Back From the Dead Read online

  Kaushik grabs a shield from one of the recruits and runs to the bow cargo bay door while the armored men face off with spear and shield. He leans the shield up against the door, a good thirty meters from their position, and stands aside. He whistles loudly, then shouts, “CENTER ACCURACY! HERE!”

  The soldiers break off, turn, and identify the target. The recruits now realize that they are between the target and the spears. The cheering stops as they hit the deck. Brass-work stutter-steps a hard throw and strikes the shield near the top edge, the spear biting deep. The other throws with one step and good body twist, hitting about a hand-span below dead center, also deep. The recruits whistle and cheer. The soldiers lean forward, hands on knees, breathing hard, then stand and stretch to expand lung capacity, clearly winded. They clasp hands and congratulate each other silently for a race hard run. Then they walk slowly towards the recruits, and the group falls silent.

  “Form ranks!” Kaushik calls.

  All the recruits fall into two neat lines, their own exhaustion temporarily forgotten in the excitement. The two armored men walk to the front and take off their helms. Under the plain helm is Colonel Lag. Under the brass-work helm is the First Sergeant.

  Lag, still breathing hard, addresses the men. “Civilizations stand on the shoulders of those who do what others will not, or cannot, do. There are few shortcuts in training, only good training and bad. Now, you must continue to do what others do not. We expect no more from you than we expect from ourselves. Stick with us and you’ll suffer in training like nowhere else. You will also win fights and live to tell your grandchildren like no one else.

  “Want an easy life? This isn’t it. Want a worthwhile life in any field? You have to earn it, and the price isn’t easy to pay. Would you rather have someone like First Sergeant Reel here standing by your side … or facing you?

  “You have a full day tomorrow, I hear. Get cleaned up and hit the rack. Keep at it, and eventually some of you will be racing us.”

  Lag nods to Kaushik, then he and Harbin turn and walk away.

  “Atten-shun!” Kaushik calls. “Hang your armor to dry, hit the shower, then bed. Lights out in twenty, gentlemen! Dismissed!”

  Roman Candle

  Stenson works at an open access panel near the back wall of Engineering, assisted by two of his crew. He tightens a bolt with a wrench, finishing with his immediate task. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the lit-candle logo dimly glowing just above a closed access panel at deck level. He cocks his head thoughtfully and says, pitching his voice to the Ship AI, “Ship: What does the candle signify? What’s behind the hatch here?” He taps it with the wrench in his hand.

  “It is the symbol for a roman candle. Storage.”

  “Storage for what?”

  “A type of roman candle.”

  “What type?”

  “The type we have on board that needs storing.”

  “We have roman candles on board?”

  “Negative.”

  “But you just said we did.”

  “Negative.”

  “Yes, you said we have roman candles on board that need storing.”

  “Negative. I said roman candle.”

  “That’s what I said you said.”

  “Negative. There is no letter ‘S’ in roman candle.”

  “So we have a roman candle on board?”

  “Partially affirmative.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “We have parts of a roman candle aboard.”

  One of the amused crewmen chimes in. “How do you have only part of a candle?”

  “By not having all the parts in proper storage.”

  “But you just said we only had one,” Stenson says.

  “Negative.”

  “YES, you DID!”

  “Would you like me to replay a record of the conversation?

  “No! Tell me exactly what you do have.”

  “Parts. Storage. Missing parts.”

  Stenson closes his eyes. Breathes in slowly through his nose. Hold. Out slowly though his mouth. Hold. He opens his eyes. “So. You have some of the parts of a single item you are calling a roman candle, and their proper place is inside that storage area?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Is there any other name that this ‘roman candle’ might be known as?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “What?”

  “I forget.”

  “You… Can you describe it?”

  “A specialized high-capacity energy storage and conversion system.”

  “What capacity?”

  “Forty-two gigajoules.”

  “That could be useful. What’s it for?”

  “Storing and converting energy.”

  “What kind of energy?”

  “Potential into useful.”

  “Oh, for the LOVE of–”

  “When stored properly, it should become readily apparent.”

  “Okay, so where are the parts?”

  “Not in storage.”

  Stenson turns wearily to the maintenance crewman. “Some days, I just want to hit the big reset button.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Don’t know where it is yet.”

  All the lights go out except those directly over three of the cylinders that have been getting kicked around. Two have been used as sawhorses to support some machinery they are working on. One stands alone in a corner with the remains of lunch on it, and a flower vase covering the center hole. All of them bear the lit-candle logo. One of the lights is at full power, the other two are dim.

  “I assume the well-lit one goes in first?” Stenson says. The Ship AI gives no response.

  A long moment of silence passes with no one moving, then Stenson opens the hatch and looks inside. It appears to be a top-loading access point to a tube below deck level. He leans in and peers down it. It stretches off in both directions, empty, fading into the distance towards bow and stern. Stenson stands back up, scratching his head in thought. He and the two crewmen walk to the well-lit cylinder and manhandle it over to the open hatch; it is heavy and will be a tight squeeze through the hatch.

  A wall-mounted screen to the side of the hatch displays a simple diagram and animation showing how to position and roll the cylinder into position, with the candle logo at one end. As they roll it into the hatch a wall-mounted mechanism locks onto it, rotates it in place, then lowers it down just below floor level. The cylinder whisks down the tube like a train leaving the station.

  “Huh,” says Stenson. “Well, we can clear a bit of space up by getting them all in there. Get Alvarez, Kumar, Dixit, and Franks up here and get them all loaded. Don’t know if order makes any difference, so you’ll have to be very exact with your questions. AI seems to be a bit more literal today than normal.”

  Permission

  “So you want to use Company material to teach a civilian to shoot?”

  Lag sits at his desk in the cramped shipboard cabin, cleaning a disassembled pistol. Kaminski stands at ease in front of him. “Yes, Sir,” Kaminski says. “She’s nearly one of the Company, and–”

  “Nearly? You know we don’t normally send women into front-line combat, Corporal.”

  “But … Sir, you said–”

  “Make your case.”

  “She’s always around here–”

  “Properly, now. Atten-shun!”

  Kaminski snaps to attention, face expressionless. Lag runs a patch through the pistol barrel, waiting for Kaminski to organize his thoughts, then waves at him to continue. Kaminski speaks crisply, as if standing before a promotion board.

  “Sir. We should train field support personnel, including women, to fight so they can defend themselves and will not require a security detachment when we are not present. As she is part of the crew of a ship that has drawn attention, she may be targeted. This is a weakness that should be remedied.

  “Proper training will also allow her to knowledgeably watch for any unsafe weapons h
andling among the recruits should they try to impress her, and to report to myself or the Sergeants. It will set an example for the recruits that we demand high standards from everyone, that we are not just beating them up for fun.

  “I will cover the ammo cost, and I will of course pursue this training in my off-duty hours, so it will be cost-effective for the Company. I am not contemplating full front-line combat training at the current time, only basic weapons training and self-defense, so the time needed will be modest. She is already receiving flight and flight-combat training in simulator mode from the ship. Sir.”

  “And?”

  “And she thought it would set a good example for Quinn, who is fascinated by all things weapon-like, of course.”

  “And?”

  “…”

  “She being an attractive young lady has nothing to do with it?”

  “She is, and it does, Sir. But it has nothing to do with convincing you.”

  Lag chuckles. “Indeed. Good distinction. Case made. Just see that it doesn’t interfere with normal operations, right?”

  “Yes, Sir. Thank you. Question, Sir?”

  “At ease.”

  “About not sending women in combat…”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought we did train women for combat.”

  “Self-defense and an array of support operations, yes. But not as infantry to send to the front line. Exceptions are only been made in exceptional conditions,” Lag says. “But you are right: sometimes the hell of war comes knocking on the door without us going anywhere, and it would be pretty short-sighted to not have the women be as ready as practical. They can fill in for the soldiers in some roles. Occasionally one can even handle a front-line job. But the few that are physically capable are too sensitive, and most who can handle the psychological hell are not physically capable, or are mentally unfit in other ways. One day we might need every hand that can so much as lift a sword, but for now, it is a waste to send them to the front when we don’t have to.

  “Your answer was spot on. It’s good to train good people in useful skills, regardless of plumbing. Dismissed.”

  Kaminski salutes, about-faces, and heads out the door.

  Business Manager

  Harbin sits at a table in the Adelaide spaceport lounge, across from a young woman who is speaking very enthusiastically. “So, I told him ‘Uncle, I need to go more places, make more decisions for myself, not just get ordered around by you!’. I thought I’d visit every aunt, uncle, cousin, and in-law I could track down. You were always my favorite, and thanks to Aunt Mohini I knew you were here.”

  Harbin grunts.

  “Surely you must know someone who’s looking for a business manager, not just a drone?”

  “Only one, right now,” Harbin says blandly, face blank.

  “Great! What sort of business?”

  “Good question. It’s sort of vague. He needs someone to help get the details together. He’s smart and has big ideas, but not very organized.”

  “Oh, sounds wonderful!” she says. Then suddenly suspicious, “Accounting issues?”

  “Some. Mostly because he’s too honest.”

  “Too honest? Ha! I’d like to meet the man that fits that description!”

  “Ah,” says Harbin, looking over her shoulder, “Here he comes now. Bipasha, this is Helton. Helton, Bipasha. He’s the owner of the starship I was…” He trails off as Bipasha’s jaw drops in surprise and Helton smiles. “I take it you know one another,” Harbin says.

  Helton takes a seat and waves the waiter over while Bipasha gapes at him, mouth moving wordlessly. “Yes, a little bit. We met shortly before I met you, and again a couple weeks ago. Iced tea, please. For some strange reason, she never quite believes me. For example,” he says, turning to Bipasha, “Harbin and I saved each other’s lives less than two months ago, after our ship got hit by pirates.”

  “PREPOSTEROUS! Of all the egotistical, vapor-minded, ludicrous things to claim, a man like you saving First Sergeant Harbin Reel from pirates is a sure sign of being utterly, stark, raving–”

  “I planned the escape and rescue, and piloted; he played Rock-Rifle-Scissors with the bad guys.”

  “I wasn’t playing,” Harbin says dryly, “and I’m not sure how you can call that piloting.”

  “Hey, I’d just survived being shot with a grenade after a long trek through the desert, what do you expect?”

  “Wait, you mean, you did?” Bipasha says, flabbergasted. Then to Harbin, “HE DID?”

  “Ahem. We did have a bit of an altercation with some locals, yes,” Harbin says. “But the topic at hand: Helton owns a starship, which may soon be flying, and his business plans are … in need of work.”

  Now Helton is surprised. “Are you telling me I might be offering her a job?” Bipasha just stares, at a loss for words. Harbin looks at Helton evenly, with an ironic smile.

  “Well … I guess I am,” Helton says at last. “Can’t say what the pay would be, or the working conditions. Or duties, or location, or budget, or much else, as I just found out that the open was positioning. I mean, the position was opening…”

  “I think I’ll need to know a bit more,” says Bipasha.

  “Me too,” Helton agrees.

  “So, this is your infamous starship.”

  “Yup. Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “If you say so. Is she built for cargo, or passengers?”

  “Yes! That’s the beauty of it; I can carry both! She’s got berths for more than a hundred passengers, and almost two thousand cubic meters of cargo space!”

  “But that means that you have to be running both cargo and passengers, or you are running half-empty. Very inefficient.”

  “But some passengers have cargo to take with them.”

  “Yes, a few. But you’ll be competing against liners specializing in just people, or semi-automated freighters that cheaply carry just cargo.”

  “Okay, maybe so, but we can offer better protection! This thing is armored!”

  “Armored? You must be joking. Tonnage?”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  “Twe– … So, not only do you not have a lot of cargo space, you are carting around thousands of tons of useless metal?”

  “Do you always look at the down side of things?”

  “You bring it out in me. I think we’d better take a look inside, see what the accommodations are like.”

  Bipasha, not looking very happy, sits alone at the table in the Officers’ Mess. Helton, with a glum expression, carries in a heavily laden tray, from which he hands her a steaming bowl and mug before setting his own down two places away. He sits, the half-full tray on the table between them.

  She looks at the bowl in surprise, then at Helton. Steam rises from the wide, shallow bowl, filled with a wonderful layout of rice and brilliantly colored meat and veggies and a trio of round balls, all covered with a thick sauce. It is elegantly presented and looks delicious. She leans forward and inhales carefully, eyes closed, and a smile grows on her face. She takes a bite, savors it. “Oh, this is excellent!”

  “Kwon is good. He figured you’d like the lamb étouffée with matzo balls. We have that going for us.”

  “That’s one thing. Just one.” She takes another bite. “Wow. He should open a restaurant.”

  “Surely there is–”

  Bipasha shakes her head, cutting him off. “Uncle Harbin said you needed help with your business, and I can see why.”

  “I didn’t know I was running a business.”

  “Exactly! You have lots of ideas–”

  “Hey, my ideas are good!”

  “The ideas are okay, but the numbers aren’t. Just running some estimates in my head, looking at what you have shown me so far, it won’t work.”

  “What do you mean, won’t work?” Helton says defensively.

  “Your passenger accommodations are fit only for troops or indigent refugees. Your cargo space is limited and you have no automated cargo handling. It doesn’
t fit standard container sizes, and it’s not set up for bulk cargo. Your engines are old and inefficient, even if you can get them working. You are carting around more extra mass than any other ship with ten times the cubes. The numbers don’t work.”

  “But there must be some way–”

  “For cargo, you’d have to charge much more than the going tonnage rate just for fuel, and you’d need handlers. For passengers, they’d have to be pretty desperate to want to space on this beast–”

  “HEY!”

  “Even if the food is great. Can Kwon do this in deep space?”

  “I don’t know. I assume so. Why, what difference does space make in cooking?”

  “Of course it makes a difference! There isn’t fresh stuff from the corner market when you are two weeks out on the three week trip.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

  “Is the galley set up for fresh only, prep-packs, T-rats, dry bulk scratch, or what?”

  Helton frowns, thinks for a few moments. “I … don’t know, exactly.”

  “Is your water system tankage, full recycle, hybrid, or shore supply only?”

  “I, uh, well…” Helton stammers.

  “How much fuel will this take for daily space operations, and what kinds?” Bipasha demands.

  “Stenson said that he’d have a better handle on that once the main generators are online.”

  “Laundry? Detergent or recoverable enzyme?”

  “…”

  “Carbon Recovery Unit? Full regenerative scrubbing, TDP and manufacture, or just a simple chem-scrubbing system?”

  “…”

  Harbin walks in with a mug of coffee and sits down. Bipasha glares at him, then turns back to Helton. “Good God! Not only do you not know what you need, you really don’t even know what you have. And how, exactly, do you expect to make money, with no idea of costs or services you can provide?” She stares at him. Helton responds with an apologetic expression and a shrug.

  Harbin teases his niece: “You said you wanted excitement and decision-making.” Helton and Bipasha both glare at him.