by Don Foxe
“If we do like what we hear, are we prepared to intervene?” Arcand asks.
“We do not need to make a decision regarding intervention at this time,” al-Rashid countered. “It appears we only need to make a recommendation to the UEC representatives as to whether it would be in Earth’s best interest to send ships to Aster system and meet with The Prophet. To discover the truth.”
“At his choice of location? In Aster system?” Spross asked.
“Better there than here,” Singletary replied. “If we send a delegation, I vote we send it with a battle group able to make them think long and hard about trying anything stupid. If we need to defend our ships, should any of the players there make the mistake of attacking, the collateral damage will occur in their system. They already know we can kick their butts with a PT boat and a couple of three-person fighters. Imagine what the Prophet will think when he sees a Destroyer and a Carrier filled with fighters pop into the Aster system without using one of those wormholes.”
“Overconfidence is a dangerous thing,” Spross warned.
“We will take the information, look over everything, and meet again in twenty-four hours,” Arcand said. He stood, signaling an end to the meeting. “The data sticks Dr. Trent provides are to be kept classified and secure. They are eyes-only, and that means no sharing with anyone. Reach your own decision. When we come to a consensus, we’ll present it to a secure meeting of the UEC representatives. They will have the data and our suggestion. They can all vote on what Earth’s role will or will not be.”
Nevada Desert
“The UEC voted to send representatives to meet with the Prophet in the Aster system,” Trent said. He held up a METS suit, shaking the material, and inspecting it from different angles.
“It’s a trap,” Coop said. “What’s special about this new suit?”
The two talked in Trent’s personal, private, extremely secure research and development lab in the middle of the Nevada desert. Near the secure research and training base used by Space Fleet, but separate and separated by several miles of open terrain. No one allowed within ten miles of the lab, and nothing could fly overhead, including satellites.
“It’s heavier,” Trent replied. “I was a dumb-ass when I sacrificed additional force-deflection for weight on the suits for you and the other Space Rangers. I sometimes forget you are six-times stronger than before. You look so damn normal. If I had done this right the first time, the laser would have been deflected. Why do you think it’s a trap?”
“The laser hit me in the head,” Coop said. “Even if the body wounds were prevented, I would have taken the head shot. The Prophet is a religious zealot. He isn’t going to negotiate.”
“True. But if you did not have to recover from the body wounds, you might have recovered faster from the brain damage. Maybe he’s just religious, and not a zealot. Maybe he actually wants a private nirvana in his own system.”
“This new suit weighs twelve-ounces instead of six. It deflects lasers, where before it only prevented penetration by blades and projectiles. It isn’t as silky, and will be more difficult to put on and take off. Anything else?”
“The full-body suits designed for Space Rangers include full head cover and integrated boots designed to use a new and improved spectrophotometer woven into the material. The new hybrid-material will match the exterior of the immediate surrounding area. It takes a couple of minutes to accomplish. If the background changes rapidly, you would be pretty obvious. To activate or deactivate the camouflage option, you have to rub a strip along the back of the sleeve’s forearms. It deactivates immediately. They still use a system to either heat or cool the wearer based on need, but I added a rebreather hooked directly into the head-cover. In cold weather, foggy breath will not give you away. You can go into non-oxygenated areas, or toxic situations for hours. Hell, you could probably survive in outer space for an hour.”
“Extremely cool,” Coop said. “You could have brought this to Fin Island. Why did you send for me?”
Trent delivered a devilish smile. The inventor, engineer, scientist never truly grew out of the boy who loved new toys and surprising his friends. Without a word, he headed for the door, motioning Coop to follow.
Amused by the brilliant man’s impish nature, Coop followed, his curiosity rising with the storage lift taking them toward the surface.
The doors opened, and they stepped into a hangar. Sensors turned on lights.
A ship sat center of the hangar. It looked ready to leap, and angry enough to bite your head off.
“Meet Wraith. A brand new class of ship. A one and only prototype. My baby,” he said to Coop. “Built her as R&D, but also as a private personal transport if I felt the need to visit other worlds.”
“This is the drone you sent to recon Fell before Operation Crossroads,” Coop said. His eyes scanned the forward exterior of the ship, his brain running calculation and figuring aerodynamic qualities in the time between breaths. “You showed her to me on a video feed in the back of your hover-car.”
“Yep. This is her, in the Martian-alloy composite flesh.”
Angel and Demon class fighters were built similar to Stealth jets. The Wraith owed its heritage to the historic F-22 Raptor. The ship’s design consisted of clipped delta wings with a reverse sweep on the rear. It employed four empennage surfaces and currently rested on retractable tricycle landing gear. Surfaces included canted vertical stabilizers and horizontal tails. His practiced eye and new analytical powers determined the set up allowed the tails to move.
The wide cockpit sat forward center, above a rectangular grill with the appearance it could scoop space from in front and blast it out the back. Side-mounted double-barrel small-bore railguns placed on either side of the cockpit. Coop spotted the SH communications catch and send tube running along the bottom of the craft. The ship’s underbelly appeared seamed for bomb-bay doors.
“Wingspan of fifty-six feet,” Trent said.“Length is seventy-two feet, and height is only twenty-four feet. Two power plants. One provides in-atmosphere and simple space travel. Don’t have a top end on the speed inside the troposphere, but she has hit Mach 10. We estimate up to 300,000mph in natural space. The space-fold is .12SL [twelve-percent of the speed of light] inside a system and 1KPCd [1,000 parsecs per twenty-four hours] in open space.”
Trent folded his arms, looking and sounding like a proud new dad.
“She’s equipped with advanced gravotonics,” he informed the former test pilot. “You can make a ninety-degree turn at Mach 8 and the gravotonics will prevent your organs from recoiling and splattering the inside of the ship. No matter what you try, there will be negligible g-force effect on your body.”
Trent walked under the extended wing and pointed to the rear edge.
“The fixed wings and stabilizers allow her to move in and out of atmospheres. The same design reduces the effect of gravity wells during space flight near large objects. She is made of advanced materials. The airframe is light, but sturdy inside an atmosphere. The combination of low profile, materials, and special synthetic coating make her nearly invisible to surface or non-surface generated scans.”
He returned to the front of the ship.
“Double-barreled rail-guns on either side of the cockpit,” he pointed out. “Kinetic projectile barrel beneath one for electromagnetic pulse shells. The new Short-Rod Penetrators, or SRP projectiles are small, but incredibly dense. The non-nuclear pulse shells, nymphs, will disrupt electromagnetic fields and deliver a punch at the same time. With double-barrels you no longer need to switch between nymphs and rods. Each gun-roll contains five-hundred SRPs. Independent fire and they swivel. They can even flip and fire backward.”
Trent pointed to the seams located beneath the airframe’s undercarriage. “The doors allow a tachyon/plasma cannon to deploy. I’ve added special shocks and dampeners. The cannon produces seventy-two percent of the power of a surface mounted cannon without the dangerous recoil.”
The scientist pressed
his hand against a landing strut. A ladder emerged from the forward edge of the delta wing.
“You can enter by way of the loading ramp, but it’s more fun to climb up and enter through a hatch behind the cockpit. Pilot and co-pilot seats. She’s built for speed and bite,” Trent said, unable to contain a big smile. “Not much on comfort. Small galley area and two bunks, stacked. A shower, sink, and toilet. Storage for cold stuff. You can heat your food, but no kitchen. I hoped to add a food replicator similar to those Trading Alliance ships use, but haven’t had the time. Plenty of dry-food storage for extended travel. Limited cargo space, but particle dry-wash for clothing means you don’t need to take a lot with you.”
“What does Space Fleet say about you having a personal ship with classified technology and weapons?” Coop asked. His eyes moving from the sleek killing machine to his friend.
“It doesn’t belong to Fleet,” Trent replied. “I’m Head of Sciences, and Trent Industries has contracts with Space Fleet and the UEC, but I’m also a private businessman. I own my intellectual properties. UEC and divisions get first opportunity to buy anything I develop before it’s offered on the open market. Unless it’s something built by us specifically for them. Until I make a public offering, anything I build is mine. I’m not offering the Wraith for sale, publicly or privately. There are no plans to build more than one. And this one I’m giving to you.”
“Expensive gift,” Coop responded. Even with super-fast synaptic activity and the ability to accept and analyze information in the time it took for his brain to assimilate an image or sound, he found Trent’s offer difficult to comprehend.
“You’ve earned it,” Trent said. “I wouldn’t be here without your help all these many years. Hell, Earth wouldn’t be where we are if you didn’t have the guts to test fly my concepts. You brought the optical upgrades from Osperantue, the communication advances from the Fell, and the crystals we need to power our systems from Rys. I’d call this a downpayment on what humanity owes you.”
“In Brazil you mentioned the ship used artificial intelligence, but without an avatar. Anything I should know?”
“Like I said then, no GENNA.” Trent turned his back on the ship. Standing in front of the Shelby Cobra-inspired nose, it looked as if the Wraith considered swallowing its inventor. “The AI is integrated to the ship, and the ship’s sensors interact with the system the way your five senses work with your brain. In point of fact, with your new upgraded brain, the two of you assimilate and reason more alike than either of you compared to us normal humans.”
“The ship sees, hears, feels, smells, and tastes through sensor feeds?”
“Pretty much,” Trent replied. “It can analyze sensor-generated data, and experience it in a manner similar to you and me. It still acts like a computer, accepting data, maintaining files, self-maintenance of operational systems, and all the other things a computer needs to do.”
“Personality?”
“Work in progress. My best code writer designed the building blocks. He’s a gamer freak, and hoped to design a scalable personality capable of allowing the AI to evolve as it interacted with humans, and, I suppose, aliens. Similar to the way virtual reality characters in streamer games will take on the persona of the human players.”
“You allowed a gamer to build the baseline?” Coop half asked, half accused. “The same guys who create testosterone-driven heroes, over-sexed female warriors, and super-powerful evil villains?”
“He’s the best,” Trent replied, a bit defensively. “I did take the Wraith away before he completed the final tests. I’ll perform a sweep to make sure your AI has no evil villain issues.” Trent’s eyes lost focus. He held a hand up. “Mara’s calling,” he said, explaining his sudden change.
Trent used an ultra-miniaturized communicator-translator devise implanted in his neck, beneath his right ear. The updated version of the Fell translation and communication bracelets created by Sky designed and built by her brother, Sparks. The system small enough to implant beneath the skin. Only a few trusted humans and aliens had access to the innovation. The trans-com provided private communications without obvious equipment. Cooper received one after completing his psychological evaluation by Dr. Juri. Not officially awake, he kept his dormant.
“We need to return to Fin Island,” Trent finally said. “You have a couple of visitors.”
Fin Island
“I’m going,” Coop said.
Nathan and Mara stood alongside Cooper. They decided to talk on the covered patio with a view of the water and another island off to the South. The rain dissipated, but the mid-day sun remained obscured by dense grey clouds.
“I understand the importance, but the timing sucks,” Nathan said. “Space Fleet received orders to dispatch a battlegroup to meet with the Prophet. You cannot take part officially, but no one knows how the Mischene operate better than you. I could feed you information, and you could add your insight.”
“Timing is just about perfect,” Coop countered. “With the information we now have, we might be able to stop an insurrection. Making sure the UEC is secure will help keep those going to Aster system safer. We have friends on board those ships, Nathan.”
“What if someone recognizes you?” Trent asked Coop.
“I’m thinner. Haven’t gained back all the muscle I lost while unconscious,” he said. “I’ll let Mara cut my hair and leave the beard and mustache. There are pictures of me with scruff, but I’ve never gone with a full facial forest before. Sunshades, baseball cap, and I’m good to go.”
“I’ll get ID for you,” Trent said, accepting Coop intended to leave regardless of counter arguments. “I’ll set you up as a Trent Industries engineer. Lord knows I employ about a thousand. Just let me know what name to use.”
“Connections,” Mara said, her eyes focused on the junction between sea water and islands. “The ability to make connections from seemingly unrelated clues is how we reconstruct dead languages.” She turned her grey eyes on Coop. “Everything is converging. Everything will change after this.”
“We can make those changes positive,” the Space Ranger responded. “If the information is right, we can save a friend, prevent others from dying, and stop a group of bad actors from destabilizing the government.”
“You will be going up against a powerful group of dedicated operators with decades to prepare,” Trent said.
“Which is why I won’t be playing politics,” Coop replied. “They’ve wrapped themselves in conspiracies and complicated strategies. They rely on spreading misinformation and placing informants in key positions, while they remain hidden. I’m simply going to cut off their heads and leave the bodies in the open.”
“Interesting metaphor,” Trent said.
Turning to leave, anxious to start the mission, the enhanced human responded, “That was no metaphor.”
PART 2
Connections
Convergence
After a river is formed, it descends to lower levels. Here it runs more slowly over the sloping landscape of its middle course.
Its current no longer creates the force to carry stones or gravel.
This material drops to the riverbed, where it forms bars of sand, or gravel, to the point of sometimes creating islands.
Everything is continually changing shape as the river deposits or erodes material.
Often the river will alter its course.
CHAPTER 8
The tear rested at the corner of her eye. The stark lights in the restroom caused it to glimmer in the reflection of the mirror. The pain would not win. She damn well would not allow the tear to win. Wanting to pull it back in, she was not going to wipe it away.
Gravity won. It always wins. The tear left her too big, too wide on her face, too deep brown, too sad eyes, and travelled along her too wide, too long nose. It followed the crease from her nose, around her too thin lips. They appeared thinner, pinched together in anger. It made it to her too pointy chin and stopped. Gravity gave up, and forced her
to use her mittened hand to wipe the drop away.
Mittens, because Bosine have two fingers, both wider than a human’s. The mittens helped hide the difference. She learned to keep her fingers together whenever she lifted her hand, signaling she knew the answer to a question, or wanting to make a comment. The first few times, she lifted her hand with the fingers apart. Someone, every time, said “Live long and prosper.” It was not until after the third instance, she took the time to research the quote. Leonard Nimoy, an actor from a previous century, played an alien on television and movies. When she saw the Vulcan salute and heard the salutation, she thought it wonderful. A few more times, and she discovered humans were making fun of her hands. Thereafter, she made sure to keep them together . . . or hide them in mittens when cold enough.
She could not hide her face, or her too pink skin. She grew her brown hair long enough to cover her too odd ears. She wore it with bangs, trying to cover a larger portion of her too alien face.
Chaspi balled her hands into fists. She wanted, badly, to hit someone. Others often described Bosine as docile. The entire race considered meek. Everyone from Osperanue, except the Fray species, described as passive and easy to get along with. Growing up, she had been the wild child. Easy to get angered. Quick to make a snide remark, and lash out at real and imagined slights.
Her parents worried for her. Her teachers commented on her ‘anger issues.' Her best friend her entire life, Rosz, ignored her outbursts. He was a perfect example of Bosine cool. He accepted Chaspi’s unique nature, even making fun of her mini-tantrums.
At the moment, he maintained his distance. In all the years, under all of the conditions they lived through, he had never seen her this angry.
“Cow girl,” she said. She said it out loud. At the mirror, back at her. Less than two months in college, and an over-sized human male decided he would make sure she realized her alienness.
