CHAPTER 29
“Challenge fleet, go ready.”
“Await command.”
“Demon fleet, go ready.”
“Await command.”
“Dream Nine fleet, go ready.”
“Await command.”
“Preston fleet, go ready.”
“Await command.”
Admiral Crane sat quietly for a moment. “Don't mean to disturb you, Lige, but do you think your fleet will be ready any time soon?”
“Raven fleet, go ready.”
Admiral Crane smirked, “Lige, I have work to do. I know you specifically requested not to be on this mission. I will grant your request to the best of my ability. Keep your fleet back out of the way. Perhaps we can use your help recovering salvage after the battle is done.”
Lige could here laughter on Crane's bridge. “I assure you my fleet will be out of the way, Admiral Crane.”
“All fleets go on seven. On my mark,” Crane commanded.
The prime ships slowly floated forward and a light show rivaling the Unity Day celebration occurred as hundreds of Kellion Cannons fired together. The navcomps performed their function and all of Crane’s fleets, save Lige’s, blinked to a point galaxies away. Crane’s fleets appeared near Naanac like a dark wave over the horizon. Lige’s fleet appeared at Therhasa 7, location of outpost city Aston.
Wolf Plume sat at the helm of a one hundred sixty ton outrider ship, pleased that Wovoka had not insisted on his service as a liaison immediately. He watched in awe as more prime ships than he had seen in one location snapped into view. He gave the order and six Jet Tiger fighters arced out of his outrider ship, bolting toward the chunnel entrance. An incoming message played over his comp set.
“AmerIndian Confederacy fleet, I, Admiral Crane of the UDA Navy, declare your ships to be in overt violation of UDA periphery settlement laws. We overwhelmingly outnumber your ships. Offer your surrender or we will open fire in twenty seconds.”
On twenty-four lodge ships thousands of tribals hurried to battle stations. A line of AC deflector ships arced forward.
Wolf Plume finger tapped and opened a link to Admiral Crane's bridge. “For the sake of your men I beg you to turn back. Please turn away.”
Craned laughed. “You should be begging for your life, fool. Main guns, fire at will.”
Rain fell in torrents down the long shafts created by the block buildings. Even eighty decks below the top of UDA outpost city Aston, flashes of lightning cast long shadows. Lige walked close to the buildings, staying away from the rain the wind blew toward him. Jaret shadowed Lige closely. Both men wore unassuming garb. Dark grey overcoats with enough wear that they did not look out of place in this area.
Oblivion was what the locals called it.
Six full levels given decades ago to the city's human waste. Sation was a powerful force in Aston. A thousand immigrants arrived on the landing pads of outpost city Aston everyday. Sation, virtual reality at its most addictive and deadly, killed many of these new comers, however. Sation was now entering its fifth decade in circulation and surpassed designer drugs as the choice entertainment of the damned.
Sation was a video/audio system that sent its feed directly to the brain. The user saw and felt everything the original recorder felt. Touch, smell, sight, sound, taste. Sation junkies swore even emotions were felt as strong and clear as the original recorder felt them. A person had to have a small receiver port implanted in his or her skull to use the discs. Powerful antibiotic gels controlled bleeding and insured the port remained clean. The user could receive feed within three days of receiving the implant (which sold for fifty creds).
Recording implants were incredibly expensive at a million creds or more to create standard recordings and five million up for professional quality. If a sation user stayed with the basic rental downloads of roller coaster rides, sail boat afternoons and birthday parties then sation could be enjoyed at leisure. However, supply of sation recordings of sex, crime and an array of dangerous miscellaneous material grew each year, faster than the addiction rate.
Crime recordings were popular and murder recordings were seeing a comeback with young and old alike. Triax, the megacorp controlling sixty percent of the sation market had been careful to make sure each sation disc was programmed for one use only. Doubles and triples, sticks that allowed two or three plays were not uncommon due to sales promotions by the industry. Limitless rerun discs were valued in the thousands of creds and were illegal. An industry of black market rerun discs was burgeoning. Nothing killed sation addicts faster than rerun discs.
Lige and Jaret approached the center of Oblivion. Withered husks, former husbands and daughters and taxpayers, shuffled past. Most could tell Jaret and Lige were not one of them. Lige and Jaret walked with their heads level, not with their eyes down or averted. But that did not mean Lige and Jaret were out of place. Predators, strange seekers, organ hunters and worse often visited Oblivion.
One of the skeletons shambled up to Jaret. “Disc trade. Disc trade.” He coughed and stared at his bloody phlegm spackling the street.
While sation did nothing to actually physically damage the body or brain, sation junkies neglected food in its pursuit. The man pulled himself away from the phlegm and stared at Jaret anxiously waiting for his answer. Lige stepped forward and produced a sation disc. In the dim light the junkie recognized the silver hue. “A tri-tri-tri-tri-”
Lige smiled. “A triple, my good man. Yours if you tell me what I need to know.”
The skeleton nodded his head continuously. He would tell Lige anything, anything at all. “I am looking for a man, older, in his fifties. Long grey hair that he keeps tucked under a baseball cap. He goes by ‘Walden’.”
The skeleton twitched and appeared to be straining to think. “Oh, yes, yes, yes. I know him. He, he, he, he, he, “ The thin man broke into uncontrolled laughter. His eyes never left the sation disc.
Lige glanced at Jaret. Both of them smelled the skeleton's nervousness. Jaret moved like a cobra and was standing over the junkie with a pistol pressed hard against his lips.
Lige spoke softly. “If you are lying I want you to tell me now. If I think for even a moment you are not telling me the truth my assistant will put a laser through you skull and we will find another sation enthusiast to bargain with. Do you know the man I described?”
The junkie was still and quiet. He moved his head slightly. “No.”
“It was wise of you to tell the truth.” Jaret released the man.
“I, I, I, I, I, I know who would know him.”
Lige arched an eyebrow.
The junkie spoke quickly, “Gordon. Gordon the Scribbler would know. He knows everyone here.”
“Who is Gordon the Scribbler?”
“He is an, an, an, an, an, artist. Beauty in Oblivion. His art is the only beauty in Oblivion.”
“Take us to him,” Lige said.
The junkie scrambled to his feet. He lurched from a powerful rack that nearly bent him over. When the shake was done his hand shot out and he hissed desperately. “The triple.”
Lige handed the sation disc to Jaret. “After I have spoken with Gordon the Scribbler, it will be yours. Let's go.”
The junkie tried to turn, to lead them, but his body shook again. He fell to his knees. Jaret could tell the junkie was in the last stages of the addiction. He probably had not eaten in days and yet all he craved was sation. Jaret bent and slotted the disc into the junkie’s port and waited for him to finish experiencing it. With considerable effort the junkie pulled himself to his feet when it was done and thanked Lige. He led them.
The two followed his bony frame along the refuse-littered streets. Few of the city lights remained operative. Jaret and Lige were careful stepping over various hunks of trash; autocab parts, and at one point, what appeared to be a corpse. The junkie stopped them and advised, “Hold your shank, this is cannibal territory.”
Six blocks deeper into Oblivion's center
they came to the entrance of what appeared to have once been a movie theater. The Junkie led them through an abandoned lobby and pushed against a door at the far end. At its opening, bright neon patches of light escaped. They entered the brightly lit room.
The room held no furniture, just large racks of black lights pointed at the walls. There were perhaps forty people in the room. Most were gathered in groups of six or seven around large pots of stew. They dipped bread in the stew and ate hungrily. All appeared to be sation addicts like the skeleton, most in slightly better condition. One did not appear to be a junkie. A broad shouldered man turned away from a painting. He turned off his paint gun, set it down and approached the three.
“Welcome, friends, to the Shrine of Vishnu's Lion. Good to see you again, Poitra.” The man was young; twenty-five, no older. Jaret noticed he wore paint-splattered overalls, a shirt and a holster slung by a loose belt around his waist. A Nixto Lance, an expensive laser pistol favored by quick draw artists, filled the holster. Jaret was not sure if the weapon was a boastful choice or if the young man was actually proficient with. The belt was rigged and slung at the correct angle.
“Who are your friends?” the young man asked the junkie skeleton.
“Th-th-th-th-”
Lige interrupted, “I am Admiral Gavon Lige and this is my agent, Jaret Tucker.”
The young man paused and extended his hand.
“I am Gordon, Guru of Vishnu's Lion. This is the Shrine I man. You are welcome to partake of dinner with us.”
“We are here to find a man. Older, perhaps fifty, long grey hair that he keeps tucked under a baseball cap. He goes by the name ‘Walden’. Do you know him?”
Gordon answered, “Yes.”
Lige waited for Gordon to add more but he did not. “Where might I find him?”
“Why are you looking for him?”
Lige smiled. “It is a private matter, but I assure you we mean him no harm.”
“A private matter?” Gordon smiled back at Lige. “Everything in Oblivion is a private matter. I will have an opportunity to see Walden soon. I will ask him if he wishes to see you. If he does, you can meet him the day after tomorrow, here.”
Lige stepped forward, in front of Jaret. “That is a kind offer but we need to see him immediately. Tell me where to find him and we will trouble you no more.”
Gordon backed up a step and his hand moved toward the pistol slightly. “No.”
Again Lige waited for Gordon to say more. He did not. Silence gathered. “I have come here with only my aid so this man could be retrieved without violence. If you do not tell me where to find him, I will call down twenty UDA body tank troops. They will cut through the human chaff of Oblivion like a farmer reaping wheat until they find him. If your intent is to help these people, you will tell me where to find Walden.”
Gordon's hand was angled at his side, a spring pulled taught. His eyes flicked from Jaret to Lige. “I could kill you both before your hand was a decimeter from your gun but it would only hurt these innocents. I will tell you where to find Walden on these conditions. No one in Oblivion is harmed. You will not harm Walden. And you give us a Nagasphere.”
Lige chuckled, “Why on prime planet Earth would I give you a Nagasphere?”
“Because to you it is nothing more than a signature on a requisition form. To us it would be heat, electricity, and power. And if you do not agree to these terms, one if not both of you will be dead at the end of this conversation.”
Silence, as Lige thought over the proposition. “I agree to your terms. Where is Walden?”
Gordon relaxed, his hand moving away from the Nixto Lance. “Follow the street west for six more sectors. Climb the abandoned mag lift down two levels. Take the light traffic ally one sector right. He has a crate of a hover cycle there that he calls home.”
Lige turned immediately and started heading for the door. Jaret followed.
“When will I get the Nagasphere?” Gordon called.
Lige did not stop walking or turn his head. “I'm not sure how long it takes to ship a Nagasphere to hell.”
Jaret was already wheeling, his pistol drawn. He fired twice; one laser hitting Gordon’s left cheek, the other carving out a section of his ribs. Not before Gordon's pistol danced out of its holster. Gordon was able to fire one shot before he fell, lifeless, to the floor. The laser sliced into Jaret's stomach. He folded and fell to the floor as well. The junkies rose to their feet.
Lige ran back to Jaret and knelt next to him. With one hand he checked Jaret's neck for a pulse and was relieved to find one. He released and grabbed the Sledge Justice from his shoulder holster. Lige clicked the weapon on and it hummed. He started firing at the junkies closest to the door first and walked the fire arc around. Dense, fast laser fire erupted from the weapon. Death blossomed everywhere he pointed.
Lige used half the energy clip before he had swept the room clean of everyone but himself and Jaret. He placed the weapon down and pulled his gloves off. He retrieved a stim patch and pulled Jaret's shirt out. He shoved his hand under the body armor and applied the stim patch. Lige could feel the heat of Jaret's wound as he pulled him to a sitting position.
Jaret's eyes fluttered. The drugs hit and he was conscious. Jaret's eyes flashed to both sides. He saw the bodies. “Are you all right, Admiral?” he asked in a worried tone.
“I'm fine, Jaret. How are you?” When Jaret moved he realized the location of the wound. He closed his eyes as the intense pain cut through the powerful stimulant. Lige sat with him for a moment, scanning the room for movement.
Jaret breathed, “OK, I think I am ready to move.” He rose slowly and followed Lige. Jaret understood that for the next three hours he would perform as if he had no injury, for three days after that he would be bed ridden, probably unable to move.
The two followed the directions Gordon had given. As they made their way they passed shaking junkies trying hard to sleep, hoping for a brief escape from the hunger. Lige took the precaution of tying two meters of flexi-cord around both their waists before they climbed down the two levels on the mag lift rails. Jaret had no trouble due to the drugs coursing through his system.
Lige took a moment to brutally beat another junkie that attempted to trade with them. Jaret could tell Lige was anxious. Both men stopped when they saw the logo of Hailey Hovercycles as it was briefly revealed in the flash of sporadically blinking streetlight. Jaret drew his sidearm.
Lige drew the ratty cloth back from the entrance of the crate and saw what appeared to be legs covered by a filthy plastic sheet. He poked his head in and confirmed the person in the crate was asleep. Lige hauled the body up and out of the crate. He stood as the man flailed his arms, searching for a weapon that was still in the crate. Lige gave the man a powerful kick to the stomach. The man heaved a dry cough and stopped flailing.
Lying on his back, the man stared up at the two. When his eyes opened his forehead wrinkled in recognition. “Lige, you twisted fragger. You still have nothing better to do than to torment 'Injuns'. I was hoping the AC would have Custer'ed you by now.”
“Oh, no old man. You know I enjoy my work. I need your help.”
The old man shook his head slowly contemplating his misfortune.
“You know this tribal?” Jaret asked.
“Of course I know him,” Lige laughed. “My most revered enemy, responsible for the death of thousands of UDA soldiers. I am surprised you don’t recognize Potlatch Weaver, father of the AmerIndian Confederacy.”
Near the cliffs, Haida tribals set up healing tents. The crowd turned their eyes back to Celetain. She appeared serene, her arms outstretched without effort as if she had been holding them up for five minutes, rather than five hours. Tribals entered the dance, relieving older dancers and being careful not to disturb any of the pillars, embracing those they relieved before rolling into the rhythm. The pillars danced uninterrupted and alone.
Towanqua, a pillar in the seventh circle danced f
uriously. Sweat poured off him. He danced without reserve, feeling urgency. When he saw Celetain’s visage, an earth-locked angel, he danced harder. He felt the gathering power and his clone brothers in his circle set their pace to his. Before long he was heaving and choking, desperately trying to pull air into his lungs. Even as he coughed blood onto the wet ground he pushed harder, forcing himself past the pain, past the boundaries his body insisted upon. He jerked and his body moved slower, jauntily as if strings suspended him. He bobbed a few more steps before slumping to the ground. Tribals from around the dance ran in to replace those close to Towanqua who had stopped dancing. They backed away from his corpse, fearing and revering his sacrifice.
Celetain's body went rigid as her held power doubled. Sliver beat frantically at his drum. Sweat poured from his brow. Now stronger, Celetain fought the urge to vent again, able to hold the power. Towanqua was the first pillar to fall that day. Three more would follow in the next few minutes. A Kichai weapons procurer, a Tsimshian soft-jack and an Apache sniper. By the seventh hour when Jet Tigers streaked through the chunnel, Celetain Prax, Elder Shaman of the AmerIndian Confederacy, held more power than any shaman had ever possessed.
The fighter itself was not visible but the brilliant lance of sequenced light it stretched for ten kilometers behind it was visible to every tribal on the ground. The signal declared that Naanac was under attack by the UDA and the Ghost Dance must be culminated, the power released.
Celetain was absorbed; holding the power the Ghost Dance had gathered. Sliver put his drum down, stood and pushed into the hard light corona surrounding her. He shouted, “Release, release.” Sliver pushed himself back out. Celetain's eyes were closed and he could not tell if she had heard him or not. Her eyes opened wide again, but it was clear she was looking at something beyond this world. She spoke and out of her mouth came the voice of a Grandfather.
“The end has come and your dance has been earnest and true. Finish well now, the release has come.”
The chant grew louder. Pillar and dancers, all beaten and worn, surged hard, dozens dropped dead of exhaustion and Celetain gathered all that they offered. The light around Celetain increased and her far off gaze shifted. Her eyes darted from Sliver to the Acolytes in the dancers’ circles. She was frightened and it could be seen clearly on her face. Her arms remained up as her body twitched. She was wracked with some unknown pain. Sliver turned away, unable to witness her suffering. He knew helping her he would destroy everything she had endured to produce. Her body spasmed and she was free of the power. A tired, resigned look came across her face.
Initially, there was no sign of what had occurred. Suddenly, a wave of energy shot out from her in every direction. Every tribal surrounding Celetain was pushed off their feet and thrown two meters. Ripples of light blue energy were apparent as the wave hit the Free Mantle and continued. Laser fire, missiles and mayhem reigned across the outer space of Naanac. The wave hit the AmerIndian Confederacy lodge and outrider ships first and fighters were tilted by the wave. Every ship blacked out as power from Nagaspheres vanished in an instant. The wave plowed into the UDA ships and there it slowed. Red sparks and lightening shot off the surface of each UDA ship and vessel.
When the wave had passed over each ship it continued to spread in every direction at the speed of spirit carrying the blackness with it, shutting down every fusion and electrical power source on every UDA colony and every UDA outpost. In one last quick and frightening visual, billions of UDA citizens watched on their wall screens as the UDA ships blinked into darkness seconds before the same darkness passed over their home. On each of the eight UDA colonies and all eight hundred outposts chaos erupted. Billions scrambled for pressure suits. The few who had weapons readied them. UDA citizens did not know they had received only the least of the Ghost Dance's effect.
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