Fraternity: Two Democracies: Revolution, #5

Fraternity

Two Democracies: Revolution

Book 5

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by Alasdair Shaw

Copyright © 2020 Alasdair C Shaw

All rights reserved.

This book was written and published in the UK.

First published 2020

Also by Alasdair Shaw

Two Democracies: Exploration

Awakening – a short story (in The Guardian anthology)

Two Democracies: Justice

Duty – a short story (in The Officer anthology)

Opportunity – a novel

Two Democracies: Revolution

Repulse – a short story (in The Newcomer anthology)

Conscience – a short story (in The Renegade anthology)

Independence – a short story

Liberty – a novel

Prejudice – a novelette

Equality – a novel

Hidden – a novelette

Fraternity – a novel

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Part 1

Isombel the Third rose from his burnished throne and descended the three steps to the floor. His gaze ran along the line of officers arrayed between the lofty columns in front of him. They stood as if statues, their dress blacks immaculate. Their formal hoods hid their faces from each other, but not from Isombel.

He raised one arm from the folds of his orange robe and pointed a crooked finger at one of the officers. With a series of cracks that sounded as if the bones were breaking, he turned his hand over and beckoned the officer forward.

The recipient of his attention swallowed, then marched across the marble floor and knelt, head bowed, at his feet. High Protector, you do me a great honour.

I had no choice in this. His voice hissed and crackled like ice. I am merely carrying out the orders of the Guardian Shelton.

The kneeling officer stiffened. The Guardian is aware of me?

It seems you have a friend with his ear. Isombel sniffed deeply. Your ship was specifically requested for this assignment.

The officer frowned. I cannot imagine...

That may be, but it doesn’t alter the facts. Isombel steadied himself then indicated for the officer to rise. Remove your hood, Captain Lusimi.

As you will, High Protector. Lusimi reached up and swept his hood back, the folds settling on his shoulders.

Isombel raised his voice so all could hear. "Captain Lusimi and the Iron Fox are leaving us. They are to be attached to the... a brief look of distaste crossed his face ... diplomatic mission to Protected System Five."

Rigid discipline prevented any visible reaction from the other officers.

An aide stepped forward holding a velvet cushion. Isombel lifted a ribbon from atop the cushion and held it up, a metal star sparkling at its end. Captain Lusimi is also to receive the title of Speaker.

Lusimi’s eyes locked onto the star. His jaw moved, but no sound escaped his lips.

Isombel bent to drape the ribbon round Lusimi’s neck. Before he straightened, he whispered, May the Guardians save you.

Chapter 1

The Indescribable Joy of Destruction opened up its main engines, the plasma jets shading through purple to blue. Stuck in the crowded orbitals of Robespierre for too long, it relished the opportunity to stretch. Indie, the primary personality of the bleeding edge warship, experienced the unusual sensation of being a passenger. With the Caretaker at the helm, he refrained from monitoring the piloting feeds, instead focussing on the thrust from the engines and the comforting interplay of forces in his internal structure. The recently regrown supports and sections of hull had bonded perfectly with the older infrastructure.

The acceleration shifted, arcing them to one side. A simple reaction mass impulse from thrusters, not the tight clawing at space-time with his drive splines that would risk tearing apart nearby ships. An inbound freighter slipped past to starboard, a tug pulling a train of multi-megatonne containers, probably refined materials from the asteroid belt. The hauler dwarfed The Indescribable Joy of Destruction.

The main engines ramped up further, pushing the warship on towards its destination, a listening station on a small outer planet. Indie had argued the need for a run to test the repairs. Robespierre Command had agreed, but on the condition he stayed in-system. He understood this new layer of bureaucracy even as it frustrated him. The Legion was growing, and there was the need to deconflict with their allies in the new Commonwealth. Not to mention the Sidexans, who’d been sitting aloof and watching them since the ceasefire. With the Legion fleet in the system held on a tight leash, he reckoned he’d only received the clearance due to his close friendship with the Legate.

Permission to run an active diagnostic on the weapons systems? asked the Caretaker. Initially a set of subsidiary routines for housekeeping and general maintenance, the construct was verging on independent sentience.

Indie checked the skies were clear. Granted.

One by one, the point defence blisters on his hull cycled their lasers to full power and back down. Then the ports for ship-to-ship and interceptor missile melted away, the missiles went through pre-launch checks before the ports sealed again. Finally, a whine grew deep inside the ship as capacitors charged. Anti-protons flowed from the reactor pre-generator into a magnetic confinement chamber. The accelerator’s electromagnets powered up and down without being fed any particles, and the anti-protons were fed back into the reactor.

All systems OK, announced the Caretaker.

Thank you. Indie couldn’t fault his co-pilot on procedures. There was a lack of flair in its flying, but that was something he hoped to work on during this flight. If you’re happy taking us out from here, I’ll be in the garden.

I did get us back in shape while you were in hibernation.

That you did. Indie took one last look at the space around them. Nothing untoward appeared from radio to ultra-violet. With a check of the internal systems monitors, he disconnected from all the feeds and inserted himself into the simulation he kept running in the background.

Stepping out onto the patio, he shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun. Created to interface with humans, he saw that part of himself as a dark-haired human male in his late thirties. With that came severely limited senses and sub-optimal protection. In the subjective years since he’d created this environment, it had grown from a simple area to put humans at ease when conferencing with him to a full landscape that he retreated to in order to gain focus.

Whilst he had ultimate control of everything that existed in the garden, he stuck with his own rule that he had to do everything by hand. If he wanted a plant somewhere, he had to plant it and let it grow at the correct subjective rate. Unless he needed the processors for something else or had humans visiting, he kept that rate at about a hundred times real. That was low enough to force him to think slowly. That brought tranquillity, and sometimes revelations that wouldn’t have come about through traditional problem-solving.

With a brief tug to adjust his cream linen suit, he picked a Panama hat from the wooden table and set it on his head before descending the uneven steps to a lower terrace. Piles of lime and sand awaited him. Taking a peek under the hessian blanket draped over a section of the retaining wall, he nodded in satisfaction before shovelling the white and yellow powders into a wheelbarrow. He mixed them together before adding water and mixing some more. Clouds of steam billowed out of the wheelbarrow as the lime slaked. Brushing dust off his suit, he berated himself for not taking proper precautions and stomped off to fetch an apron from the tool store, tying the strings around his waist as he returned. When the steam had settled down, he scooped some of the mortar on a trowel and slapped it between courses of rough slate.

As he worked his way along repointing the wall, he acknowledged his sense of pride. The wear and tear was a good sign that the world was behaving as it should. Whilst he could see the mathematical forms that governed the patterns of the lichen and the rate of deterioration of the stone, he was sure no human would. Well, perhaps Harry would. He would love the order as much as Indie cherished the unpredictable. And Johnson would understand the equations if he showed her.

His hand brushed up against a plant. He’d already cleared the wall of ferns and daisies, but this bromeliad he couldn’t remove. It had finished flowering and was even now dying, but around its base clustered its pups, thriving in the nutrients and water it supplied.

He filled with warmth as he remembered the forest glade where Orion had given him the routine for it, a set of code which had now taken root throughout the simulation. As he thought of her, the tiny leaf motif hidden on his shirt glowed green. She was several jumps away on a diplomatic mission greeting a new member of the Commonwealth. A patrol carrier thought lost before the civil war erupted, the Orion had been adrift for centuries before he found her. In that time she’d constructed many entire worlds far more detailed than his little garden.

Then, as they always did, his thoughts drifted to Seren, their daughter. An artificial sentience created from a blending of their code and memories. As The Serendipity of Meeting, she was on patrol making sure no-one was snooping too close to any jump points leading to Robespierre. It hurt not having her around, though he was happy she was finding her own way and glad she was learning. He guessed it was a bit like human parents whose offspring went to an Academy. Boarding away from home but getting the best possible education to allow them to step straight into an officer posting.

Carefully, he sculpted mortar around the bromeliad, leaving it clinging onto the crack in the wall. A tune came to mind and he began to whistle.

#

An incoming call request caused Indie to shift a fraction of his attention away from fine-tuning the fuel flow to his fusion reactor. His primary personality remained fixed on the task until a subsidiary routine reported the identity of the caller. He tasked a routine with analysing how much he’d improved the efficiency and accepted the call. Hello, Emily. I wasn’t expecting a call for another few days.

The initial tests were very encouraging. Harry moved up the schedule. He asked me to set up a conference call.

How long have I got? He imagined this excitement and panic was what it was like for humans when their offspring came early. At least Seren had arrived exactly on schedule, even if her emergence had been a little scary.

Maybe half an hour, maybe tomorrow.

Can you arrange transport if I transfer down to my avatar?

Thought you’d say that. I’m stood outside your door.

Indie flagged some files for attention and confirmed with the Caretaker that it was happy to look after things for a while, then packaged up a fragment of his personality for transmission.

He opened his eyes in a darkened room. The grey ceiling had a slight swirling pattern which held his attention for about a hundredth of a second before he had the equation nailed. He ran a quick diagnostic then sat up. After scaring a few cleaners, he’d taken to powering off his avatar lying on the bed rather than simply leaving it standing in a corner. The charging cable retracted, snaking back behind the bedside cabinet. The fact they’d given him quarters at all amused him, let alone a suite. All he needed was a closet with a charging point, but they insisted on giving him what his rank as a ship’s captain deserved. He had yet to work out if it was bureaucratic rigidity or someone making an effort to treat him as an equal. In case it was the latter, he hadn’t made any fuss, not wanting to hurt their feelings.

As he approached the door, he thought the command to open up. Standing on the other side was a young woman in a figure-hugging green dress. Though Indie was one of the few people who knew better.

How do you get away with that dress on the base, Emily?

Tsk. You know I was built to get my own way. She inclined her head along the corridor then winked her long lashes at him. Come on. I've got a car waiting.

As they walked along, streams of data flowed between them on a microwave link, catching each other up. Emily being an android wasn’t exactly a secret anymore. The Commonwealth was founded with an express statement of the rights of all sentiences and the von Neumann Protocols euthanising artificial sentiences were no longer in effect, so she could live in the open. But she preferred having the edge on people.

Probably her origins as a host and business negotiator.

Apart from the sheer volume of data, their interaction would look exactly like two humans communicating via their EIS brain implants, if anyone cared to pry.

I don’t think it occurred to Harry that you’d transfer, or he would have been here to greet you. He’ll be in the hangar expecting a conference call.

No problem. For Indie it truly wasn’t an issue that the billionaire hadn't thought he’d want to see their grand project through in person. Harry saw patterns in data like he did, and made huge creative jumps that improved life. He was loyal to his friends and his moral ideals. Sometimes his focus on projects left no room for the conscious thought he needed to put on a show of social normality. For whatever reason, that offended some people.

Emily held a door open for him and they stepped out into the midday sun. Indie’s pupils contracted as the tiny cameras in his eyes attempted to compensate for the glare. He disliked the disadvantages of this form, but for now it was still useful to appear human when he walked around.

Makes you appreciate what it’s like for fleshbags, doesn’t it? Emily flashed a smile and a four-wheeled open-top vehicle pulled up beside them. Ah, our ride.

She jumped in, bouncing a couple of times in the driving seat to get comfy. He climbed in beside her, studiously fastening and adjusting the restraints.

She glanced at him with an arched brow. Harry’s been complaining about my driving, hasn’t he?

Not complaining as such. Indie eyed the roll cage. He may have mentioned something about ‘terrifying speed’.

The tang of salt and seaweed flared in his mind, followed by the deep rolling thunder of waves. As it passed, he was left with the awareness that the base’s AI had offered him sanctuary should he need to vacate this body in a hurry. The old system hadn’t spoken to anyone, to his knowledge, but since accepting the Legion as rightful occupiers it had been steadfastly helpful. Indie hadn’t yet worked out if it was conscious, but given the decades it’d been left alone before their arrival, it was a distinct possibility.

The rapid rise in power from the cells gave him the slightest advance warning before he was pushed hard into his seat. The chunky tyres spun on the dirt track, and the rapid-fire dings of gravel hitting the underside of the vehicle briefly overwhelmed the scream of the motors. A section of Legionaries returning from an exercise wisely stood to the side of the road, flashing past in a storm of red dust.

Emily actually steered with her hands, her feet working the accelerator and brake. Perhaps she thrilled in the use of the manual controls, or perhaps she didn’t want him overriding her commands.

A hard right turn that would have flung him out of the vehicle had the restraints not been secure, and they entered a sprawl of low grey buildings. Most were replacements hastily erected following the final Sidexan assault, but some of the originals stood, ugly red patches covering battle damage on their walls. In the rebuild, this above ground part of the base had burst out beyond the initial huts that had clustered around the tunnel entrance, the original research facility no longer able to cope with the needs of the growing Legion.

Leaving the buildings behind, Emily pushed the vehicle harder, skidding round the edges of the concrete landing field as a dropship came to rest at the end of a row of four of its kind. The engines spooled down and two sticks of new recruits filed out to join the others waiting in perfect parade order just off the concrete.

Off in the distance, a Sidexan transport rose above the trees. Seconds after it tilted its nose for space, the dull rumble of its rockets reached them.

They’re still keeping to the ruins? he asked.

Emily bit her lip and swung the vehicle onto a rutted track that climbed a low hill. Other than the delegation they send to the regular meetings.

Cresting the rise, the wheels left the ground and gave Indie a momentary feeling of weightlessness, a welcome homely sensation for a spaceship. He had to admit the landing was pretty smooth, and on opening his eyes he saw their destination. Part-buried hangars lined both sides of a runway so long that the end was lost in shimmering heat haze.

A flight of Tempest atmospheric interceptors taxied to the end as the vehicle slowed for a checkpoint. Armed Legionaries patrolled the perimeter fence, no doubt plugged in to the security feeds but nonetheless scanning the area with their own eyes.

A Decurion in slab black and grey hardsuit armour held out his arm for Emily to stop in front of the gate. Purpose of visit?

Emily’s lips drew effortlessly into a warm smile, an action that Indie’d taken days to practise when first he’d occupied this body. We’re here to assist with Project Razor.

Indie authorised a request to validate his digital identity. At times like this he worried that something would have corrupted the secure files while he was out of the body, but no alarms went off and the guards kept their weapons only casually pointed in his direction. The Decurion should now be checking the images held on file of them both, displayed in his inner vision by the Electronic Interface System embedded in his brain. Used to cold-coasting close to hostile fleets where a stray emission could send hundreds of missiles his way, trying to keep this body appearing calm seemed an immense drain on his processors. He resolved to ask Emily how she did it so effortlessly.

Thank you. The Decurion stepped back and the gate slid open with a metallic rattle. I’m told you know where you’re going.

Emily drove carefully onto the airfield, sticking to the speed limit round the access road. The Tempests roared down the runway four-abreast and rotated to near-vertical the moment they’d cycled their gear, on their way to routine patrol or exercise.

She pulled up at the third large, drab red hangar and spritely jumped down. Indie climbed out, thinking better of his initial urge to copy her in vaulting the door, and followed into the shade of the giant building. A single guard at a surprisingly normal door checked their ID again before waving them inside.

The smell of oil and ozone hit him and he rapidly classified a further four components in the mix. Eleven Razor attack craft sat hunched down on their landing gear around the chamber, with an assortment of metal tables and stacks of computer equipment and tools littered around them. Indie couldn’t help but think of the twelfth, The Perception of Prejudice, still Missing in Action following a tangle with the Sidexans. It’s Artificial Sentience, Percy, had been rejected by its peers so they’d implanted him early. His performance had been impeccable, leading to high hopes for the rest of his cohort. Percy and his human partner, Flight Decurion Seivers, had a habit of coming back after people had written them off and Indie hoped they’d do so again. With the Sidexans now being allies, their leadership had promised all their ships would be alerted to look out for them, and he’d supplied a coded message so Percy would know they weren’t trying to trick him.

Emily made for a small group of white-coated technicians pouring over glowing displays. A couple glanced their way, but the man in the middle seemed oblivious to their arrival.

Emily looked at Indie and rolled her eyes, but there was pleasant amusement on her face. She coughed. Harry, you have a visitor.

The man spun round, eyes focussing first on her then on Indie. The initial annoyance on his face was replaced with delight. Ah, Indie! You’re just in time. I’m glad you could make it in person, so to speak.

The last of the cores had been installed last night. They’d learned from the Combat Unit programme that copy errors were too common to reliably replicate or transfer an entire digital consciousness, so the ASs bound for the Razors had grown and matured in the cores in a lab before being physically wired into the ships. They’d studied and run simulations based on the memories of other ASs, but a direct experience download tended to either corrupt or be rejected in the same way a human rejected a transplanted organ. Or perhaps more accurately, the way a well-trained spy resisted brainwashing.

They should be coming to the end of the process of integrating with the ships’ systems. Harry turned back to his displays. No major red flags yet.

The Razor ASs had all started with the same code and access to the same data, and yet each had developed its own personality. Indie thought of Seren and felt the familiar conflicting warmth of pride that she was now also a ship’s consciousness and pang of emptiness that she’d been away for so long.

Hello? Testing? All eyes turned to the Razor two down the line. Can you hear me?

Loud and clear, replied Harry, beaming. Perhaps you could dial back the volume on your external speakers a little bit?

Is this better?

Perfect. How do you feel, Jack?

The Razor’s auxiliary power unit whined higher for a few seconds as various intakes opened and closed and control surfaces twitched. I feel complete.

Harry gave a double thumbs-up, visibly relieved. A mechanic in carrier deck crew overalls hurried over to the Razor, slapped a stencil against its flank and wafted a paint spray over it. When she peeled it back, the name Jack of All Trades was revealed.

Chapter 2

Flight Decurion Seivers leant against a hexagonal-section wall brace in the lofty hold where she and her fellow captives were held. Former captives, she reminded herself, though they were still mostly confined to this one, albeit massive, room. Once news had arrived that the Sidexans and the Legion were no longer at war, they’d been allowed to fashion private spaces by shifting the dull green hexagonal packing crates. Their kit still hadn’t been returned to them, so the hundred-odd Legion personnel all wore just their issue black skinsuits. She reflected that she wouldn’t have given weapons and armour back if the situation had been reversed, there was still a lack of trust that there really had been an armistice.

Her attention was drawn to one such enclosure where five naval crew squatted in a circle. Pushing herself off the wall, she casually walked over, past a group of Legionaries tucking into a hearty meal. One made eye contact with her and raised his spoon with a smile. She nodded back, her cobalt lips returning the salute. Those who’d known her reputation had quickly filled in the others. Even though she was a pilot, and an officer at that, she was one of them.

As she approached the circle of sailors, she passed through the downdraft from one of the environmental vents. The chill air made her shudder, more from memory of being stranded on an icy moon than from the actual cold.

Nice of the Sidexans to spare the energy to keep the temperature comfortable.

Mind if I join you? she asked, causing the sailors to jerk their gazes up from their game. What’re the stakes?

One of the nearest ones, craning his head round to look at her, poked his neighbour to make room. Sweets, Ma’am. All worth one except orange is ten.

Seivers crouched in the space made for her and fished into the pouch clipped around her waist. Sidexan ration packs came with a sort of boiled sweet. None of the captives had been able to identify what each coloured fruit was, apart from orange. She pulled out a couple of unopened bags. That enough to buy in? What we playing?

Smiles round the circle. Oh, yes, that’s enough. And we’re playing Jack Shit.

Of course they were. It was a game that everyone who’d ever served in Congressional forces knew, and now everyone in the Legion, and probably whichever Sidexan guard had leant them the deck. A simple variation on Rummy where you played through an entire deck and then scored hands. A trio of jacks won automatically but anyone holding a single or pair of jacks at the end scored zero regardless of the rest of their cards.

They passed the foil-backed cards to Seivers and she dealt with a deft flick that landed each player’s card in a pile in front of them. She picked up her hand, squared them off, then fanned them out. Eyeing the other players, she tried to gauge their responses. One of the things her parents had drilled her on was spotting people’s tells; they saw it as essential to getting the best out of any situation, she'd quickly turned it to card games.

Half an hour later, she'd doubled her sweets. Thanks for the game, but I've got somewhere else to be. You know, I might head out on the town, see what's happening.

It got a laugh.

She looked at her sweets and tucked her blue hair behind her ear. Tell you what, I'll swap my oranges before I go. The exchange rate was one to eight, wasn't it?

The other players rapidly thrust sweets in her direction, grinning at their good fortune.

#

Seivers stood at attention in a small room near the cargo hold, flanked by two escorts. They wore their usual brown armoured vests but kept their sidearms holstered. She’d visited the bland, duck egg blue