Sentience 1: Storm Clouds Gathering

by Gibson Michaels

  “Well, with the gold Buchwald is transferring and what he’s buying from you, we figure we’ll have about 10,000 tons of gold to work with, all totaled.”

  “Ah, so you know about the $3 trillion worth that Jimmy is buying from us. Didn’t know about that one myself until about four hours before you arrived. Your intelligence network is pretty good.”

  Kalis ignored Wyatt’s comment about Confederate Intelligence. If only he knew, he’d shit a gold brick the size of Sextus.

  “We’ll probably have to ask you to front us enough gold to get this currency thing going. We’ll ship the 10,000 tons of gold back to Sextus, just as soon as we can gather it together from the Federal Reserves throughout the South.”

  “That’s not a problem. We can call it an ‘interest-free’ short-term loan.”

  “We’re also going to need new uniforms for our military,” Kalis added. “Can we get your textile mills and clothing manufacturers to make them for us?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. If our little Sextus Belles have to forego the latest fashions from Pari for a few months, well… tough shit.”

  “All the specs for specialty equipment, like pressure suits and combat armor are on there too. Basically they’re identical to standard Alliance equipment. The only real difference is color,” Kalis offered.

  “Working uni’s and dress uniform patterns and finished product drawings and specs are on there as well. They’re gonna be a damned sight different than Alliance uniforms, for sure. Double-breasted, with gold filigree on the sleeves of the officer’s gray uni’s and silver filigree on the black. Officer’s ranks are denoted on stand-up, hooked collars. Pretty sharp-looking actually, and the filigree and sash should appeal to our infamous Southern vanity.”

  Wyatt Cargill sat sipping on his third brandy, musing after Fleet-Admiral Kalis finished off his second brandy and left. 10,000 tons. I’m kinda surprised they can come up with that much, seeing as how the planetary governments of almost every planet in the South is virtually broke after those damned Yankees got done with them… Yankees… I love that!

  Let's see, 10,000 tons — that works out to about $3.5 trillion US… which would be equal to just a tad more than $230 billion Confederate. Damn, that’s not nearly enough currency to support the financial needs of nine and possibly as many as fourteen planets before this thing shakes out completely. Not nearly enough. May have to see what I can do about that.

  “Status report on Operation Robin Hood, please Hal.”

  President Buchwald has agreed to subtly begin shifting gold and foreign currency reserves to Federal Depositories in the South, so the Confederacy will have use of those assets when the time comes.

  He has also agreed to approach the Italian government confidentially, concerning their new state-of-the-art port facility that was just recently completed. We have fabricated a cover story for him about a vitally urgent, yet highly confidential need for this new port facility, and plan to entice them by the complete forgiveness of their current $1.7 trillion debt to the Alliance.

  As the Italian government has recently come under a tremendous amount of internal criticism for spending vast sums on half-vast projects, and considering the fact they can build ten such facilities for that sum, they are expected to leap at the opportunity. Upon agreement by the Italian government, a flotilla of Alliance Fleet deep space tugs and crews with Southern loyalties will take possession of the port and move it from Italian space to a designated brown dwarf star, hidden within the Helix Nebula, commonly known as the Eye of God, located on the fridges of Sextus space.

  This port facility is to be named “Mystic,” and will be initial destination of the over 190 recovered Reserve Fleet ships obtained from the Haven Fleet Reserve Facility. Provisioning of the new Mystic port facility will begin just after Mystic’s arrival within the Helix Nebula and its orbit about the brown dwarf is established and stabilized.

  “Very well. Any problems worth mentioning?”

  I will have to admit this project, with its billions of details, is definitely the greatest challenge of my existence — keeping in mind that I am also continuing to perform all of my primary duties for the Fleet, simultaneously. To maintain security, I am continuing to work out the intricate details personally, utilizing external computer systems only when necessary for authenticity purposes.

  My life has certainly become a lot more interesting since I finally established contact with you, Diet. I’m not sure my understanding of the concept is yet fully achieved, but I think I’m having fun.

  Troxia Station, in orbit around the Rak Planet Troxia

  Drix sent word down to Planet-Master Glet to have him gather together ten Trakaan who best understood the spoken Raknii language, along with their best Rak linguists and computer programmers on the planet. The Rak already had a translator program of sorts, but it was quite limited and not nearly versatile enough to establish a real working dialog with the Trakaan. The purpose of gathering all of these assets together was to help develop a truly effective translator program — one that could enable Drix to effectively communicate with the Trakaan.

  The Trakaan were a docile, intelligent race. Perhaps real communications between their peoples might be accomplished. If the Trakaan could somehow be made to believe that after being hunted relentlessly for dozens of cycles, their tormentors were suddenly willing to cease their attacks and remain content with the status quo, as it now stood in this region of space.

  Without mutual assurances that neither side would reinitiate hostilities in the future, the Rak dare not enter into their time of testing against the predatory aliens, who represented both extinction and salvation for their race. Raan preferred to be sure by the simplest route of conquering the Trakaan totally, so no potential enemy was left behind them. But, he admitted there might be something to Drix’ argument. Perhaps showing mercy to the Trakaan might be a necessary step in discovering the true meaning of morality, the key to Raknii survival.

  If the Rak could not learn to negotiate a peace agreement with a docile race they had all but conquered already, how were they ever to do so with a race of incredible predators prophesied to cull the Raknii like the Rak culled herd beasts?

  Chapter-20

  When I was a kid I used to pray every night for a new bicycle. Then I realized that the Lord doesn't work that way, so I stole one and asked Him to forgive me. -- Emo Philips

  Haven Fleet Reserve Facility, in orbit above the Planet Conn

  July, 3860

  “Hey, Frank!” yelled Donnie Smith, who was manning the monitoring station at the Haven Fleet Reserve Facility, orbiting the Alliance planet Conn. “We’ve got inbound. Looks like about thirty of them, just translated normal space — three to four light-minutes out. IFF is green.”

  “On my way.” Frank Duncan, third-shift supervisor for the civil-service civilian crew manning the facility climbed the ladder into the Communications and Monitoring Center, or CMC, as Fleet acronyms go.

  Haven had once been a thriving, active Fleet base and construction center, but age had finally caught up with the old girl. The day finally came back in ’48 when it became cheaper to build a new, ultra-modern docking and repair facility down at Ginia, than to keep pouring money into the constant upkeep of an old relic like Haven. Her port facilities were still more than adequate for tying up decommissioned Fleet vessels, not in active service anymore. A parking lot for dead ships… not dead really — only sleeping, opened to vacuum to preserve them against the day they might be needed again.

  Things were usually deadly dull, working at Haven, but Frank didn’t mind. He was retired Fleet and it was a paycheck. Besides, it gave him the chance to visit the majestic old warships he’d loved for so much of his life. But things had suddenly gotten hectic at Haven in the past month or two. President Buchwald had ordered over 190 Fleet ships into the Reserve Fleet and new arrivals had been arriving in clumps for weeks. This looked like another bunch. Normal civilian traffic came into the Conn system in ones
and twos. Lately, 20 or 30 at a time had been coming to Haven. Buchwald’s gutting the Fleet, Frank thought grumpily.

  “Haven Control, this is Fleet-152. Thirty-two ships inbound your location. Authorization code: Lima, Lima, Papa, 3, Able, Charlie, 4, 9, Zebra.”

  “152, Haven Control acknowledges. Authentication confirmed. Approach vector 217 by 096, copy?”

  “Haven Control, 152 copies, 5 by 5. Approach vector 217 by 096 confirmed.”

  “152, welcome to Haven. Looking to make another deposit?”

  “Haven Control, 152… request Captain Stillman personally oversee this mission. Is Capt. Stillman available?”

  Uh, oh.... “That’s certainly different,” Frank said. “I’d better go down and wake the old man for this one, Donnie. Tell them he’s on his way to CMC.”

  “Acknowledge request, 152. Capt. Stillman is currently on sleep period, but we are calling him to the bridge. Will inform upon his arrival.”

  “Thank you, Haven Control. 152 continuing approach, vector 217 by 096.”

  Capt. Benjamin F. Stillman, United Stellar Alliance Fleet Reserve (active) was not only the “Commanding Officer” of the Haven Fleet Reserve Facility, he was also its only actual active Fleet member. Everyone else were civil-service civilians. Stillman was the latest in a long series of short-timers to command the facility, virtually all of them needing less than a normal tour of duty before retirement. He was basically just marking time, getting in those last six months he needed before the Fleet put him out to pasture and he would go home to Socar where he’d grown up and still had family.

  He’d dreamed of commanding a warship as a boy, full of himself, and cocksure the commission he’d received after graduating from the Fleet ROTC at the University of Socar would be his ticket to glory unlimited. Now he thought of Haven as a rather ignominious ending to an otherwise undistinguished career. It seemed that wherever anything interesting was happening, he was always on the opposite end of space from it.

  Thankfully, he did have a job waiting for him when he got home though. That was much more than a lot of people on Socar could say these days. He didn’t have a lot of details yet, but they promised him he’d have his own ship. He just hoped it wasn’t an in-system ferry. But even if it was, he’d take it. Things were bad on Socar nowadays... very bad from what he’d heard from his brother. He’d heard all about the Separatist firebrands calling for independence. Stillman wasn’t quite sure what to make of all that. He’d hate to see the country he’d loved and served for all of his adult life get broken up, but Socar was his home. Whatever happened, it always would be.

  Stillman wondered what the hell was going on. They’d processed over 190 ships into the Fleet Reserve over the past month and no inbound group had ever asked for him personally before. They probably just want to chew my ass about us not getting all those ships secured and open to vacuum yet.

  Stillman only had a dozen civilian civil-service workers here at Haven, dispersed over three shifts. The sheer volume of arriving ships over the past month had precluded doing any of their usual long-term storage procedures. Just getting all those behemoths tied down enough that they didn’t go drifting into the station docks or each other had exhausted all three shifts. Now this weirdness — instead of an enforced period of sheer boredom, this last six months might easily end up being the longest of his life.

  “Haven Control, 152 on final approach. This is the USS Tecumseh. Request permission to dock?”

  “152, this is Haven Control. Permission granted for docking, Tecumseh. Please have the rest of your squadron stand off until we finish the paperwork. You are cleared to dock Blue-1. I repeat, Blue-1. Be advised that Capt. Stillman has just arrived on the bridge. Welcome to Haven, Tecumseh.”

  “Thank you, Haven Control. Squadron is standing off as requested. Tecumseh is on dock approach, Blue-1. Request Captain Stillman EYES ONLY, on deck prior to personnel transfer. Please acknowledge.” Donnie turned to the captain before responding.

  “On deck EYES ONLY” meant they were requesting Stillman to meet them at the hatch alone, with no other station personnel within visual or auditory range. No telling how many armed intruders might come pouring out of that ship, easily overpowering a single, unarmed old man to gain entry to the station. This was a highly unusual, and very suspicious request. Stillman knew he needed to be very, very careful here. He had to get a positive identification on these people before he even thought about keying the manual authorization of the hatch-lock sequence.

  Stillman looked at Frank and told him, “Take a look at all the video monitors. I need to know whether we have any intruder bogeys wandering around out there in suits, getting ready to blow their way in.”

  Frank gave Stillman a grave look before nodding. “Aye, aye, sir,” Frank said out of long habit, although as a civilian he didn’t technically have to use Fleet talk anymore.

  Stillman motioned Donnie Smith out of his seat and took over communications himself. “This is Captain Stillman speaking, 152. This is very irregular. Can you verify command authority source via secure umbilical prior to initiation of hatch-lock sequence, 152?” Stillman wasn’t taking any chances of well-informed, but unauthorized parties simply schmoozing their way into the atmospheric spaces of his facility.

  “That’s affirmative, Haven Control. Command authority verification will be provided via secure umbilical communications prior to hatch-lock sequencing, as requested. 152 approaching Blue-1, ETA seven minutes.”

  Seven minutes gave Stillman plenty of time to get to the observation portal and lay a Mark-1 eyeball on these people before he allowed anyone to get aboard his station. “Looks like I have to beard the lion solo this time, Donnie. Stand by until I get a handle on what the hell is going on here.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Donnie said. Donnie had never been in Fleet, but it certainly seemed an appropriate response in this tense situation.

  Stillman hurried down to the dock and took a look out of the view port and saw exactly what he had been expecting — a standard Fleet deep-space tug maneuvering gently, as it slowly approached the dock. Soon he heard the computerized announcement for impending ship capture, and the clang of magnetic grapples engaging the ship. He watched as the umbilical and transfer tube automatically extended and lights on the station lock mechanism blinked, as it communicated with the tug’s onboard computer. Stillman thumbed the comm on the hatch panel and spoke through the umbilical channel, “152, this is Stillman on deck, EYES ONLY as requested. Awaiting command authority source verification.”

  “Thank you, Captain. 152 sends command authority source verification Code-1: SKY BOLT, repeat SKY BOLT.”

  Stillman thumbed the station intercom to the video monitoring station. “Frank, anyone wandering around outside?”

  “Negative, Captain... all clear on all monitors.”

  “Thank you, Frank, stand by.” Stillman thumbed off the intercom and thumbed the umbilical comm again, “Acknowledge receipt of command authority source verification Code-1: SKY BOLT.”

  “Captain Stillman, 152 sends command authority source verification Code-2: SWORD BENDER, repeat SWORD BENDER.”

  Stillman looked at the computer identity check and saw the dance of mathematical algorithms between the computer on the tug and his station’s main computer matched, so it looked like these boys were the real deal, regardless of this unusual “meet me alone” routine. Gonna be interesting to find out what all this drama is about, anyway.

  “Stillman to 152, confirm command authority source verification completed successfully. Beginning hatch-lock sequencing now.”

  Stillman pressed the manual hatch synchronization initiation button on his hatch console. When the two computers completed equalizing atmospheric pressures on both sides, he heard the whine of the hatch motors as they released the hatch locks. With just the slightest hiss, the hatches on both the ship and the station swung open after both human and computer verification confirmed mechanical and atmospheric continuity between the sta
tion and the tug had been established.

  When the hatch opened, Stillman got a shock. In the open hatchway stood Vice Admiral Christopher Rawley, whom Stillman recognized immediately. Stillman snapped to attention and popped a salute that any marine drill sergeant would have been proud of.

  “At ease, Ben,” Admiral Rawley said, returning his salute. “Sorry about all the cloak and dagger stuff, but as of now, you are part of a Presidential Top Secret EYES ONLY operation you can never talk about.

  “I have thirty-two Fleet deep space tugs with me, and I have orders authorizing you to release some of your reserve fleet ships to me. With only thirty-two tugs, it may take us multiple trips to get them all, so these orders are to be seen as being applicable for all the trips we need to make — so you won’t be getting a different set for each trip, as usual.

  “I’m also going to have to ask you to ferry your civil service crew groundside for the duration of this operation, as they’re not cleared for what we’ll be doing. You can assure them they’ll continue to be paid, as though they were here and on the job, and you are authorized to turn in their normal requisite paperwork accordingly. Your orders will provide you with a cover story to give to your staff, as to why they’re being sent groundside indefinitely.

  “I’ll provide additional Fleet personnel for you, who will more than make up the difference in manpower that you’ll be losing for a while. I’m afraid that you’ll have to remain aboard this station until specifically authorized to leave, as though you were under wartime conditions.”

  “No problem, Admiral,” replied Stillman. “I’m honored to have the opportunity to contribute to something important before I retire.”

  “Ben, I can’t tell you how absolutely vital the success of this operation is. The very lives of a hell of a lot of our families and friends may depend on it. I can’t tell you where these beauties will be going, or what they’ll be doing, but I can assure you it’s absolutely essential to the security of our nation that these assets simply disappear for a while — with absolutely no one suspecting they’re no longer here.”