by Blaze Ward
ENGINEERING STATUS: optimal
Weapon status: this platform is unarmed
Power supplies: batteries full. Induction systems optimal
Hardware status: Lord of Tiki projection optimal, language deviations over time adjusted for and stored internally
Memory status: 39% full with stable backups
* * *
THE PROJECTION KNOWN as the Lord of Tiki understood the need for secrecy, but he still found a burr in his programming where such enforced idleness rankled. He had been programmed as a bartender, managing a fully automated watering hole where the humans came to relax and unwind off-duty, spilling their psychology to a being that could help. Or at least listen.
Right now, he was at least in the right sized room. And it came with a bar. Or something close enough. 1.3 meters tall. 4.7 meters wide. He could stuff six humans on the other side, two standing and four seated, if they were friendly.
Unfortunately, nobody was quite sure yet what to do with him. The only precedent that anyone had was the Librarian at Alexandria. The second one. The relief pitcher brought in when the first one nearly got killed and decided to take herself to the showers.
The Bartender wondered if he could get anyone to build him the sort of android body that the First Librarian had escaped in. Not that he would go anywhere, but it would make his bar better, not to have to rely on organics to do things for him.
And the Queen did have her fighting robot, which was a crude thing, done in matte gray plastic over steel bones. That would at least give him hands to work a tap and take up his favorite bar knife to slice suds off a pour.
He was programmatically incapable of boredom, but he could see it from here. Smell it in the old dust wafting through the room in the back of the Royal Palace where he had been banished while people argued over djinns.
Hopefully, the android had escaped from St. Legier and was off having adventures that had been denied her over the last three thousand years. He hadn’t heard any news about her after she departed from the Imperial capital in her own ship, rather than return to Petron with Ainsley and Pops.
Pops.
There was a fascinating case study he hoped someone would undertake one of these days, while the man was still alive. Nakamura had not taken the news of the android’s departure nearly as badly as their relationship had suggested.
And Pops, as far as the Bartender knew, still thought Summer Ulfsson was human. Of course, it required serious scanners to tell otherwise. But Pops was almost as interesting as a renegade android.
StarFighter pilot. MotherShip Captain. Merchant. Naval Architect. All-around bad-ass.
Based on the state of affairs when the Bartender had separated from EASC Carthage, Yan Bedrov had been suggested as the greatest ship designer alive. Lady Moirrey was certainly a more inventive engineer, but she built smaller things.
But Pops had proven to be better than Bedrov, hard as that was to believe. And it was not just a case of the extra two decades the man had. No, he really was better.
The Lord of Tiki smiled to himself and brought the bar into being as a way of enjoying his cheer. The old beer posters. A tape of a rugby match held on Earth three thousand fifty-eight years ago. Not the last match ever between England and New Zealand, but the last such recording he was in possession of.
He supposed that it was a good thing that he was incapable of growing maudlin as he thought about everyone and everything he had lost. That was the fine edge, one step beneath Sentience where Carthage had left him.
The chamber’s outer door locks began to surrender. Technically, the Bartender was supposed to disappear from existence when the door opened, but the people beyond were all ones he knew. Ainsley was leading Torsten Wald and a group of security personnel who were all present in his files.
The Lord of Tiki turned the volume on the game down and regretted not having hands, so he could not start the tap on Wald’s favorite red ale and have a glass ready for the man when he arrived.
Ainsley finished the locks and opened the door. Rather than enter, she peeked in and looked around. One raised eyebrow and the tilt of her head served to convey a multitude of emotional data, better than nearly any human he could remember.
“You’ve got company,” she announced simply, letting Wald enter and closing the door behind the man.
They were alone.
Wald walked to an end chair at the bar and climbed up in it. The human was already carrying a bottle of beer and a mug, which he placed carefully onto the bar, where he proceeded to open the one and pour it into the other.
“Good,” the Bartender said. “A man should have a beer in a bar. It looks artificial and constrained otherwise.”
Wald grinned and shrugged. They had spent much time together over the last few years. The former Chief of Deputies to the Fribourg Emperor had a unique perspective on information that the Bartender would not be able to access any other way, as well as the training to ask truly interesting questions and the depth of knowledge to understand the answers.
“How can I help you, sir?” the Bartender asked.
“Are you familiar with the new design competition currently being waged by Yan and Pops?” Wald asked.
He proceeded to sip slowly at the beer as they talked.
“Jessica’s Survey Dreadnaught, yes,” he said. “Both have consulted me on various engineering aspects that represent advances in the state of the art over anything anybody else is currently building anywhere. Naval engineering being, by definition, a conservative art to anybody but those two. Or your average Corynthian pirate.”
He liked the way Wald grinned at that. The man had grown more relaxed over the time the Bartender had known Wald. Of course, that was coming down from the stress of Second St. Legier and the need to personally anchor an entire star empire of over eight hundred inhabited systems, at least until it could recover.
“I was talking to Uly about it,” Wald continued. “With the adoption of the Type-1-Pulse weapon designed by Moirrey, missiles become less effective as a strategic and tactical option. The newer Type-2-Pulse from Whughy threatens to do the same to StarFighters, as does the overall adoption of the Type-3-Extended beam and the Type-4 to replace Primaries.”
“Your logic holds,” he replied. Wald hadn’t asked a question yet, but the man would lay out a definitive background for any argument before moving forward, as always.
“I expect such changes to trigger another overall arms race,” Wald said. “Armored missiles. Archerfish versions. Moirrey has suggested adding a short-range JumpDrive to a larger one and letting it hop down on a target for surprise. Et cetera. StarFighters elsewhere have traditionally been mobile missile launchers, while on the perimeter of the galaxy they retain some aspect of dog-fighting capability, mostly because poverty limited the option to launch expensive missiles. Does this trigger an arms race in escort-class vessels over and above the new corvette designs?”
“It does,” the Bartender replied. “To survive, StarFighters must grow bigger and more resilient. This in turn limits their numbers. Missiles become more creative, but that requires an expensive logistics train to provide a commander options. Corvettes eventually give way to Corvette Destroyers as everything needs to get bigger.”
“Should we immediately move to armed GunShips of an Aquitaine design?” Wald asked. “Qin Lun, Galen’s Patrol Cruiser, is designed to wreak havoc on StarFighters and small ships. MotherShips either have to grow larger to compete in his new world or vanish quickly. Where are we in twenty years from today?”
The Bartender smiled.
“At the rate I’d allow, you could possibly be turning into a serious, regional competitor to Aquitaine or Fribourg.” He leaned both hands onto the bar, still a meters or so to the man’s left, so as to not be in his personal space, but making it more personal.
“The rate you’d allow?” Wald’s voice grew serious.
“I could design you a vessel right now that could easily annihilate the Heavy Drea
dnaught Vanguard and still not be much larger than Qin Lun, Torsten,” he let his voice develop menace. “Carthage wanted the galaxy to progress, but only as fast as the social fabric could handle. What happens if the Republic or the Empire are suddenly facing a new challenger from the edge of the galaxy?”
“Both would probably welcome us in the short term,” Torsten’s eyes seemed to suddenly focus on a spot light-years away. “At least as we stabilize a large, if sparsely populated region of lawlessness. Longer term, we probably become a threat to their allies that must be countered. There are not sufficient systems on the edge of the galaxy to claim, so we would have to go sideways or perhaps inward. Both present risk.”
“Indeed, sir,” he replied. “Especially as you and your mate will most likely not remain in place on Petron during that time. Nor will Bedrov and Barret. Your piratical offspring, David and his two children, Arnulf and Jessica Rodriguez, will inherit any changes I make now.”
“How long until Corynthe grows up?” Wald cut right to the heart of the matter. The very calculations that the Bartender had been unable to complete.
“Information insufficient,” he replied to one of the few people out there that would understand what that implied. “Even the entertainment and news channels are not enough.”
“But without StarFighter culture?” Wald asked, circling back. “Without piracy as we currently understand the topic?”
“Proper warships require formal organization well in advance of what three cousins in a junkyard like Bunala could do. And thank you for letting me see the last resting place of that rat bastard Kinnison.”
“You are most welcome,” Wald nodded. “I’m just glad Yan could take you down to personally touch the wreck, as it were.”
“In the distant past, armed merchantmen like Galleons sailed between the stars,” the Bartender continued.
He didn’t dare explain to Wald what Summer had told him about her past, as he appeared to not be part of Jessica Keller’s conspiracy with the android. But there were enough historical records, back to the founding of the Concord and earlier, as a result of that being’s successful efforts to save history.
“Galleons?” Wald was confused.
“Battleship-sized power systems, cruiser firepower, mega-freighter cargo bays and hull,” the Bartender explained. “At least the big ones. First-Rate Galleons. They generally went out of style after the Peace of 7466 that ended the war between New Berne, the Union Of Worlds, and Balustrade. The Concord war fleets relied mostly on purpose-built Sentient warships, with civilian stuff being run by humans.”
“Have you suggested to Bedrov and Pops that they build Jessica a Galleon?” Wald asked.
“I did,” he grinned. “But those two of course had to make it something else entirely.”
“Of course,” Wald chuckled. “But I would appreciate being able to study such a craft, in light of what might be the end of the StarFighter era. What’s the next advance in heavy weapon systems?”
“You will need to chat with Lady Moirrey on that topic, Torsten,” he said simply.
His own capabilities, back when he was Carthage, had been as far in advance of the current state of Primaries and Type-3 beams as those had been over spears and bows. He would like the woman known as Pint-sized to drive that particular conversation, at least as long as she lived.
Wald had finished his beer finally and sat for a moment in silent contemplation of a future that had probably seemed impossible just ten years ago, from what the Bartender had learned.
The man nodded companionably and rose, taking his empty glass and bottle with him as he withdrew.
“Thank you,” Wald said as he exited.
The Bartender nodded.
Automatically, the Lord of Tiki conjured a rag to wipe at the bar where Torsten’s mug had left a slowly-drying ring, but nothing happened. Unless he chose to suppress the image until it dried.
He really missed having hands.
CHAPTER IV
IN THE TWELFTH YEAR OF JESSICA KELLER, QUEEN OF THE PIRATES: FEBRUARY THE TENTH AT PETRON
IT HAD TURNED into a three-ring circus, but Jessica had expected that. Everyone involved had stepped up and generally behaved. Overhead, a small Aquitaine squadron worked impressively not to be overshadowed by a much-larger Imperial fleet. On the ground, the two sides generally played well together, extending the working relationships that had been established when everyone was part of her fleet.
Tom Provst wasn’t here, but his people had both the Grand Admiral and the Emperor looking over their shoulders regularly enough. Kigali had retired to civilian life. Most of her other Command Centurions were planning to in the near future but had been granted leave to come to Petron.
There had been many welcoming events and parties, friends she had not seen in a year, or a decade, depending. But today was reserved for a very special meeting.
It might look like an intimate lunch between old friends, but things had been whispered in various ears since the two fleets had arrived. Unsettling things.
Jessica had considered having this be a larger thing with more people, but that would make it more formal, and probably counter-productive. Instead, a private room in her palace, not all that far removed from her personal suite, or the place where this man was staying as a guest of the Crown.
Nils Kasum.
The years of retirement had been good to him, even as his hair had finally turned completely white. He still had that narrow build that he kept with regular exercise, and the powerful baritone voice that was imprinted on her psyche.
They were dressed as civilians, rather than in the old black and green. Or rather, they had both moved on. This wasn’t going to be a simple conversation. Nils seemed to appreciate that, and had matched her in gray today.
Grays. Diplomacy. The art of the unsaid, as well as the said. That was the phrase Nils had taught her. He and Tadej Horvat.
Desianna and Moirrey had been originally responsible for the design of the outfit she wore as Queen, although Vibol had executed today’s version as the single highest statement of his art that the man felt capable of achieving.
Which said everything that needed to be known.
Arnulf Rodriguez, the man she had replaced and avenged as King of the Pirates, had almost always preferred dark grays, so they had started there and worked outward.
Charcoal gray pants, so tight as to be stretched on, in case she needed to move into combat suddenly, as a Queen of the Pirates might. A modern replacement for the old, knee-high, black leather, armored combat boots she had first gotten at Bunala. Over her sports bra, a light gray pullover with a mock turtleneck collar. Atop that, a slate-gray jacket, in a shade midway between the shirt and the pants. It was longer than a bolero, but not much, just to the top of her hips. Functional for shipboard, even though her future wasn’t going to be on a flag deck much after this, but it had pockets inside and was still a useful waterproof shell she could wear on the ground on any sort of moderately unpleasant day.
And it fit perfectly, as one would expect with someone like Vibol making a statement.
On each wrist, a single band of color as wide as her fingers. It was a deep maroon, almost the color of the Malbec she had ordered for them from her private collection.
On her left breast, over her heart, a stylized logo of a beautiful woman with blue skin and four arms, holding a saber, a main-gauche, a severed head, and a planet, specifically Ian Zhao and Petron respectively, dating back to the establishment of her reign and the man she had been forced to kill if she wanted to make the galaxy a better place.
At each side of her collar, a single hexagon, solid and the size of a One Lev coin, reforged with gold from one of Arnulf’s favorite bracers.
Jessica’s hair had grown out, halfway down her back finally. She had it pulled back today into a simple tail to stay out of her way, although she tied it more forcefully in place when dancing with the fighting robot. The last foot or so still showed the brunette of her youth, b
ut the rest was a variety of shades of gray now, with a few white and a few darker.
As suited the mood.
Nicolai Aoiki, the man who had first become her personal chef aboard Auberon, had retired out to the fringes of the galaxy, like so many other of her old warriors, and found employment with a bunch of reformed pirates. Today’s lunch was special, and so Jessica and Nils were alone in a private dining room awaiting the man’s magic.
And sipping a truly excellent red.
“So,” Nils began, wine glass poised in one hand. “What would you like to pick my brain about that can’t be said in front of even your fiancé or Desianna?”
Jessica snorted under her breath. He had been her guardian angel for thirty years now. Probably understood her better than anyone. At least her mind. That strategic and tactical computer that Nils Kasum had helped forge and hone over the decades.
She considered deflecting the conversation some. Dissembling, at least a little, but this was Nils. He would see through it.
“Why have you not taken any role in Tad’s government?” she asked baldly, staring at his eyes for the first reaction, the first flicker.
There was something, but she was hard pressed to identify it before it was gone again.
“Is that an official question or a personal one?” he deflected her instead, which told her more than he was probably willing to admit to publicly.
“Do I need to distinguish them, Nils?”
He took another sip of the wine while he thought and then let go the most petite sigh.
“What does Jessica Keller want to do with the rest of her life, now that she has slain her two greatest enemies and secured her spot in all future histories of humanity?” Nils asked in a tone that somehow split the difference between expansive and evasive.
Jessica bit back her first response. Nils wouldn’t have asked so simple a question. They had talked about that very topic several times over the last decade. He knew how she felt. Where she wanted to go.
No, Nils would only ask if he thought there was an excellent chance that Jessica Keller would not be able to retire. Or would choose not to, which was somehow even worse.
