Starhold's Fate

by J. Alan Field

  “I know. We have to make a run for it… Got it!” he called as the correct map finally appeared on his visor screen. “There is a service road over there that goes down the other side of the mountain. C’mon.”

  The two sped off just as the first blank face popped above the crest of the main road. Quickly, Carr and Sanchez found themselves speeding downhill. The service road was less winding but much steeper than the way up had been. Strained sounds from his bike pleaded for him to slow down but Carr found himself pressing the accelerator as they descended the mountainside, going at speeds he was sure their bikes were not meant for. They had topped well over 110 kilometers per hour a few minutes ago and still Sanchez reported that the automatons were gaining on them.

  “Those guys ride better than you,” Sanchez joked nervously.

  “I’m saving the best for last,” said Carr, adding “I hope” under his breath. “Computer, disengage automatic functions. Switch all bike controls to manual.”

  “The rental guy is gonna be pissed,” Sanchez said after doing the same.

  “We’ll pay the penalty fee,” he said. “Come on—they’re gaining on us.”

  The only motorist they met on the back way, a solitary driver in a small cargo van, swerved to avoid the mob of two-wheelers as he came around one of the downhill road’s few curves. About ten minutes later as the terrain started to flatten out, Carr had to make a decision: head away from the city or back toward town?

  “They’re shooting at us!” Sanchez yelled as she followed her husband onto the main highway taking them back to Prosperity City. In the countryside, they would be on their own—perhaps in town they could get some help from the local constabulary.

  “Carr, they’re still closing! Those bullets are going to start hitting things very soon now.”

  “Androids can’t be doing this on their own—they can barely vacuum a carpet,” he said. “There must be puppeteers.” It would be someone using a VR control to direct the automatons. Basically, he and Sanchez had been cast as prey in someone’s real-life video game. “Look for a drone, a control car, a tall building—anything that could be used to relay a command signal to those things.”

  “A tall building?” repeated Sanchez. “Really?”

  Speeding toward town, Carr gazed upward at the trio of arcologies and laughed to himself. He really had been out of this game too long.

  The traffic on the highway was starting to pick up and they found themselves passing some landcars, weaving in and out of the flow at over 120 km/h. Most of the vehicles they passed were on automatic drive, the occupants lounging in the back seats. Many were browsing on their datapads, eating a snack, or watching media.

  Carr’s head jerked to the right as something hit one of the cars beside him. It was a bullet. The local police should have interceded by now, but Pontian authorities seemed very laid back compared to law enforcement on most worlds. You rarely saw a cop here, and the hovering aerial police platforms that were commonplace above other large cities only appeared at night here on Pontus.

  The voice of Sanchez crackled over the helmet comm. “Let’s split up.”

  “No, we stay together.”

  They were coming to a major intersection. Going right took you north around the town and left led into the heart of Prosperity City.

  “Go left up here,” Carr ordered, his bike veering toward downtown and the Arcos.

  “You know what you do when you come to a fork in the road?” asked his wife playfully.

  “No! Stay with me!”

  “You take it!” she shouted, switching lanes suddenly to take the exit ramp onto the northbound highway. Their pursuers had not yet reached the junction and slowed ever so slightly before two of them sped north after Sanchez and the remaining pair continued with their pursuit of Carr.

  “Damn it! Etta… Etta, come in!” She didn’t answer. Someone could be jamming their connection. She could also just be in a stubborn mood. His wife? Never…

  Or maybe she had figured something out. Could it be that these things were homing in on their personal nets?

  “Bike, disconnect from my network” Carr commanded as he took a sharp right, then a quick left. He was off the highway and onto city streets now. Just as the map overlay on his face shield disappeared, he nearly ran down a pedestrian crossing the street. He could hear the person cursing at him in the distance as his two hunters also narrowly missed hitting her, still hot on his trail. The disconnect from the network seemed to have no effect.

  There was a plaza ahead to the left and in a piece of good fortune it was nearly deserted. The few people sitting on the perimeter benches were relatively safe and about to be treated to a good show. Carr swerved his bike off the street and up a few steps onto the square. The automatons followed as he cut his turn sharply. Before the androids could match his maneuver, and before they could raise their weapons, he was behind them.

  He reached to the small of his back for his own pistol as the few people in the vicinity scattered in a panic. Quickly drawing his weapon, he blasted away at the nearest automaton, putting several bullets into the back of its head. The android started to twist its body around to get a shot at him but stopped as its head exploded into tiny pieces. In that moment, Carr felt the satisfaction of victory, but the feeling passed quickly. The headless automaton steadied itself, raised its gun in his direction and fired, missing him by maybe a half-meter.

  “Oh, come on!” he yelled, gunning his bike to dodge another shot. Accelerating away, he scrambled back down the plaza steps onto the street and headed north toward ArcoWright.

  “Bike, reconnect to my network and locate Sanchez.”

  The net icons appeared on his visor again and a calm computer voice spoke to him.

  “Network interference—recalculating.”

  “Frank—on your right,” came another voice, the voice of his wife. As she pulled adjacent to him, her image reappeared in the corner of his visor. On the helmet’s reverse camera, he could now spot only three automatons trailing them.

  “You lost one of our friends,” observed Carr. “Good to see you, by the way.”

  “You too. One of my guys hit a garbage lorry. That headless one—what happen to…”

  “Tell you later,” Carr cut her off. “Should we take this inside ArcoWright? Might be easier to lose them inside.”

  “And kill a few civvies while we’re at it,” she countered.

  “Well, I’m running out of ideas—and fuel.”

  “We’re just going to have to duck behind something and shoot it out.”

  Carr made a quick left with Sanchez following his lead. They were in the Corporate District now, weaving in and out of moderate traffic and dodging the occasional gunshot when the automatons got close enough to blast away.

  “I really thought the police would be all over us by now,” Sanchez said. “They must be asleep up on that aerial platform.”

  “What platform? I didn’t see a platform,”

  “At nine o’clock, over the stadium.”

  Carr twisted his head to the left and looked upward. Sure enough, there it was.

  Floating police platforms used antigrav tech to hover over a metropolitan area. They reminded Carr of pictures he had seen of ancient airships—blimps and such. Most platforms were simple observation stations. On some worlds, like despotic Cardea, they were floating fortresses, weaponized to intimidate the locals and keep them in line. In most societies, however, they were seen as benevolent peacekeepers whose main function was usually nothing more sinister than traffic control.

  “That’s it!” he shouted. “That’s how they’re controlling the automatons. The Pontians only use platforms at night. That one is either a phony or a real one that’s been commandeered.”

  “You’re getting desperate,” said Sanchez in a skeptical voice, “That seems like a big leap of logic. How do you know?”

  “I know! Whoever is puppeteering these things is either up there or using the platform as a relay,”
he said, swerving in a near miss of a transit car that suddenly appeared in front of him. “Carr to Sarissan frigate Dagger—come in Dagger.”

  “Captain Townes here. What’s going on down there, Major? Your beacons are all over the map. Is there anything wrong?”

  “Listen to me, Captain,” Carr interrupted. “Locate a police platform near the stadium down here in Prosperity City. It should be the only one in the sky right now.”

  A moment passed before Townes replied. “We have it, Major Carr.”

  “Captain Townes, target that platform with a narrow particle beam and blast it from the sky.”

  Carr could only imagine the look on Townes’ face. “Sir? Exactly what kind of trouble are you in? I can have our platoon of Marines on the ground in twenty minutes.”

  “Townes, we don’t have twenty minutes,” snapped Carr in mix of urgency and frustration.

  “But, Major,” begged the voice of Dagger’s commander, “I don’t have the kind of authority to—”

  “I do, Captain!” Carr yelled. “I’m invoking my Imperial Aegis. It’s my call, my responsibility, and at the moment, it’s also my life—and the life of my wife. Put a lock on the police platform and pull the damn trigger!”

  Four-hundred kilometers above him, Carr could hear Townes taking a deep breath.

  “Aye aye, sir. Dagger will comply. Stand by.”

  “You are taking one hell of a gamble,” said Sanchez, her face in the upper-right corner of his visor and full of worry. “What if that platform has officers on it? And what if it falls on a bunch of civilians?”

  “Sharp left here!” he yelled, leading the chase back toward the plaza. “You said it yourself—that platform is over the stadium—an empty stadium.”

  “Yes, but I—”

  Suddenly, there was a loud crackle, like the thunder following a nearby lightning strike. People along the streets gawking at the cycle chase quickly shifted their gaze upward. The police platform didn’t fall from the sky in one piece. Rather, it was crumbling, disintegrating in what almost appeared to be slow motion.

  Particle beams were invisible to the naked eye, so no one saw a beam of light from space zap the platform or anything like that. The Pontian government would probably spin it to the public as an accident—an antigrav generator blew up, or some such tale. Sarissan trade was far too valuable for them to jeopardize with a messy diplomatic incident.

  Behind Sanchez, the three remaining automaton assailants promptly collapsed, tumbling from their bikes like harmless dolls. The motorcycles themselves also crashed to the ground. Unfortunately, one of the riderless vehicles careened into a small gathering of people in front of a café. A dozen bystanders ran to the aid of the injured, with other people pulling out their mobiles in an attempt to summon medical assistance.

  Carr and Sanchez dismounted their bikes on the plaza where he had decapitated one of his pursuers. The last thing he heard over his helmet before removing it was the voice of Captain Townes. “Well, there goes my career, and probably my pension, too.”

  “You OK?” Carr asked as he moved to embrace his wife. It was only now that he noticed the red-soaked stain on her upper left arm.

  “It’s nothing, just a nick,” she said as they both placed their pistols on the ground and knelt, clasping their hands behind their back. The Pontian constabulary were finally starting to arrive on the scene. It wasn’t the first time they had been arrested on a foreign world and experience had taught them that ‘assuming the position’ was the easiest way to begin police custody.

  “Well, you were right,” said Carr before the constables placed restraints on them.

  “About what?”

  “Bike riding,” he said with a grin. “So much fun!”

  13: Exchange

  Massang flagship Chisellion

  Cor Caroli star system

  As he walked through the passageways to his command chamber, Harradoss was confident. The fleet had finally arrived at its destination, as had dozens of other loyal Massang squadrons. Vanguard units secured the Cor Caroli system with their usual proficiency, and in doing so, that elite arm of the Massang war machine had effectively declared its allegiance to Harradoss and his cause. Not only was the Vanguard his strongest military asset right now, but his most indispensable political ally as well.

  Chisellion was stirring with activity and enthusiasm—a far cry from the crew’s dark mood in the wake of the destruction of Moz. There had been quiet consternation following Moz, even among his most loyal supporters. All the same, Harradoss did not regret his decision. With the destruction of that planet, he had sent a powerful message. The annihilation of an entire world of traitors would be a cautionary tale handed down for generations to come. The mere mention of the word ‘Moz’ would make things easier for Harradoss and his descendants as they reigned over their new dominion. Some would see it as a crime, but a strong leader understood the devastation for what it truly was—a lesson.

  “Update on our current status,” he demanded while striding through the command chamber.

  “All units report a positive standing,” Phersu replied, suddenly appearing at his side. “The Red Claw Flotilla arrived in-system a short while ago and is inbound. Regent Cyprian reports that his forces are less than a standard day away. Also, all arkships have now translated into the system and are proceeding to their standby positions. There is one thing however: food supplies are beginning to run low aboard several of the arkships.”

  “Don’t bother me with trivial concerns, Phersu. Have the arkships cut back on their food rations and inform their captains not to disturb us with their shipboard problems.”

  Phersu wavered. “Harradoss, I don’t—” He looked around to other staff members for support, but all eyes were fixed elsewhere.

  “Of course, First Protector. It will be done,” Phersu relented.

  “What is the current status of the Oplacai?”

  “Final testing is proceeding on our updated schedule.”

  “Each new day arrives with an updated schedule. Phersu, exactly what is the problem?”

  “For some reason, the power transmission couplings continue to overload. Using Halprin curve trajectories…”

  “Enough,” he said holding up a large hand. “Spare me the dreary details.”

  “I’m not sure that having the last two Chief Scientists vivisected has actually improved staff morale as much as you thought it might,” ventured his second-in-command. “In regard to that other matter we discussed this morning, all has been arranged and Squad Leader Zann is standing by.”

  Harradoss had not been looking forward to this task, but regrettably, it was necessary. The war’s final battle was taking shape and while the gathering Coalition forces in the neighboring star system were unlikely to defeat the Vanguard, why even take the chance? Further jeopardizing the situation was this particular human commander. He was more unpredictable than most. Had the Coalition dispatched Tovar or Wallenstein, or even the Lytori war leader Jennith, Harradoss would not have been concerned. Chaz Pettigrew bothered him, however—he bothered him in many ways. This human needed to be dealt with.

  “I will speak from my workplace,” he informed Phersu. “Initiate the communication.”

  * * * *

  “You have to be kidding me,” an exasperated Pettigrew said to Denlora Aoki as they walked through Crossbow’s passageways. The Admiral had returned to his flagship for the final phase of preparations. As Nyondo prepared to depart on her scouting mission, Aoki had taken much of the Chief of Staff’s workload, including the unenviable task of reporting bad news to the fleet commander.

  “Appendicitis?” he said, doubling down on his disbelief. “This is the twenty-sixth century, Lieutenant. Haven’t we evolved beyond something like that?”

  “I’m sure Captain Perez wishes that were true, sir. Nonetheless, we still need to replace him. Who do you want to assume command of the Ninth Battleship Division?”

  “Let me think about it over dinner. I
’ll let you know this evening,” he said walking into his stateroom. “In the meantime, I’d like to see the results of that last batch of battle sims Captain Daemon ran. Have them sent to me on the double—and I don’t want to be disturbed for the next hour.”

  “Aye, sir,” Aoki acknowledged as she moved back into the passageway and the door whooshed shut behind her. Pettigrew took a deep breath and reached for a decanter of coffee as a soft chime sounded.

  “Aoki, I thought I said no interruptions.”

  A holo image of Nyondo materialized a meter in front of him.

  “It’s me, sir, and I’m sorry to disturb you,” said the Chief of Staff wearing a curious expression.

  “I have a lot of work to do, Captain. This better be good.”

  Nyondo shot a peculiar look to someone out of the picture, then refocused on him. “Oh, it’s good, sir. You have an incoming FTL communication.”

  “Oh, no—not Central Command! They are the last people I want to deal with today.”

  “It’s not Esterkeep, sir… Far from it,” Nyondo said, drawing in a deep breath. “It’s the leader of the Massang Unity. First Protector Harradoss would like a word with you.”

  A blast of anger surged through his body disguised as adrenaline. As he walked around the desk and sat down, the only thing he could think to say was, “Are you sure?”

  Nyondo nodded. “We’ve established that the source of the signal is in Cor Caroli. I recognize him, sir—it’s Harradoss all right. He’s waiting.”

  “I’ll speak with him here. Send it through.”

  Dozens of memories swamped Pettigrew’s mind. The Massang deception in the Summit system, where Harradoss pretended to be humanity’s friend. The massacre of Sarissan spacers on the destroyer Warlock. The slaughter of Olivia Kuypers and her EVA team. Harradoss was responsible for it all. Now, he had apparently used his talent for deceit and murder to claw his way to the top of the Massang government.