Miranda's Demons

by Ian Miller

  The object fascinated him, but it would soon be setting below the horizon, which meant he would lose it on his local telescope, but not if he used one of the optical telescopes in the deep space complex. If he turned that telescope off Uranus, what would that do to his project? Did he have enough information? If the authorities found out he had taken the telescope off his designated project to follow something stupid he could fail entry to the academy. On the other hand his data on Uranus included unknown objects, and if he made no effort to identify them . . . ? He quickly decided; he keyed the new coordinates into one of the available optical telescopes, brought its output onto his screen, keyed in the spectral analyser, and prayed.

  It was a little before dawn when the final puzzle occurred. In front of the light a brilliant light source occurred, which suddenly turned itself into two jets of light, speeding out at high velocity in opposite directions. The line of the jets was normal to the trajectory of the light source, and the light source then proceeded to travel through the centre of the display. Harry quickly locked the computer into the angular coordinates, and commenced displaying a variety of possible background objects.

  There was no space junk far enough away from Earth to make sense, and very fortunately there were no spacecraft within that sector. There was only one object that fitted the angular coordinates, and that was a small asteroid. If that were the case, he had just seen something pass through what was left of ten cubic kilometers of rock. That would involve power that made the biggest hydrogen bomb seem like a squib! There was also the question of brightness. If that light was out as far as the asteroid belt, it must be far brighter than he had assumed, and its velocity must be far higher. If that craft belonged to Defence, then they had been working illicitly both on a drive system and a weapon of immense power. But if it were not . . . ?

  Harry was in an extremely pensive mood as he closed down his equipment.

  Chapter 2

  Harry slept for six hours, then rolled out of the bunk, his body dripping with sweat. Despite the heat outside, life was good! Luck was running! He had made a real discovery! That he had no idea what he had discovered was a problem, but it was the sort of problem he could deal with, or so he hoped. Of one thing he was certain: this was the sort of problem no other candidate could solve, so if he were to come up with any reasonable interpretation, he was into the advanced academy. The shower facilities were somewhat crude, the water was inexplicably cold, but nothing could dampen the spiritually revived Harry.

  He bounced into the rather Spartan kitchen, made himself a pot of coffee, then he grabbed his mid-day breakfast from the aged fridge and sat down at the rough table. He ate quickly. He should have been tired, but he felt as if he could walk on clouds. He packed his all-so-precious data tapes into a carry bag, then entered the outside inferno. He closed and locked the door, then climbed into the small vehicle, which despite having been in shade felt intolerably hot.

  It was a two-kilometer bouncing drive across the dirt track through the rolling terrain of baked clay and desiccated grass, a scene broken only by a couple of eucalypts. The dirt track ended at something that was quite unexpected: an airfield suitable for advanced aircraft, with large hangars to one side. He parked beside the second hangar, keyed in the combination, then stood back to watch the doors open, and the aircraft, a sleek E-111 be automatically rolled out and be towed robotically to a position where it could fire its motors without damaging the hangars. As Harry wiped his brow, he admired the sleek craft as it swung towards the strip of dark grey, with the wall of heat pouring upwards off it. He drove the vehicle into its little shed, locked the shed's and hangar's doors, then he walked to the aircraft. He slipped into his g-suit, raised Sydney on the intercom, and requested his controller contact in the Sydney Defence unit.

  "D40!" came the cryptic tones.

  "Hawk 7 fuelled and ready to fly. Request clearance."

  "Harry! How'd it go last night?"

  "Pretty good." Possibly the understatement of all time, he realized, then he also realized that the excitement in his voice would have given him away.

  "Good enough for Academy Two?"

  "I think I just might have it. Do us a favour?"

  "Anything, kid."

  "One last combat exercise?" His nerves were so wound up, this time he would be on fire.

  "Hold on." Ten minutes passed. "Harry, switch to command channel 14."

  Harry switched. There was silence then, "Grid: Southwest corner, ten kilometres east of Tamworth; square one hundred kilometer side, west side oriented magnetic North. All other aircraft diverted. Drones present."

  "Roger, and thanks!"

  "Don't mention it. Good luck!"

  Harry ignited the motors, and guided the craft to the take off point. His skin still tingled slightly as he thrust the throttles open and the small craft roared forward. A gentle edging back of the stick and he was flying, accelerating rapidly as his craft climbed at a forty-five degree angle. The sky soon darkened. A slight banking, and there below on the port side was the generator of myths: the Australian outback. The home of the bushranger, the swaggie with his tucker-bag, the tough outback farmer, the place that most Australians knew less about than Mars. How many now knew why those hats had cork bobs? How many would think to wear boots and wrap their shins with thick canvas, despite the heat? How many had had their backs covered with flies? And Harry was only too well aware that he knew next to nothing about that expanse.

  It took no time to reach the nominated zone, and his surveillance equipment picked up a drone, flying at 15,000 metres. Harry flipped over to the combat mode, and went through the arming procedure. This would be easy.

  Too easy! Just because he was elated did not mean he was going to be stupid. Harry hauled back on the stick and climbed. He levelled off, and turned the amplitude on his detectors to maximum. There, 10,000 metres above the first were three more, masked with the best stealth technology. There would probably be more, but he should take these out before the controller detected him. He climbed another 5,000 metres, and moved across so that he would come out of the sun, then he dived. As he swept across them, in turn "missiles" were despatched electronically, then he opened the motor and screamed down at Mach 5 onto the remaining drone. Another quick press of the firing mechanism, and that drone was electronically eliminated. He banked to port and pulled back on the stick. As he had half suspected, two more drones were streaking towards him. There was a tiny valley to the southeast, and Harry dived towards it. The drones would not follow; their commands were quite simple, and they could not enter regions where there was a physical risk of destruction. Harry dived into the valley, pulled the throttle back and opened the flaps, then pulled back on he stick. As he had suspected the drones were flying to cover the assumed exit. He neatly pulled up behind, and despatched them.

  "Good flying, kid," came the voice over the intercom. "Six is all there is. But I do have something else, if you're up to it."

  "Sure," Harry replied in a puzzled tone, "but here?"

  "You have the only high speed craft airborne and near. I want you to fly east south east two hundred and eighty kilometers off the coast."

  "Wilco," Harry replied, and swung the craft around. "But why?"

  "There's an independent fishing boat radioing it is being attacked by some unidentified surface vessel. Two police aircraft are approaching. I want you to go and see what's going on out there. Stay out of sight, but report."

  "Wilco." He pulled the stick back and began to climb into the blackness of thirty thousand meters. He set the course and switched on the surveillance equipment. This was hardly difficult. The aircraft was now flying itself, optimizing its surveillance positions far better than any human could. All he had to do was switch on the observation screen, sit back, and watch the program.

  Harry could not believe what he soon saw on his screen under full-zoom. Two small fishing boats were being raked with cannon and lasers from a much larger ship, standing stationary a few hu
ndred meters to the East. Both of the fishing boats were on fire; columns of smoke were pouring from the midships area of the first, while the other was listing heavily to port. On each boat, sailors were attempting to launch lifeboats; they in turn were being raked by laser fire. It was clear that no survivors were intended. One of the police craft was diving seaward, smoke pouring from it, and the other was twisting and diving to avoid the lasers being directed at it. Then the lasers caught the second police craft; for a few seconds nothing happened, then that craft also dived towards the sea. Harry felt almost physically sick as he reported.

  "Focus the long range camera on the ship, please."

  "Wilco." Harry focused, and brought the ship into a clear identification pattern as it switched its attention back to the fishing boats.

  "Harry, I have a computer match. The ship is the GenCorp vessel Munro 341. Please stand by."

  Nearly all the GenCorp vessels were named Munro, thought Harry, after the egotistical Munro family. Now they seemed to have developed corporate warships, and had resorted to this! While the corporations hated the independents and had been carrying on illegal harassment for some time, it had always been done secretly, with such men being prosecuted if they were slack enough to be caught. This was the first time Harry had known them to carry out such an act so openly and then murder the police who had technically caught them in the act. Harry knew, deep down, that no authority would do much about this. After all, no corporate ship would do this unless they were very certain there would be no adverse consequences.

  "Harry!" the voice returned after seven minutes. "We've contacted GenCorp, and they deny any ship being within a thousand kilometers. Your first option is to return immediately, and say nothing to anyone. The matter will be closed."

  "But . . ."

  "When you come back, you must remain absolutely silent. That is an order. There is nothing the police will do, because there's nothing they can do. All messages from the police were blocked by the GenCorp vessel."

  "They can prosecute. I'm a witness to murder."

  "You'll be a dead witness, and you know it. Added to which, you have not used any legally authorised surveillance equipment, so it's simply your word against theirs. There's no way you alone can stand up to GenCorp, and that's all there is to it."

  "I see," Harry said harshly. "They can get away with murder, and nobody will do anything about it."

  "Not once you come home. However, there is option two."

  "What exactly is option two?" Harry asked bitterly.

  "I have been speaking with Commissioner Kotchetkova. Her view is that since there is no GenCorp vessel in the area, presumably there will be no complaint if there is no vessel there."

  "But the bloody thing's right below me," Harry protested.

  "It is now, my friend, but in five minutes, who knows?"

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "It means that if you really wish to do something about it, you have the choice. Quite fortuitously, as it happens, you took the wrong plane from Sydney. It's actually a patrol craft, and not a trainer."

  "So?"

  "On your left is a control to raise laser reflector shields. On your right is a box, with nine digital keys. If you type in the sequence 9473, the box will open. With this you may arm two harpoon darts, and lasers. The Commissioner's formal orders are for you to return to Sydney and say absolutely nothing. Under no circumstances does she want any evidence from GenCorp of an attack on its non- existent vessel. I hope this is clear. You are to make no further transmission on this channel." The line went dead.

  Harry was astounded. The craft he was flying was armed, and he had the key. Because it was fully stealth equipped, and because he was so far away, the GenCorp vessel was almost certainly unaware of him. They had certainly made no effort to communicate, and his powerful receiving gear indicated that no electronic fix was on him. He thought for a moment, then keyed in the digits. The box opened. He had a few moments to think, because any attack should be launched from an approach broadside to the ship. He moved the craft towards the attack position. In just a few seconds he would have to decide, and for once all his confidence left him. He was alone, and he had the power of life and death. His hand moved towards the attack computer. He locked the target, then he began to key in the attack mode; broadside on, lowest level, maximum speed, close attack. A good attack mode, he thought to himself, not that this committed him to anything.

  He had hated the corporations all his life, the way they seemed above any law. He had dreamed many dreams of what he would like to do to them. Now he had the chance, but to exercise it he would have to kill. Then there were the Commissioner's non-orders. There was little doubt what she wanted. If she wanted him to do nothing, there would be no ambiguity. She had given him the power of life and death, and she expected him to exercise it. Just lovely!

  He thought about closing the box when he imagined the vision of a drowning fisherman. Not any fisherman; the face was that of his father. The blood rose. The fact that disobeying the Commissioner's non-order was hardly the route to an advanced academy was, perhaps, a further incentive.

  Harry flipped up the laser shield, pressed the arming buttons, rolled into the attack dive, then switched to computer attack. The nose dropped and the motors opened up. Faster and faster, proved by the white streaks as the cirrus flew by. A moment's vibration as a wall of white enveloped him, then the sea. The nose lifted, and he felt pinned back, too heavy to move, as the grey swept towards him. The craft levelled off at Mach 4, twenty metres above the sea. The electronic signals showed the presence of the ship; the computer touched the rudder, lightly, then again, to maximize reflection intensity, then it sent the two missiles on their way. As Harry reverted to pilot control, he pulled back on the stick and touched the rudder to starboard. The ship flashed by below him. He banked, rolled, and swung back.

  The GenCorp vessel was hit amidships and in the stern; smoke was pouring from it. Already sailors were struggling with a life raft. He remembered his instructions, and he remembered the fishermen. But more than anything else, he remembered that if he left survivors, Kotchetkova would abandon him. It was impossible to be associated with Defence and not know of her reputation. Ice-cold and totally ruthless, she never smiled. She wore a wig of cold and grey to reflect her uncompromising soul. If he disobeyed the final order, he would be handed to Munro, trussed like a turkey. If he carried out his orders, the entire power of Defence would stand beside him. A strange coldness passed over him. With almost total detachment, he switched the laser cannon to maximum power. He swept over the burning and listing ship several times at 300 kilometers per hour, raking it with tens of megawatts of fire. Lifeboats spewed smoke, metal glowed yellow hot, spray turned into instant heat. For the sailors, above-deck was death by incineration; below deck was death by drowning. Within two minutes the ship sank, and as Harry passed over again in the slowest surveillance mode he could see there were no lifeboats.

  Harry had the presence of mind to return to the coast on the same flight path he had come, then, over the New England ranges, he banked and returned to Sydney. No mention of the sea flight would be entered in the flight log, and he would approach Sydney from the northwest, as if he had been on a training flight over the central desert. All he had to do was to remember to tell the flight crew not to touch the aircraft until tomorrow. The outer skin should now be very hot.

  Chapter 3

  Upon landing, Harry was ignored by the higher-ranking officers, and he received the usual, "Nice work with the drones," from his controller, although there did seem to be an unsaid, "Good on yer, mate!" behind the formal 'nothing to be said about that,' exterior. Harry understood. He had been on a mission that had never happened and so, in turn, he gave the usual responses to the ground crews. Another uneventful flight. He slung his kit bag over his shoulder, signed the log pre-written for him, saluted, and marched away from the control room.

  What should he do? His first impulse was to go to t
he bar on the base and consume a very large very cold beer, but then he realized how empty he felt. He would be terrible company, and he could never tell anyone why. No, he would return to his apartment and have his beer there.

  But when he returned to his apartment all he could do was to wander around in a semi-agitated state. He could not sit and relax, but equally he did not want to do anything. Even a beer was unwanted. His mind was in turmoil, and there was nothing he could do to escape it. He had killed. Yes, he rationalized, but those he had killed deserved every bit of it. Or did they? They were just following orders, which up to a point was more than he had been doing. He had had an option; they did not. The problem was, he had killed the wrong people. If only one of those wretched Munros had been on board, but they would never have made that mistake.

  He had to do something. The best he could think of was eating, so he made his way to the campus eatery, and ordered a meal. Restaurant it was not, and for that matter, describing what he had as either a meal or food was generous, but it was all he could face at this time. He was hoping he could find some of his student friends, people who might cheer him up, but there was nobody. He ate his tasteless food, then made his way back to his apartment.

  The evening wore on. It was only then he realized how appallingly bad the ComCorp entertainment was. So many channels, so little of interest. He went to bed early, for he was very tired, having been up all the previous night with the telescope. But he could not sleep. He tossed and turned, with burning ships and drowning sailors flashing before his eyes. Gradually a question began to form in his mind: how many times had independent fishing boats been targeted by the Corporations? He must find out. He got out of bed and turned on his computer, to search the on-line archives.