by Ian Douglas
Synchorbital facilities: Single sky-el link, Asgard Synchorbital to Midgard Towerdown, height 31,750 km. Opptårn Havn starport is located on a trans-synchorbital tether at. . .
Dev yanked his hand off the interface, physically breaking the link. Upset and in a hurry, he'd fed the AI the wrong access code, then gotten flustered when the kiosk began feeding him the wrong data. He took a couple of deep breaths, forcing himself to relax, then tried again.
It cost him another thirty yen, but this time he accessed the right code and a map painted itself in his mind's eye. He was here . . . on the starlight concourse just off the tube-car station from the starport; the nearest ViRcom modules were in the Morokvarter, Asgard's fun strip.
He waited a blink as the AI fed specific directions to his cephlink RAM, then broke contact. He now knew where he wanted to go.
Stepping onto a slidewalk, he was whisked into another jumble of sex shops, clubs, and recjack centers. Loki and its star-dusted backdrop continued their slow pirouette to his right. Three minutes later he arrived at the communications center. He had a short wait in the lounge for an available booth, but at last he was able to squeeze himself into the padded embrace of a ViRcom module.
He could have used his palm interface again for a first-level call but elected instead to pay a bit more for a full-sensory link. The navy, after all, didn't take just anyone, and he wanted to make a good impression.
Most humans everywhere had cephlinks nowadays; life without them had been all but unthinkable since the governments of the Hegemony started making them available as a right of citizenship two or three centuries before. Where differences in social status and abilities appeared was in the access hardware. Palm implants were part of the basic package, allowing level-one access. Most people also had at least one temporal socket for receiving level-two entertainment and communications feeds. Dev had three sockets for full interface and feedback, an expensive gift from his father that had made the difference between his dreams of escaping Earth, and the reality.
He jacked twin leads into his temporal sockets, brought his left hand down on the interface to initiate the link . . .
. . . and found himself in an office of crystal and silver, facing a pretty girl who was almost certainly an AI construct. She parted perfect lips, revealing perfect teeth in a warm and perfect smile. Blond hair swirled at her shoulders. "Hello," she said, her Inglic flawless as the AI tailored its responses to Dev's native language. "How can I assist you?"
"Hi there," Dev said. "I'd like a full-sensory with the local Hegemony Service recruiter, please."
He glanced down, giving his own ViRpersona a quick once-over. His shipbag was gone, along with the old, gray and orange skintight he'd exchanged for one of Mintaka's tan shipsuits. Instead he was wearing virtual clothing he'd bought and programmed into his cephlink three months ago on Rainbow, a stylish maroon bodysuit with a complex weave of gold down the left half of his torso, high collar, black shoulder cloak, and short-trimmed hair. Not the latest thing back on Earth, perhaps, but sophisticated, especially out here on the frontier. Since the maroon suit tended to give his light skin a pasty look, the package included lighter hair and a dark, even tan. He'd always felt that it was worth the extra yen to look his best in Virtual Reality.
The girl's eyes took on a not-here glaze, then focused on him again. "I'm terribly sorry, sir, but no one is available to speak to you at this time."
"Huh?" His persona's brows furrowed. "That's ridiculous!" The Hegemony Military Command for any colony synchorbital was a huge, sprawling affair employing tens of thousands of people, the most powerful AIs on or near the planet, and all of the resources necessary to terraform, police, and govern an entire world. To say that no one was available was like saying that the entire planet had just shut down.
"I will connect you with an analogue, sir."
And he was standing in the office of a Hegemony officer.
It was a virtual re-creation of some office within Asgard. A transparent wall looked out onto Loki, flooding the room with golden light. The man standing behind the desk wore a shosa's collar tabs; the rank corresponded to a navy lieutenant commander or an army major. The army dress uniform was a two-toned blend of grays, light and dark, with gold piping. Three rows of ribbons decorated his upper left chest.
"I'm Major Kellerman," the figure said. It extended a hand and, reluctantly, Dev took it. It felt warm and dry. "What can we do for you?"
"I'm trying to get through to someone in Personnel, Major," Dev said. He would have preferred dealing with a human, of course. Analogues—AI simulations of a real person—were capable of independent thought to a certain extent, able even to make decisions within the Al's area of expertise, but they were generally restricted to routine business. "I'm here to enlist in the Hegemony Navy."
The image smiled, a slight upward twitch of thin lips. "I'm sorry, but we're having a bit of a crunch just now. I really don't think anyone will be able to see you. Next week, perhaps—"
"Next week!"
"I'm afraid—"
"Damn it, I want to talk to someone now!" Dev was aware of how petulant he sounded the moment the words were out. He stopped, swallowed, and took a moment to smooth the jagged snap of his temper. He'd been waiting for this moment for years. A delay of another few days would make little difference.
But damn it, HEMILCOM's entire administrative department couldn't have simply stepped out for lunch!
"I could take your application now," the major said. "But I have no way of knowing when someone will be able to process you."
Dev's eyes narrowed. "It's an alert, isn't it?"
"I cannot discuss military matters with civilians, sir."
Xenophobes. It had to be. They'd been on Loki for the past three or four years standard, and nothing else could tie up the whole HEMILCOM network. He grinned knowingly. "The Xenophobes giving your people some trouble, are they?"
"You don't expect me to comment on that one way or the other, surely." The major's eyes unfocused for a moment, then hardened, meeting Dev's gaze. "Let me suggest an alternative. I can induct you now. You'll be assigned to a holding company in Midgard, where you will take the usual battery of tests. From there, you'll be transferred to your training slot."
"Midgard. That's the towerdown? On the planet?"
"Yes, sir."
Dev considered this. There was certainly no point in waiting around in Asgard, paying high prices for hotels, food, and entertainment, not when Kellerman's option was at least a step in the right direction. "Okay," he said. "That sounds good."
"Fine. Preferred branch of service?"
"The navy," Dev said slowly. "Not the army." He managed to keep his voice neutral . . . barely.
"I see," Kellerman said. "Whitesuit, eh?"
"That's right. I've been jacking a freighter for the last couple of years. I figure it's time to plug into a real jobslot."
"Well, we can probably fix you up if that's what you really want. The navy'll take anybody."
Dev recognized the tone as banter, part of a tradition of interservice rivalry, but he pressed his lips together and said nothing. In fact, the divisions between military services within the Hegemony were far less than they'd been for the militaries of Earth's pre-Union past.
"What's your configuration?"
"Nippon Orbital Industries Cephimplant, Model 10,000. Left palm imbedded control interface. Twin T-sockets."
"Two temporal sockets. The ten-kay gives you a C-socket as well, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," he admitted, but reluctantly. The cervical socket was designed specifically for jacking heavy equipment and work machines, gear with leg-arm-hand correspondence like loaders, constructors, or . . .
Or warstriders.
The major regarded him for a moment. "If I might ask, sir, why the navy? Your C-socket would practically guarantee you a strider's slot."
"I'm a starship," Dev replied.
"May I ask why?"
"Just put me down for a n
avy slot, damn it!" He could feel his anger slithering out of control again, as it had at the information kiosk. The idea of slogging around a planet's surface, plugged into some great, lumbering combat machine when he could be plying the godsea, was frightening.
"Well, now, you must understand we can't promise you a particular slot, sir. Not before we run you through a standard MSE series and some other routine tests."
"I'm not palming anything if I can't have the navy."
The analogue shrugged. "The decision is yours. HEMILCOM personnel does make every effort to match inductees with their civilian specialties. Since you are an experienced starpilot, I feel sure you'll get what you want, contingent on those test results, of course."
Dev took a deep, steadying breath. "Okay. Where do I palm?"
Kellerman indicated an interface pad on his desk. "Right here."
Dev hesitated, then pressed his palm implant against the 'face. Waiting with a holding company at the towerdown was definitely preferable to crawling back to the Mintaka.
"Very well." Kellerman was brisk, all business. "You are now a provisionary recruit-trainee, assigned to Holding Company Three-One. Here is some information you'll need."
Dev opened his RAM for a data feed. Directions trickled past his awareness, along with a sky-el shuttle schedule, an understanding of Loki's system of keeping time, and a list of rules and regulations. Dev felt a momentary whirl of disorientation. Things were happening fast. He'd just joined the military!
"Your reservations on the next available Bifrost descent have been made and confirmed, sir. You have forty-seven minutes until your el-shuttle departs. Good luck."
"Thank you." The room and Major Kellerman dissolved, and Dev's hand broke contact with the interface pad. He was alone once more, inside the padded enclosure of the ViRcom module. Stepping out onto the deck once more, he took a moment to get his bearings. He'd just arrived in the one-g ring, and now he had to get back to the space elevator core. Spoke pods that way. He had forty-seven minutes.
He would have to hurry.
Chapter 2
Within cephlinked minds,
Ripples on the cosmic sea,
We find our greatness.
Imperial haiku
late twenty-fourth century
Seeming flimsy for its length, the thread of the Bifrost Bridge, ten meters thick, stretched thirty-one thousand kilometers from Loki's equator to Asgard Synchorbital, then well beyond to the tethered Opptårn Havn planetoid that kept the whole structure in balance. Sky-els were by far the most efficient means of transport between ground and orbit, the key on every world of the Shichiju to remaking the planet into Earth's image.
The twenty-eight-hour journey from Asgard to Midgard was made aboard a saucer-shaped el-shuttle riding down the tether on one of four magnetic rails. Arranged like the planetariums of precephlink days, the shuttle's passenger decks had reclining seats for a hundred people set in concentric circles beneath a broad dome, all comfortably padded and equipped with full sensory jacks. The passengers were provided with bodysuits that attended to their bodily needs and hygiene for the duration of the trip. The shuttle's library featured everything from elaborate participatory ViRdramas to virtual banquets that—if they added no calories to the jacker's diet—at least left him feeling pleasantly well fed when he unplugged at the elevator terminus. Hunger, after all, like so much of human experience, resides in the mind.
Dev passed much of the descent in a dream within a dream, wearing an orange bodysuit and jacked to the shuttle's entertainment network.
First, of course, he'd linked realtime with an external view. Not everyone could stand the dizzying spectacle of looking down that silver thread, one reason that the shuttle's walls were opaque. Before he'd initiated the linkage, a legal disclaimer appeared, warning those who had problems with vertigo from jacking in. Dev, experienced spacejack that he was, cheerfully ignored the warnings and spent ten minutes admiring the view, hanging in empty space above the cloud-brilliant swelling of the world below.
But the scene paled and Dev unplugged, not from vertigo but from boredom. He might have been hurtling toward Loki at fifteen hundred kph, but the view remained static, unchanging, with no trace of motion save the steady blur of the magnetic guiderail and, just once, a far-off flash as an elevator laser vaporized some speck of orbital debris that had strayed too close to the vulnerable tower.
Dev had returned to the library menu then, and there considered a selection of erotic programs. His anger at confronting HEMILCOM's bureaucracy had shaken him more than he wanted to admit, and he felt the need for a woman's gentle and confidence-building understanding.
He was tempted by an orgy scenario starring Lea Leanne, one of the hottest of the popular electronic sex partners, but he settled at last on a free-form fantasy of his own design with the pretty blond from the ViRcom. He gave her longer hair and larger breasts and named her Desirée after a girlfriend he'd had at BWT; they met in an isolated tropical grove with pink sand and three crescent moons hanging in a flame red sky. They'd undressed each other, shared an intimate, lingering caress . . .
. . . and then Dev had broken the circuit, shivering. Perhaps if he'd had a human recjack partner, it might have been different, but he found it impossible at the moment to become more than mechanically involved with a woman who had no reality at all outside of the shuttle's AI circuits and his own mind.
Besides, his father's face continued to haunt him, a cold presence on the edge of awareness that surfaced unexpectedly while he was kissing the girl. Not even Desirée's exaggerated mammalian charms could dispel it.
Angrily Dev opened the network menu again. He settled at last on a participatory ViRdrama space epic entitled Battlefleet. He was Shosho Devis Cameron of the Imperial Navy, commander of Battlegroup Shori and charged with the defense of Earth's solar system against the Xenophobe menace. The godsea flamed a glorious blue around him as he guided his titanic flagship Mushashi through the intricacies of the K-T plenum.
Two enemy fleets had broken through the outer defenses, one challenging his squadron of twelve line ships, the other sweeping out of the godsea, lancing toward Earth and the Palace of Heaven itself. In a desperate gamble, Dev divided his fleet, leaving half his squadron to deal with the first Xenophobe fleet while he raced Earthward with the rest, six ships against fifty.
He even found a part for Desirée in the story. She commanded Singapore Orbital's defenses, buying time for Mankind as Dev brought his dreadnought, the gigantic Mushashi, into the midst of the alien fleet, hammering away at the Xenophobe flagship at point-blank range. Ascraft fighters and warflyers filled the skies. Nuclear fury seared in terrifying proximity to the Singapore Sky-el. The Emperor himself was in grave danger. . . .
By the time the shuttle entered atmosphere, he was, of course, triumphant. The Xenophobe fleet was destroyed—the last ship seconds before it could crash into the Emperor's Palace of Heaven. Dev, his arm in a healsling after the fall he'd taken when the Mushashi rammed the enemy battleship, received the golden sunburst of the Teikoku no Hoshi from the Emperor himself as the adoring Desirée stood by his side. Even Dev's father was there, exonerated at last, proud and tall in his Imperial dress blacks, able at last to acknowledge Devis Cameron as his son. . . .
Dev had been sixteen when Captain Michal Cameron of the Hegemonic Navy had received the singular honor of promotion to shosho—rear admiral—and a transfer to the Imperial Navy. Few non-Japanese had ever been so distinguished.
The Terran Hegemony maintained small fleets of ships within each of the systems of the Shichiju, with each unit under the command of the local Hegemony Military Command. Opportunity was limited, though. The Imperial Navy outnumbered the vessels of all of the Hegemony fleets put together, and the biggest ships and best commands were to be found in the Emperor's service. For centuries, exceptional officers had been transferred from Hegemony to Imperial Navy; perhaps half of all Imperial Naval officers were gaijin—non-Japanese.
; Cameron's skill at defusing the Chiron incident of 2529 without precipitating civil war had singled him out at a time when the Imperial service was being criticized for not advancing the gaijin within its ranks. Chuichi Munimori, Gensui-Admiral on the Imperial staff, had found Cameron a useful political foil, proof that non-Japanese could make good within the Imperial military.
He'd made good, all right, and it had destroyed his family.
An Imperial Navy admiral's wife was required to have the proper political connections. Mary Jean Pruitt, Cameron's wife of seventeen years, was a West Scranton girl, American to the core and somewhat technophobic. She didn't speak Nihongo, nor would she accept the nano-grown implant that would let her download the language. Even if she'd spoken fluent Japanese, however, it was unlikely that Cameron would have been permitted to keep her. A match was made for him with the Lady Kikuko Takagi, daughter of an important corporate representative of Mitsubishi Orbital.
As Cameron had explained to his son once, to refuse either promotion or marriage would have meant disgrace. Though the ritual of sepuku was no longer seen as the sole honorable way to resolve irreconcilable clashes of duty and honor and was rarely invoked, especially among gaijin, it might well have been Cameron's only way out of an impossible situation. At the very least, his professional career would have been at an end, with a dishonorable retirement his only option. Pensions, benefits, even insurance coverage, all would have been denied the man who had refused an Imperial command and a Takagi's daughter. His wife and two sons would have been left destitute.
In the end, Mary had suggested the divorce. There was, after all, no reason at all why a successful Imperial admiral couldn't keep a mistress on Earth, and his family would escape the onus of Imperial disgrace. Dev received his cephimplant and sockets, then spent the next five years at BWT, too busy to be unhappy.
Four weeks before Dev's graduation, Admiral Cameron had been ordered to Lung Chi.
The star DM+32° 2896, forty-five light-years from Sol and popularly known as Chien, was a G2 twin of Sol. Its fourth world was as Earthlike as any among the Shichiju. Most of its native life was still confined to broad, shallow seas, like Earth herself 350 million years before. Chien IV's sky-el had been started in 2320; terraforming required little more than bringing the atmospheric oxygen percentage up another few points and absorbing some of the excess carbon dioxide. By 2500 Lung Chi's population topped eight hundred thousand.
