Muan Gwi, in the Vegan Autonomous District: late 1118
He was tired. The exhaustion fogged everything, made images and
memories somehow hazy and indistinct. They drifted past him, flashes of color
and life, close enough to touch if only he had the strength....
"Captain Khagariilian Grant?"
"Yes?" Grant looked up from the landing strut he was inspecting. A man
in his mid-forties or so was standing there, wrapped in a black coat against
the chill wind of the Muan Gwi plateau. He held a small briefcase in one hand,
and the other was extended for a handshake. Grant took the hand, cautiously.
"He's clean, sir," came O'Connor's voice in his ear. "I scanned him
from the ship. There's a shotgun in his briefcase, but he can't trigger it
from the outside."
Grant nodded. "What can I do for you, Mister....?"
"Cameron." The man flashed a winning, perfect smile. "J. J. Cameron,
Ling Standard Products. Might I have a few moments of your time? I have a
business proposition that you might find very interesting."
What is your name?
The voice intruded on the memory, blotting it out.
Go away, he said wearily. I was remembering.
What were you remembering?
He frowned, or tried to. I don't remember, he thought. Why not?
What is your name?
He struggled for a moment, then answered. Grant?
No good. Turn up the gain another point, he's almost there....
Grant's mind crackled like a candle in rain and went out.
"Have you ever heard of Dag, Captain?" Cameron poured a glass of water
for himself and handed the pitcher to Grant.
"Dag? Nope, not offhand," Grant said mildly, pouring a sip for
himself. He looked around the conference table. "Any of you?"
"Not me," Jaeger said mildly, accepting the pitcher.
"Nor me," Kherkhoulloth said, stuffing another fistful of canapes into
his mouth and chewing vigorously.
O'Connor was silent, thoughtful.
"I'm not familiar with the word either," Fell muttered, grabbing the
canape plate from in front of Kherkhoulloth. "GIVE me those, you philistine!"
"Sanchez?"
I know. I know! I know that I know. At least I think I know. Do I
know? I don't know WHAT I know any more. It's so confusing....
"Hmm? Oh, well, I know what *I* mean when I say 'Dag,' but I doubt
that's what Mr. Cameron means....Dag is a kind of electrical insulation for
vacuum-sealed high-current devices. It's sort of a blackish-grey gunk, kind
of like modeling putty. You dilute it with ethanol and paint it on, and it
dries to a film...."
"That's the stuff I mean, Mr. Sanchez," Cameron nodded. "There are
thousands of different uses for Dag in the Imperium, and thousands of
different formulations to meet those uses. Most of them have been around for
centuries, and all of them are public-domain. Nobody's bothered to try to
patent a new form of Dag since the Third Frontier War or thereabouts; there
simply hasn't been a market for it." Cameron leaned forward across the table
earnestly. "What would you say if I told you that a chemical engineering firm
is preparing to issue a radical new Dag formulation that could drastically
alter the way in which Jump drives are constructed?"
Yow! What a concept! A new kind of Dag....
Good evening, and welcome to another episode of This Old Starship,
with your host, Wu-Shun Sanchez. Hello, I'm Wu-Shun Sanchez, and welcome to
the show. Tonight, we're going to see what we can do about cleaning up this
crufty old Jump drive. We'll need our basic tools, some ethanol and Dag
and Dag
and Dag
and Dag
and Dag
Dag
Dag
Dag
What is your name?
TerraDag.
No, that's the answer to the SECOND question....
Blue. I think. Or maybe pink.
That's the THIRD question. Focus! What is your NAME?
I don't know. Do I have one?
Yes. Learn!
"TerraDag." Sniff. Sniff. Smells like he's telling the truth....
"Funny name for it...."
"That's only our codemark for it, Mister, er, Kirkowloth." Kae! What
pus-awful pronounciation. Humans! "We don't know what its makers call it. In
fact, we don't know anything at all about it, other than the fact that it
reportedly exists, and that the place that manufactured it was located on
Terra."
Terra? Kakh TSAKHA! No go, bro. No no no! No way. I didn't ship
halfway across the Universe to hobnob with my genetic predecessors and
eighteenth cousins....
"Acheson Chemicals, the company that manufactures most of the Dag
formulations currently in use in the Solomani Rim, was reportedly quite close
to a breakthrough at the time of the Solomani invasion. They later claimed
that the experiments were failures, but sources close to the lab think
otherwise. We need to make sure."
"Why?" All this fuss over some black gunk. Go figure.
"Because if it does exist and the Solomani have it, then the Imperium
must have it as well. Even little things like a new Dag formula can mean big
differences in military buildup and resupply. Suppose this stuff DOES allow
them to refit damaged ships faster than we? Then what?"
"Then it's strategically important to learn about it for sure." I
smell money here all of a sudden....
"Precisely. Which brings us to the matter of payment." KA-CHING!
"If you come back with evidence of the new Dag's existence, you'll be
granted a free voucher for your next annual maintainance check at any starport
with a Ling Standard shipyard. For greater degrees of success than that, the
pay scale slides upward accordingly." Hrrrrr. Annual maintainance, on a ship
like the Torch, comes to-- whoa! Carefully now, don't let this fish off the
hook....
"Um, what would we get for a, er, a COMPLETE success?"
"Well, I'd define that as being a sample of the new Dag, or notes on
how to make it, along with a reasonable idea of the Solomani's knowledge of
what it is and can do, or lack thereof. If the overall picture were favorable
enough, I could probably write up a Form 662 as part of the 'reasonable
expenditures' for this mission, and send it off to Hortalez et Cie...."
"A F-F-Form Six S-Sixty Two?" Sniff. Whew! What's got into the Captain
all of a sudden? He's sweating like a Bwap! "You're not SERIOUS!"
"Of course I am, Captain. This is a risky job; it should carry the
largest practical reward if well done."
"'Scuse me, but for the ignorant among us, what's a 'Form 662'?"
"A lien forgiveness. He's saying he'll pay off our lien on the SHIP!"
"Say WHAT?"
Roukh! That's worth over, uh, hmm, uh, SIXTY MILLION CR--
What is your name?
Kherkhoulloth. Now where was I? Remortgage the ship, and--
WRONG ANSWER.
Shut up. Remortgage the ship, and with the money we could-- could--
Turning it up another two points.
Be careful. This isn't a human you're dealing with here.
<snicker> It isn't much of a Vargr, either.
HEY! What's the idea? What are you doing to me? Where am I?
What is your name?
Kher-- Kh-- Kh-- Mama! I feel sick! MAMA!
What is your name?
MAAMAAAAAAAAA!
What is your name?
...
What is your name?
...
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
Snarl. Grit. Spit. Name? Name. Name--
Tsssssssohhhhhhhhhhhhhh-- GUKH!
"How's this one sound," Grant said, shuffling through the papers on
his lap. Selecting one, he began to read aloud. "Captain James Hudson.
Smuggler and small-package trader, skipper of the IMSS Inexplicable. Runs
drugs, guns and occasional refugees back and forth across the Frontier with
the Solomani. Not well-known, and likes it that way; on Terra to scope out new
connections." He looked up at Jaeger. "OK?"
"Very nice." A sharp one, our Captain. Leaves his own story flexible
enough to include us all. He could've been something, without that damned
ethical streak. Speaking of which.... "How's his profile compare with yours?"
Grant shifted uncomfortably. "He's, uh, well, he's sort of what I
think I would've become if I'd had a rougher start and a few more bad breaks."
"Excellent." This is going to be fun, after all.
Fell finished jotting notes with a flourish. "Hristos von Newton,
small package broker, pickpocket, cardsharp and second-story man. Utterly
without scruples or loyalties, other than to himself or to money." He looked
thoughtfully over at Grant, and began to write some more. "Why does he stick
with, ah, Hudson? Hmmm. Not loyalty, that's for sure. Perhaps mobility? Yes.
Mobility and availability of useful cash flow and muscle. A good base of
operations. Yes. Yes. It'll work...." His voice trailed off and he continued
scribbling.
Kherkhoulloth looked over the neat lines of script, and sighed. "Not a
lot can be done to hide a Vargr in the Rim, but maybe if I go on the mental
end of things it'll turn out OK...." He cleared his throat. "Tsogukh. He's an
ex-Corsair and Imperial Marine, discharged dishonorably for excessive cruelty
to prisoners of war in the Fifth Conflict. A grunt-- reckless, tough, and mean
as the Ancients." He chuckled weakly. "That oughta get me killed well enough."
"What'll we do for a navigator?"
"Oh, he does that as a hobby. Self-taught."
"Eesh." Where does he come UP with these things?
"I've got Chief Engineer Edison, obsessive-compulsive gearhead and
certified cybersicko," Sanchez chuckled.
"I thought we were trying to be DIFFERENT," Fell grinned.
Sanchez returned the smile. "If you think I'M bad, wait'll you meet
this guy! He talks in subsections and paragraphs rather than sentences...."
"I think I'm going to have to create a virulently pro-Solomani
identity," O'Connor said abruptly. "It makes the most sense."
"YOU?" He's lost what's left of his mind! "You HATE the Solomani!"
"Precisely." O'Connor's artificial voice was as coldly efficient as
ever. "My psych profile will be well-known to the Solomani Security people we
may run into. It's vital that it be buried far deeper than any of yours, and
covered by something that will deflect all suspicion." He paused. "Wolf
Nyborg, I'll call him. Raised on Scaramouche, arrested for pro-Solomani
terrorism and forced to enlist in the Imperial Marines as an alternative to
jail. Nurtured a violently anti-Imperial attitude through his career, learned
enough about killing to rebuild himself as a death machine, and cashiered."
He flexed a steel hand carefully. "I hope the cybergear they give me can match
this stuff. What about you, Jaeger? You're going to be toughest to explain."
"Not really. I have researched the Solomani political records in the
region where we're going, and have selected a suitable world for my origins:
Hasdrubal, in the Kukulcan subsector. It's a charismatic oligarchy, the family
Tchorgin occupying a position of absolute power and commanding unswerving
loyalty from the populace. Lord Mikhail Tchorgin of the Family Tchorgin, a
gadabout and dilettante, was kidnapped by Hudson's crew in an attempt to get
away from pursuing authorities. He fell in with his captors, and his aplomb,
suave manner with the Solomani authorities, and skill as a negotiator led them
to keep him on. In exchange for his aid, the crew abides by his behavior and
gives him the treatment due a Tchorgin, namely respect and deference at all
times, as befits one of noble birth--"
That's enough. He's ready. Shut him down before he makes us all sick.
Jaeger, or what once was Jaeger, slept.
What is your name?
Hmm. Infinite possibilities. Identities as easily shed as a suit of
old clothes. If it works, of course, but I would be surprised if it didn't.
That fellow Cameron seemed quite confident-- of course, it isn't HIM in the
chair right now....
What is your name?
Oh, bother. It's THEM again. What do they want now?
Can you hear me?
This is quite amusing. All my lives, lined up like index cards, ready
to be shuffled and read back at random. Buried original intellect, indeed! If
they only knew....
WHAT IS YOUR NAME!
Ach, this is getting tedious. I suppose I should answer them, if only
to shut them up. Let's see, now....
I beg your pardon?
Getting a response now, sir. We must have been off tune a bit.
Excellent. Hello, can you hear me?
Of course I can hear you, you fool. You're yelling in my ear!
Ah. Hm. Allright, let's try it again. What is your name?
Ah, tada, tada. Hmmmm. Clovis Cruikshank, Imperial News Network.
Specialist in tawdry tales of slime and debauchery. You know the type?
"Innocent Alien Girls Sold to Human Slavers For Houses of Sin," that sort of
thing.
WHA-AT? What the hell is he talking about!
I don't know, Doctor. There's no "Cruikshank" in the profile!
There isn't? Oh, dearie me. Well, how about Tibor Trench, Private Eye?
Meanest, rattiest private dick what ever walked the streets of Cairo, hoping
to score big on his next case....
Trench? TRE-- Has he gone crufty on us?
Um, no sir. No. I got a lock on that last name. Tibor Trench was a
real PI all right; he was in the news a while back as being wanted by both the
Imperium and the Solomani for smuggling. Crossreferencing-- ah! And Cruikshank
was the name of the scandal sheet reporter who wrote about him selling slaves
in one of the INN off-titles. He must've been reading the paper just before we
came in, or something.
Ah, that explains it.
Hook, line and sinker. You fools!
Did he say something?
Negative, Doctor. Just random noise.
Random noise? Don't you wish. Hurry it up, I'm growing bored....
Let's try it again... What is your name?
Sigh. Hristos von Newton. Or Doctor Christoph Fell. YOU pick one.
WHAAAAT?!
Good lord, sir, he must be balanced EXACTLY on the Threshold! We've
never gotten anyone to stabilize there before. We ought to study this while we
can....
No time. Give him another half point.
....Done, sir.
What is your name?
Newton. Newton, Newton, Newton. Please go away.
Memory access. Recent movements and time lapse since last conscious
period. Repeating request. Repeating request. Respond. Respond!
O'Connor frowned; something was very wrong. His internal time scale
should have kept the time flawlessly while he was out. But now it wasn't
answering at all.
Run basic diagnostics. Run basic diagnostics. RUN--
He gave up. There was no answer. All of the systems were shut down.
Every last one of them. Whoever was working on him had to have been half
cyberneticist, half brain surgeon. Fortunately he hadn't told anyone about his
internal backups. Just a few moments to activate them....
What is your name?
Daryavayush Michael O'Connor. Imperial Marines, Free Space Ops.
Good, very good. Now relax. We're going to increase power.
Increase power? To what? I don't like the sound of that! Let me get
the backups going, so I can get the hell out of here!
He fumbled in the darkness for the backups. They weren't there.
Oh my God, he realized, with sick horror, they've cut them off.
LITERALLY CUT THEM OFF! My arms-- my, throat, my ear, my EYE-- my, my BRAIN--
THEY'VE MUTILATED ME!
O'Connor screamed. He screamed and screamed, until the rising tide of
blackness dissolved the screams into meaningless gibberings, then into static.
"Captain Hudson?"
"Yo." Hudson's eyes flew open. He was lying on a couch in what smelled
like a hospital ward. His head ached. He sat up, slowly and painfully. "Where
am I?" He glared at the white-haired man standing by the bed. "Who're you?"
"I'm J. J. Cameron, of Ling Standard Products," the man replied
anxiously. "It was our comsat that hit your ship. This is terrible, terrible!"
"Hit the--" Hudson remembered with a jolt. The crash! The Inexplicable
had spun in, flailing like a harpooned daghadasi... dagha... Dag?
Hudson frowned. Dag?
"Are you all right? You took a pretty hard hit to the head...."
"I'm FINE!" Hudson threw himself angrily out of bed, and looked around
for his clothes. They were lain neatly over a chair by the bed, and he threw
them on, ignoring Cameron. "Where's my crew?"
"Waiting for you outside. Please come with me." Cameron led Hudson out
to the lounge, where four men were sitting and sipping at hot drinks,
conversing in low tones. They got up hastily as Hudson entered.
"Back among the living, eh, Cap'n?" Newton's voice had lost none of
its usual sneer.
"Yeah, looks that way. Anyone seen the ship?"
"I've looked it over extensively, Captain," Edison snapped. "It
requires (1) minor repairs to forward landing struts (2) extensive stress
check of Jump drive components (3) rehulling of port fuel tank section aft."
"Lovely. Just damned LOVELY!" Hudson turned on Cameron with a snarl.
"Your corporation's paying for those repairs, mister."
"Of course, of COURSE," Cameron soothed him. "We wouldn't THINK of not
doing so. We're so terribly sorry about what happened...."
Hudson ignored his plaintive bleatings, and looked hard at Nyborg, who
was still sitting on the couch, head in hands.
"Wolf? You all right?"
Nyborg looked up at Hudson, then stood up. He rubbed his eyes,
scratched one hand with the other and said, "My hands itch. Sir. And I've got
a headache. And my eye hurts, the left one. And my ear, too. And I have a sore
throat. And my mouth tastes like someone went to the bathroom in it. Otherwise
I'm OK. Sir."
"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Newton grinned. "You'll be fine, you louse."
"Of course he will," Tchorgin said indignantly. "Stiff upper lip and
all that, after all. We shall perservere; what does not kill us shall only
serve to make us stronger."
"Yeah, yeah, right," Hudson sighed. "Where's Tsogukh?"
Edison began, "They were having some trouble with him--"
"RRRRRAAAAAGGGHHHHHHHH!" The bellow of rage and pain split the air of
the hallway. A door splintered open with a crack, and an orderly came flying
out backwards into the hallway. After him came an apparition in a hospital
gown, two-plus meters of tautly stretched, growling Vargr muscle, spotted
dirty brown and black, bandaged about the head. For the barest instant, Hudson
paused. That's not right, something inside him said. He was a LITTLE guy.
Wasn't he?
"CAPTAIN!" Tsogukh roared. "WHERE THE FTAKHN ARE MY CLOTHES?"
"Settle down, before you hurt someone," Hudson rapped out. "Your
clothes ought to be right back in your room, you stupid furball."
Tsogukh looked over his shoulder, turned and walked back into the
room, and came out a moment later, zipping up his jumpsuit. "Sorry," he
rumbled to the orderly, who was just getting up.
"Okay, that's all of us," Hudson nodded. He turned to Cameron. "Take
us to our ship!"
"At once. Follow me, gentlebeings," Cameron said smoothly, leading the
crew of the Inexplicable toward the exit. "And as we walk, let me explain a
little job opening I have, for a crew that's not afraid of working the border
regions...."
TO BE CONTINUED