Aboard the golden flagship of the spaceborne armada, Avantor, now a junior grade avantor, and her primary assistant, The 16, sternly stared at the bow monitor. Only the extenuating circumstances of the situation had given them another chance to safeguard the primitive planet, and protect their pensions. The Budget Department had wanted to send the two inept guardians back to Dirt in a Class 2 garbage scow. But Tactical had overridden that suggestion, although fitting, and equipped the pair with a Class 10 superdreadnought, along with an even thousand robot space forts. This was done out of a wish to see the job done properly, and partially the desire just to insert a dead tree branch into the sight receptors of Budgeting.
Their new ship was not a globe or a cube, but a mighty centihedron, a multi-planed sphere with a hundred sides and 150 points, each of them armed with energy weapons of frightfully destructive abilities. While it was many times the size of their old ship, the superdreadnought was still only designed for a two being crew, since the gargantuan Choron reactor used so much room. Their personal suites were pleasant enough though, and the brig was nice and large.
When asked, their new mega-computer had given a 90%+ probability of the Dirtlings trying something dramatic before finally accepting defeat. So it was no great surprise when they spotted a near duplicate of Idow's captured ship struggling to reach the freedom of space.
Avantor wiggled her eyebrows in professional admiration at the remarkable sophistication of the craft, crude as it was. They must have some extraordinarily good scientists down there to deduce so much of galactic technology after so brief a glimpse. It was a pity about the quarantine order. But such a violently robust species must be kept to their home world until they learned social restraint, and some proper respect for the law.
“What's our situation, 16?” the woman asked, relaxing in her new, form fitting, command chair. She was serenely positive that everything was under control, and just as incorrect as she had been the last time.
“Something appears to be dreadfully wrong, my liege,” the male said, touching the bald spot in his golden hair where his new remote computer control had been implanted. “I am receiving reports from our space forts of not merely one, but numerous launches from all over this planet. Twenty, forty, no, fifty ships have lifted off!"
“Show me,” Avantor commanded, leaning forward in her seat.
The technician tilted his head and the walls of their control room filled with holographic views of the planet below them. Everywhere from the planetary surface, flocks of giant blue balls were struggling to reach the freedom of space.
Without a trace of humor, Avantor grimaced. A mass escape, eh? Damn clever these Dirtlings, but the trick would not avail them.
“Activate the color tracker, 16,” she loftily commanded.
Her assistant nodded to her, almost inadvertently causing the life support equipment to turn itself off. “Affirmative, my liege."
Then something on the monitor caught the avantor's attention. She blinked and then thoughtfully scrutinized the dozens of bright red globes floating above the planet. Hadn't those vessels just been blue?
“The Dirtling ships are changing color!” The 16 exclaimed, confirming her worst fears. “My liege, we won't be able to track them through HyperSpace if they can do that!"
Stiffly, the female warrior rose from her command chair. “That does it,” she snapped irritably. “Activate the force shield damper and prepare to fire our main cannon. I hate to destroy sentient beings, but we warned them about this. Now let them learn that the Great Golden Ones are not entities to be trifled with."
“Affirmative, my liege,” The 16 grunted, as unhappy about this as his Leader. Staring at the bow monitor with his pupilless eyes, the short male lowered his head and from point-thirty-four of their geometric craft there reached out a shimmering gold pencil of destruction that struck the nearest of the Earth vessels. Capable of coring a small moon, the Dispersal Ray was unstoppable by anything short of pure neutronium. So it was a great shock to the Gee soldiers when the deadly energy beam bounced harmlessly off the smooth hull of the green ball and ricocheted back to vaporize the support drone flying next them.
“Impossible,” the junior avantor gasped, limply collapsing back into her golden chair. “That was a Dispersal Ray, a full power Dispersal Ray. How could they have just shrugged it off?"
“M-my liege,” the pale 16 stammered, even paler drops of yellow moisture glistening on his forehead. “You don't suppose that the Dirtlings could have, you know, by themselves invented..."
Avantor's eyes flew open wide, her mind flooding with comprehension.
"Deflector Plating?" they wailed in unison. “OH NO!"
* * * *
Of the fifty purple globes rising from the surface of the Earth, only the starship from Florida held a live crew. The rest were multi-million dollar decoys, robot ships whose sole task it was to confuse the Great Golden Ones by getting the manned craft lost in the crowd. A near precise duplicate of Idow's Mikon #4, the manned vessel was well over half a kilometer in diameter and had a 80 person crew; seventy-nine human beings and Trell. The little green opportunist had been happy to collaborate with the FCT, telling them everything he knew. Trell had even invented something called Deflector Plating out of thin air when they flatly insisted that he do so. In exchange for this, they didn't turn him over to the Great Golden Ones. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, as nobody, especially Trell, wanted to see him shipped off to Galopticon 7.
Internally the starship was a mess, with empty packing crates, excelsior stuffing, spare parts, bedding, food, and mounds of supplies piled everywhere. In point of fact, the vessel carried almost enough spare parts to build another starship. But this was an absolute necessity, as the craft would be a long way from home and no stardrive parts were standardized. They more closely resembled Rolls Royce luxury cars as the engines were handcrafted, and thus performed with a smoothness of operation that was near legendary.
Aboard the human constructed starship, Planetary Ambassador Rajavur, Trell and a platoon of the brand new UN Space Marines, nervously crossed their fingers and prayed. They were very glad indeed that Gees had only fired a warning shot across their bow. Hopefully, the space police wouldn't have time to unleash any real weapons, before they were long gone.
Chomping with impatience, the diplomat, soldiers and alien waited for the moment when their Swiss captain would twist together a pair of electrical wires and activate the shipboard computer. The machine would then drastically shrink the size of their gravity field and boost their flabby drive flame into a raging inferno of power, exponentially increasing the ship's speed. With any luck, this would enable them to catch the Gees off guard and get far enough away from their home world to be able to shunt into the dubious void of HyperSpace.
It was a brave, almost foolhardy plan, and the grand representatives of Earth honestly had no idea if they could actually smash through the impressive space blockade. Or when they did, if the captain could then find the real Galactic League, or if Rajavur could successfully argue their case for admittance. Everybody aboard the stout craft only knew a single fact for certain.
That the brave crew of the UNSF: Hector Ramariez was sure as Hell going to try!
BOOK TWO: IN SPACE
NEW DRAMATIS PERSONAE
CREW OF THE UNSF: RAMARIEZ
Dagstrom Keller—captain
Abigail Jones—first mate
Paul Von Loom—chief surgeon
Martha Soukup—Navigation
Purity Lilliuokalani—Communications
Marvin Hamlisch—Sensors
John Buckley—Weapons
Abduhl Benny Hassan—Spaceman First Class
UN SPACE MARINES: ‘HECTOR'S HELLCATS'
Kurt Sakadea—lieutenant
Tanya Lieberman—master sergeant
James Furstenburg—private
THE REST
(unpronounceable)—Queen/Mother of RporR
Einda—prostitute
Silversid
e—criminal ganglord
The Galactic League
The 3000—Supreme Commander of the Great Golden Ones
Bachalope Thintfeesel—news reporter
Jose de San Martin—Secretary-General of the UN
EIGHTEEN
With a dazzling, pyrotechnic display, the Ramariez shunted into hyperspace, escaping just as the Gees were about to unleash another superweapon, leaving the aliens with nothing but a viewscreen full of zigzagging drones and the certain knowledge that they had failed yet again.
* * * *
As the black of space was replaced by the featureless gray of the hyperspacial void, the bridge crew of the Ramariez broke into wild cheering. They'd done it! Success!
“All right, settle down,” Captain Keller ordered after a few minutes of therapeutic pandemonium. “That was the easy part. Snap to! We've still got a job to do."
This sobered the crew immediately and as the sailors went busily to work, the starship captain glanced at the digital clock in the left arm of his chair. Four minutes to go.
Blond hair, blue eyes, square jaw, six feet tall and darkly tanned, Dagstrom Keller more resembled a movie star playing a professional boxer than a naval officer. Actually, Keller had boxed during college and been considered an Olympic hopeful. But he had been forced to withdraw from competition as the training interfered with his studies. He still occasionally boxed these days in the Swiss naval tournaments. In point of fact, was well known as Ol’ One-Two Keller, both for his devastating left-right combination attacks, and unfortunately for his bedroom prowess.
The UN General Assembly had never heard of Dagstrom Keller until the FCT promoted him as their candidate for captain. Dag himself had been surprised. But upon due consideration, the man seemed perfect for the assignment. Keller was the youngest captain of a nuclear aircraft carrier to be decorated four times for bravery. He had graduated from the Zurich Polytechnic Institute magna cum laude and read science fiction; the latter a hobby the FCT believed might give the man a certain advantage in any bizarre situation that cropped up on his quixotic search for the Galactic League.
As ratings scurried about with their arms full of plastic boxes and Chief Petty Officers meticulously swept the deck clear of excelsior packing, the captain pinched together two wires inside the open right arm of his chair, ignoring the slight electric shock that tingled through his fingers. “Power Room? This is Captain Keller. I want a readout on the spacewarp generator."
“Sorry, captain,” a voice said from the tiny speaker dangling in the rat's nest of wires. “But we can't do that."
He scowled, “And why not, mister?"
“Haven't unpacked the gauges yet."
Damn. “Well, do your best and report when ready."
“Aye, aye, sir."
Twelve levels below, in the center of the great ship, protected by hundreds of feet of durasteel and lead, Trell clicked off the Power Room's intercom and dutifully returned to his work.
Ever since he had been rescued from the Deckers, the little alien had been worked like a Thurstd gik, a phrase that had no human analogy, aside from sticking a fountain pen into an electric pencil sharpener.
Hard work? Yes. But the little Technician had never been happier. Unlimited amounts of material and assistants had been placed at his disposal. He had been awarded every Ph.D and scientific award that humanity had possessed, and been paid a truly staggering lump sum for his time and effort. Something no gik got.
Now on board the Ramariez (a name that filled him with shame, even though he'd had nothing to do with the murder), Trell sported the official rank of Master Technician, and was second only to the leader, ah, make that the captain, in authority. Plus, NASA had allowed him to design the light blue jumpsuit his team of engineers wore: the directors of the space agency knew that within the heart of every engineer there lurked the soul of an artist.
The little alien had done them proud. Once the extra set of arms had been edited out, the purely functional outfit was extremely comfortable for humans, possessed over 80 pockets of varied and assorted sizes, was certified stain resistant, and naturally smelled like beer; which saved the Power Room crew the trouble of constantly consuming breath mints. It was quite accidental that blue was the alien's favorite color and complemented his green skin tone.
Under Trell's watchful eye, wrenches, spanners, laser torches and hammers were applied with artistic fervor to the ever growing complex of machinery in the center of the giant ship. In short order, the army of workers had assembled the equipment into a more coherent shape and they were at last able to remove a smoking brassiere from the innards of a power relay. A fast thinking tech had saved the day by using it to lift and separate a pair of red-hot ion thrusters without losing a hand.
The entire Engineering crew had applauded the act, half for the woman's ingenious solution to the problem, and the rest for her superb structural integrity.
* * * *
With a musical ding, the bare steel doors of the elevator opened on the bridge and out strode the ship's doctor, Paul Van Loon. Slightly balding and with an enlarged nose, the tall, athletic Dutchman was considered a perfect choice for this post as he was an accomplished NATO surgeon who had served two tours of duty in the Middle East, held a minor degree in veterinary science, and was an amateur botanist.
This was his first real visit to the bridge and the physician took the opportunity to look around. This ship was going to be home for quite a long time.
Located near the top of the globular ship, the round room was reduced to a half circle by a dividing wall in which were located a turbo lift, elevator, emergency spiral stairs and a fireman's pole. NASA redundancy at its peak. Tech station consoles lined the outer walls, with the front of the room dominated by a staggeringly huge triptych viewscreen. The captain's command chair was strategically positioned on a small dais overlooking the freestanding Navigation, Communication and Weapon consoles. Suspended from the ceiling was a video camera that recorded everything that was done and said for an eventual review. The Roddenberry Design Studios had created a functional masterpiece.
Picking his way through the litter on the deck, the physician noted the incredible vista of swirling gray visible on all three of the forward viewscreens. Casually, he glanced at a working meter on the environmental console and was surprised to find the outside temperature well over a thousand degrees Celsius. No wonder the aliens used hyperspace as a swear word. Nothing could live in that dead, sterile void.
And that was probably going to be the extent of his work on this ship, realized Van Loon, observation. The UN computers had accessed the personnel files of the world to choose their complement of 80 from the teeming billions of Earth, so it was no surprise that everybody, from the captain down to the lowliest Marine private, was in perfect health, a college graduate, combat veteran, a specialist in a dozen different fields, and could probably sing & dance as well. It made the physician feel uneasy to realize that he was probably the dumbest person on board the starship.
Taking his time, the Dutch physician strolled over to and took a seat at the vacant Weapons console. “Okay, sir, we made it to hyper-space, what's next?” he asked.
With a start, the captain regarded the man. “Don't you know?"
“Sorry, I was too busy organizing my equipment and staff to attend any of the final planning sessions."
Placing aside a duty roster, Keller nodded. Those last few days in Florida had been truly hectic, what with everybody working around the clock at a fever pitch, skipping meals and losing sleep. It had rather reminded him of finals in college.
The captain glanced at the clock. Two minutes. “According to Trell, the best way to travel through hyperspace is by using an avantor. Unfortunately, in spite of a exhaustive search of every self-proclaimed mentalist on Earth, we couldn't find one with a perfect six dimensional sense of direction."
“Six?” the doctor queried.
Captain Keller nodded as he lifted his feet for an enlisted man t
o sweep under. “Yes, six. This means we have to use the cumbersome method of computer guidance, as most races do.” He lowered his feet as the rating passed on by. “But in order to do even that, we need a Hyperspacial Navigation Cube. And while Trell could tell us how to build such a device, he doesn't know any planetary coordinates. Not even his own home world. They're just too complex to remember; thousands of integers long. Thus, in order to travel to the Galactic Council, we've got to get a HN Cube first."
Just then, a swarthy machinist mate with the name HASSAN on the breast pocket of his dirty blue coverall, ambled over and began to install a bank of push button controls in the gaping hole in the right arm of the command chair.
“So we're off to find a cube?” Van Loon asked.
“Exactly, Doctor."
“But how?” Van Loon asked, standing for a moment so a rating could bolt the chair he was sitting in to the deck. “We can't blindly jump around the galaxy hoping to find a friendly race who just happens to have a couple of spare navigational cubes laying about. They must be very expensive."
“Almost priceless,” Keller agreed. “But we are not thieves, the Ramariez will pay market value for any goods received."
“There's something you're not telling me,” Van Loon stated as a fact.
Captain Keller nodded, his blue eyes never straying far from the clock. “That's Part Two of our escape plan. You see, we know the exact location of one, and only one, HN Cube."
At first, the Dutch physician didn't understand, but then as comprehension dawned, his face sagged. Good lord, not that!
* * * *
The right honorable Jose de San Martin, the new Argentinean Secretary General of the United Nations of Earth, felt a cold rivulet of sweat trickle down his back as he prepared to meet the avantor. His staff had delayed taking the Gee's call for as long as they dared, but the aliens had forced his hand.
Seconds after the Ramariez escaped, the Gee's had released a salvo of incredibly small missiles, each only about as big as a flashlight. One by one, the zigzagging unmanned drones had been hunted down and destroyed in a nuclear flash that the sensor's indicated was an antimatter explosion. The lemon colored missiles punching through the Deflector Plating like it was paper. A fact that cheered nobody on Earth. Apparently, there were various degrees of invulnerability.
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