The Gellar drive was the latest innovation in a long line of failed technology developed in an attempt to usurp the Galactic Average's chokehold on intersystem commerce.
You see, the Galactic Valet was more than just a convenient plot device, it acted as a passport for the Intergalactic Interstate, containing the ship's registry and the vital data of everyone on board. However, the Galactic Average was the only governing body able to certify biometric data into the Valet, meaning that it cost whatever the Hell they felt like charging at that given moment. They were able to leverage this considerable authority to impose such huge fees that most spacers spent their entire professional careers indebted to the Galactic Pentabank, which may have well been a subsidiary of the Galactic Average corporation. Thanks to a few sinister clauses in the loan paperwork, this basically gave the Galactic Average carte blanche access to an army of indentured cargo space.
However, one of the last really respectable acts of the Universal Senate was to rule that, since it was a private corporation (no matter how much money they dumped into the Senate) that violating the laws governing Valet usage could only ever result in a fine, nothing more.
Furthermore, in the years before man's ascent into the stars, there had been a stringent crackdown on tort law, meaning that the financial impact of fines issued for punitive damages by private corporations had been greatly limited. Limited to the point where it was just as economically feasible to pay the fines and never bother registering your crew.
It's believed that this law originated sometime in the 21st century, during a rocky period in history where the entertainment industry was regularly being attacked by pirate stereotypes, but the records from that era are fragmented at best.
Of course, attempts to overturn the law were ruled as unconstitutional thanks to limits installed by public referendum, before the Senate realized what an ass-headed idea it would be to let the thousands of billions of humans each have their own vote in things. That legal infrastructure was quickly dismantled sometime during the colonization of the Sol system, about a hundred years before the development of the Intergalactic Interstate.
Or you could make like Ennings and hijack a craft so powerful that you could act the gleeful scofflaw and blow large, intimidating holes in any authority figure that tried to interrupt their, you know, rampant destruction of everything inconvenient.
Of course, with the scant firepower available to him now, that certainly wouldn't be a feasible strategy now, Ennings concluded, slowly spinning the amber vial between his fingers. With this, their whole reason for assaulting Clockwerx's heavily armored murderporium, he'd be able to afford a nicer ship than current events had afforded him, as well as work a powerful force of good in the universe. .
“Well, the good's really only a happy side effect, all told.” He muttered to himself.
“Captain to the bridge” Gizmo's voice called over the intercom, snapping and popping like he forgot to reconnect the wires correctly. “I'm referring to you, Ennings, since Jenny's still out cold.”
Ennings pocketed the little vial, and jogged smartly to the bridge.
Gizmo spun in his chair, sitting in front of the recently repaired bank of navigational computers, stacked to the back left of the cockpit. He jumped to another console, punched in a specific series of buttons, and a glittering array spread across the interior of the cockpit. An ocean of stars poured out in front of them, dotted with planets, large scintillating orbs of color, all flanking the titanic inferno of this system's sun, a distant signpost that, despite it's considerable distance from their current location, commanded attention.
“Organic LEDs.” He said, smiling widely. “Much longer life-span than the crystal holofields they use on GA ships. Isn't that cool?” He clapped his hands excitedly, and continued punching buttons on his console.
“You called me away from my me-time just to brag about how our walls are coated in radioactive bacteria?” Ennings asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“No, not at all.” Gizmo said, scowling. “It's an oxidized, ion-doped polyacet-” He paused. “Microscopic fireflies. It's powered by fireflies.”
“See, now I know you're lying to me.” Ennings chided, wagging a finger at Gizmo.
“How ever did you figure that out?” He asked, rolling his eyes as hard as he possibly could.
“I could follow what you were saying. So, what do you need?”
“We're going to be shortly arriving at the Brain Trust. You need to hail them so we can make our final approach.” Gizmo pulled a lever, and the background lights of the cockpit dimmed slightly. The heads-up display on the forward chair glowed brightly as a diagnostic confirmed that, yes, the manual controls were fully functional and all weapons were on-line.
Ennings sat and buckled himself in, before tapping in some commands on a nearby keypad, bringing up the solar atlas. “Where'd Philo get himself to?” He asked while pinpointing the Brain Trust's location. It honed in quickly, a formidable station carved into the center of an intimidating asteroid, not more than a half-hour's flight from their current location.
“Went to go set up personal spaces, I think he said.” Gizmo answered. “Wanted to free up some space in the cargo hold, make this old girl feel a little more like home.” He paused, peering intently at his screen. “Hey, Captain?”
“Yeah?” Ennings asked, fishing a small sheet of paper out of his pocket.
“Do you see a debris field from Clockwerx's ship?” Gizmo lifted his cap and itched at his bald pate, peering intently at his screen. Ennings tapped a few more commands into his keypad, before licking the back of his note and sticking it on the side of his communication screen. He ran down the list of names, settled on a good one, and set a hail request out to the Trust.
“Not a bit, no.”
“That ain't natural. There's no way scavagers could have cleaned up something that big that quickly. Something weird's going on.” Gizmo buckled himself to his seat, just in case things suddenly started exploding.
“Think the Millitary might have had a hand in it?” Ennings asked over his shoulder.
“Not a chance. There were some spare battalions stationed on border systems, just in case, they jumped as soon as word of his destruction started spreading, they haven't arrived yet. This is nothing the Provincials could have done, they were decommissioned them as soon as he took over.”
“Fascinating.” Ennings muttered as the hailing channel initiated. “Remind me, what part of that is our problem now?” Gizmo remained silent. The picture on Enning's communication screen quickly came into focus, a professional-looking woman in her mid 30s, sitting behind an important-looking desk.
“This is Lehman Brain Trust, how may I help you today?” She asked crisply.
“Hi, this is-” Ennings drew a breath in between his teeth as his eyes glanced to the list stuck to the side of his screen. “- Captain Trade Freewind, requesting permission to dock.”
Friday, July 24, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Chapter 8: Low Boil
Chris Ennings made a mental note to himself, as he inspected the ship Parson and Gizmo had acquired, to re-bestow upon himself the title of “Captain” as he once again had a ship to command. She was small, much smaller than the Perse, smaller than the three ships he'd had before that, with the exception of his old Larsa freighter. He'd not yet had much of a chance to look around this new ship, as he and Philo had been tied up at the cargo door offloading the hovertruck.
Parson and Gizmo were still sequestered on the bridge, Gizmo undoubtedly having dismantled half the cockpit in the course of doing something that anyone else would accomplish by flipping three switches and Parson was left to fly with whatever controls Gizmo had left him. Captain Christopher Ennings surrounded himself with associates that he could trust to do what needed to be done and not give him any surprises to deal with. The manner with which they did what they needed to do, now that was another matter.
Ennings paused at the entrance to the galley. It was uncommonly large for a corvette and well equipped. He wondered if this ship had been rigged as a large pleasure craft sometime during its storied history. At any rate, there was certainly room in the freezer for a few deep dish pizzas and space on the counter for a halfway decent cappuccino machine, if he could find a way to keep Gizmo from turning it into a Portable Dimensional Closet or another poofy android. He could hear Philo whistling some Crab Nebula shanty as he finished lashing down the cases of Moonbeer in the cargo hold.
In a way, it was just like old times, back before he got the Perse and hired on that crew of mostly useless space barnacles. With any luck, the only thing he'd have to deal with is naming this new ship. She was old, sure, but solid. A well-made ship like this would-
Ennings' thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a dark-haired young woman staggering drunkenly through the door opposing his on the far side of the galley. She gripped the counter surfaces for support as she lurched over to the dispenser. “Water,” she mumbled as she fidgeted with the device, trying to make it work. Ennings quietly reached past her, thumbed the dispenser's power to ON, and pressed the cycle button. The young woman eagerly grabbed the materialized mug and took a deep drink.
And choked. She coughed up most of the water, drenching Ennings' shirt and spilling the rest of the water down his pants as she slumped forward. Ennings' arms extended and caught her as she collapsed against his chest. His left eyebrow twitched slightly.
Parson entered through the same door as the girl had. “Jen, your brain is still recovering from the Tiara, You need to stay- Oh, hello Chris!” Parson's eyes locked on the damp Ennings and the unconscious Jenny. Parson ran his hands through his hair, as Ennings knew him to do whenever he expected trouble.
“John,” Ennings' voice was calm. “A quantum heroin addict is stowing away on my ship. Where is the closest airlock?”
“Come on now, Chris. You're not going to just throw an unconscious girl out of the airlock.”
“Of course not.” Ennings replied. “First you are going to tell me why you know her name. And then, depending upon what you tell me, I will adapt my plan to the situation like any good captain. I may throw Jen here out of the airlock, or I might throw you out, or hell, Parson, after the day I have had I may put on this tiara you mentioned and pirouette out of the comet-choked thing myself. So there is no 'just' here, Parson. Rest assured there will be deliberation on many aspects of this airlock-throwing before it happens.” Ennings paused, and looked down and Jenny's vulnerable form for a long moment.
“Parson?”
“Yes, Chris?”
“Parson, I am almost completely certain that Jen here has began to drool on me. Let's continue this discussion at the airlock. Call Philo and tell him to dig out some napkins.”
“Chris, you're not throwing anyone out the airlock because its atmospheric sensor isn't working and therefore the door will not open. It's a safety feature.”
“Get Gizmo on that, but tell him not to, you know, turn it into anything. There's not much joy in being a pirate if you can't make people walk the plank. Now grab her ankles and let's get her to a bunk. I need some dry clothes and for you to tell me what's going on here.” Ennings sighed. “And in that order.”
One costume change later, the remnants of the once mighty Perse sat gathered around the galley table, watching Gizmo slide a disk labled “DARK SECRETS OF THE GALAXY vol 4.” into a projector. It cast a flickering glow upon the far wall, and a soothing voice began in a voice that can only be described as gloriously expository:
“There was a time, many generations ago, when human science had shocked the world by learning that mental powers such as ESP, telekinesis, and telepathy were in fact real and measurable. Those so gifted were known as Espers. However, the combinations of genetics that gave rise to Espers were so improbable that the population of humanity was nearing a trillion before more than one was being born in a generation, and even then it took the most powerful computer ever used by humanity to find them. A computer, some might say, that rivaled even the Espers themselves in power.
At the time that Espers were discovered, The Galactic Average Corporation had established its first Brainframe Cluster, a collection of two hundred million human brains, all suspended in nutrient gel jars and networked through a quantum computing matrix. One of the first jobs assigned to it was to sort, catalog, store, and maintain a listing of every Galactic Average citizen, to be later used as the world's largest marketing database. All of their purchasing habits, daily movements, entertainment choices, and a full genetic workup were logged, cross-referenced, indexed, tagged and numbered in the biggest bio-computing project in human history.
And when dealing with such a wide variety of statistical data on such a vast number of people, whole new vistas of realization were unveiled. Asimovian Psychohistory became possible, though used only to predict upcoming consumer trends, which were then exploited to such an astonishing degree that underground movements were being commercialized before they could develop. This resulted in a critical irony shortage, which had a dire affect on the secondhand book and album economy of Mecha-Cambridge. The Brainframe made quintillions of logical connections and correlations every GA second. In the human genome, the long-elusive genetic traits responsible for Alzheimer's Disease, Down's Syndrome, and Shoe Collecting were discovered and quickly patented, sometimes with royalty invoices going out to the afflicted within a Galactic Average Week.
And then anomalies AMB415-0016 and AMB626-1987 were discovered.
AMB415-0016 was strongly linked to incidents of sudden and inexplicable changes in plans or behavior, most of which spared the subject from imminent death or harm, displays of great charisma or persuasion, and several of the more intense varieties of psychotic mental illness that could not be explained by any known cause or trigger.
AMB626-1987 had strong correlations with strong, unexplained cyclical mood disorders, extreme reclusivity, unusually successful diplomats and otherwise unexplainable neurological conditions such as migraines.
Psionics and Empathy, respectively. Espers.
These genetic codes were swiftly patented. The mutations were hard to produce and harder to manipulate, so the Galactic Average employed a program of eugenics and child abductions to breed stronger, more exploitable espers. Stable zygotes were implanted into willing, unwilling, and even unknowing hosts. Espers were soon bred with the mental abilities to move objects, read minds, and even interface with sophisticated neurotronic computer systems, leading to the development of the Geller ships, designed to be operated by Espers, that saw high profile use in the Trade and Secession Wars.
But Galactic Average had reached too far, too soon. The few viable genetic lines they had available were crossbred and rebred rapidly, looking for stronger psionic traits, and mutations were overlooked. Empathy became mutually exclusive to the other, more financially exploitable abilities, and fell into disuse. The new crops of children became immune to the devices and drugs used to train and control them. In the span of a generation Espers went from heroes and celebrities to brutal villains as they became uncontrollable sociopaths, monsters trapped in the bodies of children.
The Galactic Average frantically searched for ways to eradicate the unfeeling gods they had created, resorting to banned nanoweapons to assassinate the most powerful ones, some of whom had since dominated entire systems through careful manipulation. New strains of Espers were created in an attempt to make them more controllable, but with no success. The last Esper Farm was lost to a patient uprising fifteen solar years ago, destroyed by the GA via induced meteoric deorbit. It was the only way Galactic Average could be sure none of the Espers escaped.”
Gizmo flicked the lights back on.
Parson and Philo sat in silence, astonished by none of what they had seen. Ennings raised his hand.
“Yes, Chris?” Gizmo asked.
“I have two questions. First, what does that have to do with me not being able to space Jen?”
Gizmo sighed. “Because this is a Geller ship and the only Galactic Valet we have is both blank and entirely devoted to figuring out why it's broken, which bars me from trying to fix it without damaging it. Basically we can't use the local Interstate, and the fusion drive was only added as an afterthought so non-Espers could get on and off world, so it'll take us around” Gizmo contorted his face into a mask of concentration as he did a furious amount of math in his brain- “Fifty-four thousand solar years to get anywhere habitable. So Jenny's ability to both power and control the Psionic Drive is our only chance to get anyplace before we all die.”
“So I can't space the freeloader because she's a psychic battery with a sob story.”
“We're technically the freeloaders here. This is Jen's ship, and we're volunteering as crew to get passage off of Bochco.” Gizmo corrected.
“I am still pretending that is not the case.” Ennings replied. “My second question is why the omnipotent emotionless space-god hasn't killed or mindwiped us or something. Or, for that matter, the whole planet of Bochco. She didn't look terribly murder-inclined when I ran into her.” He paused. “Just thirsty.”
“I don't know.” Gizmo answered. “She's not acting like an Esper.”
“Because she is not just a psionicist.” Parson said. “She's also an empath.”
“That's impossible!” Gizmo interjected. “No one ever got the Pionic and Emapth genestrains to breed back together.”
“On the contrary, it happened all the time.” Philo commented.
“Wait, really?” Gizmo asked.
“The information about them being sundered originated in a propaganda film designed to misinform the population about the precise nature of Galactic Average's problems with Espers. The director later admitted to inventing the whole thing.” Philo scratched his nose. “The film's commentary is really interesting, if nothing else.”
“I'm getting really sick of being the only one at this table that doesn't have an encyclopedic knowledge of whatever the Hell is going on here.” Ennings kicked his still-muddy boots up on the table and leaned back. “Parson, how sure are you on this empath thing?”
“Absolutely.” He replied.
“Sweet, I consider the matter settled, then. So, this begs us a very important question.” Ennings leaned forward. “Gizmo, where did you dig up that old documentary?”
Gizmo shrugged. “Where else? Starbay.”
Ennings clapped his hands. “Okay, let's crew this ship. The conference room is now once again the mess hall. Gizmo, go fix the, uh, inside things. Philo, go to the bridge and keep an eye on any outside things. Once that's all square, get ready to take us to that brain-bank so we can get this Greg thing all squared away. I'm going to see what I can make us to eat with what food things have survived from Perse. Now go.”
“Stay seated, Parson.” Ennings added as Gizmo and Philo departed. The galley door closed.
“Chris, I-”
“Not that.” Ennings shook his head. “Jen. This not how we operate. It's not even how you operate. But I know you have your reasons so I'm backing you up on this 'promise to keep her safe' thing. But you got us into this, so she is your problem. Keep her out of my hair and take care of her so she doesn't end up in the mass driver or something. We're her crew but she's our engine.” Ennings paused and rubbed his forehead. “Now get out of here. I need to to cook and think.”
Parson left without a word.
Ennings headed for the hold. He needed food, pots, and his ablative apron. Everything else may be going to Hell but at least he could still make an oven do what he wanted.
Before Gizmo gets his hands on it.
Parson and Gizmo were still sequestered on the bridge, Gizmo undoubtedly having dismantled half the cockpit in the course of doing something that anyone else would accomplish by flipping three switches and Parson was left to fly with whatever controls Gizmo had left him. Captain Christopher Ennings surrounded himself with associates that he could trust to do what needed to be done and not give him any surprises to deal with. The manner with which they did what they needed to do, now that was another matter.
Ennings paused at the entrance to the galley. It was uncommonly large for a corvette and well equipped. He wondered if this ship had been rigged as a large pleasure craft sometime during its storied history. At any rate, there was certainly room in the freezer for a few deep dish pizzas and space on the counter for a halfway decent cappuccino machine, if he could find a way to keep Gizmo from turning it into a Portable Dimensional Closet or another poofy android. He could hear Philo whistling some Crab Nebula shanty as he finished lashing down the cases of Moonbeer in the cargo hold.
In a way, it was just like old times, back before he got the Perse and hired on that crew of mostly useless space barnacles. With any luck, the only thing he'd have to deal with is naming this new ship. She was old, sure, but solid. A well-made ship like this would-
Ennings' thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a dark-haired young woman staggering drunkenly through the door opposing his on the far side of the galley. She gripped the counter surfaces for support as she lurched over to the dispenser. “Water,” she mumbled as she fidgeted with the device, trying to make it work. Ennings quietly reached past her, thumbed the dispenser's power to ON, and pressed the cycle button. The young woman eagerly grabbed the materialized mug and took a deep drink.
And choked. She coughed up most of the water, drenching Ennings' shirt and spilling the rest of the water down his pants as she slumped forward. Ennings' arms extended and caught her as she collapsed against his chest. His left eyebrow twitched slightly.
Parson entered through the same door as the girl had. “Jen, your brain is still recovering from the Tiara, You need to stay- Oh, hello Chris!” Parson's eyes locked on the damp Ennings and the unconscious Jenny. Parson ran his hands through his hair, as Ennings knew him to do whenever he expected trouble.
“John,” Ennings' voice was calm. “A quantum heroin addict is stowing away on my ship. Where is the closest airlock?”
“Come on now, Chris. You're not going to just throw an unconscious girl out of the airlock.”
“Of course not.” Ennings replied. “First you are going to tell me why you know her name. And then, depending upon what you tell me, I will adapt my plan to the situation like any good captain. I may throw Jen here out of the airlock, or I might throw you out, or hell, Parson, after the day I have had I may put on this tiara you mentioned and pirouette out of the comet-choked thing myself. So there is no 'just' here, Parson. Rest assured there will be deliberation on many aspects of this airlock-throwing before it happens.” Ennings paused, and looked down and Jenny's vulnerable form for a long moment.
“Parson?”
“Yes, Chris?”
“Parson, I am almost completely certain that Jen here has began to drool on me. Let's continue this discussion at the airlock. Call Philo and tell him to dig out some napkins.”
“Chris, you're not throwing anyone out the airlock because its atmospheric sensor isn't working and therefore the door will not open. It's a safety feature.”
“Get Gizmo on that, but tell him not to, you know, turn it into anything. There's not much joy in being a pirate if you can't make people walk the plank. Now grab her ankles and let's get her to a bunk. I need some dry clothes and for you to tell me what's going on here.” Ennings sighed. “And in that order.”
One costume change later, the remnants of the once mighty Perse sat gathered around the galley table, watching Gizmo slide a disk labled “DARK SECRETS OF THE GALAXY vol 4.” into a projector. It cast a flickering glow upon the far wall, and a soothing voice began in a voice that can only be described as gloriously expository:
“There was a time, many generations ago, when human science had shocked the world by learning that mental powers such as ESP, telekinesis, and telepathy were in fact real and measurable. Those so gifted were known as Espers. However, the combinations of genetics that gave rise to Espers were so improbable that the population of humanity was nearing a trillion before more than one was being born in a generation, and even then it took the most powerful computer ever used by humanity to find them. A computer, some might say, that rivaled even the Espers themselves in power.
At the time that Espers were discovered, The Galactic Average Corporation had established its first Brainframe Cluster, a collection of two hundred million human brains, all suspended in nutrient gel jars and networked through a quantum computing matrix. One of the first jobs assigned to it was to sort, catalog, store, and maintain a listing of every Galactic Average citizen, to be later used as the world's largest marketing database. All of their purchasing habits, daily movements, entertainment choices, and a full genetic workup were logged, cross-referenced, indexed, tagged and numbered in the biggest bio-computing project in human history.
And when dealing with such a wide variety of statistical data on such a vast number of people, whole new vistas of realization were unveiled. Asimovian Psychohistory became possible, though used only to predict upcoming consumer trends, which were then exploited to such an astonishing degree that underground movements were being commercialized before they could develop. This resulted in a critical irony shortage, which had a dire affect on the secondhand book and album economy of Mecha-Cambridge. The Brainframe made quintillions of logical connections and correlations every GA second. In the human genome, the long-elusive genetic traits responsible for Alzheimer's Disease, Down's Syndrome, and Shoe Collecting were discovered and quickly patented, sometimes with royalty invoices going out to the afflicted within a Galactic Average Week.
And then anomalies AMB415-0016 and AMB626-1987 were discovered.
AMB415-0016 was strongly linked to incidents of sudden and inexplicable changes in plans or behavior, most of which spared the subject from imminent death or harm, displays of great charisma or persuasion, and several of the more intense varieties of psychotic mental illness that could not be explained by any known cause or trigger.
AMB626-1987 had strong correlations with strong, unexplained cyclical mood disorders, extreme reclusivity, unusually successful diplomats and otherwise unexplainable neurological conditions such as migraines.
Psionics and Empathy, respectively. Espers.
These genetic codes were swiftly patented. The mutations were hard to produce and harder to manipulate, so the Galactic Average employed a program of eugenics and child abductions to breed stronger, more exploitable espers. Stable zygotes were implanted into willing, unwilling, and even unknowing hosts. Espers were soon bred with the mental abilities to move objects, read minds, and even interface with sophisticated neurotronic computer systems, leading to the development of the Geller ships, designed to be operated by Espers, that saw high profile use in the Trade and Secession Wars.
But Galactic Average had reached too far, too soon. The few viable genetic lines they had available were crossbred and rebred rapidly, looking for stronger psionic traits, and mutations were overlooked. Empathy became mutually exclusive to the other, more financially exploitable abilities, and fell into disuse. The new crops of children became immune to the devices and drugs used to train and control them. In the span of a generation Espers went from heroes and celebrities to brutal villains as they became uncontrollable sociopaths, monsters trapped in the bodies of children.
The Galactic Average frantically searched for ways to eradicate the unfeeling gods they had created, resorting to banned nanoweapons to assassinate the most powerful ones, some of whom had since dominated entire systems through careful manipulation. New strains of Espers were created in an attempt to make them more controllable, but with no success. The last Esper Farm was lost to a patient uprising fifteen solar years ago, destroyed by the GA via induced meteoric deorbit. It was the only way Galactic Average could be sure none of the Espers escaped.”
Gizmo flicked the lights back on.
Parson and Philo sat in silence, astonished by none of what they had seen. Ennings raised his hand.
“Yes, Chris?” Gizmo asked.
“I have two questions. First, what does that have to do with me not being able to space Jen?”
Gizmo sighed. “Because this is a Geller ship and the only Galactic Valet we have is both blank and entirely devoted to figuring out why it's broken, which bars me from trying to fix it without damaging it. Basically we can't use the local Interstate, and the fusion drive was only added as an afterthought so non-Espers could get on and off world, so it'll take us around” Gizmo contorted his face into a mask of concentration as he did a furious amount of math in his brain- “Fifty-four thousand solar years to get anywhere habitable. So Jenny's ability to both power and control the Psionic Drive is our only chance to get anyplace before we all die.”
“So I can't space the freeloader because she's a psychic battery with a sob story.”
“We're technically the freeloaders here. This is Jen's ship, and we're volunteering as crew to get passage off of Bochco.” Gizmo corrected.
“I am still pretending that is not the case.” Ennings replied. “My second question is why the omnipotent emotionless space-god hasn't killed or mindwiped us or something. Or, for that matter, the whole planet of Bochco. She didn't look terribly murder-inclined when I ran into her.” He paused. “Just thirsty.”
“I don't know.” Gizmo answered. “She's not acting like an Esper.”
“Because she is not just a psionicist.” Parson said. “She's also an empath.”
“That's impossible!” Gizmo interjected. “No one ever got the Pionic and Emapth genestrains to breed back together.”
“On the contrary, it happened all the time.” Philo commented.
“Wait, really?” Gizmo asked.
“The information about them being sundered originated in a propaganda film designed to misinform the population about the precise nature of Galactic Average's problems with Espers. The director later admitted to inventing the whole thing.” Philo scratched his nose. “The film's commentary is really interesting, if nothing else.”
“I'm getting really sick of being the only one at this table that doesn't have an encyclopedic knowledge of whatever the Hell is going on here.” Ennings kicked his still-muddy boots up on the table and leaned back. “Parson, how sure are you on this empath thing?”
“Absolutely.” He replied.
“Sweet, I consider the matter settled, then. So, this begs us a very important question.” Ennings leaned forward. “Gizmo, where did you dig up that old documentary?”
Gizmo shrugged. “Where else? Starbay.”
Ennings clapped his hands. “Okay, let's crew this ship. The conference room is now once again the mess hall. Gizmo, go fix the, uh, inside things. Philo, go to the bridge and keep an eye on any outside things. Once that's all square, get ready to take us to that brain-bank so we can get this Greg thing all squared away. I'm going to see what I can make us to eat with what food things have survived from Perse. Now go.”
“Stay seated, Parson.” Ennings added as Gizmo and Philo departed. The galley door closed.
“Chris, I-”
“Not that.” Ennings shook his head. “Jen. This not how we operate. It's not even how you operate. But I know you have your reasons so I'm backing you up on this 'promise to keep her safe' thing. But you got us into this, so she is your problem. Keep her out of my hair and take care of her so she doesn't end up in the mass driver or something. We're her crew but she's our engine.” Ennings paused and rubbed his forehead. “Now get out of here. I need to to cook and think.”
Parson left without a word.
Ennings headed for the hold. He needed food, pots, and his ablative apron. Everything else may be going to Hell but at least he could still make an oven do what he wanted.
Before Gizmo gets his hands on it.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Chapter 7: Blastoff!
Four things happened simultaneously in the spaceport that day: Ennings bashed in the door, Gizmo patched a cable into the correct outlet, someone tried breaking into the Circe, and everyone in a three-mile radius had an orgasm.
Now, with most coincidences, you can usually explain them away using little more than half-remembered statistical quirks. A butterfly beating its wings on the shores of Olympus certainly isn't responsible for the tidal wave that destroyed a Mennonite village on the far side of the moon. Friction can attest to that. Thinking of someone before they call can usually be explained with the law of averages. Palmistry and such associated silliness is usually equal parts pop psychology and cold reading, with a dash of showmanship thrown in for taste. Tarot cards were, at one point, a highly powerful tool used in ritual magic. However, centuries before the development of the starship, a massive ritual was undertaken by a sex-crazed syphilitic lunatic in a monastery in Venice which rendered every Tarot card in existence inert, save one, which was then promptly lost to history. Everyone associated with this project then promptly denied ever knowing the man and years later he died, only to have his traditions exploited and watered-down by posers and the sorts of wastrel hangers-on that tend to flock to eccentric personality cults near their decline.
However, none of that was evident to anyone involved when the damn thing went down. Sarah Slaughter, one of the most feared Doomsquad in the area, and her deadly squad of Doombots were engaged with a furiously one-sided gun battle with the Circe, who sat quiet and austere within the dusty confines of Hangar 18.
"Keep firing!" she shouted, ducking behind a barrel loaded with something about as flammable as teenage romance. She loaded an EMP charge into her bazooka, took careful aim, and fired. It slammed into the side of the ship like a vengeful stoat, then clattered to the ground, totally inert. Sarah grimaced and made a mental note to put the screws to the backhanded Merchant who sold her the defective ordinance.
Never being one to shy away from spectacle, she leaped atop of a nearby crate to rally her troops. "Doombots! Forward!" She leaped again and rolled, zigzagging to the back of the ship, where she somersaulted to the door set into the cargo hatch. She did a quick survey of the room, bazooka in hand, before she set about cracking the keycode on the door's control panel. The Doombots formed a protective circle around her and continued firing with their rifles. The ship continued to not give a shit, reflecting every round fired at it.
The resounding echo of the fist-sized projectile slamming into the ship was utterly drowned out in the screaming chaos of the ship's interior. Gizmo, completely underestimating how infuriatingly complex Gellar ships were, had begun to disassemble one of the computer banks near his seat. Parson, after successfully engaging the fusion reactor and then accomplishing nothing else, was hell-bent on figuring out how to bring the weapon systems online, or at least send out some sort of emergency signal on the Valet, which had been running diagnostics ever since Jen had resorted to the "Push every god damned button you see" method of piloting. Thankfully her reach was mercifully short due to the fact that she was both strapped into the sort of chair used most frequently in torture-porn films and the fact that the Tiara's drain on her mental faculties was now so intense that she began to blame every societal ill on the Liberal party.
"Welfare!" She shouted crazily, picking at a few blinking lights recessed into the armrests on her chair. "Wealth distribution! Public education!"
"She's getting worse!" Parson shouted. "God dammit, Gizmo, do something!" He punched a few more buttons and the cockpit's viewscreen turned orange and displayed an external view of the ship, Henchbots and all. A deep humming spread through the ship.
"Kay!" Gizmo shouted from beneath a mess of wires and disassembled parts. "I think I patched the fusion core through to the primary controls!" He pulled his head out from behind the mess he had created. "Or was that not something?" He asked sarcastically.
Unseen to both of them, a white button lit up on Jen's armrest. She hammered it gleefully. Something significant then exploded, but we'll get to that in a moment.
While all that was happening, Ennings was leaning nonchalantly against the car, Warcrime slung manfully over his shoulder, trying very hard to ignore the tearful farewell occurring behind him.
"You're unlike anyone I've ever met." The unnamed man confessed. "I've never connected with anyone like I have with you." He ran a hand through his short black hair. "Will I ever see you again?"
"No." Philo said. "Given the duration and scope of my current mission, the probability of my returning to this system during your lifetime are insignificant, rendering any long-term emotional investment fallacious at best." Philo paused for a moment. "Also, there is a slight chance that, at some point during my mission, I may explode." He shrugged.
The man wiped the tears from his face. "Wh-what are you trying to say?"
Philo paused, then, as emotionlessly as possible, said; "What we had is special. Let's enjoy the time we shared together and move on with our lives." Thankfully, being a robot, Philo felt neither remorse for using the man nor shame for how utterly ridiculous his words were, so the emotionless part came easily. The man nodded, wiped his face once more, climbed into his car, and drove off.
"How charmingly poignant." Ennings declared. "Now, if you don't mind, we've got a big damn hero moment to walk in on. Care to join me?"
"You didn't have to wait." Philo said, walking to the hangar door. "The lock's been blown clear off." He readied himself against one side of the door, shaking out his artificial muscles. Philo was the sort of fellow who, instead of using weapons, would much rather bludgeon his opponent into submission with his bare hands.
"I knew that." Ennings retorted defensively, noting the tell-tale scorch marks of the Doorchime charges. "I'm not foolhardy enough to go into combat without someone watching my back, is all."
"Yes, you are." Philo corrected.
"Yeah, you're right. I totally am." Ennings ran full tilt at the door, knocking it off it
's hinges with a single mighty kick at the exact same moment that Sarah began her attempted ingress of the cargo hatch, which was the exact same moment that Jenny pushed that significant little button.
And now, for a history lesson: During the early years of the 21st century, a therapy called "transcranial direct current stimulation" developed wherein a nine-volt battery would be attached to portions of the brain. Depending on where the electrodes were placed, there could be any number of results ranging from a decrease in migraine frequency and intensity, an improvement in memory or hand-eye coordination, or relief from the symptoms of neurological disorders. Of course the most common side-effect was a marked propensity for these practitioners to up and die, due to the fact that they went ahead and wired a battery into their brains.
However, that was due more to the absolute crudity with which 21st century regarded the brain than any fault with the therapy. Once doctors and scientists REALLY realized how blastedly complicated a system the brain was, they were able to more effectively electrocute precise areas, leading to a number of jaw-dropping developments. The most shocking of which was the effects an Esper could have on the space-time continuum when given sufficient power.
Given how vastly superior an Esper's mind is compared to ours, imagine the sort of things it could do when attached directly to a fusion generator. In this case, a whole fuck of a lot.
As soon as Jenny pushed that fateful button, she could feel her consciousness expand faster than waistlines at an all-you-can-eat ham buffet. She became instantly aware of everything happening around her, she could feel Sarah Slaughter's burning hatred, could feel Parson's panicked urgency, she instantly knew that the bum digging through the dumpster three hundred feet to the south was the greatest mathematician born in fifty years. She could tell that, beyond the shopping plaza where Ennings left the Hovertruck, there was a boy sitting in a cafe who will grow up and develop a novel use for reactor waste because a girl rejects him two years from tomorrow.
Every thought, sensation, realization, insight, every possible nuance of everyone within a three-mile radius was hers. For one shocking moment she was gloriously united with these people, the fundamental gap between personalities became nothing more than a stitch in reality she traipsed over with all the effort of stepping across a seam in the sidewalk. She reached out a hand and in a single sweeping moment became one with an entire city block, instantly understanding each and every one of their dreams and motivations.
Just as swiftly as it happened, she came back into herself, utterly shocked at what had just taken place. Her eyes rolled back into her skull and she fell blissfully asleep. Gizmo, after recollecting his wits, unplugged the cable, and went about reconstructing the bank of computers. Parson, after falling to the ground as his knees gave out underneath him, sat panting, trying to figure out exactly which way was up.
Outside the ship, Ennings leaned heavily against Philo, who bore a most distressed expression.
"I didn't know I could do that." he said, dragging Ennings over the ring of blissfully smoking Doombot rubble.
"Add that to a growing list of things I had no desire of ever learning about you." Ennings quipped, waiting for control of his lower half to return.
"There are wonderful secrets hidden within everyone." Philo gently chided. "Just because my skin is artificial, does not make me any less nuanced than you. My brain was once alive too, you know." Philo set Ennings next to the ship's hatch, gently carrying Sarah a safe distance from the formidable engines.
"We'll be leaving soon, so you probably ought to be leaving soon, yes?" The soon-to-be-demoted commander nodded mutely, temporarily having lost her voice during a religious experience. She stumbled off into the street, wincing at the sudden intensity of the light.
"Gizmo!" Ennings called, hammering against the door. "Let us in! I have had quite enough of this damned shark-invested ball of filth!" Ennings tried to stand, teetered a bit, and sat back down. "Philo, help me stand. I intend to shoot the door apart." Gizmo shook his head, picked Ennings up like an ornery sack of murder-potatoes, and gently stroked the keypad.
"A ship is like a woman-" He said to Ennings "-In more ways than one." The doors shuddered, then slowly slid open.
"You used your brain radio to call Gizmo, didn't you?"
"You suck the romance out of everything."
The door slid shut behind them. Moments later, the ship lifted off the ground, burst through the hangar sideways, and soared off into space.
Moments after that, they fell back to ground with all the grace of a cement kite, loaded the cargo from the Hovertruck, and took back off again.
Now, with most coincidences, you can usually explain them away using little more than half-remembered statistical quirks. A butterfly beating its wings on the shores of Olympus certainly isn't responsible for the tidal wave that destroyed a Mennonite village on the far side of the moon. Friction can attest to that. Thinking of someone before they call can usually be explained with the law of averages. Palmistry and such associated silliness is usually equal parts pop psychology and cold reading, with a dash of showmanship thrown in for taste. Tarot cards were, at one point, a highly powerful tool used in ritual magic. However, centuries before the development of the starship, a massive ritual was undertaken by a sex-crazed syphilitic lunatic in a monastery in Venice which rendered every Tarot card in existence inert, save one, which was then promptly lost to history. Everyone associated with this project then promptly denied ever knowing the man and years later he died, only to have his traditions exploited and watered-down by posers and the sorts of wastrel hangers-on that tend to flock to eccentric personality cults near their decline.
However, none of that was evident to anyone involved when the damn thing went down. Sarah Slaughter, one of the most feared Doomsquad in the area, and her deadly squad of Doombots were engaged with a furiously one-sided gun battle with the Circe, who sat quiet and austere within the dusty confines of Hangar 18.
"Keep firing!" she shouted, ducking behind a barrel loaded with something about as flammable as teenage romance. She loaded an EMP charge into her bazooka, took careful aim, and fired. It slammed into the side of the ship like a vengeful stoat, then clattered to the ground, totally inert. Sarah grimaced and made a mental note to put the screws to the backhanded Merchant who sold her the defective ordinance.
Never being one to shy away from spectacle, she leaped atop of a nearby crate to rally her troops. "Doombots! Forward!" She leaped again and rolled, zigzagging to the back of the ship, where she somersaulted to the door set into the cargo hatch. She did a quick survey of the room, bazooka in hand, before she set about cracking the keycode on the door's control panel. The Doombots formed a protective circle around her and continued firing with their rifles. The ship continued to not give a shit, reflecting every round fired at it.
The resounding echo of the fist-sized projectile slamming into the ship was utterly drowned out in the screaming chaos of the ship's interior. Gizmo, completely underestimating how infuriatingly complex Gellar ships were, had begun to disassemble one of the computer banks near his seat. Parson, after successfully engaging the fusion reactor and then accomplishing nothing else, was hell-bent on figuring out how to bring the weapon systems online, or at least send out some sort of emergency signal on the Valet, which had been running diagnostics ever since Jen had resorted to the "Push every god damned button you see" method of piloting. Thankfully her reach was mercifully short due to the fact that she was both strapped into the sort of chair used most frequently in torture-porn films and the fact that the Tiara's drain on her mental faculties was now so intense that she began to blame every societal ill on the Liberal party.
"Welfare!" She shouted crazily, picking at a few blinking lights recessed into the armrests on her chair. "Wealth distribution! Public education!"
"She's getting worse!" Parson shouted. "God dammit, Gizmo, do something!" He punched a few more buttons and the cockpit's viewscreen turned orange and displayed an external view of the ship, Henchbots and all. A deep humming spread through the ship.
"Kay!" Gizmo shouted from beneath a mess of wires and disassembled parts. "I think I patched the fusion core through to the primary controls!" He pulled his head out from behind the mess he had created. "Or was that not something?" He asked sarcastically.
Unseen to both of them, a white button lit up on Jen's armrest. She hammered it gleefully. Something significant then exploded, but we'll get to that in a moment.
While all that was happening, Ennings was leaning nonchalantly against the car, Warcrime slung manfully over his shoulder, trying very hard to ignore the tearful farewell occurring behind him.
"You're unlike anyone I've ever met." The unnamed man confessed. "I've never connected with anyone like I have with you." He ran a hand through his short black hair. "Will I ever see you again?"
"No." Philo said. "Given the duration and scope of my current mission, the probability of my returning to this system during your lifetime are insignificant, rendering any long-term emotional investment fallacious at best." Philo paused for a moment. "Also, there is a slight chance that, at some point during my mission, I may explode." He shrugged.
The man wiped the tears from his face. "Wh-what are you trying to say?"
Philo paused, then, as emotionlessly as possible, said; "What we had is special. Let's enjoy the time we shared together and move on with our lives." Thankfully, being a robot, Philo felt neither remorse for using the man nor shame for how utterly ridiculous his words were, so the emotionless part came easily. The man nodded, wiped his face once more, climbed into his car, and drove off.
"How charmingly poignant." Ennings declared. "Now, if you don't mind, we've got a big damn hero moment to walk in on. Care to join me?"
"You didn't have to wait." Philo said, walking to the hangar door. "The lock's been blown clear off." He readied himself against one side of the door, shaking out his artificial muscles. Philo was the sort of fellow who, instead of using weapons, would much rather bludgeon his opponent into submission with his bare hands.
"I knew that." Ennings retorted defensively, noting the tell-tale scorch marks of the Doorchime charges. "I'm not foolhardy enough to go into combat without someone watching my back, is all."
"Yes, you are." Philo corrected.
"Yeah, you're right. I totally am." Ennings ran full tilt at the door, knocking it off it
's hinges with a single mighty kick at the exact same moment that Sarah began her attempted ingress of the cargo hatch, which was the exact same moment that Jenny pushed that significant little button.
And now, for a history lesson: During the early years of the 21st century, a therapy called "transcranial direct current stimulation" developed wherein a nine-volt battery would be attached to portions of the brain. Depending on where the electrodes were placed, there could be any number of results ranging from a decrease in migraine frequency and intensity, an improvement in memory or hand-eye coordination, or relief from the symptoms of neurological disorders. Of course the most common side-effect was a marked propensity for these practitioners to up and die, due to the fact that they went ahead and wired a battery into their brains.
However, that was due more to the absolute crudity with which 21st century regarded the brain than any fault with the therapy. Once doctors and scientists REALLY realized how blastedly complicated a system the brain was, they were able to more effectively electrocute precise areas, leading to a number of jaw-dropping developments. The most shocking of which was the effects an Esper could have on the space-time continuum when given sufficient power.
Given how vastly superior an Esper's mind is compared to ours, imagine the sort of things it could do when attached directly to a fusion generator. In this case, a whole fuck of a lot.
As soon as Jenny pushed that fateful button, she could feel her consciousness expand faster than waistlines at an all-you-can-eat ham buffet. She became instantly aware of everything happening around her, she could feel Sarah Slaughter's burning hatred, could feel Parson's panicked urgency, she instantly knew that the bum digging through the dumpster three hundred feet to the south was the greatest mathematician born in fifty years. She could tell that, beyond the shopping plaza where Ennings left the Hovertruck, there was a boy sitting in a cafe who will grow up and develop a novel use for reactor waste because a girl rejects him two years from tomorrow.
Every thought, sensation, realization, insight, every possible nuance of everyone within a three-mile radius was hers. For one shocking moment she was gloriously united with these people, the fundamental gap between personalities became nothing more than a stitch in reality she traipsed over with all the effort of stepping across a seam in the sidewalk. She reached out a hand and in a single sweeping moment became one with an entire city block, instantly understanding each and every one of their dreams and motivations.
Just as swiftly as it happened, she came back into herself, utterly shocked at what had just taken place. Her eyes rolled back into her skull and she fell blissfully asleep. Gizmo, after recollecting his wits, unplugged the cable, and went about reconstructing the bank of computers. Parson, after falling to the ground as his knees gave out underneath him, sat panting, trying to figure out exactly which way was up.
Outside the ship, Ennings leaned heavily against Philo, who bore a most distressed expression.
"I didn't know I could do that." he said, dragging Ennings over the ring of blissfully smoking Doombot rubble.
"Add that to a growing list of things I had no desire of ever learning about you." Ennings quipped, waiting for control of his lower half to return.
"There are wonderful secrets hidden within everyone." Philo gently chided. "Just because my skin is artificial, does not make me any less nuanced than you. My brain was once alive too, you know." Philo set Ennings next to the ship's hatch, gently carrying Sarah a safe distance from the formidable engines.
"We'll be leaving soon, so you probably ought to be leaving soon, yes?" The soon-to-be-demoted commander nodded mutely, temporarily having lost her voice during a religious experience. She stumbled off into the street, wincing at the sudden intensity of the light.
"Gizmo!" Ennings called, hammering against the door. "Let us in! I have had quite enough of this damned shark-invested ball of filth!" Ennings tried to stand, teetered a bit, and sat back down. "Philo, help me stand. I intend to shoot the door apart." Gizmo shook his head, picked Ennings up like an ornery sack of murder-potatoes, and gently stroked the keypad.
"A ship is like a woman-" He said to Ennings "-In more ways than one." The doors shuddered, then slowly slid open.
"You used your brain radio to call Gizmo, didn't you?"
"You suck the romance out of everything."
The door slid shut behind them. Moments later, the ship lifted off the ground, burst through the hangar sideways, and soared off into space.
Moments after that, they fell back to ground with all the grace of a cement kite, loaded the cargo from the Hovertruck, and took back off again.
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