Plague Wars 06: Comes the Destroyer (16 page)

Therefore, when the escape probe containing the essences of the Survey craft’s trium was recovered, all eighty-one of the crew had already formed and solidified a conclusion that brooked no alteration: the target solar system would be a pushover, or at worst an interesting exercise to stave off ennui.

“Agreed,” replied Two, who had been Executive, and Three, who had been Biologist. Their designations had been withdrawn but not their skills, and hundreds of years of independent scouting had made this trium positively open-minded, even insubordinate, for Meme.

The rigid rules and definitions of the Empire’s society existed to keep their race’s natural egotism and will to power in check. Finding themselves all but outside that structure, it seemed quite easy to keep to themselves and cast about for some form of redemption.

“Perhaps we can supplant the new Zookeepers,” Three suggested, referring to the trium of former Recyclers now promoted to taking care of the various nonsentient biological forms retained aboard. These animals represented a combination of biological archives and spare parts, some in stasis, some bred and used in experiments, still others kept to provide food or entertainment for the crew.

“And how shall we do that?” Two asked with a nasty sneer. “There is no one lower than we, and the new Zookeepers have been aboard this ship for many cycles. They have associates and local knowledge. We have nothing.”

“We have feces,” One observed with irony, manipulating a bio-absorber to clean up a spill. “Go seal and repair that hernia,” he ordered. Two and Three hastened to the offending breach and began the disgusting task of using their own body’s biological processes to regenerate the tiny part of the Destroyer’s digestive system that had failed. If a Meme had tried to explain to a human by analogy, he would have said that this task was akin to licking an animal’s open wound, one very near to its elimination hole.

“What do you suggest?” Executive grumped. Fortunately its ability to converse was not limited by its work, except that it made the words malodorous.

“Perhaps we should perform this task so poorly we will be given a different set of duties,” said Three.

“Tempting,” replied One, “but I do not believe that is the path to redemption. I had in mind instead providing a more…complete report to our illustrious leadership.”

“But only a Level One report was requested,” whined Three.

One said, “Yes, and that gave the impression these Humans are insufficiently advanced in their machine technology to defeat this vessel. But by the time we arrive they will have almost nine of their years to prepare, and for a desperate species, that time might prove dangerous.”

“Do you actually think they can defeat this Destroyer?” Two asked with concern.

“No. It is not possible, but a few more years is not long to wait for the chance at rapid advancement.” One reversed the flow of its absorber and excreted the feces into a valve that would send the effluvium back into its proper channel.

“How do you know?” Two dared to raise a brief argument.

“There was an executive summary logged into the most recent shipwide report files. It seems comprehensive and persuasive, and I must agree with it. The Empire will conquer.”

“You actually read those things?” Three asked, incredulous.

“Yes, and that is why I am One and you are Three,” One snarled.

“But if the battle will be so easy, what chance do we have of moving up?” Three grumbled.

“I begin to understand the thrust of One’s communications,” Two interjected with growing interest. “I believe he means that, although the Humans cannot win, they might fight hard, even produce a certain number of casualties among the crew, if this vessel conducted itself in…slightly suboptimal ways.”

One favored Two with the equivalent of a smile. “You grasp my intent.”

“We would sabotage our own ship?” Three asked, aghast.

“Of course not,” One snapped. “Merely provide additional selected information that may lead the Command trium to make decisions that are less efficient than they might be. I estimate that a ten percent reduction in effectiveness will result in better than a fifty percent chance of loss of one or more tria, leaving the crew short of qualified personnel.”

“And when new mitoses are created, they will take the lowest positions, and we will move up! That is brilliant!” Three gushed.

“Stop floating so many excess communication molecules,” One ordered, spreading himself wide to seal the tube they occupied, sucking up the offending miasma. “Someone might overhear.”

“No one comes down here except us,” Two replied.

“That’s exactly why we speak of this nowhere else. Now have you finished with that hernia?”

“Yes, of course, One.”

“Then let us continue our duties, keep our pods clean, and give no hint of our plan, while I assemble a supplementary report.”

“What is this?” Destroyer 6223 Commander One asked the Internal Communicator Three wobbling nervously just inside his control chamber. The junior functionary held a data package gingerly in one pseudopod, as if the thing stank.

Which it did.

“A supplementary report from the former Survey craft trium, Commander.”

Commander One ruffled his surface, the Meme equivalent of guarded approval. At least this subordinate came straight to the point. “Put it down and go about your duties.” Once the other had gone, he put the blob of complex molecules into his reader and began displaying its index.

He could have absorbed it directly, but it was not unknown for a virus to “accidentally” be encoded into such a package, with highly variable results, from memory alterations to sickness and even death. Once he had run the data thoroughly through his examiner, then he would consider directly experiencing it.

In the meantime…the supplemental data proved interesting, but ultimately not critical. It confirmed the conclusions Commander One had already come to about the Humans, while providing some ideas for optimization strategies during the coming battle, dovetailing neatly with his beliefs. The former Survey trium was obviously pathetically eager to work itself into its new Commander’s good graces, and he had to admit, this was a fair start.

Therefore Commander One logged a minor commendation to his new Recycler trium, knowing full well it would be a long time, at least until after the conquest of the Human system, before it would matter. At that time various tria would be detached for off-ship duties – for example, another Watcher base – and some of his crew would undoubtedly decide to move on to the next stage of life by blending with the lower forms, beginning the endless cycle of incorporation into the Empire.

With the Meme equivalent of a shrug, Commander One redistributed the report to his senior staff, and then went back to his usual duties, effectively forgetting about the whole thing…or at least, the source of the ideas that fit so well with his own preconceptions. With years still to think about it, he slowly came to incorporate Recycler One’s flattering advice into his plans and eventually gave in to the temptation to absorb the data module directly, having determined there was no threat.

If there was such a thing as the Supreme God the Meme worshipped, It would have laughed at the irony of one of Its servants, composed of living transferrable memory molecules, believing that an idea, a meme such as their race was named for, could not itself be infectious.

As it was written in their sacred Book of the Meme: “In the beginning was the Information, and the Information was with the Supreme, and the Information was the Supreme. Without the Information was not anything made that was made.”

So when Commander One issued orders to increase speed in order to gain some time, he thought the intentions were entirely his own, rather than having been literally planted in his mind and willingly incorporated.

It had taken him a while to figure “Vango” out, because no one would tell him. The derivation of pilots’ call signs, “names” or “handles,” was always supposed to stay secret for as long as possible, a game to those in the know. Many were obvious, such as those popularized in the movies: “Maverick” for the rebel, “Iceman” for the cool technician, “Goose” for the funny looking guy with the long neck.

But “Vango”…it had taken a serendipitous song on the radio, Don McLean’s “Vincent,” to make the connection in his mind:
Van Gogh. Vango
. The appellation was both a relief and a disappointment. He’d hoped it would have some deeper meaning than just a word play on his name…but then again, perhaps it was better not to, considering the artist’s tragic life.

Or maybe it meant they thought he was an artist with the airplane?

Okay, I’ll take it. Besides, showing any displeasure with the handle your comrades give you is a surefire way to make them think you can’t hack it.

At least he hadn’t been tagged with “Cupcake,” like one guy, or the young woman that got “Stringy.”

Vango unbuckled last, earning a couple of funny looks about his reticence from the other passengers as they filed out of the acceleration seating area. Maybe in the future entire ships would be gravplated and passengers could stay in their quarters or the rec areas even as they maneuvered, but for now they had to be collected in one area and restrained for extra safety. Human technology now cut everything close for efficiency’s sake. With the Destroyer only two years out, that meant very few luxuries.

About half of the human cargo on board were prospective Aardvark pilots, jet jockeys all and certain that they would tear through this course just as they had all their training before. Despite the nearly hundred thousand pilot roster to eventually fill, Earth was producing plenty of qualified candidates. Most Edens didn’t have the problems the old normals used to: weak eyes, badly tuned inner ears, heart problems, any number of niggling issues that used to disqualify ninety percent of the population before they even applied.

So Vango was the last off the ship as he shuffled down the ramp and through the mandatory ID checks. After that he looked around, having been told someone would be there to meet him.

Apparently that someone was one harried lieutenant and a sergeant driving the open electric tram that sat next to an exit from the hangar. The officer held up a sign with the letters AAT on them, for Advanced Attack Training, the official name for the qualification course. Twenty-odd men and women, all cast from the same basic clear-eyed clean-cut mold, gaggled toward the two and climbed onto the vehicle. It reminded Vango of those things at Disneyland that took people to and from the parking areas.

He found himself next to a pleasant-looking blonde woman holding a carry bag in her lap just as he was. “Hi,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand. “Vango.” This was one moment that he was glad to use just his handle; the Markis name had often made him a target, forcing him to play everything even more by the book than he was inclined.

“Pleasedtameetcha,” she replied, pumping his hand enthusiastically. “Stevie. Ain’t this a hoot? Can’t wait to climb into an Aardvark.” If he’d had to place her accent, he guessed it was from somewhere in the American South, sounding a bit like Aunt Cassie.

Already her eyes had slid past him and stared out into infinite space, and he guessed that she must love the freedom of flight just as much as he did. “What d’you fly?” he asked, the safest of aviator’s questions.

“Super Ospreys. US Navy. You?”

“F-35s. South African Air Force.”

“I guess we’re all EarthFleet now, huh?”

“I guess we are.” The supranational military service had standardized uniforms, but retained the Army, Navy, Aerospace and Marine force designators that overlapped with most of the source nations’ services. That meant Stevie wore whites while Vango sported sky blue, the uniforms’ only concessions to their original nationality a flag on the left shoulder of each. He’d heard Admiral Absen wanted to get rid of that too, but the Combined Council had overruled him.

Vango wondered how long after the Destroyer was dealt with until Earth’s fractious nations would go back to feuding, and unconsciously shook his head.

“What? You look like someone just ate y’all’s doughnut,” Stevie said.

“Y’all? I thought that word was plural in your dialect.”

“Mah dah-uh-lect? This ain’t a
dah-uh-lect
, Vee, it’s an
ack-say-ent
,” she said, pronouncing these words as if they had three syllables. “Now if I lapsed into Cajun, that would be a
dah-uh-lect
. And don’t start about me talkin’ funny, not with you sounding like some weird District Nine journalist from
Seyth Effrica
.”

“Sorry,” Vango replied, turning away from her vitriol.

“Oh, hey, ain’t nothin’ but a thang,” she replied, changing her speech yet again.

Vango kept his eyes straight ahead as they cruised down a wide two-lane tunnel, passing other electric vehicles on the way, and after a moment Stevie punched his shoulder.

“Come on, Van. I’m just jerkin’ your chain. It’s ’cause I like ya.”

He smiled uncomfortably and glanced her way, then faced front again, unnerved by her strange forward manner. The women he’d grown up with had been smart and kind, but never acted like this, except for a few of the girls in school, whom he’d avoided. One of the reasons he liked flying was its clarity and structure, its checklists, its right and wrong answers.