Hello, all!
This is something that I've written for Improfanfic's Starter Sweepstakes,
and I wanted some outside opinions before I submitted it.
Be kind, please.
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Shinei sighed.
History class was so _boring_! The teacher was an idiot and the class had
been written by crushes for grubs. It was like they went out of their way to
make it seem boring.
Take this section, for instance. It was about the early space explorations
of the founding races. Nothing interesting there, right? Just deeds a
thousand years old. Boring, dry, dust-ridden history.
Yeah, sure. The Takai had been breaking free of a millennia-old theocracy,
the Shralen and the Pr'schai had been fighting on a worldwide scale, and the
Humans had been in the middle of their Informational Revolution!
Teachers, she concluded with another sigh, were thoroughly brain-dead.
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Episode 1: Interstellar Travel for Fun, Profit, and Survival
Written and created by Nathan Baxter.
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Erika Washington hit the Enter key and leaned back in a tendon-popping
stretch. The author will not describe the effects of this action, as doing
so would require him to take a cold shower. A long one.
There. She had posted her ad to the station's bulletin boards. Now, there
was nothing to do until someone came to her with a cargo.
Hopefully, a cargo that wasn't too boring. It offended her sensibilities to
have her lovely _Rashin_ carrying fertilizer. She'd still haul it, if they
paid enough, but she wouldn't like it.
* * * * * * * *
She was walking through the station's Bazaar and comparing it to its
equivalent on L4 when she heard a voice crying, ]STOP HIM![
By the time she was done wondering, 'Stop who?' the subject of the cry was
in sight.
A young Kak'k, probably just fledged. He had a milk white carapace and was
only two feet across. His seven legs were about a foot long, and they moved
furiously as he skittered a zigzag path between the various bemused
shoppers.
He tried to cut past her, but she reached down and hooked her fingers under
his rim, hoisting him adroitly into the air.
His pursuer arrived then, probably his elder sister. She was a full five
feet across, large for her age, for she had the light gray shell of a young
adult. Erika held out the by now squealing youngster. "This yours?" she
asked.
The sister tilted her body so that her near edge was low-her race's
approximation of a bow. ]LadyTrader has/possesses this HumbleGirl's
great/extreme-thanks,[ she said in quiet, breathy Trade 3.
Trade 3 wasn't that hard for humans to speak, you just had to remember to
whisper. She answered, ]It was the least this Wanderer could act/do to
assist a CaretakerOfYoung.[
The sister bowed again, then indicated with one leg that she could put the
little delinquent down. She did, and he tried to escape again, but was
promptly pinned to the ground by one of his sibling's limbs.
She grinned and chuckled. As she walked away, she hear them chattering in
Kak'k. #Sister Shinei...# the young one was whining, #Lemme go!#
#And let you run off again? You must think me an idiot,# was the repressive
reply. Erika dissolved into giggles.
* * * * * * * *
Variable geometry field spines were generally a mark of a low-level military
ship. They improved performance, and mil-spec ships had the budgets to keep
up with their prodigious maintenance requirements. Heavier units,
battleships, dreadnoughts, and some battlecruisers, used fixed spines,
because the joint mechanisms tended to be somewhat delicate, vulnerable to
battle damage.
On the most ancient, civilized, and advanced worlds it was possible to buy
nanite-based self-repair systems that could eliminate the need to spend
money maintaining your drive. Such systems were rare even there because they
generally cost more than the entire rest of the ship.
_Rashin_ was a slender silver shape, a needle-nose swelling slowly and
gradually into the graceful torpedo of the cargo bay, then narrowing down
into a wasp waist before the fat tuber of the sublight drive. She had seven
rows of ten spines each, arranged with radial symmetry. They started about a
fifth of her length back from the nose and ran to just in front of the
narrow waist. Now, in dry-dock, the spines lay almost flush against the
hull, like a porcupine's quills, but in FTL flight they would spread wide,
to provide control. Two centrifugal wheels were recessed almost flush with
the hull, one just in front of the first set of spines, the other between
the first and second sets.
Erika leaned against one of the cradle braces and considered her customer.
"So, you're willing to spend fifty thousand Standard to hire _Rashin_ to
serve as an overgrown spacetaxi."
The beefy young man she addressed nodded and said, "Yes."
"You could _buy_ a runabout for that much."
"Speed is important to me, and your ship is the fastest available."
"I don't run hot cargo."
"There's no cargo, just me. And there's no one that wants me." [If only
because they don't know to...]
"Huh." She frowned, and bit her lip, thinking. "All right. You've highered
yourself a ship, Mr. Presley."
"Pleasure doing business with you, miss."
"I'll be ready to leave in eight hours. Gather your things and be aboard by
then."
"Of course."
* * * * * * * *
Sixteen warships exploded into reality like bullets from a gun, with the
radiation burst of a downward transition seeming like a muzzle flash in the
dark night of space.
They were slim wedges, with broad, bladelike field spines. The spines folded
back flush with their hulls, then they raced forward, towards the station.
* * * * * * * *
He hated his job. Run the cr-errr, _merchandise_ through the scanner, put
the money in the register, smile nicely at the rank old fat lady...
It was all very boring and very predictable, and he hated it. He hated it a
_lot_. (Notice how the fact that he hated it is repeated? Yes? Good. That
should drive the point home.)
He was a poet, not a menial. (Well, honesty compelled him to admit that he
was just getting started, but...)
Then he saw HER, and was inspired. She was guiding one of the antigrav
baskets, which rested on a visible shimmer-an interesting sign, that only
happened when a field was on the verge of overload-and he had never seen
anything so beautiful.
His eyes swept up from her ankles-Perfect!-past long, sleek legs-OH WOW!-,
narrow, perfect, waist, impressive bosom-He'd never seen a pair that large-
to a face, like Helen of Troy's, that a thousand men would gladly die for...
She glared at him, said, "You done yet?" in a voice like God's own
churchbells, sweet and glorious.
He nodded dumbly, and was about to ask her phone number when a siren cut
through the ordinary bustle of the store, a high pitched screeching noise
that every known species would associate with danger and urgency.
The woman-Oh, such a vision!-spun on her heel and took off in a sprint.
* * * * * * * *
The United League of Interstellar Races was tens of thousands years old, and
looked likely to last for thousands more. It held hundreds of worlds and
hundreds of billions of individuals, providing security and support wherever
they were required.
Its laws were regarded almost universally as the best workable compromise
between individual freedom, equality, and safety for its citizens.
Its relatively light taxes brought in more money than the total economy of
the next largest currently extant polity.
Across an entire galaxy, its police kept the peace.
But there were still unsavory elements, still criminals. It seemed that only
a certain type of race could rise to prominence on the galactic scene, a
type in which some persons would always think it easier to steal than to
work.
Ships moving FTL could not interact. Period. And the volume of even a single
star system was immense enough that any ship would be impossible to
intercept.
So piracy against ships was impossible.
But outposts didn�t move, and they could be robbed.
As Erika ran through the halls of the station, she was acutely conscious of
this.
* * * * * * * *
She couldn't wait any longer. The Raiders were close, if she waited any more
then they'd catch her for certain.
She tapped her finger against the 'Main Airlock' button on the Environmental
panel, then the 'Emergency Despin'. If the main computer didn't have to keep
track of the grav wheels' effect on _Rashin_'s handling, then it could keep
better track of all the sensor contacts. She might need that edge.
Her fingers flew over the meter wide main control board, releasing docking
clamps, bringing up the maneuvering drive, slaving Weapons to the main
board...
Her right hand wrapped around the joystick, and her left fed power to the
repulsors.
_Rashin_ jumped away from the station like a Superball.
She cut the repulsors and twisted the joystick, swinging _Rashin_'s nose
towards the Tarzin System. Left hand, find the throttles, okay. Sublight #2
to maximum military power.
Four raiders broke off from station approach and started to follow her. This
was wrong, this made no sense. Why would they chase her over all the other
fleeing ships?
Oh well, she could worry about it later. Something (a suspicion, perhaps?)
started nibbling on the edge of her mind.
There was an immense flash near the station, a cataclysm of terrifying
proportions.
* * * * * * * *
If you had a heavy enough drive, and you could feed it enough power, you
could stay supralight even in a star's gravity well. It was terribly
punishing on your equipment, and the energy discharge of a normal descent
was multiplied a thousandfold, but it could offer a priceless military
advantage.
The new arrival was a League dreadnought; three and a half kilometers of
armor and weapons, with the dog-collar drive spikes of a ship designed to
take heavy damage.
The raiders' main body exploded out of formation like a school of small fish
faced with a Great White shark. Two of her four pursuers looped around in
support of their fellows.
The raiders split their forces evenly, six engaging the dreadnought and six
sweeping towards the station.
The dreadnought came around with a kind of ponderous grace, bringing her
massive broadside batteries to bear on the pests that would seek to fight
her will.
The raiders opened fire, sparkling dots flying forth in streams of flame.
This particular class of dreadnought had ten turrets, each mounting a heavy
ion cannon. Two in the nose, four along each side. Each turret picked a
target and fired, punching through lighter ships like a bullet through
eggshells.
The battle wouldn't last long, that much was obvious.
The station vanished in an eyetearing flash of light, its killers sweeping
out of the fireball spinning along their long axis in what could only be
victory rolls.
* * * * * * * *
The raiders' ships weren't carbon copies of each other. Some were larger,
some had bigger power signatures, and some were faster. She didn't think
that it was coincidence that the four ships (now two) pursuing her were the
fastest of the lot.
In this mode, _Rashin_ was slow, sluggish. The station was out of range, and
there was no reason not to activate her _real_ drive.
Except that, any moment now, the raiders would be close enough to...
There!
The "Kzinti Lesson" came from an old prespace Earth story. It said that a
reaction drive's effectiveness as a weapon was in direct proportion to its
effectiveness as a drive.
_Rashin_'s sublight drive was a fusion torch, fed by a bank of particle
generators. Arrangements like this were rare, not because of any essential
lack of efficiency, but because they needed intense radiation shielding and
a large amount of 'elbow room.' Her second, more normal, drive was intended
mostly for docking maneuvers.
The pirate withered like a moth in a blowtorch, and they were slammed into
their seats as three G's made if through the dampener fields. The station's
wreck and the five remaining pirates receded quickly, and one of her
passengers gave a quiet moan of sorrow.
Then they were in free fall for just a moment as the computer switched
drives, and _Rashin_ punched the wall.
* * * * * * * *
Targin had been strapped in quite firmly, leaving him with nothing to do.
So, he hummed old songs.
It was a way to pass the time.
The clicking of the hatch's locking mechanism jolted him from his thoughts,
and he looked up.
Erika came in wearing- (Wow. That shipsuit doesn't leave very much to the
imagination. Tight! The gun kinda takes away from the impression though,)
thought the corner of his mind that concerned itself with matters hormonal.
The mil-geek part commented, (That's a nice gun. Low velocity railgun.
Probably fires toxic needles. Won't do shit against armor, but it's almost
perfect for on-ship encounters.) The rest of him deduced her reason for
being here and offered up a nervous smile and a feeble, "Hi?"
She put the gun right in his face and clicked the safety off. "You have five
seconds to start telling me what's in case that's valuable enough to kill an
entire station for." Her tone could have been used for supercoolant.
He shook his head. "I don't know. I'm just a courier."
She snarled, "I've got a dozen refus in the lounge and all you can say is _I
don't know?!_"
"I _don't_, okay? The case was sealed when I got it, and it can't be opened
without the receiver's DNA and retinal print."
Her lips thinned. "All right. We are going to find the receiver, and then
either you, or he, is going to tell me what this is about, Mr. Presley.
Count on that."
* * * * * * * *
Shinei shifted uncomfortably on the cushion that the ship�s human captain
had provided. She didn�t hold out much hope that anyone else in her family
had made it out of the station. Her parents were dockworkers, and would have
stayed behind to help ships launch. They were almost certainly dead. All her
siblings would be gone too; the nursuries were-had been-at the center of the
station... the safest place.
She gave a long, heart-tearing moan.
The octopus-like Thraga in the corner curled its tentacles even tighter, and
the six Arani whined a high pitched counterpoint to her grief.
It was hard on all of them.
There were only eleven survivors on this ship, and probably no more on any
other.
So few... So very few...
So many dead.
Someone would pay. She promised herself that. But the dead must be honored,
first.
* * * * * * * *
When they came out of The Deep, their prey was several light-minutes inside
the limit, crossing system space at an all out sprint that even a racing
yacht would have been hard pressed to match. She hovered on their scopes, a
brilliant silver albatross riding a storm front of nuclear fire.
The engine-part of them pointed out that catching them would require
stressing their drive systems to an almost unacceptable level. Chances of
death due to field failure were almost three in six.
Weapons-part agreed, and added that the prey was armed with both its
reaction drive and a quantity of anti-pirate weaponry. Accounting for
probability of drive failure, chances of destruction with mission
unfulfilled were four in six. Destruction with mission successful was rated
at one in six.
It was agreed by all that the consequences of failure made these odds
acceptable.
The drive safeguards were taken down, and the pursuit undertaken.
The prey did not maintain a constant speed, but instead maintained a steady
acceleration. Its initial velocity had been quite low, but by the time they
caught up to it, its speed was in the upper third of their capability to
emulate. They would have only ten minutes before it began to outpace them,
and five more before it moved out of range.
The prey was big. Almost three kilometers in length, with a single cavernous
cargo bay running most of its length. The readings on its shields were
impressive; the fields were even stronger than their own shields. A function
of the drive's power level, no doubt.
It would carry weapons. Most merchantmen carried at least some light
armament, and the prey's captain would scarcely leave its investment unable
to protect itself. A ship of the prey's size could legally carry weaponry
comparable to the hunter's own.
It would not be an easy fight.
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Heh. I�m really enjoying myself with this whole �starter� thing.
Grand fun, it is.
Be well.
Nathan Baxter
(Improfanfic's address is: http://pixelscapes.com/improfanfic/ )
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Nathan Baxter, Grand High Emperor of the Lobsters.
Author, Bubblegum^5, El Hazard: The Continuing World
(Now, if you've heard of both of these, THEN I'll be
impressed.)
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"Don't worry, I'm sure they'll listen to Reason."
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