Europa Strike (5 page)

At the gate, past the lines marking the secure perimeter, they handed over their pads for a security check and pressed their thumbs against DNA reader screens proffered by the Air Force Blue Beret sentries. Security at the base was very high; Vandenberg was one of only three primary launch centers in the United States, and there were entirely too many people about, both foreign nationals and U.S. citizens, with reasons to sabotage America's space access capability.

Lucky turned in the seat for another look at the woman on the dwarf mammoth. Funny how the antitechies were always so selective about the technologies they wanted banned. This bunch obviously didn't mind cloning frozen mammoth carcasses, but they wanted humankind out of space. There were others who didn't mind space travel, but who thought tampering with genetics was blasphemy. You could usually find them demonstrating outside major theme parks that maintained genetically tailored and resurrected herds.

He wondered what would happen if both groups tried demonstrating on the same day at the same gate. Might be amusing.

Through the gate, then, and into the base. Vandenberg was still officially an Air Force base, even though the U.S. Navy seemed to have positioned itself as the principal builder and operator of deep spacecraft. Congressional and intra-Pentagon warfare continued over funding and jurisdictional disputes, but in general, the Air Force controlled airspace up to the 100-kilometer mark, and operated the military shuttles carrying men and materiel to Low Earth Orbit. The Navy, with its long history of procuring, building, and operating large ships at sea for long periods of time, had responsibility for everything beyond the 100-km line. The Marines—the Navy's police force, as one misguided former U.S. president had called them—had followed the Navy into deep space, despite ongoing attempts by the Army to establish an Army Space Operations Group.

There were rumblings, as always, over the possible creation of a military space arm independent of all of the older armed forces. Lucky didn't think that would ever happen, though. Too many high-rankers and politicians had too much invested in too many past decisions to yield on such a politically charged and expensive issue. The arguments would continue, nothing critical would be decided, and Lucky would get to go to space.

If only it wasn't a damned tech-null hole like
Europa!

The Zephyr swung into a curve, then crested a long, low ridge. Beyond, almost at the horizon, Launch Center Bravo sprawled across 8,000 hectares of scrub brush and rock. Their timing couldn't have been better. Seconds after they came over the ridge, an intensely brilliant strobe of blue-white light pulsed from one of the dozen launch towers bristling from the landscape like thick, white whiskers. Tone pulled the car over so they could both watch.

The strobe winked rapidly, ten times a second, a fluttering pulse of light from the base of the tower. A cargo transport rose into the sky, a squat, white cone with a broad and oddly flared base. As it cleared the tower, four more strobes began flashing at widely separated points scattered across the landscape. The effect was a warning, not the glare of the lasers themselves.

The sound, a far-off roll of thunder, didn't reach the two Marines for a number of seconds. The transport, its circular base now glowing white-hot, accelerated rapidly into the clear, deep blue of the early evening sky.

“Whee-oo!” Tone said, excited. “What a ride! What you think, Luck? They're pulling maybe eight Gs?”

“Cargo launch,” he replied. “Betcha it's unmanned and pulling twelve Gs, easy!”

The hurtling transport began arching overhead as it slid into an easterly launch path. When Vandenberg had first been converted to launch operations in the last century, all launches had been into polar or high-inclination orbits, since an east or southeasterly launch path would take the vehicle over the dangerously crowded urban areas of Greater Los Angeles. Low-inclination launches from V-berg had become possible—if not exactly politically acceptable—with the development of single-stage-to-orbit boosters and, later, the Laser Launch System, or LLS. Launches routinely passed over Greater LA every day now…though that, too, was yet another cause for periodic demonstrations.

The cargo transport was now nothing but a star, brighter than Venus, sliding rapidly down the eastern sky. The ground-based lasers, playing their steady, invisible tattoo against the water reaction mass in the transport's plasma chamber, could boost it to orbital velocity in less than 120 seconds. Downrange lasers, at Edwards and San Clemente, would pick up the vehicle when it passed beyond Vandenberg's laser-launch horizon and see it safely past LA. Once it was in orbit, conventional onboard engines would kick in and guide it to its final destination—almost certainly the U.S. Deep Space Orbital Facility at L-3.

It was a bit eerie for Lucky, imagining himself riding that invisible laser fire into space in another few days.

Space. Yeah…even if it
was
Europa, he would be in space at last.

19
SEPTEMBER
2067

They called him Stan, although, like most artificial intelligences, he never thought of himself in terms of names or self-identity. Even the pronoun
he
wasn't appropriate, though it didn't matter to him one way or another. It was simply part of the persona assigned him by his human handlers for their own comfort and convenience.

“He” could not even be said to have a particular location in space. Like all AIs, he was the product of software—interconnected programs running on over three hundred different pieces of hardware, and those machines were scattered across space, from the TCC-5000 still coordinating space tracking operations from Cheyenne Mountain to the fifteen different Honeywell-Toshiba IC-1090s aboard each satellite in the TrackStar Geosynch constellation. His primary task was to monitor all spacecraft, satellites, and orbital facilities in cis-Lunar space; his secondary tasks changed periodically, but frequently involved alerting other AIs in the Global Network of specific events within his purview.

Such an event, linked to such a task, was occurring now.

One of Stan's remote trackers, a twelve-ton Argus-Hera satellite in high Earth orbit, had just registered an unscheduled burn and funneled the observation through to all of Stan's extended and massively parallel processor sites.

The source was KE26-GEO, the Chinese industrial/construction park in geosynch, at 108° East.

There were many such parks—in LEO, HEO, GEO, and in the various LaGrange points of the Earth-Moon system. Most had started off as small space stations for research, communications, or small-scale microgravity industrial sites, then grown, often haphazardly, into collections of fuel tanks, pumping apparatus, construction shacks, solar cell arrays, habitat and lab modules, and spacecraft. A few—like the U.S. facility at L-3, or the Chinese KE26 station in geosynch—included the high-energy processing and containment facilities necessary for the manufacture and storage of antimatter.

Stan knew the location of each spacecraft within his sphere of attention—from 100 kilometers above the Earth to the orbit of the Moon—whether they were in orbit or under thrust. His primary programming had him functioning as a kind of space traffic controller—not that collision was a major threat; usually, the only times ships were in danger of collision was during approach or departure from a space station or other orbital facility, and at those times, ship vectors and delta-V burns were the responsibility of the ship and station personnel and AIs.

Still, there
was
considerable danger from the cloud of debris released by human activities in space since the beginning of the space age over a century before, everything from spent boosters and payload protective fairings to flecks of paint, which could be deadly if they impacted with, say, the visor of a pressure suit at several kilometers per second. Stan couldn't track individual paint flecks, but his database of stray objects included things as small as two-centimeter bolts and a stray canister of exposed infrared film. Stan's warnings of potential vector conflicts had resulted in 408 minor course corrections in the 12.37634912 years since his initialization. Space faring powers nearly always queried Stan on the possible outcome of specific boosts, vector changes, and time-distance-acceleration problems.

The Chinese had stopped making such requests three months ago. Technically, by treaty they were required to announce all launches in advance, but the requirement was strictly one of courtesy, not enforcement.

In fact, it was possible that they were operating their own deep-space tracking network. Stan was interested, however, in the politics of the situation. He did not understand the current tension between the Chinese and the newly created Confederation of World States, a loose trade and defense organization headed by the United States, Russia, and Japan that included all of the other space-capable powers. That such tension existed was self-evident from the news broadcasts of both sides, and from the fact that Stan's secondary program tasks had increasingly involved surveillance of Chinese space assets for DODNET, the complex of AIs running much of the U.S. military's command, control, and communications networks.

There were, at the moment, no fewer than nineteen spacecraft of various types at KE26-GEO…most of them cargo craft boosted from Xichang. Two were the antimatter-powered cruisers
Xing Shan
(the
Star Mountain
) and her sister ship, the
Xing Feng
(the
Star Wind
). A third was a research vessel, the
Tiantan Shandian
, which DOD-NET translated roughly as the
Heavenly Lightning
.

Stan had received numerous requests for updates on the
Star Mountain
's status in the past few weeks, and he'd dutifully passed on all observations. There had not been much to report; the huge spacecraft remained inert, though thermal and radiation readings suggested that its fusion power plant was being brought to full output, probably in anticipation of a launch. He could make out little detail, however; the Argus-Hera tracking satellites, of all his assets, came closest at periodic intervals to the Chinese facility—but that was never closer than some 20,000 kilometers.

Still, standing orders required that any change in the status of either the
Xing Shan
or the
Xing Feng
be reported to the Pentagon
at once
.

Now, though, three of his Argus-Heras had picked up the bright, hot flare of a burn at KE26-GEO. Interestingly, it was not the
Star Mountain
that was accelerating, but the much older
Heavenly Lightning
.

The
Lightning
was listed as a deep space research vessel—415 meters long, massing 25,300 tons. The vessel was currently mounted on a two-stage stack, with a heavily modified
Liliang
ground-to-orbit booster as a strap-on first stage.

Stan monitored the burn for five seconds before arriving at any decisions. His orders did not explicitly mention the
Heavenly Lightning
, but he had considerable discretionary flexibility—a large part of the reason for artificially intelligent systems, after all. He noted that the
Liliang
booster's flare included high levels of gamma radiation—a sure sign that the vehicle's thrust had been upgraded through the simple expedient of adding a small quantity of antimatter to the reaction chamber, increasing the specific impulse of the booster's hydrogen-oxygen fuel mix.

After five seconds, Stan had assembled enough data to make a good guess on the craft's intended vector—a close pass of Earth to achieve a gravitational slingshot onto a new course. The ultimate vector could not be determined now, of course; he wouldn't be able to estimate that until he'd measured the
Lightning
's perigee burn. But it appeared, with 85 percent certainty, that the
Heavenly Lightning
was bound for a retrograde solar orbit—one that seemed to be going nowhere in particular.

The information was not what DODNET and the Pentagon were most interested in at the moment, but Stan felt sure they
would
want to know.

He linked into the Global Net and began uploading his observations.

20
SEPTEMBER
2067

The Palace of Illusion

Burbank, California

2130 hours (Zulu minus 8)

 

Why
, Colonel Kaitlin Garroway asked herself,
do I come to these damned functions?

The answer was obvious, of course.
Because the Corps wants well-rounded, well-balanced, socially
ept
officers and it wouldn't look good if you turned down too many invitations
. She had to ask the question nonetheless. She always felt so damned out of place at these affairs; at least the proverbial fish out of water had managed to evolve legs and lungs after a few million years. She held no such hopes for herself.

Once upon a time, social gatherings of this sort had been held in private homes—well-to-do private homes, to be sure, but homes all the same. If the guest list was simply too big for the living room, a reception hall might be rented for the occasion.

Nowadays, an entire minor industry thrived to provide suitable ambiance for the evening. The Palace of Illusion was run by a major area theme park to cater expressly to formal social events. She wondered how much all of this had cost—the lighting and special effects, the live music, the endless tables of food, the sheer
space
: the grounds and gardens outside on a hilltop overlooking the dazzling horizon-to-horizon glow of Greater Los Angeles; a Grand Hall so large the walls were lost in the artificial mists and play of laser holography designed to create a sense of infinite space; and elsewhere, private rooms, conversation bubbles, or even private VR spheres designed to accommodate social and conversational groupings of every size and taste.

Several thousand people were in attendance. Kaitlin felt completely lost. She wished Rob, her husband, was here, but the lucky bastard was on the other end of the continent right now, CO of the Marine Space Training Command at Quantico, and he'd been able to plead schedule and a meeting with the Joint Chiefs to duck the invitation. It was harder for Kaitlin. Her current assignment had her in command of the 1st Marine Space Regiment, which consisted of the 1st and 2nd Marine Space Expeditionary Forces, and various support elements. Normally, she was in Quantico too, but for the past month she'd been stationed at Vandenberg, commuting by HST on those few weekends she had free.

All of which had left her without an acceptable excuse for being here tonight.

She wandered the fringes of the Great Hall, looking for someone she knew. She had her personal pinger on, set to alert her if she came within fifty meters of any other pinger broadcasting an interest in things that interested her: the Corps, recovered ET technology, science fiction, programming—especially cryptoprogramming—chess, anything involving Japanese language or culture. It was also searching for any of a handful of people she knew who might be here. So far, no luck. Senator Fuentes was here, of course; it was her party. Twenty-five years ago,
Colonel
Carmen Fuentes had been her CO in the desperate fight for Tsiolkovsky on the Lunar far side. Unfortunately, the senator was surrounded five deep just now by well wishers, sycophants, politicians, and social climbers. Kaitlin didn't have a chance in hell of breaching
those
defenses.

She wandered through the crowd, amusing herself by observing the variations in dress and social custom. Kaitlin was wearing the new formal Blue Dress Evening uniform—long skirt, open jacket with medals and broad red lapels over ruffled white blouse, and the damned silly gold braid epaulets that made her feel like she was walking around with boards balanced precariously on her shoulders. And heels. She hated heels. Heels had been abandoned by progressively thinking women fifty years ago. All she needed to feel a perfect fool was a sword and scabbard.

There were quite a few of those in the room. Most of the male Marine officers were in full Blue Dress A uniform, with swords—the famous Mameluke blade first presented to Lieutenant Presley O'Bannon for the capture of Derna in 1805—at their sides.

Corps tradition. It was everywhere she looked. Those red stripes on the legs of their pants, for instance, symbolized the bloody Battle of Chapultepec in the Mexican War, the “Halls of Montezuma” immortalized in the Marine Corps Hymn.

Most of the people at the gathering, however, were civilians, and Kaitlin found herself feeling quite out of place with the creatures—as alien to her way of thinking as the Builders or the An or any of the myriad species glimpsed from the Cave of Wonders at Cydonia. Their dress ran the colorful gamut from full traditional formal to almost nude; complete nakedness was still frowned upon in most social circles in all but small and informal gatherings, but donning nothing but footwear, suitably fashionable technological accessories, and skin dyes or tattoos was customary for larger parties, if still mildly daring.

The creature confronting her now was a case in point. He was clad in the new technorganic-look, half hardware appliqué, half dyetooed skin. He wore a visible pinger on his right shoulder which was pulsing orange light at the moment, an indicator that he was interested in sexual diversions of any kind. Orange dyettooes covered half his body in what looked like Sanskrit characters, including his genitals—just to make sure that everyone knew he was available for play.

Kaitlin preferred the old days, when there'd always been a hint of mystery, even suspense, with any new and casual meeting.

The times, the culture, were simply changing too damned fast.

“Blue stellar!” the dyed apparition said. “You're Colonel Kaitlin Garroway, First Marine Space Force! Your pat was Sands of Mars Garroway, your—”

“I
do
know who I am,” she said, a bit more sharply than she'd intended. She still couldn't get used to the new habit people had of announcing themselves by announcing you…an ostentatiously irritating means, basically, of proving they had a good Farley program running in their PAD assistants.

“Tek! Been progged to 'face with ya, Colonel. Saw you on the list when I dunelled it and nearly maxed.”

Kaitlin blinked. She had the general idea that the kid—he couldn't have been older than his early twenties—was glad to see her, but she still wasn't sure why. He had a decided technological edge on her. He was wearing some pretty sharp-edged tech, including a partial sensory helmet—it covered only the left side of his head, leaving the primitive right half free and “natural”—with a flip-aside monocular for his data HUD. He was probably tapping all the data on her that he could find at this moment, while she had nothing to query but the AI secretary resident in her PAD. She was damned if she would let herself appear interested, though, by opening her personal access device just to electronically query the local net server for a Farley on this guy's name, background, and interests.

“And you are?” she asked, her voice cool.

“Oh, vid. Handle's Hardcore. Wanted to link with ya on some prime throughput. Like what the milboys are runnin' landing on Jupiter. I run, like, the Masters might get the wrong feed, c'nect?”

Kaitlin was abruptly conscious of just how many people in the room around her were wearing sensory communications gear of some sort, from appliqués like Hardcore's to full helmets with darkened visors and internal HUD displays. Resident AIs with the appropriate dialect and slang interpreters made talking cross-culture a lot easier than trying it null-teched.

“To begin with,” she said slowly, trying to sort her way through the tangle of techculture slang, “the Marines aren't landing on Jupiter. A Marine Space Expeditionary Unit is deploying to Europa. That's one of Jupiter's moons. As for the Masters…I suppose you mean one or another of the A-Squared cultures?”

“Absopos, cybe! Like, I run the An made us what we are, linkme? And, like, I run they might not log our peaceful nature with the mils goosestepping into their domain.”

A-Squareds. Thank the newsies for that bit of cuteness, meaning Ancient Aliens. There were two known, now, and a third inferred, thanks to xenoarcheological digs on Mars, the Moon, and even, lately, on Earth, now that the diggers knew what to look for. The Builders had left the enigmatic structures and fragments on Mars half a million years ago, and presumably had tinkered with human genetics at the same time, creating archaic
Homo sapiens
from the earlier populations of
Homo erectus
. The An had been something else entirely, a nonhuman spacefaring species that had enslaved a fair-sized fraction of humanity ten thousand years ago, and left their imprint in human myth, legend, and architecture across the Fertile Crescent, in parts of Africa, and in both South and Central America before being annihilated by the presumptive third Ancient Alien culture, the Hunters of the Dawn.

“The Builders have been extinct for half a million years,” she told Hardcore. “The An appear to have been wiped out ten thousand years ago. If the Hunters of the Dawn are still out there, we haven't seen any sign of them. I can't see that any of them would mind us going to Europa. And the Marines are going there to protect American interests.”
As always. First to fight. Too often, the first to die
.

“But that runs totally null, cybe. Like, they upgraded us, so we have to be jacked in tight and one-worlding it when they return….”

Kaitlin at last was beginning to take the kid's measure. An Ancient Astronut.

There were literally hundreds of new cults and religions about, spawned by the recent discoveries elsewhere in the Solar System that were continuing the ongoing process of displacement for humankind's place in the universe begun by Copernicus so long before. The Builders had tinkered with human DNA, and a few civilized members of that new species had died on Mars when the facilities there had been attacked by unknown enemies. The An had established bases on the Moon and colonies on Earth, enslaving large numbers of humans to help raise their monumental and still enigmatic structures at Giza, Baalbek, Titicaca, and elsewhere, before infalling asteroids deliberately aimed by another unknown enemy had wiped most of the An centers away in storms of flame and flood. Twice, it appeared, humans had narrowly escaped the fates of more advanced, alien patron races.

So much was known now, a revelation at least as stunning as the knowledge that humankind predated Bishop Usher's date of special creation in 4004
BC
. But so much was still unknown, and in the mystery, in the undiscovered, there was plenty of room for speculation…and for radical new forms of faith. From the sound of it, Hardcore was a member of one of the new denominations that actually gloried in the knowledge that humanity had once been engineered as slaves. It certainly made the question of existence simple: Humankind was here to serve the Masters. Obviously, the Masters weren't about right now, but when They returned, they would expect an accounting of their faithful servants for the world they'd left in the servants' care.

Kaitlin wondered what Hardcore would do if she posed as a member of one of the other cults and political spin-off groups—a Humanity Firster, say, who'd vowed to venture forth to the stars and eradicate the alien scum who'd once tried to enslave Mankind, and failed.

She decided that the Senator would probably prefer that she keep a low profile. In any case, members of the U.S. Armed Forces weren't allowed to express political or religious opinions of
any
kind while in uniform.

“I can't share your view of the aliens,” she told him, blunt, but as diplomatically as possible. “We do know that there might be…people out there we're going to want to protect ourselves from. Isn't it reasonable to want to find out all we can about them, as far from Earth as we can manage?”

“Hey, I can't 'face with that, cybe. I mean, we can't run different than our progamming, right? And we were made to serve the Masters.”

A tiny chirp in her left ear told her that her pinger had just detected one of the people on her tell-me list. “Who?” she subvocalized.

“Dr. Jack Ramsey,” her earpiece's voice whispered. “He has just entered the palace of Illusion.”

“Thank God.”

“Sorry?” Hardcore said, puzzled. “I don't 'face ya.”

“And a good thing it is, too,” she told him. “I've got to go. I'm meeting a friend.”

“But, like, we gotta 'face on the issue, cybe. Don't log me off!”

“Please. Excuse me.” She turned and started to walk away. “Which way to Jack Ramsey?” she asked her pinger.

“Five degrees left, now sixteen-point-one meters, closing…”

“Like, we should clear this.” He was following her, matching her stride for stride.

“Hardcore!” another voice said. “Hey, you found her!”

“Found but not downed. She won't 'face, Slick-Cybe.”

The newcomer was more conventionally dressed in a two-tone green tunic with a stiff, tight collar, but he sported many of the same technical accouterments Hardcore wore. He stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “Hey, Colonel. My des is Slick. We were hoping you'd give us a few moments of your time.”

“Who is ‘we'?” she demanded. She was losing patience with this crew.

“C'mon in,” the newcomer said, grinning…obviously speaking for someone else's benefit. Kaitlin saw with alarm that several people were detaching themselves from various parts of the crowd around her and walking her way.

Ambush…

She couldn't help but think of it in military terms. They'd pinpointed her location with a scout, called in a blocking force, and now the main body was closing in.

And, damn it, she couldn't run in heels. She would have to stand and fight it out.

Their dress ran from Hardcore's stylish nudity to an elaborate Elizabethan ball gown that looked heavier than the man wearing it. One woman had her head shaved, wore golden, slit-pupiled contacts, and had dyetooed her entire body in a green scale pattern that gave her a vague resemblance to an oversized and rather too mammalian-looking An.