by J. E. Gurley
“She’s a beauty, all right, but what about the name?”
“A man from Earth, a Fourteenth Century Franciscan friar named William of Ockham, once stated ‘Plurality should not be posited without necessity’. Briefly, it means the simplest explanation is often the best. His theorem became Occam’s Razor, a philosophical test. It has often been used as a proof that there is no God; that the universe unfolded of its own accord.”
“Ah, then Lord Hromhada means to discover if this life form is God’s handiwork.”
Amissa smiled. “You are more astute than you wish others to suspect. While it is true that Lord Hromhada does not worship your God, or even the plethora of Dastoran deities, he does believe in a higher power, a guiding force in the universe, so the principle is the same. Yours will be a voyage of discovery.”
Jazon glanced away, drumming his fist on his thigh. “Ah, we need to talk about that. I think you have the wrong man.”
“You agreed to go.” She looked into his eyes as if to say, ‘I warned you’.
He lifted on hand and waggled it in the air.
“Heat of the moment. I was carried away by the possibility of going home, and by the money, I suppose. I don’t think I could handle a ship like this. Surely there are Dastorans capable of flying her?”
Amissa said nothing for a moment as if weighing her reply.
“Lord Hromhada will explain more fully,” she explained softly. “I know several tried to pilot the ship but failed. It was designed for a human neuro-link interface, and Dastoran alterations for a proper link have not been … satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory?” he repeated letting the word roll off his tongue. The whole ‘neuro-link interface’ thing sent shivers running up and down his spine. The Marines had toyed with the idea of human interface kamikaze ships operated with a low-level clone, but hadn’t been successful. Their failures had been spectacular, even destroying one Alliance cruiser along with its two-hundred and fifty-three-man crew.
Amissa moved closer. She pretended to brush something from Jazon’s shoulder with her hand, as she whispered into his ear. Her fragrance was overpowering, a combination of sexual pheromones and lilac. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
“Three Drones were either killed or permanently injured during testing of the interface. The ship must be piloted by a human, a Terran.” She rested her hand on his chest for a moment before pushing away. She crossed the room and stood beside the control panel. “There are many beautiful plays by Hortomotera here if you care to see them.” She seemed to be speaking solely for the benefit of the security cameras. “May I find one for you?”
Must be piloted by a human. An interesting bit of news. “No, I think I’ll head back to my cabin to rest if you’ll show me the way?”
“Of course,” she agreed readily.
He walked beside her. Her fragrance was now very light. The lilac remained, but the heady pheromone mixture had subsided. He dropped a pace or two behind her and enjoyed the supple movement of her hips as she glided gracefully down the corridor.
This time she wore a long red dress split along one side almost to her waist, hiding no flesh, only framing it. The thin material clung to her like a second skin. She glanced back and smiled at his obvious attempt at ass watching. Chagrined, he moved ahead to walk beside her again.
Something was puzzling him. “Why did Lord Hromhada name the ship Occam’s Razor, I mean in Terran? Why not the Dastoran equivalent?”
“There is no Dastoran equivalent. It is to be your ship. Is not a Terran name more appropriate?”
“My ship,” he repeated and shook his head. “I think Lord Hromhada is slightly insane.”
Her smile betrayed nothing.
“How old are you?” he asked casually. As a clone, he knew she could be anywhere between twenty and one hundred and twenty. Clones aged more slowly than did womb-born humans.
“Does it matter?” she teased, brushing her hips against his. “Earth women are sexually active at fourteen, and many remain so until they are seventy or eighty.”
“I guess not. You’re beautiful, you know.”
Jazon was amazed when she actually blushed at his compliment. “Thank you, but I can take no credit for the work of others. I am as I was created.”
“Do you feel less human because you were cloned? On Earth, a clone has all the rights of a natural born citizen, but there is still resentment and prejudice by many people.”
Even he had been an In Vivo Firster at one time, a staunch believer in a birth mother. He had been one of those people who had whined about the destruction of human dignity because of the introduction of clones’ rights. A stint in the Marines had ended that.
A clone corpsman had pulled his ass out of a firefight after a laser had sliced into his side, and watched over him until medics had arrived. He even had a cloned liver in his body. From that day forward, he made no distinction between clones and naturals.
“Less human?” She answered. “No. Simply less.”
They said nothing else as they walked to his cabin. Her answer had surprised him. He had known clones who felt inferior to naturals, but he was not sure exactly what she had meant by her statement and was afraid to delve deeper. If her silence was any indication, it was a sore subject with her.
He wondered why she had not chosen a transport. They passed few servants and almost no Highborn along the length of the deserted corridors. He wondered just how many Dastorans were aboard the ship. No one knew how many were in an Enclave. Estimates had run from fifty-thousand to two-hundred-and-fifty thousand. Of the five Enclaves, the Trilock had completely annihilated one and had decimated two others. It was possible that fewer than five-hundred-thousand Dastorans survived on all their remaining worlds. Perhaps Amissa was discretely showing him how few remained. The servants they encountered seemed intently focused on their assigned duties ignoring Jazon completely.
“They don’t seem very curious,” he said to Amissa.
“Many are of low intelligence with duty protocols imprinted directly into their DNA, allowing them to perform their tasks regardless how complex or how menial with no regrets or desire for betterment. They are genetically devoted to the Highborn. The Highborn treat them as slaves.”
Jazon recognized the note of disdain in Amissa’s voice. Slavery was a distasteful word in any culture. Did she have such protocols built into her DNA? If so, she had been able to advise him against accepting the Lord Hromhada’s offer, unless of course, this was just another way to steer him toward the decision they wanted him to make.
Using a beautiful woman to control a man’s actions was as old as Samson and Delilah or Mata Hari.
His head spun from lack of sleep and confusion, enhanced by coming down from his alcohol high. He was suddenly very tired. Amissa opened his door and led him inside his suite by the hand. He leaned against the wall and faced her.
“Why me?” he asked bluntly.
Amissa lowered her head. With her voice so quiet he was forced to strain to hear, she said, “You are a warrior. You know the meaning of sacrifice.”
Her answer was as enigmatic as Lyton’s and just as loaded. “I was a lowly sergeant in the Marines, a grunt. That hardly qualifies me as a warrior.”
She looked up at him with something akin to regret in her azure eyes. “Nevertheless, you have fought battles. You have learned to control your emotions in order to complete your mission. Your fear does not inhibit you.”
“Yeah, I’m no coward,” he agreed reluctantly, “when I’ve got no place to run, but that doesn’t give me the right to command.”
“Occam’s Razor’s AI requires guidance in certain matters if the mission is to succeed. A human interface is needed.”
Jazon shook his head. It was all too much to take right now. “The ship’s AI, especially Occam’s Razor’s if size is any indication, should be able to handle any battle situation far more quickly and efficiently than I could.”
Amissa looked as if she was going
to say something more, but stopped. Her expression was a mixture of pity and admiration. Her eyes flashed from azure to purple, like the skies above Arizona before a storm. The air filled with the fragrance of Terran roses. Jazon had not smelled roses in twenty years. He almost wept at the sudden, stabbing memory.
“Sleep now,” she said. “Later, I will return, if you wish me to.” She reached up to touch his brow, and let her hand slide gently down his cheek. It seemed as if that motion drained all his energy. He suddenly felt woozy.
“What have you sacrificed?” he asked as his mind slowly drifted away. The alcohol might have been the culprit, but he suspected Amissa, something she had done with her touch. The thought faded before completion.
“My sacrifice is yet to come,” she answered.
Jazon nodded numbly, not comprehending her words, but taking comfort in her tone as she helped him to his bed. He lay down, fully clothed, and was out in seconds. He did not see Amissa stand by his bed for a long while watching the rhythmic motion of his chest rising and falling before gently kissing his forehead and leaving. Nor did he hear her quiet sobs as she closed the door.
4
Death rides on every passing breeze, he lurks in every flower
At a Funeral No. I Reginald Heber
Jazon awoke in darkness, but knew instantly that he was not alone. He had taken no D-Tox, and his head still throbbed from too much alcohol, but that was not what had awakened him. He was not alone. With instincts fine-honed by years of combat, he lay perfectly still and listened to the silence, focusing his full attention on any slight movement. At first, he thought he had been mistaken, his instincts too rusty through disuse. Then he heard a slight scuffling in the corner of the room near the door. He could not see them, but he knew someone was crouched there in the darkness, and from the smell, he knew it was not Amissa. His nose caught the unmistakable fetid scent of a Trilock. He cursed silently under his breath. The coppery odor of old, dried blood from the Trilock’s last meal, combined with his natural heavy musk, produced an easily recognizable odor, one he had suffered often enough on his single visit to a Trilock planet.
So, he mused, the Trilock have decided to show their true colors and eliminate the new leader of the expedition. But why such stealth? This was not the usual Trilock method of murder, most often a physical attack, preceded by a loud, verbal assault, using their tremendous size and strength to overpower their victim. Assassination was not honorable to a warrior. Perhaps his stalker did not consider him worthy of an honorable death.
He waited patiently with every rational instinct screaming at him to jump up and call for the lights, knowing that if he did so, the Trilock would forget stealth and simply shoot him. He opened one eye and saw only a vague shadow, but he could now hear his assailant’s heartbeat, heavy and rapid. The Trilock was hungry for the kill.
His visitor approached. Wait. Wait. Now! Jazon threw the bed covers over the Trilock’s head as the Trilock leaned over him. He rolled off the bed onto the floor. His stunner was across the room. It would not subdue a Trilock in a killing rage, but he was not entirely without a weapon. In his hand he held a slim blade, short but sharp, the fine steel tested by many battles, plucked from beneath his pillow. He always slept with the dagger close by his side. Ulrich had looked upon this little affectation with utter disdain, but Jazon knew it would someday save his worthless hide. He hoped tonight was that time.
“Lights!” he yelled. Nothing happened. He scrambled across the floor knowing he had revealed his position. “Lights!” His second call produced no better results. He glanced at the computer screen, also dead. The Trilock had cut power to his room, ostensibly to eliminate the prying eye of the security cameras. It would be a duel to the death in the dark. His eyes almost useless in the dark gloom, Jazon concentrated on the sounds the Trilock was making. Thankfully, the Trilock could see no better in the dark than could he. The Trilock was large and heavy, and moved like a drunken bull. He was relying on strength and surprise for the kill.
“So, Trilock, you show your true colors at last. Spawn of rotted meat,” Jazon spat into the darkness. He hoped to anger his assailant, perhaps throw him off balance. The Trilock responded with a deep, guttural growl. If intended to frighten an opponent, the sound was working.
“Let my blade find you swiftly, Terran. Let us end this game. I do not wish to prolong your suffering.”
That was a good bit of news. The Trilock assassin was using his battle sword instead of his blaster. Had he chosen this more silent method of execution because of some Trilock ritual, or simply because he wished to avoid attracting unwanted attention? Whatever the reason, it offered him a slim chance. He edged to the left of the sound of the voice and crouched low. He had heard that the Trilock prefer a neck slash for the killing blow, harkening back to their days of bleeding their prey before consuming it. He briefly wondered if the Trilock would taste his flesh if victorious.
“It will end with you skewered, eater of feces,” he taunted the Trilock, very slowly inching his way forward. The Trilock, expecting his puny human prey to retreat for the door, which was probably sealed, approached Jazon’s last position. Jazon saw a flash of black body armor as he passed. The Trilock was taking no chances. He rolled forward and jabbed his blade into the back of the Trilock’s knee, one of the few weak spots in the articulated armor. Jazon felt satisfaction as the blade sliced flesh. Hot, sticky blood splattered his face and hands.
The Trilock yelped in pain and swung his sword wildly. Jazon felt the rush of wind as the blade barely brushed his cheek. The Trilock briefly fell to one knee, but quickly staggered upright again, though swaying unbalanced on the injured leg. Jazon backed up and hid behind a chair. A fine line of warm blood trickled down his left cheek. He had been lucky. It was merely a scratch. The Trilock did not retreat. A human, or a member of most any of the other races, would be badly handicapped by the wound he had inflicted on the Trilock, but the enraged Trilock ignored it.
“My little blade likes the taste of Trilock blood, One Leg. Come! Let it drink more.” He hoped insulting the Trilock by calling him ‘One Leg’ would incense him.
Trilock warriors swiftly killed their maimed or severely injured comrades, and left their bodies to rot where they fell. Only those labeled cowards escaped this honorable fate, their injuries forever proclaiming their shame.
The Trilock was fully enraged now, rampaging across the room, slinging furniture in all directions, frantically searching for his prey. In minutes, he would dismantle the room piece by piece, and Jazon would have nowhere left to hide. He ducked as a small couch scarcely missed his head and crashed into the computer. Playing cat and mouse would no longer work. Jazon stood up from his hiding place. His eyes were growing acclimated to the dark, and he could see the Trilock confronting him from across the darkened room, a shadow upon shadows. Although neither of them could see the other’s eyes in the darkness, he felt his opponent’s eyes digging into his.
The Trilock charged, his massive body pounding the floor as he raced at Jazon. Jazon knew retreating would be useless. He had only one chance. Waiting until the Trilock was a mere body length away, he threw his blade with all his strength at the Trilock’s head. It was a risky move. If his blade missed its target, it would bounce harmlessly off the armor, and he would die.
He rolled to one side, but not quickly enough to avoid entirely the swinging sword. It slashed into his side like a hammer, knocking him breathless across the floor. He felt warm liquid flowing down his side. The blade had bitten deeply. He tried to rise to his knees, but the effort proved too much. He waited for the next blow, the deathblow. It never came. Jazon raised his head and saw his opponent lying on the floor, his body trembling in death spasms, the hilt of the dagger protruding from the Trilock’s eye. The blade had entered the narrow visor slit of his battle armor and penetrated the Trilock’s brain, killing him instantly.
If he had been wearing his full visor, Jazon’s blade would have bounced off harmlessly. The
Trilock, with some small sense of honor, or else stupidity, had forgone his visor with its built-in night vision gear. If he had been wearing it, Jazon would be lying there instead.
“Lights!” Jazon called again, this time in great pain. Still nothing happened. He heard pounding at the door, someone trying to get in. He attempted to crawl to the door, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Each movement sent shooting spasms of agony through his side and chest. He couldn’t draw a full breath. He heard the hissing crackle of a cutting torch as someone began burning through the lock. He coughed, and his head reeled in pain. He felt blood dribble from his lips and knew he wouldn’t make it. His trembling fingers groped for his lucky token, but couldn’t find it.
“Poor, Ulrich,” he whispered. “Who’ll take care of you now?” Then, the room went even blacker.
Ulrich was in awe of the amount of information he was able to access on the ship’s computer. He had encountered no password protected or encrypted files, causing him to wonder if the Dastorans were allowing him complete access, or if they simply dismissed the need for such security measures aboard the Thrallimar, although that seemed unlikely during a time of war. It was possible his room’s system, as elaborate as it was, did not link to Lord Hromhada’s personal network and would therefore need no special security passwords.
As he had suspected, his investigations indicated that Professor Lyton was there with the full cooperation of both the Terran Council and the Alliance as an advisor on non-organic life forms, though Ulrich was certain the Dastorans had personnel equally qualified. Apparently, some political maneuvering had occurred behind the scenes of Alliance Command to allow a Terran access to the new life form.
Ulrich suspected Professor Lyton was also acting as a spy for Earth, though he certainly didn’t look the part. Or perhaps, he thought wryly, a bit of Jazon’s cynicism has rubbed off on me.
The Trilock had protested Alliance involvement in their sector of space, calling the mission an undisguised precursor to an attempt at Alliance settlement, but they couldn't risk alienating the other Alliance members by an actual refusal. Reluctantly, they had agreed to allow the mission, but could withdraw their offer at any time. Time, it seemed, was of the essence.
