly dejected. Chuck studied her expression for a moment. What’s all that about? he thought.
“I see… Well, I’ve a few long stories of my own so don’t let it get you down.” He paused for a moment but she was still looking rather glum. “And you never know, you might even enjoy it here. No saluting, no stamping, and absolutely no standing at attention for hours on end. What more could you want? On the other hand, there’s almost no fresh food, few creature comforts and little in the way of entertainment. Not to mention the ever present danger of sudden, catastrophic decompression. But we all have our crosses to bear,” he said with a smile. Penny grinned back.
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
“Chuck… never mind – whatever you feel comfortable with. And while we’re on the subject, how would you like me address you?” He checked his data pad and gave a shake of his head. “No, sorry. I’m not going to keep calling you Senior Cadet Parker – soon get fed up of that. Cadet in formal situations, otherwise it will be Penny. How’s that?”
“Fine by me, sir.”
“Good. Had a look around the station?”
“Just a quick look around Alpha Section,” said Penny. “I’m billeted on Deck 1.”
“Lucky you,” said Chuck. “That’s where all the best quarters are. Most of us are stuck down here on Deck 2. This is the crew room where we have our daily meetings, and just down the corridor are the café and shop.
“It’s simple enough to find your way around the station. The rim is divided into six sections: Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo and Fox. It’s about two kilometers all the way around. Only Alpha Section is fully operational though we’re working to get Delta Section up and running. The other sections are pressurized with an atmosphere but that’s about it – the airlocks are offline and apart from Deck 1 the gravity plating is powered down, so don’t go wandering about below decks without any magnetic boots. Not long back Ollie Oliver took a wrong turning into Hangar 2 in Bravo Section. He was floating around for hours before someone found him.
“So, six sections, each of which is connected to the hub by a spoke. The spoke that connects Alpha Section to the hub is called the Avenue. Bravo Section’s spoke is called the Boulevard, and then we have the Causeway, the Driveway, the Expressway and the Fairway. Easy enough to remember. I’ll give you the official guided tour so you know what’s what.”
Chuck led the way along the three hundred meter length of the Avenue to the hub. Climb
ing three flights of stairs they arrived at the top level which was taken up by radar and communication equipment.
On Level 2 was the Ops room. “We’ll be spending quite a lot of time up here,” he said. “It’s all a bit antiquated but it does the job well enough.” It certainly was antiquated, thought Penny as she gazed around at the worn consoles, chipped paintwork and faded décor.
“Is that a keyboard?” she said. “Don’t see many of those about these days.”
“Ah… that’s mine. To tell the truth, I’ve never felt entirely comfortable talking to machines, even ones that can give an intelligent answer. I never really got into the habit and prefer plonking away on a keyboard, especially on the night shift – it just seems more in keeping with the place.”
From Ops they descended to Level 3, where Chuck stopped at a heavy security door. “You’ll need one of these to activate it,” he said, removing his ID card from his breast pocket. “Pop it under the scanner and stick your thumb on the print reader and…”
The door swished silently open. A few paces down a short hallway and the process was repeated, a second door opening to reveal a brightly lit compartment unlike anything else on O1. It was like stepping from the Stone Age into the hypersonic era.
“Here we are cadet, our Comtec HCTR100 mainframe, known to us all as Hector, the beating heart of O1. Not quite the cutting edge of advanced computer science, but very, very close.”
“Wow. I didn’t expect to see anything like this,” said Penny in surprise.
“Not many people do,” said Chuck. “Now that O1 has been decommissioned, Hector probably holds the title for being the universe’s most chronically under-employed computer core. He has the capacity to run the whole station autonomously, which means looking after the needs of thousands of people, running the air ops, handling all the security, customs, immigration, communications, inventories and everything else you can think of. And while he’s doing all that he can still find time to beat you at chess, remind you to call your mother, look after your investment portfolio and fill out your income tax forms. Now that in itself is a feat beyond human comprehension. Well mine, at least.”
The Blunt End of the Service Page 8