by Will Crudge
The Flight Begins
Location: Clarke Station, Interstellar Port, Open Space
Date Time: Post Interstellar 07/31/4201
System: Tiber System, Mid Region
“Well, today is not my day!” Kara sighed, then put her face in her hands. She was strapped tightly into the pilot’s seat of her LRF-90 super fighter. The cramped space of the single-seat cockpit did little to improve her mood. Their trip to Tangine station should have taken less than a day to make it from the Celeste System, and all the way to Sol. The local law enforcement there needed them urgently, but they would have to wait a while longer.
Smaller vessels, such as the Skull-Crusher, were low on the priority list when it came to gate assignments. The deep space hyper gate stations connected humanity and provided the foundation of economic prosperity. Each inhabited system in UAHC controlled space had at least one or more open space hyper gates. Each massive gate was held open in a stable state, and the folded sections of space-time were held tightly against each other. Passing from one star system to another was as seamless as passing through a doorway. But as always, currency was king. Larger commercial vessels made more money for the stations, since they charged by tonnage. The Skull-Crusher may have been a priceless vintage LRF-90 series super fighter, but in the eyes of Station Traffic Control, it was pocket change. Larger vessels were always given priority taxi assignments, and the less profitable craft would have to wait for a lull in the commercial traffic to get a spot.
“Another delay, Kara?” Jimma called up to the cockpit. Jimma was tall and physically fit. Her Auburn hair was tied back into a simple ponytail. She wore nothing but a towel as she stepped out of the miniscule shower stall. The small berthing cabin in the belly of the fighter connected directly to the cockpit via three small steps that peaked at the base of the pilot’s seat. There was no door to separate the two interior sections, because the Long-Range Fighter (LRF) was designed in a bygone era before hyper gates had become popular. The concept of living quarters for the pilot was essential for the design of the mighty LRF-90 super fighters—and super fighters they were. Only a few dozen LRF’s had been known to still exist, and only a handful of those are known to be remotely flight worthy. After nearly six hundred years of LRF production, the series was discontinued. However, the LRF wasn’t discontinued because of obsolescence, but rather because of its dominance. The idea of an over-powered long range super fighter that could single-handedly match the combat power of a medium to heavy battlecruiser was considered too dangerous. They were the ultimate assassination method for extremist groups or hired mercenaries. In the hands of a pirate crew, it would be the most profitable tool one could dream of. No other vessel built in the previous two millennia could match an LRF’s speed in normal spaceflight.
“Another delay, dear.” Skull, the grumpy sentient NAV system replied on Kara’s behalf. Kara rotated the cockpit chair around to face the slight downward view into the berthing area. Her brunette hair looked like it needed a good brushing, and her makeup looked like it had been on her face for far too long. She had been awake and piloting the ship for nearly twenty-four hours straight and could barely think straight anymore. Kara unstrapped herself from the multi-point harness and stepped down to the cramped quarters. The berthing area was essentially a compressed studio apartment, with a retractable bed, a small cushioned bench that could serve as a tin couch, a tiny kitchenette, and a toilet/shower stall in the corner. The lighting was warm and pleasing to the eye. The light fixtures glowed like a tropical sunset, and it accented the off-white bulkheads nicely.
The tight berthing wasn’t meant for guests. But having War Master Jimma Alba onboard made it tighter and having a hyper-intelligent giant cheetah named Sasha share the space with Jimma didn’t help either. Sasha was a War Master’s Mount. Although she was not officially paired with Jimma, she volunteered to provide backup for the newest fully trained War Master in all the human sphere. Jimma’s proposed mount, Grinder, was a large gray wolf, and had not yet completed his own training. Sasha’s last assigned War Master had died in the previous war, and had focused on raising her own cubs, as well as mentoring younger mounts.
“I’m afraid we lack the provisions to continue on without stopping,” Sasha spoke through her voice module that mounted around her slender but muscular neck. She spoke using her natural feline vocal cords, and approximated human sounding words with her tongue and mouth, but the voice module could correct the efforts into discernable speech. The growly vocalizations one would expect from a nearly three hundred kilo cheetah were blended with a soft human female voice. The combined sounds made Sasha sound like a cross between an attentive mother, and a sultry temptress. Her exaggerated musculature burned enough calories just sitting still, but her hyper-intelligent brain required a vast amount in its own right. The average War Master Mount had about two hundred plus IQ regardless of species. Whether it be a tiger, mountain lion, panther, wolf, wolfhound, or even Labrador, they all had similar traits. All large and all deadly.
“Well, we have an Unum account with unlimited funds. We can pay for a docking assignment, then stretch our legs.” Jimma smiled.
Kara just gave her a blank stare of exhaustion. Kara knew she needed to rest.
“Lay down. Get some rest. I’m more than capable of flying an LRF. We have one in the Alba family, after all,” Jimma said.
Kara just nodded in response, then curled up in the small bed next to Sasha. She didn’t even remove her garnet-colored sub armor layer that had the signature black trim. The uniform of the newly formed Unum Defense Force. Major Kara Elders was asleep in less than a minute.
***
The Skull-Crusher made it to its docking assignment, and Jimma brought it into the bay with ease. She had elected to install the manual control stick and throttle levers, since she had no neural interface to utilize the after-market control sensors that Kara used. Jimma wondered if Kara even knew how to fly manually. It was a lost art form. Spaceflight was complicated, and many mod
ern vessels were too complex for simple manual controls. Fly by wire systems could easily anticipate a pilot’s intentions, then work out how to accomplish the task in nanoseconds. But when it came to large vessels with a vast array of thrusters and sensors, it was more intuitive for a ship’s control systems to interface into a pilot’s neural interface directly. If not for a neural interface, then human pilots would be replaced by AI’s or semi-sentient NAV systems. The NAV system of the Skull-Crusher, was fully sentient but not by design. Skull, who leant his name to the NAV system – Hull naming convention, had achieved sentience on his own. Nearly two millennia of flights and fights had compiled enough data layers for him to achieve self-awareness. Some NAV’s even changed their names later on but kept the naming convention intact. They identified themselves as either male, female, or neutral genders based on their individual experiences that forged the consciousness they inevitably achieve. Skull considered himself to be male… and very much an asshole.
“Sasha, are you ready?” Jimma asked as she stepped down from the cockpit steps.
“Yes, dearest.” The large cheetah spoke with her sultry, yet classy feline tone. The cat stood up and faced the small starboard hatch that was the only exit from the LRF. Jimma hit the release switch and the pressure between the station and the inner cabin equalized with a whooshing sound of air. The retractable ladder had already been extended down to the dock’s decking below, and the pair made their way off the ship.
“So, what do we do now, my dear?” Sasha asked as she gracefully meandered alongside Jimma’s right hip. The docking bay was shaped like a shoe box, and one of the short ends terminated into open space. The exposed end had a transparent energy shield to separate the internal atmosphere from the vacuum of space. The bulkheads were metallic in construction, but had a coating of clean ivory paint. There were closed cargo doors on either side of the structure, and they seemed centered between the inner bulkhead wall, and the spaceward opening. A single pedestrian bulkhead door was located on the left side of the dock as one may stand facing toward the core of the station.
“Well, as Steve would say – the warm fluffy kitty might need to use the fluffy little toilet!” Jimma referred to Steve, Kara’s AI that was embedded in the Major’s battle armor. Luckily for the rest of the crew’s sanity, he was in a standby mode, much like sleeping, while Kara’s armor recharged.
“Well, as much as that little artificial creep likes to jest, he’s not entirely wrong,” Sasha said, with what Jimma would recognize as a smile.
“Yeah, when he’s asleep, then he and Skull don’t feed off each other’s virtual testosterone.”
“Those boys are precious, my dear!” Sasha looked up and winked at Jimma. The big cat was a mother herself and had a soft spot for rambunctious boys. Even if they were artificial—and even if one of them was nearly two millennia old.
The War Master and her non-paired mount passed through the secured docking area without incident. The red Samurai-esque armor of a War Master, along with the sight of a massive curved katana-like sword strapped to the back of it, didn’t catch nearly as much attention as Sasha did. Out in the main civilian sector of the station, the crowds of people passing by stared with wonder—and sometimes sheer terror at the sight of the monstrous, yet majestic cheetah. Nowadays, War Masters were legendary figures. Many doubted they still existed. The sight of a tall, auburn-haired female in full War Master Regalia, and her massive animal companion became the focal point of many onlookers.
The pair just ignored the attention and kept walking past the crowd of civilians that gave them a wide berth as they approached. Perhaps their presence would attract unwanted attention, but that didn’t concern them. The War Master Guild had gone largely underground during the final days of the second War for Humanity, and most living people still believed the façade of political narratives that pointed blame at the guild for the devastating war. However, that didn’t mean that the guild members were criminals. None of them had broken any laws of war, nor committed any other crime. They were simply ousted by the political elite throughout the human sphere. But with impending war upon humanity, it was time for the guild to step out from the shadows. Nearly everyone in UAHC controlled space had no clue that their old foe, the Crimson Alliance, was bearing down on them with three fleets of warships.
“Here… This public latrine has stalls for disabled people. Should be plenty large enough for you to relieve yourself.” Jimma stopped to point out the entrance of a female icon over a metallic door.
“Excellent! Take a head count of screaming ladies with their britches down who come running out. I want to see if I can beat my previous record!” Sasha said with a sultry growl of excitement.
Location: Clarke Station, Interstellar Port, Civilian Sector
Date Time: Post Interstellar 07/31/4201
System: Tiber System, Mid Region
The two men had tracked the War Master and her mount since they cleared the secure area. They both were well trained to blend in anywhere they went, and so far they’d gone unnoticed. They made sure their intentions were not discovered, by keeping pace with a normal flow of foot traffic that seemed to match their marks. All of the curious attention that the pair of guild members were drawing to themselves made easier to keep eyes on them without being discovered. They had to maintain a similar disposition of the civilian horde around them and keep their targets in sight.
“Kilgar, they’ve stopped.” Stylus put his hand in front of Kilgar’s arm to stop him as he kept his normal stride. Both men wore plain cloaks of Life Temple clergymen. Their simple rags wouldn’t draw much attention in this area of the station. There were many downtrodden residents who couldn’t afford passage to anywhere else but the slums of the civilian sector. Lifers, which the slang term was for Life Temple devotees, were expected to live humbly. Their clothing was often hand woven, and rarely had any color. Even bleached yarn for the fabric was often frowned upon. But the natural coloring of their simple garbs acted as a form of camouflage in an ocean of people.
“Looks like the cat is using the public toilet. My guess is they came in a smaller craft with limited facilities,” Kilgar noted. Their hoods didn’t betray their faces, but a hint of red stubble covered the angular features of the exposed portion of his face. Stylus, by contrast, had the dark complexion of a planet born man. Likely of African descent, the slightly shorter man was more broad-shouldered than Kilgar. The two men waited by a nearby concession stand and took turns pretending to browse its wares. All the while, keeping one eye on their mark at any one time.
“They’re moving again… the cat must be done doing her damage.” Kilgar said.
Stylus just nodded but didn’t take his eyes off of the two female companions. The crowds still reacted as if they’d seen something miraculous—or terrifying depending on how each person decided to react. The War Master was slowing down, and then turned to step into a food market. The two men decided to make their move and began to cut across the crowds to get to the market entrance. Both men knew that the large expanse of the market was a labyrinth, and they’d need to get closer to keep them in sight. But they stopped suddenly at the sight of a local municipal cop who called out for the War Master.
“Excuse me, Ma’am!” The voice stopped Jimma dead in her tracks. Sasha just gracefully shifted her stride to the left of Jimma’s hip and then halted.
“Yes, officer?” Jimma politely responded, and then calmly folded her hands over her torso, so as to seem non-threatening. The cop was a stumpy man, who looked as if he hadn’t exercised in years. His belly stretched the limits of his worn-down duty uniform, and his puffy cheeks concealed a hint of facial bones.
“You know you can’t have weapons on this station, don’t you?” Then the dumpy looking officer turned his eyes towards Sasha. “Not to mention livestock… dangerous livestock, at that!”
“Pardon my ignorance, officer…” Sasha chimed in. The cop seemed taken back by a talking cheetah. “But you are addressing a War
Master.”
“Whoa! That thing talks?” The cop turned to look at Jimma with a confused expression on his pudgy face.
“Indeed, she does. And here are my War Master tokens.” Jimma touched her forehead with her right forefinger and closed her eyes. The extraordinary mental faculties of her genetic makeup may not allow for her to have a neural interface, but she could transmit her tokens to some formats, by simply focusing her brain patterns and broadcasting brain waves into the environment immediately around her. The hand-held status unit on the cop’s utility belt chimed with a beep, and the man grabbed the device for a better look.
“I’ve-I’ve never seen valid War Master Tokens before. Is this some kind of practical joke?” The incredulous man began to look around as if to identify hidden cameras or hiding pranksters.
“No, sir. It is not. If you’ll cross level those codes with UAHC policy, you’ll find War Masters are authorized to carry our traditional sword as a piece of ceremonial regalia. And our mounts….” Jimma motioned towards Sasha with her head. “They are allowed all the rights and privileges of any fully sentient being.”
“I…” The cop’s face spoke volumes. His cheeks became flushed with redness, and his eyes darted around to avoid eye contact. He didn’t know what to do or say next.
“Just check. You’ll see.” The man pecked away at his device with furious precision. It was obvious that the man was a low ranking local officer, otherwise he would be able to instantly verify her statement by use of a neural interface. The cop’s facial expression changed. He now looked like a child who’d finally figured out a tough math problem.
“It’s here. You’re correct, Ma’am… err War Master.” The cop realized he wasn’t quite sure of the proper protocol when addressing a War Master… let alone a female one. Then the cop forced an expression of authority, but Jimma could tell he was a terrible actor. “Make sure you don’t draw that blade from its scabbard while on station! Says here, that in civilian controlled sectors, such as this, that you’re only allowed to draw that thing in the act of legitimate self-defense, or a pre-approved ceremony… which would require a permit.”
