by Mark Wandrey
“Yeah, and so would whoever was holding it.”
“Good point.”
“How did it self-destruct?”
“Bjorn has been working on that answer since we brought that dead one back. He’s had a team doing subatomic analysis of the medium it contained. He’s comparing that to a brand-new chip and to the oldest ones we can get. You won’t believe what he found out.”
“I’ll never know if you don’t get around to telling me.”
“Cute. Turns out they are designed with a lifespan.”
“Why in the world would anyone do that? It defeats the whole purpose of a perpetual, non-volatile storage medium, doesn’t it?”
“You can say that again.”
“How long is that lifespan? We have chips that are a century old already.”
“More like a couple millennia old. And a scout team brought one back that was twenty thousand years old a few weeks ago. It served as a wonderful baseline.”
“What was the final answer?”
“One hundred thousand years.”
“Wow! That’s quite a lifespan. It just breaks down after that long?”
“Yep, and quickly, too.”
“Even things designed by the Concordia have to die sometime.”
“We have gravitic transports that are more than a hundred thousand years old. No, this is designed that way.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“It isn’t a lifespan based on the breakdown of the material, it’s a designed life span! They don’t wear out; they self-destruct after a hundred thousand years.”
“How ridiculous!” Minu laughed. “Who would be around that long? What possible purpose could it serve? If the things could last that long, why not a lot longer?”
“Bjorn and I agree; the lifespan could be infinite. In the sealed and protected state of the medium, it could last millions of years, tens of millions. The one we found is probably half a million years old.”
“You said it happened quickly?” Pip nodded. “Like years?”
“No, like days, maybe hours. We’d have to see it happen to be sure,” he said.
“What kind of variation in ages?”
Pip considered for a second, then consulted one of his dozens of computers before answering. “Less than two weeks variation.”
“Good Lord, that little?”
“Yep. We’re looking for the biomechanical mechanism or whatever it is that causes it. Quite surprising, wouldn’t you say?”
“Surprising? More like ridiculous. Why?”
“Only guesses in that department. However, one hundred thousand years seems to be a common length.”
“I hope it doesn’t pertain to cars. I just bought one, and I’m hoping to use it for a long time.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. No, this concerns most types of data. We did some poking around in the Concordian network, at least the lobotomized version we have access to, and guess how old the oldest entry is?”
“One hundred thousand years?”
“Give the girl an award!”
“I’ll take chocolate.” Minu laughed. “Coincidence?”
“Not hardly. It’s more like a multi-layered approach.” Minu gave him her best bewildered look. He stopped working on the chip she’d given him and concentrated on her again. “Most computers use banks of these chips; it’s typical Concordian centralized technology. We know huge data cores made of the same material exist, the Tog have told us about them. Only bad ass higher-order species have them, though. So, no computer network files more than a hundred thousand years old, and no storage medium able to survive more than a hundred thousand years. What does that tell you?”
“That something bad happened a thousand centuries ago?”
“Not unless the event went on for months. You see, the Concordian computer network quietly deletes terabytes of data every second.”
“Storage room shortages.”
Pip made a rude noise and continued. “The deletion is widespread and continuous. They don’t delete everything; the data removal is almost surgically selective: historical data, transaction records, things like that. Raw detail files not dependent on dates, like technology, planet locations, names of species, and that sort of stuff, stay. The goddamn file system copies them routinely to keep from purging them as chips die and take transient data with them. The rest of the stuff goes poof at a hundred thousand years, like clockwork.”
“No records of the Squeen…”
“We eventually found their primary data. They existed. We even have data about their world.”
“Let me guess, GBX2334?”
“More chocolate for the lady. They were a bootstrap species, came up from the bottom and joined the Concordia on their own terms.”
Minu whistled. “Wow, not many of those out there.”
“Don’t we know it? The only way to get more prestige is to be an uplifted species, and there are only a couple of those.”
“GBX2334 was their home world?”
“According to the records, yes.”
“Did you find out what happened to them, or why their planet was so trashed?”
“No, that data was wiped from the records.” Minu looked thoughtful, then shook her head in amazement. “The Squeen were around more than a hundred thousand years ago.”
“So, the Concordia goes to extremes to make sure almost no data survives more than a hundred thousand years. Why?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Pip put down the tablet with her mystery chip and scratched his head. “That’s a real piece of programming,” he said, at last.
“What’s in it?”
“A terabyte or so of data. That’s all.”
“What kind of data?”
“I have no idea.”
“You can’t get in?”
“No, I can’t.” Minu could tell he was not happy about failing. He looked like someone had insulted him.
“Maybe Bjorn, or one of the others on our team can?”
“I’ll be the first to admit I haven’t learned everything…yet. This little thing is Concordian code, not human. Tell me again how it got to you?” Minu knew he’d asked so she’d talk while he thought. She patiently went over the entire story again, only leaving out the part about her being the last of Mindy Harper’s descendants. Minu wanted to research the claim before repeating it. Pip took out another tablet and went to work on it. After a minute he looked up. “I’ve confirmed our computer sent a package to your aunt when she said it did.” He turned the tablet so she could see. The package had come from an automated storage locker usually used for parts.
“Who sent it?”
“The computer doesn’t know.”
“Is that possible?”
“An hour ago I would have said no. Now I have evidence to the contrary. Let me work on that, while you work on this.” He handed her the chip and got up to leave.
“That’s it?”
“For now. I can’t hack that file, and you don’t want me to try any harder. That could have negative effects on the chip. Did you say you bought a car?”
She nodded, and he looked confused, then left her alone. She popped the chip into her own computer. As before, it requested a password. “How am I supposed to know what you want?” she asked it. It didn’t reply. Let’s start simple, she decided and keyed in her Chosen system password. Nothing happened. “Okay, that’s out of the way.” She was about to try again when her office communicator buzzed. “Chosen Alma,” she answered.
“I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”
“Dram? What’s going on?”
“Aren’t you on vacation?”
“Technically, yes. I came back to work on a project. What’s happening?”
“A scout team is coming back after engaging the Rasa. They were equipped with the beamcasters.”
“I’ll be right there.”
* * *
Minu tossed the mystery chip into her desk drawer and raced out the door. S
he ran down the hall, took the stairs two at a time, and flew through the lower level. She was in the jump-off center less than a minute after getting the call. There she found the regular personnel, led by Dram, a squad from Logistics and, ominously, five red-clad medics holding support equipment and a pair of gurneys. Steely-eyed scouts manned two of the beamcasters, newly mounted on tripods behind force fields.
Dram spotted her and came over. “Glad you could make it.”
“I had to be here,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “It’s the first time we’ve used my weapons in combat. Before they come back through, I want you to know that I think we need to move in another direction.”
“What do you mean?”
“The beamcasters aren’t suitable for what we’re using them for.”
“Why the sudden change of heart?”
“Research. Lots of research, and a fair amount of movie watching.” He looked at her quizzically but invited her to continue. “We need infantry weapons and trained infantry. Right now, we don’t have either.”
“Why aren’t the beamcasters good for what we need?”
Minu explained. She went over the ammunition expenditure rate versus damage, the weight versus mobility, and finally the operating expense versus the feasibility of deploying them in large numbers. “When you add all that to the fact that our scouts train under the all-important ROE, you have a recipe for disaster.” Minu took a deep breath and went all in. “I believe we need a military branch, trained soldiers armed with true infantry weapons, empowered to defeat whoever they encounter. Think of them as attack dogs; unleash them and watch the carnage. That’s what soldiers are supposed to do, kill people and break things. Scouts are, well, scouts. No offense.”
“None taken. You make a strong case,” he said, scratching his chin and staring off into space. “You should also know you’re not the first Chosen to put the idea of a military branch forward for consideration.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Who else did?”
“Your father, a couple of weeks before he disappeared.”
The portal flashed to life. The Chosen manning the fixed beamcasters tensed, training their weapons on the portal as the scene from another world solidified. Almost before you could make sense of the terrain, a pair of Chosen leapt through carrying a wounded man between them. A second later, two more Chosen followed, these two backing through holding their beamcasters up and ready. They were both injured, and they carried a body wrapped in a tarpaulin.
“All clear!” the first Chosen through yelled as soon as the other pair were clear. The operator deactivated the portal, and the gunners safed their weapons. The medics moved in. Minu and Dram approached the scout leader.
“Report,” Dram ordered.
“We arrived as planned and began to negotiate with the third-party species, like the Tog told us. Halfway through the deal, a squad of Rasa jumped us. We returned fire with the beamcasters and almost wiped out the enemy squad in just a few seconds.”
“Good job.”
“That’s not how it ended. Once we were under fire, the aliens we’d been negotiating with took off. Then four more squads of Rasa showed up and tried to envelope our position. We had to move, returning fire as we ran. The beamcasters are too cumbersome to move and target quickly enough against a dodging foe, especially when you’re trying to run and dodge yourself. We lost Alphonse right away.” He indicated the wrapped body with a head tilt. “While their flechette guns lack the kick and penetration of the beamcasters, they are fairly accurate, and the Rasa can keep up a withering rate of fire. Damn things seem to have an unlimited amount of ammo. They use them like firehoses. They almost cut Alphonse in two.
“While we secured Alphonse’s body, Sven and Garcia sustained injuries. We finally managed to make it to the portal and shoot our way through.” He moved his cloak aside, which was wet with blood on the inside. The power pack for the beamcaster attached to his belt showed only a tiny charge. “If we hadn’t made it through when we did…”
“I understand,” Dram said and patted him on the shoulder. “You did well. Report to medical and have your injuries checked.”
“Thank you, sir.” The scout commander recognized Minu and nodded in acknowledgment. “Good thing we had these with us,” he told her and patted the weapon.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” she said, hoping they wouldn’t notice that she was shaking and on the verge of tears. One man had died, and several had sustained injuries, because she’d fatally overestimated the usefulness of the beamcasters in combat. Why hadn’t she thought to do the research she’d done on vacation earlier? How dare she take a vacation while Chosen were fighting and dying with her weapons? Of course, Bjorn had ordered her to take that vacation when he’d caught her sleeping in the lab three nights in a row…
“They weren’t perfect, that’s for sure. Can you imagine what would’ve happened if we’d had those old slug throwers though? They’d have slaughtered us. The Rasa couldn’t care less about our old guns. They were afraid of these,” he said and patted the blood splattered stock of his beamcaster, “and they got us through.”
“I’d like you to copy Minu on your report,” Dram instructed him. “Give your thoughts about how the weapon did what it was supposed to, and how it failed.”
“Understood, sir. Please understand, I am in no way saying we shouldn’t use these. I just think we need to be more realistic about how we use them.”
“Understood. Now get to the infirmary and check on your men.” The man nodded, then paused for a second next to the still body of his slain man. Minu felt hot tears rolling down her cheeks. “This is all my fault,” she sobbed, in imminent danger of losing complete control, “how could I—”
Dram grabbed her roughly by the arm and pulled her out of the portal jump-off room and into an adjacent conference room. Before she knew what was going on, he locked the door and smacked her across the face hard enough to rock her onto her heels, splattering tears across the room. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded.
“I-I’m sorry,” she sobbed and fell to her knees, “it was t-too much. More dead people, more pain, and I caused it.”
“How in the hell can you think that?”
“I brought the beamcasters home. I led the team modifying them for our use. I certified them for deployment.”
“I sent you on the mission to get them,” he growled, “and I, along with the whole goddamn council, okayed their entering into our inventory. Jacob okayed the funds for development and appropriated the funds for building the HERT. And I sent out every man who died or got injured in the last half year. Should I be on the floor crying my eyes out, too?” She didn’t answer, but her tears were slowing. “We’re Chosen; sometimes we die! The Tog let us keep those weapons. They could have taken them all. They wanted us to have them! Have you ever considered that?”
“Yes.”
“Minu, this is just the beginning. We’ve been working for the Tog for a century, doing pissant jobs and little missions. Now we’re finally starting to come out from behind their skirts. Humanity has to stand on its own two legs, or we’ll forever be like the Beezer.”
Minu gave a little coughing laugh. For all their huge size and bluster, the Beezer were wimps, and they were fine with that. They only fought when cornered, and then only to defend themselves. “Tigers or cows?” she said through her stopped up nose.
“Exactly! It is true that this conflict with the Rasa began when you retrieved the cache, but the real trouble started long before then. It began the first time a human Chosen began digging through garbage piles looking for the good stuff. The Concordia is like a garbage heap at the edge of town. The rats fight over the scraps, and we’re the new rats on the block. We used to be cockroaches, and I guess we still are, but now we’ve got guns.”
This time she laughed for real. He reached down and put a hand under her arm, helping her to her feet as if she weighed next to nothing. He couldn’t look at her eye to eye because he
was almost a half meter taller. Even so, he got her attention. “We need you to fix this.”
“I’m not sure how,” she admitted. He cocked his head and looked stern. “But I have some ideas.”
“I know that, or you wouldn’t have started that discussion before the scouts came back.”
“I want to transfer to an active scout team.”
“No.”
“Why? I can learn more from working with a team.” She knew it was a lie but said it anyway.
“You can learn from reports and firsthand accounts.”
“I am formally requesting that transfer.”
“And I am formally denying it.”
“You son of a bitch!” she snarled, rising on her tip-toes to make herself more impressive. It was the first time she’d ever raised her voice to the mountain of a man that was Second Among the Chosen. Somewhere in the back of her mind alarms were going off. She ignored the warning klaxons and pressed on. “I demand an official explanation for denying a legitimate transfer request.”
“Okay. You can’t fix anything if you’re dead.” She lowered herself back onto her heels, baring her teeth. Dram took a step closer. She was not impressed and stood her ground. “Look, I completely understand how you feel. Every man that comes back injured or dead hurts you. You feel it in your heart.” She lowered her head but refused to allow the tears to return. Anger was much more useful now. “That’s what makes you a good commander. I saw your face when you lost William on that mission last year. You felt it to the core of your being. If I let you out in the field, the conflict with the Rasa will become personal, and that’s the last thing we need. Not only won’t we solve the weapons problem, we’d lose the most promising young Chosen in a generation.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Use that brain. Use the team we’ve given you and figure out how to fix those guns. Or come up with a way to use them that mitigates their shortfalls. Develop a training program that will help us teach the men how to operate with what they now have and come back alive. You do that, and I’ll give you that transfer. But not until the problem is fixed.”