The Quantum Garden

by Derek Künsken

  The Lieutenant-General greeted the ministers formally, and briefed them on the latest intelligence and military information. The ministers asked questions. The Lieutenant-General answered factually and completely.

  The questions the Lieutenant-General posed were, in Iekanjika’s view, far more pertinent to the war effort. Supply lines. Positions. Defensive range and offensive projection capabilities. True targets and valueless targets. After a time, the Minister of the Defense put his pad back into his vest pocket, and folded his hands before him. The Lieutenant-General put away hers too.

  “I’d like to come back to the theft of the time gates,” Minister Nanyonga said.

  “I’d be pleased to amplify my report in any way you desire, Minister,” Rudo said.

  “The Cabinet is having a bit of trouble coming to grips with the loss, General,” he said. “We are wondering what might have been done differently.”

  “Arjona fooled us all,” Rudo said. “I can offer no other explanation. He was the right man to get the Sixth Expeditionary Force to Epsilon Indi, but he robbed us.”

  “We can’t find him and get them back?” Minister Echweru asked.

  “Arjona has disappeared,” Rudo said. “He is a magician. There’s no longer even a record of his art gallery in the Puppet Free City.”

  “This is a serious failure, General,” Nanyonga said.

  Iekanjika’s hands turned into fists, impotently, in front of the display in the ready room. Could she have hidden this reaction in person? Rudo didn’t flinch.

  “I brought the Sixth Expeditionary Force home with new weaponry and propulsions systems, destroyed the Congregate Dreadnought Parizeau, captured the Freyja Axis, and destroyed all Congregate fortifications in the Bachwezi system,” Rudo said. “Perhaps you could contextualize the failure for me?”

  “This seems to be more the failure of judgment of Colonel Iekanjika,” Echweru said placatingly. “She was your effective commander left behind in the Stubbs system. She was responsible for Arjona and the time gates. A failure of the magnitude of the loss of the time gates cannot stand unaddressed.”

  “I was the Commanding Officer of the Expeditionary Force. I have conducted my own investigation and pressed no charges nor issued reprimands. If the Cabinet wishes to judge my failure in this, they are free to do so.”

  “You mistake our words, General Rudo,” Nanyonga said. “Of course this matter, when balanced with all others, is manageable.”

  “My apologies,” Rudo said. “I heard you incorrectly.”

  The two Cabinet Ministers exchanged more pleasantries and planned a speech for the Prime Minister for the following day, then unstrapped themselves and departed. After a delay, Iekanjika shut off the spy camera and entered the board room.

  “Thank you for defending me, ma’am,” Iekanjika said.

  “No need for thanking,” Rudo said. “I was only twenty-two when I left Bachwezi with the Sixth Expeditionary Force, but even then, the Union government had its corruptions and politics. It hasn’t changed. It could yet kill us all.”

  “I doubt it will have the time, ma’am,” Iekanjika said.

  “Let’s hope your new pilots can slow down the Congregate,” Rudo said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  STILLS PULLED FIFTY-eight sphincter-clenching gees in the brand new Union fighter. Twenty-nine other mongrel pilots flew tight on his ass like they wanted to hide something in there. Even though his body was adapted to live at benthic ocean depths and was sealed in a hyper-pressurized tank of water, the gees gnawed at the limits of what even he could stand. His electroplaques sputtered a war howl in the electrical language of the Tribe of the Mongrel. His squadron echoed back twenty-nine chaotic fucks yous. Two of his pilots were sucking wind, falling behind, accelerating at just fifty-five gees.

  “Come on, dog-fuckers!” he yelled. “Last one to the party sucks my cock!”

  “If anybody can find it!” some twat said, chasing that with hooting noises.

  The entire squadron started hooting and accelerating at fifty-nine gees, crowding him so dangerously that he had to itch his drive to sixty gees. Something hurt in his gut. The fighter creaked around him.

  Ahead, two Congregate destroyers and their fighter squadrons had gotten close enough to the mouth of the Freyja Axis to lob heavy artillery, but not close enough for the smaller Union guns to drive them away without moving into withering fire.

  “Union fuckers don’t think we can do this,” Stills said. “Fuck them!”

  The tribe’s roaring drowned out everything else on the channel. Didn’t matter. They mostly used the common channel to throw insults. Mongrels weren’t strong on formation fighting anyway. The major jerk-off who’d accepted the job of being the commanding officer of the mongrel squadron was probably giving orders. He’d been pretty insistent on formations and tactics.

  Fuck him.

  Mongrel employment with the Union was so new that the Union had installed scuttle switches on all the fighters. If any mongrel tried to make a run for it with the new Union fighters, major cock-munch could turn the craft to ashes. The Union didn’t trust so much, but neither had Stills’ last employers, the Congregate. And if a mongrel wanted to fly the absolute best fucking fighters in civilization, this was where they had to fly: at the pointy end of a David and Goliath war. That was how Stills had convinced the other twenty-nine pilots to come with him and offer their services to the Union. Tabernak but they leapt at the chance to piss in the Congregate’s mouth! The Congregate hadn’t mistreated them or anything. The Way of the Mongrel was The Way of the Mongrel: Piss on every leg. Bite every hand.

  Congregate particle beams reached to stroke the mongrel squadron, but missed. The firing systems weren’t fast enough to accurately lead their fire on fighters that could accelerate at sixty gees. And even when the Congregate gunners and their programs got close, Stills’ pilots would spin, and accelerate as hard laterally. Growing up in the oceans, three-dimensional thinking was the default mental map. It made the mongrels dangerous at fighting in the vacuum of space.

  Major deep swallow was still yammering like he didn’t need to breathe. He was giving orders, most of them directed at Stills. He was on the Nhialic, too far away and too slow to make a difference.

  If Stills followed the major’s orders, they would lose the advantage the mongrels brought: they were faster than anyone else and as predictable as rabid dogs. Stills was gonna have to ask for a more hands-off commanding officer, maybe somebody on the edge of retirement, or maybe an uncertain second lieutenant who could be pushed around.

  Stills surveyed the electrical signals in his cockpit: the positions of the two Congregate destroyers, the arcs of the particle beams, the lasers, and the clouds of fighters, crewed on the Congregate side by other mongrels. Stills had flown picket with those mongrel fighter pilots on the destroyers. He knew most of their capabilities. But they and their employers had no fucking clue what was coming for them.

  “Balls flight,” Stills said, “strafe the Sainte-Foy at point blank. Climb into their ass and shoot something while you’re there. Put those engines out of commission. Cock flight, fuck up the Portneuf. Ass flight, break into syndicates. We’re greasing some of their officers.”

  Electrical howls of approval filled the channel. Their major was probably protesting, but Stills’d be fucked if he could even hear any of it. He tight-waved a quick “yes, sir” to the major to shut his cake hole. Then he dove into his run.

  The next ten minutes were some of the hottest of Stills’ life. Nobody had a faster fighter than the Union and nobody was tougher than the Congregate. The Congregate had brought its best kit, including its experimental and advanced shit. They even shot anti-matter. Usually they only uncased AM when the Congregate really wanted to fuck up something bad. Stills had only worked peacetime fighter pilot contracts for the Congregate with the occasional asymmetric fuck-somebody-up skirmishes. He’d never seen them live-fire AM before today. This was wall-to-wall bullets to the head.<
br />
  The mongrels pilots flying for the Congregate were superb. Great shit-eating clouds of them, flying tonnère fighters, easily pulling twenty-five to thirty gees. They fought intuitively, better than the Congregate gunners. They were probably paying as much attention to their orders as Stills. They adapted as they could to Stills’ capabilities, which saved them from a rout. Stills’ squadron broke formation, weaving through the web of particle fire and laser tracking, following no plan and probably givin’ major ass-wipe a coronary.

  That was the major’s problem. Mongrel pilots didn’t need to be told how to get somewhere. Tell them where and when the fuck you wanted them and what you wanted blown to bits and then sashay the fuck out of the way. When left to their own devices, the mongrels fought a modern berserker strategy, pressing forward an uncoordinated cloud of violence, half my-prick-is-bigger, half suicidal, and half crazy-train, never letting the enemy know what the fuck any mongrel pilot might do at any time.

  As a case in point, the mongrels liked knowing where shit was on Congregate destroyers, not just munitions and fuel, but where they kept the officers and the bridge. It wasn’t fair to say that nobody else knew, but Stills bet no one else could get so close as to make a difference. Ripping past the Portneuf at a hundred kilometers per second, Stills unloaded one of the pissy low-yield Union missiles, right over the Congregate bridge. There was too much armor for him to break through, but the second pilot behind him, an arrogant little twat called Vincent Fletcher, landed a second missile in the same spot.

  Fuckin’ felcher. Stills’d never hear the end of it. Merced Hillman and Vincent Tork shot their loads, but Stills was already too gone to see. He was cranking his acceleration in a new direction, swinging wide and fast around the Portneuf’s chaff arc, to make a run straight for the Sainte-Foy.

  Laser comms started crackling on his display.

  What the fuck? The Union didn’t have tech to keep a secure laser on a ship moving this fast, so he wasn’t equipped. But it felt like there were words in it. Was his ship mistaking Congregate laser targeting for comms? Where the fuck were they sighting from?

  He spun, changed vector, and found no attack. But the comms laser kept on him. For this much crackling, it must be far. How the fuck was a laser tracking him from that far? He was moving too fast. His ship wasn’t reading it as comms. The defensive system was registering it as a targeting laser. And there were words in it. Modulations in the laser. And then it hit him. It was mongrel speech, the electrical patterns they used to speak to each other in the crushing depths through their electroplaques. Who the hell?

  “Stills,” the message crackled, “this is Belisarius.”

  Stills raced towards the Sainte-Foy, unloading two missiles straight at the plating over the captain and bridge. Antimatter beams sizzled across his hull, shuddering the ship and launching it into a spin. He recovered.

  Felt like a few hundred nanograms might have hit him. Anything bigger and he would have been a big shit stain all over the Sainte-Foy’s shiny hull. Malparidos! He hated antimatter. Felcher, Hillman, Tork and Fuckhead followed fast, their targeting brag-worthy.

  “Felcher, you lead! Rinse and repeat, you fuckers!” Stills said, pulling his ship out of the informal volume of the battle.

  The Congregate destroyers were big, but Stills’ dogs were fast, dropping their ordnance near the officers and the engines. If he could psyche out the officers or bust the engines, the Congregate would either fuck off or get taken apart by conventional Union missiles. Cock and Balls flights still worked over the engines. The battle buzzed like a wasp nest ass-fucking a hornet nest.

  Stills targeted his laser comms back at the signal he’d received. “Arjona, where the fuck are you? I’m kinda busy licking my knob here. Is this important?”

  Unlike the pure electrical signals he used to speak with other mongrels, his voice was being translated into Anglo-Spanish. He could have given his voice more depth and tonal expression with a simple program, but he liked messing with people and set the translator to inflect only the swearing.

  “I need to talk with Iekanjika,” the Homo quantus said. “I have a business deal to offer her. You too.”

  “I’m not a messenger, malparido. What the fuck do I want with a message?”

  “You will when you hear what I’m offering.”

  “I got what I want, patron.”

  Stills turned his fighter wide and yelled at his pilots on the other channel. Fuckin’ Cock flight wasn’t makin’ much headway. Withering Congregate fire was slowing them. “Dive in, you fuckers!” He lanced towards them, firing his particle weapons, blowing two Congregate fighters to shit, and zeroing in for a run on the engines.

  “Have I ever over-promised you yet?” Arjona interrupted.

  “Shit, no, patron, that you haven’t, but I still ain’t no messenger.”

  “Tell Iekanjika I want to talk to her.”

  “Based on how much shit I had to eat when tryin’ to volunteer for their cocked-up war, I got the impression she hates your guts.”

  Stills swooped hard, accelerating at sixty gees as he circled the stern of the Portneuf, unloading a shit sandwich of missiles at the big nuclear engines. He even squirted off a shot from his little particle cannon. It blistered the cowling of the engine just before his missiles tried to ass-fuck the destroyer. He didn’t get to see the results, but it would take a few more direct hits before they started bustin’ the plating.

  He’d have to tell Iekanjika he wanted bigger missiles and a new CO. This reminded him to transmit a quick “yes, sir” to his major. He did that.

  “Your impression is right,” Belisarius said, “but I’m offering her something bigger. An Axis. I’m transmitting the coordinates.”

  Arjona said more, but the nugget of the message was pretty goddamn show-stopping. At first, Stills thought he heard wrong, or that the flack and static of battle was fuckin’ with him. Or that Arjona was fucking with him. But Arjona wouldn’t know a joke if it slapped him.

  “No shit,” was all Stills could think to answer.

  A new Axis? Arjona had found an Axis and was giving it to Iekanjika? What the fuck did he want? The bill wouldn’t be light. “You’re rich now, prancy-pants. Go frolic on your mountain top.”

  “I need this,” Arjona said. “And I need your help again. I have a bigger con.”

  Don’t ask.

  Don’t ask.

  Don’t. Fucking. Ask.

  “What’s the con?” Stills asked.

  Fuck me.

  “I’m going to hide the Homo quantus.”

  “All of them?” Stills said sarcastically.

  “Yup. And I need a pilot.”

  “Good. I thought this was gonna be tempting or something. I’m already altruisted out, saving the Union. They got the best flying. Sorry.”

  “I need a pilot to fly me through time,” Arjona said.

  Malparido hijoeputa. “Are you shitting me?”

  “I never have,” Arjona said.

  “For the love of.... Goddamn! Can’t you ever just rob a bank or something?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE SAINTE-FOYand the Portneuf withdrew after a harried hour. They werescratched and bruised and even damaged deeply in spots and hadn’t gotten anywhere near the Freyja Axis or the Union cruisers. Stills’ squadron lost eight pilots. The twenty-two surviving ships looked like they’d been chewed on by a big cat, swallowed and squeezed out the other side. But they’d proven themselves. The Union could take them on long term contracts. Or eat shit.

  Stills had ideas about new tactics. They’d pissed away some tactical opportunities because the Union didn’t trust the mongrels enough to risk their big kit. That was fine. Mongrels got the ass end of most deals. But with a bit better stuff, he could win something rather than stalemate.

  His squadron landed on the Nhialic and the Batembuzi. As soon as the bay doors started closing, his CO was on his ass. Stills hadn’t followed any of his approved plans. Stills hadn’t answe
red any questions during the battle. Stills hadn’t followed any new orders nor had he withdrawn his pilots when ordered. Stills had played far too risky. The major was receiving serious flack from his superiors.

  “I got a message for Colonel Iekanjika,” Stills said flatly.

  “I’m your commanding officer. I deal with you.”

  “I didn’t say I want to talk with Iekanjika. I said I got a message for her. Someone contacted me during the battle by laser.”

  “You contacted the enemy while in combat?”

  “No, comemierda,” Stills said slowly, “I got a message. I’m just passing it the fuck on ‘cause I don’t like playing messenger.”

  “Give me the message,” major ass-for-brains said.

  “I know when a message is ears only, fuckhead. I worked with her before. She’s gonna want to hear this one personally, so get me a meeting or give me your fucking name and serial number so when I do meet her, I can tell her which scrotum-faced moron wasted her chance.”

  “I won’t tolerate insubordination, Stills.”

  “Can you fucking tolerate success?” Stills asked. “My mongrels pushed back two fully-kitted Congregate destroyers.”

  “You have to work within our rules.”

  “I’m working with you. Read my contract. And remember I’m a contractor. If you want to go flagellate somebody, go punish one of your own. I did good today. And if you don’t get me a meeting with Iekanjika pronto, your CO’ll hear about it. If you want to make the meeting happen faster, give her the name Arjona.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  To: Detachment Commander,

  Congregate Counter-Insurgency Operations

  51st Intelligence Division

  Epsilon Indi

  13 March, 2515

  Subject: Report X156JWR78 – Interrogation of Captured Homo quantus

  Detained Intelligence Targets: On 12 March 2515, one hundred and fifty-five Anglo-Spanish Plutocracy shareholders were taken into custody under article 76(3)(c) of The Official Secrets Act. These detainees are members of the human sub-species known as the Homo quantus. All 155were interrogated for (a) general intelligence on the Homo quantus project, and (b) the Union emergence, and (c) specific intelligence regarding the Homo quantus Belisarius Arjona. All Homo quantus survived and are available for further mechanical and surgical interrogation. They are being shipped directly to the Ministry of Intelligence, 1st Division at Venus. Heavy naval escort was requisitioned as per the emergency subsections of article 40 of the OSA, in case Anglo-Spanish assets seek to recover the detainees.