by Mark Wandrey
“Bad,” she said and pulled a tablet from her holster. It took her a moment to find the correct files on Concordian law. “It will take a while to see if there’s any precedent. After so many hundreds of thousand years of history, I’m sure it’s there.”
“Give me an idea?”
“It’s an act of war, at the least.”
“We’re protected by the Tog.”
“To some degree, yes. We know the Rasa are small players, or they would’ve gotten serious with the Tog after my incident. For the same reasons we can also assume that, though they work for the T’Chillen, they’re not formally allied. The beamcasters were T’Chillen property, but the snakes never made a claim against the Tog. I guess; I’m not sure. I need to ask Ted and Pip, they’re more up to speed on Concordian Law than I am.”
“Okay, I can’t ask for more at this point. Get me what you can as soon as possible so I can brief the council.”
Minu looked around at the devolved chaos of the meeting and wondered what would come of it. If the Rasa attacked them on Bellatrix, how would they defend themselves? The Chosen couldn’t stand side by side in solidarity. We need soldiers, she said to herself.
* * *
June 30th, 518 AE
War Council, Grand Concordian Conclave, Concordia Capital World of Nexus
A week had passed since the slaughter of their base on GAX8773. Var’at stepped through a portal onto the planet Nexus. The Spire was more magnificent than he’d expected, reaching more than two kilometers above his head. Every hundred meters along the wall, portals rested on their own balconies, many working around the clock carrying dignitaries and visitors to all the worlds of the Concordia. As a scout, Var’at had seen an amazing number of species. There were many times that number here. The hollow central shaft of the spire was a massive jump chute, where thousands of hoverfields propelled beings up and down according to their wishes. The high commander led him to a railing, where he walked through a gate and fell from sight. Had he stepped out on the other side, he would have gone up instead of down. Var’at stepped off behind the high commander.
Scouts learned not to trust hoverfields on frontier worlds. There was no way of knowing how many centuries or eons they’d sat unused, their circuitry decaying. Swarms of bots working around the clock meticulously maintained the machines on Nexus. It was one planet in the galaxy where everything always worked. Consequently, it was a very popular tourist spot.
Level after level zoomed past. Var’at watched as a massive Targ stepped off, matching his fall. The creature turned its reptilian head as far as it could, allowing one of its six eyes to look at him. It nodded almost imperceptibly, and Var’at returned the gesture. Reptiles stuck together. As the next level approached, the Targ stuck a foot out. The hoverfield sensed the motion and brought the being in for a landing.
Var’at and his high commander reached the bottom floor and quickly headed for an exit. Before leaving their home, they’d been told a vehicle would be waiting for them. The commander used his communicator to home in on it, and a moment later a luxurious aerocar landed, its doors sliding open. They climbed aboard, and it instantly jumped into the air. There was no conversation in the car; both males were silent, occupied with their own thoughts. Var’at wondered if the commander was as nervous as he was. They’d pulled a great many strings to get this meeting. Waiting a hundred years for a sub council of the great unified council to hear a case was not unheard of. Because of the natural bickering of the many species within the Concordia, the War Council was one of the hardest to obtain an audience with. It had only been a week, and they were here.
“Will the nest father be here, as well?”
The supreme commander snapped his jaws negatively. “This is not something he would dirty his claws with. It is entrusted to us.”
“And should we fail to convince the council?”
“Then they will feed us to the hatchlings, and more competent diplomats will make another attempt.”
“I am not a diplomat,” Var’at pointed out, not that it would matter. He regretted opening his muzzle back on the home planet.
“Neither am I, but this really isn’t a diplomatic situation. War is for warriors. Borders, trade, and social issues are for diplomats.” Var’at was about to complain about the injustice when the car banked toward a landing. He only had a moment to see the landing pads circling the conical War Ministry spire before the car landed. Display boards flashed messages in many scripts, mostly advising arrivals to clear the pads quickly. As the door opened, their translator pendants picked up a radio message and relayed the information.
“Please clear the landing pad area as quickly as possible; traffic must flow smoothly. Aquatic assistance is only available on pads nine through eleven. Exotic breathers must be confined to—” As they stepped inside, the short-range transmitter no longer reached them. The high commander approached an interactive display and entered their information. Var’at read the message as it appeared.
“Rasa envoy party,” it read. It displayed an appointment scheduled to begin in less than an hour. “Vendetta Petition against lower species Humans. Representation in absentia.”
“The humans are not here to defend themselves,” the high commander hissed in delight. “This will be easy.”
They followed the directions the computer provided and descended to a lower level of the spire. Deadly-looking centipede-bots searched them while a pair of crab-bots with beamcasters mounted on their carapaces flanked them. Var’at tried not to jump as a crab-bot trained the barrel of one on him. The memory of his encounter with the human Chosen was still fresh in his mind. Once they were scanned and cleared, they were ushered into a waiting area with other delegations.
Var’at spent the time trying to recognize and categorize each species. It wasn’t easy. They were all lower-order species, like the Rasa, though they must have been lower still, because he recognized none of them. At the appointed time, the room’s speakers boomed. “Rasa delegation, you may enter.” They hopped up and skittered down the hall.
At the end of the hall, they paused. A display indicated they were normalizing the atmosphere for them. Fully ninety percent of the Concordian species were oxygen breathers, so Var’at wondered what strange beings had just vacated the council chamber. The doors slid open, and they could see water dripping from the walls and ceilings into drains. That answered his question; the species before them had been aquatic.
“Enter,” their pendants said, and they moved forward as another door opened. They were on the bottom level of a low amphitheater. Around them, rows of seats for minor dignitaries and observers rose upwards. Directly in front of the Rasa delegation were three boxes, each holding a single being and their advisors. These were the actual councilors. Var’at looked up nervously to see what species sat before them. The responsibility rotated, and who it would be that day was unknown until the council sat.
To the left was a Gulla, a frog-like species known for their mechanical prowess and general lack of interest in the day-to-day affairs of the Concordia. Their indifference was good for the Rasa cause. On the right was one of the rare insectoid species. The Gojo looked like a pile of broken tree branches and twigs. Var’at knew little to nothing about them. In the center was the president in charge of the hearing, and they’d hit the jackpot. A pair of T’Chillen sat there, their massive forms wrapped around a padded column installed for their comfort. Tiny, serpentine arms worked on the tablet the president held, and a pair of forked tongues occasionally slipped out of their wide mouths to test the air. Their black on black eyes, sitting atop retractable stalks, swiveled when Var’at and his commander entered. He and the high commander effected bows to each of the councilors, holding them extra-long for the T’Chillen. Each species returned the bow, though not nearly as deeply.
“We of the Rasa have been wronged, and we demand Vendetta!” cried the high commander, as protocol dictated.
“Explain your case,” the T’Chillen hissed.
Var’at waited as the high commander laid out their claim to vendetta. It took half their allotted time before the council. When he finished, the T’Chillen spoke. “You were squatting on GAX8773,” it hissed.
“We have not attempted to deny this fact.”
“I should say not,” the Gulla spoke, bubbles popping from its gill slits. “Squatting is a very serious violation.”
“And we would face that violation if justly accused,” Var’at hissed angrily. “Instead, the humans murdered our people without sanction!” The high commander placed his claws on Var’at’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough to penetrate his skin. It was as public a display of disapproval as he would allow.
“We acknowledge this was a non-sanctioned attack,” the Gojo spoke through its translator, sounding like leaves rustling under moss, “but your claim of vendetta is not strongly supported.”
“We have been harassed by these humans for months,” the high commander complained. For the first time, worry was evident in his hissing plea.
“The council is aware of your little conflict with the human bugs,” the T’Chillen said, cutting off any further protests from the high commander and earning a look of annoyance from the Gulla, “and we find them insignificant.” Var’at braced himself for the worst. “However, the human wards of the Tog need to be put in their place. The Tog’s control of their clients is less than adequate.” The T’Chillen conferred with the other two council members for a moment before continuing. “You are granted vendetta. Duration is not to exceed five standard days, scope does not extend to non-involved species or worlds. The Tog, allies of the Tog, and associates of the humans are off limits. All hostilities will cease precisely five days after the beginning of vendetta. The starting date must be transmitted to this council no later than two days from this moment.”
The T’Chillen stabbed at its computer and gestured toward the chamber doors that were now opening. The high commander turned to leave via the door opposite the one they’d entered though. “Honored Councilor?” Var’at spoke. The T’Chillen seemed surprised that he was still there, then nodded for him to proceed. “What defense did the humans offer?”
“You have your desire fulfilled, why does it concern you?”
The High Commander watched Var’at with a concerned eye. “Call it curiosity about our adversary.”
“Understandable,” the T’Chillen hissed. “They have not been called to testify. The Tog elected not to inform them of your claim.”
* * * * *
Chapter 2
Julast 9th, 518 AE
Science Branch, Chosen Headquarters, Steven’s Pass
For two weeks Minu dedicated as much time as she could spare to getting Dram the answers he wanted. The lack of data available through the Tog network and her workload didn’t make it easy. Twice, her team believed they’d found a way around the computer problem. They made prototypes and took them to the HERT, but both times the results were less than favorable. One weapon failed to operate properly as the computer pressed into service overloaded and kept shutting down. The other caused a catastrophic overload in the plasma channel, blowing the weapon and the unlucky crab-bot holding it into smoking debris. Minu had never been happier about Pip’s preoccupation with safety than she was when that rifle exploded. Gregg or Aaron could be the ones scattered all over the floor instead of the crab-bot.
The horribly-failed test helped Jasmine understand how important it was to have the correct part. Jasmine pushed Minu harder every day. “There simply must be a way to dumb it down so it will use simpler computers,” she insisted more than once. “We have access to hundreds of different models.”
“You must understand the nature of this weapon,” Minu explained in a meeting. “The computer is the brain of the weapon. This is much more of a finesse weapon than a ballistic firearm, or even a beamcaster. The plasma doesn’t want to go in a straight line. It’s nothing more than electricity in its purest form. It will discharge into the nearest high-potential ground it can find, including the operator. The laser burns an ionized negative channel, forcing the plasma to follow a set course. In addition the laser acts as a penetrating charge of sorts, creating a hole in basic types of armors to increase the effectiveness of the plasma charge. We don’t use much plasma, and without the laser giving it somewhere to work, it would splash ineffectively against most Concordian-made body armor.”
“It would still do some damage, right?”
“On some species, sure. Against a species like the Rasa, or the T’Chillen, or a Mok-Tok? No. You’d probably just piss them off. The computer controls the scanner in the barrel, the laser, and all its functions, including attenuation, sighting, scanning, and plasma discharge timing and intensity.”
“It doesn’t sound that complicated,” Jasmine said offhandedly.
“You try it.”
“Don’t be flippant.”
“You’re being patronizing. Look at the detailed write-up on the shock rifle. The laser charges and fires a preliminary sighting beam which the rifleman uses to aim. The laser then sends out a probing beam of about a hundred watts. It burns a tiny amount of the target, like a mass spectrometer, that tells the sensor about the target’s composition. Once the computer decides which firing protocol to use, the laser discharges at full power. Depending on the target composition, the beam holds its intensity until it penetrates the target’s hide or armor. Once done, the beam collimator creates a hole channel, an opening down the beam. This is a negatively-charged passage for the plasma, kind of like a magnet. Finally, it fires the plasma charge into the channel, and the computer controls the intensity depending on the composition of the target.”
“Okay, why can’t the operator do all of that?”
“Because it takes place in zero point zero two five seconds.” Jasmine’s jaw dropped, and Minu knew she’d never bothered to fully read any of the technical write-ups. “You can automate some of these functions or file the edges off to create a one-size-fits-all approach, but then you effectively neutralize any advantage the weapon has. The operator would have to shoot something. If the shot doesn’t penetrate, he’d have to up the laser holing intensity and fire again. Then, if the plasma charge isn’t enough to be lethal, he’d have to increase that. Surely you can see the danger in having a rifleman make all these adjustments while something is shooting him? Where the beamcaster is a sledgehammer, the shock rifle is a carving knife.”
Jasmine finally understood, at least enough to back off on her demands for results. Minu returned to the lab and flopped into a chair. Pip stood in front of the interactive wall display, moving things with hand gestures and mumbling to himself. “How long has he been like that?”
“All morning,” Mandi said. She was dissecting a pile of computers and running tests on them. At the other end of the lab, Alijah and Terry were running simulations to see how the barrel design would hold up to extended plasma charge exposure. Minu wanted to talk to Pip, but he continued to mumble, so she got up, retrieved a cup of coffee, then went to figure out what he was doing.
“What are you up to?” she asked, blowing on her drink.
“Trying to flowchart the computer process to see if we can trim it down.”
“Hmm,” she said and took a sip while examining the board. There was the rifle, blown up and exploded. Individual parts didn’t have labels, but groups of parts representing functions did. An icon on the bottom represented the computer, and Pip had drawn a line from it to a large box, about one-third the size of the board, filled with flowchart symbols. “What exactly are you hoping for?” Pip grunted in annoyance, and she put a hand on his arm. “Maybe I can help.”
He sighed and paid her some attention. “Maybe you can.” She didn’t know if he was humoring her or being genuine. “This is the computer’s program in simplified form. I’ve broken down all the functions and sub-functions to create a step process chart. You can see how some processes interact with others and what systems they work with.”
“You’ve created a real monster,” he admitted. “I think I can come up with a way to use four energy-process control computers in sequence.”
“I thought we tried something similar yesterday. They still haven’t found all the parts of that crab-bot.”
“The difference is that I’m going to dedicate a section of commands to each of the four computers, and only have them talk to each other when functions overlap.”
“That sounds promising. How long do you think you’ll need to design the architecture and program the computers?”
“Once I work out the first one, we can duplicate the programming and bulk load them five or six at a time. The wiring might take an hour or so, per weapon.”
“That’s not bad! How long before you’ll have the first one ready?”
“About six months.”
“What?!”
Pip shrugged and looked helpless. “I said it might work; I didn’t say it was easy.” He stepped over to his perpetually-neat work area and retrieved a cylindrical metal thing that reminded Minu of a big steel aspirin capsule. It was eight centimeters long and half that around. “This is the computer I’m using.”
“It’s smaller than the ones from yesterday,” she observed.
“Yes. By using four, each one doesn’t have to be as powerful. We have thousands of these in one of the warehouses. They’re from a junk pile somewhere, and we use them for everything from running tractors to radars on dirigibles. It has one terabyte of memory and a four-twenty gigahertz processor. The problem is, that isn’t very fast.”
