Occam's Razor

by J. E. Gurley

  “All right,” Jazon agreed as he slammed his glass down on the tabletop. It rang a sour note. He hoped it wasn’t an ill omen. “I’ll go, but I must warn you, if a better opportunity to reach Earth comes my way in the meantime, I’m gone.”

  Lyton nodded his head. “We will talk more, later.”

  As Lyton rose to leave, Metak rushed over to escort Jazon and Ulrich from the table as well. Jazon noticed Metak staring at him as if sizing him up.

  “What’s your problem?” he snorted at the servant.

  Metak didn’t reply. He bowed with carefully averted eyes, but not before Jazon caught a quick flash of hatred in them. He suspected the man was more than the simple servant he seemed. It was likely his job was to keep Lord Hromhada apprised of his and Ulrich’s movements, perhaps something more sinister if his master required it of him.

  As Jazon walked back to the lift transport, he glanced down the atrium at the Trilock still engaged in their assault on the pile of meat before them, now noticeably smaller. What were they doing here if they were so opposed to the mission? Would he have to deal with them? As he stood there appraising them, the warrior turned to stare at him. The Trilock grinned, deliberately revealing his four, razor-sharp canines dripping with blood. He growled something unintelligible to his companion, and the two of them began to howl in their version of laughter. The feral sound sent shivers down Jazon’s spine, as if he was in a deep forest surrounded by a pack of hungry wolves.

  It wasn’t until he had almost reached Ulrich’s room that he remembered Amissa’s whispered warning not to agree to anything.

  So much for that promise.

  “Why are you so adamantly opposed to this mission?” Ulrich barked at Jazon, his throat raw from yelling. “It’s a way back to Earth.” Jazon had been sitting in Ulrich’s suite, a duplicate of his own quarters, listening unconvinced to his friend’s attempts at persuasion for over an hour. “You even agreed to go,” Ulrich continued.

  Jazon rolled his eyes. They had gone over that particular point several times. He rose and helped himself to a second glass of vodka from Ulrich’s bar.

  “I might have been a tad hasty,” he responded coolly, taking a tentative sip of his drink. Satisfied, he downed half of it in one gulp. The liquor burned his throat on the way down, but the warmth spread throughout his body, invigorating him. “In my eagerness to get us off Ataxa, I might have agreed to almost anything, but careful consideration sheds new light on this venture. I hope you don’t think we can just Skip in and Skip out. We will probably die.” He raised a finger to make his point. “No, once we reach Lahhor, I say we sneak off this ship and search for another way home. Lahhor is a hell of a lot better than Ataxa. At least it’s on the major shipping routes.”

  “What about Professor Lyton and the life form he spoke of?” Ulrich pleaded.

  Jazon shrugged his shoulders. “What about it? If the Cha’aita don’t destroy this… life form just for the hell of it, then the war surely will. You heard the Professor.”

  Ulrich paced the room shaking his head. “You don’t understand the Three Principles. All life forms are connected. This life form has upset the delicate balance of the galaxy somehow. Its destruction could be even more dangerous.”

  Jazon retook his seat and draped one leg over the chair arm. “Look. You and the good professor can believe what you want. Personally, I don’t believe any of this Three Principles nonsense. I’ve fought the Cha’aita, and I’ll be thrilled if they all die. I’m not about to go traipsing through their neighborhood uninvited.”

  He waved his glass in what he thought was the general direction of Cha’aita space. He knew as much about the Cha’aita as anyone, and yet he knew nothing, not even what they looked like. He did know they were ferocious and deadly.

  Jazon suddenly stood, spun on his heels, and faced the wall, pressing the cool glass to his throbbing forehead. Arguing with Ulrich was giving him a headache.

  “We’ve been fighting the Cha’aita for a century and a half, and now it looks like they might win, especially if the Trilock turn on us. If this new life form slows the Cha’aita advance, so much the better.”

  “All life is connected,” Ulrich shouted. “Don’t you understand that?” Ulrich flopped heavily into the chair Jazon had just vacated, visibly upset at Jazon’s words. Jazon returned to the bar and poured another drink. He had been drinking heavily since the meeting with the Highborn, first wine, and now vodka. For the past week, he had focused all his concentration on reaching Ithira, hoping it would provide a way home. Now that he had actually contacted the Highborn Lord, he was not certain he had made the right decision in coming.

  Ulrich sighed heavily. “I’ve been studying the Three Principles for ten years and don’t fully understand them.” His voice, now quieter, held a hint of sorrow and regret. “When I left Earth, I had nothing to believe in, not even in my own heritage.”

  “The Three Principles brought things into focus for me. I know there is a connection between the races just as there is a connection between molecules and multi-dimensions. There has to be.” His voice grew more strident as he continued. “If the Three Principles are indeed just feces, as you have told me oh, so many times, then I have nothing left. Nothing!” He beat his fist on the chair arm each time he uttered ‘nothing’.

  A twinge of sorrow for his friend furrowed Jazon’s brow. He rubbed his hand across the top of his hairless scalp, wiping off a thin sheen of perspiration. He liked Ulrich in spite of their differences. They had been through a lot together during the past two years, good and bad. He had to try to save Ulrich the bitter realization that his beliefs were bunk, perhaps even save his life.

  “I thought you only recently became a Savant,” he said.

  Ulrich shook his head wearily. “I tried to put it away for a while, for your sake.” He looked pointedly at Jazon; then glanced away. “But thoughts of the Three Principles have never left my mind. I felt it calling to me more and more each day as we wandered Ataxa.”

  Jazon sighed. “Look, Ulrich. We have two days until we reach Lahhor. Try to see things my way. We both want to get to Earth, right. Anything else merely takes us farther away.”

  Ulrich said nothing. His annoyance was visible in his every move. Jazon decided to table the issue for the present.

  “I’ll sleep on it, I promise,” he said. “But tell me, what was Lyton carrying in that briefcase that’s so damned important? I saw Huumba glance at it once or twice. I know he’s interested in it. You notice Lyton carefully avoided mentioning it. For that matter, what are the Trilock doing here? Do you want me to believe, in spite of your defense of them, that you really trust them?”

  He walked to the door and leaned on it. Between the feast they had just consumed and the alcohol, he mind was growing sluggish, his words beginning to slur.

  “I just want to take care of you, that’s all. You’ll see. You’re a damn Count, after all. Don’t you want to go home and sit on your throne and rule your people, or whatever the hell a Count does?”

  Jazon touched the door panel, looking back at Ulrich as he walked out the open door, but Ulrich was staring into space and paid him no heed. He brought his hand up to wave goodbye, then dropped it at his side and walked out.

  He was too tired to argue and too angry to sleep. He decided to explore the ship. After all, no one had strictly forbidden him to leave his cabin. As luxurious as his cabin was, he couldn’t help feeling he was a lamb being lead to the slaughter. Nobody, not even the Dastorans, gave things away free. There were always strings attached. The business about heading down the Local Arm right into the heart of the Cha’aita fleet was madness. Even the Alliance confronted the Cha’aita only when necessary. The only other race in that sector was the Trilock. If trouble arose, he didn’t look forward to the idea of looking to them for salvation.

  Earth. He hadn’t seen his home in almost eighteen years. He was sure a lot had changed, but he was willing to bet that Tuba City, Arizona, and the Diné Reservat
ion looked exactly as it did when he left – a gas station, a trading post, a grocery store, a theater, a half-dozen fast food restaurants, and a whole lot of desert. He suspected that his father was dead by now, and he had no other living relations, at least none he knew of. He had nothing left to go home to, and yet, in a way he could not put into words, almost as if a homing instinct, he knew it was time to return.

  His father had begun training Jazon as an apprentice hataalii from the time he was seven years old. Jazon remembered the chants, the rituals, and the constant dancing. He even remembered the potions his father had used to cure the locals of whatever ailed them, usually too much biligana booze, White Eye firewater.

  He had been sixteen when his mother had fallen ill. His father had insisted on the old ways, the traditional medicines, until she fell into a coma. The doctors in Phoenix had diagnosed her with an inoperable brain tumor, and said if they could have gotten to her earlier, they might have saved her life. Jazon watched his mother die slowly, day by day, slipping away a little at a time until he no longer recognized her. After the funeral, he had packed his few things and left the Rez without looking back.

  Now, the mesas and canyons seemed to call to him with the voice of ageless stone, the whispers of shifting sand, and the perpetual dance of dust devils. He had seen worlds almost as empty as the mesas of the Diné Reservation, but none had possessed a soul like his homeland. There, Mother Earth and Father Sky had called to him. He didn’t know why they called to him now so many light years away. He just knew he needed… what? Completion was as good a word as any other he could think of. He just knew he needed to see Earth again to cleanse his soul.

  The Dastorans offered one way home, but the price was proving too steep. He was certain that they had carefully omitted one vital piece of information, and Jazon didn’t like secrets. In the Marines, he went where they sent him and did what they told him to do, and no one had ever bothered to tell him the reason. He had never liked being out of the loop. Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference, but it would have been nice to know he wasn’t fighting and risking death just because some general wanted to make a name for himself.

  Lord Hromhada had something up his sleeve. There was more involved than merely trying to save a new life form they were not even sure was sentient. Three Principles or not, Jazon would bet any amount of credits, three to one, that there was an ulterior motive in the Dastoran desire to set the universe in balance.

  Most intriguing of all, what quality, what skills, did three Terrans – Professor Lyton, he, and Ulrich – possess that none others did? Was he selling them short? Maybe he should hold out for a better deal. The problem was that if he didn’t know where their true value lay, how could he negotiate wisely.

  He entered the transport and stared at the screen. He didn’t speak Dastoran, but did have a good memory. He tried to repeat the few phrases Metak had spoken into the transport earlier. One phrase worked in spite of his unfamiliarity of the language and his thick tongue. He felt the transport engage, taking him somewhere. He didn’t really care where. After a short time, the doors opened, and he found himself once again in the great hall’s atrium. Now, it was nearly empty. A handful of servants cleaned up, paying him no attention. He quietly skirted the open area and took one of the slideways to another level.

  This level contained numerous corridors branching off at odd intervals and angles in a decidedly non-Terran manner. He meandered through the maze-like corridors until he was thoroughly lost. Since he read no Dastoran and had no point of reference if he did, the numbers and symbols at the junctions meant nothing to him. He chose doors at random. Most of the doors were locked, and the few that were not proved to be storage closets or empty repair shops. One door, however, opened into a large circular room lined with two-dozen comfortable benches. He closed the door behind him so he would not be disturbed and examined the control panel beside one bench. By experimentation, he discovered the room’s purpose – a Dastoran version of a holo-theater.

  The data library held thousands of titles, none of which he could read. He randomly selected one, a type of travelogue showing many different Dastoran worlds. Though he could not follow the dialogue, it was obvious that Dastorans enjoyed many of the same geological features, as did Terrans.

  He saw magnificent kilometers-high waterfalls that cascaded from glacial cliffs into crystal-clear lakes, casting mountain-size rainbows shimmering like glass; great wind-sculpted deserts of pink and orange sands that looked as if swept by giant brooms; and razor-thin mountain peaks capped with pastel-hued snow that almost defied gravity. It reminded him of a copy of National Geographic he had read as a youth. When that file had played, another caught his attention. It contained the Terran words Occam’s Razor in the title. His curiosity sparked, he touched that key and waited as the room went dark.

  Projected in the center of the room, turning slowly in the air before him was a perfect 3-D simulation of Occam’s Razor. No wonder Professor Lyton had been proud. With a little practice at the controls, Jazon discovered that he could manipulate the image and view the interior layer by layer. The artisanship was astounding, blending sleek design with Dastoran art. It was almost as slender as the Lord Hromhada’s shuttle but only about twice its size. Its graceful curves melded into angular fins at the rear containing Skip engines that appeared to grow organically from the body of the ship, rather than bulkily welded on as an afterthought as did most Terran vessels. He couldn’t read the labels, but the ship appeared to accommodate a compliment of six to eight people. It carried the armaments of a small battle cruiser. With two particle beam projectors, sixteen laser cannons controlled by two weapons pods, and six missile ports, the small ship could probably hold its own against a Cha’aita cruiser.

  The over-sized engines were an odd configuration, a type Jazon had never seen before. They were almost as powerful as the Thrallimar’s engines, yet only a third their size. Jazon wasn’t sure if their purpose was longer Skips or faster ones. Such engines could make a big difference in a running battle with the Cha’aita.

  Occam’s Razor might be a prototype, but it appeared the Dastorans were keeping secrets from the rest of the Alliance.

  One small compartment just aft of the bridge drew Jazon’s scrutiny. In most Dastoran ships, a semi-independent Artificial Intelligence module, a blend of organics and crystalline lattice electronics, controlled ship’s functions rather than a true organic AI such as Earth ships possessed. Dastorans were engineering marvels but could not develop a fully organic AI from Dastoran stock, even with their superior cloning skills. The organics came from other species, bought or bartered at great cost, a few, Jazon suspected, from Earth.

  The room held no lines for fluid tanks for organic components, but by its placement and internal connections to ships functions, it would have to be the AI compartment, yet it was nearly four times as large as most such compartments. What kind of AI did this ship have? Most AIs were slightly larger than the human brain and mounted into the control console, accessed either through a neuron-link or by verbal commands. What kind of AI took up as much room as a human body? If they were allowing him to command such a ship, they were more desperate than he had imagined.

  The biggest ship Jazon had piloted in the Marines had been a drop shuttle, designed to get to the surface quickly with no fancy maneuvering and no long drawn out firefights, a screaming descent from the orbiting transport ship to the surface as fast as it could go. The grunts called them ‘Hell’s Express’ and the trip down ‘The Hades Run’. He was less a pilot than a transport operator.

  The ship he had leased as an artifact trader had been smaller than the Highborn’s shuttle, merely a small cabin, a cargo hold and engine compartment. Occam’s Razor, by all indications, was the equivalent of a pocket battle cruiser.

  These people are crazy, he mused.

  They needed an experienced commander for this job, not him. The AI could handle the piloting. Hell, one as big as they were planning could probably run
the ship single-handedly. Why had they not simply chosen Huumba or another Drone to command the ship? What qualifying factor did he, Jazon Lightsinger, possess that no one else did? Try as he might, he couldn’t think of one valid reason, except maybe his command experience at the Battle at the Rim.

  If they had access to his military records, they should know he had taken command only because there was no one left alive willing to assume responsibility for the survivors. His unorthodox maneuver to take the Cha’aita base had been foolhardy at best, a desperate gamble. He had lost too many good men on that piece of useless rock, and when it was all over, they had simply packed up and moved the war somewhere else. What a cruel joke on the cold corpses slowly drifting into the void they had not been able to recover. A hell of a joke on me as well. He fingered his lucky half-credit token through the material of his jumpsuit.

  The lights came on, and the 3-D image faded.

  “Are you lost?” asked a familiar, pleasant voice. Amissa. She leaned against the doorway frame, one hand resting on the opposite side.

  “I looked for you at lunch,” he opened, smiling as she approached.

  She bowed. “My apologies. An urgent matter called me away. Was the meal satisfactory?”

  Jazon laughed. “How could it not be? Ninety percent of the people on Earth don’t eat that well. Not since the War, anyway.”

  “I am pleased. I did oversee the selection of the items on menu.” She stood with her arms behind her, swaying slightly. “I went to your cabin but found you gone. I tracked you here.”

  Jazon gave her a questioning look. She pointed to the Enclave emblem on his jumpsuit.

  “Ah,” he said. “I should have guessed a ship like this would have one hell of a security system. I was exploring,” he said in a half-lie.

  She nodded at the empty space where the image of the ship had floated, moving closer to him. “Do you like your ship?”