Lacuna: The Sands of Karathi Read online

  –––-

  A writer does not write in isolation,

  for they are the sum of their experiences.

  It is from these experiences that inspiration comes.

  I thank my family, who allowed me to be who I am,

  My friends, who love me in spite of me,

  And as always, to my readers.

  You made all this possible.

  Special thanks to UFOP: Starbase 118 for teaching me how to write,

  And Shane Michael Murray,

  my tireless proofreader, motivator and partner in crime.

  –––-

  Lacuna

  空

  白

  The Sands of Karathi

  “An insincere and evil friend is more to be feared than a wild beast…

  … for a wild beast may wound your body, but an evil friend will wound your mind.”

  - Buddha

  Prologue

  “All Accounted For”

  * * *

  Near the wreckage of the Giralan

  Planet Karathi

  1978 AD

  [“Please… please, don’t leave me here. Take me with you.”]

  The construct clasped its robotic claws together in a begging gesture, turning its optics to the wreck of the Toralii Alliance warship Giralan, spread around the great desert sands like a disemboweled animal. The construct’s vision slowly, despairingly, shifted to the great dunes, which extended out to the horizon.

  The rescue effort—focused entirely on the Toralii crew and any equipment they could salvage—did not include the construct.

  [“Your datacore is too heavy,”] the ship’s weary commander explained once again. [“The rescue shuttle cannot bear the weight of your systems.”]

  [“Then make room, leave something else,”] the construct pleaded. [“Leave the atmospheric processor or the waste management system. It is all equipment, just equipment—replaceable!”]

  [“You are equipment,”] came the commander’s agitated reply, [“which has been explained to you many times, and you are replaceable. You were manufactured in a lab, copied from the default neural net. You were not born. You are not a series of biochemical reactions that grows and dies. You are a complex quantum computer heuristic, and I am wasting my breath talking to you. You are no more alive than this blasted sand.”]

  The construct, remotely controlling a small four-legged maintenance robot, pointed to itself. [“I am alive, and I care not what your precious ‘science directorates’ declare regarding my—”]

  The construct was cut off by the chirp of the Toralii Commander’s windwhisper device, which he answered. [“This is Warbringer Eiilan. Go ahead.”]

  [“Warbringer, the last of the survivors have been loaded. We are ready to proceed when you are. Is there anything else of worth salvageable from the Giralan?”]

  With a glance over the dunes, then to the wreckage, then finally back at the maintenance robot, the Toralii shook his head and spoke into the windwhisper device. [“No.”]

  The construct thumped the maintenance robot’s claws against the barren ground, kicking up small plumes of dust as they struck the sand.

  [“If you are to leave me here, what is my directive?”]

  The Toralii blinked rapidly, the Human equivalent of a shrug. [“Do what you wish. I care not.”]

  With a dull roar, the rescue shuttle powered up its engines and Warbringer Eiilan looked up, watching the rising exhaust thrust as it caused a small cloud of dust to billow around the crowd of Toralii survivors huddled together in the space between two dunes. Shouldering his burden, a cloth bag full of computer components salvaged from the construct's systems, the commander strode towards the shuttle. He didn’t look back.

  The construct watched the survivors filter into the smaller vessel, staring with envious optics as the last of the equipment and personnel were loaded. Then, with the rumble of engines and a whoosh of sand, the shuttle lifted off. Before long it was just a speck in the sky. A moment later it was nothing.

  The construct, with his precise artificial mind, knew the shuttle was too small to have its own voidwarp device. It would have to dock with its mothership, a process he timed with precision that surprised even himself.

  Not that all his knowledge and raw mathematical ability could help him in the slightest. None of his abilities, nor any of the remaining ship’s systems, could compel the shuttle to return.

  All the construct could do was watch as a white flash, the telltale signature of a voidwarp device, lit up the night sky, leaving him utterly alone.

  Days turned into weeks. Weeks dragged into months, then slowly became years. The construct, with his mechanical mind, kept perfect time; he never slept, he never rested. He did not grow bored or weary, nor pass the time in the many ways Humans could.

  The sole thing the construct could do was wait and think. Running endless models and simulations, tuning and adjusting every conceivable parameter, he struggled to understand why he had been left behind to rust on the unforgiving, inhospitable desert world of Karathi.

  Act I

  Chapter I

  “Of Wounds and the Wounded”

  * * *

  Infirmary

  TFR Beijing

  2037 AD

  "You're pregnant."

  Doctor Saeed’s words were like a hammer to Commander Melissa Liao’s heart.

  Liao, the Captain of the TFR Beijing, had not lead an easy life. She was what they called a “Summer Flower”—a woman raised in China two generations after the ‘one child’ policy had left far too many men without eligible wives—a trend that had not significantly reversed itself in the years that passed. From there, her destiny was fairly clear; she would marry young to a rich and influential man—who was handsome to boot—and get right down to the business of producing him an heir and living a comfortable, easy life full of parties and friends, with a supportive family and every comfort she could ask for.

  But the life of a giggling, vapid housewife was not for her. Determined to make something of herself, Liao joined the military, rising through the ranks at a brisk pace as a submariner. A noteworthy career, but fairly typical of someone with talent and drive. She had enlisted as an officer, working as a navigator for the Han-class submarines the Chinese Navy—somewhat strangely referred to as the People’s Army Navy—fielded in the beginning of her career, then expressing an interest to move into command school as soon as she was offered a position. A fairly standard career path and not at all unorthodox.

  After the Toralii came and devastated Tehran, Sydney, and Beijing, her career became truly exceptional.

  Due to a twist of fate—a large-scale retraining programme for command school officers taking place in Beijing at the time of the attacks— a large number of senior Chinese officers were killed during the attacks. Accordingly, the navy had a great many positions to fill and the promotions came thick and fast… as did the work those duties required. She once again felt the call of that easy lifestyle, especially late at night when her chances of getting over the mountain of work seemed hopeless. But rather than buckle under the pressure, she flourished and, in time, was offered the command of the Beijing, a Triumph-class vessel and one of the Pillars of the Earth — three great warships built to fight the aliens.

  Captain James Grégoire, her companion by happenstance during the attacks, was given command of the Tehran, another Pillar. Their camaraderie turned flirtatious and then intimate at a rapid pace, and then…

  … and then the Toralii returned, quite decisively handing the Human defenders their arses with only a single ship, the Seth’arak. James, his vessel crippled, had rammed the enemy ship to save Liao and her crew.

  When the t
wo collided there was a bright flash, and the Tehran and the Seth’arak were gone.

  Wounded in battle, she discovered her pregnancy while lying in the ship's infirmary. She understood the contraceptive pill she’d been taking had a 99.9 percent success rate—those were good odds—but someone had to be the .1 percent.

  For a time she had no answer, then stammering words found their way to her throat. She asked if he was sure. Saeed showed her the ultrasound. She asked if there was a mistake; he explained that Liao’s was the only ultrasound they had performed since the battle, and the time/date stamp on the image was accurate.

  Denial didn’t help much, and it didn’t bring James back.

  The Sydney guided the crippled Beijing towards the lunar drydock, Liao spent the days drifting in and out of sleep, filling out the endless reams of paperwork she was desperately behind on and trying not to think about what might happen in her future. For a time her life was approvals, work orders, promotions, commendations, and letters that began ‘We regret to inform you.’

  Far, far too many of those for her liking.

  Soon, she was well enough to walk and tour her badly damaged ship, her arm in a sling, her shoulder heavily bandaged. They were still several days out from their destination, unable to effectively move under their own power, the Sydney guiding them through the last twenty million kilometres to the moon.

  It was easier than most laymen would anticipate. The ship only needed inertia; once it had its course, the Sydney’s strike craft, acting as tugboats, needed only to nudge it slightly in any direction using their reactionless drives if the ship’s direction required correction. Although their journey was slow, it gave Liao and the crew plenty of time to effect repairs, to treat their wounded, and to recover from the great battle.

  Free from the infirmary, Liao walked the decks, touring each section in turn. It was important for shipwide morale, she felt, that they see their commanding officer was fit and well–enough to walk, at any rate–and she made a distinct point of greeting and acknowledging the crew as she passed them.

  Her mind was on her duties and the command of her ship. However, when she thought nobody was looking, she would occasionally fiddle with the string of pearls James had given her, tucked carefully under the collar of her uniform.

  It was relaxing and pleasant, for a time, to have reduced duties and a lighter than normal workload, but naval captains were afforded little rest, and her tour did have a serious side to it. She was back on her feet, and it was time to inspect the repairs to her ship firsthand. The work of Lieutenant Yanmei Cheung, the no-nonsense, short-haired chief of Marines whom Liao had a certain fondness for, was first on the list. Originally a warrant officer, Liao had granted her a field commission for exceptional heroism and loyalty.

  The Marine was taller than Liao, which made her easy to spot in a crowd, but that wasn’t why she picked her. Cheung was first simply because Liao knew where she would be—assisting a small team of her Marines in lugging replacement deck plates around for the engineers to bolt onto the inner hull. Liao had signed the requisition form that morning.

  Watching the spacesuit-clad woman through a porthole to open space, the captain of the TFR Beijing waited patiently for her to exhaust her stockpile of hull plates. When Cheung finally came back in through the airlock to retrieve another stack, Liao beckoned her over.

  “I’ll be quick, Lieutenant, don’t worry.”

  Visibly relieved, Yanmei removed her helmet with a soft hiss. “I’d appreciate that, Captain. We have a lot to do. How can I help you?”

  Liao pointed at Yanmei’s arm with her uninjured hand. During the climatic battle with the Toralii Alliance warship Seth’arak, Cheung had nearly been shot by a Toralii boarder. The high-heat energy weapon had missed, fortunately, but had struck the bulkhead right behind her. The impact sprayed a faint mist of molten titanium over the Marine’s upper forearm. There would be some significant scarring–it didn’t take a medical degree to see that–but strangely, the woman didn’t seem bothered by it, nor did she seem to have lost any function in the limb.

  Liao cast her mind back to the discussion she and Yanmei had shared before the battle. The crew of the Beijing were warriors, soldiers standing in the shoes of their ancestors who had all fought similar battles. Liao knew that some soldiers treasured their scars as mementos, reminders of where they fought and why. She suspected Cheung would see it that way, too.

  “How are your burns healing? Doctor Saeed’s obviously cleared you to return to duty.”

  The tall Marine gave the captain a nod, grinning at her spacesuit-covered forearm. “Bandages and painkillers make a wonderful mix. It’s not pretty, but I’m able to work and believe me, the engineers are pleased to see me. Even if we doubled the number of workmen we have on board, there’s just not enough hands to go around—not to do the kind of repair work we need.”

  Liao couldn’t agree more. They were desperate for repairs; the damage from the battle had been borderline catastrophic. Almost every deck had some area that was decompressed or inaccessible, so the repair effort had been forced to perform triage. They cut back to fixing only the systems that were keeping the crew breathing—the rest could wait.

  There was also another concern. To prevent the Toralii from using any of the jump points in the solar system to attack Earth, a series of gravity mines had been placed at each point. It seemed to work, but nobody, from the senior staff to Fleet Command, knew if the Toralii could find some way to bypass the blockade. With that whisper of doubt in their minds, some priority was also given to the hull plating and weapons. It was that directive that had Yanmei climbing all over the metal hull, attaching plates over damaged areas so they could be charged and hardened.

  Liao gave a low sigh. “You’re not wrong there. Every section–every one–needs something, but there’s just not enough of some things to go around.”

  Cheung grinned. “Including eligible women on this boat, if you don’t mind me saying so, ma’am.”

  It was fairly common knowledge that Cheung liked women, and to Liao’s mind it was a shame that there was nobody she was compatible with in that way.

  “Focus on your work,” Liao chided, although her smile remained. “Chicks dig scars, remember?”

  “Heh, I know, Captain.” There was a pause as Cheung gathered her thoughts. “Anyway, ahem. Ma’am. Drydock will be able to assist us further with the repairs once we get back to the moon. Assuming we can maneuver the ship enough to even land without causing more damage.”

  That was another consideration. Luna, Earth’s moon, had gravity. Less than her mother planet, yes, but still something. Enough to do damage if they landed too roughly. They had moved the Beijing slowly back from Mars but, in their weakened state, would the ship’s reactionless drive be strong enough to allow them to land gently, or would the moon’s gravity pull them down too fast? Would they splatter like a dropped meatball on the lunar surface?

  “I’m confident our engineers will make sure that we can, but I’ll be taking every precaution. We’ll just have to see how it goes when we arrive.”

  Playing a dangerous situation by ear, Liao mused, seemed to be what they did of late. When things were this bad she liked having total control of the situation, and this was far from in her control.

  Cheung nodded. “Summer will be able to tell us if it’s safe or not.”

  Summer Rowe, one of the handful of civilian contractors aboard, was their resident foul-mouthed genius engineer. She had a penchant for causing trouble and chaos wherever she showed up. That, and doing the absolute impossible in record time without the proper equipment or work environment.

  Most engineers and technical people were shy and reclusive, but it wasn’t getting Summer to talk that was the trick—it was getting her to shut up. Summer’s rants were long, foul-mouthed, angry tirades that seemed to go on and on without getting to the point. She would segue from topic to topic endlessly until urged to silence.

  Sometimes, Liao wondere
d if the redheaded Australian genius was just stalling for time while her mind ticked over, or if she was prone to some kind of complex, partial seizures where her mouth ran far ahead of her brain.

  Liao smiled. “I’m sure she will.”

  Cheung nodded and reattached her helmet with a click. Her voice was muffled as she spoke, the edge of exhaustion and fatigue creeping into her voice. “If there’s nothing else, Captain…”

  Crewmen from all over the ship had performed admirably given the extraordinarily long hours they were working, but Liao knew that eventually even they would require rest. Soon, she silently promised Cheung, and with a nod, let her go back to work.

  They needed the hull plating and weapons, but before the ship could be combat ready, it required an Operations crew.

  Accordingly, her next port of call was the infirmary. She had spent far too much time there of late, but there were so many wounded. The Toralii boarding party had served a bloody butcher’s bill. Although she had been entrusted with command, and everyone aboard the ship knew the risks, Liao found it difficult to face the wounded who had entrusted her with their lives.

  In some ways, it made her glad her pregnancy had forced her to skimp when it came to painkillers. The wounded were her crew, and she should suffer with them. When her arm hurt, or a movement caused her to pull her stitches, she just grimaced and thought of those under her command who were less fortunate.

  Opening the hatchways on the ship with one arm proved to be an awkward task but, after a time, she managed it and stepped inside. Liao wanted to visit Lieutenant Jiang, her tactical officer, but she could see at a glance the woman, recovering from a gunshot wound, was still asleep. Her short hair spilled out over the pillow; her face was pale and gaunt. Jiang had a very round face, and her dark eyes were normally sparkling and full of life; but laying listless on the hospital bed, surrounded by machinery, she looked terrible. The dragon tattoo on her lower arm, normally covered by her uniform, had an intravenous needle straight through the creature’s eye.