by B. V. Larson
More books by B. V. Larson:
The Undying Mercenaries Series:
Steel World
Dust World
Tech World
Machine World
Death World
Home World
Rogue World
Blood World
Dark World
Storm World
Armor World
Clone World
Visit BVLarson.com for more information.
More books by Wayne Wightman:
Selection Event
The Days That Remain
Second Species
Life/Afterlife
Black Phoenix
by
B. V. Larson
and
Wayne Wightman
Illustration © Tom Edwards
TomEdwardsDesign.com
Copyright © 2019 by Iron Tower Press, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.
“It’s not the well-fed men that I fear, but rather those who are pale and hungry-looking.”
– Julius Caesar, 53 BC
Chapter ONE
Earth’s early colonial efforts were problematic. Interstellar travel was in its infancy, and there were countless perils to overcome.
The first hurdle was the simple fact that space is antithetical to life in every way. No air, no gravity, no protection from radiation—it has none of these things planet-dwellers take for granted.
Then there are the vast distances involved. The first exoplanets targeted for colonization were over fifty light-years from our blue-green Earth. This meant the journey would take nearly a century of flight time using the fastest ships we could build in that era.
Logic would seem to dictate that sending a probe out first would be wise. The probes were sent and the waiting game began. Unfortunately, the reports coming back from these robotic ships took generations to receive.
Not everyone was willing to wait so long. There was a sense of urgency, as whoever made it to a lush planet first got to stake their claim.
Humanity built seven great ships of the Black Phoenix class before any of our probes called home. All seven of them left Earth’s orbit on different trajectories. They had the solar wind at their backs, and they were full of hope and pride. Although they were capable, they had little idea of what they’d find when they reached the stars at last.
Those first colonists were a daring lot. Their populations were small by necessity, numbering no more than twenty thousand souls on each ship. They were a mixture of the desperate, the idealistic, the social outcasts—plus a few who might be generously be classified as half-mad.
Over the following decades, the various ships had great adventures. Some met with tragedy. A few spawned fresh civilizations of their own.
After a full century had passed only one of the Black Phoenix ships had yet to report back to Earth. Her name was Tarassis.
Chapter TWO
Of the two thousand-odd stars within fifty light-years of Earth, about sixty are similar to our sun. Of these, nineteen have rocky planets like our home world. These alien worlds are close enough in size, gravity, composition—and most important, climate—to support life as we know it.
Liquid water could exist on the surface of all of them, that much we knew. The temperatures were right. But the details… the Devil always lurked in the details…
In the Earth year 2091, the colony ship Tarassis boldly launched toward one of these candidate planets. Traveling at hundreds of millions of kilometers per hour, particles no bigger than a grain of sand could damage or destroy the ship. To prevent this, electromagnetic shielding was employed. As a side effect, the shield’s interference meant Tarassis was out of contact with Earth for generations.
Compared to the sendoff, the actual flight was rather dull. The decades crawled by, with the guests and crew living in isolation. At long last they reached their destination. Due to longevity treatments and the relativistic effects of time dilation, some of the original colonists survived long enough to see the great day of Arrival. The excitement of planetfall was indescribable.
The emotion quickly transformed into sick disappointment when it was determined the world they’d all dreamed of was hopelessly toxic.
Spectral analysis told the tale before they ever reached orbit. The chemistry didn’t lie. The atmosphere was a roiling mass of hydrochloric acid, carbon dioxide and other deadly poisons.
All was not lost for the intrepid crew and guests of Tarassis, however. They swung around the central star and flung themselves toward their second choice, only a nine light-years farther on.
Time passed, and the last original colonist succumbed to age. Isolated from Earth for so long, the culture of the colony grew darker, but still they retained hope as they drew near to their second destination.
One fateful night, the sixth generational captain released the terrible news. Despair swept the ship. The second planet they’d laid all their hopes upon was, for the most part, barren. There was a modicum of oxygen and a single cold ocean, but the atmosphere was nearly as thin as that of terraformed Mars back home. Worse, there were twenty-nine moons orbiting the planet and these floating stones occasionally collided with one another, sending deadly meteors to blast craters into the land and flood the continental shores with tidal waves.
A great debate began. Should they land here and make the best of it? Or should they venture on to their third candidate world, placing all their hopes on the unknown?
They couldn’t come to an agreement. The guests wanted to land, while the crew wanted to press onward come what may.
Desperation grew in the colony, and they took up arms against one another. A vicious slaughter ensued, killing nearly a third of the population aboard.
Led by their captain, the crew faction won in the end. Raised to the status of a dictator, he renamed the body of his supporting colonists United Tarassis—to give a name to those who supported his rule. He then ordered the great ship to come about on a new course.
They flew on into the endless night for two more long generations.
* * *
Tarassis wasn’t a normal ship. She was a colony transport, and the Black Phoenix class vessels were very utilitarian. She didn’t have a centerline beam or sleek expanses of metal running along her sides.
Instead, she was an ugly thing. The vessel was a hollowed-out asteroid—shaped vaguely like a barbell. Sprouting and spread widely from its rocky “hull” were arrayed sets of solar panels and solar sails. These structures looked like too many wings glued onto a stone dragonfly.
The ship itself was built in two major layers. A metal structure embedded in the surface of the modified asteroid formed the core living quarters, over a hundred decks similar in nature to a large sea-going vessel.
Below-decks was a vast cargo hold in the hollowed-out interior. This region was broken into many “levels” and was not originally inhabited. As time marched on, the colonists took to banishing outcasts into the region.
The scarred exterior of Tarassis was dotted with artificial modules full of sensors and clustered steering jets. Rarely, an observation module encrusted with lead-lined windows thrust up from this surface. These tiny peepholes allowed a privileged few of the inhabitants of the great ship to see the stars with their own eyes.
Inside a special chamber within one of these observation nodules, a meeting was being held. Fo
ur men, five women and a trio of synthetics formed the United Tarassis Council. Most were commanders or lieutenant commanders, officers and members of the crew. They wore drab gray uniforms with only their gold rank insignia on each shoulder to relieve the monotony. Two of the group were from the guest faction, civilian members of the colonial government.
A visitor arrived to present a budget proposal. They turned their collective gaze across the vast nano-touch conference table toward the man, whose name was Lance Graff. None of them smiled.
Graff was dressed in a flashy costume of mauve fiber and simulated leather, and his hair was coiffed with the latest fashion. He was a guest, but even for one of his undisciplined faction his appearance was unusually flamboyant.
The meeting came to order the moment the seventh captain of Tarassis cleared his throat. Captain Stattor was an obese man whose voice was a breathy wheeze.
“Mr. Graff?” he said.
For a moment, Graff was too stunned to speak. Above him was a vast canopy of real stars, something he’d rarely seen. Surrounding him was a circle of faces that collectively made up the most important people aboard Tarassis.
“We’re told you have a proposal, Mr. Graff?” the captain prompted again.
“Yes… yes, sir.” Graff was accustomed to public appearances, but the grim faces of the council unnerved him. To control himself, he fixed his eyes upon the captain. “It’s a new game show, sir. A variation on previous themes—but it’s more… engaging.”
“Will it raise morale by at least point-zero-five percent, Mr. Graff?”
“Sir, I believe it will do that. I sincerely do.” His mouth was dry and clicked when he spoke.
“You have forty-five seconds remaining, Mr. Graff. Proceed.”
Lance Graff grew animated. He had memorized thirty solid seconds of speech to describe his idea. He had it condensed down to a dozen excellent verbs and some great adjectives. He had worked on it.
The captain listened, and then he scanned the faces around the table. Several nodded to him. Finally, he nodded as well.
“Ambitious… brutal,” Captain Stattor said. “It should appeal to the worthless breathers on the lower levels as well as the major cliques among the crew and guests. As long as it pays for itself, you have our permission to begin—but make sure you stay within budgeting standards.” He made the slightest gesture with his hand, dismissing Graff, who slunk away as quietly as he was able.
The contract was officially awarded soon afterward. Production on “Trashlife Nova” would begin next week.
Lance Graff, in the privacy of his quarters, could barely contain his excitement.
Chapter THREE
There’s only so much room inside a hollowed-out asteroid. For this reason, population control had been strictly enforced aboard Tarassis for the first four generations. After that, the rules had grown increasingly lax.
In time, the people outnumbered the resources the ship was designed to provide. Those individuals that no one wanted were called “breathers” by the upper classes who believed that every breath breathers took was wasted.
After the civil war, the human debris of Tarassis controlled the lower zones—what used to be the cargo holds. These were vast regions, each several square kilometers in size. As large as they were, they weren’t comfortable places to live. Even the air below-decks was thick with carbon dioxide. Sometimes, it was toxic. The crew and guests only ventured down to the lower levels for evil reasons.
The below-decks inhabitants were given old-fashioned weapons for self-defense—but some suspected the real intention was to keep their numbers in check as they fought among themselves.
On level one-fifty-four, two men lay sprawled in the rubble of a partially standing building. One of them relaxed in a clear spot and rested his head on an improvised cushion that was hard but shaped just right. The other was on watch through an opening in the boarded window.
Smoke from a fire up the street swirled through the ruined house and out through broken windows.
The lookout was named Tuttle, and he was built like a barrel. His parents had genetically modified him with double-muscled arms and a chest to match. Purportedly, his father had thought the look was “cool.” When those limbs moved, his sleeves rustled and bulged oddly, looking like they might rip open.
His friends and his enemies alike called him Turtle. Only his parents called him Tuttle, a name he hated.
“Scarn?” Turtle said from his lookout position. “I think we have another one coming up the street.”
A woman walked in their direction. She wore a blank silvery mask and a featureless pair of black coveralls. She was thin, but shapely enough to resemble a synth. The back of her head, visible behind her mask didn’t show a single strand of hair. She was shaved clean.
Scarn rolled over and peered through a crack in the boards. He was a rangy man with broad shoulders, a stiff neck, and eyes the color of water. “She looks like an untrained synth, so she’s got to be human. Anyone could spot her in an instant. What an idiot.”
It could have been a ruse, of course. Sometimes people dressed as someone harmless and functioned as lures to draw out the hopeful. Or, she could have been evicted from her gang to be used as target practice. Maybe she really was crazy, or maybe she was an independent trying to get through the lines of the various gangs—either way, her situation was extraordinarily dangerous.
Turtle was old enough to remember when crewmen had patrolled these permanently dark streets and kept order—but no longer. Now, they only sent down drones to watch. Down here, people did as they wished and to whom they wished. Law only came from the muzzle of a gun.
Turtle pointed to an upper window that was a half block away. He’d spotted four teenagers huddled there wearing black headbands. “Bad news. Bet you fifty ounces purified she doesn’t get past the intersection.”
“You don’t have fifty pure.” Scarn clicked off the safety of his rifle, a Sepp 40.
Out in the ruined street, the woman dressed as a synthetic trudged through an intersection. She stepped around some scattered cement blocks and came closer. She was now only fifty meters away.
“Those boys across the street are getting set up,” Turtle whispered. Scarn did a quick aim and watched... and watched....
As the first punk leveled his weapon, Scarn grunted in disgust and fired a single round from the Sepp.
The four instantly dropped out of sight. Whether Scarn had aced one or not was unknown.
“You gave away our position,” Turtle whispered.
“Public service.”
They both knew what would come next. They rolled to their feet, with Turtle slinging his gun over his shoulder and Scarn kicking open the jammed front door.
“Come on! Move it!” Scarn yelled at the fool in the silver mask. “Move it!”
Along the street, gunners in the hollowed-out buildings opened fire from their windows—soon even taking potshots at each other.
“If she’s really who she looks like,” Turtle yelled over the racket, “she doesn’t have anything to worry about. But I think it’s time for us to be on our way.”
Scarn wasn’t listening. He reached through the door when the woman got near enough and grabbed her by the front of her coveralls. He yanked her inside and spun her around, pushing her back against the wall.
“We probably just saved your life,” Scarn said. “You’ll be safe here for about two minutes.”
The woman didn’t answer. Her mask gleamed in the dim light.
“She’s been in VR too long,” Turtle said, leaving out the back.
“You’re welcome,” Scarn told the woman. “Don’t follow us.”
Letting go of the woman, Scarn ran after Turtle out the back door. They entered a back passageway at full speed, heading to the asteroid’s north. They always headed north.
They had crossed the first intersection when a concussion hit them. The building they’d just left behind blew outward as a cloud of dust and rubble.
/> Someone had taken offense. And the synth girl…? At least it had been quick.
Fifteen minutes later they jogged into a deserted neighborhood of half-ruined housing modules. They found shelter and caught their breath.
“Another day, another ounce of water,” Scarn said.
They picked through a crushed side room and found a decent area to rest in. Long ago, it had been a teenager’s room. Pieces of posters hung on what was left of the walls—those famous images of the exoplanets their ancestors had planned to colonize—and around the rubble were a half-dozen smart-scrolls about one aspect or another of interplanetary exploration, all written by the United Tarassis Council.
“Look at this,” Scarn said. “Some kid was dreaming about finding a new home.”
“He probably ended up eating garbage. Like us.”
“I never was sure the colony thing was real,” Scarn said. “Maybe it was just meant to be entertainment and convince us that we’re the brave and adventurous master species—even if we crawl around in the dark and dig in the trash.”
For a few moments, they studied the posters. They couldn’t help it. So many broken dreams… Most people down on the lower levels no longer had the colonist spirit; they were too busy keeping their lives together. But some of the old people talked about it.
“I’m thinking about that girl dressed like a synth,” Turtle said. “And all these planets we’ll never see.”
“We helped her reach a better place—by accident.”
“Yeah, sure. But I wonder if they still kill each other over differences of opinion back on Earth—or on the other colony worlds.”
“Those that worship the Singularity don’t do speculation,” Scarn said. “They do certainty. All of them, absolutely certain. Each subgroup has their own certainty, of course…”
“What do you think the Singularity is, anyway?” Turtle asked. “Some kind of virus?”