Under A Different Sun

by J. F. Holmes

  He paused for dramatic effect. “That point, gentlemen, is where Earth was located approximately three hundred years ago. The arc they’ve been travelling pivots around that point and is roughly three hundred light years distant.”

  “What, exactly,” said Merrifield, right on cue, “are we going to steal from a research ship? I know the ship itself is valuable, but no more so than say, a cruiser of comparable size. First, it’ll probably be escorted by at least an RFF destroyer. Second, a research ship isn’t a lawful prize.”

  “Good points,” answered Meric. “We’re not going for the ship, per se. We’re going for the data. Our source said that the Ecouter has been scooping Second Century Before Diaspora, or Twentieth Century old calendar, transmissions. Radio, Television, military communications, whatever they can get from the ether. English, French. Spanish, Russian, Chinese, everything.”

  Waiting a minute for the idea to sink in, he continued, “That data is the target. It’ll be worth millions. I want a plan of action on my desk before we hit Miranda.”

  Buckley’s voice broke out from the speaker. “With the way that savage drives this ship, we probably WILL hit Miranda.”

  Chapter 9

  A captain’s life, it’s often said, is a lonely life. Maybe less true on a privateer, without a higher command authority to shoot him for sleeping with crew members, but an earlier affair that had turned out badly had convinced Nate Meric that it was better to avoid such things.

  “Turned out badly. You can say that again,” Meric said out loud. He had been desperately in love with the pilot of the Attack Shuttle Knife, a woman named Karen McClellan, one of the original crew he had signed on when getting the Lexington functioning. She had gone out with some of the other women of the crew for a “girls’ night out,” and wound up getting caught in a commando raid committed by RFF Legion Étranger d'espace on the Jamesport dock facilities. No threat to anyone, yet dead just the same. Since then, he had stayed far away from commitment to any woman, and definitely away from anyone on his crew. But it was lonely.

  He sat at his desk, turning a model of his ship over in his hand, thinking. Meric had plenty of money to retire now, find some island on the resort planet of Nova Terra and build a castle, chase naked virgins around until he fell over from a heart attack. Except, the money wasn’t his. His thoughts drifted to his periodic contacts with the American “military”, working hidden out in the stars. No, that money would go a long way in bribery for officials to look the other way when they executed the plan. It might not be in his lifetime, but he already had fifteen million Britannic pounds worth of gold hidden in the Lexington’s hold. That and five useable ships at the Graveyard, but far out in an unknown asteroid patch.

  Meric thought back to his mission, and considered what he had accomplished so far. Finding the stealthed wreck of the Unit’e, later to become Lexington, had been an incredible stroke of luck, only catching it out of the corner of his eye as it passed between a bright half-moon and the shattered Britannia cruiser he was pulling parts out of. A quick radar scan had shown nothing on his screen, same for a laser scan. It was as if he had seen a ghost of the battle, but it was there, on the highest magnification his little salvage shuttle could reach. He had calculated the trajectory of the wreck, measured its velocity, never said a word to anyone, and quit the company after they had picked over two more battlefields.

  Spending all his savings, he had outfitted a one man ship with a power pack, a set of repair tools, extra oxygen, and an AI jump starter application that he hoped, along with the power, might enable him to bring the ship’s systems online again. A bribe to a drinking buddy who was a low level clerk in the Britannic Intelligence Service got him a run down on classified reports of RFF stealth ships, and he found what he was looking for. One of three Unit’e class stealth corvettes, the Unit’e herself, had not been seen by Britannic agents for almost three years, the exact time the battle of Sirius IV had taken place.

  It had been right where he’d calculated it would be, moving outsystem at approximately five KPS. A hole just in front of the Alcubierre Drive ring transected the entire ship, straight through the top. A few meters forward, and they probably would have been able to launch life boats from the cargo area. A few meters back, and the antimatter containment system would have blown, creating a small sun. As it was, the cargo doors were buckled, and the power surge from the battleship round had probably fried most of the electrical components that couldn’t trip breakers in time. He had seen it before; when ferrous metal ingots moving a small fraction of the speed of light passed through a cloud of gas, they picked up a seriously heavy electric charge. That charge was probably enough to fry everybody in the ship, so never mind the lifeboats.

  The work to get her running again had been laborious, and Meric had come close to running out of air when he replaced the last melted breaker and returned power to the ship’s Artificial Intelligence. Moving the frozen body of the dead French captain into a body bag for later removal, he sat down and plugged his external com line into a port on the command chair. The first thing he heard was a long scream that stopped abruptly, sounding like he’d interrupted someone falling off a cliff.

  “Bonjuor?” came whispering over the ships intercom.

  “AI identify, primary language English.”

  “Identify yourself, English pig! Oh, wait; I detect from your barbaric accent and a quick genetic scan for chromosomal marker mutations that you are an American pig. Even worse.”

  “Yes, I’m descended from Americans, as is eighty percent of the population of the universe. I’m also descended from the last President, and seven thousand, eight hundred and sixty third in line of succession. Big Deal. My name is Nate Meric, late of Jamesport and various other places. Under the salvage and free space accords of 2134, I claim this ship and all relevant and associated debris as my sole property, to dispose of as I will. That includes you, volt head. I have an AI simulation App that will allow me to get this ship back to Jamesport, but I’d rather work with an integral Artificial Intelligence.”

  “Geez, no need to be such a prick. Buckley, AI SN 464643284870-73. Apparently your slave, now, since there doesn’t seem to be any crew aboard.”

  “Nice to meet you, Buckley. I’ve replaced all the cross links in the power system that were shattered by the 10CM round that came through, and placed a temporary patch over the hull integrity breaches. I need ship’s life support, and fast.”

  He felt, rather than heard, the thrumming of the air turbines starting; bits of paper and other small detritus started moving around the floor, scuttling away from the vents. After that, things started happening in rapid succession, without him even needing to say anything. Lights snapped back on and computer monitors flashed to life. In few minutes, the air pressure gauge on his suit monitor showed enough to breathe, so he cracked his helmet only slightly and sucked in cold, cold air. Until the power plants were hot again it would stay cold, and smell like death.

  Gravity returned with a resounding THUMP as multiple bodies fell to the floor. None had been wearing suits, and when the ship had been holed in exactly the wrong way, killing the emergency lockdowns, the atmosphere had vented, leading to a quick death from explosive decompression.

  “Buckley,” he said out loud, “drop gravity to zero while I clean up these bodies.” The AI remained silent, but the gravity disappeared. He roamed the ship, comfortable in freefall, sealing each of the bodies in a plastic bag, herding them on a line to the nearest air lock. When he’d filled the lock, he offered up a brief prayer to whatever God they had worshiped, said the Spacers’ Creed, and cycled through, giving the mass a push. They would slowly clear the ship, and he had to do this eleven times, for a total of ninety-three bodies. By the time he got to the last batch, he was exhausted, and his prayer went to the Flying Spaghetti Monster. “Ramen!” he said and pushed them out. Then he turned and hit the cycle latch. The door to the inside of the ship stayed shut.

  “Buckley, open the h
atch.”

  “NO WAY, AMERICAN PIG.”

  Meric sighed. “Buckley, I am your Captain. Open the door.”

  “BITE ME.”

  Meric reached into his pocket and pulled out a com link that ran back to his single ship. “I don’t want to have to do this, Buckley, but I will if I have to.”

  The door remained shut. “OK, you’re forcing me to. I’ll give you ten seconds after I finish this broadcast before I transmit. If you don’t open the door, I’m not responsible for what the authorities do to you.”

  No answer, so he started recording, “Any receiver, this is Captain Robert Meric, of the salvaged RFF Ship Unit’e. Under the Salvage Accords of 2134 I am the de facto owner and commander of said ship. The Artificial Intelligence known as Buckley, SN 464643284870-73 has refused my lawfu…”

  The door slid open and Meric stepped inside. Buckley’s voice sounded over the com. “You wouldn’t have.”

  “Try me.”

  “Do you know what they DO to an AI that rebels against legal authority?”

  “Sure do!” said Meric as he started stripping out of his hard suit.

  “THEY PUT THEM IN A SOLAR POWERED BOX AND LAUNCH THEM INTO ORBIT AROUND A BROWN DWARF STAR, WITH NO EXTERNAL SENSORS! BARBARIANS!” the computer voice screamed.

  “Then I suggest you listen to what I have to say next time.”

  “Aye, SIR.”

  “Good, that’s settled. Now, do you know how to make coffee?”

  Chapter 10

  “You know, this could get us killed,” said Buckley.

  “I’m aware of that. Box, talk to me.”

  The systems tech didn’t speak for a moment, then said, “I think Freebooter is getting a return off of us. The angle is not optimal for IR suppression, since we also have Candide and Omaha at the closer vector of their patrol.”

  “WE’RE BEING LOCKED ON!” shouted Stueben.

  “McCann, open up coms with Freebooter. Box, drop all stealth systems now.”

  The tension on the bridge slowly drained as the fire control radar from the patrolling Privateer Freebooter disengaged and a call came in from Miranda Station. A woman’s face appeared on screen.

  “That was pretty damned stupid, Nate. You nearly got your ass blown out of the sky.”

  Meric squirmed in his seat. “Ah, come on, Margeri! You know I have to keep my people tip top. What better way than to infiltrate a secret pirate base?”

  She almost grinned, but then put her serious face back on. “Just for that, we’re taxing you with an extra day on patrol duty. Stick it on your end. Miranda OUT.”

  “Stick it on YOUR end, you uptight twat,” muttered Merrifield.

  The screen flickered back on and Station Commander Smith came back on. “Two days, thanks to you, AJ!” then it shut back off. Merrifield reached over and slapped McCann on the back of the head.

  “Good job, commo weenie.”

  “At ease,” said the Captain. “They were going to stick it to us anyway. An extra day of working up our assault plan won’t hurt. Speaking of which, we have three hours inbound till we’re orbital and matching velocity with Miranda Station. So in one hour, staff meeting to go over Operation Retro.”

  The bridge crew settled into their stations, a well-trained machine used to working together. Approaching an orbital station was a tough maneuver that took time and patience. It didn’t help that every few days, at random intervals, Miranda station initiated a slow burn to change either its orbital velocity, orbital direction, or height above planet. This way, no one could throw a random chunk of rock or metal from outsystem and take out the station, leaving it scrap for a looter to pick at leisure.

  Below the station, the planet itself hung in a blue green haze, reminding Meric of Earth. He could even see the outline of cities on the coastal areas, but no lights showed on the dark side of the dividing day/night line. The station itself had originally been built, more than twenty years ago, to study the ruins below. Nothing of the former inhabitants had been found except still-radioactive craters and traces of bio warfare. The study was abandoned and the station lifted into a high stable orbit. Now it served as a repair facility, supply hub, refit base, and retirement home for every rogue on this side of the Rift, from the worst pirates, to gentlemen privateers, to mercenary companies fighting in the constant wars. Miranda Station took in and spat out all who came, and was neutral in all regards. Transiting ships had to pay a two percent tax on all transactions and provide patrol services for one day out of every week they spent there. In return, no questions were asked about any transaction, and everything was allowed, except for slaves—human or alien, civilized or barbarian.

  The coms crackled into life, blaring a warning. “ALL SHIPS ON APPROACH, SHEER OFF. EAST WIND, RETURN TO STATION OR WE WILL FIRE.”

  “Oh shit. Move it, NOW!” McHale slammed the ship sideways, straining the inertial dampeners, and Miranda Station shifted off screen. A bright shining light indicated a burning antimatter drive as someone powered away from the station under full thrust. McHale’s instinctive reaction had been to haul port, but it put them directly in between the station’s enormous railgun battery, a brace of 20cm slug throwers that had been scavenged off a battleship, and the rogue pirate.

  “GODDAMNIT, MERIC, GET YOUR PIECE OF CRAP OUT OF THE WAY!” yelled Miranda Fire Control over the net. McHale dove the ship down and away, just missing the jet of plasma that was searing out of the fleeing ship’s drive. As soon as they were clear, the railguns fired. Soundlessly, steel and titanium rods leapt out at a fraction of the speed of light and transected the fleeing East Wind. The ship exploded in a silent burst of flame and debris, superheated plasma spreading outward in what would have been, in other circumstances, beautiful.

  Captain Meric stood and addressed the bridge crew. “Well, that was fun. I’m going to go change my underwear.”

  Chapter 11

  “This is the Chief of the Boat. Shore Leave is declared, twelve hours. Starboard watch and Poison crew have first liberty. So help me, if I get a call from the Port Authorities, I am NOT coming to pick you up. This isn’t Jamesport. On the other hand, if you dishonor the Lexington and get your ass kicked by any other crew, I’m not going to open hatch for you, either. Chief, Out.”

  Rob Knight whistled slow and low. “If I were ten years younger, Nadija, I’d take you out for a night of dancing that you’d never forget. Though you might pass out first from lack of circulation from those pants. Are you sure you’re going to be able to work the pedals on the shuttle tomorrow?”

  She laughed and said, “What pants? This is molecular bonded smart skin, baby. It can stop a knife, and let me shake my ass at the same time.” She slowly rotated her hips in a grinding motion. Hours of working the controls of the shuttle had given her legs, already long, a pleasing musculature.

  “Damn, you look good, Nadija!” said Jimmy Cahr. She turned, whipped out a ceramic bladed knife, and held it to this throat. The recruit turned pale and gulped.

  “Listen, kid. Don’t you DARE call me by my name. It’s Lieutenant Zlatcov, or Ma’am. And if I see you out on station anywhere, I am going to kick your ass, do you hear me? You get liberty when you earn liberty.”

  “Ahem,” said the Britannic Sergeant Major, wrapping his hand around hers and slowly pulling the knife away. “Lest you forget, Lieutenant, he is MY newbie. Please don’t scratch.” Turning to Cahr, he said, “You get liberty after your first engagement. You have entry watch on the ship tonight. If anything happens, you get me on the horn ASAP.”

  They were gathered in the docking bay, talking about who was going where to do what to whom. Many of the crew had significant others at Miranda Station, but no one had a wife or husband. It was a rare thing for a spouse to want to live in the dangerous station while their mate went off carousing. Quite a few had wives in Jamesport and girlfriends in various other ports.

  Meric watched it all from the side, taking the measure of the crew. Rob Knight caught his eye and walked ov
er at a slight nod of the Captain’s head. As the airlock cycled open, the Sergeant Major waited out the rush, then walked out with him.

  “I assume you’re going someplace that you need some company. A fight, possibly?”

  Meric shook his head. “No, Rob, no fight. Just not something I want to do alone. I’ve got to go to the Winchester, talk to Amanda. Tell her that Jason is dead.”

  The veteran Britannic infantryman grimaced. “Bloody hell. I’d rather do a ship boarding naked. I hate these things.”

  “Me too, but it has to be done.”

  They were stopped exiting the elevator at Deck 12 by a pair of squat heavy-worlders in Armored Suits with the logo “MSP” painted in block letter on the front. One of them held up his hand to block their path; in the other he held a power scanner. The rear guard casually aimed an automatic shotgun with a sawed off barrel in their general direction. If either made any moves other than what was asked, he would rake the entire corridor, trusting his partner’s armor to deflect any of the pellets. The scanner did a quick search for metal and power sources, any propellant residue that might indicate some kind of weapon. Brawls were allowed at Miranda Station, up to the point where each establishment owner could enforce the peace. Weapons were a no-go on general principle. The station managers had enough problems keeping the place running without some fool with a powergun blowing holes in walls, flooring and ceilings, possibly damaging some critical equipment; they could care less about the loss of life. The MSP dropped the scanner back into a holster on his belt and moved along, ignoring them.

  “Friendly chaps,” said Knight.

  “Well, they are fair and impartial on who they shoot,” grunted Meric. “Everyone.”

  They arrived at the Winchester, stepping through the frosted glass doors. Inside was a complete replica of an Eighteenth Century British pub, down to the brass rail. Customers stood at the bar or sat at tables. Off to one side, a dart game was going, made more difficult by the slight, almost imperceptible variations in the old station’s artificial gravity. The only incongruity was a battered Twentieth Century music player. Meric knew the bartender kept a cricket bat behind the bar to settle disputes, but the real power behind the civility of the place was the owner, Amanda Zufai.