T'aafhal Legacy 1: Ghosts of Orion Page 2

  “Yeah,” Bobby added, “he snagged a butterfly with his tongue and it shocked the shit out of him. He fell off his post and lay on the bar top like he was dead—Jesse had a conniption.”

  “My goodness!” exclaimed Beth, looking across the bar to find the little green lizard at his normal post. “It looks like he survived the ordeal.”

  “Yes, but so as not to upset Jesse, we no longer bring the aoi chō—the blue butterflies—here with us.”

  As everyone at the table enjoyed a polite laugh, Billy Ray made a casual scan of the bar's interior and decided that their conversation would be private enough. “Any more thoughts about re-upping with the Fleet?”

  Bobby half laughed, half snorted.

  “We have not yet decided, Billy Ray,” said Mizuki quietly. “I have been offered a position at a research base on Triton. There would be no problem with Bobby signing on as a shuttle pilot with them.”

  “Triton?” asked Beth, incredulously. “Isn't Neptune a bit far away?”

  “About as far as you can go and stay in the solar system proper,” Bobby agreed.

  “Astrophysically speaking, Triton is a very interesting moon,” said Mizuki, a scientist to her core. “It is an irregular satellite—its orbit is retrograde to Neptune's rotation and inclined relative to the planet's equator. It, and Neptune's six other irregular satellites, are probably gravitationally captured objects from the outer solar system.”

  “Seems like a damned cold, remote place to go to just to study strange moons,” commented Billy Ray, swirling the bourbon and ice in his glass. “And flying a shuttle has got to be a comedown after captaining a starship.”

  There were a few moments of awkward silence as the four friends avoided eye contact by staring at their drinks. Finally, Bobby broke the silence.

  “What have you and Beth been thinking, Billy Ray?”

  “Maybe pooling our accumulated back pay and buying an asteroid mining ship.”

  Beth looked at her husband and lay her hand on top of his.

  “It's almost as disagreeable an idea as fleeing to the outer solar system,” she said, “but there is really no good alternative.”

  “Yup,” Billy Ray added, “the only employers for starship captains are the Fleet and the Colonization Board. The CB is a bureaucracy run by idiots, and both Beth and I have had our fill of the Fleet's internal politics.”

  “I hear you, brother,” said Bobby, nodding in agreement.

  Until the first dome of the new Earthside base was completed, Farside's Atrium, with its palm trees and waterfall, was the largest habitable space on the Moon. As the quartet slipped into a morose silence a strange object floated into the bar, past the towering palms.

  About the size of a golf ball, the object was polished silver in color and hard to distinguish against the background. It flew a zigzagging course until it hovered above the friends' table.

  “What's that thing?” asked Bobby.

  “I don't know, pardner.”

  As the foursome rose, preparing to vacate the area, the hovering sphere hummed and projected an image beneath it. Floating above the table was a man's head and shoulders—like a living bust. Each of the four saw the man face on, regardless of their position around the table. At the same time their view of the rest of the bar darkened and became blurred.

  “Good evening, children!” said the apparition. “Don't stop drinkin' on my account.”

  “TK?” said Beth in an unsure tone.

  “Yes Ma'am, in the flesh. Or rather, in the hologram. I was hoping to catch you all together.”

  TK Parker was a former Texas oil billionaire who had bankrolled the construction of the Peggy Sue and her first voyages into space. He was now a member of the ruling council and rumored to be the richest man in the solar system.

  “If you wanted to talk with us you could have just called,” Billy Ray replied, settling back into his chair, “why the parlor tricks?”

  “The little gizmo in front of you has a remote holographic link over a quantum encrypted comm channel. It also cloaks the conversation on your end so no one can listen in. I don't really trust the public network.”

  “Isn't that rather paranoid, TK?” asked Beth

  “Even paranoids have enemies, darlin'.”

  “So what's up, sir?” Bobby said, hoping to get to the point so they could go back to drinking in quiet misery.

  “I understand that those of you who are currently serving in the Fleet are being pestered to commit to an extended period of service. Once you sign on there's no tellin' where they'll send you. Now I'm not one to tell folks how to live their lives but it seems to me that young people like yourselves would much rather have jobs where you could stay together.”

  “Please explain, Mr. Parker,” Mizuki said.

  “Call me TK, no need bein' so formal, girl. Anyway, if you're interested, I would rather explain in my residence later this evening—say around 11:00?”

  The friends looked at each other and found almost instant agreement.

  “Yes,” they said in unison.

  “Great! See y'all then.” The hologram vanished and the small silver sphere flew off through the surrounding foliage, disappearing into the night.

  “So what do we do now?” asked Beth of her companions. “It's only 9:30.”

  “I think we have another drink,” said Billy Ray, motioning to the waiter loitering next to the bar.

  Officer's Quarters, Farside

  In a different part of the base, three Fleet officers were holding a clandestine meeting of their own. Each of the three steadfastly believed that things would be much better off for the human race if they were in charge. In a sense, they and others like them were the cause for the friends' complaints.

  The Fleet was expanding rapidly, doubling in size since the momentous battle in which the minions of the Dark Lords were defeated and life on Earth saved—at least for the present. New, larger warships were added and the existing frigates upgraded with more effective shields and more powerful weapons. With the expansion came the recruitment of new captains and crews for the added ships. The best berths went to the veterans of the battle for Earth, those with actual experience in space combat.

  While this made sense, it created two classes of naval officer: those who had defended the solar system under the command of Captain (now Admiral of the Fleet) Gretchen Curtis, and those who came later. Naturally, the late comers felt unfairly discriminated against. They despised those at the top of the command chain, who held their positions not through merit but because of personal ties to Adm. Curtis and Gen. Rodriguez, the head of the Marine Corps. They only held their positions because they happened to be in the right place at the right time, or so the disaffected officers thought.

  Moreover, those not among the higher ranks suspected the top of the command structure was occupied by two women as a ploy by the rich civilians who ran the place. It was not enough that the old billionaires on the ruling council kept the Fleet on a tight leash by controlling the means of production, be it ships, food or ammunition. By keeping officers they could control in charge of the Fleet and the Marines they made sure they remained on top of the political heap.

  Those officers not in favor with the powers that be were shunted into non-combat commands—personnel, supply and maintenance. In times of peace, such positions often held more sway than those commanding the sharp end, but that was little recompense for the officers sharing a drink in private quarters that night.

  “It looks like the first of the colonization ships will be operational within a month,” said the middle ranking of the trio, a commander in procurement. “That means continued delay in building more cruisers to patrol beyond the solar system.”

  “Yes, the building of the colony ships will slow production of new combat ships,” said the senior officer, a Navy captain in personnel. “That means fewer senior slots to fill with new officers.”

  “It also means that there will be further delay in the launch of the fir
st Planetary Combat Ship,” added the third, a Marine major assigned to training. “Until that happens we have no good way of getting more than a few platoons of Marines to an exoplanet.”

  The PCS was intended to house and support a full battalion of Marines, 800 combat personnel and others to support them, their assault shuttles and transatmospheric fighter craft. The PCS would also mount the shields and offensive weapons of a cruiser, enabling it to operate autonomously in hostile space, though it would normally have at least one frigate as an escort. More PCSs meant more Marine combat battalions, and that meant more slots for more field grade officers to command them.

  “All it is going to take is for one of the colonization ships to run into trouble and the priorities will shift back to warship production,” said the Commander, “just wait and see.”

  “I'm surprised that the Fleet has not been tasked with escorting the colonists,” said the Major.

  “According to the all knowing high command, there are no hostile aliens left within 10 parsecs or so. They were all expended in the last assault on the solar system,” said the Captain. “Myself, I think that is just hopeful thinking. The only semi-military personnel on the colonization voyages are going to be a handful of sailors to fly the ships, seconded to the merchant marine from the Navy training schools.”

  “At least some of them will get to captain starships of their own,” groused the Commander.

  “I wouldn't want to be in their place—babysitting a pack of civilians, flying into unknown space in a glorified freighter,” said the Captain in a supercilious tone. “Better to wait for a real command to open up.”

  “That's true,” agreed the Commander, “remember, we are playing a deeper game.”

  “Right,” said the Marine, “eventually the Fleet and Corps will expand to the point where they will have to promote officers to command positions who have no actual combat experience.”

  “And eventually, the privileged cabal will find themselves outnumbered and pushed aside,” the Captain finished. “Still, we need to stay alert for opportunities to advance our allies whenever and where ever possible.”

  “Speaking of such things, I have caught wind of an interesting development. It seems that TK Parker is planning to launch a venture to hunt for exoplanets and alien civilizations on his own and is looking for Navy officers he trusts.”

  “How did you hear of this, Commander?”

  “It all started back eight months ago when the Fleet tried to assign the Peggy Sue to a patrol and reconnaissance mission. The ship seemed like an underutilized asset and sending it out with a Navy crew made good sense. Unfortunately, Parker stopped the plan cold.”

  “Really?” said the Marine. “How did he do that? Through his pet Admiral?”

  “Through the council. They let the Navy know in no uncertain terms that the Peggy Sue, along with the interplanetary freighters and local Earth-Moon shuttles, were civilian owned and not Fleet assets.”

  “Peggy Sue,” scoffed the Captain, “damned silly name for a ship if you ask me.”

  “In any case, since then the rich old geezer has been having his ship refitted in his ship yard. The scuttlebutt is that Parker and several other council members are forming a joint venture to go looking for interesting things—meaning profitable things—out ahead of the colony ships.”

  “Those old bastards wouldn't want a load of colonists stumbling upon some ancient treasure by accident,” the Major said, scorn in his voice. “Or any useful alien technology that they don't control.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what can we do about it?” asked the Captain.

  “The word on the street is that Parker has already put out feelers to recruit a crew for some kind of voyage. Fortunately, there's not a big pool of experienced spacers just hanging around Farside waiting for a berth. We have a plan in motion to place an agent of our own in the Peggy Sue's crew.”

  3rd Level Commercial Zone, Farside

  Roselito Acuna sat uncomfortably in a corner chair of the nondescript coffee shop as a slow trickle of civilians came and went around her. It was getting late and she would soon have to find a place to stay for the night. Dressed in a civilian tan jumpsuit she felt out-of-place and definitely out of uniform.

  How did things come to this? She asked herself. All you ever wanted was to go into space and fight aliens, now here you are lying low. You are supposed to be outbound on a troopship full of recruits, but instead you missed the movement—face it girl, you are now AWOL from the Corps.

  Things had seemed so perfect. Returning with Captain Jack in time to win the battle for Earth, the entire crew were heroes. Most of the Marines on board were bumped a couple of stripes as recognition. Not that the added rank wasn't earned the hard way: She had fought the hairy crickets in the Bug Queen's palace; driven off flying batacudas on an alien space station; and faced a half dozen other horrors in the trek across the planet encircling Ring Station. And that didn't count helping fight the ship in a number of space battles. Life was good. She loved her work, was advancing in rank and had good friends all around—then the wheels started to come off.

  Naturally, the problems started with a man, two men actually. She had maintained a casually intimate relationship with two of her Marine squadmates, Ronnie and Jon, across 3,000 light years. Nothing serious, just an occasional tumble when the mood struck her. But when they got back to the solar system there was not much to do—practice assaults and training missions. When you have fought real aliens on worlds circling other stars, maneuvers on Mars or Io just didn't get the old juices flowing.

  Out of boredom, casual flirtation became more serious, with her two guy friends competing for her attention. At first it was flattering. Rosey knew she was no great beauty, not unattractive but not one to stop conversation when entering a room. Nonetheless, the competition soon spun out of control, ending in a bar fight between her two squadmates—guys who had been close friends.

  Both of her suitors lost a stripe and were sent on patrol aboard different ships. Though Rosey was the cause of the fight, she had not been a participant so she didn't face any official disciplinary action. There were, however, many ways of punishing a Marine informally. She was informed that she would be shipping out for Mars to be part of the training cadre at Camp Aries.

  Realizing that she was being sent to a backwater to rot she tried to resign, but the Corps was intent on getting its pound of flesh. She was told that her last promotion, to gunnery sergeant, entailed a reenlistment for four more years—something she was not told at the time. After thinking things over for a couple of beer soaked evenings she decided that wasn't fair and fuck the Corps anyway.

  Before deciding that she was not interested in going to Mars, Rosey had never considered how difficult it was for someone to drop off the grid on the Moon base. There was no physical currency, all transactions being handled electronically. As a Marine, her comm pip also served as a transponder that allowed her to purchase goods and services. Since all purchases were registered centrally, she couldn't buy anything without the Corps being able to track her movements.

  To get around this problem, she hit on a rather devious solution. New refugees were issued temporary cards linked to small government stipends. After locating a few willing newcomers, Rosey made purchases from her funds and resold the goods to the refugees at a discount, taking their cards as payment. Using the cards she could make small purchases—like food and drink—without showing up on the authorities monitoring net. Unfortunately, the scheme didn't solve the problem of where to sleep.

  Everyone on the base either had quarters provided by the military or were assigned housing by the government. There were no hotels where an anonymous traveler could stay. There was one hotel off the Atrium for visiting businessmen and dignitaries, but it was far too public and far too expensive for her needs. Instead, she had scouted the maintenance tunnels that honeycombed the base. There she found unlocked storage rooms not under the same surveillance as the public pa
rts of Farside.

  For each of the past three nights she had slept in a different room, showering in public facilities on the refugee level and collecting fresh tan jumpsuits each morning. But her funds were running low and it was just a matter of time before they came looking for her.

  No doubt about it, Marine, she thought, this was not a well planned operation.

  The waiter began stacking chairs on the tables, getting ready to close for the evening. Picking up the bag that contained all her worldly possessions, Rosey slipped out of the cafe and headed for the Maintenance tunnels, looking for a place to hole up for the night.

  Chapter 2

  Parker Residence, Farside

  When the quartet of friends showed up at Parker's residence in the upscale part of the base they were greeted, as usual, by Maria. Maria Lopez had been TK Parker's cook and housekeeper for more than two decades and was one of the few people who TK trusted without reservation. Maria had been widowed long ago when her husband was killed in an accident on one of TK's Texas gas rigs. TK gave her a job so she and her children would not be deported and she had stayed with him ever since.

  Maria's family perished in the alien assault on Earth and TK had no family of his own—now they only had each other. After TK, who had been confined to a wheelchair for more than a decade, was miraculously healed by advanced T'aafhal medical technology, the octogenarian billionaire realized that he still had a long and productive life ahead of him. The few who knew them well were unsurprised when Maria traded her maid's apron for a very large engagement ring.

  “Buenas noches, welcome my friends. Please come in,” Maria said, ushering the visitors inside. “TK is in the living room at the bar, as usual.”

  TK was a man who enjoyed his whiskey, though these days he talked a lot more about drinking than actually imbibing himself. Part of that was Maria's doing, and part the realization that he was not nearing the end of his life. With nanite treatments and the occasional full body tuneup there was no reason a human being would not live to see 200. One tends to treat the equipment better knowing you're going to need it for years to come.