by Ivan Ertlov
Stargazer: New Home – Ancient Foes
(After Terra 2)
1st Australian English Edition July 2021
Novel by Ivan Ertlov
Translated by Marly Gram
Edited by K. O. Chapman-Paton
I recognise the Darug as the traditional custodians of the land on which I live and work. I pay my respect, gratitude and tribute to their elders - past, present and future.
Further acknowledgements and greetings:
Cover: MNS Art Studio
Editing: Sven Bergmeier
Proofreading: Myra Frost
Karl Fehringer for years of mentorship
The Müllers feat. Laura Ertl
Chapman-Paton family
Table of contents
Foreword
1.Beyond the Protectorate
2.You'll be hearing from my lawyer!
3.Wanted Slimers on Hot Worlds
4.Eastwood
5.Thou shall not pass!
6.New home
7.Separation of powers
8.The Tribunal of Knowledge
9.Number games
10.Balance of power
11.Hephaestus
Epilogue
Stargazer 3: Civil War
English Books written by Ivan Ertlov:
Imprint
Foreword
My sincere and unctuous thanks ...
... goes to you, dear readers.
For more than a month, you kept Stargazer at the top of various science fiction categories, and for a fortnight, the first volume of my whacky space opera was even on the throne of German-language SF.
I would like to say now that this reception is the real reason for a sequel, but that would be a lie. In reality, "The Ultimate Artefact" had so many pre-orders even before it came out that I started this volume here beforehand. And when I look at how many readers also honour "New Home – Ancient Foes" with the same vote of confidence, I probably have no choice but to get right to work on the third volume.
#FirstWorldProblems
- Ivan Ertlov, June 2021
Flambéed teenage thighs in a sweet crispy coating
(Recipe idea #28)
A popular and simply prepared main or snack for us sublime gourmets.
Ingredients:
1. 1x human, young, between 18 and 20 years old, weighing around 60 kilos, not too fat. Particularly suitable are specimens from so-called "Bavarian", "Polish" or "Russian" husbandry due to many years of self-marinating with tenderising alcohols.
2. 3 litres of Gulptar milk, sweetened and thickened
3. 500 grams freeze-dried Shrava larvae
4. 750 grams of honey (I recommend Toronk Black)
Preparation:
Separate the legs neatly and keep the rest in cryostasis for other occasions. In a large bowl, mix the milk, honey and larvae to a viscous paste. Brush the washed and skinned thighs generously with the paste and leave to soak for two hours. Then fry over an open flame for 30 minutes (or 90 seconds in the ramjet of an ion hammer) until crispy.
Serve on Kraszhtor leaves with frugahl fruit.
Good luck!
- Frhorrchovatha, the Culinary: "Human Cooking", 3rd edition 997 AT
1.
Beyond the Protectorate
Soul of the Balance, Consortium Heavy Freighter
The front main bridge, 3rd hour of the second shift
Position: unknown
(The crew knows the position, of course, but the interstellar positioning transponder is deactivated. Why do you think that is?)
There was nothing to see, and that would not change. Leaning tensely on his main branches, his dorsal leaves rustling nervously and photosynthesising violently, Sub-Commander Thurukork stared at the central projection.
Well, there were the usual stars, and the Gulbar Nebula was still rotating majestically in the background, but so slowly that it looked like a bizarre, abstract, and interestingly static painting by a mushroom-loving artist.
But it was the same picture as an hour ago.
And as two hours ago.
No, even three.
Thurukork reluctantly straightened up, but only allowed his sensor bork to focus discreetly to the side, not daring to look directly at his boss as he resigned himself to the inevitable.
"Commander, it's not going to work. This scout is also lost."
Moo-Viara snorted angrily and stomped her front hooves so violently that her udder flapped back and forth unrestrained under her very inexpensively tailored uniform. Then, tilting her head down, horns pointing in the direction of the observed target coordinates, she let her next orders echo thunderously across the bridge.
"Then we'll send another one! And another if we have to, until we don't have a single shuttle, a single jump-capable ship in reserve!"
"We only have two of them left anyway, Commander - but no more human pilots to volunteer."
Moo-Viara slowly turned to him and angrily flicked her tongue at a Krashtor fly that had landed on her forehead fur in suicidal recklessness.
"Oh yes, we do, sub-commander. We have exactly one human left if you think about it."
Thurukork pondered for a moment, turning his branches creakily towards the Commander when the realisation hit him like an axe blow.
"This - this is madness! You can't do that, not with her! The profitability committee will kill us! Or worse, cancel the bonus! She has a training value of almost four thousand mineral units!"
The Commander fluttered her nostrils grimly.
"Yes, she does. And how many MUs do we lose here per week if we don't get the operation going again? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? We have no trace of the Profitable Sister and her escort ships, no idea what happened to her and our scouts! What do you think the committee will do to us if we return empty-handed?"
The first officer raised his main branches imploringly, was about to make a last, desperate protest when he saw Moo-Viara's bloodshot eyes. No chance here, all resistance was futile. He surrendered and activated the intercom.
*
"I'm a doctor, not a shuttle pilot."
Dr Birgit Kaas was surprisingly calm given the circumstances, protesting with cool, rational words that bit at the Commander's coltan.
"You have basic training and a Certificate Two in Interplanetary Transport Flight. That is sufficient for this mission, and I hereby volunteer you under subsection 13A of your service contract."
Kaas brushed her long auburn hair out of her face and crossed her arms demonstratively. Tactically clever, she first looked reproachfully at Thurukork, who lowered his side branches in shame, before she fixed her eyes on Moo-Viara, eyes sparkling with restrained anger and intelligence unusual for humans.
"You know that I can relieve you of your command, declare you unfit for duty?"
The Gulptar nodded slowly, letting her horns swing up and down. Not really threatening, but actually approving at first glance.
"As the commanding medical officer, this is your right, no doubt. But, in that case, the sub-commander would be in charge of the Soul of the Balance - and repeat my original order, would he not?"
Thurukork's leaves rustled nervously as first his boss, and then the ship's doctor set their sights on him.
"So, would you? You know my file; you know how much money the Consortium has invested in me. You are fully aware that I have a husband and children waiting for me at home."
The sub-commander creaked his bark in distress.
"And a dog, yes, I know. But in this case, I have to do my duty and ..."
"... yes, that's right, doctor, your family! You should think of them too. If you don't return, they'll get the generous survivor's settlement for depe
ndents of senior officers. Minus your education costs, of course. But if you manage to find out what happened on the other side ..."
Moo-Viara interrupted herself briefly, letting her tongue slip out of her mouth once more and flap around her cheeks before stamping her front hooves in affirmation.
"... then you get triple the wages for the mission!"
Birgit paused and thought. Her salary was downright generous by Consortium standards, probably also because she was listed as a token human among the department heads. Three times the amount - that was enough to provide for herself and her family. Like, for good. Her small farm would be debt-free; she could expand it by another barn and two or three greenhouses and ...
... her eyes narrowed, and her voice became cutting.
"Computer! Start recording and seal! Commander Moo-Viara, will you guarantee me, by the power of your office, triple pay for the current rotation if I obtain the information about what happened at the other end of the Kholatar wormhole?"
The sculptor hesitated, took a step back - and finally nodded, first cautiously, then firmly.
"I guarantee this as Commander and Acting Profit Officer of the Consortium. Accordingly, the temporary salary increase is hereby approved, confirmation code eight-five-three-tulush."
The ship's doctor smiled grimly.
"Then let's peak into the wormhole."
*
Slowly, cautiously, even exceedingly carefully, the shuttle pushes its way out of the space-time tunnel, the volatile phenomenon that is now stabilised thanks to a concentrated graviton beam.
The sensors operate at maximum accuracy; all passive systems listen, look, feel light days far into space, the first active ping spreads.
Billions of data points are captured in milliseconds, analysed, linked, and converted into images that appear vibrantly coloured and vividly animated together as a central projection.
Nearly twenty million kilometres away, superimposed in grotesque magnification, appears Krumbul-3b, the exotic second moon of a gas giant that has been little explored. Its satellite even more so - a treasure chest with rich deposits of coltan, iridium, and chucknorrisium, headquarters of the clandestine mining operation.
At least, it was until recently.
But now, there is a gap in the moon, a huge fissure several hundred kilometres long.
The valuable raw materials - gone.
The precious mine with all its elaborate technological equipment, the ore prospector, and the purpose-built dwellings - vanished.
And thus also more than a thousand workers.
Directly in front of the exit point of the wormhole, a pile of debris drifts in space, thousands, millions of splinters, fragments and bizarrely frozen fluids, spreading further and further, lost in the infinity of space.
The sensors confirm what logic dictates - those are the remains of the Profitable Sister and all the scouts before, worthless fragments of former Consortium property and even more worthless body parts of expendable personnel.
In between, dozens of foreign vessels shimmer in the dim light of the brown dwarf, spacecrafts that should not exist. Only a few metres in diameter, dark-coloured like the hulls of the Plachtharr ships - and yet completely different.
Strange.
Bizarre.
Scaly, almost segmentally insectoid outer skin, not unlike cockroaches' carapace, energy signatures indicate a latent potential of several gigajoules.
Danger!
They lock on to the shuttle, pick up the scent - and accelerate. Not all of them, not even a majority - no, only a few of them, but perfectly coordinated, ghostly choreographed.
From all sides, they race towards the shuttle, whose rudimentary close-range defences go up in alarm mode. Four laser batteries, just class two, come to life, taking the attackers under fire.
Hectically, the fingers of light flash through the darkness of space, miss, are readjusted - and finally hit the near bull's eye. Shot after shot hits, thrashing the overlapping armour shells.
In vain.
Energy is reflected, energy is absorbed. The hits cause no damage, no reduced speed or drift in the attackers.
The mines strike, destroying the shuttle in a violent, all-perception-erasing flash of light from a matter-antimatter action.
*
"I'm a ship's doctor, not a weapons technician. But it looks like these are latent smart drones. As soon as the wormhole opens, they become active, talk to each other, and choose the best attackers. Do you want me to play the recording again?"
Dr Kaas was shaken herself but let on as little as possible. In no way did she want to distract from the fact that she had just succeeded in doing what a full-time scout and two volunteers had failed to do. A creative masterpiece that earned the respect of Thurukork in particular.
"That - that was impressive, Doctor. Rerouting a remote control via an intermediate relay set down in the wormhole - I don't think anyone's ever tried that before."
Birgit accepted the compliment with a curt nod and a self-satisfied smile.
"Because you've never asked a medical professional before. We call it endoscopy; it has been part of the standard repertoire of our guild for thousands of years. A good trick when we don't have more advanced means at our disposal. So Commander, do you want me to replay the recording from the beginning?"
Moo-Viara snorted briefly, stared at the last set of sensor data, sent by the detonating shuttle through the collapsing wormhole, and finally shook her horned head.
"No thanks, I think we've all seen enough. The Profitable Sister is lost, as are our scouts, the whole shitty mine, and all the raw material deposits."
Something was creeping into her voice, into the discreetly mooing Talash that Birgit couldn't place at first, nor could Thurukork, who focused his Commander with worry-rattling leaves.
It seemed to be a mixture of amusement and hilarity, an almost blasphemous reaction to the huge loss the Consortium had suffered. Had it come to that? Had his boss finally lost her mind, driven by her superiors' stress and permanent profitability pressure? Apparently, because her next words echoed merrily across the bridge.
"Not a natural disaster, not a technical failure, not an unfortunate industrial accident with significantly reduced insurance coverage. No, our operation was the victim of common theft, perhaps even an act of war! Seriously, mining a wormhole - do you even know what that means?"
Dr Birgit Kaas unconsciously took a step back, a futile attempt to escape her Commander's dangerously insane good humour. Then, silently, she shook her head while Moo-Viara raised her head triumphantly and bared her enormous teeth in a grin.
"It's not our problem anymore! Let the fucking board explain it to the council!"
*
Grafohro 3, Hardash Belt, Rim Worlds
Northeastern Ice Desert, approx. 28 kilometres south of the spaceport
Air temperature: -12 degrees Celsius
(It is the middle of summer, after all!)
"Frank, what's your fucking problem? We had the location of the secret stash; the job was almost done! All we had to do was distract them, attracting attention for two days, boozing and whoring through the pubs for all I care - but no, you fucked it up!"
Only briefly did the fire of the battle manage to drown out Dilara's angry hissing. Then, a micro-grenade exploded directly at the ice- and snow-covered rock behind which they were entrenched. Shards of rock and ice whirred through the air, carving their pilot suits, which sealed again in a split second.
Frank took a deep breath and was about to reply in a huff - but at the last moment decided to fire instead. At the mighty Gulptar, who had galloped down from the opposite slope, the assault cannon on his back firing powerful laser volleys in their direction.
Frank's Liquidor shot a short, focused jet of water mixed with tank additive 3B - antifreeze, skin-friendly, dermatologically tested on humans - and hit!
The four-hoofed subnebula pirate jerked his head up in a roar as the liquid cauterised his ey
es and ate his lips, exposed his neck - and received a double hit from Dilara's carbine that put him out of his misery.
One enemy less.
That left about thirty who were entrenched on the hilltop in front of them, clearly more cautious in the battle than their comrade who had just fallen. No wonder, two dozen of their companions already lay dead or dying in the snow between their position and the meagre cover that remained for Frank and Dilara. The astrotelepath made not even a half-hearted attempt to restrain her anger.
"Frank, you stinking stupid asshole! What the hell got into you? Did you want the full udder experience, or was it about the rough, long tongue? Why did it have to be the queen of the subnebula pirates of all things? Couldn't you at least keep your dick in your pants for two days or sink it somewhere else?"
Aggrieved, Frank winced. That wasn't fair, no, especially not coming from her.
"Hold your breath, Dila. After all, you've laid half the guards of the spaceport and ..."
His comrade fired another shot at the enemy's position, scorching the canopy of a Toronk camped there, and turned aside, the tips of her ears trembling with cold and anger. Her voice became frostier than the wind that blew around their cheeks.
"No, you Missing Link, I fucked the entire guard. And that's why every single one of them came to our aid. That's called networking. You, on the other hand, have put our lives in danger with a single amorous adventure! You put us on top of the hit list of the most bloodthirsty corsairs between the Alliance and the Protectorate!"
Frank blinked and lifted his head slightly, trying to count the uniformed bodies in a split second. Indeed. All twelve men, women, and nonbinaries of the equally underpaid and ill-equipped harbour guard lay between their slowly disintegrating cover and the opposite slope. Fallen. Died for the astrotelepath. Except for one Toronk, who crawled slowly out of harm's way on the stumps of his burnt support branches. If he didn't take another trunk or root hit, he had a realistic chance.
