E-mail Matt Jarpe at m.jarpe@comcast.net
Web design & programming by David Louis Edelman.
"Now what the fuck is this?" He reached for the screen to adjust the enigmatic controls lined up beneath it.
"Sir," a voice snapped from the speakers. "Strategic advisory system theta five prime, reporting for duty, sir."
"Excuse me?" Vasquez said. The voice had come out of a speaker just above the green screen.
"Sir," the voice said again. "Strategic advisory system theta..."
"Yeah, yeah, I got that." Vasquez tried to read the lines of code on the screen and understood nothing. "Where are you? I mean, who is this?"
"Sir, at this time I appear to be attached to a standard data-com port on a type seven single occupancy module in Venus orbit. And begging your pardon, sir, but I am not a who, but more precisely a what."
"You're a computer."
"That is correct, sir."
"Will you stop saying 'sir'? You're making me nervous."
"I am unable to comply with that order, sir."
"Whatever, dude. I don't have the battery power for a strategic advisory computer, right now, so I'm sorry but you're going to have to go back into the junk pile, my man."
"Sir, this unit has a self contained power supply. I am available for consultation during military operations."
Vasquez had to laugh. "Military operations? Do you have any idea what just happened?"
"Please specify what time frame, sir."
"Five, five and a half hours ago. Do you know what happened then?"
"Five hours, twenty two minutes ago, I went on standby mode, sir."
"And before that?"
"My memory does not include times previous to that, sir."
"Well, let me catch you up, then. You were a part of a spaceship called the Ticonderoga, which was patrolling the planet Venus. Then you got attacked and the Ticonderoga got blown to bits. You weren't much help during that military operation, were you?"
"It is likely that the crew of the Ticonderoga would consult me during a battle, but I have no specific knowledge of these events. Sir, if I may ask, are you a survivor of the Ticonderoga crew?"
"No, I'm from the Chomper. It got blown up, too."
"Then, may I ask for my own internal protocols, what is your name, rank, and serial number, sir?"
Vasquez laughed. "My name is Emilio Vasquez, my rank is supreme commander of the space forces of the planet Venus, and my number is 999,999."
"I'm sorry, sir, but my protocols do not accept that rank or that serial number."
"Oh, shut up," Vasquez said. The speaker fell silent, but the lines of code kept marching off the top of the screen.
Well, that was a waste of time. Vasquez started to work his way back into the rig to pull the device out of its socket and begin to dismantle it, but he stopped.
"Hey, strategic dude, you still there?"
"Yes, sir," the computer snapped.
"Do you by any chance know anything about radiation poisoning?"
"I have limited database resources that include the biological effects of various weapons systems on human crew members."
"Well, I just took a hit of about 800 rems. Looks like gamma radiation. Can you tell me anything about that?"
"That is a lethal dose, sir."
"Yeah, genius, I know that. What I'm wondering is, what's the medical treatment for a dose like that?"
"I do not have access to medical treatment protocols, sir. I suggest you refer this question to a medical doctor, or a medical advisory system, version seven or later."
"All right, all right, that's enough. I'm unplugging you, now. I need the batteries more than I need your advice."
"Sir, my database pertaining to the current strategic situation is incomplete. My advice would be much more useful if I were given up to date information. May I suggest you connect this module with your flight data computer."
"I don't have a flight data computer, man. This is just a jar with arms."
"Sir, the type seven single occupancy module is equipped with a flight data computer. It is a rectangular unit located approximately in the middle of the inside surface of the cylinder. The visible components consist of an oval screen with a green tint, a series of buttons..."
"Yeah, I know what that is. Now, what did you want me to do? Hook you up with it?"
"Yes sir. If you would press the button labeled OPCOM, my database will be updated automatically."
"What the hell? Here you go, man."
It didn't take long for the computers to do their thing. Within seconds the advisor was back. "Sir, medical treatment may be available on the enemy spaceship."
"Yeah, how am I supposed to get that treatment, smart guy?"
"Sir, the enemy spaceship that attacked this planet is of a type unknown to me. Please update the specifications file to the latest release and resubmit your query."
"I don't have any latest release, you moron."
"Update the specifications file to the latest release and resubmit your query."
"I'll resubmit you to the cloud of junk where I found you, you piece of crap." Vasquez stabbed at the buttons underneath the screen, all labeled with incomprehensible military acronyms. Not even the lines of code showed up on the screen. He stared at the buttons, trying to make sense of them. The only one he recognized was RESET. A button of last resort. He tried a few of the others without result, then reset the computer.
"Sir, strategic advisory system theta five prime, reporting for duty, sir."
"Let's try this again, theta five prime. What's the last thing you remember?"
"Sir, I've been on standby mode for twelve seconds, sir. I have no data pertaining to events prior to that time, sir."
"You piece of crap," Vasquez shouted, slamming the palm of his hand against the side of the flight computer.
The computer said nothing. Vasquez looked out of his windows, first one, then the second, and finally the last, before he found the enemy ship. It was just slipping away behind the planet. He wouldn't see it again for another five or six hours, as long as it didn't move.
"Strategic advisor? Talk to me, daddy."
"Sir, strategic advisory system theta five prime, reporting for duty, sir."
"That's great, buddy. Let's say I've got an enemy spaceship hovering over the north pole of the planet Venus, and I'm sitting in a jar, sorry, a type seven single occupancy module, that's about to run out of battery power, and I've got a lethal dose of rems besides. Now, how might I go about getting my sorry ass out of this situation? I'd really like to hear your advice on this matter, theta five prime. I mean, your advice served the Tike so well, I may as well take advantage of it, don't you think?"
"Sir, may I assume that the passive radar information stored in your flight data computer correctly describes the situation?"
"Oh, you can see the flight computer now? Excellent. It knows more about the situation than I do."
"Sir, your module has engine power sufficient to drop it into an orbit that will intersect the last known location of the enemy vehicle in four hours. Approaching the enemy in stealth mode will allow you to attach the module to the outside of the hull, where you will be able to cut your way inside. After neutralizing the crew, you will then be able to make use of the automated medical facilities on board to treat your radiation poisoning."
Vasquez laughed, long and hard. He laughed so hard tears beaded up in his eyes and blinded him until he wiped them away with his sleeve. The laughing fit became a coughing fit. When he was finished, a mist of blood and phlegm hung in the air. The air handlers chugged a little when they tried to clear out the atmosphere. The radiation was starting to have its effect.
"That's your advice?" Vasquez asked when he had recovered. "You are one insane little computer, you know that? That attack must have scrambled your brains. Neutralize... What a riot."
The computer said nothing.
"By the way, what is stealth mode?"
"Sir, the module you are in is equipped with radar jamming hardware, and is shielded against passive detection. Stealth mode allows you to approach and even contact enemy spaceships without being seen."
"No kidding? Why the hell would a repair module have that?"
"Sir, the type seven single occupancy module is not a repair module. It is a weapons system, specifically used for boarding and/or sabotaging enemy spaceships."
"Shit, that's the last time I try to buy tools from a gun dealer. Sabotage, huh?" Vasquez thought about the tool kit attached to the outside of the jar in the light of this new bit of information. The laser welding torch that was way too hot on its highest setting. The sonic drill that made such short work of ceramic plate. And those crazy engines. He never did figure out why any satellite repair module would need so much delta v. Now he knew. And what had the computer said about passive radar?
"So, let's assume for the moment that I'm not James fucking Bond over here. Do you have any idea how I might sabotage this enemy space ship?"
"Sir, I'm unable to process your request due to incomplete information on the enemy spaceship. Please update the specifications file to the latest release and resubmit your query."
"Oh, not this shit again."
"Update the specifications file to the latest release and resubmit your query."
"Just shut up already." Vasquez hit the reset button again. He had work to do now. He had to calculate the angle and length of burn he'd need to get his jar down into the intersecting orbit, and for that he'd need a computer that worked. Then, he had to come up with a way to sneak on board that spaceship. For that, he needed a miracle.
Emilio Vasquez had studied military ship designs ever since he learned how to read. His father had been right that he didn't meet the physical requirements for the military, but he had the mental capacity. He knew about every kind of engine used in spaceship design, both the real ones and the experimentals. He knew a little something about the magneto-warp engine. Enough to recognize that the spaceship that grew steadily in his front window was carrying one. There was no other reason for the six hundred meter torus with graceful radiating fins arching outward in a wedge shape. The torus was a superconducting magnet filled with a ferropolymer fluid. The crew was housed in a disk suspended inside the torus. The engine worked by pinching magnetic force lines and pulling itself along like a spider on its web, thus creating movement without throwing away propellant.
No military power was using magneto-warp engines that Vasquez knew of. But the solar system was a big place, and there were all sorts of secrets out there. Whoever had built this ship obviously saw Venus as an easy target, a rich source of material defended by people too stupid to get jobs policing any other planet. The only thing standing in the way of victory was a junk collector in a second hand jar with arms that was low on battery power and, truth be told, getting a little stinky on the inside. A pretty safe bet, in other words.
He was less than a kilometer from the ship, which was still just hovering over the pole, waiting for the miners in Cupid to heat up and die, or blast off from the surface and die. The cloud cover had rolled back in, hiding them, but not protecting them.
He had dared not use his engines since he had rounded the arm of the planet, not even the compressed gas thrusters. The flight computer, collaborating with the strategic advisor, had been able to put him right on a collision course hours ago, so running into the enemy ship was a done deal. He would reach out and grab part of the ship as carefully as he could and hope no one heard the noise. And then he'd find an external maintenance panel to get at some vital components. That was where he stopped hoping. Past that was just too far. The computer had come up with a couple more suggestions for getting onto the ship that didn't involve kung-fu and advanced hand weapons, but Vasquez wasn't sure. He'd never heard of a data thief, the device that would fool the enemy ship's computers, and he didn't dare ask any specifics for fear that the strategic advisor would crap out on him again.
The ship loomed in the scope quickly, a radiating fin seeming to slice toward him like a giant knife. He readied the waldo arms. The dead black surface swept underneath him, blocking out the yellow cloud cover of the planet. Vasquez made a grab for the trailing edge. The feedback told him he had something, then the arms were pulled up sharply. The failsafes locked out the waldo rig before the force could rip his arms out of their sockets, but his funny bones stung terribly just the same. The big arms had stretched about thirty meters to absorb the shock, and were now recoiling slowly. He hadn't know they could do that.
He was there. No matter what happened now, the murderers on this ship would get a hell of a shock at some point. Someone had managed to get an attack module attached to the outside of their state of the art war machine.