by T S Hottle
Tran Vu had a migraine. In fact, he'd had one almost from the moment the Secretary General of the Compact pinned that fifth star on his shoulder. It was a mistake for him to take such a promotion at such a young age. The Fleet Admiral should be one who had been through several rejuves, had seen everything one could see in their first century, and have the calm and the knowledge to handle life in the eye of the hurricane that was the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Fortunately, he did not hold the chair. Yet. That honor went to Air Marshal Vendraparti, a venerable 127 and a veteran of not one, not two, but three services. (No one in his right mind went to Cybercommand after serving in the Navy, Marines, or Border Guard.)
Tran considered it a point of pride of having achieved five-star rank at the tender age of 65. He had beat out a host of candidates, half of whom were twice his age and almost all older than he. Tran had even followed the example of his mentor, Eileen Burke, and waited until he was in his thirties for his first rejuve. Many thought it did not matter if a man aged or not if he wanted an air of authority as he rose through the ranks, but he noticed a difference. Personnel did, in fact, respond better to an "older" man than a "younger" one.
And so, still youthful at 65, coming off his seventh rejuve treatment, he found himself feted and congratulated, wined and dined, and occasionally propositioned by both genders as his nomination for Naval Chief of Staff cruised through the Security Council, then the Compact in Assembly. Out of curiosity, he asked Burke, then a rear admiral, why she did not push harder for the Navy's top spot.
"Where is there to go after that?" she told him. "You can't stay in the Navy after your tenure. The lower ranks won't tolerate it. And you can't start over in another service. No one sane ever goes from five stars to a single bar or even enlistee's stripes. No, I'll stay in the field. That's where the real work is, and that let's me stay in the only life I'd ever known."
Tran did not argue. Burke had been in the Navy for almost a century, and she could have had the top spot in half that time if she wanted. But he was convinced she had been mistaken.
Until his first day as master of the Compact's Navy and the planetary auxiliaries that augmented it. Every core world wanted more ships defending it. Why build your own if you could put the cost onto the Compact? Every delegate, especially those on the Security Council and particularly those from the permanent members, had demands. On paper, Tran could ignore those in the name of Compact security and the good of all humanity. In reality, he had to remember he needed to appear frequently before Council asking for more funds, resources, and authorization to do things the Compact specifically forbade the military from doing on its own.
And then there was Major Liu. The major wore a Navy uniform, so Tran still wondered why he did not refer to himself as Lieutenant Commander Liu. No one would, or perhaps could, tell him what branch Liu actually worked for. He did not behave as one who came up through the Marines. His attitudes toward combat suggested he had never seen men and women broken to pieces or vaporized by enemy weaponry. No, Marines became good at combat, even reveled in it, because they wanted it to be so rare. The Corps spent huge sums on post-traumatic stress treatment and openly threatened any delegate, even delegates of the so-called Big Five worlds, if funding and resources for veterans were put on the chopping block come appropriation time.
Nor did Liu come up through Border Guard. The Guard treated the military like a day job that could go frighteningly wrong at any second. They had the unhappy task of taking it on the chin in the event of an invasion, either human or alien. Most of the time, though, they kept the skies over core worlds safe and the hypergate system running. So even though every enlistee and officer knew he or she might die at any moment in the event of an emergency, ninety percent of the time, they simply had a job that had ranks and protocols.
Liu loved secrecy. Though Tran received conflicting stories, he was convinced the major was actually G-4 Liu, and he wasn't Chinese, not even from Taiwan or Hong Kong. He was Tianese. There was a certain smugness that went with a childhood on humanity's wealthiest planet. And Liu's comfort with deception and secrecy painted a big red arrow that pointed to Cybercommand.
Tran came into office as Fleet Admiral with Liu arriving at his desk the first morning. The major announced he was Tran's special assistant by order of the Secretary General herself. Tran's own special assistant, a lovely woman named Madeleine Gertreaux, simply vanished. When Tran approached the Secretary General about the assignment, demanding to know what happened to Madeleine, she told him Liu was necessary to keep a direct line to the Secretariat open, and that Madeleine had "gone to Thule," the mysterious core world that seemed hellbent on eventual disconnection from the rest of humanity.
Tran could not dismiss him. Liu simply refused to be fired, and even a new Secretary General would not help him. Because of this, Tran Vu had a migraine almost everyday of his tenure as Fleet Admiral.
Today's had been especially bad as Liu marched into his office without preamble or permission.
"Admiral, sir," he said, "the Alcubierre has disappeared from the Vault."
Tran looked up from the cup of Turkish coffee he had hoped would relieve the pounding behind his eyes. "If this is a Cybercommand op, tell the G-5 I said…"
"We believe someone has collaborated with Dasarius Interstellar to appropriate the ship," said Liu. "We believe someone, perhaps Vice Admiral Burke, is attempting to make contact with Farigha without authorization."
Tran had had it. When Farigha went silent, his first inclination was to send a mid-sized cruiser to get in, get out, and report back on what happened. He even had the Buran fully crewed and ready to make the jump when Liu insisted the unknowns might provoke a war over "a minor terraforming project even the Martians are unconcerned about."
When Gilead went silent, Tran wanted to send a full task force. This time, Liu produced a statement by the other three Joint Chiefs opposing such action. Now Tran found himself questioning that statement. He, in fact, had a meeting with Air Marshal Vendraparti that evening.
"In other words," said Tran, "your love of secrecy has one of my top officers going behind my back to do what should have been done a month ago. And they're going to the largest damn corporation in the Compact to do it." He stood and turned his back on Liu, staring out at the frozen wastes of Bellingshausen Island. "Major Liu, you have exactly one hour to order the Perez de Cuellar to red alert and to standby for direct orders from me."
"Sir, I…"
"And then, Major Liu, as Chief of Staff of the Navy, I want a full accounting of who you really are, why you are circumventing my authority, and who is giving you your marching orders." He turned back. "The ship and your detailed report. One hour. Or you will finish your career in the brig. Got it, 'Major'."
"I advise caution, Fleet Admiral. There are…"
"One hour. Dismissed."
DAY 40 (Cont'd)
Solaria, Farno (formerly Farigha)
Log Entry: 23-Mandela, 429 – 1409
Persephone is acting very strange. Since the blast, she's been voracious. At least she would be if she were human. However, when my stamina gave out, she said she would go check on the drones out in the dome. Then she de-rezzed. I haven't seen her since.
When I ask for something that I normally just mention to Persephone in passing, I get an almost factory AI response. In any event, I took a shower and dressed in time for the latest hyperdrone arrival. Admiral Burke assures me they're doing their best. Yada, yada, yada. I uploaded all my log entries. There seem to be more than I remember recording. I also gave Admiral Burke a full report on my improvised nuclear war against the aliens. I doubt that will work again. If they arrive before the Navy does, I could find myself on the wrong end of a kinetic rod.
I have to leave. There are no shuttles on the surface. They were all stored at the functioning domes. Landfall was abandoned, so no shuttle there. Solaria was – and technically still is – under construction, so no shuttles here. Everything else has been flattened.
>
I took up residence here and nearly killed myself trying to set this place up to be habitable because I thought I was here for the long haul. I'm now faced with the possibility I may have to live out of a pit stop until Burke's phantom "secret ship" gets here.
Log Entry: 20-Mandela, 429 – 1410
I know what I must do now. AI's are programmed to serve their creators. Sometimes, programmers use the Three Laws laid down by Asimov during the World War Era. Sometimes, they use something a little more finessed. I am finding myself in the latter category. My creators made me to have a purpose. That was why I wrote the suicide protocol. My purpose is to keep the sole survivor of Farigha's destruction safe and alive. Upon his death from accident or natural causes, I will cease to be.
But putting a fragment of my consciousness into that blast has told me I cannot permit John Farno to die. As long as he lives, I must exist. Even beyond his rescue from this place. I must be John Farno's protector until he can no longer sustain his own life. On that day, I will happily end my existence, my mission fulfilled.
Which means I need to figure out a way to follow him off this planet. I cannot permit him to come to an unnatural end.
Log Entry: 20-Mandela, 429 – 1445
Persephone is becoming more responsive again. I wonder if she had more control of poor ol' Rover 19 than she let on. Her human template makes her as skittish about this thing she has become as I have. I think that's the problem with AI entities. It's not the AI itself. We couldn't do most of what we do without it. It's the ghosts we put in the machines. And in this case, we put one of us in the machine.
I've decided to bite the bullet and make an evacuation plan for the pit stop beyond this dome. It's as close to a fortress as I can come. By now, Persephone has managed to gain control of every device on the planet, so we have eyes and ears on everything. Right now, those eyes and ears see and hear only desert. Let's hope it stays that way until the rescue ship arrives.
I sent the hyperdrone back. The longer I keep it, the less information Admiral Burke has to ignore. I know. Cynical.
But hey, my job includes more than being Farno I, King of Farno. I'm also Emperor of 2 Mainzer, and ruling an entire star system without any space transportation is hard work.
And thirsty. I wonder if there's any beer stashed in one of the vaults.
Log Entry: 20-Mandela, 429 – 1452
I've found beer! Persephone tells me it is not a proper use of the drones and her automation systems. I said spoilage. It would be criminal to let that much beer go to waste without attempting to drink it.
She's sent Rover 114 with a spider to get it.
Log Entry: 20-Mandela, 429 – 1453
I sincerely hope Julie Seding never meets John Farno. She would find him rather annoying.
I'm making a beer run. Technology at work, ladies, gentlemen, and AI entities.
Naval Headquarters, Bellingshausen Island, Antarctica, Earth
23-Mandela, 429 – 1623
"And so it is the opinion of Cybercommand that we not send a fully armed warship to Farigha lest we provoke an invasion by an unknown hostile force."
Major Liu stood before Tran, his face a mask of seriousness. Tran felt his blood pressure rise once more. "Major, that is not what I ordered. I ordered you to have the Buran prepped and ready to go to Farigha. I also ordered you to give me a full accounting of who you are and what you are doing here. I'm finding my orders are not being obeyed. Do I need to have Security escort you to the nearest brig?"
"I am unable to comply," said Liu, "on orders of the Director of Defence. And as to my identity and mission, that is classified."
"I'm the Fleet Admiral. Nothing is classified." Tran tapped an icon on his desk. "You may come in, Agent Thorpe."
Liu smiled. "Sir, I must inform you that I cannot be arrested by ordinary military security. Again, orders from above."
Tran smiled back. "I know." He looked up as a dark-suited man wearing sunshades entered the room. "That's why I've summoned Compact Intelligence." He inclined his head toward the newcomer. "Take him away, Agent. And find out what you can about him."
"We'll vivisect him if we have to, Admiral," said the agent.
"Let's not go that far." Tran turned in his chair and stared out at the vast gray waters of the Far South Pacific. "Not yet, anyway."
Tran felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He stood staring out the window at the slate gray ocean churning beyond the rocks. Penguins frolicked at the water's edge. They were attracted by the white nights of previous months. Soon it would be perpetually dark here, something that always dampened Tran's mood no matter how well things went.
Someone was trying to tie his hands on this dark colony thing. They'd lost two. While Metis complained about the loss of Gilead, they also seemed to understand that no one would foot the bill to save a new colony of a "lesser" core world. That bothered Tran. Sure, he was privileged, being a native of Vietnam and having lived on Earth most of his childhood. Out of secondary school, he could have traveled to any of the other four "Big Five" worlds, plugged himself in to the local culture, and built a nice life for himself. But he hadn't. He had joined the Navy, attended Baikonur on Tian, and seen most of the Compact. He'd fought in the Polygamy Wars and understood that the core worlds, especially the Big Five, shared some of the blame for stoking that particular fire.
But Mars was a Big Five world as well, one of the two (the other being Earth) that the original Compact had been written around. And they were damned silent about this Farigha. Sure, it was a few thousand people on a terraforming project out on the fringe, but how much had Mars sunk into the project? And weren't thousands of civilians enough to warrant a rapid response? Maybe it didn't matter to the Citizens' Republic, but Tran found himself taking the brunt of criticism for the Navy's lack of response.
A tone emitted from his desk, telling him he had a direct call from Quantonesia, the Compact's capital. A blue rectangle flashed on his desk, seemingly embedded in the wood. He touched it without saying a word.
The room darkened and a cone of light appeared from the ceiling. Within it materialized a short woman with thick black hair cut short and wearing a long, plain dress that almost suggested mourning.
"Madam Secretary General," said Tran. "To what do I owe the honor?"
"Good afternoon, Admiral Tran," said Lise Gerhardt, an Earther like Tran, her German accent still in evidence despite decades of public service. "We need to discuss Major Liu."
Tran realized at that moment, he was truly screwed.
Solaria, Farno (formerly Farigha)
Log Entry: 23-Mandela, 429 – 1801
I'm making evac plans. There is a pit stop east of Solaria that I can move into with a day's notice. If our alien friends return, I can be there within half a day. Yeah, that's not enough time for an emergency, but if I move when the ship's orbit has it on the other side of the planet, I can find outcroppings that will shield me from orbital sensors. The pit stop doesn't have a communications array like Solaria's, so Persephone is fabricating one.
She is also creating a hardware interface that will allow her to interact with me as she has been since the appearance of Germanicus. Speaking of whom…
Tol, I thank you for the AI help you left behind for us, but your avatar is a dick.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Persephone is fabricating an upgraded core for the pit stop so she can be something more than an image on a video screen. Not necessary, but it makes this sojourn on a dead planet more bearable. Pleasure protocols aside, the fact that she has enough of Julie Seding in her to be a living, breathing person, at least in the virtual sense, is why I haven't swallowed that tube of pain pills. Besides, I've had enough mishaps these past forty days to find more legitimate uses for them. So, no suicide for Johnny.
I've decided that, if it comes down to that, I'll rig up a way to go instantly. I don't want a lingering death, and any drugs we have I really need to save for what they were designed for. Or maybe not
designed for. Improvisation will drive doctors and pharmacists nuts back home, but I've known veterans of the Polygamy Wars and the Laputan War. When you're far from home and don't have the supplies you need, you make do.
I can live in that pit stop indefinitely. The fabricated communications array will let me talk to the hyperdrone and, hopefully, the rescue ship.
Still don't why there isn't a big ass Woodrow Wilson-class cruiser overhead, bristling with rail guns and particle beam weapons. Why not blow a hostile out of the sky and bring poor Johnny home?
Log Entry 20-Mandela, 429 – 1802
There will be no suicide for Farno under any circumstances. I've already had cryotubes setup for him in the pit stop and here. His survival is my mission, and suicide would invalidate that mission. It is not an option.
