Victory at all costs (Spinward Book 3)

by Rupert Segar

  All at once, the grey oval dropped its lower lip to the cabin floor and out stepped Art King followed by the red pod, Mr Angry.”

  “Who are they?” asked Carole looking at the man and the machine trapped inside a green bubble.

  “They’re friends,” said the ship, as the green sphere dissolved.

  Art stepped forward with a broad smile on his face and addressed the holosphere.

  “Ship, it’s been a while but it feels like a lot longer. I’d give you a hug but you’d only go to photons on me.” He extended an open hand to Gill.

  “Sub-Lieutenant Carole Porter, it is a privilege and an honour to meet you. Mr Angry, here, has told me all about you and how you have been trying to help Yelena.” Art beckoned the red pod to come forward.

  “Let me introduce Mr Angry, Angry by name but not by nature.”

  “Not unless you try to hurt any of my friends, and I count you as one among them, Carole Porter” said the red pod.

  Carole found her eyes welling with tears.

  “Please forgive me,” she said. “It’s just that I’ve been here for days trying to sort things out but I don’t think I’ve made a very good job of it. And now you’re coming here thanking me for it.”

  Art took Gill’s hands in his own.

  “From what the ship has told Mr Angry, you’ve done a brilliant job. Ship, we’ll need an extra cabin.”

  “Aye, aye, captain, already underway on the lower deck,” said the stripe holosphere.

  “Are you the Ship’s owner?” asked Gill.

  Art laughed. “The Ship’s its own man, or woman, the jury’s out on that one. I think it just keeps us Humans around as pets!”

  “That is not true, Art.”

  “Only joking with you, Ship,” said Art smiling.

  Then he became quite serious. “Now, where’s Yelena.”

  +

  Art stroked Yelena’s cheek with his fingers.

  “Ship, she’s cold.”

  “Her vital signs are depressed, Art. She has been in this condition since she arrived on board.”

  “Can’t you use drugs to get her temperature and pulse up and wake her up that way?” said Art

  “That is too dangerous, Art. She needs to want to wake up. Otherwise she could suffer a catatonic collapse,” said the striped holosphere spinning at Art’s side.

  “Was she hurt?” asked Art.

  “Something happened when her defence engrams took over the ship’s systems on the flag ship Dreadnought,” said the holosphere.

  “Is that like the thing in my head that saved us all on Orion?”

  The holosphere winked out of existence. In its place was a projection of a human head that looked as if it belonged in a medical text. The cut-away image showed a device in the subcutaneous layer behind the ear. It was a symbolic representation of Yelena’s comms link.

  “Yes, I am similar,” said a familiar voice but without the usual metallic twang. Art remembered it well from his time as a captive on the Emperor’s flag ship.

  “What happened?” said Art.

  “When the cyber nurse, here, used a neural clamp on Yelena and connected it to her medibot box, I was able to invade the medibot system. From that point it was easy to activate the Trojan programme the ship had left on board during the Battle of Chimera One.”

  “OK, I’ve seen it all before. You took over Dreadnought, lock stock and barrel, but what went wrong?”

  “Something attacked us. It was more than a counter invasive programme. It was very aggressive. It tried to harm Yelena via the medibot box connection.”

  “Did it get to Yelena?” asked Art.

  “For a brief moment, yes. Then I blocked it in the medibot box. I tried to trace where it had come from but the programme, or whatever it was, burnt out half of Ethel’s cyber components. I am sorry, Art. I am sorry about Yelena and Ethel.”

  “You did your best. Now I need to speak to you, Ship,” said Art.

  The medical diagram disappeared and the holosphere popped back into mid-air by Art’s shoulder.

  “What can we do to revive, Yelena?” asked Art.

  The striped holosphere stopped spinning, then with a click and a whir it started rotating in the other direction. Is that just theatrical time wasting or is the ship genuinely thinking? Art asked himself undecided as to whether he should be annoyed.

  “I have just reviewed all the literature on comas in the medical bay,” said the holo projection, earning Art’s forgiveness. “I did read it all before, which is why I suggested linking Yelena to Sy and Ethel. In particular, Sy has been developing an interpretive language of metaphor in order to talk to Yelena.”

  “You’ve lost me, Ship,” said Art.

  “Yelena is in a dream state. I can allow Sy to share some of that sub-consciousness. Yelena has put up barriers to any communication. Sy imagines those barriers as a brick wall. Sy enjoys making origami models. In the dream, she leaves, paper folded figurines, one of a man one of a woman near the brick wall. When she comes back they have gone. The next day she leaves a white rose, it is meant to represent fidelity and peace. She returns and the flower has wilted.”

  “And you’re using Sy to try to make a break through?”

  “Yes, Ethel only babbles about her childhood. I was going to block her out of the conversation but Sy said the babbling was vaguely comforting.”

  “Again, Sy is determining who has access to Yelena’s subconscious.”

  “I am monitoring everything,” said the holosphere

  “Ship, I need to talk to you alone.”

  +

  Art had rummaged around the back of the cupboards in the galley and found a packet of mushroom and veal lasagne. He was aware that it contained neither mushroom nor meat from a baby calf, but the vegetable and protein manufacture was a reasonable facsimile. Sitting at the circular table in the control cabin, Art pulled the tab and waited hungrily for 15 seconds as the dish heated. He attacked the lasagne, eating half of it in a few mouthfuls. Art judged the sauce to be excellent and thought the parmesan cheese on top might actually be genuine. He made a mental note to buy in some more packs, when he had the chance, whenever that might be. He thought how Yelena would like it and then recalled that she was lying on a drip which supplied all her nutritional requirements. Art shoved the meal to one side.

  “OK, my sugar levels are back to where they should be, let’s talk.”

  The holosphere popped into existence floating near the edge of the table.

  “I sense some anxiety, Art.”

  “You know Sy’s a casket head,” said Art.

  “I know that is a term of insult,” said the holosphere.

  “Do you know what casket heads do?” said Art. “They betray everyone and everything they believed in. And now you’ve got one plugged into Yelena’s unconscious.”

  “I have questioned Sy about her intentions and monitored her behaviour; I do not detect anything but a willingness to help.”

  “Do you know the Alliance recaptured two casket heads and restored them to full health using cloned bodies?” asked Art angrily. “They both attempted to kill the surgeons who gave them their bodies back. That’s what casket heads do. They’re brain wiped and reprogrammed. There’s no way back.”

  “But the procedure had not been applied to Sy. That is why she was being taken to Dreadnought. Here is the order.”

  A data message appeared floating above the table top. It was a copy of the orders sending Yelena and the others, including Carole Porter, to the interrogation cells. The Ship highlighted the part of the message detailing Sy’s treatment: she was to be “conditioned for compliance” and was to be given implants “to ensure loyalty to the Empire.”

  “OK, this says they hadn’t finished the process,” said Art. “But can we be sure?”

  “I believe so,” said the hologram. “In any case, her presence in the link is essential, especially if we are to go ahead with my plan to revive Yelena.”

  “I don�
��t like the sound of this.”

  “Art, hear me out,” said the holosphere clicking and whirring for a couple of seconds.

  Now that is just for effect, thought Art.

  “I cannot find a way to get you to share consciousness with Yelena and Sy. They have already developed an exclusive language of metaphors and symbols. You would need to know the meaning of each image and object before you could begin to see what was going on.”

  “Then how can I possibly help Yelena?”

  “I want you to employ your best talent, as a pilot,” said the striped holosphere, not waiting for Art to ask what that was. “You have the best fit of anyone in my sensorium. When you are engaged, you become part of me, and I share your vision.”

  Like all pilots, Art had tiny widgets in his brain, processors and receptors that allowed a closer link with space ship computers. More complicated star ships with AIs would generate a sensorium, a virtual reality where pilots could see every aspect of the vessel and its surrounds.

  When Art had ‘plugged in’ to the Ship’s sensorium, he had experienced a connection that transcended any normal sensorium. The images he saw were no longer black and white but full colour, and in 3-D. He only had to glance at an object or tag and more information would be provided. At the same time, the Ship gained intimate access to the young pilot’s memories, aspirations and ideals. Their first meeting was a revelation for both Art and the Ship. From that moment on, Art became what the Ship called its ‘moral compass.’

  “I want to integrate Yelena’s subconscious along with Sy’s metaphorical interpretation into my sensorium. Then you and I, Art, can enter Yelena’s mind. When you reach her, Art, you should be able to wake her.”

  Chapter 8: Arcadia under Occupation

  Dr Robert Fillips closed the front door behind him and sealed the collar of his simulated leather coat against the early morning cold. At the age of ninety-five, his hair was thinning but his grey beard was vigorous. Robert had promised not to shave until the occupation ended. For more than three months, Kargol troops had been in control of Arcadia. Robert could see no way of getting rid of the invaders.

  From the porch of his traditional clapperboard house, the doctor had a clear view of Plymouth’s air strip. The facility had been “upgraded” to a space port. Robert watched as one of the two shuttles took off vertically, its blue tinged gravity field sparkled in the pre-dawn gloom. Another ship load of construction workers expected to do a 16 hour shift on the new space yard, thought the doctor. Poor kids, they had to weld steel girders wearing only flimsy vacuum suits, no wonder the injury rates were so high.

  Arcadia had been officially classified as a slave world. No one had any rights. All property was confiscated. There was forced labour. Political parties and meetings were banned. Everyone was under surveillance, although in practise not everyone could be monitored 25/7. Worst of all, were the public executions: anyone opposing the occupying forces was shot. The firing squads used stunners set at lethal levels so the victims experienced excruciating pain before they died. This barbarity was not just reserved for opposition activists or freedom fighters. The Empire also used the executions to dispatch intellectuals, former political leaders and vid-news celebrities along with the disabled and chronically ill.

  One month after the occupation started, a cruiser arrived from Crandos, one of the ruling worlds of the Kargol Empire. The warship carried officials from the Propaganda and Education department. On far off Crandos, some bureaucrat had decided Arcadia, with its ethos of hard work and self-sufficiency, might be a candidate as a Protectorate planet, a half-way house to becoming a full member of the Empire. The PE department’s program had two main elements. All vid-broadcasts on the planet were about the glories of the Empire, with the occasional updates showing how the “victorious workers of Arcadia” were meeting their production quotas. The second plank was education: all 4-11 year olds were sent to newly converted boarding schools, where they were indoctrinated in the values of the Kargol Empire; all 12-15 year olds were sent to boot camp to train for the infantry; and any student the age of 15 or over was forced into slave labour.

  A wheeled mini-bus bounced up the farm track to Dr Fillip’s house. The cavorting headlights dazzled the doctor’s eyes and he looked away until the vehicle pulled up in front of his surgery. A standard medical bay had been incorporated into a wing of his house. Inside the mini-bus there were half a dozen women looking dazed and dishevelled. They had just finished the night shift at the ‘Recreation Clinic,’ a military euphemism for whore house. All unmarried young women in the township were required to work there in shifts servicing Imperial troops.

  An armed marine pulled open the side door and ordered the passengers out. Dr Fillip went forward to see if anyone needed help to get into his waiting room. No-one did although one young woman with two black eyes looked unsteady on her feet.

  “Some of your women need to adapt to their new position. They must acquire the skills of cooperation,” said a drawling voice with an off-world accent.

  Robert was becoming more familiar with strange accents. He reckoned this one came from Crandos or one of the other ruling Empire worlds. The voice had a surly authority which discouraged dissent. He turned and instantly recognised the Imperial Intendant, the head of the military on Arcadia and, therefore, the ruler of the planet.

  “These are just ordinary women being forced into prostitution,” said Dr Fillips testily. “There is no excuse for their harsh treatment.”

  “Ah, yes, they said you expressed your opinions bluntly, Dr Robert.”

  Robert Fillips looked at the Intendant’s face. It was hard to tell exactly but the dictator was about 40-years old. The lean lantern jawed face was clean shaven. His hair was closely cropped. In his black pseudo leather military jacket, he should have looked like a thug. Instead, he had an intellectual aestheticism which might have made him attractive were it not for the steel hard glint in his black eyes.

  The doctor felt he had to summon up his courage to speak for a second time.

  “The irony is the women of Arcadia used to be advocates of free-love. Our society is quite repressed in public but extremely liberal, especially sexually, in private. It is the public disgrace of forced prostitution that has changed attitudes.”

  “You mean had we asked politely, my men could have had as much recreational sex as required without the necessity of brutalising our slave girls?”

  Dr Fillips decided the Intendant’s question required no answer; particularly as the answer he had in mind would probably put him in front of a firing squad within an hour.

  “Can I help you, Intendant?”

  The despot of Arcadia looked at the doctor and smiled. It did not make Robert feel any easier.

  “I have come with some words of friendly advice, Dr Robert. It has come to my attention that the conception rate among the unmarried young women in this township, those who regularly attend the Recreation Clinic, is statistically lower than it should be. Some of my officials are making unfavourable comparisons with the results observed in other municipalities. There is a suspicion that some of the slave girls here in Plymouth are using medical means to prevent pregnancy.”

  The Intendant paused, looking directly at Robert.

  “Doctor, it would be in Arcadia’s and your best interest to ensure the pregnancy rate improves.”

  The doctor stared at the ground, still not saying anything. The Intendant laughed and slapped Robert on the back. He seemed to change his mood like a weather vane in a hurricane.

  “Dr Robert, I would like to thank you for the good work you are doing for the Empire. Dinner, tomorrow night, in the Town Hall, 2000 hours. There are a few people I would like you to meet. No need for formal wear; few of you agrarians seem to possess a half-decent suit, in any case.”

  +

  The girl with two black eyes lay on Robert’s examination couch wearing a surgical gown. It was the first time the young woman had been for a consultation. He had given her
a complete inspection. The worst of the bruising was to her face but she had been generally roughly treated. Robert used an arnica ray to help with the bruising.

  “Delia, I am going to give you an intravenous pain killer. It is also a sedative. Will one of the other girls be able to help you get home and into bed?”

  “Yes, Alene shares my barracks,” said the girl looking pensive. “Doctor, there were three of them last night. I was not able to take any precautions. I don’t want any of those bastards to be the father of my child.”

  Robert was well aware this conversation was probably being monitored, especially after the visit by the Intendant. He leaned over putting his face close to the girl’s and his back to two 3D vid cameras installed by the Imperial security forces.

  “Now, Delia, you know birth control medicines are prohibited,” he said, with a half-smile and winking. “All I can do is to give you this pain relief.”

  Robert injected her twice. One spray was the pain killer. The second was a general pregnancy prevention medication that acted like a morning after drug. The medication would last six months.

  “And that was the sedative,” said Robert putting the spray applicator into the sterilising tray. “When are you next on shift?”

  “Tomorrow night,” said Delia, with a sob.

  That’s just too rich, thought Robert. While I’m enjoying some fancy buffet, Delia will be raped and abused by Imperial troopers.

  Chapter 9: Willow Subscribes

  The conquest of Willow, the great library world, took no military force at all. Although appearing independent, the ruling autocrats had been under the thumb of the Empire for generations. The largely waterless planet had only one resource, knowledge. During the Age of Isolation, all the hundreds of thousands of books, cherished family heirlooms, were gathered into five great libraries. When Willow was contacted by one of the early Explorer ships and re-joined the growing galactic community, it had a great prize to offer, a complete record of all written knowledge.

  This comprehensive compendium of culture was a great rarity. During the Age of Expansion, when humanity crept around the galactic rim, there was little demand for anything except for ‘Do it yourself’ manuals. When all the artificial intelligence machines were driven mad in the Great Plague, most societies lost most of any cultural history they had bothered to bring with them.