The New Frontiers Series, Book Seven

Terra

 

By Jack L Knapp

 

 

Books by the author:

The Wizards Series

Combat Wizard

Wizard at Work

Talent

Veil of Time

Siberian Wizard

Magic

Angel (a short story in the Wizards Series)

The Darwin's World Series

Darwin's World

The Trek

Home

The Return

Defending Eden

The New Frontiers Series

The Ship

NFI: New Frontiers, Inc

NEO: Near Earth Objects

BEMs: Bug Eyed Monsters

MARS: The Martian Autonomous Republic of Sol

Pirates

Terra

Hybrids (forthcoming)

Novels of the Southwest

Jacob Jennings'

Edward Jennings

Edward Jennings: War and Recovery

Edward Jennings: Cattleman

The Territory

Fantasy

The Wizard's Apprentice

 

COPYRIGHT

The New Frontiers Series, Book 7:

Terra

Copyright © 2021, renewed 2023 by Jack L Knapp

 

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

Disclaimer: The persons and events depicted in this novel were created by the author's imagination, except for historical persons; his depiction of them is based on his interpretation of published information. Other than that, no resemblance to actual persons or events is intended.

 

Chapter One

The gavel banged against the wooden disk, recessing the Solar Union Security Council's regularly-scheduled session.

The delegates gathered up their belongings, put them into briefcases, then left their seats. Some left immediately, but after a certain amount of milling around where they chatted with allies and pointedly ignored others, the remaining representatives left the chamber. There would be invitations to cocktail parties and golf outings would be arranged, but most would meet privately with colleagues, where they would talk about the recent deliberations and strategize for the next meeting. It was scheduled for a week hence, but most of the agenda items were already known. After all, the real work was done by staffers in the various committees and subcommittees, which worked to a schedule.

One such informal meeting was arranged between Henry ‘Hank' Stivers, the representative of the North American Alliance, and Senhor João Metzger, who represented the South American Union. The two were friends, as much as representatives of different nations can ever be. Friendship only goes so far in diplomacy, even when the nations they represent are allied.

"Aguardiente, Hank?" João asked.

Hank shuddered. "You know I can't stand that stuff! Doesn't matter whether you call it aguardiente or ouzo, I can't stand the smell!"

João grinned. "Well, then…"

"Okay, okay," Hank grumbled. "If you were serious, you'd have offered a nice, aged tequila! I might have gone for that! But you were angling for more of my single-malt all along!"

"Alas," João murmured. "Brasilia insists that we serve only domestic hooch. That's all we can offer, even to friends, but of course…"

"Yeah, they can't tell you what to drink." Hank poured two fingers of the amber liquid into squat glasses and handed one to João. "What did you think about that meeting?"

"I think the Chinese are exaggerating the threat, hoping for some sort of concession from the Russians," João said thoughtfully. He sipped appreciatively at the scotch, then stood up and walked to the window. Rain beat on the glass, a not-uncommon occurrence in late-spring Brussels. "I don't know. Bobby Sneyd of Mars was right in what he said, not that it will matter. There's not enough evidence of encroachment to proceed. If the attackers were indeed Russian, they were probably irregulars of some sort. They're too smart to send uniformed troops across the border, and anyway they're gone now, whoever they were."

"Yeah, and despite the Chinese Ambassador's bluster, the Security Council won't spend scarce funds on something like this. Speaking of Sneyd, it must be nice, having the kind of unlimited budget he has! Nicer still when your daddy's Chuck Sneyd!" Hank swallowed the rest of his drink, poured another, and took a large swallow of it as well. "You know, I really wish the damned Flickers had never come here!"

"What brought that on?" João asked curiously. "I've had similar thoughts, everyone has, but why now?"

"I don't know if you noticed, but most of this morning's business can be traced back to the Flickers! Mars, too; we never had a problem until after they showed up, which is why I mentioned Chuck Sneyd. We should have blown them out of space! But no, Sneyd had to spend a month paddling around with them, and after that everything was supposed to be all peachy! Kumbaya, just sit around and drink beer and swap spit! Hell, there's a lot more than that going on, if the tales I hear about Mars are right! Sneyd had to buddy-up with them and before that, there was the stranglehold he had on space! Good thing he won't show his face on Terra! I doubt he'd make it off-planet alive!"

"Hank, he gave up his monopoly," João pointed out. "Now that I think about it, he virtually gave it away. He did it because his company was about to be sued, for money he borrowed to fund that fleet, and he was facing criminal charges, not that most of them would have stuck. But that happened after the aliens had reached the solar system, probably a long time after. I'm not following you."

Hank gulped down another swallow and tried to explain. "For a while, it looked like we here on Terra—hell, that's part of the problem! It was Earth until the goddamned Flickers got here! But they had problems pronouncing the name and that other bunch, their goddamned tame animals, couldn't say it at all! So what happened? The Solar Union changed the name!"

"Hank, calm yourself!" João glanced around nervously. "Even here, we may be overheard! And I'd advise you to go easy on the scotch! Yes, the SU changed the name, but that was because the Finns and Icelanders jointly introduced the resolution. The Southeast Asia Confederation jumped on the bandwagon—they were all doing business with Sneyd, and he was swapping Flicker technology in payment—and after they signed on to the resolution, our nations joined in. If you need to blame someone, well…the SU is weak, and that's by design. Nobody wanted them to have real power, and besides, it looked like a good idea at the time."

"I suppose it did," Hank admitted, "but looking back, it was a real devil's bargain and the Martians baited the hook! First, they offered to take in our refugees, but then they backed out. No room, it would cost too much, they didn't have the technology, yada yada yada! But they had room for the damned extraterrestrials, and meanwhile their fellow humans were dying! Bastards, all of them! And there was the promise that we would share in all that nice Flicker technology! It was supposed to help us get past our problems, not to mention that we really needed something to distract people at the time. The die-offs, the petty little wars and the forced resettlements and reforestation of the tropics…we were facing revolution!"

"Your president and mine were the first to act, Hank," João soothed, "but face it, they saved Terr…ah, Earth. Half of Florida and most of south Louisiana were already underwater, saltwater was encroaching up the Mississippi all the way to northern Arkansas twice a day, and that was just in North America! In South America, the Amazon had spread, the salt water had killed off hundreds of square kilometers of forest, Buenos Aires and Rio de Janeiro were underwater, and the stench of rotting bodies was everywhere. And there was the constant demanding from my country and yours that the SU's Secretary General do something! I know what the official report said, ‘accidental overdose', but we both know that poor woman suicided!"

"She was a good secretary-general," Hank agreed, finally calming down. "Too good, in my opinion, because she couldn't deal with the guilt. But you're right about the booze; you can have another if you want, but I'm ready to cork the bottle. Um…I actually had something else in mind when I invited you here."

"I'm shocked, Hank!" João said, happy to resume diplo-speak. "I thought you wanted to ply me with this excellent scotch because you enjoyed my company! What did you have in mind?"

"The Russians are upset," Hank said. "They aren't certain who they're upset at, but they're under pressure to act just the same. You have access to the same satellite images I do, do you not?"

"We have certain images, yes." João admitted. "You're referring to the raids? The ones in Russia, and perhaps also the ones on the territory of our friends the Chinese?"

"Are they friends, João?" Hank asked.

"They're our friends, in diplomatic terms, just as we're theirs," João shrugged, and smiled. "Which is to say, friends when their votes are needed. When it's convenient, one might say. On the other hand, our friendship with the North American Alliance is more important to the South American Union's trade, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would indeed," Hank nodded, "and in fact, in the spirit of cooperation, I might suggest that our friends in the SAU take a close look at certain coordinates in Brazil state. Not for attribution, you understand, whatever might be located at those coordinates would be discovered by your people with no help from mine."

"Not just forest at those locations, I presume?" João asked idly.

"Possibly not," Hank admitted. And smiled.

"I'll pass it on," João said, "although there might not be much that we can do just now. Manpower cutbacks…"

"In that case, we…might be able to help," Hank said delicately, not looking at João.

"Really? Are you suggesting this on your own? Or are you offering, as the representative of your government, a covert operation? To be carried out by the CIA, perhaps?"

"The old CIA was disbanded years ago, João!" Hank protested. "Nobody even mentions it these days!"

"That's nice to know," João said mischievously. "I will have another sip of the scotch if you don't mind. A small one, perhaps?"

Hank nodded and poured. "We don't have a CIA, but we might have…certain assets. If you're sure there would be no repercussions. Friends might assist friends, but only if those assisting were certain their motives would not be misunderstood. Do we have an understanding?"

"I think that might be acceptable," João mused. "In fact, I think I might receive an assurance for you by the end of the week."

"Speaking of Russia," Hank said, "it would be nice if they remained on the sidelines in future. If they were kept too busy stomping Chinese snakes to go adventuring south of the equator, for example, and if the Chinese were kept busy bashing Russian snakes?"

"Yes," João agreed. "Of course, we're only speculating. Absent some sort of major event, I'm sure things will settle down."

"I'm sure you're right," Hank agreed smoothly, "but suppose Russia and China, both of them, were feeling more than just adventurous?"

"Would they benefit from…ah, encouragement in such adventurous feelings, you think?" João asked. "It would be a nice distraction. They're facing internal unrest too, you know, but if their people had something to focus on? They're traditional enemies, after all; it wouldn't take much of a push."

"There's no way to be sure, of course," Hank confessed. "You're right, they wouldn't need much, but it's possibly that your nation and mine might provide what's missing. Maybe the bright boys at the CI…ooops!" he scowled at the whisky in his glass. "I talk too much. Friends who enjoy good scotch would have selective memories, would they not?"

João ignored the slip. "I suggest that we have enough new information to keep our respective governments busy, and happy at how well we support each other's national priorities! It's been very enlightening, my friend!"

"I agree," Hank said. "We should do it again sometime!"

"In a week, shall we say?" suggested João. "By then I should have an answer to my proposal."

"Let's plan on it," Hank agreed, "and in the meantime I'll have time to restock my liquor cabinet! Take care of yourself, my friend." After a handshake, the two went on their way.

Later that afternoon, messages went out from Brussels. One was decoded in Brasilia, another in Omaha. From there, instructions were sent to dozens of locations around the world.

Messages were received and decoded, other messages were sent, and some were sent out from Moscow via secure land-line to a number of locations. China had no need for such; her communication satellites had the best encryption systems available. Hank and João would have been very interested in the messages, had they known of them.

But of course, they did not, so events were left to play out as they would.

***

A pleasantly-cool breeze lightly stirred the long pine needles, causing them to whisper against the window glass. Viktor Kuznetsov found it soothing, sometimes too soothing. The faint sound made it far too easy to fall asleep, which he'd discovered to his cost. One more negative report in his file, he'd been told, would see him sent farther to the east, presumably to keep a sharp eye on migrating whales.

Coffee helped, and those in charge of the far-flung Great Russia outposts could at least be relied on to keep supplies of the bitter stimulant on hand. He walked over to the machine and touched the on button, then loaded in a pod. He waited, listening to the gurgle as the device boiled water, and so almost missed the tap-tap-tap on the door.

Sighing, he looked longingly at the machine, then headed for the door while glancing at the clock. The relief crew is early, he thought. He spared a glance at the radar display, assuring himself that the sweep continued and all the tracks were accounted for, before heading for the door to admit the replacements.

But the man outside the door was in ordinary peasant clothing; what could he want? It didn't matter, he decided; only authorized persons were admitted to the installation. He looked out at the man and shook his head vigorously, then waved him off. The man seemed disappointed, but obediently turned back down the track he'd followed to the site. Viktor watched from inside the doorway as he vanished into the trees.

It was the last thing he ever saw.

 

Chapter Two

Colonel Ivan Ivanoff wasn't the smartest man around, but he possessed a natural cunning. It had gotten him promoted to colonel, but without a substantial boost, a successful operation or prosecution that made headlines, would not be enough to see him promoted higher.

Part of that cunning had to with understanding his gifts, and a realistic view of his limitations. He had never been imaginative, but he understood how to get the best from imaginative subordinates. There were always clever, ambitious young graduates who understood that a mentor could help them through the first few difficult years, and Ivanoff sought them out. They would help Ivanoff, he would help them.

He did just that— part of being cunning was knowing how valuable a reputation for sharing credit could be among subordinates—and when they were ready, saw to it that they moved up. His superiors saw this as modesty on his part, so Colonel Ivanoff often received credit he hadn't earned.

Captain Ivashev was such an imaginative subordinate.

His imagination was useful, but occasionally it needed reining in, and Colonel Ivanoff did so tactfully when necessary. As a result, the colonel and his protégé formed an outstanding investigative team.

Just the pair to look into this latest outrage, General Petrov decided. A word to his principal assistant was sufficient, and in a matter of minutes the orders were transmitted.

***

After a quick look around, Colonel Ivanoff let Captain Ivashev get on with supervising the technicians working the crime scene. While they were doing so, he kept his eyes moving in order to miss nothing. Which was why he noticed right away when Ivashev left the technicians to their work in order to examine closely the sprayed graffiti the intruders had left on the wall.

Colonel Ivanoff skirted the still-tacky blood spatters and joined Ivashev, but decided not to interrupt. Instead, he waited patiently in the background until the captain was ready to tell him what he'd spotted.

"It's not what I expected, Colonel," Ivashev finally said. "This one is different. I don't think the graffiti is random."

"Oh?" Ivashev was still thinking about what he'd noticed, Colonel Ivanoff realized; he would reveal the rest as soon as he was ready.

But a bit of encouragement wouldn't be out of place. "Different how?" Ivanoff asked. "The sequence is always the same, Captain; they force their way in, spray slogans on the walls, then torch the radar on their way out. I would remind you that this is the fourth such incident, and they're all the same."

"Fifth, Colonel," offered Ivashev. "You might not have heard about the one near the Finnish border. That one happened less than a week ago, and yes, the modus operandi was similar to the first four."

"Modus what? Speak Russian, Captain!" Ivanoff was more abrupt with his favorite assistant than usual, but it was time to get him back on track. Otherwise, they'd be here for a week waiting for him to study everything about the scene!

"It means method of operation, my colonel. They, always assuming it's the same revo—ah, criminal gang—have never used a bomb up to now. They never needed to before, but security was tightened up after the Finnish border incident. Which, by the way, the Finns swore they had nothing to do with! That attack was the same as the Turkish border incident and the two near Ukraine, and by the way they also claim they had nothing to do with what happened. But this time, the door had been reinforced and was double slide-locked at top and bottom. Notice that the security bolts are still attached to what's left of the door frame and in the locked position? The operator refused to open the door, so they simply blew their way in. They were prepared, Colonel! They set the charge, waited until it blew, then carried out a tactical entry."

"And the on-duty operator?" Ivanoff asked.

"Part of such a tactical entry is to take out the one on duty, then kill the other three while they're still woozy from sleep. He was killed by the bomb, but other than that, the rest of the scenario is the same. Murder the remaining three and thus secure the site, collect any intelligence that might be useful, then destroy the radar set. We know when the attack happened, 0206 hours, because that's when the radar went off-line. Other than that, we have very little to go on."

"Video surveillance of the site?" Ivanoff asked.

"Complete, but of limited value," confessed Ivashev. "The intruders were hooded and masked, so facial-recognition won't work. There was only a single outside camera, and it was focused directly out from the door. The one who set the bomb apparently knew this, so he approached from the side and set the bomb in place. He then knocked on the door to bring the night operator. I theorize that he signaled for entry, which this time was refused, then started the timer before heading away in the same direction he'd used for his approach. That explains why the on-duty operator was where he'd be caught in the blast.

"Description; as best I can judge based on the graffiti pattern, the bomber wasn't particularly large. Shorter than the average Russian, I would think. Three men in the crew, possibly as many as four, entered after the blast. I saw three shadows, but again they seemed to know where the camera was so I can't be sure. We have only a few photos, taken as they passed inside, and I don't know if that number included the one who set the bomb. Based on tracks we found, he appeared to be headed away into the forest before the bomb exploded. One set of walking tracks in, one set leaving and with no sign of haste, but even so he may have circled around and joined the others.

"Anyway, two of them headed straight for the barracks. This is based on shadows. The light in the operator's room survived the blast, and as they moved about their shadows were recorded by the camera focused on the door. They had small-caliber pistols, possibly with sound suppressors, and they appear to have known exactly how many operators were sleeping. The third started prepping the radar for demolition, and he's also the one that decorated the walls while the other two searched the operations room."

"So; not a lot to go on," Ivanoff mused, "but you spotted something, didn't you?"

"Maybe," Ivashev said hesitantly. "It's the graffiti, my colonel. They were in a hurry this time, and they may have gotten careless."

Ivanoff, unwilling to confess his ignorance, simply raised an expressive eyebrow.

Ivashev might have sighed, but if so it was so slight that Colonel Ivanoff could ignore it. "We have at least three instances where the spray pattern is too precise, Colonel. I'd like you to try something, please. The difference is very subtle, so I think the exercise will help explain what I'm talking about."

The colonel frowned, but decided to humor his subordinate. Subtle, indeed!

"Imagine that you're holding a can of spray paint and painting letters on a wall, my colonel. Move your arm to follow the spray line, and remember, you've got to hurry."

"Like this?" asked Ivanoff, going through the motions but feeling silly as he did.

"Yes," Ivashev said. "Now move over to the wall—watch for patches of blood, the techs haven't finished collecting body parts—and try to follow that same spray pattern, but this time move to the left. Notice how difficult it is?"

"Yes," Ivanoff agreed. "It might take two or three more practices to get it exactly, but I was never off by more than a couple of centimeters!"

"But you were off, my colonel. I tried it myself, and if I may say so you came closer than I did. The reason has to do with muscle memory and how your shoulder joint works. The graffitist had no such problem; he painted a precise curve leading up, then with no pause—notice that the spray pattern remains almost the same width, indicating that he kept it moving—a precise curve down and to the right. Think Chinese, Colonel."

"Ah! The pattern is very similar to the rén symbol!"

"It is," Captain Ivashev said approvingly, "and look over here. Those aren't simple spritzes on the wall, they might be portions of other characters as well."

"So our terrorists aren't simple crooks," Colonel Ivanoff mused. "Judging by how precisely they carried out the attack, they're special operations soldiers and probably Chinese. But surely you don't think the other raids were the work of the Chinese! The distances alone…" Ivanoff's voice trailed away.

"I think it's time we looked again at the video evidence from the other attack sites, my colonel," Captain Ivashev suggested. "As you say, the distances are great, but to someone with access to an impeller-driven ship? I know that China has at least one squadron of the things, possibly as many as five, and terrestrial distances mean little to such a ship. Lift off, enter orbit briefly, then descend where you will, anywhere on Terra.

"But not close to the site you intend to attack; had I been in command of such an operation, I would have landed a few kilometers away, then flew the remaining distance using personal electric transporters. As you're aware, military PETs tap into the broadcast-power net. This gives them practically unlimited range and they're virtually silent, quieter even than an impeller-driven ship. The only real constraint for such an operation is time, my colonel, they would have needed to come down around midnight, local time.

"The radar might have spotted their ship, so they would have landed far enough away to not alarm their target, but it would have paid no attention to three or four PETs. Wait fifteen minutes after landing, while monitoring the radar crew's radio transmissions, and as soon as they were sure they hadn't been discovered, board their PETs and move closer to the target. The actual attack took perhaps ten minutes, possibly less for such a highly trained crew. Get in, do the job, then exfiltrate back to their ship. Stow their PETs in the underwing docking stations, board the ship, and lift off. They probably got back to China in time for morning tea."

"Yes," Ivanoff mused. "But what if they weren't Chinese, Captain? What if this elaborate scene was staged for our benefit? For your benefit, Captain Ivashev!"

"That's—brilliant, Colonel!" Ivashev said, wondering where the old fool was going with this latest idiocy.

"It's why I'm a colonel and you're a captain, Captain! We get paid to think of such things!" Ivanoff said pompously. "Where else might one find clever people, people who could pretend to be Chinese?"

"The Koreans could, but they wouldn't," Ivashev said thoughtfully. "Not the Finns or the Turks either, they would have no reason to do this. That leaves…"

"Go on, Captain," Colonel Ivanoff said.

"The Europeans and the North Americans!" Captain Ivashev blurted. "But Europeans would have the same issues you and I had, Colonel, they would lack the necessary muscle memory and flexibility in the shoulder joint. But there are many Asians who are citizens of the North American Alliance! You're saying that the North Americans did this?"

"I only suggest the possibility, Captain!" Colonel Ivanoff said smoothly. "Conclusions, if wrong, carry consequences! But a mere suggestion, added to an earlier suggestion that Chinese special forces probably carried out the raid? Clever people like you and me, Captain, will be praised for our diligence in reporting all possibilities! Leave the decisions to our wise superiors! That is how captains get to be colonels!"

Clever indeed, decided Captain Ivashev.

But privately, he decided to re-examine the records from the other attacks, especially the graffiti on the walls. The colonel was right in his suggestion to consider all reasonable suspects.

But suppose that the graffitist had left such a clue for a different reason? What if he'd been trying to signal that the attack had been carried out by Chinese special forces soldiers? After all, the Chinese government had forcefully suppressed any number of minority populations. What if a Tibetan, for example, had left the clue to tell an astute investigator who had carried out the raid? Great Russia had similar disaffected populations who were just as untrustworthy!

There was no way to tell for sure. So it was that later, when General Petrov called to congratulate Colonel Ivanoff on his astuteness, Captain Ivashev kept his mouth shut.

General Petrov's next call went to his superior, who in turn reported farther up the chain of command.

The end result was that a number of events were put in motion. A summary of the events would be reported to the Solar Union's Security Council, not that anything would be done. The SC, and for that matter the SU itself, was toothless. There would be no assistance from that quarter!

But something would have to be done. A direct attack on China was out, even though Spetsnav raiders wouldn't make the same mistakes when they retaliated against the Chinese. Might such a series of attacks not be launched as part of a broader campaign to distract the Security Council? The diplomats would dither and protest, but the Chinese would feel the pressure and understand where it originated! Pinpoint attacks to start with, focused on Chinese assets near the Siberian border in order to send a message.

But there should be other distractions as well. Great Russia also had a squadron of impeller-driven ships, several of them in fact, and some of the ships had been improved over what the New Frontiers company had sold to Great Russia. It was time to make use of them!

The multifaceted campaign was duly launched, and well-informed senior officials in Great Russia congratulated each other on their cleverness.

 

Chapter Three

"Commander, you're needed in Ops."

LCdr Adrienne Ross sighed and closed out the display. "On the way, Lieutenant."

What now? She wondered, while locking her helmet to the suit's ring and checking that it was airtight. Satisfied, she entered the airlock and bounded up the ‘ladder', in reality a two-meter-wide stairway that led from the orbital fort's pressurized and gravity-compensated internal habitat section to the zero-gee, open-to-vacuum Operations post topside.

The view was, as always, stunning. Above the clumsily-named Orbital Fort North American Alliance, the stars shown down in remote glory. Surrounded by the vacuum of high orbit, the Milky Way was bright enough to cast dim light across the fort's rocky surface. Terra, appearing almost close enough to touch, spread out below her command.

Lieutenant William Browning was standing at the weapons console. Microgravity and the slightly-magnetic soles of his boots provided enough attraction to hold him in place, but he was no longer watching the star display. The multifunction display in front of him showed multiple pinpoints of drifting objects, but unlike previous displays, there was a distinct trail behind one of the dots. Unlike the drifters, this one was under power and heading toward the fort.

"Is that why you called me?" she asked, pointing to the blip.

"Yes," Browning confirmed. "This is his third trip around. He broke the ten-k exclusion zone for ships-under-power when he buzzed us the first time, so I transmitted the standard warning. He got closer the second time, six kilometers, which is why I called you. This time, his projected course will put him crossing just above the radar mast."

"Unusual," mused LCdr Ross. "I wonder what's behind this? That pilot wouldn't be doing this without orders. Is it simple harassment, or something more?"

"Um…did you read the latest Solar Union guidelines?" Lt. Browning asked.

"You're talking about the bulletin pointing out that self-defense is always authorized?" asked LCdr Ross. "It's my understanding that they published that one because of the demonstrations."

Which had indeed caused problems; street marches had started small, then spread around the world. The numbers had continued to grow since then, and the latest Hong Kong demonstration had reportedly involved almost ten million people, many from the mainland. Two days later, it had happened again, this time in Beijing. A week after that, nervous security forces in Great Russia that had been assigned to monitor a demonstration had fired into the crowd. Families of the injured and killed had appealed to the Solar Union's Security Council, hoping that as a minimum the governments of Great Russia and China would be censured. Instead, the Council had issued a finding of ‘self-defense' that in effect authorized the government responses.

But did that broad finding apply to the orbital forts? "Recommendation, Lieutenant?"

"This one's coming pretty close, Commander. Not sure where it's from—Russia at a guess, though it might be Chinese because they're always looking for an opportunity to tweak our decadent noses—but there might be other motives. Besides the obvious one, I mean, that they're hoping we overreact."

"But there have been other reports of fly-by incidents, correct?" LtCmdr Ross asked. "What I'm asking is whether in your opinion we're really in danger."

"Commander, what if that guy makes a mistake?" Lieutenant Browning asked. "He won't cause us to crash, that's not possible given the difference in mass between that ship and this asteroid, but he could put us off-line. And cost the North American Alliance a bunch of money it doesn't have! The resettlement projects…well, you know about that."

She did indeed. Removing and resettling communities from the rain forests of tropical South America to the North American plains had been necessary, something that few argued nowadays, but it hadn't been cheap. The latest project, collecting waste plastic from around the world and refining it for use in the growing ‘forests' of solar reflectors popping up in the hot deserts of the world, was proving to be at least as expensive and most of the costs had fallen on the North American Alliance. Meaning there would be no money to rebuild Orbital Fort NAA after a crash, accidental or otherwise.

"Record the following and broadcast it in the clear," she said, her voice suddenly clear and decisive with none of the earlier speculation. "Warning. You are about to enter a restricted zone. In accordance with SU Directive 2086 dash 191 kilo, paragraph bravo 16 delta, the right of self-defense is never disallowed. Acting in accordance with that finding, I have authorized the use of deadly force." Lieutenant Browning nodded, the gesture clear through his helmet faceplate.

"As soon as he reaches the 100k alert zone, Lieutenant, activate the targeting radar. Make sure it shows that our lasers are synched to the targeting beam. I doubt we'll need to launch a missile, but it won't hurt to alert weapons control in case the birds are needed."

"Should I also message NAA Forces Headquarters, Commander?" Browning asked.

"Do so," LtCdr Ross replied. "Include my reasoning, and cite the relevant SU authority. Advise them via encrypted message that I intend to try a laser beam across his bow, and if that doesn't get his attention I'll target his wing. Those old Farside models carry their fuel in wing tanks, so maybe a few orbits with no power will calm him down. Did you get photos during those earlier approaches?"

"Sure, but there are no national markings but you can make out the pilot and copilot, meaning that if there had been identification on the fuselage or wings we would have seen it. The images were not good enough for facial recognition, but no question, there are two of them."

"That's the complete crew, then," LtCdr Ross mused, "not a question of a rogue pilot stealing a ship, so it's a deliberate provocation. Attach the best photo to your message, then send it to HQ. Armament?"

"You can just make out the barrels of autocannon sticking out from that housing near the wing roots. There's also a chin bubble, which I'm guessing houses a laser cannon."

"Good eye," LtCdr Ross said approvingly. "Include that in the message and get it off soonest, because we don't have a lot of time. That bird is heading straight for the identification zone."

"The warning just went out and the computer has him locked, Commander. I'm just finishing the advisory to NAA Forces," Lieutenant Browning said. "Standing by…and…he's just crossed into the ID Zone."

"Light him up," LtCdr Ross said firmly.

"Computer control enabled, targeting radar ready, the laser is showing full charge," Lt Browning reported. "Suggest 100 meters ahead of his projected position, based on current speed, 5 millisecond burn. There should be enough floating particles to show a flare."

"Approved." Moments later, the laser fired, its beam reflecting pale red as it encountered microscopic particles ahead of the ship.

"He's decelerating, Commander. Dropping to a lower orbit…I've lost visual. He's passing under us!"

"Fat lot of good it will do him! But see if you can get telemetry from Terra in case he tries for another orbit. Meantime, I'm ready for coffee. You want one?" she asked.

"Thanks," Lieutenant Browning said absently, eyes glued to the screen. But there was no further sign of the mysterious warship, meaning he'd landed somewhere on Terra without completing another orbit.

Composing a more-complete report took longer, but after the commander received a reply, she decided it had been worth it. Forces HQ had not only approved of the action she'd taken, they'd ordered her to add her response to the fort's standard operating procedures.

***

Mac MacIntyre's Flicker-furnished communicator chimed.

Since Chuck Sneyd was currently the only Terran other than Mac to have one of the devices, he knew who was calling. The two had become close after Chuck had come to Mac's rescue in the Asteroid Belt, and soon after that they'd become business partners as well. They exchanged text messages often, but rarely bothered with video. A text could be read when convenient, a video meeting was an interruption and therefore reserved for important matters.

After greeting each other, Chuck got to the reason why he'd called. "Mac, have you been following events on Terra?"

"Not really," Mac confessed. "I have a clipping service that helps me keep up with issues that might affect my company, but most of what we do happens between the Asteroid Belt and Mars. Is there something I should know?"

"Maybe not in detail," Chuck said, "but the general overview? Yeah, I'd say it's important."

Mac nodded and cleared the screen he'd been studying. Nag, his ship, would keep track of his progress and open the lesson file to where it had been. Highly efficient, Nag, but he'd named the ship that for a reason; she had turned into a world-class nag! Make that a galaxy-class nag, Mac decided. After all, the ship was in almost all respects identical to the Flicker ships that roamed the Orion arm of the Milky way.

"Enlighten me, Friend Chuck," Mac said, "and start from the beginning. You obviously aren't as busy as I am!"

"Oh, I'm busy enough," Chuck said, "but I like to keep my ear to the ground. Forewarned is forearmed and all that stuff. I'm better placed than most, because I've maintained business relationships with Terran companies."

Mac sighed. Chuck could be infuriating in the way he approached things! As for Terra, Mac found dealing with affairs on Mars to be much more straightforward! "Is it the money again?"

"Yes, and no," Chuck said cheerfully. "The exchange rate between SU dollars and Marsbucks is stable, but suppliers keep jacking up their prices! I keep them honest by threatening to start my own factories on Mars, but I don't really want to do that. Labor costs on Mars are higher, but cost is not the main reason why I still buy subassemblies from Terra. We have the kind of relationship where they keep me apprised of issues on Terra, I keep them up to date on Martian matters."

"I don't see the significance," Mac said, his puzzlement obvious.

"Okay, let's look at it another way," Chuck said. "You read Terran news outlets, right?"

"Of course, the business-related ones. For instance, I keep a close eye on the commodities markets because I'm holding up several shipments of refined metals until prices improve. I don't need the money right now and parking the cargoes near the refinery costs nothing. I'm also interested in Solar Union politics that affect us. My Solar Resources company and the SU Security Council have an understanding regarding prices of the two-gig cruisers, but I'm interested in selling them four-gig models that will be a lot more expensive. They'll be real starships, Chuck, able to cruise anywhere in the Orion Arm of the galaxy!"

"That's an interesting concept, Mac. Let me think about it and I'll get back to you, but for right now I suspect you'll soon be hearing from the SU about additional two-gig models. What do you know about relationships between Great Russia and China?"

"They don't like each other a bunch! In fact, they'd probably be shooting at each other by now if you hadn't slapped them on their figurative wrists!"

"I did indeed," Chuck agreed, "but governments change, and no government lets the happenings of half a century ago dictate current policy."

"Okay, I can see that," Mac said, "but surely you're not suggesting that they're about to go to war! It's unthinkable!"

"You just thought of it, Mac," Chuck pointed out, "and I've been thinking it might happen for the last five years. That's where my private information sources come in, Finland for information on Russia and Unified Korea regarding events in China."

Mac nodded thoughtfully. "I'll contact Patrol headquarters. It's a bit early for negotiations, but if they're willing to talk I could give Mickey Mayo a heads-up."

"Don't let him forget about my new ship!" Chuck protested. "He's already put me off once, partner, and I need that ship!"

Mac chuckled. "I'll remind him, Chuck. Meantime, thanks for the heads-up about Terra. Which reminds me, I've been thinking we need to meet in person. Next time we're both on Mars, maybe?"

"We don't have to hit dirt, Mac. A meeting on your ship would actually work better. No big ears listening or sneaky eyes watching!"

"I agree," Mac said. "Send me a copy of your schedule, I'll arrange a time."

 

Chapter Four

The ancient Flicker known as The Eldest was happy, an emotion common now but one he'd thought had gone away forever after their Civil War.

Atonement for his past wasn't possible, he knew that, but he also knew that by pursuing his current interest he was benefiting three species. Terrans understood now that the Community of 33 had not really represented the Flicker species, but only their own fear of change. They also understood that the recent ‘enemy', the Felis, were nothing like they'd been portrayed. One of his two companions was a Felis, Frawwrr, who had formed a friendship with him and the third member of the party, Charles Sneyd II.

***

‘Deuce', as he preferred to be called, chafed at being the undistinguished son of a famous family.

He hadn't yet decided what he wanted to do with his life, other than he had no interest in copying what the other members of his family had done. Great-great grandfather Morty had been a genius, no question about it; it was he, along with Grandfather Chuck, who had invented the impeller drive that made space travel feasible. As for Chuck, someday there would be statues everywhere on Terra celebrating the life of that larger-than-life figure. But for now, the sculptors were forced to wait, because Chuck refused to go quietly into history.

No indeed! He was once again at the head of the company he'd built, New Frontiers, Inc, and Grandmother Lina, no slouch herself, was president of the University of Mars. Her position was appropriate, considering that she'd been the driving force behind establishing the university. His father Bobby, now known as President Robert Sneyd, had left NFI for his first love, politics. He'd campaigned for reelection and won it almost unopposed. Along with Deuce's mother, now known as the First Lady of Mars, they were a potent force in solar system politics.

His older brother Morty had, like their aunt Admiral Roberta Sneyd, chosen a military career. He now commanded an elderly Patrol cruiser and was simultaneously a commander in the Mars Armed Reserve, with a bright future ahead of him. And Admiral Roberta Sneyd, lost during a suicide mission that had saved all of humanity? The statues celebrating her heroism were already in the planning stage.

What notable thing was left for the undistinguished, likely never to be distinguished, younger family member to do? Deuce had tried repeatedly to come to terms with what his family had done, and failed, But then, his grandfather had introduced him to the ancient Flicker known simply as The Eldest.

The Eldest had subsequently mentioned during his address to the Security Council that he thought his immediate contribution to Terran society would consist of an in-depth study of how the rain forests had rebounded. The SC authorized the study, because n only a few short years since humans had been resettled elsewhere, replanted forests and jungles had spread. Included in the recovering ecosystem were trees, that like a number of animals, had once appeared headed for extinction. The result was a growing planetary ecosystem that had healed over many of the scars caused by human thoughtlessness and greed.

As the rain forests recovered, so too had the planet's climate. Scientists understood, but the Flickers had experienced nothing comparable on the worlds they'd colonized. The Eldest had pointed out that the three-species expedition would require no support. After all, he had his own ship, called as was normal for the Flickers, but not released immediately. They would live aboard for the most part, departing early each morning so that they could spend the day working in the forest, then returning to the ship before dark to spend the night.

Chuck and Deuce had discussed the address and the tropical ecosystem the Elder was interested in, and when he mentioned that having a human assistant would be helpful, Deuce had found his niche.

***

"You are an able assistant, Deuce," The Eldest had remarked one day. "You've never said anything, but I'm sure you've wondered about the specimens we've collected."

"Collecting living examples…it doesn't fit with what I know of your species," Deuce admitted. "I can't see you putting them in zoos. Killing is out too, not only because it's part of your overall philosophy but because you're very careful of their health and well-being. I figure that's why you keep swapping out ships; as soon as you have a few specimens, you send them somewhere and call a replacement ship."

"Just so," The Eldest chuckled, and went on. "I collected specimens of the plantae at first and sent them off to several planets where they could flourish. Along with them, I sent microbes that are necessary for a healthy ecosystem. As a result, I now have a system of living laboratories where I can introduce a new plant species and observe the new ecosystem to see the changes that each introduced species brings."

"You've been recording your work?" Deuce asked, his doubt obvious. "I wondered about that. You don't write, you don't even generate electronic records! Is your memory that good?"

"I remember what I've done, but one day my memory will fail. It's…inevitable, but that's another story. You do understand that I can call a ship whenever I wish?"

"Yes, I've seen the ships," Deuce agreed. "They're almost identical, but I've noticed subtle differences."

"Some things are in essence identical," The Eldest explained. "A hull is a hull, a powerplant a powerplant, and a drive system is a drive system. All perform the same task. Within limits they can be rearranged, but such changes wouldn't be obvious. The interfaces between ships and passengers are different, so I'm not surprised that you spotted that, but what you missed is that I interact with the starnet to call for a ship. That's a basic use for the extra node in our brains, but using the starnet to record results of what I've done and what I'm doing is no more difficult. It's all there, available to any who might be able to search."

"You're implying that the starnet has no index?" Deuce asked, astonished. "You don't even have search ‘bots like ours?"

"We have never needed such," The Eldest confirmed. "Our system is more complicated, but it is also simpler. Each inhabited star system has its own planetnet, and our ships keep track of them, but most of the things cluttering your internet aren't needed. For example, there is no ‘history' of a community. Your concept of politics is meaningless, music for us is what we make during community swims, and we find what you call ‘sports' incomprehensible.

"Each swim is different, but also much the same as the previous one and similar to what will happen next time. Thus there is no reason to record our interactions. It is as I said, simple. For bodies of knowledge such as mathematics or the sciences, I simply query the starnet. A ship will retrieve the information from one or more planetnets and organize it as needed. Complex, but considered over the millenia since we began recording information, it's not complicated at all."

"So you have all these living labs?" Deuce asked. "And you're recording your results?"

"Of course. Your system of grouping living entities based on similarities is excellent, by the way, but other subdivisions your scientists have created are important only to taxonomists. In practical terms, they aren't important to my research, because specimens from kingdoms animalia, bacteria, fungi, and plantae must interact across genera. The interactions are more important than subdivisions among members of a species."

"I suspect our scientists might have done the same," Deuce mused, "but we've never had entire planets to use as labs!"

"Some of mine contain organisms that are foreign to Terra," The Eldest admitted, "although it's possible that they might have existed here when life first evolved. But to continue, as I collect living specimens, I allow them to reproduce. A generation is held in reserve, others are transplanted to one or more of my living laboratories."

"Have you thought of transplanting humans in the same way?" Deuce asked curiously.

"No." The Eldest paused as if he might say more, then changed his mind. "I would not use sentients in such a way, transplanting them without first gaining permission."

***

Furrball, now known as Furr-ba because his adult vocal apparatus had difficulty with the rest of his name, had abandoned what his father Frawwrr, the Felis member of the expedition, considered to be the duty of the Felis. From the very beginning, that inbred duty had been to bond with, and then protect his or her bondmate so long as life endured. Always that bond had been between Flicker and Felis, until kitten Furrball spotted Mac. And, for the first time in the history of the Felis, bonded with a non-Flicker. Furr-ba had chosen Mac, a Terran, as had most of his remaining littermates and no one understood why.

Frawwrr was of two minds about this. The out-bonding had been so unprecedented that he had wondered briefly about the survival of the Felis species. After all, Terrans had attacked a fleet of Flicker ships and had wiped out many of the Felis crews! But now, thanks to the Terran Mac and his relationship with Furrball and the Flicker Maona, the Felis species had something they'd never had before, a habitat of their own. And there would soon be others. The species had not only begun to recover, latent qualities of intelligence had surfaced. Who could say what the Felis future might now contain?

Throughout the Orion arm, other Felis had become aware of the unprecedented events. Former raiders, the unbonded ones had come to Mars to visit and see this new wonder for themselves. Unsurprisingly, many had remained.

The Felis species, once on the verge of extinction, had rebounded, and thanks to Mac accidentally introducing them to Terran movies, had responded in an unexpected way. Now, the inherent curiosity of the catlike race might well result in them becoming more intelligent than humans or Flickers!

***

Somehow, the unlikely trio of The Eldest, Frawwrr, and Deuce had formed a relationship unprecedented, a hybrid of Flicker, Terran, and Felis that almost amounted to a joint consciousness. Each had his role to play; The Eldest led, Deuce was his Terran sounding board and contact point with the Solar Union, and Frawwrr was the protector. As individuals, their influence extended far, but as members of the unprecedented triad, their relationship had become widely known. Most on Terra now knew of them, but equally, most hadn't bothered to keep track of their work.

There were occasional university announcements, because any number of scientists were happy to collaborate with The Eldest. He provided the raw data, they analyzed and collated it, and announced findings as a precursor to publishing in a scientific journal.

With no warning, things changed.

Deuce had leaned down to better hear the Eldest's soft voice. Naturally tall, and thanks to the hard work he'd been doing slim and fit, he tried to avoid towering over the ancient Flicker.

"I understand the motivation for this," The Eldest said, tapping the screen that displayed the current issue of The Journal of Terran Taxonomy, "but I cannot agree with the emphasis placed on certain species by Terran scientists." Deuce waited; the Eldest would continue his explanation after he'd thought the issue through. "There are millions of organisms within a single hectare of forest, Terran Deuce. For better understanding, we reduce the numbers by classifying them into species."

Deuce nodded. Ruefully, he realized that most of the time this was his main function, to listen while the old Flicker thought about an issue. "You don't agree with emphasizing particular species?" Deuce asked.

"No," The Eldest said. "The ecosystem must be considered as a synergy, a whole that is more than the sum of its parts. Terran scientists have not yet realized that if you over-emphasize or de-emphasize a part of that entity, it dies. Another synergy then takes its place, similar in many ways but not the same. So it has been for centuries, sometimes by design, more often by accident. It is the principle that your kind followed to the point that it almost killed your world, a principle that in fact did kill off—several—intelligent species on other worlds."

"I think I understand," Deuce said thoughtfully. "Clear out the underbrush so that you can plant commercially-important trees, and you alter the ecosystem."

"Just so. I have confirmed this by analyzing results from my laborat…"

A harsh growl interrupted the Eldest. "You must call your ship now!

"I'm not finished, Frawwrr!" The Eldest complained. "We still have hours…"

Frawwrr was no longer paying attention to the ancient Flicker. Facing across the clearing toward the shadows cast by the deep forest, he growled, a deep sound that caused Deuce's neck-hairs to stand on end. He noticed that the furry ruff around Frawwrr's shoulders had also bristled, to the point that it now appeared to be twice as large as before, and all four of his war-claws were fully extended. Frawwrr growled again, a deep bass rumble that this time drew a harsh growl in response.

Some twenty meters away, at the edge of a patch of deeper shadow, something moved.

Deuce watched wide-eyed as a huge male tiger slunk into the clearing, head lowered, body crouched until the belly almost touched the forest litter, and the hairs on its neck and spine roached-up as it eyed Frawwrr. Behind the male, a slightly-smaller female stalked forward to stand by her mate. Behind her, two half-grown cubs waited in the forest's shadows, only visible because of the lighter colors of their pelts.

Deuce shivered at the sight and reached for the machete he wore at his hip, a tool they'd found necessary when penetrating particularly-dense undergrowth. But even as he drew the heavy blade from its scabbard, he understood that it was likely to be useless. Frawwrr was formidable, but against two tigers?

The big Felis had abandoned his upright stance as soon as the male tiger appeared. Now crouched on all fours, war claws extended and the other claws digging into the soft ground for purchase, he waited.

The male tiger growled again. Frawwrr answered in kind, then pushed up with his forelegs until he was leaning forward with all his considerable weight on his hind legs. The rear pair of war claws suddenly stabbed down, digging deep into the soil for purchase. Eyes slitted, ears flattened and cocked backward, he roared his own threat.

The tiger bounded forward, body outstretched and claws reaching…for something that was no longer there!

Frawwrr leaped, an astonishing flash of light brown that streaked across the clearing and met the tiger in midair. Twin scythes on his front paws ripped through the huge beast's neck, nearly decapitating it, and the rear war-claws punched into the tiger's abdomen, ripping downward in a gutting stroke that showered blood and bits of gut around the clearing.

Frawwrr shook the dead tiger, then raised his gory head and roared a challenge at the tigress. She crept backward, still a threat, but clearly not interested in fighting the beast that had just disemboweled and virtually dismembered her mate. Behind her, the two half-grown cubs crept back into the shadows and as soon as she realized that Frawwrr had no interest in following, she followed her cubs into the shadows.

"That tiger never had a chance, did it?" Deuce asked, his amazement obvious.

"No," confirmed the Eldest. "It wasn't supposed to. Frawwrr only did what the Felis were designed to do, but it would be best to not approach him just yet. Let the adrenaline wear off first."

"I've never seen anything like that!" Deuce blurted. "One minute, he was warning us and the next? It's like he…I won't say he blurred, but I couldn't follow those claws! They were cocked, I noticed that right away, but then I lost sight of them. I may have glimpsed them as they entered the tiger's throat, but it was just a kind of strobe effect. First they were still, cocked, then blink, and they stopped again, but now on the other side. And that tiger's head! It's barely attached to the body!"

"Calm yourself," soothed the Eldest. "Notice how his tail is no longer straight? He is already over the worst effects of the adrenaline surge, but I suggest we give him a moment more. He may want to ensure that the tigress has indeed fled.

"That sound we're hearing now is from my ship. I called it and told it to hurry, and I'm afraid it interpreted my call literally. The sonic boom has doubtless attracted attention that I'd hoped to avoid, but I suppose it's just as well. The tiger got in one good swipe to his ribs, so Frawwrr will need bandaging, but first, a swim in the ship's pool. I think we all could benefit from that!"

"I'm done for the day," Deuce agreed. "We'll have to report what happened."

"If we must, we must," The Eldest sighed. "Terrans have so many rules!"

***

One such rule had to do with preserving once-threatened species.

The question now was what to do about the killing. The Indian official who received the initial notification reported the incident to his Southeast Asian Confederation superior, who decided to buck the problem up to the Security Council.

Let them decide how to unravel this international, interspecies, diplomatic can of worms!

 

Chapter Five

Mac MacIntyre leaned back in the chair, removed the headphones, and rubbed tired eyes. The muted buzz from his communicator was a welcome interruption.

No fonder of study than he'd ever been, experience had taught him that he simply could not operate an ever-growing business without knowledge. Navigate a scoot, even a scoot train in space, yes, he could do that; but manage a billion-dollar corporation? Solar Union dollars at that?

No, or at least not yet. He was still a novice, naïve in the ways that a cunning Terran customer could bend the ordinary rules of business. Manage his refining business, of course; he had the skills for that. Thanks to having worked for NFI's refinery on Mars, he understood the process well.

But Solar Resources, Inc, had grown. Mac's SRI ships now mixed Flicker and human technology to come up with a hybrid that was optimized for human uses, leasing, marketing of refined metals, even tourist cruises! Mac shook his head in wonder at the idea. Travel aboard a genuine Flicker-style ship to visit the asteroids, even the outer planets, in style! What prospectors and other space-workers did routinely, eager Terrans waited who would pay handsomely for the privilege.

But above all, Solar Resources, Incorporated's business was based on creating ships, so far as Terrans were concerned. Until someone else managed to do what he'd done, change a Flicker ship's programming so that it responded to him instead of the Flickers, Mac held a monopoly. The Flickers were certainly aware of what he'd done, but apparently they couldn't have cared less. A ship was always available when called, what more could any Flicker want? Replacing the missing ship, should anyone have bothered to do so, required no more effort than instructing it to clone itself.

Fortunately, there was a solution to Mac's education needs. The ship's computer could access hundreds, even thousands of education courses that ranged from microeconomics to the macroeconomics of nations, planets, and the solar system as a whole, plus physics, chemistry, astronomy, and mathematics from the elementary to post-doctoral level. There were courses created by private citizens, courses sponsored by every major university on Terra, by governments even, and the computer did more than that; when Mac failed to understand a concept, the computer suggested courses or topics which were treated in a different manner.

And when he grew weary, it urged him to stretch his abilities to the utmost. Granted, the ship's artificial intelligence was following his orders when it pressed him, but at the end of each two-hour bloc, his brain felt like mush.

Mac understood the necessity, but on more than one occasion regretted what he'd done.

The advanced courses, plus individual tutoring by experts when that proved necessary, were not free. Some might even be considered prohibitively expensive, but nowadays that wasn't an issue. Mac wasn't as well off as Chuck Sneyd, CEO of New Frontiers, Inc, because only his NFI corporation had found a way to make leasing profitable. But at some point Mac would surpass him, because New Frontiers, Inc, the company Chuck headed, had been forced to surrender its core monopoly of the impeller space drive. Even the earliest models had done what rockets never could, make space travel routine and even cheap.

Mac wouldn't surrender his monopoly, nor would he need to.

His ships, all one hundred and eighty-four of them, were technologically equivalent to those of the extraterrestrial Flickers. They retained the ability to clone themselves—it was inherent in their self-repair capability—but the only persons who could order them to do so were Mac and a select group of Solar Resources, Inc's, vice presidents. Not even Maona, the Flicker female who'd started it all by giving Mac his own Flicker ship, held that authority now.

NFI's ships were the pinnacle of human engineering. Mac's Flicker-based ships were essentially perfect.

Not that Maona had needed the ship she'd so casually handed over to Mac. Thanks to intervention by the Flicker Eldest, she could once again order up a Flicker ship at need. Which would, if desired, clone itself on command, given access to necessary raw materials. The ship could, within limits, even consume its own structure, producing amoeba-like two ships of equal size.

But whenever possible, providing the mothership with the elements it needed allowed it to retain its original size and capacity. While producing a daughter-ship that could, given the elements it required, either clone itself or expand to an enormous size. Each Flicker ship contained within itself the technical knowledge accumulated by that species over more than fifty millenia of living and working in space. Self-monitoring, self-adjusting, self-repairing, self-duplicating, each ship was as perfect as such a creation could be.

Changing a ship's response protocol, so that it would respond only to Mac or his vice presidents, had turned out to be simplicity itself; simply tell the mothership to create a ‘daughtership' with the desired access limitation. The first pair of ships had required that step, but from then on, each cloned ship was automatically like the one that had produced it. Nag, Mac's personal ship, was the first ship the new clone had produced.

Mac understood that his monopoly wouldn't last forever. After all, Maona had given him control of the ship that started it all, and any Flicker could do the same. Sooner or later, as more humans interacted closely with Flickers, one would. But until one did, Mac had his monopoly, an advantage he intended to exploit to the fullest.

To that end, SRI reserved a small but growing fleet of ships that did nothing but convert a portion of SRI's newly-refined raw materials to new ships. Which, given more raw materials, could clone themselves or expand to whatever size was desired. The potential income stream was, literally, astronomical.

Another difference: unlike NFI, which sold ships to anyone who could afford to pay, Mac's ships were leased. Each had a back-door control built into the software; they would respond in limited fashion to the person who leased them, including necessary instructions as to where the operator wanted the ship to go. But wherever it went, anywhere within the Orion Arm of the Milky way, the leased ship would respond to messages from Mac's Solar Resources, Inc. And since the signals went out over the Flicker communicator that the Flicker Poss had given him, the signal would travel via their network of boosters that didn't rely on ordinary radio waves.

Leased ships already used the Flicker comm system to provide telemetry of location, situation, cargo status, and more, which allowed Mac to help his customers. If a prospective lessor—for the moment, all were employees of NFI—intend to head for a particular part of the Milky Way's Orion Arm, SRI provided him with a history of earlier trips to the vicinity and how well the cargo had sold. It kept them from heading for a destination that was already well-supplied with the Terran arts-and-crafts products that the Flickers craved.

***

A chime on Mac's Flicker communicator signaled an incoming message from Chuck Sneyd.

‘Mac, you're spending too much time on nonessentials. I've condensed my rules for business into a few simple, easy-to-understand steps. Read them, and next time we get together I'll answer any questions you might have.' Attached was a document, which Mac downloaded, then opened.

Learn the fundamentals.

These are the fundamentals I depend on, but no such list is ever complete. After a while, you'll add your own refinements.

Ultimately, all businesses depend on exploitation of resources. Simply put, a resource is whatever a company or a species can use.

Knowledge is a resource.

Genius is rare, and therefore valuable. A genius discovers, but intelligent people can be taught.

Educated people are more valuable than ignorant ones.

Teamwork is a resource, but only if team members can work together.

Ease of extraction and ease of use adds value to a resource. A resource that cannot be extracted or used has no value.

Trade is based on excess, e.g. surplus, but a surplus that cannot be sold is worthless.

Storage, particularly cost of storage, plays a role.

Businesses are ultimately about trade, including ours.

A trader adds value to a resource by moving surpluses to where there are shortages.

Monopoly adds value to a resource, but the ultimate limit to every monopoly is time.

Competition reduces the value of a resource.

Finance is a resource, and subject to all the other influences/laws that affect businesses.

"Capital" only touches the basics. Modern finance is complex, but now that the marsbuck is backed by industrial metals, we can do what a few old-time investors and robber barons tried to do: control the value of the marsbuck, and ultimately, the value of ‘capital'.

A number of currencies are already being pegged to the marsbuck. By contrast, Terra's other currencies are worth what the market says they are.

Flexibility, the ability to adapt to circumstance, is a resource.'

Mac read through the list, then read it again. Sighing, he closed out the screens he'd been studying.

"Nag, display a copy of this on my bathroom mirror. Also encode and send a copy to all vice presidents of SRI."

"Yes, Mac."

***

Mac was far wealthier than he'd ever dreamed of being, but his vice presidents weren't far behind. Mickey was probably second only to Mac in terms of wealth, because his division, Ships and Shipping, enjoyed low overhead and high profits. Ossoff, Mac's closest friend, was probably third. His division purchased metal-rich asteroids from independent prospectors, concentrated larger ones in situ, then transported the concentrate to one of the company's refineries. From there, refined products were diverted to SRI's Ships and Shipping division or sold.

One day, SRI would expand its operation to other asteroid-rich zones. There were several in the solar system that had yet to be exploited, not to mention Belts in other star systems. Preliminary investigation had revealed that while they weren't as metal-rich as the inner Belt, they could be exploited. At a profit, of course.

Ronald, the other vice president, might one day surpass even Mac in terms of wealth. His division, Planetary Development, controlled SRI's claim to Venus. Terraforming was well underway and one day, humans might walk free on the planet's surface.

The Flickers hadn't bothered with the hothouse worlds; there were just too many others that already boasted comfortable climates, with no need to engineer such extensive changes. Indeed, as Flicker populations contracted, a few planets had been abandoned. But for humans, planets that might someday provide a home for the planet's rebounding population was a dream in the making. And Ronald's division had the only ships that were currently large enough to make terraforming a planet practical.

The two companies, Chuck's New Frontiers, Incorporated, and Mac's Solar Resources, Inc, were separate but interlocked. Chuck and his son Bobby held seats on Mac's Board of Directors, while Mac and Mickey were members of NFI's board. Mac and his three vice presidents had access to the code that controlled their starships, and on NFI's board, only Chuck and his son Bobby voted on issues having to do with that company's Mars-based shipbuilding and refining operations, the two that might have competed with Mac's SRI divisions.

Chuck, formerly a competitor, had become not only a business partner but a friend, even a mentor. Mac shook his head, banishing the errant thoughts, and looked at the next message on the communicator screen. "What's up, Mickey?"

<I'm ready to deliver the first of the new two-gig cruisers to the Patrol this morning. The handover will take place in Marsport's passenger docking bay tomorrow, and I thought you might want to be there.>

"I should be part of the first delivery," Mac agreed. "What time?"

<Eleven-hundred hours, Mars City standard time, if you can make it back by then. Or we can postpone the handover to later in the afternoon.>

"I can make it. Expect me a little before then."

<We'll save you a spot with the brass. I'll be talking to the pilot they assigned. Mickey, out.>

***

The report passed through a number of hands before it reached two staffers in the SU's Subcommittee on Ecosystem Diversity.

"What's this?" Blanche asked. "Somebody got upset because a tiger was killed? What about the people they kill every year? Who speaks for the victims?"

"Take it easy, Blanche," Al soothed. "Bengal tigers have recovered, Indochinese tigers haven't. Where did this happen? It makes a difference, because if it was one of the Bengal subspecies we can simply dismiss this complaint."

"The incident report doesn't say," she answered, "probably because the ones who killed it aren't locals. Al, didn't you mention something about a survey mission to the Indian subcontinent that was headed up by a Flicker?"

"That was…six months ago." Al tapped his screen. "Here it is. The approval was originally granted by the Southeast Asian Confederation, we just countersigned off on it, so the incident could have happened anywhere they have jurisdiction. Panthera tigris tigris…that's the Indochinese subspecies, right enough, but according to another report, that subspecies has extended their range into south India. Populations have recovered to the point that it may be time to pull them from the endangered list. Do we have species numbers?"

Blanche frowned. "Not recent ones, no. Part of the deal was that in return for allowing the Eldest to collect samples, we would get access to his findings. Tigers weren't mentioned specifically, but the assumption was that they be included as an apex predator. He would have provided behavioral analysis too, and he's collecting live samples in order to do that. That's pretty unusual, especially the idea of collecting a live tiger!"

"Unusual indeed," Al agreed, "but he's not just any Flicker. He's called The Eldest, both capitalized, and he's pretty important judging by the guy who works with him!"

"Oh?" asked Blanche. "About that live tiger, I wasn't aware that Flickers maintained zoos. And which guy are you talking about?"

"If that's what he intends, displaying a living animal in a zoo, it will be the first!" said Al. "I don't believe it, because based on what I've read, they put our animal rights activists to shame. I think we need more information, but how do we go about getting it? I can't see just going up to him and asking! What about his human assistant, they one they call Deuce? He might talk to us if we approached him the right way. His father is president of Mars, so maybe we could ask Bobby Sneyd to contact his son for us?"

"I say we try that," Blanche said decisively. "Something funny is going on! But back to the reason we started this discussion, what to do about killing a possibly-endangered tiger; I recommend no action be taken. Cite self-defense as the reason and suggest that the complaint be dismissed."

"Concur," Al said. "I'll write up the report and send it out over both signatures."

Blanche nodded and the impromptu meeting broke up.

***

Bobby considered the subcommittee's request. Reasonable, he thought. Why would the Eldest be collecting living organisms? And where was he keeping them? But as for contacting his son, he and Deuce, Charles Sneyd II, had never been particularly close. Bobby closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his forehead.

No question, he had been overshadowed by Chuck, the larger-than-life figure. He it was who had done so much to make his grandsons what they now were, in effect revisiting what his grandfather Morty had done while Chuck was growing up. If there was something unusual happening, wouldn't Deuce be more likely to tell Chuck about it? Bobby composed a message and sent it off to Chuck, then added a note to his own calendar.

He leaned back and thought about what this might mean. Thousands of Flickers now lived on Mars, mainstreamers and outcasts as well. As president of the Republic, he had a duty to them as well as to the human residents. More, because of the unique position The Eldest occupied, anything that involved him meant that matters must be handled very carefully.

Bits of Flicker technology had whetted Terra's appetite for more, but at the same time there was no forgetting how potentially dangerous the extraterrestrial species was. Granted, the civil war that had so damaged them was thousands of years in their past, and so far as their recent history was concerned the mainstream Flickers appeared to have utterly abandoned any warlike tendencies. But that ancient technology was unused, not forgotten.

And as the Committee of 33 had shown, they would do whatever they considered to be in their best interests.

 

Chapter Six

Mac's ship entered Mars orbit with time to spare.

The trip had been simplicity itself; he'd specified the destination and answered Nag's two questions regarding in-system speed constraints and an area to avoid, the Belt. The ship's artificial intelligence, actually the operating software for a network of computing nodes distributed throughout the hull, had done the rest.

While it could easily have landed at Marsport, Mac's ship would remain in orbit. It was too large to enter either of NFI's underground docking bays, meaning that Mac would have had to don a spacesuit for the short trip to the nearest airlock. He had decided it would be simpler to take one of Nag's two ‘gigs', either of which could enter a bay. Park the gig, wait for the bay to reach Mars standard pressure, then follow the access tunnel to the other bay where the handover was to take place.

Bobby Sneyd, President of the Mars Republic, was already there, but today he would be representing the Solar Union during the ceremony. Also present was Captain Dusty Miller, representing the Patrol. He would take formal custody of the new cruiser after the handover, first of the new twin-gig model.

If conditions on Terra continued to deteriorate, more would be needed. Mac's SRI was already producing modules that could be assembled into more two-gig cruisers, or if desired, the larger four-gig version that was, in everything but name, a light carrier.

Bobby was chatting with a reporter when Mac walked up. Three unofficial observers had come, but after consulting with Bobby, had chosen to wait off to the side. Mac nodded at the ones he knew, shook hands with Bobby and Captain Miller, then joined them on the platform. The reporter discreetly withdrew during the handshakes and joined the second member of the press team, a videocam operator. The unedited recording would be provided to other press agencies.

Admiral Clint Vargas, commander of the Solar Union Patrol, would have been there, but he couldn't afford to be absent at this critical time.

As usual, Terra's nations were loath to pay for upgrades to the Patrol's aging fleet of cruisers, and were equally unwilling to pay for the additional crewmen the expanded fleet would require. The direct result of their parsimony was that there were too few Patrol ships to perform required missions. Terra wanted cruisers positioned near Terra to protect the Mars-Terra shipping lane, Mars wanted cruisers patrolling the Asteroid Belt. Thanks to Mac's Solar Resources, Inc, the entire Belt was now an economic resource zone. The result? Prospectors often found themselves needing help. More than one had died, waiting for assistance, while idled Patrol cruisers ‘protected' the shipping lane from pirates who no longer came.

Clint was quite aware that the delegates might terminate the Financial Resources conference without authorizing any new funds, had he elected to attend the handover ceremony. Kicking the can down the road was an ancient political tactic, desirable for the delegates but disastrous for the Patrol. Because he, Clint, would then have no chance to obtain the needed funding until the next budgeting conference, a full year in the future. Considering the expanded role that the patrol was expected to undertake as they upgraded to the new FTL cruisers, he simply couldn't afford to take the chance. His deputy, Captain Dusty Miller, would handle the largely-ceremonial duty of thumbprinting the acceptance document.

The ceremony, which might have dragged out for a day on Terra, was soon over. Bobby had given a brief speech, Dusty had spoken with even more brevity, and Mac, representing SRI, had offered his congratulations to both. And that was it.

Bobby left for his office, while Mac and Dusty walked over to where SRI's Vice President Mickey Mayo waited with a uniformed Patrol officer and the single Flicker who had accepted an invitation to observe.

"You know Poss, of course, but I wasn't sure whether you'd been introduced to Commander Morty Sneyd," Mickey began. Mac nodded at Poss, who nodded back.

Unexpected, Mac thought. Ossoff, perhaps—he was closer to the outcast Flickers—but Mickey? Mac looked at Mickey, who explained. "Poss is curious about our modifications, so I invited him to take a close look. That okay with you?"

"Why not?" Mac said. "All I did was rearrange things to make the ship modular. Same as my personal ship, I configured it so that the cabin and cargo holds were separate from the drives and powerplants. More flexible that way. Now, instead of landing my ship, I leave it in orbit and detach one of the modules to use as a gig. They're both the same, and if there's ever an emergency, they can serve as lifeboats."

"We have no need for such," Poss said. "Should a ship fail for any reason, including an accident, we simply call another."

"But we can't do that," Mac explained, "so having that capability made sense when I reworked the design. We can either suit up and go aboard the new cruiser or board my gig and inspect on the fly, your choice." The cruiser was intended to accommodate a limited number of crewpersons and the interior was cramped, while Mac's gig was spartan in its furnishings but roomier. By consensus, they chose to conduct a flying inspection.

Mac called up displays on the screens to illustrate in detail what they were seeing through the transparent hull sections, created by the gig when Mac input the request. "Length, 107.28 meters from nose tip to the airlock at the aft end of the cargo module. Mass, variable, depending on load. Fairly ordinary looking on the outside, and in fact it resembles the old-time rocket ships that took satellites to space. They were modular and so is this one.

"That long, thick tube in the center is cargo stowage," he went on. "It's configurable, based on mission. The bulge at the far end is the control module where the crew lives and works, and it's also configurable. This cruiser is optimized for ordinary patrol work inside the solar system, but by swapping out cargo modules it could easily make the round trip to Centaurus.

"The cargo modules consist of segments that can be added or removed, depending on what they contain. I emphasize that the ship could make the trip, but unless additional cargo modules for consumables were added, the crew might be on short rations by the time they got back.

"The modules are space-going versions of cargo containers such as the ones used on Terra, so configuring them for space simply means adding docking collars and an airlock at each end. We pressure-test them and most pass, but even the older ones are usable if the cargo can handle vacuum.

"The units attached to the cargo module's sides are the power and propulsion modules I call "gigs". Each has a cabin that's comfortable for a two-person crew, but can support up to six persons in an emergency assuming they're friendly. The gig modules are detachable, an advantage because a lot of what the patrol does is ordinary rescue work. The command-and-control module parks in space while one or two crew members takes a gig into the Belt to render aid. As we're all aware, the most common patrol mission is to locate and restock a scoot so that a marooned prospector can make it to the nearest Belt habitat. The wings on the gigs contain consumables that a prospector might need, including hydrox, and the tank connections are standardized, making it easy to refuel a scoot out in the Belt. The wings also house one or two of NFI's squirt cannons, depending on anticipated need.

"This cruiser is configured for a crew of three, but two other P&P ‘gig' modules can be added. The crew habitat would also be configured to support a crew of five. Adding the various modules converts the cruiser into the ‘heavy' configuration. That's what we're calling it for now, but another name being considered is ‘light carrier'. The design is modular throughout, so I don't anticipate ever having to do a complete rework. The modules, perhaps; but the ship itself can be adapted for any conceivable mission," Mac finished.

"Your own ship is like this? I've heard it's quite luxurious," Commander Sneyd commented.

"It's a flying office that also contains my living quarters, as well as suites for my principal assistants. Nag's communication suite is state of the art, which allows me to dispense with record-keeping and similar functions. We live aboard most of the time, while other members of the staff join us depending on where we're going.

"There's an office on Mars that handles SRI's financial matters. Behind it are compartments for the three SRI quantum computers that store and process the company's records. Our security system is Terran state of the art, augmented by a Flicker firewall; together, they make it essentially hack-proof. The computers have their own cubage, and separate compartments house the communications terminal and server farm.

"The important work is done out in space. Our concentrating facilities, for example, are located in the outer Belt. That's where the independent prospectors are working, now that most of the inner Belt's valuable asteroids have been claimed. Where they go is where we go, so SRI's six mobile refineries are also located near the outer edge of the inner Belt. The locations are convenient to where the prospectors are working and also to our space-based ship-production facilities.

"By contrast, the cruiser's command module contains additional radars, military-grade communication gear, and a pair of lasers that we hope won't ever be needed. One wing on each gig houses one or more machine guns, most the squirt-cannon type that was developed by NFI. We prefer those, because no explosives are needed. The guns simply pump thousands of iron balls into space. They're harmless, so long as they're stored on board, but as area-defense weapons they're sufficient to shred any known attacker.

"There are other compartments in the wing roots, should we need to add more armament or store additional ammunition. Not that I think we will, but on the other hand nobody believed piracy was possible until Lanny did it. Should it ever happen again, this cruiser, all by itself, could take on and defeat a fleet of pirates. Add two more gigs to the basic design and nothing currently operating in space can stand up to it.

"The SU has heavy carriers that are almost as capable, but they're mothballed. Too expensive to keep in commission, but also too valuable to scrap. One difference between the SU's heavy carriers and my cruiser: they may be able to achieve faster than light travel, my ships are designed to operate in that mode. We think we know how the Flicker FTL drive works, although we can't build our own version just yet.

"As for the power generation system, that one we do understand; it uses the entire ship as a kind of generator. Simply apply a magnetic field to strips that are part of the hull, and they generate electricity while the ship is underway. The lines of force the strips cross are farther apart than the ones an ordinary generator uses, but when the ship is moving at some reasonable fraction of C, it works. The faster the ship goes, the more efficient the generator is. When the ship is parked, the power system reverts to an ordinary fusion plant that's not all that different from one of NFI's fusion torches."

"Tell them about the communication system, Mac," Mickey advised.

Mac nodded and resumed his lecture. "The cruiser has ordinary human radios, but it's also able to use that mysterious Flicker system that ignores light-speed. We have no idea how it works, just that it does, but unfortunately, it can only be used to send messages from one SRI ship to another. As a work-around, the cruiser can message an SRI ship working in the Belt that will then relay the transmission to Mars via ordinary radio waves. Not perfect, but it's the best we can do right now."

"You didn't mention your ship's plunge bath, Mac," Mickey pointed out. "The cruiser doesn't have one of those."

Mac scowled at him and explained. "Thanks to my Flicker friends, the pool that Mickey calls a plunge bath is equivalent to the lake in Central Park. There's a Flicker-style pump that renews the nanites, and a pair of gleanerfish to keep the pool's ecosystem healthy. I didn't include it on the cruiser, because I would have had to add an extra module. On a quasi-military craft, which is what a patrol cruiser is, it's not needed."

That was a preview of Terra: The New Frontiers Series, Book Seven. To read the rest purchase the book.

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