Over one billion years ago, two varieties of
intelligent life evolved on a medium-sized planet orbiting a
yellow sun in the Milky Way galaxy. The two species, both
bipedal, developed tools and civilization, and eventually
met each other while exploring the same desert continent.
They discovered war, and as their aggressions escalated over
the centuries, so did their technologies. In a cataclysmic
final battle, one species fired a fusion-inducing device
into the planet's sun. Barely a handful of spacecraft
escaped the orbiting weapons platforms before the sun went
nova, three local years later.
The fleet of spacecraft which escaped were completely
self-contained, equipped to sustain several generations
while they journeyed toward an unknown destination. The
pilots set a course for the galactic core, in the hopes that
the denser star population would yield a habitable world
before the ships exhausted their internal resources.
Hundreds of years passed, and by the time a suitable planet
was found, the inhabitants of the fleet did not want to
leave their vessels.
No one on any of the ships had ever lived on anything
other than a spacecraft, and the notion of living on a
planet had become alien to them. They mined the worlds of
the star system for their metals, restocked their ships'
supplies of flora and fauna with new specimens, repaired
their usable ships, and built new vessels to accommodate a
larger population. When they were done, they fired another
fusion inducer into the sun, and rode the shock wave of the
nova even further into the galactic core, seeking other
points of interest.
The light from that exploding star spread quickly,
eventually thinning to less than one photon for every cubic
light-year, each particle hurtling into the void at the
speed of light, their velocities bent only occasionally by a
black hole or a particularly dense neutron star. Several
lifetimes later, a single photon angled into the Sol system
and struck the faceplate of a Quintex astronaut, who had no
idea of the history behind his increasing entropy.
Other light sources glowed all around him as he fitted
another piece of scaffolding into place. At the center of
the web-like structure floated the marker buoy, blinking
bright red and continuously broadcasting a navigation
beacon. Technicians had replaced its three sets of
batteries every four months since a year ago, when Ariane
and Quintex had decided on this site for Project Skyscraper
and launched the grayish object into a solar orbit. For
months, it had been a lonely cry in the measureless dark,
but now it was the center of more attention than it
deserved.
Robot mechanics putted around the dully glinting frame,
finding the radio markers which human astros had set and
replacing them with equipment boxes. Skyscraper was already
a fully functional radio relay station; soon it would also
be rigged for laser communications. The bustle of activity
made it impossible for any single person or machine to keep
track of every addition to the still-growing skeleton. A
single droid had fallen through the interplanetary void
several weeks before, when the only watchers around
Skyscraper were dumb keeperbots, and joined the mechanical
population in waiting for their masters.
Now, as the droid reprogrammed a communication module
and radioed its success back to its own master, an astro
noticed the strange transmission. He called a colleague
over to the droid, which had begun drifting away from the
scaffold. When they reached the robot, its innards had been
melted into an unrecognizable mess. They removed the module
which had been tampered with and found two more similarly
compromised. Several hours of inspection later, they
concluded that the remaining modules were intact. They were
wrong.
"You won't believe where we're going," said Jemison as
he sat down and placed a hand computer on the table, next to
McBride's meager lunch. "Is that all you're having?"
"I'm trying to lose weight," McBride lied. After
reading the computer display, he said, "You're right. I
don't believe it."
Robert-Gill Price shared an ancestor with Jacob-Martin
Quinn, his current employer. However, since the ancestor in
question was related only through a rather embarrassing and
later arduously concealed extramarital affair, neither man
knew this bit of trivia. Jacob Quinn had met Price only
twice, the first time when Price was hired and the second
when he had requested that McBride and Jemison be discharged
for negligent conduct while piloting Quintex spacecraft--
namely, the company's new VF-42 defenders. Quinn and Price
had then shared a protracted conversation, which resulted in
McBride and Jemison being demoted one pay grade and rank.
After that last meeting, Price had gained a slightly
perplexed but healthy respect for Quinn. Thus there were no
objections when Price received the personnel roster for his
escort detail. Twelve one-man patrollers, six each from
Ariane and Quintex, would accompany an Ariane transport
convoy on its way to Skyscraper Point. It was more ceremony
than anything else, but with the new evidence of pirates in
the Torus, both companies had begun to tighten their
security measures. Price would be leading a group of five
officers, including the infamous McBride and Jemison.
Since the orders had been circulated, five hours ago,
all three remaining members of the escort party had come to
Price with complaints. Anderson and Golino arrived
together, to reiterate their lack of respect for the two
rogues, and wonder aloud as to why they hadn't been fired
outright after that incident with the VF-42's. Price had
smiled thinly, nodded, and sent them on their way. He
didn't need to explain anything; they just wanted to make
sure he knew how they felt.
Warlow had come alone, and had spoken in that quiet but
forceful voice of hers. Price had almost been persuaded to
tell why McBride and Jemison were still with Quintex, but
settled for weaving a tale about their skills overshadowing
their insubordination, especially since it had been their
first offense. She had left the office with a marginally
less suspicious look on her face.
Price sighed and locked the door behind Warlow. No
matter how trusted his officers were, rumors were impossible
to control on an enclosed settlement like New Montana. The
fact that Jacob Quinn had told Price meant a great deal, and
he was not about to contest the decision of the second
richest man alive. Orders were orders.
Seven hours after the six Quintex fighter craft left
New Montana, they received a distress call from the Ariane
convoy.
"Any ship within range, this is Ariane frigate
Kilimanjaro." The voice cut into each officer's mind like a
garrote. "We are under attack, repeat, under attack by
unidentified vessels! We need help! Any ship within
range..."
Price punched up his tactical display. They were still
three hours from their rendezvous, at a constant
acceleration of half a gee. "Golino, McBride, pull ahead at
two gees, cycling to three. Open a channel when you get
there, and keep it open."
The two pilots radioed their acknowledgment and fired
their reheat thrusters. Behind them, the remaining three
fighters slowly increased their acceleration to a full gee.
Four hours later, it was over. Three unidentified
loneboats, running without navigational telemetry, had
intercepted the Ariane convoy and disabled four of their
fighters before the escort could respond. The fact that the
security forces were unaccustomed to open combat in
interstellar space worked in the attackers' favor. Their
fusion drives finished off the last two Ariane fighters, and
two of the eight Ariane frigates had been heavily damaged
before the Quintex detail arrived.
The doomed security escort's messages had prepared
Price's team for the enemy's tactics, but they arrived too
late. The pirates had escaped with several million dollars'
worth of parts and equipment, and caused many times that
amount in damage, not counting loss of life. Golino and
McBride had arced off in pursuit. Price assessed the
situation and ordered them back.
"Sir, we can catch them," protested Golino.
"And then what?" Price watched rescue crews pulling in
an unconscious Ariane pilot. "One of those fusion reheats
could take out both of you in half a second. Turn around.
We got some good photos."
McBride closed the channel. "He's right."
"Yeah," Golino grumbled. Since when do you give up
this easily?
The term "loneboat" was a misnomer. Loneboats could
easily accommodate up to four people for several days, and
would sustain one person for up to a month. It was the fact
that these ships spent most of their days alone in the
interplanetary voids that had given them their name.
Smaller, truly one-man craft were called "defenders," or
just "'fenders," mainly because they were usually security
ships, but also because they seemed to be constantly
defending themselves from the hazards of space.
Skyscraper's gravity ring was still under construction.
McBride met Leefield at her loneboat, parked a good
kilometer from the heart of the seemingly continuous
activity. This position offered a clear view of the entire
structure, which was slowly taking shape and starting to
look like something an intrepid child might have built out
of wire, matchsticks, and pencil erasers. The absence of
gravity was every architect's dream, and it showed.
"We meet again," Leefield said by way of greeting.
McBride noted that her smile had become less sarcastic.
"Is that a professional comment, or a personal one?"
She shrugged. "I hear we had some excitement at the
rendezvous."
"Yes." McBride began peeling off his pressure suit.
"What is your rank here, anyway?"
"Crew chief, Bravo shift. We're installing gravity
systems. That's Delta shift out there now, installing the
auxiliaries." She gestured toward the bubble above her
cockpit, the largest viewing portal in the loneboat. "The
convoy lost three hundred million in ships and equipment.
What happened?"
McBride frowned. "I didn't know those 'fenders were so
expensive."
"Nothing but the best." Leefield settled herself
against a wall. "At least it was all insured. That'll take
the edge off it, but still..."
"They surprised your escort. Nobody was expecting to
be attacked." McBride stowed his suit in a closet. "Why
should we? Looting relay stations, flying without telemetry--
that's stupid, but not dangerous. We thought they were
petty criminals, and we'd catch them eventually."
"They hit us just when we were expecting nothing." She
stared at a chronometer. "But our escort should have been
better prepared."
McBride said nothing, remembering Price's words. You
won't tell a single person, any of you. Galza will deal
with his people, but no Quintex personnel other than the six
of us knows anything of this. Let's keep it that way.
"Well," said Leefield, finally, "how about some
dinner?"
Jemison sulked in his fighter, sipping at a ball of
orange juice. At least we know why The Old Man wanted Len
and me on this detail. He and McBride had snapped that
picture of the Ariane shuttle tailing them last week, on the
way back from the mining colony trip, and Price had ordered
them to keep it quiet. No doubt he had then taken it to
Quinn, who trusted McBride and Jemison to see what he could
not. That's why he and Len were still here, after all...
The radio buzzed. It was Warlow, currently parked a
few hundred meters from Jemison. Anderson and Golino had
moved to Skyscraper's outer perimeter, replacing the lost
Ariane security forces, and were circling like nervous
watchdogs.
"Still envying McBride?" Warlow asked, with a wry
smile.
"I'm married," replied Jemison.
"So you are." She paused, studying her controls. "What
do you suppose the Galzas are doing about now?"
"Running around in little circles, probably."
"Kind of a fitting irony, though." Warlow glanced at a
passing mechanic. "After all, Ariane did oppose the hiring
of Earthers for this project, and now..."
"Warlow," Jemison warned.
"I know, I know. Forget it."
The conversation moved on to other subjects, and
eventually ended when Anderson called for Warlow to replace
him on patrol. Jemison watched the 'fender slip out of its
assigned space and arc gracefully above the station,
disappearing into the darkness.
It was hard for all of them, not talking to anyone
about this latest development. They'd probably spend hours
in the same room, all six of them, debriefing each other and
speculating on what would happen next. The pictures would
have come in by then, and they could all confirm what each
wanted, in some way, to deny. But the pirates had been
using Ariane shuttles. McBride and Golino had clearly seen
the paint schemes, and engineers would easily be able to
identify hull shapes and other unique details from the
photos. Ariane didn't sell its shuttles to other
corporations.
By tomorrow afternoon, it would be a severely protected
fact. That made it no less a fact, but put a heavy burden
on its keepers. He must have suspected, Jemison thought.
The Old Man must have suspected that the pirates would
attack. Why?
The answer came sooner than he thought it would.
Copyright © 1996 Curtis C. Chen. All Rights Reserved.