Chapter One

DEAD IS BETTER

 

Sharon

I had no intention of calling for help.

 

Sitting in a life boat near the wreckage of the GM-8, soon as Datkoy retracted the tow and went off grid, I had the computer retrace the path and auto pilot return me to the Zee Base in the Oort cloud.

 

Fate is funny. I'd planned on 'killing' 'Sharon Feinstein' about a year ago.

 

I had other identities with lots of credits, and the only reason I didn't kill off Sharon at first chance was the hope that Daktoy would look for me.

 

When four years passed and he didn't, I realised he never would. My view was that what happened on the Odin Path, on the Tourist Travelor came a far second to his rank in Space Fleet.

 

I became a Pirate not to provoke him but kick this future world in the butt.  My  being the Pirate was his impetus to find me...no... I have to park anger and resentment, he had been psi-probed. His mind controlled by his Masters who demanded his dying loyalty.  With his brain controlled by his Massa he was the example of mental slavery.

 

I'd used  'maybes' in my conversationwith him, just before and during the towing  to pinch, not advise, of what I was going to do. I needed him to react when they told him I was dead. Needed his grief to prove Sharon Feinstein died on the GM.  Daktoy will crumple when he gets the report.   He'll believe it. He won't have to pretend or act, he'll believe I'm dead. Then he'll recall those 'maybes' ...

"Maybe' I'll pretend to die on the GM."
"Maybe' I'll not call for help."
"Maybe I'll go back to hide on the Zee Base in the Oort cloud."

 

Considering how fast the VX flew, how slow this boat, it would take me two days to reach the Base.   He should figure it out by then.

 

Sharon being dead was no prob. I didn't have to worry about losing the job with Spa-Temps due to age, didn't have to worry about becoming 'unserviceable' being routed to a space station. I was now free to be whatever and whoever I chose.

 

I didn't start out to be a Pirate. I tried to fit, couldn't. I was the ugliest thing alive. So many times I thought of refoing my face, disappearing into another life, but couldn't. Just in case Daktoy looked for me.

 

I never had a plan, I was just trying to survive. Just trying to get from who I had been to who I was; just trying to make it through another day.

 

My first buck of the grid was minor; simply exceeding my quota at data entry. The only way I could do more would be to have another identity.

 

I wanted more because I had nothing to do and needed the credits. At the time I was working in Death Data. I didn't key in the death of Viandra McGee.

 

I'm living in a world where everything you do, everything you are is punched onto a plastic card. Your credits, your qualifications, your existence is on a card.  When you die, 10% of your credits is taken by the government, the rest added to the balance of your beneficiaries, your card voided and dropped into the burner.

 

I didn't void Viandra's card.  I took it. I waited a few days, went to Halfway Tree and used it to buy stuff and use a Simmie.

 

Simulators are egg shaped machines which emulate experiences for those who don't have any. Many are sex based, but there are those which make it seem you are piloting a space ship. There's one prog which has the endorsement of some fly boy called Johnny Burns; that's the one I liked.

 

The prog was set out as lessons. To prevent a person from hogging a Simmie it was one lesson every 24 hours.

 

I did the first as Viandra and liked it so much I went to another Sim center and did it over as me. The second day I moved on to the next lesson, messed up as Vianda, but did it over as me perfectly.

 

As everything you do goes on your card and is monitored by Big Brother they thought I was a real genius. I was given the opportunity to try out for pilot in RL.

 

The problem was that to enter pilot school I'd need a medical and couldn't get one. When I put my card into the com it spit it out.

 

I learned there were different doctors depending on your age and as Sharon wasn't alive there was no doctor for her. This is because when I first reached UWI and my 'boss' Arnette Ogle told me to go to the Papine Record Office and enter my particulars I told the truth. Being born in 1954 meant I was dead in 2491.

 

I wanted to go to Pilot School, needed a medical examination so acted like a typical Jamaican. I did it differently. I went to the Doctor's computer when his secretary was at lunch, searched records for someone about my age in perfect health. When I got the file I changed what had to be changed, saved the file under my name, took the docket number, gave that to Pilot school, they dled the file and I was accepted.

 

It was my first, not last, trip to differently.

 

I rushed through my courses at UWI, matching them to what I was getting at Pilot school and decided to full time space. I loved space. Loved being in the Up and Out where I was alone so could never be lonely.

 

The prob was I didn't check that SPETs, Space Pilot Emergency Temporary, the only kind of pilot I could be, was retired at 46. If I'd known, I'd of made me a whole lot younger.

 

Most SPETs are Rovers, a particular kind of sociopath. Rovers don't bathe. They coat their bodies with waste eating organisms, pull on an inside suit and never take it off. They spend their days in micro gee so when they land they can bearly move and get to a lay-bye; hostels operated by the company one works for.

 

For me, there was no sense squandering moments on another planet lying in a hammock reaccustoming myself to gravity and moving air. On the ship I'd keep grav almost Earth high, bathe once or twice before docking, pull on my filthiest inside suit take a wheelie to a laybye pretending I was grav mashed. Once in, I'd bathe, dress, go out, and get some life until called for another gig.

 

Life on a mudball consisted of using the card of some deader I didn't key in the last time, doing my civic duty at Death Data to pick up a few more cards.

 

Here's the scam; as government gets 10% of a deaders value, and as each shift it's a different government department to which it goes; you have to manually key in the tax code. As the whole galaxy is made of corn flakes the code is as many alphanumeric characters as a person's identification code.

 

For six hours I can give the 10% from each card to one of my unkeyed deaders; meaning I was walking out with millionaire plastic.

 

I'd planned to blow the GM, do another bad deed as the Pirate, fly the VX to a flat plaine a lune from Xenos III which was purchased by me as Ursuala Monderno.

 

I'd park the 7, jump into Ursuala Monderno's yacht, ride to the mudball, put my face in the refo come out beautiful, and call Sharon Feinstein a bad dream.

 

If Daktoy had come a few hours later there wouldn't be nothing but debris and he'd never know I wasn't dead.

 

Fate he'd land in my yard in Jamaica in 1989.   Fate he'd come aboard the GM-8 before I blew it. 

 

Fate.

Chapter Two

 2
TWISTED SIGNALS
eDapktchoy

 

As I approached the Invincible I was ordered to the Greenboro, a considerable distance from my position.

 

Logging aboard, I was embroiled in discussions in re the Qintellum mission. I maintained silence until challenged.

 

"Commander, are you part of this discussion or posing?"

 

"There is nothing to discuss, Sir."

 

"How can you, having lost 31 aviators in your first foray aver there is nothing to discuss?"

 

"An explosion of such amplitude entirely expectable. Seeking to track an entity beyond our technological comprehension could not be successful."

 

"You don't recognise that we needed to prove it was an entity and not a natural occurrence? You don't consider a visual record of any value?"

 

"You have posed questions which contain the answers, Sir. You may take that as my contribution to this debate."

 

The humans stared, I reciprocated, was dismissed, ordered to procure a double watch of sleep. Exhausted, I did so.

 

My separation from Shar-Ron produced anxiety. It had not eaten an inordinate duration, yet, traveling at lightspeed, my perceptions are diverse; in 'realtime' my absence would be far longer.

 

I trusted she had not misread.

Chapter Three

 REFLECTION

 

SHARON

 

I thought of my past, my real Sharon Feinstein life until the lifeboat reached the Oort Cloud. Then I moved to Control. I should be in suit but the one size doesn't fit all and I need flexibility. It's going to be hairy to get through the Oort cloud.

 

I set the vents about the ship to blow which pushes little stuff away, but not for long. Anything the size of a football I'll avoid. The ship's a flying frisbee and I can maneuver it pretty well.

 

I'm moving about 150 k/p/h, up to 180, slipping between boulders, mountains and stuff that would be nice to look at if I had the time.

 

After forever I reach the Zee Base, land, and inch to the hanger door. As the VX is there, I can't raise environment, so pull on the one size doesn't fit all space suit, waddle to the first airlock, in.

 

When pressure matches the second lock, I enter. Pressure sent to the first is sucked back, doubling the second, when it matches the third I step in. I wait until it's livable, remove the suit.

 

I don't bother to set it in Quick Suiting cause my Pirate Suit is already set; Daktoy set it.

 

Daktoy.

 

I could feel his presence. I wondered if he was here. It'd been enough time for him to get wherever the hell he was going and come back. I called his name; no answer; I wondered if he'd really been here.

 

I went into the kitch to cook something real and good, off-hand checking how few people in this time ever got to taste real food. Of course, most people don't even have kitchens, just

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 21.09.2021
ISBN: 978-3-7487-9545-2

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