I’m happy to say that our CO is old-school enough that he doesn’t think that way, which is why we didn’t take the CSSAR mission. A merc company that one of the warring parties had contracted wanted to hire us to go to the planet and stand by to recover any of their dropships that were downed behind enemy lines, with a bonus for snatching up any of the enemy’s dropships, tanks, or missile systems we could get our hands on while we were there. The more the enemy’s stuff was worth on the open market, the more they promised to pay us. They were also going to give us a bonus for bringing back any new technology they didn’t have. Basically, they were paying us to be horse thieves—if something got loose from the herd, they wanted us to go in and steal it for its technology or resale value. When our CO asked how much we would get for each of their troops we brought back, the alien looked at him funny and asked, “Why would we pay for that? People are cheap—we can always make more.”
It was the darnedest thing I’ve ever seen—please go get my equipment, but don’t bother with my troops. Sure, it was a reptilian race that lays lots of eggs and can have an entire new generation of troopers within a couple of years…but the CO said “no, thanks,” and we were all in agreement with him. If they didn’t value their own troops, they were even less likely to value the lives of our forces, and to send us in on a mission that we were unlikely to come back from, just to try to get something valuable they could sell. Good riddance to them!
On another note, we did finally see some fellow Humans. There was a group of folks calling themselves, “The Golden Horde” here last week. The reason I say “group of folks” and not “unit” is they were the weirdest military outfit I’ve ever seen. They had just come from their first contract and were heading home. Unfortunately, the ship taking them back to Earth didn’t have enough room for us to ride along, or we’d have come back with them. It’s probably better that we didn’t ride with them—they looked like a bunch of druggies you’d see on the streets of New York or some other big city. Even though most of them appeared to be Mongols (which is where they got the “Horde” from, I guess), they were all covered in gold and other types of gems and jewelry. I will say one thing for them, though—they got a hold of a bunch of copies of a new Tri-V game and left us a few, so at least we have something to do to kill the time here while we wait for a contract we can do without getting ourselves killed doing it. Corporal Stevens is already ranked in the top 10% of all players, galaxy-wide. When you think about how many people are playing it, that’s pretty impressive.
Well, I’ve got to close for now. The CO wants me to go with him to the merc pit to help him look for a new contract. The nature of mercs being what it is, there’s safety in numbers, and it makes sense to travel in a group. Kind of like when we were traveling overseas, I guess.
Looking forward to coming home to you as soon as I can.
I love you!
Captain John Pike,
Avenging Angels
* * * * *
Letter Home from Sandy - 2
Message Initially Received: Taloco System
For Forwarding To: Earth System
Dear Patricia,
I really hoped I’d be home by now, but we’re on the far side of the galaxy. Somewhere called the Jesc arm. All I know it’s a long damned way from Earth. It’s weird, all these aliens we’ve never seen, they treat us like exhibits in a zoo. They’ve seen each other, but most have never seen a Human.
I’m learning how to speak elSha now. Think of that lizard that sells insurance. They’re not mercs; they’re mechanics. Damned good ones. The boss hired a team to work on the shitty MinSha dropships we bought, and they had ‘em fixed up in no time. They did it pretty cheaply too, because money’s getting tight. We still can’t get more than little jobs. While they keep the food coming in, it’s only just.
I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but I fell for a guy in our unit. You never met him. Richard Taylor, a dropship pilot. Sigh, he’s nice. It’d be good to have someone to hold. I’ve been spending as much time as possible learning medicine. I’ve volunteered at a clinic here in the Taloco system. They’re pretty primitive by Union standards, but they view Earth medicine like we’d look at Civil War-era medical technology. I got to sit in on a couple nano-therapy sessions. It’s the stuff they used to save Ambassador Thales’ life—microscopic robots! Some mercs are so rich they have little med kits they use. The boss is trying to buy some, but we’re already nearly broke.
We’re looking at another contract. This one might be a winner. The boss passed on one a short time ago because the aliens offering it were only interested in the hardware, not the troopers. We all agreed we wouldn’t ignore injured just to save a tank, or something. MREs again for a while, I guess. Pretty glad we brought them now.
I hope you’re getting all these letters. They cost me a couple credits each! I paid extra for this one to include an image. It’s both a JPG and a Tri-V. I hope there is a Tri-V player in town by now, it’s pretty cool! Richard is on the left, bottom row.
XXOO - Sandy
* * * * *
Winged Hussars - 1
The ORP Wilk was unique in many ways. Originally part of the Polska Zegluga Morska, the Polish Steamship Company, it was a bulk hauler first built in 1952, then refitted in 1966, 1979, and most recently in 1991. Its name, Wilk, was taken from a WWII Polish submarine, which was ironic since the Wilk had the misfortune of having sunk, twice. Unfortunately for the current owners, neither of those times had been the ship’s final chapter.
“I hope my father is nice and warm in hell,” Lech Kosmalski grumbled as he watched the master controls on the bridge. The last refit, after her second sinking, hadn’t done the Wilk any great service. Sure, they’d added another 20 meters to her keel (known as a stretch job) and a rather rare on-board bulk material moving system. Those had been good moves. However, they’d also tried to bring the ship’s 1950’s era control systems up to date by installing computer controllers on all its vital systems, digital monitoring meters on its steam and water lines, and computers on the bridge. Nothing was wrong with that, on the surface. However most of the ship’s electrical cable runs had been installed when she was originally built, and they were welded into the superstructure. The wire was old, and the insulation was brittle and largely unreplaceable.
Lech touched an icon on the screen that should have altered their course 5 degrees to starboard. The big old brass and hardwood wheel, one of the only things still original on the bridge, stubbornly refused to move. “Screw you, you motherless whore,” he cursed, using English for effect. Of course, since the entire bridge crew was Polish, most of them except Lawrence Kosmalski didn’t understand a word. “Cousin,” he asked, “what is wrong?”
Half the bridge crew were his cousins, and all were at least distantly related. Lawrence knew the curse had been directed at him, as he was the ship’s one and only IT specialist.
“I will look at it, Captain,” Lawrence said. Despite being two years older than Lech, and having played with him innumerable times as children, Lech insisted he be called “Captain.”
Lawrence accessed the navigation station’s computer, basically a Microsoft Surface Pro 7, via Bluetooth, logged into the command buffer, and found the last command still sitting there with the icon indicating “unable to communicate.” Crap, he mentally cursed. There were three electrical channels to the helm servos in the bowels of the ship’s stern. Accessing the communications channels, he saw two of them were red. Only one had been red yesterday, a backup. The new dead pathway was his main channel. That was bad. While he watched, his personal tablet flashed the warning that only one channel was left. Timely, he thought with a programmer’s black humor.
The system hadn’t switched over automatically because he didn’t want it to. The final channel was already used for four other command circuits. Sure, you could multiplex the hell out of an old, thick copper wire, if it wasn’t corroded halfway through in a dozen places. He scowled at his choices in the menu
, glancing up at Lech, who was staring at him with obvious malice. This wasn’t his fault—the marine contractor should have been more honest from the beginning. Lawrence had already spent hundreds of hours with electrical testing probes, sensing signal strength and looking for broken lines.
He gritted his teeth, touched and dragged the steering command to the 3rd channel, and waited. The buffer flashed again for a moment, and the wheel slowly began to move in response to the rudder. Several bridge crewmen applauded, and Lech gave him a nod. Lawrence resisted the urge to flip them all the bird. He was just grateful this hadn’t happened on third watch when he was in his bunk fast asleep.
Just to be safe, he stayed on the bridge an hour, watching the various crewmen move around, doing their tasks. He’d only been doing this for a year now, a last-ditch attempt by his grandfather to save the Wilk from the scrap yard. Luckily, or unluckily depending on your point of view, bringing on Lawrence with his three degrees in computer science worked. But now, after that long year, the loss of another command wire pathway aft may well have signaled the ship’s doom.
Midday approached, and Lawrence could discern a line across the horizon. The coast was finally approaching. He left the bridge quietly, returning to his cabin just one deck down. In better days, it had been an officer’s mess. After he’d come on board, Lawrence had appropriated it, and the space had become a sort of IT mad scientist’s laboratory. There he waged battle daily with the forces of obsolescence and the final death of a ship 40 years past its expected life span.
He plopped the Surface Pro onto his desk. It automatically linked with the workstation there and dumped vital data. He spent a few hours staring at scanned copies of the ship’s schematics, tracing the cable pathways of the now defunct main line. He was hoping against hope he could diagnose the location. He wasn’t a marine architect, though, so it wasn’t much more than a dream.
“Cousin!” Lech’s voice yelled over the PA. Lawrence reached over and pushed the button.
“Yes, Lech.”
“Yes, Captain,” the man growled. Lawrence just waited. “The helm is too slow.”
“It’s going to get slower.”
“What does that mean?” Lawrence debated explaining how the multiplexed signals would start stumbling over each other as they got closer to port, and other systems needed to use the pathway in preparation for docking. Instead, he said the systems were deteriorating, and he couldn’t stop it this time.
“I don’t believe you,” Lech said finally.
“I don’t care what you do or don’t believe,” Lawrence replied with a sigh. “I’ll email grandfather and explain.” Ironically, the 92-year-old man understood computers better than the captain of the ship.
“You do that,” Lech said, “and I will as well.”
“Of course you will,” Lawrence agreed and stabbed the button to cut off the communicator. He’d applied to the European Space Agency a year ago, and his application was at the second step of five. He’d taken the job on the Wilk only because his grandfather had asked him to as a personal favor. He was dearly hoping the ESA would have some good news for him when they reached port. He’d be happy to leave the Wilk forever and fly home.
As he’d feared, the signals got more and more muddled as they approached the channel between Russky Island and the spit of land where Vladivostok was located. As they cleared the headland the delay became minutes between signal and response. Lech repeatedly tried to call him, but Lawrence stayed in his IT cabin, shepherding the struggling system as much as he could.
It seemed like days, but it was only six hours after spotting the shore when ORP Wilk was taken in tow and gently pushed up against a dock almost as ancient as it was, to be tied securely in place. Only minutes later, the fire alarm sounded. The fire in the cable paths was the last hurrah of the ORP Wilk. Lawrence passed a pair of hurrying Russia shore-side fire fighters. He moved to the side of the gangway, and they brushed past. Smoke was curling from the nearest below-decks funnel. Lawrence shrugged and continued on.
Night was falling when he finally got to the little apartment the company rented for him just off the port at the edge of the downtown area. When he opened the door, the phone was flashing that a message was waiting. He took out his cellphone and immediately noted there was no service. In Vladivostok, that was no surprise, so he picked up the phone and called for his voice mail. His temporary amusement on the Wilk’s fate was washed away with the news that his grandfather had died two days ago. The second message was from his cousin, Lech, telling him the buyer cancelled the purchase because they were so late. Lech blamed it all on him. Lawrence went out for a beer. Life goes on.
* * * * *
Winged Hussars - 2
Lawrence Kosmalski watched the skyline of Warsaw pass as the plane banked on final approach to Warsaw Chopin Airport. When they’d built the airport back in 1934, it was miles from the city center. Now modern high-rise apartments were a mere 500 meters away to the east, with skyscrapers another 500 past that. The approach routes had to thread a mountain range of developments. He wondered if any planes had ever punched holes through any of those buildings like the crazy Islamists did in New York back in 2001.
Though he’d been born in Warsaw, Lawrence retained no memory of the city. When his father was killed in a drunken brawl, Lawrence was three years old. He remembered the funeral only slightly, but the move to his grandfather’s estate in Gdynia quite well. The seaside city was near Gdańsk, where their family’s maritime interest prospered, so he’d grown up there. Edward Kosmalski took Lawrence under his wing, teaching him everything he knew about logistics and trading. The old man was shrewd beyond measure.
In the 1990s, shipping made a sudden and inexplicable shift from bulk haulers and what had been called tramp freighters to all containerized. Edward was unconvinced it would be a global move, because the infrastructure to handle the CONEX containers was expensive and difficult to maintain. That turned out to be the worst call he’d made in a long, prosperous career. And it nearly destroyed Kosmalski Shipping. Nearly, but not quite.
The plane’s wheels screamed in protest as the multi-hundred-ton plane settled to the runway and began braking. Welcome home, he thought somberly. A few minutes later, the plane had taxied over to the international terminal and parked.
Lawrence didn’t intend to stay in Warsaw very long. After he’d passed through customs, he took a cab directly to Wojskowy Cemetery on the north east side of town and arrived at the gravesite an hour before the funeral procession would arrive. The grave was waiting for his grandfather, empty with the dirt covered by a tasteful green piece of astroturf. Fifty or more folding chairs were set up with a temporary canopy in case the early spring weather proved uncooperative for the laying to rest of an icon. So far, the day was overcast and chilly.
He sat for a time on a chair at the front of the group set aside for family. The tombstone listed his grandfather’s name, dates of birth and death, and the simple eulogy, “Strident defender of those in peril on the seas.” The monument was carved in the shape of an old fashioned ship’s helm. He was still staring at the ornately-carved tombstone when the long procession of limousines arrived, led by a hearse.
After the vehicles stopped, people began moving toward the seats. A few saw him. Most went by, but a couple family members came close and whispered condolences. He didn’t look up at any of them, merely nodded in acknowledgement. Finally someone stopped in front of him.
“You weren’t at the service.” It was Lech.
“No,” Lawrence said.
“It was disrespectful.” Lawrence looked up at his former boss and fixed him with a glare that would freeze oxygen.
“So is causing a scene at a funeral.” Lech’s eyes narrowed, but Lawrence recognized the look of consideration. “Sit down, Lech.” The other man opened his mouth as if he were about to correct Lawrence, like he’d done a hundred times on the Wilk. But he remembered where he was and sat down instead, choosing a seat far from La
wrence. The casket was removed from the hearse, and the pallbearers slowly moved toward the grave.
* * *
The office building was located in the ultra-modern business center of Warsaw. Standing by the window, Lawrence could see the small area of the ancient Jewish ghetto which had been preserved, even as the prices of real estate around it skyrocketed. The Jews still had enormous political power in Poland. He knew many of his fellow Poles resented the Jews, but Lawrence didn’t care one way or another. He’d gone to school with several, and they seemed no different from the other kids.
“Where is the damned lawyer?” Lech asked with a growl. The office held all the members of the Kosmalskis named in Edward Kosmalski’s will. Lawrence could see most of them reflected in the lawyer’s office window. The last time he’d seen that many of his family in one place was a reunion when he was 12 years old. That was now 15 years in the past, and he could see many in the room would rather not have been there. Typical dysfunctional Polish family—lacking the unifying figure of their grandfather, self-destruction was well under way.
Unlike Lech, the others were content to wait. The dissection of the Kosmalski dynasty was worth waiting for. Even with the downturns of the recent decades, Edward Kosmalski had still died with a net worth over a billion euros. Lawrence did his best to ignore Lech. He knew his grandfather had favored him over Lech and wasn’t worried about what would happen. In a short time, his obnoxious cousin would be working for him. He smiled a little, thinking of how he might just fire the other man. Problem solved!
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