Burning Eagle

by Navin Weeraratne

  “No. Which is why anyone who agrees to, can join me in taking the Washington into uncharted space.”

  “We’re stealing the Washington?” asked Viegas. The officers exchanged glances.

  My fellow citizens of the Interstellar Union, this is Commodore Gerard Cullins of the UEF Planet Carrier, Washington. This message carries with it incontrovertible records that prove that Transcendents in high office conspired to allow the fall of Paradiso, a century ago. These Transcendents have pursued a secret agenda that has cost millions of lives, while publicly claiming to support the defense of Humanity.

  We have been manipulated by these beings. Until they are removed from power, we will not be safe. Myself and my crew have sworn an oath to protect the Union from all threats, both foreign and domestic. We intend to honor our oaths. We will work to hold those who committed these acts accountable for their actions, and we ask you to do the same. Only together can we overcome the subversion of our society, and take back control of our government.

  This is Commodore Cullins aboard the Revolutionary Flagship, Washington. God bless you, and God bless us all.

  ###

  Thanks for reading my book! I hope you enjoyed it. If you did (hooray!) would you be comfortable rating it, or posting a review at the site you got it from? It'll help others find it who may also enjoy it.

  The whole point of Burning Eagle was to establish a broad setting, to help me get back into writing. It's done that, and I'm working on another book, set much closer to the present.

  The Hundred Gram Mission is about an expedition to Alpha Centauri, in the context of a world suffering climate change. Can we afford Big Science when refugees cram our streets? And isn't it just as tragic if we decide we can't?

  An excerpt from The Hundred Gram Mission follows. If you'd like updates, just click and follow my blog or my author page on Smashwords.

  About the Author

  Navin Weeraratne is a miniature painter living in Sri Lanka. Together with his amazing and beautiful wife Thilani, he hosts geek and nerd events in their community. He has five cats and two dogs, and cannot justify the time he spends playing Kerbal Space Program.

  Read his Smashwords interview here.

  Connect with Navin

  Follow my blog: http://navinscifi.blogspot.com/

  Favorite me at Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/pnweerar

  Excerpt from The Hundred Gram Mission

  2051, Indonesia, Central Kalimantan

  “Come in,” she said in Bahasa, her accent Australian. “Don’t stand there in the rain!”

  On the benches, children coughed like TB patients. They clung to bored mothers in brightly colored headscarves. An ancient, shoeless, Malay brushed mud from his feet and checked his phone apps. Mounted on a wall bracket, a Three Vee ran the Faith Network. Smiling Anglo commentators said that their Lord loved them, and was coming soon. All the patients discerned was that white people had amazing teeth.

  “Please sit down and take a number,” said the girl again. He noticed that her teeth were perfect. “Is this your first time in the clinic?”

  “Yes,” the man stepped into the waiting room, water dripping from his rain coat. It was hardly more than a large plastic sheet. “Are all the doctors here?”

  “Here,” Teeth handed him a crisp paper tag, “just wait till it lights up. Then it will be your turn to see the doctor. Since this is your first time, we’d like to ask you a few questions. It will help the doctor give you better care.” She swiped her tablet and opened a new file. He noticed the gold crucifix around her neck.

  “Are both the doctors here?”

  “Yes, but you won’t need both of them, at least I hope not! Are you in any pain?”

  He sat down on a bench. A little girl stared at him, too young for tact. Headscarves started gossiping about an absent neighbor.

  “I’m fine. Can I answer the questions later?”

  “That’s fine. If you need anything, just let me or the assistant know.”

  The Australian disappeared into one of the treatment rooms. The little girl came over to him.

  “Hello. What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Kumala.”

  “Kumala, I’m Sukarno. Have you been here before?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you know if they get medicine from somewhere, or if they make it here?”

  “They make it. In the machine.”

  “Do you know where the machine is?”

  She pointed to a door.

  “Good girl. Are you a Christian, Kumala?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good.”

  “We have a new patient tonight, a walk in,” said Abigail. “Do you want him or shall I give him to Andrew?”

  Elena looked up from rinsing her arms in a bucket of disinfectant. “No that’s alright, I’ll take him. Did you do an assessment?”

  “No. He seemed uncomfortable.”

  “No worries, we’ll just assess him when he comes in.”

  Loud male voices suddenly came through the door.

  “You said it was one new patient, right?”

  Abigail frowned. “Yes. There was only one other man.”

  “Well there’s more now. You better go check. This better not be another sterilization fight.”

  Abigail stepped back out, closing the door.

  And screamed.

  Elena threw open the door. There were six masked men standing in the waiting room. They carried 3d-printed rifles and cast iron machetes. Two aimed at her, she quickly raised her hands. The others studied the terrified patients. Children howled.

  “Oi!” a tall man with thinning hair stepped out of the second examination room. Beside him was a short Indonesian woman wearing scrubs. “This is a free clinic,” he said in English. “We don’t have any money, and we just here to help these people. We’ll help you too, if you need medical care. We won’t report you to the government.” The woman translated into Bahasa.

  They shot them both.

  “Everyone, get on the ground!” One gunman yelled above the screaming. “Get on the ground or we will kill you!”

  Everyone scrambled for the cut cement floor. Abigail got down, the smell of antiseptic welled from the floor. She looked about – the new patient wasn’t there. Then the door to the pharmacy opened, and he walked out. In his arms was a white box the size of a large microwave. He spoke to the gunmen.

  “What are they saying?” hissed Elena.

  “I don’t know. They’re talking in Banjar now.”

  “Is that it?” asked one of the masks.

  “Yes, it’s the pharma maker,” Sukarno handed it carefully to another gunman. “With this we can produce every drug that GlaxoSmithKline makes.”

  “So what do we do?” asked another mask. “You have spoken and acted plainly, without your mask, brother.”

  He bent down over Abigail and took the tablet from her hands.

  “They have kept records on the patients. With this,” he brandished the tablet and looked about the room. “If anyone says anything to the government,” he said loudly in Bahasa, “We will come to your home.” He motioned to the old Malay. “He looks Chinese. Take him outside, ask him some questions. If he is Chinese, then kill him.”

  “What about the two women?” asked the mask. “Can we teach these Christian bitches a lesson?”

  “Teach them a lesson. Then bring them outside, and we can behead them.”

  Evan Stockwell

  FBI, Directorate of Intelligence, Washington DC

  “Agent Stockwell?” The woman stood in the open doorway, hand on the handle. Light poured into the dark office from outside.

  The man looked up, his face lit by his screen. Insurgent recruitment in oil-dry Arab kingdoms would have to wait. “That’s me.”

  “Agent Pirello, Strategic Information and Operations. Any reason all your comms are off?”

  “I can’t concentrate with the disturbances. Besides, anyone who wants
me is just outside.”

  “Well you’re wanted upstairs. Grab your coat.”

  He frowned. “I need my coat for that?”

  “You need your coat, because after that you’ll be getting on a plane. Do you have your passport here? You’re going to Indonesia.”

  Thirty agents sat in rows in the briefing room. Wall-mounted screens showed bimbo news anchors or infra-red drone feeds. Standing before them were rolled up sleeves and a loose tie. He gestured at a map of Indonesia on display behind him.

  “At about twenty hundred hours local time, militants stormed a clinic in the Kalimantan uplands. The clinic was illegal, run by Australian evangelical Christians. The militants shot two of the staff, and then raped and beheaded two others.”

  Behind him, the map was replaced by grim video captures. Masked men fired guns into the air, standing over bound corpses. It cut to a bearded man sitting before a black flag. Rifle in hand, he spoke slowly and deliberately.

  Stockwell and Pirello entered and sat quietly at the back.

  “Who’s leading the meeting?” he whispered.

  “He’s Special Agent-In-Charge, Likavec,” she replied. “Your new boss.”

  “Who speaks Bahasa here?” Likavec looked round the room.

  Several hands went up.

  “Special Agent Cho,” he pointed, “You want to tell us what he’s saying?”

  “He’s warning away all infidels. He’s mentioning the Indonesian government, calling them traitor. He’s mentioning the Chinese; foreign and local NGOs; Australia; the United States – “ he stopped suddenly, and frowned.

  Likavec grinned.

  “Uhuh. What else is he saying?”

  “He’s not making sense.”

  “Isn’t he?”

  “Pemerintahan mesin saleh,” called out Stockwell. “Which can be translated as ‘the age of spiritual machines.’ He’s referencing Kurzweil, one of the first Transhumanists. He’s calling on Moslems of all sects to rise up against those machines. Now he’s moving on to condemning emigration. He doesn’t mean from Indonesia, though. He means from Earth.”

  “Everyone,” Likavec held out his arm, “This is Intelligence Analyst, Evan Stockwell. You want to tell us what your area is, Mr. Stockwell?”

  “Anti-technology militancy in Flooded and Still Third World nations. I can spot the tells in this video Sir, the group is Jemaat Ansar, the ‘Gathering of the Helpers.’”

  “Are you sure? They don’t identify themselves in the video. It was posted from a hijacked account.”

  “Then I’m even more positive. Jemaat Ansar doesn’t go after NGO-run, free clinics. Knowing it was in their area must have been too much for some of them. These members must have acted on their own accord and then not been able to resist bragging, either. Jemaat goes after technology targets. They’re more interested in beheading space construction moghuls, like Daryl Spectorov.”

  “Not the kind of group you hear about every day, folks. Mr. Stockwell, welcome to the FBI’s Counterterrorism Fly Team. These people are trained and ready to fly anywhere on Earth, or Earth orbit, within hours of a terror attack. You’ve been selected for your special knowledge to join us on this deployment.”

  “It’s an honor, Sir. Thank you for selecting me.”

  “No, I didn’t know of your work,” he shook his head. “Your recommendation came from a Self-Transcending System.”

  “An AI?” Stockwell raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s called the Sun Tzu.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “That’s because it’s not one of ours. The Chinese have asked for our help. But really, I think they’re asking for your help.”

  Everyone turned to look at the new kid.

  “They want me? Why?”

  “The Sun Tzu is a military STS. Its functions are intelligence gathering and strategy. That’s likely to be a lot of anti-terror work, from Xinjiang, to Angola, to Brazil.”

  “But there hasn’t been any anti-tech militancy in Indonesia. Oh.”

  “Exactly. I’m going to guess the Chinese are surprised as we are, to hear some asshole referencing Ray Kurzweil in an execution video. Speaking personally, this is most fringe terrorist activity I’ve ever come across in my time at the Bureau.”

  “Sir,” Pirello spoke up, “Do we know if the Ministry of Public Security is taking lead on this?”

  “That’s still unclear, Agent. But, I expect that to be the case. MSS isn’t exactly forthcoming with data, but they’ve got better over the years.”

  “Sir, why would anti-AI militants conduct attacks in rural Indonesia?” asked another agent. “Why not corporate or higher education targets in China, Korea, or Singapore?”

  “It’s not just AI,” said Stockwell, “He also referenced emigration. Central Kalimantan is where Tiantang De Jieti is.”

  “Get me an encrypted line to the Ministry of Public Security,” Likavec said to an assistant. “We need to tell Beijing someone is targeting their Space Elevator.”

  Four Hours Later, 50,000 feet

  “This seat taken?”

  Stockwell looked up from his tablet. Pirello settled into the seat across from him, drink in hand. He raised an eyebrow.

  “Just soda,” she rattled the ice cubes in it. “That was quite a performance back there.”

  “I don’t know about that. I spent most of my career studying ‘offbeat’ threats like Jemaat Ansar. Never imagined I’d end up on the Fly Team.”

  “Excited?”

  “I think terrified is a better word.”

  She laughed. “You’ll do fine.”

  “You seem pretty comfortable. I take it this isn’t your first time?”

  “Third. Egypt in ’44. Nigeria in ’48. Counter terrorism, I get moved around as an advisor from time to time, too. Few months here, few months there. It all adds up.”

  “The husband must hate that.”

  “Hated, he certainly did,” she held up her ring. “I just wear this now to stop younger men from hitting on me in the bars.”

  “I thought getting hit on by younger men was the whole point.”

  “That’s ‘cause you haven’t dated one. It’s like babysitting. What about you, Stockwell?”

  “Call me Evan. A dentist in Alexandria, but I don’t think I’m allowed to say we’re officially dating. Nice parents, though. I think they see me as a safe bet.”

  “Are you?”

  “Not once I got on this plane, no.”

  “Well, dating a girl because of her parents may not be the best bet, either.”

  “You got me there. This is my first time in the field, that isn’t research.”

  “When was the last time you fired your gun?”

  “The academy.”

  “Well hopefully it’ll stay that way.”

  “I was hoping to at least line up some bottles on a wall.”

  “So you can tell your dentist-lady that you did some shooting?”

  “It’s expected.”

  “Would she approve?”

  “Hell no. What about you? I bet you’ve shot hundreds of people.”

  She laughed. “I don’t know about hundreds. But when you’re instructing foreign law enforcement, you can’t lead from the rear. If you don’t impress them, they won’t take you seriously. Especially if you’re a woman.”

  “Do you find that leads you to take bigger risks?”

  “No. But you do worry about the example you set. You end up representing more than just the United States, you know what I mean?” She looked over at his tablet. “What are you reading?”

  “Country report for Indonesia. Chinese influence. Agreements with Australia. The movers and shakers in the Junta.”

  “Anything that stand outs?”

  “Only that they’re doing well. Rich country, booming population, and successive governments out to exploit them. Fast forward a few decades and you have a typical, Still Third World, country. A large, poor, illiterate, and bitter population.
Now apply the effects of climate change.”

  “You think they should be a bigger mess?”

  “And they would have been. The obvious choice as things got worse, would have been to de-secularize. Indonesia has over three hundred ethnic groups. However, they’re almost entirely Moslem. De-secularization is the choice Still Third Worlds, typically make.”

  “And Indonesia didn’t?”

  “They tried. Then the military intervened.”

  “I hear that’s a tradition of theirs. Wouldn’t that only encourage extremism?”

  “It does. But no one wants a failed state of three hundred million, next door. Australia and Singapore give the Junta lots of tech and military aid. China though, is by far their biggest sponsor.”

  “Because of the space elevator.”

  “Partly. The PLA currently has over twenty thousand ‘advisors’ in Central Kalimantan province. That’s expected to go up. There’s a growing civilian presence as well. Contractors, construction workers, middle men, prison laborers. Makes sense that the Ministry of Public Security would have people on the ground.”

  “No,” she shook her head, “It won’t be them. On the way over, I overheard Likavec on the phone with our Chinese friends.”

  Stockwell frowned. “If it’s not MSS, then who is it?”

  “People’s Liberation Army Military Intelligence. And it doesn’t sound like they want us.”

  Daryl Spektorov

  2011 AD, Brookline, Massachusetts

  “Daryl, what are you doing climbing all over the couch?”

  The boy, toy shuttle in both hands, looked at his father in the doorway.

  “I’m making my last flight to the ISS!”

  “Really? Your last?” Mr. Spektorov pulled off his tie. “Maybe you could get off your Mom’s cushions before she sends me on my last flight, too.”

  Daryl jumped down, and ran to his father.