***
“What is this?” Destroyer 6223 Commander One asked the Internal Communicator Three wobbling nervously just inside his control chamber. The junior functionary held a data package gingerly in one pseudopod, as if the thing stank.
Which it did.
“A supplementary report from the former Survey craft trium, Commander.”
Commander One ruffled his surface, the Meme equivalent of guarded approval. At least this subordinate came straight to the point. “Put it down and go about your duties.” Once the other had gone, he put the blob of complex molecules into his reader and began displaying its index.
He could have absorbed it directly, but it was not unknown for a virus to “accidentally” be encoded into such a package, with highly variable results, from memory alterations to sickness and even death. Once he had run the data thoroughly through his examiner, then he would consider directly experiencing it.
In the meantime…the supplemental data proved interesting, but ultimately not critical. It confirmed the conclusions Commander One had already come to about the Humans, while providing some ideas for optimization strategies during the coming battle, dovetailing neatly with his beliefs. The former Survey trium was obviously pathetically eager to work itself into its new Commander’s good graces, and he had to admit, this was a fair start.
Therefore Commander One logged a minor commendation to his new Recycler trium, knowing full well it would be a long time, at least until after the conquest of the Human system, before it would matter. At that time various tria would be detached for off-ship duties – for example, another Watcher base – and some of his crew would undoubtedly decide to move on to the next stage of life by blending with the lower forms, beginning the endless cycle of incorporation into the Empire.
With the Meme equivalent of a shrug, Commander One redistributed the report to his senior staff, and then went back to his usual duties, effectively forgetting about the whole thing…or at least, the source of the ideas that fit so well with his own preconceptions. With years still to think about it, he slowly came to incorporate Recycler One’s flattering advice into his plans and eventually gave in to the temptation to absorb the data module directly, having determined there was no threat.
If there was such a thing as the Supreme God the Meme worshipped, It would have laughed at the irony of one of Its servants, composed of living transferrable memory molecules, believing that an idea, a meme such as their race was named for, could not itself be infectious.
As it was written in their sacred Book of the Meme: “In the beginning was the Information, and the Information was with the Supreme, and the Information was the Supreme. Without the Information was not anything made that was made.”
So when Commander One issued orders to increase speed in order to gain some time, he thought the intentions were entirely his own, rather than having been literally planted in his mind and willingly incorporated.
Chapter 29
Year Seven
Vincent Markis, now dubbed “Vango” by his jet fighter training class, sat still for a moment, just feeling Callisto’s roughly one-eighth gravity as it pulled steadily on him. It seemed somehow different from acceleration or spin gravity, even from that of the grav-plates he had experienced on the transport out from Earth.
It had taken him a while to figure “Vango” out, because no one would tell him. The derivation of pilots’ call signs, “names” or “handles,” was always supposed to stay secret for as long as possible, a game to those in the know. Many were obvious, such as those popularized in the movies: “Maverick” for the rebel, “Iceman” for the cool technician, “Goose” for the funny looking guy with the long neck.
But “Vango”…it had taken a serendipitous song on the radio, Don McLean’s “Vincent,” to make the connection in his mind: Van Gogh. Vango. The appellation was both a relief and a disappointment. He’d hoped it would have some deeper meaning than just a word play on his name…but then again, perhaps it was better not to, considering the artist’s tragic life.
Or maybe it meant they thought he was an artist with the airplane?
Okay, I’ll take it. Besides, showing any displeasure with the handle your comrades give you is a surefire way to make them think you can’t hack it.
At least he hadn’t been tagged with “Cupcake,” like one guy, or the young woman that got “Stringy.”
Vango unbuckled last, earning a couple of funny looks about his reticence from the other passengers as they filed out of the acceleration seating area. Maybe in the future entire ships would be gravplated and passengers could stay in their quarters or the rec areas even as they maneuvered, but for now they had to be collected in one area and restrained for extra safety. Human technology now cut everything close for efficiency’s sake. With the Destroyer only two years out, that meant very few luxuries.
About half of the human cargo on board were prospective Aardvark pilots, jet jockeys all and certain that they would tear through this course just as they had all their training before. Despite the nearly hundred thousand pilot roster to eventually fill, Earth was producing plenty of qualified candidates. Most Edens didn’t have the problems the old normals used to: weak eyes, badly tuned inner ears, heart problems, any number of niggling issues that used to disqualify ninety percent of the population before they even applied.
So Vango was the last off the ship as he shuffled down the ramp and through the mandatory ID checks. After that he looked around, having been told someone would be there to meet him.
Apparently that someone was one harried lieutenant and a sergeant driving the open electric tram that sat next to an exit from the hangar. The officer held up a sign with the letters AAT on them, for Advanced Attack Training, the official name for the qualification course. Twenty-odd men and women, all cast from the same basic clear-eyed clean-cut mold, gaggled toward the two and climbed onto the vehicle. It reminded Vango of those things at Disneyland that took people to and from the parking areas.
He found himself next to a pleasant-looking blonde woman holding a carry bag in her lap just as he was. “Hi,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand. “Vango.” This was one moment that he was glad to use just his handle; the Markis name had often made him a target, forcing him to play everything even more by the book than he was inclined.
“Pleasedtameetcha,” she replied, pumping his hand enthusiastically. “Stevie. Ain’t this a hoot? Can’t wait to climb into an Aardvark.” If he’d had to place her accent, he guessed it was from somewhere in the American South, sounding a bit like Aunt Cassie.
Already her eyes had slid past him and stared out into infinite space, and he guessed that she must love the freedom of flight just as much as he did. “What d’you fly?” he asked, the safest of aviator’s questions.
“Super Ospreys. US Navy. You?”
“F-35s. South African Air Force.”
“I guess we’re all EarthFleet now, huh?”
“I guess we are.” The supranational military service had standardized uniforms, but retained the Army, Navy, Aerospace and Marine force designators that overlapped with most of the source nations’ services. That meant Stevie wore whites while Vango sported sky blue, the uniforms’ only concessions to their original nationality a flag on the left shoulder of each. He’d heard Admiral Absen wanted to get rid of that too, but the Combined Council had overruled him.
Vango wondered how long after the Destroyer was dealt with until Earth’s fractious nations would go back to feuding, and unconsciously shook his head.
“What? You look like someone just ate y’all’s doughnut,” Stevie said.
“Y’all? I thought that word was plural in your dialect.”
“Mah dah-uh-lect? This ain’t a dah-uh-lect, Vee, it’s an ack-say-ent,” she said, pronouncing these words as if they had three syllables. “Now if I lapsed into Cajun, that would be a dah-uh-lect. And don’t start about me talkin’ funny, not with you sounding like some weird District Nine journalis
t from Seyth Effrica.”
“Sorry,” Vango replied, turning away from her vitriol.
“Oh, hey, ain’t nothin’ but a thang,” she replied, changing her speech yet again.
Vango kept his eyes straight ahead as they cruised down a wide two-lane tunnel, passing other electric vehicles on the way, and after a moment Stevie punched his shoulder.
“Come on, Van. I’m just jerkin’ your chain. It’s ’cause I like ya.”
He smiled uncomfortably and glanced her way, then faced front again, unnerved by her strange forward manner. The women he’d grown up with had been smart and kind, but never acted like this, except for a few of the girls in school, whom he’d avoided. One of the reasons he liked flying was its clarity and structure, its checklists, its right and wrong answers.
Girls like this didn’t fit.
“Oh, mah, it looks like I have a lot of work to do,” Stevie went on with a dramatic sigh.
“Yes, we all do,” Vango responded, deliberately acting as if he misunderstood. Maybe if he was lucky they would be nowhere near each other as they trained, at least until their schedules filled with work. After that, perhaps she wouldn’t have time to bother him.
Chapter 30
Master Sergeant Jill Repeth beamed over at her husband Lieutenant Commander Rick Johnstone as they left Orion on a ten-minute hop over to the interplanetary transport ship. While the shuttle had about twenty seats, the transport looked like it could comfortably carry ten times as many.
Both wore uniforms: hers the crimson and navy blue of the EarthFleet Marines, his the khakis of a working Fleet naval officer. Because of this they avoided holding hands or any other obvious public display. To complete the inadvertent illusion that they were not together, Jill carried most of their gear: four tightly-packed duffels, as if she were his enlisted aide. Rick toted only two carry bags.
What onlookers did not know was that, while Rick had a full suite of chips in his head for his CyberComm duties, Jill’s body brimmed with the latest cyborg upgrades, lacking only things that might show. Some Marines opted for ferrocrystal outer skin or obvious mods such as metal teeth and claws, but with her part-time duties as a covert operative, everything on the outside looked standard human.
Of course, with her enhanced musculature and bones the baggage seemed more awkward than heavy, even in the half gravity provided by the gravplates, but she was far more physically capable than he. Human culture still tended to ascribe overt strength to the male, though, and they drew a few odd looks.
“Couldn’t we just have checked all of those bags through to the new base?” Rick asked as they walked the short distance to their quarters, threading their way among other arriving personnel.
“Airlines ever lose your luggage?” she asked. “No one’s going to bring it over later in space, and there are no malls or mail-order companies out here. Trust a Marine. The best thing we can do is keep our gear close.”
“Right. Well, here’s our stateroom.” As a married couple they rated a tiny private space the size of a closet, with bunked beds taking up half of the space. Drawers below the bottom one and netting above the top provided some stowage, but they barely had room to turn around with both standing. “Looks like restrooms are communal,” Rick went on.
“Head, Rick. It’s called the head. Dress you up like a sailor but you’ll still be a civilian at heart.”
“Hey, I didn’t ask for this uniform,” he retorted. “I got drafted.”
“You got presidentially appointed is what you did, and then you joined EarthFleet.”
“Only because you did.” He sighed. “Out of the frying pan…”
“I thought we talked about this?” Jill said.
“We did. I’m just whining, in private, to you. Is that okay?”
“Of course,” she said, kissing him. “I’m sure things will be much better at Grissom Base. I hear they have plenty of living space.”
Rick nodded. “At least I hear the food is decent.”
“Welcome to forward garrison. Besides, you’ll be going back to Orion before the attack starts. For you, this is a working vacation. For me, it’s my job.” She leaped lightly to the top bunk. “I’m for some shuteye.”
“Okay. Sweet dreams. I’m going to look around the ship.”
“Have fun. One ship is pretty much like another.”
“After being stationed on Orion for the last four years, any change is a good change.”
“At least you got to come down to Earth once a quarter and see me.” Jill pumped her eyebrows comically up and down.
“And you got to come up several times. It’s your fault. I’ve gotten used to the military.”
“You’re just a techie at heart. You want to look at the gizmos.”
“Good thing you’ve got so much machinery inside you, huh?” Rick waved as he shut the cabin door.
Chapter 31
All right ladies and gentlemen, this is your first full virtual reality simulation of the A-24 Avenger II. The voice of the aerospace controller speaking inside his head was so smooth and real-sounding, it almost made Vango forget he was not actually hearing the man with his ears. Rather, the feed came directly into his auditory nerve via his implanted link chips.
Your first scenario is simple takeoff and landing practice, set here on Callisto. During this first day, your ship will be locked in beginner mode, and you won’t be able to get hurt. Later, you will be able to crash the simulated ship, which will cause you some mild pain feedback and also will be recorded for your debriefings. Good luck, and follow the tutorial.
This method of instruction was quite different from what he was used to, but all the students were fully trained jet pilots, and he’d heard they had been experimenting with a more organic, heuristic approach. Besides, they didn’t have enough qualified Aardvark fliers yet for the usual one-on-one methods.
A tutorial screen opened automatically, and he followed its prompts to start up the ship from power-down all the way to takeoff-ready status. LAUNCH. The word flashed gently in front of him.
Vango looked down at his virtual hands on the virtual controls and remembered what he’d been taught. You don’t actually need the physical illusion, but it helps a lot, the brain-teachers had said. Eventually you’ll find yourself losing track of your virtual avatar and just flying the ship as if it was your body.
Placing those hands deliberately on his virtual lap, he decided to use his newbie grace period to try doing without them. With his mind alone, he willed the craft to take off.
Nothing happened.
Vexed, he reviewed his checklist, and ran a snippet of the brain-teacher’s class on a virtual video screen projected before his mind’s eye. If you really want to fly the Avenger the right way – the instructors always called the A-24 by its official name, even though everyone else called them Aardvarks – you have to inhabit it. You have to imagine that its sensors are your eyes and ears, its weapons your arms, its thrusters your feet and your muscles.
Deliberately, Vango sank into the illusion, trying to feel those things the teacher had talked about. He replicated some of the exercises he’d performed back then, on simpler brain-training scenarios after he’d had the additional link chips implanted. In those, he’d inhabited the virtual bodies of animals, cars, airplanes, even heavy construction equipment, but those simulations had been simple, designed to help the new pilots take baby steps.
Now he was expected to really run and play.
His first success was his vision. Instead of the illusion of the inside of a cockpit, he followed the sensor feeds through the skin of the ship and suddenly looked out upon the 3D surroundings without being anchored in place. After that it was easier to hear the radio comms all around him, and feel the idling fusion engine, like a beating heart oddly connected to his feet.
Around and above him he watched dozens of ships flying in simple takeoff and landing patterns, presumably his compatriots who had seized the physical controls and launched. He had no doubt t
hat if communication with them had been allowed, they would be razzing him for just sitting there on the virtual ramp, not moving.
That’s all right. I’ll show them, he thought. I always do things by the book, but the instructions did not say I had to follow the taxiway to the runway and go zooming down it, airplane style, the way everyone assumes. The simulation should replicate everything about Callisto, including its low gravity, so…
With a deep breath that he felt as a ramping up power, he imagined himself crouching in place, then gently rising up on his fingers and toes.
His Aardvark lifted off the ground, wobbling a bit but under positive control, and he continued to rise, until he imagined himself standing. This brought his ship to a vertical orientation, nose up and twin engines pointed at the ground, like an old-fashioned rocket.
Then he leaped.
Blasting upward, he shot through the middle of the formation of ships in their counterclockwise traffic pattern, higher and higher until the limits of the beginner’s VR space stopped him from climbing. Even so, he now hovered far above the rest. More and more, he felt as if he was flying his body rather than sitting in a cockpit.
ENTER PATTERN, CIRCLE AND LAND said the tutorial. The words had been pulsing there for some time, but he’d ignored them as he had climbed. Now, though, they constituted an order and his natural sense of responsibility kicked in. He was happy to push the boundaries of instruction, but wasn’t going to blow his chances by acting like some rebel on his first day.
Swooping down, he selected a gap and dropped into it from above, and then followed the left turns on the pattern legs named upwind, crosswind, downwind, base and final, regardless that there was no actual wind on this moon.
He hurried through the tutorial as fast as he could, earning several hours at the end to just play in the no-crash mode. Instead of hanging around the virtual spaceport, he flew out over the representation of the moon’s surface, racing above the plains and zooming through mountain passes, just…having fun.
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