by Chad Huskins
“I know you do. But some things, ya know, a person’s gotta do on their own.”
“You hush that talk! You’re never alone. Remember that. You will, won’t you? When you’re out there, and it all seems so…” She trailed off. “You’ll remember?”
“I’ll remember, Ma.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise. I’ll remember. I’m not alone.”
Ages ago. And yet, it was yesterday. Rook now looks at his hands. They aren’t shaking anymore. Maybe it’s faith restored in him through that memory. Maybe it’s his madness, convincing him he’s doing something worthwhile. Or maybe he’s just accepted death.
It takes another two hours to gather all the cables and the single backup generator from camp. He is careful to store the mini-hydroponic greenhouse, as well as its meager crop. Slowly but surely, he breaks down his habitat, which has been his sturdy home all these years, leaving only the tanks too large to take on board the Sidewinder.
By this time, the mother ship has gained another two hundred miles or so. It will soon be right outside of his sectorboard. Rook closes the cargo bay, flips on the landing lights for probably the last time, and lifts off. He’s heard stories of people lost at sea who came across a tiny island, or had to remain on a small lifeboat for months at a time, and though they hated their tight confines, when they were finally rescued and had to say goodbye to it all, goodbye to that lifeline that had been there for them when they were so lost, they felt a deep sense of loss.
For a moment, Rook can’t turn his eyes away from the camp, his home. Then, he pulls on the cyclic, and yaws the Sidewinder around. He takes off through the tunnels, and leaves the darkness behind. He thinks about the word legacy again. On his way out, he taps a button on his control panel. “Begin log,” he says. “Call sign Rook. This will likely be my last entry. I am headed out for what will be my final confrontation—and therefore humanity’s final confrontation—against the Cerebrals. What I have in mind…it will probably fail. But in case any of it may help future civilizations battle them, I’m both recording this message and broadcasting it out to the stars, in the hopes that it may help someone else defeat them. That’s my legacy,” he emphasizes. “The legacy of Man. I’m including all the data I’ve collected in my brief experiments and simulations. I’m calling the two main sequences the ‘principle of four,’ and ‘Rook’s sacrifice play.’ I believe I have identified a blind spot in them. A minor weakness that may be exploited. Their psychology has an extreme predisposition for the number four, and they do not appreciate or find any value in deception or sacrifice. If I make any headway at all with them, the data I’m transmitting may be valuable to you.” Rook almost signs off, but quickly adds, “Godspeed to you all, whoever you may be. End log.”
When he emerges from the King, Rook is once more bathed in the light of Prime some two hundred fifty million miles away, and then pulls the Sidewinder about half a mile away from King Henry VIII’s eastern hemisphere, facing Sector 41. He looks over at the King, and smiles. A rook and a king, side by side. He laughs. “Look at us Henry, we’re castling.”
The humor is short-lived. Rook’s mind suddenly casts another line back to the past, and suddenly remembers the man that taught him the rudiments of ship-to-ship combat. He places the Sidewinder on autopilot and steps out of the cockpit, down the corridor, and into the rear hold. He comes up to the stasis tube, peers inside at the old man.
“Rook!” Badger shouted on his first day out of the Academy. “Do you know what a double entendre is?”
Rook was standing at attention in front of the statue of Neil Armstrong, in front of the Great Hall, sweat cascading down his neck. “Sir, yes sir!”
“What is it, then?”
“Sir, a double entendre is a double meaning, sir! A figure of speech meant to be interpreted in either of two ways, sir!”
“You’re some hotshot, I hear. A real thinker, they say. Chess player. One o’ those geeks in school who couldn’t put it away. You’re slick, but do you think you’re clever enough to recognize a double entendre when ya hear it?”
“Sir, I think so, sir!”
“Well, guess again. You think they gave you that call sign ’cause ya like to play chess? I guess you are as stupid as I thought! I passed that name on to you when I saw your first scores in flight school! I call people that when I think they’re likely to remain a rookie for the rest o’ their careers. Your squadmates just thought it was funny that you also can’t put a game o’ chess away long enough to enjoy a good brew with friends after a day o’ training, like any good squadmate should do to build rapport! That’s called a double entendre! How’d you miss it, pilot?”
“Sir, I don’t know, sir!”
“You gonna miss anything else when you’re up there flyin’ with me?”
“No, sir!”
“How do you know, when you didn’t even know you missed my clever frickin’ pun?”
“I…I…”
“A Sidewinder pilot has to use his noggin all the time, Rook.” He said the name as an invective, and it was the first time Rook was ashamed to hear the name spoken. “We’re saboteurs. We’re the elite, got that? We may be all that stands between humanity and total annihilation. The Powers That Be believe this Sidewinder program might just be the answer, that we might be able to get on board one o’ these big ships, see how they tick, and take ’em apart from the inside. But that requires stealth, subterfuge, knowledge of sabotage, and infiltration. All o’ this while considering the massive calculations of space flight. To do this, you can’t afford to miss anything up there, not even a pun!”
Rook was flushed with embarrassment, and behind him his squadmates had been fighting to hold back their snickers. At the time, and for years after that day, Rook got angry at the memory. But not anymore. There was no one left to be humiliated by, and he missed that.
Presently, Rook taps the button that opens the tube. Badger doesn’t move. He looks dead already, his chest barely moving with each tiny breath. The last of humanity is on life support, dwindling, failing, scarcely a ghost of its former self.
He reaches down to touch the old man’s hand, squeezes, and is surprised when he gets a reassuring squeeze in return. “Badge,” he whispers. “Sir, I…I just need you to know I’ve done all I could do. I’ve gone as long as I can, and I…” He swallows. “I hope…I hope I don’t let you down. Maybe I am as stupid as you said, but maybe…I dunno, maybe…” Rook gives the hand another squeeze, and the old man’s squeeze fails. He lowers the hand back inside the tube. “For what I’m about to do, I’m sorry, but…I think it’s the only way left for either one of us.”
Rook stands back from the tube, lets his back go straight, and gives a solemn salute. He reaches for the button to close the tube. Then, Badger croaks out his final words, “Give…them…hell…”
This time, Rook hears it. He smiles, and says, “Yes, sir.” He closes the tube, and returns to the cockpit. Another chime has gone off. The mother ship is fast approaching. It is closing in on his energy signatures. The Bose-Einstein condensate emitted from his exhaust ports’ cryogenic coolers can only conceal him for so long. The mother ship will be here within the hour.
Another chime.
Rook looks at his trouble-board, then glances up at his window…and when he does, he glances at his reflection. For a moment, he sees the Leader. He hears the Leader’s words. He considers what he is, what the Cerebs are. It strikes him suddenly. The Leader is following his own presets, a psychology forced on him by nature, and he, Rook, also follows that. Nature has set our two races against one another, so what does that mean? Are any of us at fault?
Then, he questions his own motives. What is his greatest imperative now that he is the last human being alive?
Then, Rook makes a vow. Partly to himself, and partly to his enemies. He looks beyond his reflection, and imagines the forces coming at him. “I am the last man. I have no future. My past…it was murdered before my eyes. I wish to survi
ve…because all life wishes to survive. But I have nothing to live for. I have nothing left and no reason to go on. Save for you. Just you. My Enemy. You, my foe, have stolen away all that I am, and was, and could be. But I have you. And if I am to be the last, then I will give you all that is left of me.” Rook smiles then. “Hell! This is all that I have! The fears and dreams and loss of all that we were. And it will be…it will be Vendetta! I have lost all that I loved, all that I cherished. But I have you! My Enemy! And I shall not rest while your house stands! While your kith and kin pave their roads with the bones of mine! Vendetta… all that is left of Man, and the great tragedy of that fact! But you will have it, as surely as you stole our future from us, I will give you our Hell!” He’s started to sweat. Hands shaking. Teeth grinding.
Another chime.
Rook blinks, relaxes, looks down at his sensors.
A squadron of skirmishers has been detected. Rook checks their numbers. Sixteen squadrons, each squadron consisting of four groups of four, flying in tight formation. Then, they begin fanning out. He looks at the main holo-display, and is glad to see that the computer is already assimilating this data, working it into its presets.
Another chime.
The computer has made its first move, taking a White pawn to D4.
Rook considers, and moves his knight to F6. White moves pawn to C4. Rook moves his pawn to C5. An emerging Benko Gambit, as it has been known since the 1960s when Pal Benko championed the opening maneuver. It allows Rook to obtain fast development and control of the A1 to H8 diagonal, and then to put pressure down the half-open A and B files.
Another chime.
This time, it comes from the main sensor array station. Rook taps a button, swivels his chair around to his right, and looks at the first line of skirmishers, which are just now penetrating his sectorboard. They’ve elected to use one of the approach vectors that he and the computer worked out, coming up from around S41 and cutting clear across to S42, attempting to close in on the Queen. Far across from them, in S17, Doc sits quietly.
Without waiting for his permission, the ship’s computer transmits a command over to Doc, moving it to subtly advance towards the skirmishers.
Rook only has to worry about his own maneuvers, and the computer ought to do the rest for him concerning the other pieces. “Pawn to Sector twenty, Sector Quadrant one-oh-three, Sector Block nineteen, Decant three, Pentant eight, Haplant sixty-six,” he says, chuckling madly. “Your move.”
11
Aboard the luminal ship, efficiency has never been better. The Conductor still stands on the bridge, as still as the stars, processing data, issuing commands, and working out subtle course corrections. The asteroid traffic is getting thicker, and the faint ion emissions are getting stronger, which leads him to believe they are within minutes of coming across the last human refuge in the universe.
The anticipation has never been greater. It’s a milestone moment. The crew, their ship, and their Conductor are all privileged to be the final vanquishing hand, the issuers of the last period for the Calculators to put into their account logs. One final debit wiped clean, the Conductor thinks. Perhaps then we can rest for a time. Return home, get a well-deserved sabbatical, and never concern ourselves with resource-devouring monsters such as mankind ever again. At least, until the next infestation arises.
The Conductor considers the trajectories of each asteroid. The two largest ones seem primed for habitation, at least by a deep-space habitat like the humans had used during the War. Extrapolating on what he knows, these two seem to be the most likely hiding spots for the Phantom. They are surrounded by a few dozen sizable asteroids, and of course thousands of other smaller ones that would bounce harmlessly off the ship’s hull even if the solenoid cannons never deflected them.
“Sir,” says one Manager to his left, via their neural link. “Skirmishers report heavy radioactive readings coming from the largest asteroid in this region. Spectral analysis shows mild distortions in light, most likely caused by ionic interference.”
The Conductor is simultaneously receiving the report and incorporating the data into what he already knows. He wordlessly commands the three-dimensional map to enlarge, then spins the image of the porous asteroid around, looking at each of its hemispheres and poles. Trillions of bits of data are streaming through him, pausing only nanoseconds to intersect with other bits, cross-reference, and filter down into his seventh brain, where the decision is made. A large cluster of asteroids poses a small quandary, one that is solved in less than a second.
“Bring us around this large cluster on a parabola. Approach vectors…” The pause takes only a millisecond, but it is enough to consult with all sixteen ideal approach vectors, select the four of least resistance, and issue the command for the simplest maneuver with the other three as backup. Always allowing for margins of error, as remote as their possibilities are. He sends these commands wordlessly to the Manager to his right.
“Yes, sir.”
There are only so many solenoid cannons to push the asteroids out of the way, so some care has to be taken with navigation. The approach vectors are spread throughout the ship’s matrix, the engines and thrusters on each side of the vessel make the necessary adjustments.
The massive ship moves slowly around the large cluster of rocks, on a parabola, just as the Conductor commanded. Then it’s just a matter of—
“Sir…we have movement.” There is a note of consternation in the Manager’s wordless update.
“Movement?”
“Yes, sir. The second-largest asteroid is just on the other side of this cluster, and it is…it is…moving out of the way.”
The Conductor absorbs this data, and looks across the gulf of space and allows his gaze to penetrate the asteroid field, looking at the visual feed being sent by the skirmishers. Something has erupted on the surface of that asteroid, something large and angry. Engines suddenly roar to life, and steer the asteroid towards—
Then, he receives confirmation that a few of their skirmishers have been destroyed. They were flying close to what we the ghosts know as the Queen, but once the Queen started moving, a few of them were unable able to make course corrections in time—Happy and Bashful surreptitiously closed in, using their own mass to close off the most likely retreat lines the skirmishers would have taken, and fired their ten-terajoule particle beams along the other three possible lines, intercepting them. The skirmishers were caught, with nowhere to go. The Queen crashes into thirty-two skirmishers, one of which barely survives, the pilot ejecting at the penultimate moment. The others are all killed.
It happens all in the span of twenty seconds, and the bridge remains silent as the Conductor tries to account for this.
The Conductor doesn’t know about Happy and Bashful, of course. He only knows he’s just lost a few more skirmishers, and some very good pilots. “How is that asteroid able to move?” he demands to know.
Managers scramble for the data. One of them sends him the update two seconds later: “The asteroid is giving off strange readings. There’s…yes, the skirmishers confirm. They detect powerful radioactive trails and ionic disturbance from every single hemisphere. It is appears to be—”
“Mass drivers,” the Conductor supplies. It is obvious to him a full second before the Manager can confirm. “It is the only way the asteroid can be moving. Interesting. How did we miss it?” The Managers all begin to consult their data, but the Conductor doesn’t really need them to. “Never mind. It was likely more sensor shrouds. Humans and their deceptions,” he impugns. “Such base methods. Continue with the survey, but keep us away from that asteroid. The human most likely plans a suicidal collision. Align so that we may get a more direct firing line—”
He halts mid-command. All at once, he senses it. They all do. Data streaming in from the belly of the ship. Something is firing on the underside of the hull, something strong and—
“Sir, spatial particle-beam turrets firing on—”
“I know,” the Conducto
r communicates calmly. He understands the data streaming in. More false asteroids. Such a corrupt notion, and utterly useless. “Angle our turrets,” he issues, almost bored by the procedure. “Set targeting parameters, and move us to confront the threat.” Within a second, he has processed the sixteen main vector lines approaching the false asteroid, prioritizes the four most appealing, and selects the best of those, with the other three possible retreat lines as backup.
It never even occurs to him to evade. The firepower from Doc is considerable, but not so great that it commands their respect. As ghosts, we watch the Conductor and his people carefully. How much will they perceive, and how much will they miss?
“Sir,” says one Manager. “We have confirmation on the Sidewinder’s position. It has been detected alongside the largest asteroid.”
Predictable, he thinks. Such a large asteroid would give him many places to hide. From skirmishers and seekers, at least. But not from this grand ship. But something else occurs to him. “The Sidewinder. Is it not using its cloaking mechanisms?”
“No, sir.” The Manager seems as confused as he is. “The Sidewinder’s sensor shroud has not been activated.”
The Conductor nods. “He still intends to fight, to lure us in so that our particle beams can feed his EA systems, batteries, and power cells. He still hopes to survive this day.” It’s almost stunning in its stupidity. “It makes no matter. Push the remaining asteroids out of our way, and give us a clear line-of-sight. Target that asteroid, and have the skirmishers send out seekers to do a more thorough scan of the asteroids around us. I want a clear account of all other ensconced particle beam turrets and—”
Another Manager’s update cuts him off. “Sir, the second-largest asteroid’s mass drivers are scaling down force in one hemisphere, and upping it in another. It is changing its course.”
