by Alex Lamb
He reluctantly made his way around the Gulliver’s faux-spacious companionway, past the holographic gardens with their sand fountains and cool, rusty light, to the privacy chamber where Sam waited. He’d set the ship’s drive to provide a steady one-gee of pull. The Gulliver’s engines purred so smoothly that the gravity almost felt Earth-like.
Sam welcomed him in, flicking aside screens full of numbers and maps. The walls returned to their garden-view default, making the tiny chamber slightly less claustrophobic.
‘Hi, Mark, thanks for coming. Want to sit?’
A chair slid out of the wall, momentarily breaking the illusion.
Mark sat. ‘What’s up?’
‘I want us to get off on the right foot,’ said Sam. ‘I may be here in an advisory capacity, but I’m still the senior Fleet officer on this ship and you deserve to know where I stand. First, you weren’t my preferred choice for captain, but you probably figured that out already.’
Mark wasn’t surprised but didn’t enjoy hearing it anyway. He brushed his resentment aside.
‘Second,’ said Sam, ‘you’re a brilliant pilot and a great officer for this job. And, if we’re honest, were it not for a few past mistakes you’d have been my top choice for this position from the get-go.’
‘Okay,’ said Mark, relaxing a little. ‘Thank you, sir, I guess.’
‘I understand that you probably want to make a point with this trip,’ said Sam. ‘Were I in your shoes, I’d want to redeem myself and put the past behind me.’
‘That’s the plan,’ said Mark.
‘Great. Because I have an offer. Let me mentor you on this trip and I will give you my complete support in the business that follows. I’ll throw myself behind the case for the complete restoration of your interface privileges.’
Mark wasn’t sure what to say. He hadn’t needed oversight running a starship since he was sixteen. Had they given him a captaincy or not?
‘Mentor me, sir?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
Mark tried not to feel insulted. ‘I really appreciate the offer, sir, but I would hope that such a deal isn’t necessary. It’s my intention to follow the mission profile to the letter.’
‘I don’t doubt that,’ said Sam, ‘but I think we both know this mission isn’t going to be that easy. For a start, these people you’re carrying are all VIPs and they all know each other. They’re used to being treated like little gods. Any one of them could probably put the stoppers on your career with a single call after this trip is through.’
Mark said nothing. Sam undoubtedly fell into that same category himself.
‘Maybe you think that just sticking to the mission profile will be enough,’ Sam went on, ‘but again we both know conditions might arise where the profile is exceeded. We’re heading into a very uncertain situation.’
‘Even so, I’d like to think that you’ll be pleased with my performance,’ said Mark. ‘Extra input shouldn’t be necessary for someone at my career level. And the best way for me to make a point to the Fleet is surely to do my job properly without oversight.’
Mark knew how Fleet courts worked. Any evidence on his report that he’d abdicated responsibility for his actions to another officer during the mission would give them an excuse to hold back his interface rights. No matter how well intentioned Sam might be, Mark couldn’t be seen to let someone else guide his command choices for a minute, not even a more highly ranked officer. Plus being seen to take sides among such heavy – and politically charged – company might prove more dangerous than staying neutral.
Sam spread his hands and chuckled. ‘Fair enough. Excellent attitude. Let me try to be a little more … candid. As a member of the Fleet strategic board, I am sometimes privy to information I can’t share. And it’s … possible that this information may have a bearing on our mission.’
‘I get it,’ said Mark. ‘And of course I’ll welcome your input at all times.’
‘I wish that were enough. But we may find ourselves in a situation where the reasoning behind my recommendations might be opaque, or even counter-intuitive.’
Mark tried not to squirm on his chair. ‘And if you signal that, I will give your input the corresponding weight. I’d love to do more, sir, but I can’t agree to automatically accept your proposals without due process. That would be less than the Fleet expects of me.’
Sam’s expression slid a little, betraying some frustration. ‘I do see the bind you’re in, but I’m trying to give you a way to offset the responsibility if something actually goes wrong. You’re basing your reasoning on the assumption that there even needs to be a court session at the end of this. If you get my drift.’
In Mark’s experience, there was always a court session.
‘What I’m offering you here is a free ticket to a clean slate,’ said Sam. ‘I just want to help.’
Mark wondered what anyone reviewing the surveillance tape from the mission would make of all this. Sam appeared to be extremely confident that circumventing Fleet process wouldn’t be an issue, even in the event of disaster. Unless, of course, Sam was setting him up. Will’s words suddenly came back to Mark with a jolt. Someone doesn’t want you to fly, Mark, and chances are they’re coming with you on that ship.
‘But that’s the thing, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t want a free ticket. I want to earn it.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry I can’t do more, sir,’ he said. ‘Thank you for taking the time to talk with me, and please know that I take your input extremely seriously.’
He let himself out, not sure whether to feel insulted or worried by how the conversation had gone. Hopefully the entire subject would be moot in a few weeks when Sam had a chance to see him in action. Either way, Mark no longer felt ready for sleep. He needed a distraction. A book, perhaps, or a few minutes of light interactive. He made his way to the ladder that led down to the lounge but paused at the top when he spotted Zoe Tamar seated below, reading a tablet in a shaft of artificial sunlight.
He sighed to himself. The prospect of sitting with an attractive, talented woman who considered him something between a brawling mobster and ship’s dogsbody didn’t strike him as particularly restful. However, short of disappearing back into the ship’s metaphor space, there was nowhere else to go. Like all starships, the Gulliver was crowded.
He decided to retreat anyway just as she looked up and noticed him. Mark smeared a smile onto his face and grudgingly descended. He picked the chair closest to the wireless node and slumped into it with his arms folded. He peered out at the simulated canyon and hoped she’d keep reading.
‘What’s up?’ said Zoe. ‘Someone piss in your crash couch?’
Despite her tone, she sounded curious, not critical. Mark had no idea how to avoid talking to her without coming across as even ruder than usual.
‘Are you sure you really want to know?’ he said. ‘I don’t want to dump on you. We haven’t exactly hit it off so far, and that’s almost certainly down to me.’
‘We need to be able to work together,’ said Zoe, ‘so you might as well talk. Otherwise I’ll just sit here wondering why you’re in a shitty mood.’
She paused uncomfortably and ran a hand through her hair. Mark belatedly noticed it was the same purple as the Vartian Institute logo.
‘I was short with you last night,’ she said. ‘Your presence spooked me, I admit that. I may have blamed you a bit, which wasn’t strictly rational. So now I’ve done the easy part of opening up and you’ve got nothing to lose by talking. Who knows, my opinion of you might go up.’
Mark regarded her nervously. He recognised an olive branch when he saw one and couldn’t really turn it down, though chatting lacked appeal. He reluctantly decided to return the gift of transparency.
‘I just had a meeting with Sam,’ he said. ‘Didn’t go so great.’
‘Why not?’ she said. ‘What happened? Is he
upset with you or something?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
Zoe waited expectantly.
Mark writhed inside and wondered how much to say. He hated situations like this. With another roboteer, he’d just hand them a memory file and let them figure it out. With norms, you had to tortuously work out what you were and weren’t supposed to disclose. Whatever. If she wanted honesty, he might as well do it properly.
‘He seemed to want some kind of concession from me. I’m not even sure what it was. We didn’t get that far. He offered to mentor me. Which, first off, I can’t allow, and, secondly, is kind of insulting. It’s just one more reminder to me that I don’t really like Fleet work. I can’t wait for the mission to be over so I can get the hell out of this project and leave all this political shit behind. It’s the little things like this that make me wish I’d never said yes.’
‘That’s ironic,’ said Zoe, folding her arms. ‘I had to fight so hard just to be included. The Vartian Institute was forced to offer up millions in tech patents to get me my slot.’
Mark winced. He’d managed to scorch the mood already. Amazing.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That came out badly. Look, ignore me. My life is weird. I don’t need or expect sympathy.’ He sat there and smouldered, wishing he’d never opened his mouth.
Zoe looked at him oddly. ‘Can I offer you a little advice?’ she said.
‘Sure,’ said Mark. ‘Go for it.’
‘For the next few weeks, our lives are in your hands,’ she said. ‘And as you point out, you’re a little weird, and you’re clearly not happy. Most of us don’t know the first thing about you except the very short bio the Fleet gave us, and that you have some kind of link with Will Monet. So don’t be surprised if people on this ship are a little concerned about that, and maybe look around for ways to exercise some control over their destiny. Like offering to mentor you or cheer you up or find out who the hell you are, or whatever. That’s just human nature.
‘If you don’t want to be on the receiving end of that, why not try reframing how you look at the mission? I don’t know what your reasons were for taking this job, but I can tell you why I’m here, and why I’m excited about it.’ She leaned forward in her chair. ‘I think this is the start of a new phase of history. We’ve been given all the clues: the radiation flash, that message, their warp signature. I believe the Transcended are involved in all this and that their agenda will be revealed. We’ll know what they’re angling for, at last. For better or worse we’ll know where the human race is headed. And this ship will be right there when we figure all that out. That’s worth getting a bit ramped about, surely?’
Mark saw the glee in her eyes. It certainly felt nice having someone want to share their enthusiasm with him, but even so, he couldn’t help himself. Suspending disbelief didn’t come that easily.
‘So you don’t think it’s all some kind of a bullshit scam, then?’ he said. ‘That’s what Will and Sam seem to think.’
Zoe sat back and offered him a slightly wounded smile. Mark immediately regretted his words.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t. I’m pretty sure they’re wrong.’
‘Really?’ said Mark. He felt a desperate urge to explain his unpleasant remark and sound consistent at the same time. ‘I mean, I take your point about the warp drives – it’s a good one, and you’re the expert. But if I was going to try for something like that, I’d trick out every drone with tau-chargers to hide their signature and then just dump out a tailored g-ray flash every time they warped. They could make it look however they liked. And at the kind of distance the Reynard was sitting at, I can’t see them having the sensor resolution to tell the difference.’
Zoe’s smile stiffened. Something a little like worry showed in her eyes. Mark guessed she hadn’t explored that option – probably because it was the kind of kludgy approach a starship engineer would think of, rather than the clean, clever solution that would occur to a scientist.
‘Not possible,’ she said. ‘The peaks in their emission spectrum don’t correspond—’
‘Simple,’ said Mark before she could finish. ‘If they timed it right, they could use the gravity distortion of each warp pulse to impart a little redshift to the bursts. Your spectroscopic peaks would all slide. Then they follow each burst with another a nanosecond later using a different configuration. Voila – fake spectrum. Who could tell the difference? Unless you had sensors sampling at an insanely high rate, of course.’
Zoe crossed her legs and looked anxious. The idea that she might have been out-thought by a jumped-up flyboy didn’t appear to sit well with her.
‘Maybe,’ she said quickly. ‘But that sounds like a very expensive solution. How practical is it, really?’
Mark shrugged. ‘No idea. But if the alternative is a plot by dead aliens who haven’t bothered to talk to us in the last thirty years …?’
‘There’s no evidence they’re dead,’ said Zoe.
‘Sleeping, then,’ Mark offered. ‘Stoned, lazy, whatever.’
He watched her shoulders tense and realised he wasn’t making friends. He rubbed his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to rain on your parade. We shouldn’t rule anything out at this point, in any case. And my problems aren’t your problems.’
‘You got that right,’ she said.
‘I’m going to hang out in my cabin,’ said Mark. ‘Thanks for the advice. I mean it.’
He climbed out of the lounge, more convinced than ever of his goal: prove himself, quit and get as far away from the Fleet and all its hangers-on as he could. The ship had plenty of virtual space to offer, all of it free of passengers. It suddenly looked surprisingly appealing. A few weeks tucked away might not be so bad after all.
5.2: YUNUS
Two days into the flight, Yunus sent his captain a meeting request. Ten minutes before Ruiz was due to arrive, Yunus made his way to the study space he’d chosen as an office and looked over his first-contact plans while he waited. He hadn’t used such a cramped workroom in years, but that was space travel for you. At least the decor was tasteful. Most starship interiors looked like hospital cupboards.
Right on time, the door notified him. ‘Captain Mark Ruiz is here.’
Their pilot was punctual. That, at least, boded well.
‘Show him in,’ he said.
Ruiz stepped inside, a guarded expression on his face. Yunus took that moment to assess the man properly. Ruiz was both a roboteer and an Earther – an unusual blend. His build was pure Earth, if perhaps a little wider and stockier than most, and he had the dark, mixed-race looks you found in almost every city these days. But the way he carried himself was something else. He had the loose, expansive gestures of a Colonial, and angry, hunched shoulders that were all his own.
Yunus wondered what had made Mark Ruiz quite so bitter and reclusive. Since they’d come aboard he’d practically been invisible. Yunus needed to know how the man thought, and whether he could be trusted. With a skilled ally at the helm, his goals at Tiwanaku would be a lot easier to achieve.
‘You wanted to see me,’ said Ruiz.
‘Yes. Thank you for coming. Please sit.’
Yunus gestured for a chair. The room obliged.
Ruiz glanced around at the walls as he settled.
‘Can I ask what this is about?’
‘I want to get to know you,’ said Yunus. ‘I’m leading this mission and you’re my captain. It’s as simple as that. We’ve had a couple of days to settle in. Now feels like a good time.’
Ruiz folded his arms. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Who you are. How you think. What your priorities are. Your bio says you’re an Earther, for instance, but you appear to have spent less than two years living on Earth. That’s unusual.’
‘It’s what I could manage,’ said Ruiz. ‘I consider myself
an Earther, if that’s your point. My parents are from there.’
‘Not a Galatean?’ Yunus indulged in a playful smile. ‘You were at school on that world for a while.’
Ruiz’s expression didn’t waver. ‘I grew up on Mars, New Panama, Galatea, Europa, and even spent some time on Saint Andrews. I don’t consider myself from any of those places.’
‘I see,’ said Yunus. ‘And what do you think about this mission you’ve found yourself on? Do you believe in it?’
Ruiz regarded him warily. ‘I believe it’s a job. And I believe I’m the best person for it. Look, you have my bio – what more do you need to know? Is there something specific I can help you with?’
Yunus restrained a sigh. He tried to stay gracious.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You respect directness, I can see that. Frankly, I want to understand your politics because I believe they may impact this mission.’
‘I try not to have any.’
‘You chose to spend two years flying in the North Atlantic Disaster Zone. That’s not what I’d expect from someone who doesn’t care about politics.’
Ruiz exhaled and appeared to relax a little. ‘I care about Earth, if that’s what you mean.’
Yunus smiled. So the young man did have some humanity after all.
‘That’s what I hoped you’d say. How about Freedom Camps? How do you feel about them?’
Ruiz looked confused. ‘Freedom what?’
‘I prefer not to use the expression “Flag Drops”,’ said Yunus. ‘I consider it a pejorative that our society appears to have accepted into common parlance. I prefer Freedom Camps, or Free Camps, if you like.’
‘I think they’re sad,’ said Ruiz. ‘I think there are a lot of poor people on Earth who’ll do anything to escape, including claiming to be Revivalist zealots for one bunch or another. They get shipped off to the Frontier and treated like dirt.’
