Setosha - the Beating Heart
Copyright© 2010 by Prince von Vlox
Chapter 18
Setosha City, Setosha
Sir Livan Molophar-Dreiforse strode jauntily across the landing field, aware of gravity’s stronger pull, but happily ignoring it. This was a great day! For years he had culled his most lucrative merchandise from the systems in this nebula. Now the Emperor’s Navy had captured one of the source planets of that merchandise. Finally he could harvest what he needed directly without trusting to the vagaries of the Clans on Boabdil. He had already taken steps to cut back his investment in them. He wasn’t going to modify his price structure just yet. He needed a significant boost in his revenues to see him through the next few months. Expenses were up, and they had to be met. But with some budget discipline his fortune should soon swell out of sight.
Behind him were two of his principal backers, Counts Rastam and Halbitzel. Each brought a wealth of experience in managing recently acquired colonies. Sir Livan had seen their expressions when they had stepped off of his ship. This place was primitive in the worst way. Imperial spaceports were always hectare upon hectare of reinforced vitricrete surrounded by low, heavily reinforced buildings and tiered missile defense batteries. The nearest city was always at least 20 kilometers away so an attacker couldn’t take out the city and the spaceport with one warhead. High-acceleration System Defense Ships were always at hand to defend the port, whether in nearby space, or in heavily shielded underground launch bays.
This spaceport was no more than an open field with a few large circular pads of vitricrete, each with its own small set of support buildings. Narrow paved roads ran from each pad to a miscellany of warehouses along the perimeter. There was no sign of control, no sign of the permanent defenses that were a necessity in this day and age. The Navy had brought in mobile missile batteries to protect the port, but they were still working on the control station necessary to upgrade this travesty to something resembling a modern spaceport.
“Bit heavy here,” Count Halbitzel said sourly. He was attempting to stride like a conqueror but succeeded only in producing a stumping walk that made his jowls and rolls of fat bounce up and down.
Sir Livan looked up at the light blue sky and the clouds. A shuttle dropped out of that pale sky and landed on a distant pad, and it reminded him of his own descent. The shuttle had skipped through the atmosphere in a sickening series of slides and swoops. The pilot had pleaded that high winds in the upper atmosphere had caused the shuttle to bounce around. Sir Livan was unconvinced, but he had not said anything to the man on the off chance that he was right.
“I’m told the gravity here is 11% greater than standard,” Sir Livan said. “This contributes to the strength and durability that makes the merchandise we obtain here so useful.” He flagged down a passing electric cart, and all three men settled gratefully into the cushioned seats. Sir Livan directed the driver toward the control center.
“When do you anticipate completing your first collection?” Count Rastam asked as they approached the building. From a distance, it seemed relatively intact. A few windows had been blown out, and there was an unsightly line of small craters along one wall. Two men were replacing one of the doors, and another man was painting over a large burn mark.
“I’ve had agents on the planet selecting stock since we took the place,” Sir Livan said. “The first group should be available for inspection this morning, which is why I wanted to come down right away.” The cart stopped next to an intact door into the building. The Imperial Inspection Agent inside processed them with commendable speed, almost as quickly as he made Sir Livan’s gratuity disappear. The Agent even called a car for them, organized their luggage, and sent them on their way. Sir Livan nodded to himself. This was Imperial Efficiency at its best.
“I heard a disturbing rumor that there was still fighting going on down here,” Count Rastam said as their car entered the town. Buildings on both sides of the road were heavily damaged, and rubble was only now being swept out of the way. “Any truth to that?”
“Diehards,” Count Halbitzel said at once. “There are always a few. Four years ago, I took charge of the pacification of New Alpine, one of the planets we liberated from the PSK. For more than a year, we chased bandits all over that place. Our task was complicated because the habitable area on New Alpine is rather small. Anything not ocean is mountainous, and that hindered our Strike Teams. It wasn’t until we started wholesale deportations and executions that we finally quieted things down.”
“Bad?” Count Rastam asked.
Count Halbitzel waved his hand casually. “I’ve seen worse, but after we deported about a million or two, the rest caved in. We’ve had to shoot about a hundred thousand more, but nothing worth talking about.” He wheezed a brief laugh. “The glut of deportations was so bad that we ended up spacing most of them rather than dumping them on the bond market. A waste, in a sense, all that potentially useful labor flushed out the airlock. But they were otherwise useless mouths in rebellion against His Majesty, so I suppose it all balances out. Stock like that always breeds back quickly, and in another generation or two, they’ll have replaced the wastage.”
Their hotel was a gray, weathered building on the far side of a green lawn. Flowerbeds were blooming, brightening the day with a splash of reds and yellows. The car dropped them off under a covered portico, but no servants came out to take their luggage. Sir Livan asked about that at the front desk.
“We don’t have enough servants yet,” the manager said. He ran his fingers through his hair. “We only got this place up and warm last week. I barely have enough staff to look after the handful of guests we’ve taken in.”
“Well, we’re here to correct that staffing shortage,” Sir Livan said, smiling.
“Very good, sir,” the man said, smiling back. “Your rooms are in the back. We haven’t finished renovating and decorating the suites in the front. I want to apologize in advance for the condition of the rooms. These people seem to live a peculiarly drab existence. All the rooms were bare and lacked any of the facilities civilized gentlemen such as yourselves require.” He pressed a button, and a man with a handcart arrived to take their luggage.
Sir Livan’s room was indeed simple: a bed, a table, a chair, and a crude ‘fresher. Why, the ‘fresher only had running water. It had none of the civilized amenities such as bath oil or tanning lamps that one expected in even the most modest Imperial dwellings.
Sir Livan shook his head. We have to educate these creatures, he thought. Decency requires that much of us.
An hour later, the two Counts joined him in the lobby for the trip to Sir Livan’s collection station. “I thought the Navy was only going to hold this planet long enough to force a decisive battle,” Count Rastam said as they settled in the car. “At least that’s what my contacts in the Navy tell me.”
“And after the Navy wins their battle, what are they going to do with all of this?” Sir Livan waved grandiosely at the battered town around them, the mountains purple in the distance, and the hectares of unharvested wood just waiting for the touch of the saw. “Blow it up? Give it back? What ridiculous ideas. The bright light of Imperial civilization is here to stay, gentlemen. We’ve brought this place into the light of history; we can’t let it slide back. We owe that to the natives.”
“I agree.” Count Halbitzel nodded, all three chins bouncing. “Tomorrow morning, I am supposed to meet with the Military Governor, General Koeyera. I will advise him regarding the steps we have to take to make this into a true Imperial planet.”
“The first thing is to get the economy up and functioning,” Count Rastam said. “The Emperor has made a tremendous investment in this place, whether we admit it or not, and we need to repay him.” He looked at the buildings around them. “I understand this place is only lightly settled. We could bring in some of the excess population from other planets, especially the ones we’ve just recently liberated. We could take the hotheads and troublemakers from those planets and settle them here.”
“We’ve done that before with excellent results,” Count Halbitzel said. “None of them speak the same language, they all have different customs, and they quickly develop local conflicts requiring the Empire to save them from themselves.”
The car pulled to a stop in front of a white stucco building fronted by a large iron gate. Count Halbitzel looked up and down the street as they got out. “I think you’re right, Rastam,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “There’s no sense in letting this place fall apart.” He kicked at a lump of vitricrete that had been blown out of the street by some sort of weapon. “See what I mean?”
“We are about to observe my first selections from the local populace,” Sir Livan said as they entered the building. “This is just the first of many. My agents sorted through the most immediately accessible merchandise, looking for those who meet the standards of our more discerning buyers.” He nodded at a guard wearing the Dreiforse badge. The guard raised a communicator and called someone inside.
“Sir Livan!” A young man hurried down the hall to greet them. He was dressed in a dark blue suit and wore Sir Livan’s House Colors on his left shoulder. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow at the earliest, sir.”
“I didn’t want to sit on that ship one minute longer,” Sir Livan said in a cheerful voice. “These are Counts Halbitzel and Rastam, close friends of mine. The others will be down tomorrow. Now, where’s the stock?”
Radz appeared most uncomfortable. “We--we’ve had a spot of trouble with them, sir.”
“Trouble?” Somehow Sir Livan’s voice managed to project both curiosity and menace in the same tone. The last thing he needed was to show his principal backers that there was any trouble. They needed a quick return on their investments.
“Well, sir, not exactly trouble, but this harvest isn’t nearly as docile as the others we’ve collected in the past.”
“Only to be expected,” Sir Livan said, relief lifting his spirits. “This is their natural habitat after all. We haven’t had them pre-selected for us. Gems in the rough, as it were.”
“Uh, yes, sir. Very rough, sir.” Radz motioned up a stairway. “This way, Sir Livan, my lords. We’re bringing a shipment in right now.”
“Ah, excellent,” Count Halbitzel said. “We shall see them virtually in their natural state.”
The stairs led to a long balcony overlooking a courtyard. A prefabricated security fence and a gate had been added to close the otherwise open end of a large brick atrium. Four trucks were just pulling into the courtyard. The gate rolled shut, and men wearing Sir Livan’s House Colors began unloading his latest acquisitions. Several armed guards stood watch, guiding the new selections toward a holding facility in the basement.
“Not bad,” Count Rastam said, eyeing the merchandise with approval. “Not bad at all. None of them appear badly damaged, no obvious signs of deformities; I’m sure you will do very well with these, Sir Livan.”
“Thank you, I quite agree,” Sir Livan said, his eyes bright and happy. “I think we’ll--”
What he thought was lost in a strangled shout from the courtyard. One of the new merchandise had disabled a guard and grabbed his laser pistol. Moving quickly, it shot and killed all of his remaining guards. Four others ran to the closed gate, wrenching the entire structure apart by brute force.
The merchandise with the laser pistol set fire to Sir Livan’s trucks, one of which exploded immediately. That merchandise then shot two more guards who had dashed out from a ground-level door. Eager hands snatched up the new weapons. The first-armed merchandise backed slowly toward the broken gate, clearly acting as a rearguard for the others who ran past it into the street. As it reached the gate, the armed merchandise looked up and saw the four men watching from the balcony.
For one fleeting instant, Sir Livan found himself staring at the hate-filled glare of the creature. He jerked back just as it fired the laser pistol, his laser pistol. Something incandescent stung the air above him as he fell to the floor. Flame and energy bolts shredded the wall and railing above him.
He lay there for a terrifying eternity of sparks and fire. He expected a bolt to smash through the stonework and incinerate him. Then he heard the shouts of additional guards below and the angry snarl of their weapons.
He risked a glance over the splintered balcony wall. The last of his merchandise was scattering down the street, out of reach of his men. The one with the laser pistol was lying on the vitreous, one leg hopelessly smashed, the gun still in its hands. His guards hid behind his burning trucks, sniping at it.
It refused a chance to get away, despite the damage to its leg. Sir Livan glimpsed one of the others turning, hesitating as if intending to carry it off. The one with the pistol waved that one after the rest, watched as the street emptied, then smiled a terrifying smile and turned back to face Sir Livan’s guards, aiming and firing repeatedly. Sir Livan flinched as two more of his men went down.
Two more shots struck the merchandise, the second one smashing it against the side of the entrance. It lay there, finally subdued, blood and burned flesh dribbling down the ruin of its chest. Cautiously, Sir Livan’s guards approached, then stood over it, relaxing, holstering their weapons, and shaking their heads.
Sir Livan stood also, surveying the wreckage. Four trucks and at least ten guards lost. That was just what he could see at the moment. He started to turn to his companions when he heard once again the flat crack of a laser pistol. Incredible--somehow that dreadful thing was still alive. It had managed to raise the pistol and fire, catching one more guard full in the chest. It was trying to point the gun at another when several of his guards fired directly into the thing, killing it. Smoke and steam rolled up off the still, scorched body. The odor of burnt meat wafted across the court, raising the bile in his throat.
“What a mess,” Sir Livan muttered, straightening up. Somehow he had cut his hand on the jagged edge of the railing as he had ducked for cover. It stung unmercifully. Now he would have to get that tended to, and get treatment for any foreign germs this damned place had. He wrapped his bloody hand in his now-ruined silk handkerchief. Down below were dead bodies, dead trucks, scarred walls, and 30 prime pieces of merchandise that had vanished. He didn’t know what he lamented more, the damage to the building and trucks, or the loss of his stock. Each would cost time and cash to recover.
“Is it over?” Count Rastam asked from behind him.
Sir Livan turned. Count Rastam had ducked back through the door to the stairs. He was slowly edging back onto the balcony. Count Halbitzel had been slower. A shot had struck him high in the chest, toppling him back onto a potted plant. He sat lifeless on the crushed vegetation, his chest a mixture of burned meat and impossibly red blood, his eyes opened wide in surprise.
“Where’s Radz?” Sir Livan demanded. “He’ll pay for this debacle.”
“I suspect he’s answering to a higher power about now.” Count Rastam gestured at Sir Livan’s feet. Radz, or what was left of him, lay in a pool of rapidly spreading blood. His head was gone, severed from his neck as neatly as if with a knife.
“He deserves worse than that for allowing this to happen,” Sir Livan said. He wanted to kick Radz’s head in spite of it, but didn’t because Count Rastam was watching. “He just cost me far more than he would ever have been worth.”
Count Rastam leaned forward slightly to peer over the balcony and scanned the wreckage in the courtyard. He shuddered delicately and turned away. “Your others, after they’ve been tamed, have been much more tractable.” He turned away, smiling. “Oh, well, it could have been worse. Halbitzel was holding my personal note for 75,000,000 Imperials. That note appears to be canceled.”
“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Sir Livan said. “I shall have the authorities round up my stock. If they move quickly enough, we’ll be able to salvage some return from this.”
Their trip back to the hotel was uneventful, save for a most unsatisfactory driver. The man arrived late, then utterly ignored Sir Livan’s directions, driving across half the spaceport rather than directly through the town. Even then, his head never stopped swiveling, as if he expected some apparition to rise up out of the grass and strike them dead.
Sir Livan made note of the man’s cowardice. His actions were a disgrace to the uniform he wore. Surely the Army’s hold on this filthy place was not that tenuous.
Once in his room, Sir Livan contacted the military authorities. When he finally reached a person of enough authority to be useful, that person was no help at all. Sir Livan had hardly begun to describe his needs when a siren shrilled at the other end of the connection, and for several seconds, no one was listening to him. Then the entire character of their conversation abruptly changed for the worse.
“Get off this line,” the man snapped.
“There were 30 prime specimens!” Clearly, the ignorant buffoon didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. “At least 120,000 Imperials worth. Must I offer a reward?”
“Tell Internal Security,” the man replied coldly. “If I remember correctly, I’ll warn them myself. Thirty of those bitches with hand weapons loose in town are enough to cause all sorts of trouble. Did I hear you say they have laser pistols and power guns? Somebody will fry for that stupidity.”
“But I own this merchandise,” Sir Livan repeated. “I want them returned alive and undamaged.”
The man laughed harshly, once. “Listen, idiot. Hear that siren? We have a lot more serious problems than you losing 30 vicious little toys you want to sell to your pandering buddies. The Bitches just opened fire on the fleet and are smashing ships left and right. For all I know, the next call I pick up will be from one of their damned Marines. You better pray that doesn’t happen, Sir Livan, because I can’t think of anybody on this worthless ball of dirt that the Bitch Marines would want to talk to more than you.”
“But as soon as this minor crisis is over, you’ll get troops out to round up my merchandise,” Sir Livan insisted.
The man said something wholly inappropriate to one of Sir Livan’s ranks and disconnected the line. Sir Livan rang again and again, finally ending up with a low-level flunky who was obviously just there to answer the comm and do no more. “I’m sorry, Sir Livan,” the man said. “The Strike Leader has no time for you.”
“But my merchandise--”
“With all due respect, sir, there are more important things going on than rounding up your merchandise. The Bitches have attacked the fleet and destroyed a number of ships. Everything’s a mess right now.”
“Can’t you do something?” Sir Livan asked. “Can’t you spare even a handful of troops? If you can, I’ll go round them up myself.”
“That I’d like to see,” the man said with a wholly inappropriate laugh. “No, sir, we don’t have the troops to spare.”
“But there are 3,000 crack troops on the Princess Imperial. You could bring them down right away and--”
“The Princess Imperial is gone, nothing but dust and gas,” the man interrupted. “Now get off this line. Get out of our way and stay under cover, or you’ll be gas, too.”
Arthene DeGraff checked the power leads one last time. Liquid nitrogen cooled silver bus bars as thick as her arm linked the generator to her life’s work. Affectionately, she patted the damp side of the unit, leaving a handprint in the moisture condensing on its frigid casing. One time, it just had to work one time, that was all she asked. She had designed it to be used this once and then shut down for analysis and rebuild before firing it again. There would be no rebuild now. She wasn’t going to have the luxury of a year or two of analysis to get it right. All it had to do was work this one time.
She paused, studying her hand curiously. The skin was almost translucent. She could see the outline of her bones clearly now, and her veins. Was she imagining she saw the blood pulsing through them? It was fascinating to watch, and if she had more time, she would like to study it.
Time. That was her enemy for now, but just for now. If she had enough time ... She sighed. If she had enough energy, let alone time ... Energy was her other enemy, but fortunately, she only had to hold on a little longer. After this morning, after today, if things went as she expected, time wouldn’t matter.
She leaned against the unit, resting for a moment, gathering her strength for the next step. She was nearly done, both professionally and physically.
She thought she had about an hour, plus or minus a bit. Maybe, with luck, she would have more. It used to be she had all the time in the world, all the time to get those beautiful equations just right. Now all she needed was just one hour. She smiled wryly at that vague measurement. Her entire career had been dedicated to precise calibration and meticulous analysis. It was ironic that she would never know the final measurement of her ultimate achievement, but that was the way it went.
“
“I’m so tired,” she thought. “Only a little longer, sis, just a little longer. Be patient and I’ll be with you. I’m sorry I’m running late, but I’m tired and you know I’ve never been punctual.”
She inhaled slowly, carefully. Her lungs felt soggy and hurt most of the time now, probably from a burst vein or some other blockage. Maybe it was pneumonia. An x-ray of her chest would tell her. She laughed, and immediately regretted it. X-rays? She had something a lot more powerful than x-rays here, but they weren’t for her.
She felt the chill of the cold metal casing bite through her jacket and welcomed the discomfort. If she was cold, she was still alive, and if she was still alive, she still had one last statement to make.
“Have you got everything?” She knew she had asked her niece that same question before, probably only minutes ago. “Bless the girl’s patience.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said quietly. Tarra held out her sketchpad. “Check my work, please, Aunt Arthene.”
Arthene carefully relaxed her knees and slid down to sit on the mounting pedestal, steadying the sketchpad on her spindly legs. She willed her fingers to stop trembling, and they ignored her, but she was able to turn the pages without tearing or smudging them. Her eyes devoured the notes, studying every diagram, reading every note, confirming every sketch against the reality that filled the lab around her. No. Not a lab, not any more. It was a gun mount as soon as the power went on. After that, all she needed was a target. She shouldn’t have any trouble finding one; she had an entire sky full of Imperial ships right above her.
The final pages listed components, tolerances, and the equations her successor would need to refine this weapon. She tried to picture who that could be, but gave up. It would be good if it was Artonia. Artonia could follow this. She couldn’t think of anyone else back at R&D. She prayed that it would be Artonia, but she couldn’t be sure. But just in case it was, she turned the page and added what she hoped were enough notes and equations to show her where she needed to go with this.
Twice she had to stop and wipe away the thread of blood that followed her hand. She almost didn’t recognize the spidery writing as she appended the last few notations on the last equation. There, she thought as she finished. She had written her last equation, and she knew it.
Fatigue, her constant companion in these last few days, nagged at the shreds of her consciousness. She hoped these notes were enough. They had to be; there was no more time for corrections. Robbie Sinclair had the test models and the numbers from the last test run before the invasion. She had people who could read her lab journals and see what had been done, especially Artonia Hardesty. Arthene would love to see what Artonia could do with this. Too bad she wouldn’t, but no matter. In an hour, Robbie and Artonia would have a live demonstration that would confirm all of her calculations ... or not. Time would tell.
Arthene nodded, satisfied. “That’s everything. You have it all. Good work.” She handed the pad back to her niece. “Now go. Get away from here. See that these get to Robbie Sinclair. She has to get them, and nobody else. Hand them to her in person if you can.” Any of her students could duplicate this work, especially Artonia, that is, if any of them were still alive. But Robbie Sinclair had to get them first.
Tarra nodded, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. Impulsively, she darted forward and kissed Arthene on the cheek. “Good luck, Aunt Arthene,” she whispered. And then she was gone, her quick little feet running down the path to the exit tunnel. Arthene closed her eyes a moment, only a moment, and awoke when she heard the sounds of the horse’s steel-shod hooves clattering away.
“Almost time, Patty. Soon, Franci,” she whispered. “Just a few more minutes, and I’ll be there. You know how I always run late.”
She levered herself upright. The weakness flooded her again. Her stomach knotted. She bent over, losing her last lunch. Not that there was much to lose, she thought, studying the mess abstractly. Hmm, and there was blood this time. Not much time left either way. She couldn’t let the radiation sickness take her first; she had other plans.
The wrenching spasms had left her shaking. She ignored the weakness and forced herself to straighten and walk slowly around the unit. She carefully placed one foot in front of the other, her hand touching the unit to give her balance. She checked every setting, every connection, every lead one last time.
In theory, it was simply an extremely powerful energy weapon. But it started with a continuous antimatter reaction, which gave her several dozen orders of magnitude more energy to play with, far more than any mere photonic laser. At the same time, she fired the MAM reaction, she enclosed it all in a tightly focused rotating gravitational field, which allowed her to concentrate and direct that energy much more efficiently.
The trick had been to shape the gravitational shear of the rotating field. That was almost six years of calculations, failures, new calculations, and, finally, success. It gave her the control she needed for this weapon to be a gun instead of a bomb. She used the gravitational field for the body of the lasing cavity. This meant that instead of just high-energy x-rays or even cosmic rays with a 5% conversion in the energy transfer, she was able to convert matter to energy and fire a collimated subatomic particle beam with nearly 85% of the energy converted to the weapon.
Her one proof-of-concept field test had been more than two years ago on Home. She had slagged her first test model, but at the same time, she had blown a hole clear through a mountain. Her heart had almost stopped then and there as she had stared, delighted, at her target. That had been a unit having only 0.1% of the power she would put through this one.
The new Marine officer overseeing the research at the lab, Robbie Sinclair, had studied that hole and listened to the report of the test. Then she had suggested Arthene continue her testing someplace where she had more room, Setosha, for instance, coincidentally where her siblings and family lived.
Thank you, Robbie, Arthene thought. Thank you for those precious few months with them. You’ll never know how much that helps me now. Then, instead of the banishment she had initially believed this move was, instead of the humiliating rejection of her ideas she had feared, she discovered that damned wonderful Marine had arranged full funding for a high-energy lab and installation of all new test equipment on Setosha. She had even arranged for the new unit to be dug into solid granite 50 kilometers from the nearest town. There, in the barren rocks at the southern end of the main continent, she had had everything she needed to develop and test the weapon prototype, everything except time.
She thought she had solved every development problem, but then the damned Empire had bombed her office with all her papers and documentation on the first day of their stupid invasion. Arthene had been on her way home after making adjustments to the test unit. She could still see the bright flash from the nuclear warhead that had gutted the town of Diamond Cove just a few kilometers ahead of her.
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