by Jim Rudnick
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
The RIM Confederacy
A Message to you from the Author
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Epilogue
The Rim Confederacy Series
Would you leave me a Review?
BOOK SIX OF THE
RIM CONFEDERACY
Desert Planet
by Jim Rudnick
This is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book may not be re-sold or given away without permission in writing from the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, or distributed in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means past, present or future.
Cover art by Sebastian Wagner.
ISBN-13: 978-1-988144-05-4
Copyright © 2016
Jim Rudnick
All rights reserved.
For my Susan…
The RIM Confederacy: Desert Planet
"After 55 years of waiting for an answer to the invite to join the RIM Confederacy, the planet Enki has responded with an alternate idea—that the RIM Confederacy join them instead. Captain Tanner Scott is sent on the Diplomatic mission to get the Enkians to reconsider.
What he and the Atlas crew do is to help the new Ambassador to find a way to both diplomatic as well as the Enki into the RIM Confederacy without exposing to them the secret of why that is so important. If the Enkians can be persuaded, the RIM could gain access to the newly discovered metal ores that appear to make a ship invulnerable.
But all of the RIM wants to shortcut the process so the Atlas needs to quarantine the planet as well as maintain full diplomacy with the Enkians. When the Caliphate gets involved and back room deals are made it all comes to a head at the Atlas Adept Officers trial for Terrorism.
Captain Scott will try to defend his officer by acting as his defense counsel—a job that is made even more difficult as the Enkian society and justice system are both hard to learn and hard to navigate within the law…"
A Message to you from the Author…
I just wanted to say thanks so so much for reading Book Six of the RIM Confederacy!
As my Amazon bio says, being a youngster in the 1950's meant that I was a voracious reader in what has been called the Golden Age of Science Fiction. That meant that for me, my heroes were not on the hockey rink or gridiron - but instead in my local Library where at 12 I had a full Adult card (thanks Dad!) and took out more than 5 books a week.
Everyone from Heinlein, Norton, Leiber, Pohl, Anderson, Simak, Asimov, Brackett, Gunn, Van Vogt and more....I fell in love with and eventually owned Ace Doubles of my own. And while I never knew who wrote the Tom Corbett - Space Cadet series, I fell in love with them and they had a place of honor on my own bookcase too!
With that kind of an introduction to Science Fiction, it's no wonder that when I got my writing work done, I turned my own fictional side of my brain to writing same. It's one thing I know how to write - and a totally different matter to release same to the world - something that I've just started to work on....
Suffice it to say my own works are rooted in that Golden Age and it's that era that I'd like to one day be known as a teensy contributor to in some small way...
So once again, thanks for beginning my RIM Confederacy series and wait'll you learn about the alcoholic spaceship captain that is my hero, who fights and beats aliens but not the bottle!
Enjoy and remember, in a series, characters develop and mature not the way we sometimes want…instead, it's like they have a life of their own!
And while you can read the series in any order, I'd highly recommend to start with Pirates, then Sleeper Ship, Prison Planet, Ancient Relics, Hospital Ship and Desert Planet too…and yes, there's more coming soon too!
Prologue ~
The lines on the access ramps had been long, yet thousands had stood at first in the sands, then later on the stone walkway, and finally had used the steps to go down, down into the depths of the planet and still they came. Following each other, they finally reached the lowest levels, and as the huge wide corridor slowly doubled back on itself toward the Words Muse pyramid, they slowed with the sheer numbers of observers who had come. It was hot, as it always was, and some fanned themselves with flyers, which had been distributed about this Claim, trying to cool off even a bit but to no avail. At least they were all out of the hot white sun, an A1, which meant it was almost at the top of the white class of stars with hot, hot stellar winds that landed on Enki.
Being third in orbit around the sun was just poor luck, many thought, as that made the sun even brighter and hotter. Enki lay at the interior edge of the Goldilocks zone, which meant the sun always shone and the heat was always there. Here in the darkened tunnel that ran from the exterior access ramp to the Words pyramid, it was usually at least somewhat cooler, but now with thousands of Enkians all surging forward to get to the Claims forum, it was just plain hot.
Eventually the long lines reached the basement level of the pyramid and slowly climbed the stairs back up to the main ground floor level. As a unit, they all followed one another and took seats in the huge Claims forum that made up most of the ground level of the pyramid. There was seating for thousands and every single seat was filled, and there was standing room too, but it was filled—jammed really. Everyone who was close enough to the area in general, never mind the pyramid itself, was here. Major news services were present too, broadcasting the jurors and their decision on the Claims action filed by the Words Muse.
All eyes were turned on the three groups seated at the triangular table on the dais in the middle of the forum. One side held the jurors—the five members of the ruling judicial power on Enki. One side held the Words Muse leaders, four men and a woman who held those positions. The third and final side of the table held the five leaders of the Performance Muse, the ones who had brought the action of the Claim.
All this was because a message had been received from the RIM Confederacy inviting them to join.
The Performance Muse had claimed it was they who had been asked, as the message had come via a video recording, which showed an ambassador who read the parchment, but it was the video that was the deciding factor. Or so they said in their argument just a few weeks ago.
The Words Muse claimed that as the message also had come as a beautiful letter on parchment paper with embossed seals and all, it was a word message that had invited them. It had been read, but as the message was in words—it was meant for them, they had argued.
And today, the jurors would pronounce their decision.
The head juror, Iavoesi Qax, his crest of feathers along the top of his head bright green with the yellow borders, was old but still carried himself like a mature Enkian. He rippled his crest from flat back up to standing tall again and again, and that got the quiet he'd been looking for.
"Enkians, the jurors have been considering this Claim by the Performance and Words, and we have come to a decision, one that was difficult, but one that we are sure takes into consideration the full bearing of this RIM Confederacy message," he said as he looked at both sides in front of him.
On the Words side, the red an
d white feathered crests were full and preened up; it was obvious the Words Muse felt they had won the Claim to the message. On the Performance side of the table, the crests were not as high; instead, the purple and orange crests were a bit droopy, their beaks were gritted together, and not one was smiling.
The head juror looked down at his Agenda, and then rising, he stood fully—and then leaned over to the Words side of the table and threw back his head to caw loudly the jurors' verdict three times. "Words, Words, Words."
Nods were seen all around the forum. Everyone thought this was the proper decision. Everyone now knew the WORDS muse was meant to be the recipient of the RIM Confederacy message. The Words Muse would handle the talks and discussions, and as they had been the recipients, this RIM Confederacy would be able to join the Words Muse.
The head of the Words muse then stood to relate to all present that they would be contacting this RIM Confederacy to discuss how they could join their muse and informing the jurors soonest. The Claim forum was over and all present took their leave back down to the tunnels and then out to the sands.
In Resources, the probe was made ready, and it blasted off with the Words' message the only thing inside as it climbed up and out of the atmosphere as it found its bearings and aimed itself at Juno.
It took a year to reach its top speed of one-half the speed of light ... and in fifty-five years, it would reach Juno to respond to the RIM message.
CHAPTER ONE
Over Juno in high orbit, Station One was in a sorry state; budgets had just been tendered to the admiral down in Navy Hall, and all had come back with a single word—cut!
Marine Master Sergeant Bill Adams, the officer of the day on the bridge, didn't much care. As his job was not dependent on the pluses or minuses of the operations of the station, all he had to do was get through an eight-hour shift. Every day, the same eight hours and then to the non-commissioned Officers' Mess for a few brewskis and to sleep it off before doing it all over again and again.
Life's good, he thought, as he checked his command console again and noted the all-green status of every single icon on the screen. Air's fine; power's fine; communication's fine; and orbit is fine—all is fine. And beer is only an hour away. The whole furor about budgets and the now necessary cuts that were on everyone's lips meant nothing to him. This was a simple six-month duty for him—part of the tour from specialist training, so budgets be damned.
Talk about "lucking-in," he thought. His final year in upper school, a teacher had taken him off to one side and had prompted him—pushed him in fact—to apply to the Officers Candidate School over on Eons. They tried to turn him into a Navy officer—and while it had made sense for some time, in the end, he couldn't do it.
Instead, he'd forgone the option of the life of an officer and had enlisted on his graduation day at a Navy recruiting office in his home city of Hamilton down on Juno. "Joined up," he said to himself, "and breezed through basic, took weapons specialty training, made marksman, and now here on Station One, crew chief at thirty-one." He smiled, sipped a gulp of his bottled water, and then slid the re-sealed bottle back into the cup holder on his chair.
'Tisn't a captain's chair, that's true, but then that went with officer territory. Instead, I will one day lead a squad out in the field, and that's where I belong, he thought. 'Til then, it's a green-screen shift followed by some beers. He shrugged and looked over at some of the crew on this shift with him.
In charge of the Station Control—well, at least as far as having control of thrusters and the ilk as there were no engines on the station—was sergeant Mel Backert, who like Bill, had also enlisted and had pulled six-month duty on the station too. "Good man," Bill said to himself and noted Mel's attention appeared to be down on his own console at his station.
Glancing up at the huge view-screen on the forward wall, he saw what he always saw—the curved edge of Juno with its blue oceans and white puffy cloud bans off to port. Ahead, as they were on the outer side of the planet, they could see most of the inward-facing stars of the RIM Confederacy and, much smaller, the wide band of muddied stars that was the rest of the galaxy. From this far out, more than fifty thousand lights, the galaxy was just an unfocused band of shining stars that numbered in the billions. "We're just a pimple on the butt of the Milky Way," he said to himself as he swigged from his bottled water and half-turned to his right to see what others were doing on the bridge. Keeps Mel busy, I'd guess.
His Science officer, Corporal Harry Neal was busy reading something like all Science officers were always doing, and his concentration looked intense. His Ansible officer, one Phil Sibbald, was using his throat mic, most likely to talk to someone. Wonder if that rank promotion would come through, he thought, as he'd also added his own recommendations to Phil's file months ago—should happen soon, he hoped. Another good man.
Beep, beep, beep. An alarm went off and the sidebar on the huge view-screen held a flashing icon that meant trouble.
"Sir, collision alarm—we've got incoming something," his Science officer jumped in first.
"Sir," the Ansible officer said, "no response to hails—in fact, they don't even have an Ansible device address, Sir," Phil said with wonder in his voice.
"Sir," his Station Control officer said, "it's ...wait, yes, it is braking big time ... slowing ... and it's now not on a collision course, Sir," Mel said with relief in his voice.
Bill thought the braking was odd—no natural item could brake it's vector—and without an Ansible address, it had to be a natural item, an asteroid or meteor or some such rock.
He looked over at his Science crewman and nodded to him first. "Get me a read on what that is STAT."
To his Ansible officer he was just as curt. "Ansible down to Juno—major security interrupt code Station-RR-Alpha—and blast that 'til you get an acknowledgment and tactical orders. STAT, Phil, STAT!"
Back to his station control man, Mel, he said, "Can we locate it and put it up on screen? Front and center and put up some kind of a measurement too on this thing, and get me vitals too."
All eyes were now on that view-screen as it went black as the cameras changed, and on screen, a silver missile appeared, coming in tail first as it slowed even more, according to the sidebar stats. It was a rocket, a missile, or a probe, and it was approximately forty feet long with a radius of about nine feet. Vitals popped on screen too as the station scanned the intruder, and Bill saw the stats showed no life onboard, no air or life signs, and no cargo except an almost empty reservoir of what must be fuel.
His Science officer chimed in. "Sir, that thing is not a RIM Confederacy ... uh, probe at all. Scans show that it is made of a metal that we do not know—never seen that chem spectroscopy before. Also while there is a single compartment up front, it appears to have nothing in it but some organics, but without a trip over there, we've no idea," he said and Bill could hear the plea to be a part of that team from Harry.
He held up his hand. "Ansible and Tactical—did you get any feedback from Navy Hall?" he said.
Both officers shook their heads.
"Tactical—Bertie, can you lock on that ... uh, probe—let's call it a probe. Can you lock on with station energy pulse cannon on the starboard side and put that up on screen too?" he said.
As she nodded back to him and said, "Wilco," the sidebar up on the screen added the station energy pulse readouts. On screen, a set of cross hairs ringed the probe and a small pulse volume bar appeared.
"All the way," Bill said, and he too watched as the bar doubled in size indicating maximum charges would be applied.
"And now we wait," he said and that's what they did.
The sidebar indicators never changed.
The probe didn't move but joined the station in its slow high orbit around Juno as physics said it should.
The crew waved off their shift replacements and all agreed to stay with this.
After more than three hours of the standoff, there was a beep on the command console and the admiral's face
appeared.
It was an EYES ONLY for him alone.
"Master Sergeant, Adams—Admiral McQueen here. What's the status currently? Anything new?" he said.
A man of late middle age, the admiral was the head of the RIM Confederacy Navy—the commander in chief—so this was a first for Bill.
"Sir, yes ... no changes to the status of the probe, Sir. We are watching and monitoring carefully and yes, sending down the data to Navy control. We have seen not a single change since the probe braked about three hours ago, Sir," Bill said.
The admiral nodded and Bill thought he looked like any commander in chief. Gray hair, slightly longer than Navy code allowed, but then who was going to tell him? That almost brought a smile to his face, but he stifled that immediately.
McQueen half-turned and said something to someone else wherever he was and then turned back to the screen.
"Master Sergeant, I'm sending orders now—but here's the gist of this. I want you to form an away team, get over to this ... this probe, and take it aboard. I want it kept securely on Station One, and I want a full double platoon of marines—I'm sending them up now—on guard. No one to go near this probe until my own scientists and security arrives. You got that, Master Sergeant?"
There is no doubt the admiral is trying to fix in his own mind that I'm capable of doing just this. No more. No less.
"Sir, yes, Sir! Will follow those orders to the letter. Yes Sir!" he said and if he could have come to attention, he would have.
The screen went dark and Bill sat for a moment.
"Science, front and center, please," he said.
