The announcer on the holo-cast continued. “The First Consul went on to remind every citizen to support the war effort by boycotting Corporate goods. Even when purchased on the black market, these products help to fund our enemy’s war machines.”
Brattain slipped her feet into a pair of thick, soft boots. They grew into a pair of armored leggings. Finally, she took the shoulder mantle and slid that over her head. It melded to her suit, spreading over her arms and torso.
In its inert form, the suit’s components had been a light tan color. But now, when active, the suit adopted a distinctive appearance like brown lacquered wood at the shoulders and legs, and reddish leather for the parts in between, with a pattern of chrysanthemum flowers running down the torso. There were no other adornments, save for her commander’s rank insignia at the collar.
It was an ancient Earth, Asian design. Hadn’t she heard that Captain Kane was something of a fan of history? Perhaps this was his idea.
Of course, the suit wasn’t actually wood or leather. It was all a carefully programmed illusion, a refraction trick of the carbon nanotubes that made up the suit.
Brattain would’ve preferred a design that was simpler and less obtrusive.
“Mood enhancer,” Brattain order.
The wall in front of her shimmered and a holographic logo appeared, followed by a menu of affirmation options.
“Colonial criminals,” the holo-cast announcer said, switching to another story. “As civil unrest continues to plague the Colony worlds, official sources indicate that militia leader Balthazar Washington may be behind the recent pirate attacks in the Wastelands. Despite these incidents, Senator Hela Shantil has continued to argue for lifting the sanctions on the Far Colonies…”
Brattain was barely listening. She whispered, “Confidence.”
But the system picked it up. A tight beam of light flashed from the wall into her eyes.
“I am confident of my abilities,” said the system’s synthesized voice.
Somewhere deep in her mind, the affirmation would take root in her neural patterns and adjust her thinking accordingly… According to the manufacturer, at least. She felt a little ashamed at using neural programmers. She came from a proud military family and she was a solid citizen with a good Navy career.
Well, slightly checkered now.
Depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress… A Republic officer was supposed to be beyond such things, genetically modified before birth to avoid mental frailties.
A second flash: “I love a challenge.”
“I love a challenge,” Brattain echoed, without enthusiasm. She straightened her posture, took a deep breath, turned and strode out of the door, the room reverting to cold silence as soon as she exited.
2
Brattain had one of the outer seats on the space elevator. Looking down, she watched as the buildings and forest and rivers of Auris receded beneath the cover of clouds. The clouds themselves seemed to lose their distinct shape as her transport pod rose higher, becoming a mist of atmosphere over the planet, until the curve of the horizon was easily visible.
There were a few other people with her in the hemispherical transport pod which rode up the ten-meter-thick cable of woven carbon nanotubes. The space elevator—a “beanstalk” in the common slang—was rooted deep into the earth of the planet below. The cable stretched up over thirty-thousand kilometers into geostationary orbit, where it terminated at a Republic Navy docking platform.
Up there, Brattain’s new ship was waiting for her. The ascent would only take about an hour; finely tuned gravity spikes in the transport pod compensated for acceleration and prevented it from wobbling excessively on the cable as it climbed.
Brattain remembered the first time she’d ridden up the beanstalk like this. It was on Davidia, and it had been a much older space elevator that had taken five or six hours to reach orbit.
She’d accompanied her father to get a tour of his ship and see him off on his latest mission. She could only have been about what… seven or eight?
She remembered her fear as that elevator began to climb impossibly high. And then, when the fear broke, the sheer exhilaration of feeling like she was flying. Freed from gravity, free enough that she thought she might soar between stars herself without a starship…
As the stars appeared, twinkling through the thinning atmosphere, she felt her spirits lift a little even now. She gazed out the broad window at the receding green-blue of the planet below and the diamond-studded velvet of space, which now was emerging into her view.
Nearby, on a column to her right, a holographic poster glowed. It was a harsh bionic face with lifeless eyes, tubes and pumps where the jaw should’ve been.
DON’T LET THE FUTURE LOOK LIKE THIS, it said. HAIL THE REPUBLIC. Every few seconds it faded to become the Republic’s eagle symbol, gleaming and sterling. BUY REPUBLICAN, it said underneath.
Most of the others on the elevator seemed to be from the same ship. They all wore the same armor-styled suits: red with a metallic sheen, as if imitating the uniforms of some ancient army.
Greece, she thought. Or maybe Rome.
Maybe it was just her odd mood, but she reflected on the sameness of their appearance, all physically perfect, not one over thirty—in visual years, as they said. Although it was possible, of course, that some could have been quite a bit older, and just have very good gene therapists and nanosurgeons.
But, still, they were mostly pale, tall, genetically homogenized humans—even though their skin, hair and eye colors were wildly varied. A few even had cat eyes or furred ears like some sort of beast—the latest emerging trend. Most of them had hair in bright primary colors.
“I just got the epicanthals done,” said one nearby officer. “The make my eyes look happier, I think.”
“Yeah, my ears finally grew in,” said one of the young women, touching her furred, pointed ears. “I noticed the fur’s a real turn-on.”
Brattain tried to ignore them.
Had the officers in the fleet always been so superficial and status-conscious? It seemed like when she was younger—in her father’s heyday—they’d all been men and women full with the spirit of patriotism and self-sacrifice, yearning to use their talents to help the Republic.
But then, that had probably been the viewpoint of a young, idealistic girl who hadn’t had the chance to experience that kind of life day in and day out, as her father had.
In a universe where soldiers, sailors and spacemen were celebrities and often acted and carried themselves accordingly, perhaps the obsession over appearance made sense. After all, many of them sought cameras and public attention—on duty, off duty, and even in the bedroom.
Brattain was much more… private. Perhaps that was another way in which she was a failure, repressive and regressive…
The elevator transport pod continued upward with a constant hum of electromagnetic energy.
Brattain could feel a slight change in the air, a static rushing over her. She looked down to see a larger freight pod on the opposite side of the beanstalk, speeding up past them, accelerating at a rate faster than that which would’ve been comfortable for humans.
Watching it, she was distracted for a moment. She turned back and there was a tall, handsome man with long blue hair standing in front of her, leering down at her where she sat. He had delicate features and high cheekbones, the androgynous look which was still fairly popular nowadays.
“Hey, nice hair,” he said. “I like the subtle orange shades and all of those little dark spots on your face. And your smaller breasts, well… I have something of a naturalistic fetish, if you’ll forgive me.”
“Thank you,” Brattain mouthed silently, looking away embarrassed and slightly annoyed.
This was not what she wanted at the moment.
“But, hey,” he continued, “if you’re going to be in port long, maybe we could get together for sex. I just got a phallic enhancement I want to test out, make sure all of the new features are functional.
I have some cute friends, too. You ever have two up you at once?”
She shot him a warning look and closed her eyes tightly, just wishing to be left alone.
“What?” he responded. “Fine… Whatever. Damn provincials.”
She could hear him stepping away from her, and she was happy that he had vacated her general area.
Outside of the transport pod, the blackness of space beckoned, twinkling with stars. Brattain looked up, and now she could see the latticework of the docking platform, the alloys glittering in the light from the nearby suns, although it was still several thousand miles above her.
Two more crew members in their red armor walked by, engaged in conversation.
“Those Colonists,” said a young female lieutenant, “all they do is sit on their farms and whine. Bitch about property rights and how they hate taxation. One day they’ll see how bad things can get. Maybe we leave them alone for a month or two, let the Corpies sweep in. They’ll be more than happy to join proper society after that.”
“Leave them alone?” said her male companion. “Hey, I’m all for teaching them a lesson, but please don’t let it stop me from getting fresh fruit. I’d die if I was stuck with all of that hydroponic garbage. There is something to be said for the soil out there, you know?”
There was a sudden beeping from Brattain’s suit. A pale yellow rectangle glowed rhythmically on her cuff.
She touched it, and a translucent hologram appeared in the air in front of her, relayed by the transport pod’s own projectors.
The man who appeared was tall and square-jawed, with piercing blue eyes and perfectly curled black hair. He could have been a poster boy for the Republic, the very definition of a traditionally attractive male.
He, Wesley Fitzgerald, was Brattain’s betrothed, her fiancé.
There had once been tenderness between them, but now his face looked pained. His eyes darted about as if not wanting to look directly at her even through the medium of the holoprojection.
His uniform was red, in the ancient armor style like the others on the pod.
Of course, she thought, his uniform, the others… The Mars, the flagship. They’re all from the Mars.
My mind must be slipping. I should’ve realized that long ago.
“Hi, Liz,” Wesley said from the projection.
“Wesley?” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
I just wanted to talk, she thought, although she didn’t tell him that out loud. I thought it might’ve helped.
“I know,” he said, “I’m sorry, but the flagship is a tremendous responsibility.”
“So you got the Mars, after all,” she said. “I know you said it was almost a certainty, but you must be very happy. Congratulations.
“Thanks,” Wesley said. “I think somebody in Fleet Command likes me. Things are starting to happen for me, just like I’ve always wanted, like I’ve planned. And that’s why I should do this now… Just to be pragmatic, I’m afraid.
“What do you mean?” Brattain asked, although, in the pit of her stomach, she already knew what he was going to say.
So the words he spoke merely seemed like babble. The tone and the dismissive look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve had our betrothal dissolved. Things have changed between us. Not just personally, but socially. I’m getting offers from some very well-connected families now, and I’ve got to do what’s best for my career.”
Brattain noticed with embarrassment that some of the other officers in the transport pod were now looking at her and Wesley’s discussion, probably even recording the intimate personal crisis. The story would be all over the news ‘casts before she even got to her ship.
Brattain felt tears welling up in her eyes—but she forced herself to maintain a cool exterior. Still, she felt her blood pulsing, her ears and cheeks burning hot with anger.
She’d thought that their betrothal was something more than a custom, contract or social ritual. Even if their relationship hadn’t been as passionate as some, she’d thought—or at least hoped—that on some level he understood her.
That clearly wasn’t the case now. She wished she had something to throw back at him, something to spite him, but there was very little.
“I’m still XO,” she told him. “I have a new commission.”
He sighed. “Of a ship that was nearly decommissioned for salvage. Look. I’m not saying you were wrong to take it. After the Xerxes engagement, with what happened with the Juno, I know the choices were pretty slim. Anyway, I’ve got to go now, but I hope that things work out for you, okay? I’ll have my family’s agent contact you to finalize the arrangements, but it’s probably best if you don’t contact me directly after this. Anyway… Good luck.”
Brattain turned away as Wesley’s image faded.
She’d been expecting this announcement from him since the Xerxes engagement… Dreading it, but expecting it all the same. She’d been afraid that when it came that she would break down. She wasn’t one for crying, but Wesley had been one of the biggest emotional investments she had made in her life.
But now that he’d declared his intentions, she just felt heavy, cold and dead, as if she was some corporate cyborg with half her brain replaced by synthetic neurons.
Good, she thought. Good. I don’t want to feel anything right now.
I really don’t.
Hopefully, the new crew would be professional. The other officers would let he do her job.
I need to do my job. I need to push on.
All I can do.
Stay focused…
Of course, Captain Kane had never made the crew dossier or assignments available to her, which she thought odd. But she’d get to know them soon, know them and work with them on in a strictly professional capacity.
She’d had friends on the Juno. She’d opened up to Wesley, confided in him.
All mistakes.
All liabilities.
She didn’t want any more emotional entanglements like that complicating her life.
3
Brattain emerged from the transport pod, entering the central hub of the orbiting docking platform. The place was busy with people striding and running everywhere, small ground cars weaving their way in between them.
There was a bank of transport pod entrances set into the one wall. The doors slid open and shut as passengers entered and exited the small pods, which would take them through conduits to the various docks on the platform itself.
Brattain tapped the cuff of her suit: “Request intrastation transport to RCS Musashi.”
“RCS Musashi is not currently docked,” a computer voice responded.
“What do you mean ‘not currently docked?’ Brattain asked. “Where is it?”
“Maintaining position 1 AU from planet Auris,” the voice said, and spewed out a string of coordinates.
“They haven’t arrived?” Brattain asked.
“Negative,” said the voice. “Resupply is already complete. RCS Musashi departed spacedock 0400 hours local time.”
Well, Brattain thought, that would be the greatest insult, wouldn’t it—if my new ship left without me?
But then the voice added, “Shuttle dock H52 on standby. Shuttle Otsu assigned to transport Commander Lisette Brattain to RCS Musashi.”
Oh, Brattain thought, so I do have a ride.
The door hissed open, and she eased herself into a narrow, one-person transport pod. The door closed with a hiss and the pod hummed to life, pushing her back into the cushioned wall with the gentle force of acceleration.
Thirty seconds later, the door slid open again.
H52 was a small docking bay. The antechamber was unoccupied, the seats and couch here vacant.
Through the observation window, Brattain could see a small Republic shuttle. It was an older make, practically antique, a gray boxy thing about twenty meters long with stubby wings and tail; a design that made the barest concessions for atmospher
ic flight.
At least I don’t have to go down into atmosphere in that, she thought. I just hope it’s spaceworthy.
As she approached the door to the docking tube, the local computer systems analyzed her biosignature, and automatically opened the door for her. The actual tube was only about three meters long, and she passed through it into the hatch of the shuttle itself, entering the ten-seater passenger compartment.
The ship was dimly lit inside. Some kind of music, fast and harsh, was blaring loudly over the speakers. It instantly grated on Brattain’s nerves; it sounded like the type of music that someone would take recreational stims and have orgies to.
Okay, Brattain thought, this I can't take right now.
The pilot turned in her seat as Brattain entered.
“Hey! Finally! I was about to—” She turned and cocked her head at Brattain, then scanned her eyes up and down Brattain’s body, visibly leering at her.
The pilot was a small, petite woman—which was not surprising. Space pilots being small in build was a tradition going back to the days when mass and g-force tolerance mattered much more than they did with current technologies.
Her cobalt blue hair wasn’t very surprising either, considering the current fashion. She wore it in a bob with forelocks dangling over her eyes. That definitely wasn’t regulation. There was some sort of nano-tattoo over her right eye, an interlocked spinning series of targeting reticules… making it seem as if she was preparing to fire at Brattain as she looked at her. Her pert lips were deep black.
She wore the bottom portion of a nanosuit, covering her from the waist down, the design in the same Asian style as Brattain’s own. But her upper body was clad only in a dark leather jacket with a sheepskin collar: the clichéd traditional wear of badass attitudinal pilots since the beginning of time.
Under the jacket, her chest was naked. Brattain got a glimpse of her small breasts as she leaned forward. Between them, and running down to her belly, were animated tattoos in an old Asian style depicting what looked like tigers in battle.
Space Cruiser Musashi: a space opera novel Page 3
