Chuck's Writing Corner

Chapter 1

The Ilania

    Cameron Preston stood at the cruise liner Ilania’s lounge observation port admiring the majestic procession of passing stars. At ultra-light velocity the stars seemed to stream by and though this was the third day of his trip, he still had several days more to go aboard the Ilania, because the galaxy is still a big place, and he was crossing much of it. He stood somewhat above average height for an occupant of what was termed a normal gravity world and though there exists a restriction to the variations in gravity a human system can adapt to; he was a head taller than those from high gravity worlds and about the same shorter than those from “low g” environments.  His typically Aronian clothes in cobalt blue trimmed in metallic silver were designed to highlight his athletic frame, the colors accentuated his outdoorsman’s complexion and pale blue eyes, described by those who encountered him as intense and would make one held in his gaze feel themselves the singular focus of his attention.  Both men and women found him to be charming and easy company, those well acquainted with him knew him to be a strong-willed calculating risk taker.  Even by the standards of prosperous Aronia, Cameron was the son of extreme wealth, Preston’s Traders was the family business, the cost of this trip equaled years of the typical Aronian’s income.  It would be difficult to overestimate the Preston wealth and its power and reach, they had some near equals throughout the systems and possibly no superiors.  If Cameron had a place in society, he seemed unaware of it, he was as comfortable among laborers as those near his economic status.  This was the reason for Cameron’s voyage.

   His father had been firm and unrelenting when Cameron objected that the timing would put him away for the Aronian Racing Yacht Tourney, “Son, you’re going.  It is time you took a hand in truly important matters and this trip to the Portlandia Concordia is just that.  We have been unable to penetrate their markets and we need to know how to do that.  This involves becoming familiar with the society and markets of one of the most powerful systems wide unions, there is, and finding what we need to do.  No one in the company has the youth or, in the end, the influence to do it. Youth is essential because it will enable you to absorb their culture, rather than study it.  It will also do you some good.  You leave in two days, so make your arrangements.

   Cameron bit back the impulse to make replacement suggestions, while he wasn’t so sure about the youth part of it, no one other than his parents would have as much standing in any negotiations.  He made his way to his suite of rooms and reluctantly canceled his tourney registration.

   Ultra-light yacht racing was one of his passions, unlike traveling in the liner, yacht racing was physically demanding and mentally challenging. The saving element of ultra-light travel was that it created a shockwave before the vehicle, which pushed smaller objects away and the ship away from large ones.  In larger ships, like the liner or military craft, gravitational generators damped the sensation of veers and jerks down to sways.  While ultra-light, UL, severely bent the laws of ordinary physics, some matters remained, mass was king of those.  The mass of UL fuel was small, its containment was not, containment was the largest mass percentage of any ship, all elements of maneuverability were reduced by mass. Racing yachts were little more than containment, engines, and a skin with someplace for the pilot to sit strapped in.  All control was manual and there was no dampening, the beating could kill someone with health issues and was guaranteed to leave marks on and exhaust even the most fit pilots.  Nothing in space could match the little boats for speed and maneuverability, even military fighter crafts could not, but weaponry made that unimportant.

   The next contact Cameron made was with his trainer.  Milton Zermak held systems wide championships in a couple disciplines, swordsmanship and marksman were two.  Aronian society valued physical prowess, almost every Aronian was at least passable at some athletic endeavor and many excelled.  Societies inclined toward the scientific, technical, or artistic pursuits looked down on Aronians as “jocks,” a mistake.  “Milt, I’m being sent on a trip for Stars know how long, the race is out, training with you, as well, and…I need to get some of this out of my system, if you have time today.”

   Milton’s commiseration with Cameron’s disappointments was a bit caustic, “Well, son, I guess that’s the cost of you being able to afford my services on a constant basis and all the toys involved and…oh yeah, that boat of yours.”

   “Fine, kick me while I’m down, that’ll be just one more thing…”

   “See you at two, bring your sword, pistol, and boots.”

   The Preston complex was a huge space occupied by the mansion, offices, sports complexes, gardens, and wildlands, Milton’s was also large but with a simple two-bedroom house, a studio, and sprawling courses for multiple martial endeavors.  Cameron set his sword and pistol cases down and knocked.  A nod to civility only, Milton had been notified when he set foot on the property, every step of the way, and his presence at the door.  Milton opened the door smiling, “Ah, my favorite disciple arrives.  And no, that’s not because you’re the best paying one, though it doesn’t hurt, any.”  They moved to the studio and while Cameron did stretches to loosen up Milton checked that the weapons were fully charged and set the room up.  “Let’s start with your exercises first, go to en-garde and continue.”

  The power sword was much like the ancient short sword both in looks and heft, but there the similarities ended.  The blade and point edges were incredibly sharp, a tissue dropped onto it would slice cleanly from its own weight and the alloy would hold that edge through chopping down several large trees.  The alloy was quite light, the heft came from the power cell and plasma generators spread from hilt to point, achieving a fine balance and placing a line of plasma along the edges, the intensity controlled at the grip, along with a guard setting which blunted the edges and could apply shock for use in sparring and competitions.  Unpowered the sword was a lethal weapon and at full power it would cleave most combat armor with a heavy strike or thrust and probably halve an opponent.  A power sword was the most formidable melee weapon in the galaxy, but the level of training required was sufficient to dissuade most militaries from equipping it.  Power sword fighting was a cross between straight up sword fighting and fencing, the exercises Cameron did were a combination of attacks and defense resulting in an intricate dance with an imaginary opponent, he, and the sword in constant motion.

   “Get your competition armor out of your locker and we’ll suit up for some sparring,” Milton said.  Competition armor was sufficient to blunt the impact of a full swing strike to a mild bruise and passed a shock from the guarded edge to the wearer, in competition it registered the theoretical damage to competition scanners scoring hits.  A “lethal” strike ended a match with others accumulating as scoring to an end when sufficient points were scored to disable a combatant.  On planets with enthusiasm for swords, competitions of all levels were frequent, but the highest level was Championship where the best of the best competed.  The elite came from many sectors away to participate in Championships and the title Champion was held in high regard on any planet that cared about sword fighting.  The cost of competing was astronomical, it took the best equipment and extensive travel, so most were sponsored by armories or other organizations.  The Preston wealth removed that necessity for Cameron.

   They saluted, swords held vertical before them and bowed, went to en garde and at Milton’s nod, engaged.   The swords flashed in the light, crashing, and grinding in blocks and deflections, both men in constant motion, seeking advantage.  Milton was one of the finest swordsmen and a worthy opponent, after ten minutes of no scores he grounded his sword and snapped at Cameron, “Quit playing around, score, blast you,” he went back to en garde and they re-engaged.  After a short flurry Cameron stung him in the shoulder, deflected the parry and thrust to the chest, scoring a fatal hit.  “That’s more like it, Cam.  We both know you can beat me easily, but you can’t play at it.”

   Cameron shrugged, “I know Milt, but I get no good out of it if I don’t spend time at it.  I wasn’t playing around; I was working on defense.”

   “Hah,” Milton laughed, “I know what you were doing, I just wanted to goad you, a bit.  You’re as sharp as ever, so let’s head to the pistol range, sword and pistol.”

   Cameron’s ranged weapons were civilian variants of military issue, keyed to his biometric signature and heavily customized.  Without his hand on the grip, they were no more than badly designed clubs.  As with his sword, money could not buy better equipment, detailed scans of his body and hands resulted in weapons specifically fitted to him.  For the next twenty minutes Cameron ran, ducked, slid, and fired as AI driven mannequins fired shock rounds at him and his low powered fire did no damage, beyond registering hits on his attackers.

   “Well, aren’t you quite the killer, today,” Milton laughed, “And they only winged you a couple times, not bad against elite commando setting.”

   Cameron smiled at the praise, he was drenched in sweat, breathing heavily, and filthy.  He was pretty sure several places on his body were going to show marks from various impacts with the surroundings.  “I’m going to miss this.  Oh, and you, also.”

  “Hit the shower and get your spare clothes out of the locker.  You’ve had enough for today and I have places to be, like five minutes ago. Call me when you get back.”

    Aboard the liner his pistol and rifle were locked in the armory, nobody wants to risk an accidental discharge in a spaceship. His sword was in his cabin, locked in its case.  Some Aronians went about their daily lives armed, Cameron did not.  Milton had entered him into several ranged combat Championship matches against high level competitors, he had won some, but the sword was his love and wearing a sword and scabbard would make for a rather ostentatious display.  During his out-country expeditions, he did go armed, pistol, rifle, and sword, for while humanity had found no sign of sentient alien beings, the wildlife was well adapted to whatever role it filled in the eco-system.   Aronian predators were noted for their ferocity and relentlessness.

   Cameron’s reverie at the observation port was broken by a “Hello,” in a lovely feminine voice.  He turned and found himself gazing down into the most beautiful deep green eyes he’d ever seen.  They were framed by a lightly freckled face with fine features and full lips topped by curly red auburn hair.  Her stature and frame hinted at a high G environment though she was very nicely proportioned, something her clothing made no attempt to emphasize.  He was struck by an unfamiliar sensation, his chest and throat tightened, and his concentration scattered.  His social instincts kicked in and he bowed and stuck out his hand saying, “I…um…hello.  I’m Cameron Preston.”

   Her voice had a lilt and a hint of laughter in it as she replied, “Aye, of course you are, everyone knows who you are, progeny of the Scion of House Preston.  I’m Deja of House Thorin.”

   “A pleasure, m’lady,” he managed.

   “Oh please, no honorifics, I’m just Deja, Thorin is my clan which is referred to as House.”

   “I see,” he said mulling the complexities of societal term differences, “On Aronia, House is an honorific bestowed only on families of great regard…” he tailed off uneasily.

   “And well applied in your case,” she smiled, “I, however, am only the daughter of a middling diplomat on Portlandia, sent to join her parents.  My clan is well thought of but known for nothing of particular note, for quite a long while.”

   He felt his ease in conversation slipping completely away from him, “Still, it is an honor to make your acquaintance…um, I meant to say…well, really, I have no idea what I mean to say, and that’s quite extraordinary…”

   “You must know that you have quite the reputation among the passengers and especially the crew as a real charmer, so I thought to meself ‘I really must meet this fellow and see what the fuss is all about.’ “

   He felt even less at ease now, as though he’d been caught out in some gaffe, “I had no idea, I suppose I’m flattered but really I just like people, in general, and I‘m comfortable with them…except, maybe, right now…I’m sorry, I’m afraid you’ve had quite an effect on me, and I must be a real disappointment to you.”

   Her voice was soft as she replied, “You see, there it is.  You have no idea how different you are from all the rest of us.’

   He frowned, “Oh now, sure I can afford toys and to do things and go places others could never manage, but that’s just stuff.”

   “It’s not about the stuff,” she replied, “As soon as I saw your name on the manifest, I knew who you were.  You defeated my cousin John in the finals for the Championship on Pragia and he’s considered the best swordsman on Erie and several other planets.  What is different is that you, sir, are one of the most powerful men in the galaxy.”

   “Oh now,” he said, “Certainly my father is but I’m just the son.”

   “Yes, you are and it’s not a ‘just’.  If my father wanted to meet with the Regent of Portlandia he would have to write letters to various functionaries explaining the Whys and Wherefores and then wait a week for his appointment.  You could just walk up and knock on the door of his house.”

   “Well, I’d have to knock on the Engine Master’s door to see him…”

   “Sure, and he’d see you because he likes you not because he has to, unlike the Regent.  He and the Steward both told me I’d be glad if I’d meet you.”

   He gazed into her eyes, finally sure of a response, “And are you?”

   Her blush started at her throat and climbed to her cheeks highlighting her round cheekbones.  Cameron was sure It was the most charming sight he’d ever seen.

   “Well…yes, I am.  You really are, well, something…”

   He smiled, suddenly at ease, “And I’m really happy that we’ve met, and that you’re glad of it.”

   It seemed to them both as if they’d made a confession of some hidden thing.  Her blush receded and they were more at ease with each other.

   “When John came back from Pragia he was disappointed to not have won, but he said you were the most generous victor he’d ever met and that if he’d had to lose, he was proud it was to you.  I didn’t really understand that at the time, now I believe I do.  John is one of the most competitive men I know, he lives to win and that just didn’t match his character.”

   Cameron’s memory of that fight was crystalline, the man was a master of the blade.  They’d fought for nearly an hour before the tiring John Thorin had made a minor miscalculation and Cameron had driven home a kill score point.  To survive that long had taken every technique and trick he knew, and almost all of his strength and endurance.  He had known full well that he hadn’t been long from making a mistake of his own.  They’d shared drinks at the arena bar where Cameron told him that while he was grateful for the victory, what he was most grateful for was the education in sword handling that John had given him.  As they parted, he told him that if he ever needed help with anything he should let him know because Cameron owed him a large debt.

   “Your cousin is the best swordsman I’ve ever met, and I train with a Champion.  I hope he is well, I am a better swordsman for having fought him, so I do wish him the best.”

   She smiled, “The Engine Master told me you’d talked drives and other things for some time and that you told him some tuning tricks he didn‘t know.  He was really grateful for that.”

   Cameron sighed, “Some people call that slumming as though I was some kind of tourist into the lower classes.  It’s irritating.  Those people are an important part of our world, my world, and they deserve to be known and given consideration by people like me.  If he gains ground by knowing those tricks, then I am well paid for my time.”

   She regarded him intently, “Figuring out how your mind works could take…” her eyes flicked from his to the port, “what’s that light out there?”

   Cameron wheeled around to the view port and saw immediately what she meant, “That’s a ship drive.  See the flickers?  They’re trying to parallel us so our shock waves don’t drive them away.  I don’t like this at all, they’ve no business trying to get close.  Come with me.  Now!” the last was a barked command as he spun from the port and began to jog out of the lounge toward his cabin.

   In the cabin he dropped to his knees and thumbed his sword case lock, with a whir and a click it swung open.  He threw the scabbard strap over his shoulder and clipped it to a loop on his pants just below his waist.  Standing, he slid the sword home and was rewarded with a beep, now the sword could not be removed without his hand on the grip.

   “What are you doing?” Deja asked, her tone full of concern.

   “Being ready for anything,” he murmured.  A dull thud sounded through the cabin walls, “Well, that answers that question, they’re trying to board us.  We need to get to the armory.  It’s the first place they’ll go, the weapons and safe deposits are in there.  You want to come with me?”

   Her, “Oh yes,” was barely more than a whisper.

   Now they could hear a growling thrum, “They’re cutting the airlock, we haven’t much time.”

   They sprinted down the corridor toward the armory door, Cameron drawing his sword, thumbing full power should he need to cut through the door.  To his surprise the door was slightly ajar, he took a lunging step to the door, kicked it open, and somersaulted into the room and onto his feet.  He caught the motion of a pistol coming up, held by an armored figure.  He whipped an over hand at that shoulder, the blade sliced neatly through exiting at the armpit.  The smoking arm fell to the deck still holding the pistol.  Cameron rolled his arm; his wrist turned the point toward the chest and drove the blade through and withdrew it.  The man was dead where he stood, heart and lungs pierced by a two-inch blade, but blood in the brain still held oxygen and the man began to turn toward the severed arm rasping, “What the…” when Cameron removed his head.  The nerve impulses managed a second step before the body crashed trailing smoke to the floor between the arm and the helmeted head.  Sheathing the sword Cameron stepped to the helmet and pried up the face plate.  He recognized one of the servers.  Her eyes wide Deja whispered, “How’d you know?”

   “It figured they’d have an inside man, firstly, and secondly no one with business to be in here has had time to get here.”  He turned to the arm, pulled open the gloved hand and examined the pistol. “Thirdly, no one on this ship would have armor.”  It was a military model without biometric sensors, fully charged, “Know how to use this?”

  She nodded, shakily, eyes still wide.  He placed the gun in her hand and murmured, “It’s ready to go, safety on,” He squeezed her free hand softly.  Her eyes drifted from his to the headless body and snapped back to his.

   “I’m sorry,”  her voice soft, “It’s just, it’s just, I’ve never seen…”

   “I know,” he said just as softly, “neither have I, except some predators and that’s a different thing, altogether.  It’ll be OK, we’ll just do this.”

   Her voice a bit stronger she said, “I’m a good shot, but only ever at targets.”

   “OK, good.  Anything in armor is a target, that’s all it is, center mass, fire.  Don’t think, just fire.  The only mistake you can make is to not act.  Don’t get wild, this thing is on full power, and it must be for the plasma bolt to deal with armor, it will also deal with the ship so hitting what you mean to is important.”

   “Got it,” and for the first time he heard an edge to her voice that told him Deja of House Thorin meant to be ready for anything.  He moved quickly to retrieve his pistol and rifle and charging units which he clipped to the back of the holster belt.  With a gun on his hip, rifle over his shoulder, and sword on the other hip he momentarily felt over-dressed.  The rifle was useless shipboard but discarding weaponry in the face of the unknown wasn’t smart.

   The weight of the plasma pistol in her hand was comforting as was the presence of Cameron.  She knew nothing of violence, except stories set far away and long ago.  His Aronian suit was designed to accentuate and compliment a physique, but the power, speed, and grace culminating in the shocking slaughter in the armory astonished her.  His calm competence and regard had soothed her fear and touched an unfamiliar chord deep within her.  She would be worthy of her role as his companion in this venture.

   They could hear screaming, shouts, curses, running feet and the thuds of armored boots.  He peeked around the doorway at chaos.  Passengers fleeing to their cabins and beyond them armored figures.  “There’s a lot of them,” he breathed.  He motioned to a narrow side corridor across the main and they darted into it.  They came to a cross corridor, ahead was the crew lavatory, left to cargo, primarily luggage and engine room, right to the kitchen which opened into the lounge.  He did a quick mental calculation, rather than the small party he’d initially expected, he faced a full-blown raiding party, too many to try guerilla tactics on in these confined quarters, so cargo and engine room were a rat-trap.  A plan change was called for, if there were this many here there must be fewer on their ship.  The lounge let out almost at the airlock, “Time to hijack a ship,” he thought as he stepped into the corridor.  He and the striding pirate saw each other at the same time, glowing swords drawn, they met.  The marauder quick-stepped into a thrust at Cameron’s waist, he deflected it to the side, spinning with the motion into a sweep at the thigh, partially blocked but piercing the armor as his blow’s power drove the block back.  Cameron rolled the smoke trailing sword back and up and over in a quartering overhand, his back, arm, and wrist into the strike taking the tipping man at the base of the neck, cleaving him to the opposing waist.  The smoking halves fell to the deck with a clattering crash as armor parts scattered.  They proceeded with Deja giving the body only enough notice to step over it.    

   As they approached the airlock, he was pleasantly surprised to not encounter any more raiders, he could hear pounding and shouting from the fore cabin door, probably most of the crew, stragglers would have been aft so the whole raiding party had moved to the armory and other aft sections.  As he moved through the open Ilania inner lock an idea formed.  On a liner all doors were airtight so he could create some serious havoc with that lock.  He thrust the sword at full power through the lock control of the open hatch, which resulted in a satisfying shower of sparks and smoke inside and out.

   As they crept into the magway connecting the two ships and holding the cutter he saw as expected the open outer airlock and more importantly the open inner lock.  He found the guard lounging against the inner hull wall, arms crossed.  A sword thrust to the neck dispatched him and the body fell with an armored crash.  He winced at the sound and hovered over the body listening.  Nothing.

  He dragged the guard into the magway, inspected the holstered pistol, same as the server’s, he took it back in with him.  He motioned to Deja with it, exasperated she held up her armed hand.  He rolled his eyes, took her by the bicep, turned her and shoved it down the back of her waistband.  She huffed but left it be.  He opened the airlock control panel, closed the inner and outer locks, and threw the magway disconnect. 

   Through the lock viewscreen he saw the plume of condensing air rushing out of the Ilania’s injured hull.  He knew that onboard alarms were howling, doors slamming shut and locking and life support vents in any evacuating areas clamping closed.  It was going to be a few moments of hell for anyone caught on the wrong side of a door.  He hoped all innocents were safe but regardless he couldn’t leave control of the Ilania in raider hands.

   They moved cautiously toward the cockpit, checking rooms as they passed, all empty.  They reached the cockpit door, he drew his pistol, checked the setting was mid-power and eased the door open.  The pilot heard the sound and turned his head, seeing Cameron he leapt to his feet clawing madly for his sidearm.  Cameron’s shot was perfect, right at the bridge of the pilot’s nose with the round barely exiting.  The result of the plasma instantly boiling fluids in the brain case was a horrifying explosion spraying the cockpit and him with bits and shreds.  Worse was the stray nerve impulse that closed the dead pilot’s trigger finger with the round blowing a gaping hole through a screen in a forward console.  The ship swayed and Cameron’s hand went to his forehead and rubbed it, “And here everything was going so well…we have a ship to clear before we worry about the damage. Be very careful, by now anyone left may be figuring out that something’s amiss.”

   Weapons drawn they moved slowly, checking every door, corridor and even access hatches.  As they approached the engine room door he bent to Deja’s ear and whispered, “With the pilot still aboard it only makes sense that they’d leave someone to mind the engines.”  Crouching he moved almost silently to the bank of floor to overhead engine monitors, controls, and power housings with walkways on each side. He pointed to Deja and then to the center of the end of the housing.  She nodded understanding.  With pistol pointed up he began to creep down the right side.  Halfway down he heard movement to his left.  Unable to see anything in that direction he shouted, “Deja!” hoping to not only alert her but to draw attention to himself.  It didn’t work that way, as he heard a sudden rush of movement away from him.  As he spun and sprinted back, he heard the loud snap of a gun and a sodden explosion.

   At Cameron’s shout Deja rose from her crouch and side stepped into the walk, pistol already pointing.  The engine tender had his pistol drawn and pointed down, when Deja cleared the housing, he swung it up as Deja fired.  The shot took him at the base of the sternum, the torso is the largest and most fluid filled cavity in the body and with those fluids reaching boiling almost instantly the explosion was devastating.  At that short range Deja was knocked back and showered in its debris.

   “Agh! For love of Erie,” she wailed.  Cameron almost laughed with relief to find her still standing but choked it back seeing the look on her face and the splatter of crimson and other even less attractive results decorating her clothes and face.  Instead, he threw his arms around her and pulling her close murmured, “Oh my girl,” in her ear.  She squeezed him back and then snorted, “Don’t you be getting any ideas.  I am NOT in the mood.”

   They both began to laugh as over stressed nerves sought release.  He stepped back and stroked her cheek, “Deja of House Thorin, m’lady, you are the most amazing woman.  Well, we already know this tub has showers and a laundry.  I could even offer to help you with some of that mess.”

   She grinned, “While we float along rudderless at UL that’s your first thought? I knew you’d be incorrigible when I first laid eyes on you, all tall, handsome with those dangerous eyes.”

   “And yet here I find you following me around…”  

   “Like you left me with a lot of alternatives…” given her cultural reserve she found herself saying, “No, I do believe I can handle it myself,” and disconcerted that it took effort to say it.

   They dried and threw their clothes into the cleaning system and in a minute had fresh clean clothes.  “I suppose we’d best see to the cockpit, I’m not too hopeful.”  It wasn’t good but easily could have been much worse.