Earth Song: Etude to War Page 11

  It had been at least a year since Ataalan had seen a supervisor, and that was fine with him. He wasn’t even sure who his supervisor was currently, and it didn’t really matter. As a survey monitor, his duties only required that he scan data before approving it for archiving. The computers had more discretion in decision making than he did, and that was also fine with him.

  Two months ago, three of his nest-mates had been working on an Hgog contract, something to do with their energy harvesting station in a distant corner of the galaxy. Something went wrong and they’d been killed. The energy backlash had incinerated their bodies instantly. Boring was good.

  The only downside of Ataalan's job was the unpredictable nature of the workload. If he had the same amount of data to review every day, he knew he could settle into a routine and happily do it for the rest of his boring life. They'd find his desiccated, bored, smiling corpse sitting in front of the same computer terminal fifty or so years from now, only getting curious about him when his queue was full of uncompleted tasks,

  It was because of that unpredictable nature that his assignment load was behind, and he was annoyed. He'd been in one of those comfortable periods for a month when the data load was light, and the days blurred one into another. Then, suddenly, there was more data than he could handle in a day and he was struggling.

  Then he got an email from a supervisor. His work was becoming unsatisfactory. Ataalan had stared at the email in a mixture of amazed consternation. He did have a supervisor, and it was unhappy. One of his life goals, to do his job without being noticed, was failing. Ataalan realized his job might be in danger. And since he was nearly supporting his entire nest back on Coorson single handed, extreme measures were called for. He starting working harder.

  Another week passed but still he was behind, so he began coming in early, then staying late. He even ate his meager lunches in his cubicle. And it was that last step that finally began to produce results.

  What he didn't know was the intelligent automation that ran the operation had noted his increased efficiency, and began routing the highest priority data through Ataalan's queue. And so it was that he gained the attention of something he would dearly wish hadn't noticed him.

  He was just finishing his lunch, One arm was feeding food into his mouth, the three sets of jaws chewing the savory pieces of meat and vegetables, while the other three arms manipulated the computer interface. He understood the basics of the data he reviewed. They were high resolution, multiple spectrum, scans of planets in far-flung star systems across the galaxy.

  Each data packet contained specific coding elements. An identification string, a coordinate string, and a record identifier that would tell anyone who had processed the final review. The reviews took him between ten minutes, to hours, depending on what sort of review it was.

  As he did any number of times every day, a new data packet loaded into his computer while he finished the last of his lunch. He noted the high priority tag and referenced the coordinate string, calling up from records the baseline data. One arm packed away his food carrier by touch as his eyes scanned the data. Immediately he noted something unusual.

  The recorded baseline data included previous scans. This location was reviewed every hundred standard years, but this was the first time an operator such as himself had been sent the live data going back five scans. That was unusual. But as he examined the new data against the last reviewed scan, it became hugely unusual. So much so that he just sat there for a minute and stared.

  Traaga weren't a curious species. It was a trait that made them such highly sought-after laborers. Want a job done in questionable territory, with questionable outcome, of a questionable legality? Hire the Traaga. Beyond the price and particulars of the contract, it can be a relative certainty that they will not ask a single question or look beyond the basic requirements of their duties.

  But now Ataalan was presented with a serious conundrum for a Traaga. The file was flagged for review every century, and the differences between the last review (five centuries ago) and this one were profound. He felt the stirrings of curiosity, and despite his better judgment he followed that curiosity and called up all five of the most recent surveys.

  There was the evidence. This world had been uninhabited five centuries ago, and then over the intervening time massive settlements had begun taking shape, really exploding in the last century. The analysis subroutine placed the estimates now between ten and fifty million beings living on the world.

  The computer had tagged the file as 'Within Normal Parameters, File.” It was evident to any being that this was not the case. How could the super powerful sorting program make such an error? It was true that double checking the program was his job, but it was a normally satisfyingly boring job. The usual errors were the computer classifying an asteroid impact crater as new habitation, or a flooded river valley could be misinterpreted as an industrial complex. Compared to those oversights, this was nothing short of cybernetic insanity.

  He swept over the world and in just a half hour cataloged eleven major cities, two hundred smaller settlements, six industrial centers, and at least two land reclamation projects involving dams and levees.

  Ataalan never once wondered where the fabulous data he analyzed every day came from. Why would he? It was just a tool of his job. Does a soldier wonder at the source of his weapons? Or a physician at where the sterile dressings come from? Almost any other species would have long become suspicious after reviewing scan after scan of the same worlds, almost always from different orbits and resolutions. Sometimes they were even distorted from all but obvious redshift.

  He dug deeper, calling up the complete file on this mystery world. It was class C type 3. Class C was an old world of limited use, and type 3 meant it was part of a block grant of worlds to one species, though not currently licensed for a leasehold. The last time it was inhabited was nearly half a million years, and then only as a safehold for an un-awakened species. The star was becoming unstable. It was only a few hundred thousand years from becoming class D, and thus no longer of interest to his office.

  Fraud, was the word that came to his mind. Someone has manipulated the main discretionary program to ignore changes to this world. But how was that possible? Only the great Higher Order species even had access to those programs.

  Ataalan sent a message through the chain of command in the department. “I have an abnormal result from the computers,” was his simple message. And that done he flagged the file, moved it into his personal work folder, and took the next assignment in his queue. It was an hour later when the supervisor appeared.

  “Operator,” spoke a voice from the entrance to his workspace. The voice was not understandable, but the words he heard clearly were from the translator pendant that was surgically installed onto his furry 'chest'.

  Ataalan had long learned to override his species instinct to retract his head into the protective bony upper torso and skitter away on powerful legs when surprised. Instead he turned his head and regarded the being who stood there. It was a Tog, dressed only in a green and blue belt, the uniform colors of the Leasehold Office. On the belt were a threefold nestled design of multi-colored diamonds. A supervisor.

  “How can I help you, supervisor?”

  The skeletally thin centaur regarded him with its almond shaped blue-on-blue eyes. Where many beings had a mouth on their heads the Tog only had a tiny pair of breathing slits. “You have been reviewing a file,” the Tog spoke in its native language, a combination of hand movements and light pulses from their specialist physiology that were rendered into Traaga by Ataalan's translator. It carried a small metallic case in one dexterous hand, seemingly unaware it was there. The Tog gave a file number, but he already knew it would be the one that he'd stored.

  “Yes, I am familiar with it.”

  “Please access the file.”

  Ataalan looked at hser for a moment before turning back to the large computer. It only took a second for his fingers to file the current
task away and call up the unusual one. The Tog leaned slightly closer to read the identification numbers, then removed a small specially-made tablet from hser belt and consulted it.

  “Yes, that is the file.”

  “What should I do about it, supervisor. This is an unusual situation.”

  The Tog turned hser head to regard Ataalan. Those unblinking eyes conveyed no emotions whatsoever, but he was still afraid. The Tog were not a deadly species like the T'Chillen, or the Tanam. The latter harbored an illogical hatred for his species that none of them understood. Still, the Tog were known for their deadly detached ability to make life and death decisions. Ataalan wondered if it was because their species had only one sex. That would make him less happy. But they were calm and logical, just like his own species, and that was the reason they often worked in the Leasehold Office.

  “You are to process the file.”

  “Process it for violation review?”

  “No, process it for completed and move onto new tasks.”

  Ataalan looked from the computer to the Tog and back again, indecision making his head pop up and down slightly like a jack-in-the-box. You were honor bound to follow the directions of your supervisor. And you were also required to report any violations you found to the proper authorities. In this case, perhaps the War Office? Squatters were living on a licensed leasehold world. It might be a poor quality world, but it was still illegal. He'd never have anyone with authority over him give an order that violated the law.

  “But supervisor…”

  “Why are you hesitating?” Ataalan chirped piteously and looked around, desperately wishing there was a tree to scramble up and hide in. “Do you not value your job?”

  “I do,” he squeaked. It wasn't any sense of honor that kept him from action, it was his species own natural sense of inaction. Evolution taught them that the safest way to avoid getting injured was to remain still and do nothing. That instinct normally served them well in a complex bureaucracy like the Concordia Quorum.

  The Tog watched him for a moment more before speaking. “You do not need to become concerned.” Hse turned the computer tablet it held and showed him a computer code. “Please enter this access number.”

  Ataalan was so scared it took two tries before his computer accepted the data. When it did, it revealed access to the confidential leaseholders’ file on the world, including what species controlled the block of worlds. That data was normally hidden from an operator like himself. It took a moment to focus on the details, but when he did he was stunned.

  “The block grant belongs to the Tog,” he said incredulously.

  “Yes.”

  “But why are you squatting on your own world?” It was a question asked out of curiosity, and it surprised him that he'd asked it.

  “That is not your concern.”

  “But—”

  “We cannot violate the law by colonizing our own world, is that not correct?”

  It was technically wrong. There was no active leasehold, but they did control the world. All the Tog had to do was file the paperwork. A simple act that took almost no time. It made no sense.

  “It is not a violation of the letter of the law.”

  “Good, then we are in agreement. Process the file and continue your duties.”

  “Supervisor,” he acknowledged and turned to the computer, sending the file onward as ordered with his code keyed the approval of the computer's analysis. Now the file was his responsibility. It felt like he'd just made a mistake.

  “Well done. I have been reviewing your work and will make a positive notation for the next biannual salary review.”

  Ataalan spoke his thanks, but the Tog was already gone, leaving him feeling like he'd been manipulated. But again he had to think, why would the Tog be involved in a subterfuge with their own grant of worlds? Something they wanted to keep from the other Higher Order species was the obvious answer. And considering the Leasehold Office was jointly administered by all of those powerful species, the Tog were taking a huge risk of their plans being revealed.

  As he returned to work on the data packet he'd put aside when the supervisor arrived, Ataalan didn't notice that small metallic case sitting on the desk next to where that Tog had stood. In only an hour the Traaga was already beginning to fall back into the wonderfully boring job, the traumatic events of the day quickly drifting into the back of his mind.

  Another hour later, the bomb detonated.

  Part II

  Chapter 10

  March 3rd, 534 AE

  T'Chillen Command Ship, Enigma Sector, Galactic Frontier

  The two squadrons of starships faced off across half a parsec of space. Both formations were tight and prepared to do battle, but neither was willing to make the first move. The T'Chillen fleet commander was Singh-Apal Katoosh.

  It was only the first time he'd commanded a fleet of starships, and he was not happy with the situation. A decade ago he'd been in charge of a ground contingent sent in response to an incursion of their research on the Enigma star system by the Rasa.

  After the theft of the ancient Lost starship, he'd been tasked with enacting their revenge against the Rasa by destroying them on their own leasehold. The arrival of the same Lost starship had spelled doom for two of their precious starships, and allowed a small core of the Rasa to survive their fate. If and where they now survived, none knew.

  After acquitting himself well in that campaign, Katoosh was elevated from tactical commander to fleet commander and given instruction in operation of large starships. It was a great honor, considering how few of the machines the T'Chillen had remaining. Only months ago the aged supreme fleet commander had been killed in a duel, and Katoosh rose to take his mantle. And now this.

  “Update,” he ordered from the dreadnought's bridge.

  “Tactical situation unchanged,” the technician, a female, responded. Most of the bridge crew were females. They were inferior in most ways to the more power, more ambitious males of the snake-like species. But when it came to the patience and aptitude for technology and sciences, the females excelled.

  When he'd taken over the fleet there had been few females on the flagship's bridge. Not being as hidebound to his species’ sexist nature, he'd quickly checked the fleet's personnel files and reassigned crew with complete disregard for their sex. Some of the ships individual commanders were not happy with his decisions, but already fleet operational standards were noticeably increased.

  “Scans have confirmed eleven ships in the enemy squadron,” announced another female technician. “Three cruiser class, seven destroyers, and one carrier. Identity is still not confirmed.”

  Katoosh nodded his massive head, the hood flaring slightly at the possibility of a fight. His own fifteen ships more than outmatched the enemy, especially since he had two dreadnoughts. The problem was the carrier. He only had two squadrons of fighters, one on each dreadnought.

  Fighter craft was the one area his species was sorely deficient in. There were only three fleet carriers left in their arsenal, half a dozen light carriers, and a handful of other ships capable of carrying fighters in small numbers. Not that it mattered, because they had more capacity to carry fighters than actual fighter craft.

  The fact that a carrier was in the other squadron all but identified them. It had to be a Mok-Tok contingent. The T'Chillen high command had been certain that none of the other spacefaring species knew of the existence of Enigma. Sure until today, that is.

  “Communications,” he ordered, “inform the enemy squadron that if they do not wish to engage in battle this day, then they are to withdraw immediately.”

  “Transmitting, fleet commander.”

  Several million miles away the enemy ships floated impassively. Seconds stretched into minutes, then they began to move. “Enemy maneuvering,” a tech needlessly informed him as the big tactical board showed the distant ships movements.

  He tensed, ready to fight. Poison dripped from his tiny fangs in anticipation. But a seco
nd later the ships swung in perfect unison, thrusting ninety degrees from their initial course, and with a series of flashes went supra-luminal. “The enemy squadron has withdrawn.”

  “Acknowledged. Secure from battle station. Disperse the fleet, monitoring scheme two. Communications, prepare a dispatch to the high command. We're going to need more ships.”

  * * *

  Katoosh finished writing his report to the high command and sent it whisking through space then curled tighter around his relaxation pedestal in his comfortable cabin, just behind the dreadnought's bridge. How the report would reach his superiors never entered his mind. He preferred the old days as a small unit commander to all the paperwork and politics of high command. This new development of the Mok-Tok probing the system further reinforced his distaste for his new job.

  He did some of the clerical work his command position required then took a small meal before the reply from high command arrived. He would be sent one of the T'Chillen's incredibly rare carriers. At top speed he could expect its arrival in just under three months, which meant the ship was more than 2,000 light-years distant. Katoosh had feeling that wouldn't be soon enough.

  He closed the message and logged it into his personal records and was about to leave the bridge when the communication panel once again came alive. His eye stalks craned to look, expecting a follow-up message from the high command. Instead, it was a simple text message. “Increase your alertness.”

  Katoosh turned his body as he regarded the message, a chill making his entire six meter length shiver. His tail spike rasped across the floor, drawing a line of silver sparks. His tentacles tapped out a reply. “Is this the Grent again?”

  “Of course.”

  Years since the last message from the supposed overlords of the galaxy, and here they were again. Was he being closely watched by these ghosts from time? Did they know where he was, and what he was doing?