Cybership

by Vaughn Heppner

  “I haven’t decided,” the Centurion whispered.

  “It’s a troubling decision,” the Old Man said.

  “What are you two talking about?” Stark said. “He’s stupid.”

  “I don’t agree,” the Old Man said.

  “Great,” Stark said. “Don’t agree. The colonel died because the cadet trusted an arbiter. If that’s not stupid, I don’t know what is.”

  “The cadet didn’t completely trust the arbiter,” the Old Man said. “That’s why he followed the policeman into the control room. He also figured out what was happening quickly enough.”

  “Not quick enough to save the colonel,” Stark said.

  “True.”

  “That means he’s out,” Stark said, as he jerked a big thumb at the bulkhead behind him.

  The Old Man sucked on his pipe. “The cadet made a difficult decision under pressure. He might have actually saved more of the men by doing it his way.”

  “The colonel died,” Stark said stubbornly.

  “You never made a decision that lost you men?” the Old Man asked quietly.

  “That was different,” Stark said.

  The Old Man raised an eyebrow as he puffed on his pipe.

  “What’s your plan?” the Centurion asked Jon.

  “First, I want to see what’s happening in the Neptune System,” Jon said.

  “You said before that aliens attacked the system,” the Centurion whispered.

  Jon nodded.

  “What are your plans once you know the situation, say, if you find aliens out here?” the Centurion whispered.

  Jon opened his mouth to say he didn’t know. He closed it as the Centurion’s gaze bored into him.

  “The cause of my premature thaw-out was the alien attack,” Jon said. “At least, that’s the mentalist’s conclusion. The alien attack via the computer indirectly brought about the colonel’s death. Therefore, I plan to make the aliens pay if I can.”

  “How?” whispered the Centurion.

  “I don’t know yet. I need more information first. That’s one of the reasons I’m trying to link-up the teleoptic sensor.”

  The Centurion glanced at the other two. “We’re in a hard situation. What do you think we should do?” he asked Stark.

  The big man shrugged.

  “Old Man?” asked the Centurion.

  “Don’t know,” the Old Man answered.

  The Centurion glanced at Stark. “The young man has a plan.”

  “A stupid plan,” Stark said.

  “The men need someone who can make plans,” the Centurion said, choosing to ignore Stark’s comment.

  “Yes,” the Old Man agreed.

  “You can’t think he’s up for the job,” Stark said.

  “He’s a mercenary officer,” the Old Man said. “He stands on the code. The colonel trained him, and he didn’t piss his pants when we three came to demand an accounting. You may not know it, First Sergeant, but you’re a scary individual.”

  “I’m not in the mood for jokes,” Stark said.

  “Neither am I,” the Old Man said. “I vote for a provisional command.”

  “He killed the colonel,” Stark said.

  The Old Man shook his head. “The arbiter did that. The cadet shot him for it. Then, he saved as many of us as he could. If the cadet hadn’t acted as quickly as he did, you and I would be dead.”

  “Centurion,” Stark said. “You can’t agree to that.”

  The small gangly man pursed his lips, finally sheathing his knife. “I vote for his provisional installment as the commanding officer.”

  “No!” Stark said, smacking a fist into his hand. “I’m not going to let you two—”

  Jon aimed his gun at the first sergeant. “Are you a mutineer, Sergeant Stark?”

  “You let the colonel die.”

  “I am not going to allow you to mutiny or cause an insurrection,” Jon said. “You voted. The others voted. If you reject the Mercenary Code, tell me.”

  Stark’s big hands opened and closed. Finally, he turned, pushing away and sailing through the hatch.

  With the slightest tremor in his hand, Jon holstered his gun. Should he have shot Stark? The first sergeant might turn into a problem soon.

  “Now what?” the Old Man asked Jon.

  It finally hit Jon that he now led what was left of the regiment. In a way, he’d become Xenophon, the Athenian who had led the ten thousand mercenary Greeks home again from inside the middle of the Persian Empire. He had to make choices, and he had to do so this instant. The idea froze his mind for just a moment. What should he do?

  He inhaled slowly, thinking fast.

  “Divide the men into three companies. Each of you will command a company. We have to repair the battleship as best we can. But we have to do so without causing any signals to leave the vessel. Or to be scanned even if they're within it.”

  “What do you mean?” the Old Man asked.

  “The alien ship—if it’s really out there. The aliens can probably scan us in ways we don’t understand. We cannot seem like a human-controlled vessel. We have to let the aliens think the computer still controls the battleship or that no one is controlling it. That they attacked us through the computer means the aliens are hostile. Until we know more and until we control the ship, we have to hide.”

  “You’re thinking,” the Old Man said. “I like that. But how do you really know that there are aliens out there?”

  “That’s why I want to fix the teleoptics. We have to know more.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Old Man said. “Is there anything else you need from us?”

  “There is,” Jon said. “Find the best engineers or techs and send them to me. Until then, start running drills. We have to keep the men busy so they don’t get anxious.”

  The Old Man glanced at the Centurion. The small sergeant nodded. The Old Man saluted Jon before turning and floating away.

  “Watch your back, sir,” the Centurion said. “If you have a friend or two among the men, tough men, keep them around you. The first sergeant isn’t through with you yet.”

  Jon nodded.

  The Centurion saluted before he too exited the chamber.

  Jon sat down, shuddering. He had provisional command, and he’d better not make any more big mistakes if he wanted to keep on living.

  With a start, he pulled himself together and returned to the teleoptic control. They had to know what was happening in the Neptune System.

  -3-

  Several “techs” showed up an hour later. Jon interviewed them, deciding a small, scruffy, shifty-eyed Neptunian named Da Vinci knew more about electronics than either of the other two.

  “He’s in charge,” Jon said.

  The other two eyed the little Neptunian sidelong. One of them shrugged philosophically, but otherwise both kept their opinions to themselves.

  Da Vinci did not look like a soldier. He had stooped shoulders and a way of peering about like a rat sizing up what it could steal.

  As they worked together in one part of the room half an hour later, Jon asked, “What prompted you to join the regiment?”

  “What’s that?” Da Vinci asked, looking up. The little man had unscrewed and spread out a control panel. There were wires and chips strewn in seeming randomness on a lightly magnetized sheet.

  “It seems like you know what you’re doing,” Jon said. “Why join a mercenary outfit then?”

  “That’s an easy answer,” Da Vinci said glibly. “I got into debt. I’d gambled too much. The Vagrant Police were going to space me.” He shrugged. “So, it was either join the regiment or float in space.”

  Jon had been a particularly good enforcer in the New London deep-tunnel gangs, not because he’d been vicious, mean or even stronger than average. Enforcers usually collected debts. He’d had an ear for the truth, making him good at spotting lies. His “ear” helped him spot one now.

  “How about telling me the truth,” Jon said dryly.

  The little Neptunian
blinked at him as if the comment made no sense.

  Jon took a leaf from the Centurion’s playbook and kept staring at the recruit. In a moment, Jon could almost see the wheels turning in the Neptunian’s head. There was something else, too. The recruit seemed extraordinarily gifted. Maybe this giftedness had also gotten the man into trouble in the past.

  “I, ah, have a checkered history,” Da Vinci finally told him.

  Jon shrugged. Many in the regiment could say the same thing.

  “I’m not proud of it,” Da Vinci added.

  The finely tuned BS sensor went off again. “If I’m going to trust you,” Jon said, “you’re going to have to learn to trust me.”

  “Sir?”

  “Quit lying.”

  “Oh… You mean, you think I was proud of what I did.”

  “Yes.”

  The twitchy fingers did a jig above the spread-out components. Then, Da Vinci smiled. It was a sinister leer exposing plenty of teeth.

  “Neptune System is different,” Da Vinci said. “Here, we take capitalism to its extreme. Everything is for sale. Everyone has their price. If you want to live in a space-habitat, you have to be able to pay the rent and the oxygen consumption rates. Everyone has to breathe, right? It means the Oxygen Princes have always made a killing.”

  Da Vinci sliced an index finger across his throat.

  “Anyway, I have skills like everyone else.” Da Vinci tapped the board with a tiny screwdriver. “I’m a wunderkind with electronics, computers and software in particular. I can develop games. I can hack into highly secure systems or I can rewire cred cards.”

  “You’d better explain the last one,” Jon said.

  Da Vinci sighed. “You might not like me anymore, chief.”

  Jon heard truth in the man’s words. “Keep talking,” he said.

  “I’m like everyone else,” Da Vinci said. “I have a lazy streak. That’s the nature of men. I take shortcuts. Sometimes, maybe most of the time, taking shortcuts is a mistake. It’s really a mistake when you’re trying to score big.”

  “You’re a thief,” Jon said, suddenly understanding.

  A pained look came over the little, rat-faced Neptunian. “That’s a nasty way to put it, chief.”

  “You can start saying ‘sir’ instead of ‘chief.’”

  “Yes, chief, er, sir, I mean.”

  “Go on,” Jon said.

  “Cred cards seemed like an easy way to manipulate a little currency,” Da Vinci said. “You take them—open them—I’ve found a way.”

  Jon looked at the man blankly.

  “Counting beans is huge in the Neptune System,” Da Vinci said. “It’s how one knows who’s big and who’s small. As I said, we’re ultra-capitalist. Money buys you love. It buys you happiness, and it pays the rent, too.”

  Jon nodded, wondering if the man would ever get to the point.

  “Electronically, I opened platinum cred cards from the Bank of Nereid. That’s supposed to be impossible. I did it, though, and I altered the numbers. Then, I went to a store and bought insurance. I figured that would be the easiest way to launder the credits.”

  Da Vinci scowled. “I screwed up somewhere. There was a glitch. The store must have run my profile. They’ll do that now and again. The profile showed that I shouldn’t have been able to buy so much, and certainly not with a Nereid Bank Platinum Card.

  “Well, chief—sir! The credit goons started hunting for me. They meant to grind the credits out of my hide, if they had to. I’m not a pretty man, so I doubt they could have sold me into the sex emporiums. I don’t know. There’re some perverted people out here. I might have ended up in the sadist house, paying off my credit by the hour as sick bastards made me scream.”

  “So you ran to us?” Jon asked.

  Da Vinci looked up in shock. “No way, chief. You can’t think I’m that desperate. I have my wits. I’m good, really, really good. I just needed a little time. I had a plan, see, to hack into the Nereid Bank. I was going to screw them royally and float the rest of my existence on raw credit.”

  “What happened?”

  “The goons caught me. I must have made someone mad somewhere.” Da Vinci frowned. “The goons sold me to the outfit—your mercenary guild, the Black Anvils. I told your recruiters I’m no soldier. It didn’t matter. You wanted bodies, right? I’m a body. So I became a mercenary. But I’m also as smart as they come. I tested out fast the first few weeks and went into the regiment’s cyber squad. That’s how the Old Man knew where to find me.”

  Jon studied the little Neptunian. It seemed he’d mostly been telling the truth—

  “Carry on,” Jon said.

  “That’s it?” Da Vinci asked. “I give you the story of stories and you just say, ‘Carry on?’”

  The faintest of grins tugged at the corner of Jon’s mouth. He could feel the other two techs watching the exchange, though.

  Jon rapped his knuckles near the spread-out electronics, making Da Vinci’s head jerk.

  “Are you familiar with regimental discipline?”

  An angry light flared in the Neptunian’s eyes. He gave Jon the barest of nods.

  Without another word, Jon floated away.

  Perhaps ninety minutes later, Da Vinci fit the last plate back. The Neptunian moved to an auxiliary control.

  “Chief?” the man squeaked.

  Jon stared at him.

  “Are you ready, sir?”

  Jon signaled that he was.

  With his skinny, twitchy fingers, Da Vinci began to manipulate a board. The main screen flickered, activating.

  Jon held his breath.

  A moment later, the screen showed the outside stars.

  “You’re absolutely certain the ship isn’t using active sensors?” Jon asked.

  “On my life, sir,” Da Vinci said. “This is a teleoptic sensor, a passive system. Think of it like a telescope, but with a broader scanning area.”

  “I know what a teleoptic sensor is.”

  “Of course you do, sir. I don’t mean nothing by it. I can increase magnification if you like.”

  “I do like. Find the alien vessel.”

  Da Vinci looked up sharply.

  “What is it now?” Jon asked.

  “I’m not questioning you, sir. I’m just a lowly Neptunian, after all. But how do you know there is an actual alien vessel in the Neptune System?”

  “Let’s call it our working theory, as that theory makes the most sense regarding what happened earlier. Or can you explain a one-hundred-kilometer spaceship that beams strange viruses into an SLN battleship’s computer?”

  Da Vinci’s eyes widened, seeming almost too large for the size of his head. “Do you want me to come up with a theory that fits the facts?”

  “If you like,” Jon said. “But first I want you to find the giant spaceship.”

  “That could take some time.”

  “Better get started, then.”

  Da Vinci glanced at the main screen, studying it slowly. He adjusted the controls before looking up again.

  “This could take a long, long time,” Da Vinci said. “We need a computer to speed things up.”

  “No computers,” Jon said. “For now, you’re eyeballing it.”

  Jon watched the main screen as well, eventually growing sleepy. He’d been up for over twenty-nine hours already. His eyes burned and his head felt stuffed, almost as if he had a hangover.

  Finally, he moved to the farthest seat, sat down and let his chin slump against his chest. Suddenly, it felt as if he couldn’t breathe, like he was in a tight box that was slowly squeezing him, becoming narrower and narrower.

  “Chief,” Da Vinci said.

  Jon raised his head. He felt groggy, disoriented. He realized he must have been dreaming

  “You were talking in your sleep,” Da Vinci told him.

  Jon glanced at the other two techs. Both watched him nervously. They quickly looked away.

  “I’m awake,” Jon declared. “Do you have anything t
o report?”

  “I do,” Da Vinci said. “I’ve spied motion on the screen. I can’t be sure, but I think the motion is SLN vessels. They’re moving toward the rings.”

  Neptune didn’t have beautiful rings like Saturn. These were much fainter and smaller, but they were rings nonetheless. All four gas-giants in the Solar System possessed some kind of debris that people called rings.

  Jon rubbed his eyes, floating out of his chair toward the screen.

  Da Vinci adjusted the teleoptic’s controls, slowly expanding a portion of the stellar scene. “Do you see those points of lights clumped together?”

  Jon squinted at the screen, searching among the stars.

  “They’re in the exact center so it’s easier to see,” Da Vinci told him.

  Jon saw them now. Five star-like objects were grouped together near the center of the screen.

  “You’re seeing their engine exhaust,” the Neptunian explained.

  “I understand,” Jon said.

  “The ships are accelerating. I can’t be sure, but I think three of them are battleships. One is a mothership, and the other is smaller. Does the Solar League have destroyers?”

  As Jon watched the screen, he noticed three more star-like objects. These appeared to leave the group of spaceships as they headed toward the blue ball of Neptune. The separation was slow, as the faster three dots still crawled across the screen. One had to watch closely to notice any appreciable change in distance.

  “What are those?” Jon asked.

  “Good question, chief—sir,” Da Vinci said. “I’ll run a spectral analysis and estimate the distance traveled to give us some idea of their velocity.”

  The small tech pulled out a tablet and placed it on the sensor panel. He began to tap numbers onto a calculator. He studied the screen for a time, rubbed his nonexistent chin and tapped a few more numbers into the tablet.

  “Those must be missiles,” Da Vinci said at last. “I doubt they’re fighters. The mothership likely has fighters, but I don’t imagine human-occupied craft would be accelerating quickly enough for us to actually notice the separation. They’re millions of kilometers away from us.”

  “Missiles imply there’s a target,” Jon said. “Do you see a target?”

  “I sure don’t…sir,” Da Vinci added.