Player's fiction
Milk Run
- by Eric S Trautmann
- Written: ?
- Set: 2140
"Nothing ever happens on these runs, Captain," muttered Flight Officer Jackson. "I thought space would be ... I dunno ... more ... "
"More like the holos?" Captain Harlan "Doc" Ramsey snorted. "Life ain't a docudrama, kid. If you want excitement, sign up for military service. There's plenty of shooting off Io these days. That ought to be a hell of an adventure."
"I've considered it, sir. Cargo runs from Earth to Mars to Luna and back again isn't exactly the kind of space career I was hoping for."
"Then consider this, Flight Officer Jackson," Ramsey snapped, making his junior officer wince. "Consider catching a Belter rocket in the air tank and suffocating to death. Consider a munitions malfunction that holes your suit and boils you alive. Consider being forced to kill a dozen people that are trying to kill you, just for the air in your tanks.
"Adventures aren't fun or entertaining for the people that live them, Jackson."
As Jackson blushed, Ramsey reflected -- for the hundredth time since the cargo vessel lifted off -- that he just didn't understand the younger generation's attitude about space service. Jackson endlessly bitched about the shuttle's condition (it wasn't a military craft, sure, but it was well-maintained and reliable), the food (standard space rations), and even, most baffling to Ramsey, the boredom. Ramsey never found space boring. Space would find all sorts of ways to kill you, he believed. The minute you stop respecting her, she cuts your umbilical, or lobs a micro-meteor through your hull, or throws at all any of a million other everyday hazards which, when added together, meant that anything less than perfection was deadly.
Shaking his head ruefully, he keyed the long-range communications array. "GigaCorp Transit Vessel Theta-1199, requesting approach corridor Baker for Lunar orbit."
After a brief pause, Ramsey frowned. Keying the comm array controls again, he spoke more loudly: "Luna Control, do you read? This is 1199, requesting approach corridor Baker. If I miss my window, these supplies won't get to Mars on time and we'll all catch hell."
A burst of static provided the only response. Damned peculiar, Ramsey thought. Maybe their comm array is out of alignment.
"Jackson, see if there's a lunarsat we can bounce a signal off to get through this interference," Ramsey ordered, splitting his attention between his guidance controls and the comm system. The distance before he missed his approach window was rapidly dwindling.
"Sir, piggybacking a signal like you ordered is a violation of company protocols. Someone could intercept the transmission," Jackson replied nervously. "We could get in serious trouble."
"I thought you wanted some adventure. Do it."
"Complying," the junior officer grunted, clearly unhappy. A moment later, Jackson muttered, "Nothing yet sir. It's probably just a misaligned comm array or a defective transmitter module. Nothing ever happens on these milk runs."
Ramsey remained silent. Something just felt . . . wrong. "Try and raise them again, Jackson. I don't care who I have to talk to; I need to know if we have our orbital corridor or not. I don't particularly want to play chicken with another cargo rig, do you?"
Jackson flipped some switches, fine-tuning the frequency transmitter settings. "Sir, I'm getting something. It's faint and pretty distorted ... but it sounds like they heard us and are trying to respond."
"Let's hear it."
Static burst from the main speakers, followed by a howl of feedback. Suddenly the distortion cleared dramatically, allowing Ramsey and Jackson to hear: "Transport GCT-1199: this is Luna Control. We've had some kind of meteor shower. Primary comm is down; long-range detection gear is down. Repeat: traffic control is down! I don't know if you can hear me, but break off. Dammit, break off now! Head for open space! Get out of the orbital corridor!" Static again drowned out the signal.
Ramsey and Jackson pulled themselves to their seats, as fast as zero-g would allow.
"Seal your suit, Jackson. Move it!" Ramsey yelled, slamming shut his own suit seals and belting himself in. As soon as he saw that the younger officer was secured, he flipped open the cover to the manual flight controls, and began to roll the ship out of its flight path, vectoring up from the lunar surface.
Ramsey worked frantically, rolling his craft and applying thrust, pushing the engines for all they were worth. Double-checking his course, he began mentally re-computing fuel consumption figures (an ability that had earned him his nickname, "Doc" Ramsey), and grunted with satisfaction; the diversion shouldn't blow their rendezvous window by more than a single orbit. The shuttle had power for four more orbits, if needed.
"Collision alert!" Jackson yelled, sending a data feed to Ramsey's terminal. On his screen, half a dozen cargo shuttles -- some from GigaCorp, some not -- were converging near 1199's position. Before Ramsey could react, two of the shuttles collided, venting atmosphere and tumbling out of control. One of the unfortunate vessels spun off toward the sky, but the other slammed into a nearby craft, exploding spectacularly as the fuel cells ignited.
Reacting by instinct, Ramsey dropped the shuttle's nose, plunging below the debris scattering slowly towards the lunar surface. "Jackson," he yelled, "Reestablish contact with someone on the surface and get a military rescue ship out here. And find out what the hell's going on!"
As Jackson worked at the comm terminal, Ramsey began to inch the shuttle back toward high orbit. Cresting a ridge of lunar mountains -- the Bradley Massif, if Ramsey recalled correctly -- both pilots blanched.
Just appearing over the horizon was the largest asteroid that either spacers had ever seen, streaking at high velocity toward Luna.
Cursing, Ramsey slammed the throttle wide open, and the rumble of the ship's engines rattled the deckplates, drowning out the incessant beeps and chimes of the instrument systems. As the shuttle banked, Ramsey caught a glimpse of the sharp-etched, craggy surface of the asteroid passing scant meters from his craft.
In seconds, the rock was past, and Ramsey spun the ship, trying to track it's vector. "Sweet Jesus, somebody's in for a bad day," he muttered to himself. "Must be a stray from the mining belt."
Checking his data, he tried to plot the impact site for the asteroid, praying that it would miss Luna. None of the lunar colonies would withstand such an impact; the death toll would be enormous. Tasking the computer to plot the asteroid's course, he began to mentally calculate where it would hit.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned to Jackson, his breath rasping. "I think it's gonna miss Luna. It'll be close, but it won't hit."
The computer pinged, displaying the results of its calculations.
Ramsey's relief faded as he read the data scrolling across the screen. He looked up, staring at the asteroid through the viewport.
"Oh, God."
The asteroid was heading straight toward Earth.
It took a very short time, for such a monumental disaster. There were only perhaps a few hours to raise a warning. With primary communications on Luna cut by pieces of debris from the passing asteroid, only a few Earth-based observatories knew what was coming.
Before the people on the ground could do more than panic, the asteroid hit.
It impacted in the Pacific Ocean, vaporizing uncountable millions of gallons of water on contact. When the mantle cracked under the blow, lava burst forth, freed from its subterranean confinement. The remaining seawater poured into the impact fissure, where the lava boiled it away.
The atmosphere was converted -- almost instantaneously -- into superheated steam. Millions died as the air literally boiled them where they stood.
Millions more were killed by the earthquakes and tidal waves that swept over the planet.
Dust, steam and debris were flung miles into the air, choking the planet off from the Sun.
In a heartbeat, the Earth died.
Ramsey stared in mute horror, watching the flames and devastation ripple across the surface of the planet. Jackson quietly wept, as Ramsey thought bitterly, You wanted adventure, kid. You got it.
Culture Shock
- by James David Maliszewski
- Written: ?
- Set: ~2160
General Derek Fisk put his feet up on the table in front of him and stretched. It had been a long day and he was looking forward to some well-deserved rest. His mind slowly drifted off to other places, other times. It seemed so long ago since he had attended the Academy on Earth. Yet, the things he learned there and the friends he had made remained with him for over forty years. Those were good times and sometimes Fisk missed them.
Not that he was given to nostalgia, mind you. Derek Fisk didn't consider the past a better time, merely a different one. So many things had happened in the past twenty years -- the destruction of Earth, the ascendancy of GigaCorp, the discovery of the Alephs -- the universe hardly seemed the same anymore.
Even the Iron Coalition wasn't the same. Where once it had simply been a military force, an agent of the UN's will, it was now practically a government unto itself. The loss of Earth meant the Coalition had to set its own policies and determine its own destiny. Yet, that wasn't enough for Fisk. The Coalition had to expand, to adapt, to become something even greater than it was. To do any less was to hand the fate of humanity over to GigaCorp and that was something Derek Fisk was simply unwilling to do.
No, he thought, humanity was better than that. GigaCorp couldn't possibly fulfill the deepest longings of mankind, especially in the aftermath of the asteroid disaster. What humanity needed was a guiding vision and the discipline to achieve that vision. The Coalition offered that, he thought, but would the human race be willing to accept it?
Lost in these thoughts, he hardly heard the chime at his cabin door. Stirring himself from his reverie, Fisk straightened up quickly and cleared his head. He walked to the door and opened it. Standing outside was Major Robert Terrence. Still dressed in his deep blue duty uniform and carrying his omnipresent hand computer, the young officer stood at attention in the ship's corridor.
"Still up at this hour?" Fisk asked, genuinely surprised that even his aide hadn't gone to bed by now.
"Yes, sir," he offered. "I've been going over the latest intelligence reports about the Belters and a couple of things have been bothering me. May I?" He gestured toward Fisk's living area with his hand.
Fisk nodded and moved aside, allowing the younger man to enter his spartan cabin. Fisk wasn't a sentimental man and kept few mementos. His living space contained only the essentials and nothing more. With space at a premium -- even on the Coalition's flagship -- Fisk thought it best to lead by example.
Terrence moved toward a chair and waited for the General to offer it to him. Once he had done so, he sat done and immediately began to access his hand computer. Fisk shook his head mildly. He'd never have stomached intelligence work. It was such dreary work when compared with leading men into battle. All the same, he was glad he had Terrence at his side. Whatever Fisk may have thought of the "new age" that was dawning, the Coalition would need a dozen more officers like Terrence. Unfortunately, there was only one Robert Terrence.
Fisk sat down across from his aide and asked, "So, what's on your mind?"
"As I said, sir, I've been going over these reports and, to be blunt, I'm not sure that you're going to like the conclusions I've come to."
"Why do you say so?"
"Well, these Belters are extremely independent. They're not really a faction at all -- at least not as you might conventionally conceive of such a thing. They're more like ... anarchy personified."
Fisk heaved a sigh. This was indeed disappointing. He had asked Terrence to examine the latest intelligence analysis of the Belters in hopes of finding an opening, something that might enable the Coalition to reach out to them. In the ongoing battle against GigaCorp, the Coalition needed all the allies it could find. Fisk had hoped that the Belters might be among them.
"Could you elaborate a bit, please? I'm not sure I follow you."
Terrence seemed ill at ease. He hesitated for a moment before saying, "They're not a military force, sir. They don't think like one or act like one. More importantly, they have no interest in becoming one. They're more or less content to face GigaCorp alone."
"You mean they're rejecting my -- I mean, the Coalition's help?" Fisk was flabbergasted.
Terrence smiled slightly at Fisk's slip and then answered, "Not at all, sir. I think it's more accurate to say that they don't want our help. The Belters view us with a great deal of suspicion. Many of them consider us only slightly better than GigaCorp. Others consider us just as bad. You've got remember that these people value freedom above all else. They --"
"Freedom?" Fisk cried out. "They're confusing license with freedom. They're not the same. Freedom comes with responsibilities. Freedom requires discipline. These Belters don't look to me as if they even deserve freedom."
Major Terrence wasn't sure what to say next. He had served with General Fisk long enough to know when the older man was upset, even if he wouldn't admit it. Fisk was a proud man who viewed the Iron Coalition as an extension of himself. To reject it -- to want nothing to do with it -- was hard for him to take.
Yet, Terrence also knew that Fisk was a flexible man, one willing to take chances when necessary. Fisk didn't enjoy abandoning accepted procedure; he would do so only if required. He may have viewed the Coalition as part of himself, but he never placed his own wishes above those of his men. Terrence knew this too and decided to be frank with his superior.
Looking up from his hand computer, Terrence said, "Sir, we need the Belters. Without them, our fight with GigaCorp will only drag on longer."
Fisk grimaced and fell back into his chair. "This is another one of those times, isn't it, Robert?"
"I'm afraid so, sir."
"Damn." Fisk whispered. "You know I hate this sort of thing."
"Yes, sir."
Fisk then stood up and shook his head slightly. "Alright, then," he began, "give me a few hours to gather my thoughts. Come back around," he looked at his chronometer, "06:30 hours. You can help me draft a new offer to the Belters -- something more amenable to their way of doing thing."
The older man was visibly pained to say these words.
"Very good, sir." Terrence replied, standing up from his own chair. He quickly turned on his heels and made a path for the door.
Before he could reach it, Fisk stopped him, saying, "You know, I'm going to need your help on this one. I don't enjoy having to throw the principles I've lived my life by out the airlock just to appease a band of ruffians and pirates."
Terrence smiled. "Of course, sir, but you're not throwing your principles away, you know."
"Really? It sure feels like I am."
"Well, you're not. If anything, you're sticking to them."
Fisk just stood there silently.
As if on cue, the younger man explained. "Fidelity, sir. That's what the Coalition is all about. We're just loyal servants of humanity. It's not our place to decide how people should live their lives or what they should believe in. We're here to protect them -- whatever they choose for themselves. To do otherwise would make us no better than GigaCorp."
Fisk remained silent. For a moment, Terrence worried that perhaps he had stepped out of line.
"Make that 07:00, Major. We could both use the sleep." Fisk smiled.
"Yes, sir."
Plumbing Problems
- by James David Maliszewski
- Written: ?
- Set: ?
Mercedes Kelleher fidgeted slightly in her leather chair. She never enjoyed board meetings, especially when they dragged on as long as this one had. GigaCorp earnings since last quarter were slightly down - and the board wanted her to account for it.
"If you'll reference screen 34 of my report," she began, "you'll see that I've outlined several factors that have contributed to our current fiscal downturn. I don't expect any of these factors to last much longer beyond the end of the year -- if that.
"If you reference screen 40, you'll also see that I've outlined other factors that I think will guarantee an increase over the coming year."
Kelleher then scanned the conference room to see the reaction of the board. Most of them had their heads down, staring into their view screens. They nodded and harrumphed and made noises whose meaning she couldn't quite ascertain. With each passing second, she hated this meeting more and more. When would it end?
An older woman with dark skin and a head of white hair -- she'd probably been with GigaCorp since the turn of the century -- was the first to look up from her screen and speak.
"What about BioWear?" she asked. "I don't see anything in the report about it. At the beginning of the year, you assured us that it was not only on schedule, but that it'd increase earnings before the year's end. That doesn't seem to have happened."
There was a murmur at the table as heads started nodding again.
Kelleher smiled coldly. "You're correct, of course. I stand behind my initial assessment of the profitability of Dr. Kujawa's work, however. Having seen her latest reports, I think we may have another GenGel on our hands here."
The white-haired woman didn't miss a beat. "Then, why didn't you include this in your report? Why doesn't marketing have any idea what's going on? If you intend for this line to be ready to go before the year's end, the board has to be kept informed."
Kelleher smiled again and melted back into her chair. She loved that chair. It was one of considerable value, one of the few items to come from Earth before the disaster, and it was comfortable beyond belief. Kelleher often took solace in its leathery arms when challenged by the board. Those who didn't know her might see it as a sign of weakness, of buckling under the pressures of questioning. Perhaps it was.
But not this time. She had a ready answer for the board. Kelleher sat up straight and turned her attention to a man standing at the back of the room.
"Colonel Markham." She said. "Would you kindly step forward?"
The man strode forward with heavy regulated steps. His boots rang solidly on the polished floor of the boardroom. He wore a gray paramilitary uniform, unadorned except for the insignia placing him with GigaCorp's security forces. He also wore a blank expression that revealed nothing about his interior state of mind. By all appearances, he appeared the stereotypical military man -- a stock character from a bad holo-vid.
When Markham reached the front of the room, he stood at attention beside Kelleher, saying nothing. His briefly scanned the assembled executives before he turned his full attention to GigaCorp's CEO.
"You should remember Colonel Markham from his success against the Coalition last month. Since then, as you're aware, we've had a few public relations setbacks."
There was some grumbling from the board members. Most of it was inaudible, but Kelleher could distinctly hear the word 'DataNet' mentioned on more than one occasion.
"Yes, DataNet." She said with contempt. The words almost seemed like acid in her mouth "It's become more than a nuisance lately. It is the reason for our delay in launching Dr. Kujawa's latest project.
"That's why I have assigned Colonel Markham to handle this matter. He's shown a remarkable ability to get things done. I suspect he'll be able to take care of DataNet easily enough. But perhaps I should let him speak for himself."
She then turned to face the man who loomed above her chair like a vulture. "Colonel, would you be so kind?"
Markham eased his posture at her request, releasing his stiffened back and revealing a slight paunch. He was nevertheless in good shape for a man his age, but he no longer seemed quite as formidable as he did only moments before. He now looked like an aging sports hero on whom time had taken its toll-unbowed by declining.
"Be pleased to, ma'am." Markham responded in his clipped accent. He addressed the board. "Two days ago, intruders succeeded in overcoming security measures at our genetics division. These same intruders hacked into GigaCorp computers and retrieved data relating to the BioWear project.
"As you know, the stolen data included footage of last month's trials and their-unfortunate results. Late last night, the footage and associated data was released to the public via DataNet. Since that time, I have begun an extensive investigation to determine precisely how these intruders managed to not only breach our security but also gain access to encrypted files."
A stern-faced bald man at the end of the table asked, "And what have you ascertained, Colonel?"
Markham looked down at Kelleher, who nodded her head to him and sighed.
"From what I've uncovered so far, it appears that we have a leak within GigaCorp -- probably someone highly placed within the company. How else could the intruders have been able to obtain the data they did?"
There were muted gasps throughout the boardroom. Even the bald man looked disturbed. This was not good news and Kelleher didn't relish what was about to come next.
"Shouldn't we do something, then?" one of the other executives asked. "We've got to put a lid on this ASAP. If DataNet's version of events goes unchallenged, the BioWear line is dead. We'll never be able to recoup our investment."
That thought seemed to disturb even more members of the board. Being accused of unsafe testing practices was one thing. Losing millions in investment capital was something else entirely.
"Just give it to Miguel." The white-haired woman ventured. "Have PR cook up something and go live with it. The public will eat it up. They always do."
Kelleher stood up, pushing back her chair in the process. With Colonel Markham at her side, she began to slowly walk around the table.
"No, that's not enough. This is too big. We've got to do more than get Miguel to do his "José Average" routine. We've got to contain this fast and that requires something special from PR. Plus, there's still the question of the source of the leak itself. Even if we manage to put a good spin on BioWear, we've got to make sure this kind of thing doesn't get away from us again. DataNet's becoming too effective for my liking."
The board simply sat in their seats, spellbound as the pair circled them. Some of them seemed concerned, while others looked impatient. Kelleher made her way around the table and back to her seat. She stood there at the head of the table, with Markham at her side.
"To that end," she explained, " I've given Colonel Markham authorization to begin a more extensive investigation into this matter. I want to be sure there are no more leaks. His office will be in contact with all of you shortly."
"But you can't possibly mean --" the white-haired woman protested.
"Oh, I most certainly do." Kelleher countered. "I told you the leak was high level. The Colonel and I suspect that one of you is its source. We intend to find out which one."
A smile cracked across Markham's craggy face for the first time since the meeting began. Kelleher sat down at last and pulled her chair closer to the table.
"I expect full cooperation with security's investigation. Please don't disappoint me. In the meantime, get PR to work on something better than their usual tripe. Miguel will need to work overtime to pull this one off."
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