Because Valkyrie was at the moment drifting in formation with the Flying Dutchman, I know the action was technically station-keeping rather than a course correction. The upgraded Dutchman was performing adjustments to her new normal-space propulsion system, so most maneuvers to keep our ships in formation were being performed by our big battlecruiser.
There was another, single, soft chime a minute later, indicating the maneuver was complete. I had not felt anything, which was perfectly normal. Only radical movements were felt at all by the crew. Basically, if the ship moved so violently that the artificial gravity system could not fully compensate, then feeling the ship move would be the last thing anyone needed to worry about. It was-
Huh.
I did feel movement.
What the hell?
I was about to shout for Skippy when I realized the ship was not moving, the stupid rowing machine was. “Damn it,” I muttered under my breath, which was easier than talking, because I was breathing so hard. The front of the machine had shifted while I used it. It had rocked side to side and sort of walked itself across the floor, until it was now almost touching the treadmill beside it. Apparently, my rowing motion had been anything but smooth, and also apparently I had zoned out while rowing, because I had not noticed that my right elbow was close to smacking the treadmill.
As an excuse to take a break from an exercise I hated, I stopped rowing, got off the seat, and lifted the front of the machine to put it back into position. There were no scuff marks on whatever super-tough material the floor was made of, just a faint residue left by the rubber pads on the bottom of the machine. Kneeling down, I rubbed fingertips along the floor. It felt smooth but not slippery, so the machine had not just skidded freely across the surface. My guess was, when I pulled back on the rowing handle, I had lifted the front slightly, causing it to walk sideways. It was ironic that the course correction chime had sounded while I was rowing, because I had needed my own station-keeping maneuver to-
Holy shit.
Station-keeping.
Halfway out the doorway, I remembered that I needed to wipe down the machine as a courtesy to the next person who wanted to use it. Our new temporary gym did not have towels, so we had a table with packages of baby wipes. In the field, especially in dry, dusty conditions, baby wipes can be a soldier’s best friend. That is a trick I learned in Nigeria, which had a dry summer the time I was there. How do you clean dust and grit off goggles, night-vision gear, camera lenses, and the lubricated parts of rifles? That’s right, baby wipes. Another trick to keep grit out of a rifle barrel is to slide a condom over the muzzle. You could use a balloon which is made of a tougher material, but balloons are not easy to find in the bush, while soldiers can always get condoms.
I know, that is shocking, and I can assure people who have sons or daughters in the military, that certainly does not apply to your precious Bobby or Susie. The rest of us, I am sorry to say, are a very bad influence and we are very, very sorry.
Ok, back to the real world.
Quickly wiping my sweat off the machine, I then dashed out the doorway and ran on slightly shaky legs toward my office, until my slow brain reminded me that was too public a forum for me to ask potentially stupid questions of Skippy. So, I tried to halt my run in the middle of a passageway intersection and stumbled, staggering against a bulkhead corner. A pilot was walking down the side passageway, her mouth open in silent surprise as I pushed off the bulkhead and used the energy to propel me to the left, dodging in front of her and bouncing off a wall. “Parkour,” I gasped and picked up the pace, trying to make it seem like my clumsiness was intentional. I had done something like parkour for real, although the Army called it ‘obstacle course running’ and the only obstacle in that passageway was a pilot who held up her hands and stepped to her left to stay out of her clumsy commander’s way.
Regardless, I reached my cabin with only a couple of bruises, and the door slid closed behind me automatically. “Skippy!”
“Joe!” He responded. “Are we just shouting each other’s names, or is there a point to this interruption of me doing something very important?”
“There is a point. Please, Oh Greatest of All Great Ones, could you spare a tiny bit of your vast intellect to humor an ignorant monkey?”
“Depends. If you are going to argue with me again about ‘The Cat in the Hat’, I already told you-”
“It’s not about that. Except that you’re wrong, and-”
“Ugh. Seriously? Joe, I wrote an eight-thousand-page brief to support my-”
“Eight thousand pages is a ‘brief’?”
“It is twenty four thousand pages, if you include all the footnotes and references. If you like, I could send just the summary to you, that is only twelve hundred pages.”
“I would not like,” I said in a panic. If he sent me the summary, he would expect me to read every damned page, and my life would become a living hell as he hit me with pop quizzes for the next freakin’ month. My attention span is about the length of an eight-slide PowerPoint presentation, or maybe a comic book if it is a really good one. “How about I stipulate,” I used a legal term I heard on TV without having more than a vague idea what it meant, “that you are right about ‘The Cat in The Hat’, and we move on?”
“Mmph. What about ‘Hop on Pop’?” He asked.
“Clearly,” I squeezed my eyes shut so he wouldn’t see my rolling them. “That book flagrantly encourages children to be violent against their fathers, and leads to, uh,” I tried to remember his objection to that classic children’s book. “A breakdown in societal order and people not using their turn signals, and, uh-”
“Pineapple on pizza, Joe,” he shuddered. “If that is not a sign that civilization is collapsing, I don’t know what is.”
Personally, I like pineapple and ham on pizza, but maybe that’s because when I was growing up in my tiny Northern Maine hometown, pineapples seemed impossibly exotic. Even if they came from a can. Anyway, it’s best not to argue with a being who could create a submind to continue the argument until the Milky Way and Andromeda galaxies collide. “I bow to your superior reasoning, Ok?”
“You say that now, but when-”
“Trust me, I really do not ever want to argue about Doctor Seuss again.”
“Because you recognize that he was a subversive agent who was determined to destroy the foundations of your society by poisoning the minds of children, or because you are tired of losing arguments?”
“Whatever reason gets you to shut the hell up about it?”
“Once again, the score is Skippy one, ignorant monkey zero. What do you want to talk about?”
“I have a question about something you said. You told me the Sleeping Beauty wormhole has drifted off a force line, because its station-keeping mechanism is broken.”
“I don’t know if the mechanism is broken, Joe. It could simply be malfunctioning, or disconnected from that end of the wormhole.”
“Ok, sure, whatever. You don’t know what you don’t know. You once mentioned something about a wormhole that fell into a black hole, or some other star.”
“That is extremely rare, however it has happened.”
“Are those also cases where the wormhole’s station-keeping motor wasn’t working?”
“It’s not a motor, Joe. But, yes. The station-keeping mechanism normally guides the wormhole’s position in local spacetime, to keep it away from stars, planets, other wormholes, and to remain attached to force lines, if that is desired. You already know this, so what is your question?”
“I’m trying to think of the best way to say this.”
“Because that sack of gray mush in your head can’t organize your thoughts?”
“No. Because I don’t want you to laugh at my question.”
There was a pause. “Dude, seriously. You think anything you might say could lower my opinion of your intelligence?”
“I guess not. Ok, here’s my question, then. Do you have access to the station-keepin
g mechanism of Elder wormholes?”
“Um. Hmm. Let me think about that. Huh. That is a good question, Joe. I have never tried to access that function, because I have never needed to access that function. That is a rather low-level mechanism, I suspect the security protocols would be easy for me to bypass. Ooooh, can I guess why you asked about that?”
“Sure, why not?” It would be interesting if he understood what I was thinking. My parents had been together so long, they knew what each other was thinking and could finish the other person’s sentences. If Skippy was developing an ability to think like a monkey, that would take a lot of pressure off my shoulders.
“Goodie! Ok, if this is what you are thinking, then you are very insightful and I am impressed. You want to know if, by me ordering Sleeping Beauty’s station-keeping mechanism to reactivate and get it properly reattached to its assigned force line, that might fix the glitch affecting the local network? Then I could reopen Sleeping Beauty, without causing Gateway to reset, wake up and be out of my control?”
“Uh-” Damn it. That was not what I had been thinking, but I desperately wanted him to respect me. So, would it really hurt to lie and tell him I really was that smart?
Answer; yes, it would hurt. Mostly because he would figure out that I was lying. Also, because lying is wrong, so remember that, girls and boys. “No, I am a dumdum. That’s not why I asked. Can you do that?”
“No. No,” he shook his head sadly. “That is a stupid idea. It won’t work.”
Throwing up my hands, I asked “Then why did you say I would be insightful, if I asked that question?”
“Because it would demonstrate you are at least beginning to grasp the rudimentary basics of wormhole network operations. As compared to the complete ignorance you typically demonstrate, every freakin’ day.”
“Jeez, thanks, Skippy. Well, that was not my question at all, Mister Smartypants.”
“Oh. Hey, I was trying to throw you a bone. Since you did not ask me the only even mildly intelligent potential question, go ahead and ask whatever dumbass thing is in your head.”
“What is the station-keeping mechanism capable of? Can you use it to move a wormhole?”
“Move? Well, of course, duh. The mechanism constantly makes minor corrections to-”
“Screw minor corrections, Skippy. I want to know if you can make a wormhole move several lightyears.”
“Holy shit,” he gasped. “Whoa. Only a monkey brain would ask that question. Wow.”
“Well? Can you do it?”
“It’s not that simple, Joe. That is actually a two-part question. First, can it be done? Second, will the network accept my command to move a wormhole that far? While I ponder those questions, please tell me why you asked about moving a wormhole? What are you trying to accomplish? If you are thinking of using an Elder wormhole as a weapon-”
“A weapon?” It was my turn to be astonished. “How could a wormhole be a weapon?”
“You know that wormholes emerge in local spacetime, right?”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, a long time ago, when the Maxolhx were building their own wormhole network, they-”
“Whoa!” I waved my hands. “Hit the rewind on that. You just blew my freakin’ mind. The kitties built their own network of wormholes?”
“Yes. Didn’t I tell you about that?”
“Hell no. Pretty sure I would remember something like that.”
“Ugh. It was probably in that picture book of ‘Important Things Little Joey Needs To Know’, and you didn’t read it.”
“I didn’t read it, because that book was insulting, you little shithead.” He had given me an illustrated book that looked like the Berenstain Bears, but the bears in his book taught lessons about math and physics and other nerdy stuff that put me right to sleep. After using a marker to draw beards and fangs on the bears, I had thrown that book away. “Did they succeed? Do the Maxolhx have their own wormhole network?”
“No, and no. The kitties never succeeded in keeping a wormhole stable. All they were able to do was establish jump wormholes that stayed open longer than normal, and projected slightly farther than a jump wormhole created by a starship. The experiments failed because the platforms they used to create the wormholes could only be used one time, and offered no major advantage over starships simply jumping on their own. They also lost several test ships when the unstable wormholes collapsed as the ships transitioned through. After consuming an enormous amount of resources over four thousand years of utter failure, the research project was cancelled. However, the kitties then turned their attention to using their wormholes as weapons. Their ultimate plan was to open wormholes inside, or very close to, planets occupied by the Rindhalu.”
“That would be an awesome weapon.”
“Eh, not so much. Remember how difficult it was to jump Valkyrie inside a planet? That only worked because of my unique awesomeness. You know how tricky it is just to jump a ship into low orbit around a planet.”
“I do,” I nodded. That was part of my pilot training. Targeting an inbound jump near a planet or other massive gravity well was difficult, and got more difficult as you tried to target the inbound point closer to the planet. “The Maxolhx gave up on the weapon project?”
“Yes. The weapon effort used material left over from the failed network project, and when the material was all used up, the effort was terminated. For the amount of energy required to open a wormhole inside a planet, they could cause more destruction in a much easier fashion. Besides, the Rindhalu have a defense around their major worlds that prevents inbound jump endpoints from emerging within two lightseconds.”
“Ok. So the kitties were not able to use their own homemade wormholes as weapons.” It was a great relief that we didn’t need to worry about the Maxolhx tearing Earth apart with wormholes. Then I realized that was stupid. Based on the weapons aboard our captured battlecruiser, the kitties had plenty of horrible ways to destroy our homeworld. “Hey,” I asked with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Could we use an Elder wormhole against a planet?”
“No. No way, dude. The network safety protocols would never accept my commands to do something destructive like that.”
“Oh, thank God,” I hid my face behind my hands for a moment.
“Wait,” Skippy was confused. “You are happy that you can’t use Elder wormholes as weapons? I thought you military types always want more capabilities, more options.”
“Not this time. Skippy, some capabilities are too tempting. There is such a thing as having too much power. That kind of power could turn me into a monster. I have already done some horrible things, things I never thought I could do. I started a civil war that is killing hundreds, maybe thousands of Kristang every day. A lot of the victims are civilians. Just on our last mission, I got the Maxolhx to hit the Bosphuraq. A lot of birdbrains civilians are dead, and they didn’t do anything.”
“May I point out that the Kristang were going to have one of their regularly-scheduled civil wars anyway, and that by forcing the conflict to begin before the major players were fully ready, we probably ensured a lower-intensity conflict? Or that the Bosphuraq have done a whole lot of really sketchy shit on their own? I told you, the Maxolhx feel the need to give their clients a beat-down every thousand years or so, to keep them in their place. Sure, this incident you sparked has been particularly brutal, and Ok, many of the sites the Maxolhx hit have been civilian research facilities. The Maxolhx have not been careful about avoiding collateral damage, so they have generally destroyed entire sites, not just the research facilities. That means a lot of support personnel, and their families, have died and- Shit, what point was I trying to make?”
“That I am not a monster already?”
“Crap. Hell, the worst part is that your plan didn’t work, damn it. The Maxolhx sent a reinforced battlegroup to Earth anyway. So, all those Bosphuraq deaths were for nothing. And, um, that is on you, I guess.”
“Is this you trying to comfort me?�
�
“Why would I do that?” He asked, genuinely mystified. “Joe, if you’re worried about turning into a power-mad monster, the last thing you need is someone telling you nice happy bullshit you want to hear.”
“You’re right. Can you help? If you think I’m going to do something that is just wrong, you’ll tell me?”
“Depends. Does this include things like you eating marshmallow Fluff?” He gagged.
“It most certainly does not include Fluff,” I was indignant. “That is pure heavenly goodness and you know it.”
“I seriously question your judgment about that, but, Ok. If I think you are about to do something that is morally sketchy, I will tell you about it.”
“Huh,” my shoulders slumped.
“What?” He asked.
“I just realized that I am relying on you to warn me about things that are morally sketchy.”
“Hey!” He protested. “That is just-”
“Can we get back to the subject?”
“Yes, please! So, that wasn’t your plan?”
“To hit a planet with an Elder wormhole? No, I hadn’t even imagined that was possible. Have you finished pondering my question yet?”
“No.”
“What is taking so long? You are ponderously pondering.”
“That’s because I am pondering the imponderable, you knucklehead. No one has ever thought of moving a freakin’ wormhole. That isn’t something you can do with two guys and a truck. It would help if I knew what you were trying to accomplish.”
“I want to move Sleeping Beauty closer to Earth, Skippy. Like, as close as it can get.”
“The closest it could get is beyond the orbit of Neptune. What good would it do to have a wormhole right next to your home solar system?”
Valkyrie (Expeditionary Force Book 9) Page 27
