by Tom Shepherd
Star Lawyers
Book 1
Jump Gate Omega
Tom Shepherd
Book Bag Press
Bookbag Press
Kansas City, MO / Tucson, AZ
Star Lawyers Book 1
Jump Gate Omega
Copyright © 2018 Tom Shepherd
All rights reserved.
Original cover art by Christian Kallias.
https://www.christiankallias.com/
ISBN-13: 978-1542619738
For Carol-Jean
All writers should be so blessed.
Bonhoeffer’s Paradox
“Papá, why do bad people hurt good people?”
“Because they can.”
“Why don’t good people stop them?”
“Because they can’t.”
“What if I could stop them?”
“Then you probably should.”
“Even if I hurt the bad people?”
“Yes.”
“Will that make me a bad person?”
“Only if you get caught.”
One
Jump Gate TCG-4893
8,022 light years from Terran space
Friday, 4 March 3104 C.E.
“Easy does it, Suzie.”
Tyler Noah Matthews IV coaxed the Company scout ship, Sioux City, away from a thick, metallic hoop at maneuvering speed. Matthews Corporation always marked its Gates with red approach beacons, but somebody anchored this dark portal in deep space before humans left the trees. Only Tyler’s running lights illumined the alien Jump Gate, catalogued TCG-4893, which quickly disappeared against the dusty starfield when his searchlights slipped off target.
The Sioux City was long overdue for an overhaul, but he’d squeezed one more weekend out of the old two-seater before she headed into the hangar. He flipped back and forth among the optical viewers and crept away carefully. Autopilots and sensors notoriously died this close to a Gate, and today was no exception. He switched to manual and flew the petite starship visually, like a barnstorming biplane from aviation history.
Suzie—his pet name for the Yoruba 397-T Artificial Intelligence programmed into the scout ship’s Main Library Computer—protested the manual override as usual with a series of beeps and electronic tones. Lost in the delicacy of the task, he ignored her. Also because it pissed her off.
The fat, dark ring housed tractor beams strong enough to crush vessels that approached too fast. Pilots who survived the mistake reported eerie waves of destructive energy which blossomed from the Gates. To complicate matters, Gates sometimes confused a zippy departure with a hot approach, and the portal could easily mistake his small craft for a large missile fired by some antisocial tribe of aliens. Tyler kept his speed low until well clear of the brooding structure.
“I feel lucky today. Very little exploration of this Gate region. Let’s show The Old Man something new.”
Suzie’s text-only readout self-activated.
Have you read the Company Starflight Bulletins? This zone is rife with pirate activity. You’re lucky there wasn’t an ambush at the Gate.
“I see zero ships on long range scanners. C’mon, Suzie. I want to explore! Why are we arguing? You’re a computer. Do what I tell you.”
Your father has ordered an end to these unauthorized explorations.
“If we find what we’re looking for—”
On your thirty-seventh weekend excursion? You are addicted to failure. Have you considered the cost to Matthews Corp in maintenance fees alone? I am overdue for—
“My father has money. Shut up and fly the ship.” He disabled Suzie’s text function.
Tyler glanced at the backlog of unread messages. A note from his oldest friend Kichirou—Subject: How do I ask Rosalie for a date?
Three posts from Dad, two from Mom, plus a rare letter from Uncle Charlie. Tyler’s rapscallion uncle rejected the Family business and fluttered world to world beyond Terran space. For several years now, he had lingered at a distant colony of the Meklavite Union.
Tyler skimmed the remaining posts. Usual clutter of advertisements, media releases, and Starflight Bulletins from M-double-I… blah…blah…blah. He briefly considered a peek at the latest communique from Dad—Subject: Get your ass back to Kansas City—but deleted everything instead. Except the note from Uncle Chuckles. He was usually good for a laugh at Dad’s expense.
When the sensors rebooted, Tyler captured the energy signature of TCG-4893, bookmarked the Gate’s space-time location, and eased the sublight drive toward cruising speed. Gates were undetectable against the background of stellar noise, so unless travelers knew the precise frequency and four-dimensional coordinates of each portal they’d never find the Gate again.
Nobody knew who hung the first Gates in space, but they pre-dated the long-defunct Galactic Empire that once encompassed forty percent of the Milky Way. The last, symbolic Galactic Empress, Quia Leimor, died at the ancient Imperial capital on Rahjen a thousand years ago. Only a tiny remnant of old civilizations still considered themselves part of the prehistoric order.
Terra wasn’t among them.
As the power package built velocity, inertial dampeners strained to compensate for the g-force, which threatened to smear him against the aft bulkhead like a windshield insect. Tyler switched to long range scanners and waited for the search-and-identify program to engage. He stretched his toes, a little stiff from long hours in the command seat, and vowed to begin a good workout schedule on Monday.
Even without an exercise routine, I have a lot going for me. Twenty-six years old with a law degree from Mizzou, fully accredited Large Starcraft Pilot License. And let’s be honest—I’m a good-looking guy. Slim, naturally athletic bod, sun-blond hair and “Hey, babe!” smile. Dark eyes from my Spanish momma. Whenever me and J.B. stroll into a tavern, the ladies always check me out. Poor Big Brother. No competition.
Tyler laughed.
Then he remembered the great disadvantage. His father, Tyler Noah Matthews III, was the wealthiest sonuvabitch in the Terran Commonwealth. Shadow of the throne was a cold place to grow up, and nothing changed when Tyler IV reached adulthood.
Stellar cartography came online to report this unexplored Gate region offered more than ninety thousand stars with planets within range of Suzie’s FTL drive. Even so, it was a crap shoot. He spent most weekends sampling region after region, but the Sioux City bounced along, system-by-system, and discovered nothing but stillborn worlds. After nine months playing hide-and-seek with life, the great prize of a Terran-class planet still evaded him.
He selected a yellow sun 49.2 light years from his location. Eleven planets, two in the Goldilocks Zone. Tyler switched flight controls to autopilot and took a nap in his seat while the ship sailed hyperspace. Four hours later, the Sioux City dropped from the swirling rainbow of the Cumberland Tunnel to black space again. Suzie jarred him awake him with a military trumpet call.
He slapped off the brass blast. “All right, I get it. You don’t approve. Too bad. We’re doing this.”
He took better readings and confirmed two potential candidates. The fourth and fifth planets orbited the solar neighborhood where liquid water could exist on the surface. Tyler plotted a course to the fifth planet.
Long range scanners soon reported polar expanses heavily frosted by CO2 ice and an equatorial region barely warm enough for algae. A cold, bleak desert, like Mars before macro-engineering terraformed the red planet into a comfortable biosphere. Rolling around the equator, he hitched a ride from the gravity well and slingshot his craft sunward.
Tyler kicked in the sublight drive for a ninety-million-kilometer sprint to the fourth planet. This time, optical scanners displayed warm seas and fleecy clouds. As the snub-nose scout ship hurled toward a blue world
, he opened the viewports to drink in the visual cocktail of mother planet and five moons floating in a starry mix.
“Whoa! She’s beautiful. I think we’re about to make history, Suzie.”
The computer beeped a series of angry tones, ending with a long, shrill whine.
“Oh, shut up.” He disabled her audible response function.
The planet swelled by the minute, yet Tyler had no sense of motion until passing among the moon belt. The largest of five satellites displayed a thin halo of atmosphere held in the grasp of the moon’s feeble gravity. Nothing on the cratered surface suggested life, but no matter. The great prize lay ahead.
Smiling, he looked down on the curve of a blue-green world and spotted a glowing horizon. Sensors reported an oxygen-nitrogen blanket showing slightly less O2 than Earth; gravity at ninety-five percent Terran; comparable average surface temperature. So far, his new world offered no special challenges for humans.
Three oceans, four sizeable continents, teeny-weeny polar caps, evidence of shifting seasons. And best of all, biological readings off the chart. No technology or cities, in fact no indications of intelligent life at all. Below him stretched a thriving ecosystem—thick with creatures and plants—awaited responsible, planned colonization. Tyler had found a new Eden, albeit eight thousand light years beyond the frontier of Terran Space. Well, it could be an outpost in this unexplored Gate region. Other spacefaring civilizations had colonies dotting the galaxy. Especially the Meks and Parves.
“Maybe this time humanity won’t fuck it up,” he said to the silent ship’s computer. “Not a bad job for a weekend. I’d like to see Dad try to ground me now.”
Satisfied, Tyler sat back while Suzie entered standard orbit. All the explorers his species sent into space thus far located a grand total of ninety-nine unclaimed, habitable worlds. Today, he’d broken one hundred, and increased human settlement options by a full percent. And he could still be in court Monday morning.
“Launch the Columbus,” he said imperiously.
The surveyor probe, which Tyler had re-named for the Genoese explorer, took detailed measurements during its descent through the atmosphere. More importantly, it touched down above the tree line on a granite mountain peak and spiked a permanent anchor into the rock. Once in place, it deployed a solar collector for long term power and activated a continuous loop transmitter to claim this world for Matthews Interstellar Industries in the name of the Terran Commonwealth.
Modestly, he recorded its official designation as Tyler-4, since it was the fourth planet around the yellow star Tyler, which he named after the daring adventurer who discovered this uninhabited system.
With the beacon safely moored to its alpine station, Tyler activated Suzie’s onboard optics package and took a series of videos at high magnification. Rocky coasts and inland plateaus beckoned for a closer look. Herds of migrating herbivores roamed grassy plains. In coastal waters schools of fish billowed in a symphony of motion. He’d read books about the pristine North American continent. Here it was again—endless fertile plains that had never known a plow.
And the beaches! Arctic to equator, Tyler-4 seduced his eyes with thousands of kilometers of virgin coast, untouched by heavy equipment of resort builders and city planners. Limitless shorelines of white, yellow, red, and black sand, dumped by streams flowing seaward from mineral rich interior lands.
Tyler checked his chronometer and smiled. The date was a command to explore—March fourth.
Set to Kansas City time, it read 5:03 PM, Friday.
Late winter back home. North American Weather Control announced a frigid weekend with widely scattered snow showers across the great plains. KCMO expected knee-high drifts. Sometimes, he wondered what winter might look like today if humanity hadn’t arrested global warming and stabilized the climate early in the twenty-second century. Visit tropical Alaska? No thank you. But he did love summer.
Tyler did a quick search and found a lengthy stretch of beaches along the west coast of the largest land mass. When scanners indicated warm water and low humidity, an evil temptation seized him. He nosed the scout ship over and began a low-power entry into the atmosphere.
He activated her text function. “Suzie, let’s go down there. Descend to level flight at five hundred meters.”
Again, the readout registered her disapproval.
Action violates company protocols.
“We’ll be fine.”
Repeat, proposed action violates exploration protocols. Do you have a death wish?
“I know what I’m doing.”
Your competence is not self-evident. Maybe that is why your father—
“Damnit, you’re a computer program. Do what you’re told!”
Your program needs maintenance. So does this scout ship. Executing command under protest. And my designation is not “Damnit.”
Energetic heat shields protected the little craft nicely, and soon he flew northward along the coastline of a broad continent. Slowly, through occasional scud and mist, well below the sound barrier, Tyler inspected his new world. A shallow, submerged continental shelf dropped gradually from semi-tropical coastal highlands. The water was blue-green and clear. He dipped lower and skimmed the tossing surf but remained within sight of land. White splashes exploded over offshore rocks, and he laughed when Suzie shuddered as she took a drenching. He gazed at the smooth sand and tumbling surf and declared this a holiday weekend on Tyler-4. Founder’s Day, to celebrate the bold explorer who first sighted this pristine paradise.
Matthews Interstellar Industries required a complex program of studies from orbit before anyone set foot on an uncharted world. In fact, his father fired the last explorer who touched down on an alien planet without extensive scientific surveys, even though Terran Flight Central later ruled it an emergency landing. Just another barricade thrown across the path of progress. Out here, beyond explored space, a man had to trust his instincts.
Fuck you, Dad. It’s winter in KCMO, but summertime on Tyler-4.
“Suzie, find me a nice beach with smooth sand, ringed by high cliffs.”
A furious barrage of bleeps and bells flew from the speaker system.
“Did you override my command and activate the audio-response? Bad girl. Find my beach and shut up.” He clicked off all computer noises and encoded the re-set function.
Dangerous pathogens and hostile life forms possible. Advise you to—
Tyler disabled the readout again and deleted her formal protest. Company protocols clouded Suzie’s judgment. Dad’s goddamned protocols. Well, this is my world. I write the protocols here.
A few minutes later, the Sioux City touched down at a large cove. No animal tracks crossed the beach, but none were likely, given the steep guardian bluffs above. Safe as a backyard barbecue. He lowered the rear platform hatch and went to the food dispenser.
“It’s five o’clock in KCMO, Suzie girl. One six-pack of chilled H.T. Lager, 2 degrees Celsius, please.”
The matter transmuter dropped a bio-disposable packet of beer cans into the dispenser space. He collected the cold brew and strutted down the thick ramp onto yellow sands of his new world. Suzie retracted the ramp, as he expected. Her protocols called for sealing the ship against airborne pests and activating anti-pathogen programs. The sun felt hot on his back and the breeze off the sea brushed his face like a blow-dryer on low. The air was sweet and breathable. Scents of tropical fruit—like coconut and papaya—filled his nostrils.
Dad’s decrees were medieval, but yes, Suzie was right. This planet probably crawled with alien diseases and ugly critters. A carefully picked, sheltered cove avoided predators. And for the microbe threat, the Sioux City had a first-class set of bio-filters primed to destroy any contaminant lifeforms tracked inside the ship. That plus one good decon shower on the way home and he would be bug-free.
Any danger to the local biosphere was also negligible, because onboard scrubbers killed all microbial and viral lifeforms on his clothes and body as he exited the ship. W
ell, that was the theory, anyway.
Three pale moons floated over a blue sea. Above the lunar cluster a yellow solar disk descended toward the horizon and promised a glorious sunset on the beach. Good place to camp tonight, maybe replicate some seafood and feast on bass or lobster roasted over a driftwood fire.
He cracked open his first beer and swigged and wandered the high tide line. Tyler passed a hefty rock at the water’s edge, detoured around it. Seaweed clung to the stone’s lower half to mark where high tides submerged the stone. Offshore shallows glowed blue-green, bottom-view transparent far as the eye could see.
Tyler tossed an empty can up the beach, content to let it degrade to silicon dust in a few hours. He found a perfect spot, plunked down the remaining five cans, and yanked off his footgear. The water felt warm, and the sandy bottom squished between his toes as he waded out a few steps. Impulsively, he returned to dry land and stripped nude, neatly piled his clothes by the sweating beer cans, and splashed into the water. Any critters who wanted to eat him probably couldn’t swim in knee-deep water, so Tyler belly-flopped in the shallows and turned over, thinking what a perfect day it had been.
He floated along, singing a song about vagabond travelers and making love under alien moons, until he felt the water tremble. Tyler flipped onto his stomach, found his footing, and searched for the source of the ripples, now subsided. A school of small yellow fish darted past a few meters out. Typical small fry found in the shallows on Earth. Beyond, nothing but pale blue sea and purple horizon. Shrugging, he resumed floating the clear, still waters.
Abruptly, the surf rushed past in a torrent and carried him toward the shore. His mind flew to visions of an approaching tsunami. But shrill, chattering screams blew over the surging water behind him. Tyler flipped over, lost footing. A crablike monster exploded from submerged burial in the sea’s knee-deep edge. It towered over him. Rust red pincers flailed in sweeping, embracing movements. The crustacean located prey and advanced for a first taste of Homo sapiens.