Heart of the Nebula

by Joe Vasicek

  That was why he could never afford to forget what he was fighting for. His home, his people, the citizens of the Colony—that was why he put his life on the line, every time he took command of the Lone Spear. The thrill of battle and the exhilaration of victory were not sufficient to be ends in themselves. He might be a killer, but he was not a wolf, and would never allow himself to become one.

  At least, he desperately hoped so.

  * * * * *

  James knew he was in trouble even before he climbed out of his gunboat and set foot on the launch deck of the Trident One. Even so, he didn’t expect the commander to confront him there personally.

  “Lieutenant McCoy,” said Fleet Commander Maxwell, his jowled cheeks red with anger. “What possessed you to disregard my orders?”

  “Sir,” said James, trying very hard to keep his temper. “The conditions in the field—”

  “To hell with the conditions!” shouted the commander. “I can’t have trigger-happy gunboat captains ignoring direct orders. Thanks to your antics, we’ve already exceeded our requisitioned fuel allotment. And what if those ships were civilian transports instead of pirates?”

  Then they wouldn’t have attacked us, you empty-headed fool.

  “I did what I felt I had to, sir,” said James, struggling to keep his voice low. “If we hadn’t moved to intercept them when we did, they would have easily breached our formation and attacked the convoy.”

  Commander Maxwell pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. His uniform fit him poorly, the buttons nearly bursting around his oversized stomach. Like most of the superior officers, he had been a prominent business-man before joining the corps. His training had come from books and seminars, not from real-life military experience.

  Not like James.

  “I expect my subordinate officers to be team players, Lieutenant,” Commander Maxwell continued. “You are not a team player. If you were an employee in my company, I’d fire you at once.”

  “With all due respect, sir, the Civil Defense Corps is not a for-profit corporation.”

  Maxwell snorted in anger and drew himself up to his full height, which still came just below James’s eye level. “You have a problem with authority, Lieutenant, and I can’t allow it. Because of your insubordination, I have no choice but to send you to the brig until we put into port.”

  James clenched his fists as the door hissed open behind him. Footsteps came—the commander’s personal bodyguard, no doubt, coming to take him away. Half of him wanted to lash out and vent his frustration, but the other half—the smarter half—forced him to remain calm. They had already passed the most dangerous leg of the journey. Another pirate attack would have to cross so much space that even Commander Maxwell would be able to see it coming.

  Hands clasped his shoulders from behind. “Lieutenant?”

  James looked the commander in the eye and saluted. “Sir.” Maxwell blinked and hesitated for a moment before returning the salute.

  As the guards marched James out the door and into the narrow hallway of the Trident One, they passed Ensign Sterling near the bridge. The boyish officer looked at them in bewilderment, his normally cheery face a picture of confusion.

  “Captain? Where are they taking you?”

  “Sorry, Sterling,” said James. “Looks like you won’t be getting that commendation anytime soon.” The guards marched him into a nearby elevator, and the doors hissed shut behind him.

  Chapter 2

  Sara Galbraith-Dickson stepped into her cozy apartment and dropped her workout bag on the fold-out couch set into the nearest wall. As the door hissed shut behind her, she took off her sweaty T-shirt and dropped it in the laundry hamper, noting that she’d have to wash her clothes before long. That could wait, though—she had other, more pressing things to do.

  “Welcome back,” came the slightly monotone voice of her personal AI. “Did you have a good training session at the dojo?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said as she unstrapped her wrist console and plugged it into the computer terminal. The sidebar on the holoscreen displayed a few news stories, but none of them stood out at a glance.

  “Excellent. I’m glad you did.”

  Sara knew that the AI didn’t really care how she was doing—it was only programmed to say that so it could determine her personality and adjust its responses accordingly. Still, she didn’t mind the artificial companionship.

  “Did anyone leave a message?” she asked as she keyed open the door to her bathroom. The familiar smell of half a dozen hygiene products met her nose the moment she stepped inside.

  “As a matter of fact, I received two messages while you were away. Shall I play them for you?”

  “By all means,” said Sara as she slipped out of her clothes in preparation for the shower. This AI was a lot more personable than the last model—thinking about it made her realize she hadn’t named it yet.

  “Computer, do you have a name?”

  “I do not have a user-specified designation, but my serial number is NI-9938.”

  “That won’t do,” said Sara. “Set new designation to…” What name should she give her AI? NI-99…

  “Nina.”

  “Very well,” said the newly-christened Nina. “Playing first message.”

  “Hello, dear,” came the voice of Sara’s mother. “Why do you always keep your wrist console turned off when you’re away?”

  Sara rolled her eyes and stepped into the narrow shower unit. Two beeps indicated a break in the message playback.

  “How would you like your water?” Nina asked.

  “I can take care of it manually,” said Sara. “Go on.”

  “As you wish.” Two beeps, and the message continued.

  “Anyway,” her mother’s voice returned as Sara keyed the wash cycle. “I just wanted to know how you’re doing. Call me sometime—it’s been forever since we talked.”

  Jets of pressurized water shot from the walls, spraying her from every direction. She shuddered at the initial shock of impact, then raised her arms to let it wash all over her. The temperature was a little cooler than the default, but that was fine—after two hours of physical training, it felt good.

  “Oh, and by the way,” her mother continued, “I met a nice boy the other day. He just graduated from the academy here at Kardunash III, and I think you’ll agree, he’s super cute.”

  Sara groaned. Leave it to her mother to set her up from nearly fifty million kilometers away. She leaned against the wall of the narrow shower unit and folded her arms, letting the water pool in the cruxes of her elbows.

  “His parents are well established citizens of Skye,” the message continued. “Old money—very respectable. An associate of mine knows them well. The next time you come to visit, I can easily arrange for you to meet him.”

  Thanks, Mom. For the warning.

  “Anyhow, give me a call sometime. I love you, dear.”

  The message beeped out. Sara sighed and picked up the scrubber-hose from its slot next to the access panel and switched it on. Sweet-smelling soap began to ooze out of the sponge on the end.

  “Message received approximately one hour and forty-five minutes ago,” said Nina. “Shall I play the next one?”

  “Yes.”

  One beep indicated the start of playback. “Hello, Sara,” came her father’s voice. “How has your day been so far? I hope your service at the children’s home went well this upshift.”

  Sara’s stomach sank through the floor. That was today? She had meant to go, but things had just sort of gotten in the way. Her father would probably think that she was careless—or worse, a lazy, spoiled daughter.

  “In any case, I’m very much looking forward to our meeting in two hours. The diplomatic sub-committee has finalized the delegation, and it passed through the General Assembly last night. As we agreed, your name is on the list.”

  Sara finished with the scrubber and reactivated the shower. As the cool water rinsed away the soap suds, she filled her hands from
the shampoo dispenser and began to wash her hair.

  “In addition to the diplomatic team, the sub-committee wants me to send a small military escort to ensure the security of the delegates. It’s mostly a formality, but I agree with them that it’s a useful one. This is a dangerous mission, Sara, and I don’t want to take any chances with your safety.”

  You don’t trust me to take care of myself, Dad? It wasn’t like she was a little girl anymore. With a master’s degree in interplanetary relations, a well-paying job in the diplomatic corps, and a black belt in Rigelan jujitsu, she was quite capable of looking after herself.

  “Passenger restrictions on the Freedom Star permit me to send only two soldiers with the delegation,” he continued, “but I’ve picked ones who should be well up to the task. They’re coming on a supply convoy, and should arrive within the hour. I’ll be expecting you at the spaceport as soon as you’re able. I hope you’re packed already, dear, because you won’t have much time to do it later.”

  Sara wasn’t, but she had no doubt that she’d be ready before departure. She was a light traveler.

  “In any case, I hope this message finds you well. Please let me know when you’re on your way.”

  The audio chimed to indicate the end of the last message. “May I be of service in any other way?” Nina asked.

  “Sure,” said Sara as she finished rinsing out her hair. “Give me a rundown of the major bills and resolutions currently on the floor of the General Assembly, in descending order by voting deadline.”

  “Very well. Bill 3212R32: Emergency Powers Amendment. Requires ratification by a two-thirds majority on all executive orders regarding domestic affairs. Deadline in approximately two hours. Voting currently stands at thirty-six percent ‘yea,’ forty-two percent ‘nay.’”

  Sara sighed. It seemed that every other month, some sort of amendment to her father’s emergency powers came to the floor of the General Assembly. Had the people of the Colony lost their trust in his leadership, or were they merely discontent with the pressures of the last few months? In any case, her own vote was a no-brainer.

  “Nina, set my vote to ‘nay.’”

  “I’m sorry,” said the AI, “but Colony law forbids me to act as a voting proxy.”

  “Then just take my thumbprint on the shower’s control panel and treat that as my vote.” For an artificial intelligence, Nina wasn’t very bright.

  “Very well. Initiating imprinting process.”

  Sara pressed her thumb against the panel, then keyed the drying cycle. The water shut off, and a loud vacuum opened in the drain beneath her feet. A doughnut shaped drier slowly ran down the cylindrical walls of the unit, blasting her with hot air. She raised her hands high in the air as the water ran off her skin and into the recyclers.

  “Resolution 34A223,” Nina continued, “Combat Local Piracy Act. Designates all space within fifty thousand kilometers of Lagrange point L5 a protected safe zone and authorizes the Civil Defense Corps to use deadly force in patrolling that zone. Deadline in twenty-eight hours; voting currently stands at forty-nine percent ‘yea,’ thirty-one percent ‘nay.’”

  Forty-nine percent—that was only a couple of percentage points away from passing. Her vote probably wouldn’t make a difference now, and going on the record might come back to bite her politically. At the same time, though, it didn’t seem right to stand back and do nothing. She wasn’t exactly dovish, but these military escalations always made her uneasy.

  “Put me down as ‘nay,’” she said over the roar of the shower’s dry cycle. “Here’s my imprint.” She pressed her thumb against the access panel as the drier reached her feet.

  “Very well,” said Nina. “Bill 3213A—”

  “That’s enough, Nina. I’ll review the rest later.”

  She stepped out of the shower unit and retrieved a towel from an overhead compartment, wrapping it around her hair.

  “Understood. Would you like me to select your outfit for the evening?”

  “No,” she said, walking into her bedroom. “I can manage it fine myself.” After all, some things were better off not left to a computer.

  “Very well,” said Nina. “Your father is expecting you at—”

  “Yes, I know. Go on standby until further notice.”

  “Very well. Going on standby. Goodbye!”

  Sara studied her figure for a moment in the mirror before picking out her clothes. Personal AIs could be helpful, to be sure, but they could also be rather annoying. Besides, she had more important things on her mind. In just a few hours, she would leave on a voyage that would take her almost twenty parsecs from home. She still had a lot to do before she was ready.

  * * * * *

  At the groan of the opening blast doors, James eased off of his cot and rose to face the electrified grill on the far side of his cell. Heavy footsteps sounded on the floor, no doubt to escort him off the ship. Sure enough, three men walked into view: a short, balding man with a gray-haired goatee, flanked by two military police.

  “Lieutenant McCoy,” said the older man: a master sergeant, by the insignia on his shoulder. James’s eyes grew wide, and he hastened to give a salute.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have orders to escort you to the docking terminal with your personal effects.” The master sergeant nodded to the MPs, who depowered the door and swung it open on its squeaky, archaic hinges.

  Strange, James thought to himself. Still, if high command wanted to strip him of his commission, they wouldn’t have sent such a high-ranking officer to meet him at port—which begged the question, why had they sent anyone at all?

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “May I ask who wishes to see me?”

  The master sergeant stepped back to allow James to step out into the narrow hallway between cells. “I suppose it’s only fair,” he muttered. “It’s the patrician. He’s waiting for you at the terminal right now.”

  “Th-the patrician?” James’s blood ran cold, and his heart skipped a beat. The patrician was the commander-in-chief of all Colony defense forces, and the highest elected official in the Colony government. Either James was in deeper trouble than he realized, or something else was going on that he didn’t know anything about.

  “That’s right, the patrician,” said the master sergeant, leading him through the open blast doors. As James followed him out of the brig, the MPs fell into step behind them.

  “But—but what about my uniform? I—”

  “Normally, I’d give you some time to change,” said the master sergeant. “Unfortunately, the patrician is running on a very tight schedule. Your flight suit will have to do.”

  James glanced down at the drab, olive-green flight suit he was wearing. He’d only been allowed two changes of clothing in the brig, and he’d worn the other for almost the entire voyage, saving the clean one for when they put into port. Thank the stars he wasn’t wearing the dirty one right now.

  “Can you tell me why he wants to see me?” he asked as they walked down the brig corridor.

  “I would tell you if I could, Lieutenant, but frankly, I don’t know.”

  The master sergeant stopped in front of the elevator and keyed the access panel. The doors hissed open, and they both stepped inside, leaving the MPs behind.

  “What about Commander Maxwell?” James asked as the door slid shut. “I thought—”

  “The commander was more shocked than any of us when he received the news,” the master sergeant answered with the hint of a smile. “I assure you, Lieutenant, whatever his opinion of your behavior, it has been overruled.”

  That’s a relief. After a few brief moments of silence, they stepped out into the main corridor of the ship.

  Unlike the gunboats, the Trident One was a converted passenger liner, one that had been in operation for several decades under the New Gaian Empire before the Hameji occupation. The signs of age weren’t immediately obvious, but James picked them out easily enough: little chips of missing paint along the bulkheads, the indentatio
ns of foot traffic along the yellowed floor tiles, a slight fogginess in the windows from years of exposure to cosmic radiation. In contrast, the men and women who staffed the ship were quite young, most of them barely older than James. In their olive-green military drab, they seemed as out of place as pirates in a civilized star system.

  “What about my belongings?” James asked.

  “They have already been packed and unloaded. You’ll find them at the tram.”

  Sure enough, when they reached the end of the corridor and stepped into the airlock, James saw his duffel bag waiting for him. He hoisted it onto his shoulder and turned to the master sergeant, who stood outside the door.

  “I’ll leave you here, Lieutenant. The patrician asked to meet with you privately.”

  Privately? James’s stomach flipped, and for a moment, he felt like throwing up.

  “Right,” he said. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good luck.”

  The ride in the tram down the docking arm did little to quell his anxiety. Between the docking terminal and the Trident One, the artificial gravity field grew so weak that his bag began to creep up the wall next to him. He gripped the shoulder bars that kept him in his seat and closed his eyes, imagining that he was simply lying on his back.

  As the tram began to decelerate, gravity slowly returned. When it came to a stop, James opened his eyes and took a deep breath. After checking himself over to make sure he was presentable, he picked up his bag and stepped out. A man in a crisp business suit stood waiting for him on the other side, with two aides standing just behind him.

  It could only be the patrician.