Space Rodeo

by Jenny Schwartz

It was Carl’s turn to swear and retreat a step. “I thought you’d have lost the edge of a serving Star Marine.”

  “Aren’t assumptions a witch?” Max had been trained better than to think of anything but the fight underway, and yet… “If you were the assassin, how would you kill me?”

  The question failed to distract Carl. He kicked Max in the stomach.

  Tensed muscles protected Max’s organs. His breath still huffed out.

  “If I were the assassin, I’d look at using me. I’m the outsider inside the Lonesome. Suborn me through bribery or threats.”

  “Or by convincing you that I need putting down.”

  Carl kicked Max behind the knee.

  Max collapsed.

  The cyborg stilled. “No one approached me.”

  Max looked up at him from his position on the floor. He panted through pain and breathlessness. “I believe you. What would your second option be if you were the assassin?”

  Carl threw a water bottle at him. “The Lonesome is a tough target but not impossible. If I wanted to guarantee…” He froze with his own bottle midway to his mouth. His eyes went wide and unfocussed.

  “Poison our supplies?” Max guessed. “It’s not possible. Lon scans everything, and what he hasn’t grown, we’ve had aboard for months.”

  Carl refocused. The grim expression on his face aged him. Water trickled unnoticed from his tilted bottle. “We’ve overlooked the obvious. If I wanted to guarantee your death, Max, I’d make you kill yourself.”

  “Your urself inventor, Jerome, has designed a respectably stable spaceship,” Reynard said as he shared a chamber with Thelma while scanning through the latest Space Rodeo data. Whilst the comms lockdown he and Thelma had promised to uphold meant that they couldn’t transmit anything, passively acquiring data streaming past was possible. “The latest auto-piloted space dive of the Otua sent it through three revolutions, and it corrected its path in thirteen seconds. That beats the Hwicce courier class prototype by four seconds. Remarkable.”

  When she failed to reply, he added a prompt. “Would you like to view the dive data?”

  “No.” Thelma stared at her hands. They were locked together, the skin tight over her knuckles. She was scared, and denying that fear. Far better to feel determined. Resolute. Plus, she had a plan. She just had to approach it obliquely. “Reynard, traveling to the Lonesome you told me about your research into translocation, which involved you creating the comet helices. One of them is a double helix composed of one dominant and one less steady helix. You admitted that wasn’t on purpose. An error.”

  “It wasn’t an error since the initiation of the comet helices was an experiment. There are no errors in an experiment’s results, only in its conduct.”

  “You cut into reality to extract slices of it.”

  Reynard scratched two tentacles together sharply in a sign of impatience, and perhaps, defensiveness. “You express my actions clumsily. To form the spars of the helices—”

  “I was piloting a prototype spaceship on a space dive that struck where two spars of the double helix intersected. I experienced a time dual-location moment which you explained as bi-temporal. Two moments in time occupying the same location in space. But I think your interpretation of my experience was wrong.”

  “I studied the data.”

  “From your own preconceptions. Consider if it wasn’t two moments in time that collided, but two realities. As the stronger reality asserted itself, the weaker one ceased to exist. Long ago scientists dismissed the idea of a multiverse, but what if there was an element of truth to it? What if your comet helices pull potential realities into our universe, which we don’t notice until the spars occupy the same space and one reality point implodes.”

  She exploded her hands apart. “It can’t explode, or the energy would escape. But if it implodes, and draws our reality tight, possibilities vanish.”

  “This is a strange idea,” Reynard said.

  Thelma nodded. She agreed. And it felt like wasting time to be discussing it with the AI now, but she wanted him to do something impossible. She was building a bridge to that point, and she was building it fast. She had to make it strong enough to hold the weight of her desperation, and of Reynard’s stubbornness. “It’s a strange idea, but if there’s any truth to it then it holds incredible power. The power to choose the future. This isn’t about time travel. Time continues to proceed linearly, and that matters, because that’s the requirement for entropy. An arrow into the future, with everything unraveling behind it.”

  She took a deep breath. “Remember how Lon mentioned entropy? How it snapped back against his predictive algorithms? But if we modify those algorithms and only rarely focus them on a single point, if you learn how to reach into the space-time continuum and slice it into helix spars and align them to intersect—”

  “Almost impossible, even if I was willing to waste time exploring your ridiculous notion of something more pseudoscience than mathematically conceivable.” Despite his scorn, Reynard sounded intrigued.

  She leaned forward. “At the intersection point, the more statistically probable scenario would assert itself as the reality, and the other would implode, and in doing so, it would add tension to the surviving reality at that point, which would mean reducing or removing variables immediately involved.”

  “Ludicrous. You are making massive assumptions.”

  “I am. But what if I’m right? What if, with enough research you could choose to guarantee a particular reality?”

  In the ensuing silence, she could hear her own heartbeat, or imagined she could.

  The silence gave her hope.

  Did Reynard have the emotional and moral maturity to discern what she was asking?

  He did.

  “You ask if I would play god?”

  “Would you?”

  His answer was immediate and rang with conviction. “No.”

  She’d have smiled, except that the next stage in this conversation was equally perilous. Beginning with an intellectual puzzle centered on Reynard’s use of comet helices had been by design. She needed him engaged. Now, he had his moral principles in mind as well. Some were his, some were Harry’s. She had to coax him forward to accept what living those principles meant.

  “The greater the power, the greater the temptation to act like a god,” she said quietly. “How do people protect themselves from that temptation?”

  “Not by denying themselves knowledge,” Reynard said instantly. It seemed that he wanted to explore her idea of reality points imploding.

  She agreed with him. “Knowledge is never the problem.”

  “It is how it’s used that matters.” Reynard was silent. “What are you trying to manipulate me into doing?”

  Her lips parted on a painful sound that was meant to be laughter. She reached out and he coiled a tentacle around her hand. She patted the tentacle with her free hand. “You’ve learned about connection, about being there for another person. About forgiveness, I hope. I am manipulating you. I’m sorry. I…for me to get what I want, you have to do something you really, really won’t like.”

  “Which is?”

  She stepped forward. “This hug is not about manipulation. It’s about comfort.”

  Metal tentacles wrapped around her as softly as a silva-shawl. “You’re worried about Max.”

  “I am. I’m also furious on his behalf. Let me explain. Then I’ll ask a favor.”

  For three days Carl harangued Max, and Lon, arguing that the Lonesome had to depart the Saloon Sector as quickly and publicly as possible. “It’s the only way to keep people safe from being used as hostages to ensure Max’s cooperation. If he’s not here, he can’t be used.”

  Lon disagreed. “If Max runs, the assassin will press the trigger on whatever plan he’s constructed, potentially killing hundreds of people. It’ll be a warning to Max.”

  A blind message on the fourth day ended the debate. There was a video and instructions. Instructions on how Max was to di
e.

  Max received the transmission in his office. He watched it in silence. “How many people are at the Deadstar Diner?”

  Lon was solemn. “It’s become a tourist destination since the raphus geode cache marketing spin Thelma put on Wild Blaster Bill’s tall tale. The starliners have added it to their Space Rodeo itineraries. ‘See the real frontier. Can you find a raphus geode?’ They guide parties up to the fake cache site, ‘discover’ one of Darlene’s coupons,” Darlene was the owner-manager of the Deadstar Diner, “and claim their coffee or meal at the diner. Counting in the people onboard spaceships docked at the diner, the number can vary from a thousand to upward of ten thousand. I’m sorry, Max.”

  “It’s a clever site to hold hostage.” He stared at the image he’d frozen the video on.

  In continuing to travel further from the Space Rodeo and in the direction of Sheriff Zajak’s territory, the Lonesome was now a mere two days’ journey away from the Deadstar Diner; albeit at the Lonesome’s Covert Ops courier-equivalent speed, which was insanely fast for a ship of its size.

  The assassin’s instructions gave Max three days to reach the asteroid on which the Deadstar Diner was situated.

  The video showed asteroid worms drilled into the surface at three points. If the assassin had loaded them with the nuclear missiles he claimed, then there was enough force there to destroy the asteroid and any spaceships in the vicinity. In addition, the assassin had harnessed the power of chain reactions. Destroy one spaceship and in this sort of proximity, others would follow, their systems overwhelmed and power cores exploding. On regulated spacedocks there were shields in place to prevent cascading failure. The Deadstar Diner had none of those.

  The diner was also a refueling station. Its tanks wouldn’t survive multiple ship explosions. The destruction would be at the level of obliteration.

  In the blind message, the assassin kept his demand blunt as he reiterated Max’s sole option. “Any attempt to evacuate the Deadstar Diner, and I trigger the explosion. Any approach of official vessels, other than yours, and I trigger the explosion. Only you can save the people at the Deadstar Diner, Sheriff Smith. Your presence, confirmed by your retina scan, and the worms are disabled. I adjusted the asteroid worms’ override switches just for you. You have three days. The countdown is on.”

  “Lon, copy the message to Carl. He may have some ideas.”

  “I have some.” Harry walked into the office. His human mannerisms held, but he didn’t sit in the chair reinforced to bear his mech body’s weight. “And some good news. Lon showed me the transmission.”

  Max nodded. That was standard procedure. Everyone on the Lonesome got read into security threats.

  “The assassin chose a good site, from his perspective. Remote, but busy. Also one that you have an emotional connection to. You’re friends with Darlene and Wild Blaster Bill. You visit often. Thelma likes them.”

  Max and Thelma had had their first date at the diner. The Kampia had interrupted it, but it still counted as their first date.

  “But the assassin lacked a vital piece of information.” Harry folded his arms, looking powerful and scary. “My interest in raphus geode hunters. Since the Kampia’s visit, I’ve been focusing on traces and legends of the specters, but my primary responsibility remains to protect raphus geodes.” Including undiscovered legendary caches of the seeds of life left behind by the specters. “For due diligence, I set up a system to watch the fake cache site. Even knowing it’s fake, a lot of raphus geode hunters won’t be able to resist a visit. Staking out the site helps me identify who I should watch.”

  “And your surveillance system hasn’t been disabled?” Lon asked.

  Harry smiled. “I’m sneaky. If he’d detected it, the assassin would have set up his scheme elsewhere. The only problem is that I was tagging identities, not activities, so the system didn’t alert me to the asteroid worms.” The worms weren’t actual worms. They were self-propelled drilling technology used by asteroid miners. “However, I’m tracking back through the data. The assassin couldn’t have released the worms or set up the hidden ID recognition system during a guided trek to the fake cache site. So I’m looking for individual or small party visits.”

  “I can help,” Lon offered.

  Max sat staring at the ID recognition system onscreen. “A retina scan is old-fashioned for ID systems.”

  “It forces you to raise your helmet to achieve the scan,” Lon said. “Raised helmet, no atmosphere. You’re dead.”

  “Yeah, but…where did the assassin get a scan of my retina? It’s not like DNA and RNA patterned sample collections. The archives of the Interstellar Sheriff Service on Dauphin is the only place I can think of that uses retina ID. Is the assassin bluffing?”

  Harry interrupted, mercilessly triumphant. “Got him. Bernard Chen, owner and sole registered occupant of the space yacht Peto.”

  “Searching the database,” Lon said. “Uh huh. Hmm. Bernard Chen has been careful not to raise any flags. He’s traveling as part of a Lone Travelers convoy. Tourists. They visited the Space Rodeo, then traveled down to the Deadstar Diner. After some debate they’ve veered off to peek at the Badstars.”

  “Idiots,” Max growled.

  “Difficult to track them out there,” Lon said. “But the Peto would be near enough for Chen to monitor the Deadstar Diner remotely and respond in close to real time.”

  Harry unfolded his arms, signaling an eagerness to move on. “Whilst remaining clear of the danger zone. We need to divide and conquer.”

  “Carl is coming up,” Lon warned them. “He has watched Chen’s video twice.”

  Harry’s response was to switch to his emotionless mech persona. Evidently, he’d decided it was time that Max’s new deputy “met” him, for a certain definition of met.

  Carl rocked to a halt in the doorway of the office, literally grabbing the frame at the sight of Harry. “Whoa. I’d heard you had a mech. Holy hades. That thing is freaky.”

  “And effective,” Max said. “We have a counter-terrorism operation to plan. The mech is part of it.”

  They needed to be in two places at once: the Deadstar Diner to disable the remote detonation system and remove the asteroid worms; and out to the Badstars to catch Chen. Theoretically, either task could be outsourced. Sargus was tracking them in the fully stealthed Anubis. Max had a bone-deep instinct not to share the information with him, and yet…

  “Sit down,” he said to Carl.

  The other man obeyed, but turned his chair to keep Harry in his peripheral vision.

  “We had a lucky break with the site the assassin chose for his scheme. Activities on and around the Deadstar Diner are better surveilled than people realize.”

  After a couple of seconds, Carl nodded his head. “The manager hired mercenaries for security.”

  “That’s not where my data comes from.” Max closed the video message, switching the viewscreen to Lon’s data map and zooming in on the Deadstar Diner and the route to the Badstars. It wasn’t a Sunday jaunt, that route. There were hazards out there, some likely unmapped. For Max, that was an advantage. The convoy the Peto was part of wouldn’t be traveling fast.

  “The assassin was recorded at the fake cache site. Unfortunately, it was passive data collection and no alert was sent, but we did track him back to his vessel.”

  Carl leaned forward, seeming to forget Harry’s looming presence.

  Max recognized a fellow justice hunter. “The assassin’s name—at least, the name recorded against the ownership and sole occupant record for his spaceship, Peto—is Bernard Chen.”

  “Bernard Chen,” Carl repeated the name under his breath. “I don’t recognize it.”

  “We’re not searching for anything on him,” Max said. “At least not in any official databases where we’d leave a trail. Bernard Chen is hiding the Peto as part of a tourist convoy currently underway to visit the Badstars.”

  “Idiots,” Carl muttered.

  As much as he shared the sentiment�
�the Badstars was not suitable for tourist dudes—Max stayed on track. “Lon, how quickly can the Lonesome catch up with the Peto?”

  “Two and a half days.”

  Carl grimaced. “We have a three day countdown.”

  Max’s nod said, I’m aware. Out loud, he asked Lon how long it would take the Anubis to catch up with the Peto.

  “Same as us.” Lon hesitated. “Barring trouble.”

  Nothing in life was guaranteed.

  “The assassin, this Bernard Chen, will check that the Lonesome is on track to the Deadstar Diner.” Carl frowned at the data map, then at Max. “You need Sargus’s help. He’s hunting the name of who ordered the hit on you.”

  Max was interested why Covert Ops were committing so many resources to discovering that fact. Lon had hypothesized that Covert Ops feared that one or more of their own had been turned. “Can we trust him, though? Or rather, will he trust me? I’m going to give him the assassin’s name and location, but no evidence of where I got the information.”

  “Why withhold your source?”

  “Loyalty.”

  Carl’s gaze unfocussed, his thoughts turned inward. He was almost as still as Harry. “Oddly, I think Sargus might accept that answer.”

  “Will he accept it enough that he won’t trip any flags by searching Covert Ops databases for information on Chen?”

  “Ah. You don’t trust him not to inadvertently leak info. Ironic, given Covert Ops’s reputation for secrecy, especially dark runners like the Anubis.” But Carl’s expression conspicuously lacked any amusement. The situation was too serious, balanced on too fine a knife edge, to find humor in irony. “There is a code…if Lon uses a tight beam to comm the Anubis and I transmit the code, in responding to it, Sargus commits the Anubis to a comms lockdown for twenty four hours. Lockdown after that timeframe is at his discretion as captain.”

  “Better than nothing,” Lon opined.

  Carl tapped his hands against his thighs. “The Anubis has to go after the assassin. It’s already running cloaked. The Lonesome has to stay visible and demonstrate that you’re headed to the Deadstar Diner.”