Backyard Starship: Origins Read online

  “My entire existence was a potentially fatal encounter just a few moments ago. Yes, you have my permission. But I have two questions before you engage this enemy.”

  “Go ahead,” Valint answered.

  “How long until that ship attacks?”

  Bunn chimed in. “Thirty-eight minutes until intercept.”

  Mark gave a thoughtful pull on his chin. “Is there something I can read during that time? Something to allow me to begin learning about all this?”

  Valint looked pained and then leaned forward. “I don’t have something you can read, at least not that would help in that short time. I do, however, have a method to help you. To understand some of this,” she said with an air of such trepidation that Mark looked around as if he was under imminent threat.

  In a way, he was.

  “I’ve come this far. So, tell me,” Mark said, feeling small in that moment.

  “I’ll show you. Striker, bring out the Taste.” She held a hand up to Mark, and they both waited as Striker unlocked a cabinet, opened a door, and pulled something out of a cold-storage area. The AI handed an object to Valint, who absently rolled it between her palms. At Mark’s look of inquiry, she said, “Helps to warm it up.”

  “Warm what up?”

  Valint held forth the item—a long syringe, filled with silvery liquid. “Knowledge.”

  Stunned, Mark sat in mute fear as the sheer enormity—and alien nature—of his reality began to sink in.

  When Mark spoke, it was slow, deliberate, and clear. “I have read fables of things like this.” His eyes snapped to Valint, and he pierced her with a febrile gaze she found challenging and ripe with a command presence that hadn’t been there a moment earlier.

  The boy is growing into his skin, it would seem, Striker said into Valint’s earpiece.

  He is mere hours from a technology we find laughable. No wonder many Earth Humans are so adept at war, Valint subvocalized.

  Among other things, Bunn added. They don’t scare easily. And in this system, with rumors that won’t go away? It’s amazing that, even on his world, they don’t know the value of this place.

  Every sapient being in known space has scoured this system for value and come up empty or worse, Striker insisted.

  The humans have a saying—where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Over the past two centuries, smart, driven agents have come here, and many have come back more than once, Valint said.

  Is that why the Earth moon is so cratered? From fools seeking treasure among proto-technicals who haven’t left their atmosphere? Bunn asked.

  Funny you mention the term moon, Striker began, but Valint waved a hand, giving the signal for quiet. Mark stared at them, his face curious, not scared.

  “May I be informed of the conversation?” Mark asked.

  “You could tell?” Valint countered.

  “I’ve played a game or two of cards. I can read a face, and that doesn’t answer my original question about the object you hold with some reverence.”

  Valint fought a grin. Fear was one quality the earthlings rarely showed, often to their detriment.

  “This is a syringe full of machines but so minute that they cannot be seen by the naked eye. Unlike your germs, these carry information. This is a small introduction to what I do. To what the Peacemakers do,” Valint said.

  Mark rolled up his sleeve, revealing a well-muscled arm. He was farm-strong, with pale skin above his elbows and an array of small scars. His skin told a story of work. Hard work, Valint decided, stepping toward him with a brow lifted.

  “You’re certain?” she asked.

  “Pain?” Mark returned.

  “Minimal. Time to efficacy is around four minutes. You’ll perspire, and then things will begin to make themselves known. The more you see and experience, the more terms and data will make sense,” Valint said.

  Mark worked his mouth once, then gave a short nod. “I am ready. We will have twenty-eight minutes for me to be fitted with my musket and helm.”

  Striker turned his vulpine head, mouth open in disbelief. “We do not use muskets to—”

  Valint’s shoulders shook with laughter as Mark began to smile, a sly look that made him seem more dangerous and less of a country rube.

  Striker was nonplussed, sighing with metallic dignity. “I do not appreciate the ruse. It’s logical to assume you would think our tactics were similar to yours.”

  “A century ago, perhaps. We are far better at killing now, Striker,” Mark said without a hint of humor, earning a level look from Valint. “I am ready.”

  Valint pressed the needle to his arm and then pushed a small button. The plunger advanced steadily, emptying the contents into Mark’s large vein just above the elbow. In seconds, it was done.

  Mark looked down, then rolled his sleeve back. “When will it—”

  The universe exploded into shards of golden light, and Mark slumped into the abyss.

  “His eyes are open,” Striker reported, turning to address Valint, who was in the pilot’s chair, her eyes locked on the combat screens.

  Without looking away, Valint spoke. “Mark? What do you remember?”

  Mark’s eyes fluttered once. He sat up, his shirt stained with sweat. “How many minutes?”

  “Impressive. An excellent response,” Valint allowed. “To answer your question, though—Bunn?”

  “Contact in six minutes with no course corrections. We will intercept near an asteroid named Lacrimosa, which also appears to be the destination of the enemy ship. The enemy is not a Class Six, Vallie. It’s a Nine, and it’s armored,” Bunn said.

  Mark ran a hand through sweat-soaked hair, wincing. His body echoed with the effects of something beyond his understanding, except . . . he did understand. Somewhat. The Taste was an introductory skimming of Peacemaker terminology, but Mark was smart, if not a genius, and he could extrapolate more than a few connections as his new allies continued speaking.

  “Are we going to attack, or to observe?” Mark asked.

  “What would you do?” Valint countered.

  Mark stretched, wincing at an array of odd sensations, but he answered. “You dispense justice, but is there an element of profit to be had from this so-called enemy?”

  Now Valint turned to face Mark, who sat cross-legged, leaning against Striker’s thorax for support. “Told you he was fast on his feet.”

  “You didn’t actually say that,” Striker replied but without any heat.

  Valint appraised Mark all over again. “I thought it. And yes, there is profit to be had. That ship is traveling illegally. We are the law. Since it’s a Class Nine, it’s well-armed, dangerous—”

  “And worth an enormous number of bonds if taken intact,” Striker finished.

  Mark stood, wobbly as a new calf, then put a hand on Striker to steady himself. “Apologies, Striker.”

  “Don’t mention it. Get to the chair. The more you see, the better for your Taste. Input is good.”

  Striker helped Mark to the copilot’s chair, where he collapsed, his limited energy spent for the moment. The Taste was busy in his blood. And brain. Prion-based elements of science that the earth might never create were piercing the blood-brain barrier, expanding Mark’s universe with each passing second.

  But time was limited, and an array of contacts began to flash across the combat optics.

  “What are those things?” Mark asked.

  Bunn said, “The Koronis group. Asteroids, and a lot of them. Some are big enough to throw gravity fields that could affect ranged weapons.”

  “Why would a ship be going there, in the midst of those whirling things? How big are they? Are they stars?” Mark asked in a rapid-fire staccato.

  Valint shook her head, hands poised over the controls. “They’re big rocks, left over from the creation of your planetary system, or they are, perhaps, late additions. Either way, you’re looking at hundreds of celestial bodies that might be worth money for their ore. Iron, nickel, other elements. But if a stealth ship is going there, and if they’re planning on meeting us?”

  Mark examined the screen, sweat still dotting his skin. “Then there is something there worth more than ore?”

  Striker laughed. “You’re learning to be suspicious. That’s an excellent quality for this occupation among the stars. Doesn’t answer our original concern, unless, Vallie, you’re carrying contraband, taken lawfully.”

  “I’ve been a little busy, so yes. The artifact we liberated is right near your feet in the security locker,” Valint said, pointing to a nondescript box. “Unless that religious trinket can call for help, there’s no way anyone knows we have it.”

  “At two million bonds, I’d say it’s more than a trinket?” Bunn asked.

  “A fair point, and—three minutes to contact, now, so let’s wrap this up—Bell Four of Vinicul is going home, obviously, but no one could know we seized it,” Valint answered.

  “Or that Halvix is dead,” Mark added.

  “Again, a fair point.” Valint sighed in disgust, sounding as tired as Mark had been down in the French mud. Halvix, the thief, was dead. His loot, a religious artifact of rare value, was aboard the Stormshadow. That stolen object was an issue she would deal with in due course.

  Striker raised a finger on one hand. “Vallie, this can only mean—”

  “Someone is playing Judas,” Mark interrupted.

  “Does that mean betrayal?” Valint asked.

  “Exactly that. I notice you’re not surprised. I take it this kind of thing is—oh. Of course. We have another saying, as well. No honor among thieves,” Mark said.

  “Now that did translate. Bunn, open a channel. This might be as simple as a buyout,” Valint ordered.

  “We’re in weapons range in forty seconds. Better make your first offer count,” Bunn said. “Comm open.”

  Valint narrowed her eyes. “Class Six thieving bastard hiding in the rocks, this is Peacemaker Valint Wasilun aboard the Stormshadow. Your friend Halvix isn’t able to speak. Ever. I’ve got the Bell. Power down or piss off. This is my only offer.”

  “That wasn’t a buyout,” Striker noted.

  “Helpful as ever, and no, it’s not that kind of buyout,” Valint said, feathering the comm channel to mute it. “See that group of three rocks with the high metal sig? Put us in their shadow right away. I’ll keep talking, but weapons are now free.” She touched the board, and the screen flashed as her voice went live. “Can you hear me? To reiterate, Halvix is exceptionally dead, and—”

  Two missiles raced out from the darkened enemy craft, their paths driven by AI avionics that made them split, reform, and split again in a matter of seconds.

  “I bet they can hear you,” Striker said, leaning back on four legs with a casual air.

  Mark gripped his chair like the reins of a horse gone mad. “Should we be shooting back?”

  “We are,” Bunn remarked.

  Two broken lines lanced out from the Stormshadow, and Mark knew what he was seeing, a point defense system working at knife-fighting range, and effectively. The missiles vanished into clouds of debris as Valint answered in kind, but she didn’t fire at the ship.

  Instead, the Stormshadow fired four missiles at a pair of asteroids the size of dairy barns. In ten seconds, both warheads exploded with incandescent fury, and the rocks were glowing slag, spinning wildly over a debris field growing by the second.

  “If you come around the field, you’ll meet our masers. The quad has every weapon free right now and no interest in keeping you—or your ship—whole. Four ships, and not one of us gives a shit about your life. Give up the target, and you limp away, Valint,” a bored voice said over the comm channel.

  Valint twitched at the implication of four enemy craft and tapped a command for Bunn to verify. “You speak as if you know me, so I assume you do.” She snapped her fingers, then frowned as she connected with a memory. “Gunarik, you scurrilous whore. I’d say I thought you were dead but only because you were.”

  Metallic laughter rang out as the enemy ship began burning at maximum power, skirting a tumbling asteroid that glinted with iron and nickel.

  “I was, or at least the Yonnox part of me was. I’m half ceramic now,” Gunarik answered.

  “And all asshole,” Bunn added cheerily. “I make one enemy craft, Valint. He’s full of shit.”

  Mark cleared his throat. “An old friend?”

  Striker answered. “You might say. She took his ship out eight years ago after he was caught running embryonic sentients off a creche world.”

  Mark’s lips moved as he considered the words. “He stole children?”

  “For money,” Valint said, touching off two more missiles at the fleeing ship. She fired a third, changed its course, and then fired two more at a staggered interval.

  “Late to the party?” Striker asked.

  “One or two will be,” Valint answered, watching the missiles streak away into the black.

  “I make a one-in-thirty chance of a hit,” Bunn reported.

  Striker snickered. “That’s not the goal.”

  “You want to draw his fire,” Mark said.

  “Indeed. But I don’t want him dead. Or more dead, I should say,” Valint said, standing and tugging at the collar of her armor. “Striker, a shoulder mount, if you please. Mark, you’ve fought before?”

  Mark looked stricken. “In outer space? No, actually, I haven’t.”

  Valint smiled. Striker handed her a tube launcher, then stepped back, regarding his boss with a critical eye.

  “Not in space. With your hands. Brawling?”

  “Of course. I’ve won a few fights, too. But why?” Mark asked.

  Valint stepped close, and Mark could see the gleam in her pupils as she shrugged the weapon over her back, where it clicked into place on a magnetic plate. “I’m going out the airlock, and those missiles are going to burn up all of Gunarik’s remaining ranged weapons. That means he’s going to board us if he thinks he can.”

  Mark nodded slowly. “And you mean to have me fight this . . . Yonnox? What is a Yonnox, anyway?”

  “Imagine a tall, slender, vicious being with three legs made of water reeds. Now imagine this being has one love in life: other people’s money. Oh, and it has several eyes, too, all rather unsettling, even among civilized races. Fond of kicking, too. Or, rather, it would kick with them, but I suspect our friend Gunarik is little more than a walking voicebox. After what I did to his ship, I’m stunned that he’s still among us in any form.” Valint put a hand on Mark’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. “You’ll be armed, of course. Striker, the relic we found on Earth?”

  Mark was stunned. Beyond stunned. He stood mute, staring at the curl of Valint’s lip until something tapped the back of his leg.

  “Here you are,” Striker said, reaching forward with a flourish. “What do you think?”

  Mark’s stare turned to a broad smile, his hands lifting to take the proffered object with familiar ease. “Ahhh . . . hello there. Bit far from home, but it’s good to see you.” He took the BAR—Browning Automatic Rifle—in his hands, checked the weapon over, and shook his head in amazement. “This was brand new when I went to Dodge for Basic. I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my life.”’

  “Not a lot of girls in—where are you from?” Striker asked.

  “Pony Hollow, Iowa, and yes, there were girls. Still, this is . . . "

  “Glad you like it. Think you can convince Gunarik to stand down?” Valint asked.

  “Stand down?” Mark asked, puzzled.

  Striker put a companionable arm around Mark’s shoulder. “Mark, this Yonnox, if you can call him that—we’d prefer he be taken alive.”

  “Destroying his ship would be costly to us because he would be in it. Costly to you, as well, I might add, since you’ll benefit from the bounty,” Valint clarified.

  “Bounty?”

  “Vallie, I have a signal. He’s making the turn. You’ve got six minutes to get on a rock, and the closest one is ninety seconds with suit thrusters,” Bunn called out.

  Valint explained, in patient tones, “Yes, bounty. Two hundred thousand bonds for the capture of anyone associated with Crimes Against Life. Gunarik abducted living people. He escaped. The bounty never expires. Can you do it? Can you—how do you say, clip his wings? You’ll have Striker, and I’ll take his ship. Wound him, bind him, and bring justice to the people he hurt. I know this seems personal for me, but it’s not. This is what I do. This is what you might do, should you choose this path. So I ask again. Can you do this?”

  Mark hefted the rifle, then gave a slow nod. “How will you entice him to attack us?”

  “Oh, that.” The Stormshadow shuddered, and something flashed away into the darkness. Valint shrugged. “That was the workboat, what you would call a lifeboat. It’s about to—”

  Another flash erupted onscreen, and Valint tapped the console twice. “Nice work, Bunn. Did you run it into an asteroid?”

  “Sure did. A tragedy. Time for you to go, Vallie.”

  Valint touched Mark’s arm again, smiling. “You’ll have company sooner rather than later. Let them fight in through the lock, close your helmet, and be ready. This is a test, but it’s also—”

  Mark grinned. “A heluva lot of money. I’m ready.”

  “Told you Earthers can fight. I’m off,” Valint said, stepping past into the airlock, where she gave a jaunty wave. The door closed and cycled, then she was gone, completely invisible as she hit her suit thruster and slid away.

  “Now, we wait,” Striker said. He opened a standing locker filled with armor. “Suit up. You’ve got a moment.”

  “I don’t know how—” Mark began, then stopped. He did know how to put on a b-suit, the battle armor gleaming darkly before him. Stepping into the sleek suit, his hands moved with certainty until they reached the helmet, which confounded him.

  Striker helped with four arms. “Here. The autoclasp is there. You’re in. Seal light on?”

  Mark looked down, seeing a blue light inside his helmet. “Good seal.”