T'aafhal Legacy 1: Ghosts of Orion (3 page)

The PCS was intended to house and support a full battalion of Marines, 800 combat personnel and others to support them, their assault shuttles and transatmospheric fighter craft. The PCS would also mount the shields and offensive weapons of a cruiser, enabling it to operate autonomously in hostile space, though it would normally have at least one frigate as an escort. More PCSs meant more Marine combat battalions, and that meant more slots for more field grade officers to command them.

“All it is going to take is for one of the colonization ships to run into trouble and the priorities will shift back to warship production,” said the Commander, “just wait and see.”

“I'm surprised that the Fleet has not been tasked with escorting the colonists,” said the Major.

“According to the all knowing high command, there are no hostile aliens left within 10 parsecs or so. They were all expended in the last assault on the solar system,” said the Captain. “Myself, I think that is just hopeful thinking. The only semi-military personnel on the colonization voyages are going to be a handful of sailors to fly the ships, seconded to the merchant marine from the Navy training schools.”

“At least some of them will get to captain starships of their own,” groused the Commander.

“I wouldn't want to be in their place—babysitting a pack of civilians, flying into unknown space in a glorified freighter,” said the Captain in a supercilious tone. “Better to wait for a real command to open up.”

“That's true,” agreed the Commander, “remember, we are playing a deeper game.”

“Right,” said the Marine, “eventually the Fleet and Corps will expand to the point where they will have to promote officers to command positions who have no actual combat experience.”

“And eventually, the privileged cabal will find themselves outnumbered and pushed aside,” the Captain finished. “Still, we need to stay alert for opportunities to advance our allies whenever and where ever possible.”

“Speaking of such things, I have caught wind of an interesting development. It seems that TK Parker is planning to launch a venture to hunt for exoplanets and alien civilizations on his own and is looking for Navy officers he trusts.”

“How did you hear of this, Commander?”

“It all started back eight months ago when the Fleet tried to assign the Peggy Sue to a patrol and reconnaissance mission. The ship seemed like an underutilized asset and sending it out with a Navy crew made good sense. Unfortunately, Parker stopped the plan cold.”

“Really?” said the Marine. “How did he do that? Through his pet Admiral?”

“Through the council. They let the Navy know in no uncertain terms that the Peggy Sue, along with the interplanetary freighters and local Earth-Moon shuttles, were civilian owned and not Fleet assets.”

“Peggy Sue,” scoffed the Captain, “damned silly name for a ship if you ask me.” 

“In any case, since then the rich old geezer has been having his ship refitted in his ship yard. The scuttlebutt is that Parker and several other council members are forming a joint venture to go looking for interesting things—meaning profitable things—out ahead of the colony ships.”

“Those old bastards wouldn't want a load of colonists stumbling upon some ancient treasure by accident,” the Major said, scorn in his voice. “Or any useful alien technology that they don't control.”

“Exactly.”

“So what can we do about it?” asked the Captain.

“The word on the street is that Parker has already put out feelers to recruit a crew for some kind of voyage. Fortunately, there's not a big pool of experienced spacers just hanging around Farside waiting for a berth. We have a plan in motion to place an agent of our own in the Peggy Sue's crew.”

3
^rd
Level Commercial Zone, Farside

Roselito Acuna sat uncomfortably in a corner chair of the nondescript coffee shop as a slow trickle of civilians came and went around her. It was getting late and she would soon have to find a place to stay for the night. Dressed in a civilian tan jumpsuit she felt out-of-place and definitely out of uniform.

How did things come to this?
She asked herself.
All you ever wanted was to go into space and fight aliens, now here you are lying low. You are supposed to be outbound on a troopship full of recruits, but instead you missed the movement—face it girl, you are now AWOL from the Corps.
 

Things had seemed so perfect. Returning with Captain Jack in time to win the battle for Earth, the entire crew were heroes. Most of the Marines on board were bumped a couple of stripes as recognition. Not that the added rank wasn't earned the hard way: She had fought the hairy crickets in the Bug Queen's palace; driven off flying batacudas on an alien space station; and faced a half dozen other horrors in the trek across the planet encircling Ring Station. And that didn't count helping fight the ship in a number of space battles. Life was good. She loved her work, was advancing in rank and had good friends all around—then the wheels started to come off. 

Naturally, the problems started with a man, two men actually. She had maintained a casually intimate relationship with two of her Marine squadmates, Ronnie and Jon, across 3,000 light years. Nothing serious, just an occasional tumble when the mood struck her. But when they got back to the solar system there was not much to do—practice assaults and training missions. When you have fought real aliens on worlds circling other stars, maneuvers on Mars or Io just didn't get the old juices flowing.

Out of boredom, casual flirtation became more serious, with her two guy friends competing for her attention. At first it was flattering. Rosey knew she was no great beauty, not unattractive but not one to stop conversation when entering a room. Nonetheless, the competition soon spun out of control, ending in a bar fight between her two squadmates—guys who had been close friends.

Both of her suitors lost a stripe and were sent on patrol aboard different ships. Though Rosey was the cause of the fight, she had not been a participant so she didn't face any official disciplinary action. There were, however, many ways of punishing a Marine informally. She was informed that she would be shipping out for Mars to be part of the training cadre at Camp Aries.

Realizing that she was being sent to a backwater to rot she tried to resign, but the Corps was intent on getting its pound of flesh. She was told that her last promotion, to gunnery sergeant, entailed a reenlistment for four more years—something she was not told at the time. After thinking things over for a couple of beer soaked evenings she decided that wasn't fair and fuck the Corps anyway.

Before deciding that she was not interested in going to Mars, Rosey had never considered how difficult it was for someone to drop off the grid on the Moon base. There was no physical currency, all transactions being handled electronically. As a Marine, her comm pip also served as a transponder that allowed her to purchase goods and services. Since all purchases were registered centrally, she couldn't buy anything without the Corps being able to track her movements.

To get around this problem, she hit on a rather devious solution. New refugees were issued temporary cards linked to small government stipends. After locating a few willing newcomers, Rosey made purchases from her funds and resold the goods to the refugees at a discount, taking their cards as payment. Using the cards she could make small purchases—like food and drink—without showing up on the authorities monitoring net. Unfortunately, the scheme didn't solve the problem of where to sleep.

Everyone on the base either had quarters provided by the military or were assigned housing by the government. There were no hotels where an anonymous traveler could stay. There was one hotel off the Atrium for visiting businessmen and dignitaries, but it was far too public and far too expensive for her needs. Instead, she had scouted the maintenance tunnels that honeycombed the base. There she found unlocked storage rooms not under the same surveillance as the public parts of Farside. 

For each of the past three nights she had slept in a different room, showering in public facilities on the refugee level and collecting fresh tan jumpsuits each morning. But her funds were running low and it was just a matter of time before they came looking for her.

No doubt about it, Marine,
she thought,
this was not a well planned operation
. 

The waiter began stacking chairs on the tables, getting ready to close for the evening. Picking up the bag that contained all her worldly possessions, Rosey slipped out of the cafe and headed for the Maintenance tunnels, looking for a place to hole up for the night.

Chapter 2

Parker Residence, Farside

When the quartet of friends showed up at Parker's residence in the upscale part of the base they were greeted, as usual, by Maria. Maria Lopez had been TK Parker's cook and housekeeper for more than two decades and was one of the few people who TK trusted without reservation. Maria had been widowed long ago when her husband was killed in an accident on one of TK's Texas gas rigs. TK gave her a job so she and her children would not be deported and she had stayed with him ever since.

Maria's family perished in the alien assault on Earth and TK had no family of his own—now they only had each other. After TK, who had been confined to a wheelchair for more than a decade, was miraculously healed by advanced T'aafhal medical technology, the octogenarian billionaire realized that he still had a long and productive life ahead of him. The few who knew them well were unsurprised when Maria traded her maid's apron for a very large engagement ring.

“
Buenas noches
, welcome my friends. Please come in,” Maria said, ushering the visitors inside. “TK is in the living room at the bar, as usual.” 

TK was a man who enjoyed his whiskey, though these days he talked a lot more about drinking than actually imbibing himself. Part of that was Maria's doing, and part the realization that he was not nearing the end of his life. With nanite treatments and the occasional full body tuneup there was no reason a human being would not live to see 200. One tends to treat the equipment better knowing you're going to need it for years to come.

“There they are, my four favorite young people,” the old man said. “Mosey up to the bar and grab a drink; I got things to discuss with you.”

After helping themselves to TK's well stocked bar, the young officers and scientist were seated in the living room's spacious conversation pit—a recessed area in the floor lined with built in seating. On one side of the pit was a large fireplace where a comforting fire blazed warmly.

The fire was a hologram; no one, not even a billionaire, could afford to import wood simply to burn. The oxygen use alone would set off alarms. A fake it might be, but it was a very good fake; slowly burning down over the course of an evening, occasionally throwing a shower of heatless sparks onto the hearth.

“Your fire is ever so lifelike, TK. I marvel every time I see it,” said Beth, carefully balancing her third martini of the evening on her knees. “Are you planning to sell copies to the public? I should think it would turn a reasonable profit.”

“Sooner or later,” replied TK, “right now it's one of a kind. In fact, I'm still tinkerin' with it.”

“Here we go,” said Maria. “He just loves showing off his toys.” TK made a few finger swipes across the face of his wrist watch and the room went away.

It took several moments for their eyes to adjust to the lowered lighting. In place of the walls and ceiling were low dark hills with scattered clumps of scrub; overhead, stars twinkled and a shooting star streaked across the heavens. As the group fell into stunned silence the sound of crickets could be heard, along with the occasional lowing of cattle. The fireplace was now a campfire, illuminating the circle of friends with welcome light—a bucolic nocturne in an open field.

“Wow!” said Bobby, “It's like we're sitting in a field back in Texas cattle country!” 

“That's the effect I was shooting for, Bobby,” the old man chuckled.

“Except the seating is more comfortable than a bedroll,” added Billy Ray. “And I notice that the bar is still there.”

“Yeah, I was going to have 'em change the bar into a chuckwagon but decided that was a bit too hokey.”

“It is very beautiful,” said Mizuki, “very tranquil.”

“Humans in our natural habitat,” mused Beth. “I wonder if future generations will feel at home in such a setting, after being born and raised inside space stations and on board starships?”

“I sure hope so,” said Billy Ray, feeling a bit underdressed without a cowboy hat and boots.

“Yeah, there is just something about looking up at a night sky that gets a feller thinking,” said TK, hinting that there was something specific on his mind.

“And what does it make you think of, TK?” asked Beth, taking the bait. 

“Fermi's Paradox comes to mind, young lady. Are you familiar with it?”

“Are you referring to the physicist Enrico Fermi?” asked Mizuki.

“The very same, Mizuki, the very same,” said TK with a smile as he warmed to his subject. “You see, three quarters of a century ago, Dr. Fermi looked up at the night sky and asked a simple question: 'where is everybody?'”

Those assembled around the fire looked at one another and then back at the old man. TK took a sip of his whiskey and then leaned forward—this was not his first time telling a tale in front of a campfire.

“As Miss Mizuki said, Enrico Fermi was a physicist, and a rather famous one. When he looked at the night sky he looked through a scientist's eyes. What he saw was billions of stars, each possibly harboring a planet like Earth. Moreover, he realized that the Sun was only about five billion years old and that many stars were much older than that. Assuming that the occurrence of life was not unique to our planet, this meant that there should be bunches of older, more advanced aliens running around the galaxy.