A heavy hum resonated through the floor and the walls. Numbness crept through Artifex Second Class Chester Rytts' legs. Subtle discordant harmonies drifted through the air, forming gibberish words. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of Chester's footsteps, replacing them with indistinct vibrations as he wandered through the weaving, cramped corridors towards the briefing room. Sensitive discussions would be contained to the area by the effect, preventing information from propagating to the rest of the ship. But the result was to fuzz the nerves of everyone who approached the area. Chester hoped the anxiety he felt was artificial, and rubbed his long, narrow face with his hands.
The corridors were old and brown, never beautiful. Thick welds joined metal plates into complete walls. The corridor ran through the spine of the ship, and supported large cables and junctions that served the rest of the ship. The floor was marked by scars where the maintenance crews cut holes to access hidden wiring and plumbing. Maintenance work was expensive and time-consuming because the designers had planned to discard the ship once the lifespan of the original power supply was exhausted. One of the first Quorum generation ships, designed as an experiment in building large-scale systems, the Eternity should have been scrapped long ago. Off-world population growth had exploded, there was no space in outer space, and politicians decided that maintaining the ship was palatable compared to relocating the inhabitants. The ship had been retired several times, but after the conclusion of the ceremonies, there were over one million people who returned to their homes on the Eternity.
Without an external source of raw materials, recycling and reuse were essential. As one of the largest classes of ships operated by the human race, the Eternity would be self-sufficient during peacetime. Tech labs could fabricate replacements for most systems, even the secretive inchworm drive technology the Ura licensed from the Quorum. The Ura didn't have access to the sensitive designs - a matter of Quorum paranoia - but the tech lab computers would manufacture components after receiving appropriate authorization from the government. Only in wartime were the Quorum generous with licenses, so there were many superficial indicators beyond the modern weapons and engines that the Eternity had participated in its share of combat. The air had a smell, faded, fumes from burnt plastic, a contaminant the ventilation system couldn't filter. The scent permeated the ship, joining stale odors of charred protein and fat in the few locations where the military crew knew the Eternity had sustained massive damage.
A metal bar extended from the top of the bulkhead and came to rest at eye level, securing the hatch. Chester grasped the end of the bar and yanked. The door swung open against the tension of a return spring, and closed behind Chester. The hatches were wide, but short, and Chester had learned to be cautious within his first few megaseconds on the ship. Bruises on foreheads told tales of painful journeys through hatches. He wasn't unique in these injuries, and a casual sense of constant agitation circulated among the taller members of the crew.
The final bulkhead door closed behind Chester, leaving the arterial hallway behind. The hatch closed automatically, tight against plastic seals. The robust engineering of the Eternity might have been unattractive, but the functional design became the template for modern ships.
The bulkhead revealed a large lobby with a double door at the far side. The door panels were manufactured from natural wood, amber with age and coated in layers of clear plastic for protection. A fresh-faced young woman was seated in a plastic chair at a flimsy, portable desk, with a computer terminal laying flat on the surface in front of her. She wore a simple black blouse that seemed inappropriately casual. Her smile was magnetic and practiced, likely that of a civilian agent. The Ura afforded no special privileges to career military aside from intense scrutiny. Chester handed his identification card and communicator to the receptionist, who verified his access against a hard-copy list, placed the communicator into a mu-alloy envelope, and handed him a small piece of paper. She waved him on wordlessly.
Chester continued and grunted as one of the doors creaked open, surprised at the weight and pressure required. Strange anachronisms littered the ship, sometimes for their utility, and more usually to provide a particular sense of austerity. When the ship was new, the designers had felt somehow compelled to hide that fact. The Eternity was built in a time when birth in space was something of an oddity, and would become a disadvantage marked by poverty.
The room beyond was larger still - twenty meters in length, with a second set of doors at the far end. An oxidized sign indicated that the distant doors were not to be used as an exit. The interior walls were painted with a dark blue enamel that had been rich and smooth on the day it was applied, but cracks had grown from age along side the tell-tale ripples of heat damage. Chairs surrounded the perimeter of the room, and a second set made a concentric loop inside the first. The room could seat a hundred, but most of the space was empty, with six other military Benefactors present.
Sharp uniforms contrasted against the age and ugliness of the room. The other Benefactors were all dressed in uniforms identical to what Rytts wore. Soft black boots made of a synthetic suede ended half-way up the shins, vanishing underneath billowing trousers with large, baggy pockets hanging from hips. Bright red piping ran along the seams at the side of the legs, and transitioned into a network of woven red lines across a black shirt. Over the shirt, each wore a jacket, colored black and gray, with more of the reflective red piping. The style of each uniform remained identical regardless of gender, except for the proportions in certain areas, which were always generous. The fabric was made from fire-retardant synthetic linen with a luxurious, comfortable texture. The jackets ended at the neck in tight folded collars, and at the sleeves with buttoned, narrow cuffs. Like the others, pieces of glimmering silver metal adorned each of Chester's shoulders. Chester's tokens were oval coins, symbolizing his title as Artifex, three in number signifying his rank. The surface of each coin was struck with a face, not of any individual in particular, but of the conceptual androgynous every-person that represented civil rights in the Uran culture.
Chester chose his seat in one of the perimeter chairs along the wall, and near most of the others who had gathered. The chair was gaudy, with a patched tear in the cushion and thick scratches in the plastic frame. Thick brass tacks had been hammered into fake wood, attaching synthetic leather upholstery. Chester tried to shift it to the side, to make more space for himself, and lost his balance discovering that the seat was bolted to the floor. Embarrassed, Chester peered around, wondering if anyone had noticed his awkward attempt. He glanced at shoulders, finding the other nearby Benefactors shared his title, but wore varying ranks.
The doors locked with a clunk, and a man walked purposefully past the entrance to the head of the table on the opposite side of the room. Three stars adorned his shoulders, and the piping sewn into Chester's uniform mirrored the man's, with a gold hue replacing the red. "Benefactors, you are all invited to participate. I expect you to sit at the table. There's room."
Chastised, the Benefactors on the outside of the room stood and moved to the table. Chester's face was pallid as he took a new seat at the central glass table, his new chair indistinguishable from the first. The glass creaked as it shifted under the flimsy, clear layer covering the cracks in the surface. The poor state of repairs seemed intentional, a symbolic reminder of the Uran mentality. The Ura thought of themselves as the first people in space, a multicultural community that had built a revolution around sustainable communities. Despite their elite place in history, the Uran military remained entombed in the castoff equipment of the Quorum government. The Quorum had formed out of planet born disdain for the relative anarchy of the first space-faring people. In an absolute sense the military ship remained combat-worthy, but the Ura didn't want their young to forget that the Quorum provided them with second-hand equipment.
"Some of you may know me, but most of you don't. Tribune Jameson Young. When you entered this room, you became a member of the Project. No one is permitted any writing, recording, or communication. Please take a moment to ensure you've left everything in the lobby. Everything that will be said here, and the identities of your colleagues - all of this information is considered restricted to active project members only."
A silent beat passed, and the Tribune continued. "Well, then. The THUMBSCREW Project was constructed after an investigation into certain actions of high-ranking Quorum officials. Our mission is to continue following the evidence uncovered throughout those ongoing investigations, to ensure that wrong-doing by Quorum officials is prosecuted and punished. We are an investigative force, and we are authorized to handle enforcement in certain circumstances. The goal is not to undermine the Quorum government or its lawful actions. Our mission is to act as a balancing force operating within Quorum and Uran law. We operate inside the law, but our secrecy is paramount to our effectiveness and safety."
The Tribune's eyes swept the room before he continued. "You'll all be assigned to specific personnel, embedded within particular groups under investigation. You'll assess the information your colleagues can provide and support Command with recommendations that are consistent with our policies and objectives. You are our elite handlers, our brightest analysts. The work you all will accomplish is essential to the Uran agenda and our way of life. It will be difficult and unrewarding. Outside of this community, no one will know of your contributions."
Chester leaned forward in his seat, every word burrowing into his excited brain. One hundred megaseconds of training, post-commission, had prepared him for intelligence work.
Jameson's voice echoed through the room. "Everyone involved reports to me or one of my delegates, as directed in the future. Since you're in this room, your transfer documentation has been cleared, which means you're under my command."
The Tribune gestured as he talked, but the rest of his body remained controlled, motionless. "Our successes will secure the future for our successors. We're working to save lives, and what you're doing will change the galaxy. Don't forget that as your tasks become difficult. I expect full commitment and dedication from each of you."
The Tribune continued for a kilosecond, explaining regulations, policies, and procedures, before spending a few moments with each of the new analysts. He introduced a junior Benefactor, Artifex First Class Amanda Traveler, who covered specific Quorum indiscretions. The list was long, relating to financial and economic improprieties within the Zwielicht sector, and drifted around illegal violent operations and research. Her lingering discussion of these topics revealed her own interest.
Artifex Rytts found these the most compelling. He knew that one did not build a career documenting illicit financial activities.
***
The nightclub was crowded, full of young military officers seeking out relaxation and companionship. Loud music pounded at deafening levels. A silver light emanated from the ceiling, masked by layers of draping cloth cords cross-crossing over and under each other. Small projectors scattered throughout the area sprayed every surface with a glimmering menagerie of flashes and broad laser pulses with the rhythm of the music.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Traveler's brown hair reflected the strobing lights of the nightclub. The young woman had adopted a style more typical of combat-graded soldiers than administrative personnel. Her hair was trimmed short, less than a centimeter in length, and she brushed it forwards when on duty. She had lacquered it into short brown spikes, each sharp thorn rising from a bleached-white scalp. Her face was round, though the sides of her hair were shaped to give her a clean, square profile.
Rytts found her intimidating and not unattractive. He brought a round of drinks to the table and joined his colleagues. Three more Benefactors were seated at the table, each sipping tart drinks that were being sold on special during this cycle. The sugar and lemon-citrus were artificial, but did not taste unusual to the group. Rytts was amused that the color of the drink matched the orange shade of his own hair.
Amanda Traveler glared at Rytts and pursed her dry lips. He wore a baggy red shirt that didn't suit him at all. She stared at his shirt for a moment, before tossing a thought at him. "There's a rumor going around, Chester, that you've been pulled into something big."
"Big? Nah. Just pulled some threads, and a little something came loose. Probably get a field assignment out of this."
Rytts figured no one would overhear him in the chaotic noise of the nightclub. The two Benefactors didn't have a chance to talk at work, since they were assigned to different divisions. Security remained the group's official highest priority, to protect the identities of the handlers and agents in case of infiltration. But Rytts thought he trusted her, and liked the idea of earning some respect. "Amanda, it sounds like they are on the verge of some breakthrough weapon."
Amanda couldn't hear him, and she tried to read Chester's lips. She wrapped a hand around Chester's head and pulled his ear to her mouth. "Dark research? Bio?"
"No, this one is different. It's not something they made. It's something they found."
Amanda leaned away, the blood draining from her face. She struggled to regain her sobriety and composure. She shouted over the music, "Chester, you wanna go for a walk?"
Chester shrugged. Amanda bounced, rocking into her chair to gain momentum, and dropped off, and mentioned to the others that she and Chester were going to step out for a few moments. Rytts followed Traveler, wrestling past others on his way out of the busy venue.
Amanda lead Chester from the club, and through an unlit maintenance hallway. She leaned against a wall and arched her back, with her arms crossed. "Hey. What did you mean, found? I haven't heard anything about this."
Rytts said, "Yeah. It might be foreign, alien, or something like that. This is all we know. They lost a whole generation ship, and there's video and a data file that we got hold of. Happened a while ago, but the cracks are showing through the cover-up."
"Do we know where it is? Or what?"
"The weapon? Not really. Our source just says it has to have something to do with the computers we use to run generation ships. Their core got cooked in a way that bypassed all the manual fail-safes. Er, we shouldn't be talking about this. Not here. But you should be involved."
Amanda Traveler put her arm on Chester's shoulder and gave a squeeze she hoped would put him at ease. The gesture might have been comforting if it had seemed less planned, or if Chester hadn't felt cagey. "I thought you couldn't hack control computers. Wasn't that part of the point of the whole pseudo-sentience thing?"
"I don't know. We only know that they recovered the core and they're trying to drag details out of it, but I guess it got scrambled. You think we can get a field assignment out of this?"
The situation sounded spooky. Amanda hoped the alcohol was talking when Rytts said something about alien tech. "Yeah. Rytts, thanks. Keep me in the loop. If you need any support..."
Traveler wondered why she hadn't been consulted until a colleague with a crush ran his mouth. Command might have thought the work not worth her time. Claims of the discovery of alien technology never panned out. And Chester's story - Amanda was certain all the generation ships could be accounted for. If the Quorum had lost one, the incident should have been documented and publicized. The generation ships were difficult to engage in combat, and with their large civilian population, casualties were a political concern. An enemy would struggle to disable the craft without outright destruction, and the offensive capabilities were staggering compared to privately-owned and commercial craft. Heavily-armed city ships do not silently vanish.
***
The first humans born in space didn't have a specific cultural identity. Their parents were sponsored by massive multinational corporations working through plans to resolve Earth's blooming overpopulation problem. Humans had long wished to explore space, with romantic notions of colonies on foreign planets. But the moon hadn't been colonized when the first civil space station became operational. Population growth became an exercise in locating habitable volume, and people learned that cities were simpler to build inside metal balloons that could be placed anywhere. The earliest stations weren't high-tech habitats, but simple spinning terrariums on trajectories that wouldn't coincide with planetary orbits or space debris.
People weren't prepared for life in microgravity; regardless, they tried. Terrible diseases arose. The human reproductive cycle failed in space, though this wasn't considered a problem by the planet-born. Gravity generators were developed and medical technology advanced and countered these problems within two generations. These advances changed the perception of life in space, as the number of station inhabitants grew to exceed those on Earth. Space became a comfortable, healthy place to live, without the soil and toil of life on Earth.
Small wars were fought, but when one lives in a bubble in space, minor injuries are lethal. The desperation of the first inhabitants forged a sort of camaraderie and lead to the Uran ideal. The inhabitants of Earth carved up the area beyond the solar system into sectors, political unions drawn from ethnic and national communities. As inchworm drive technology developed and human mastery of gravitational forces became efficient enough to push large things from far away, humans were able to form diaspora where new nations took root. Orthogonal lines were drawn along the galactic plane, centered on the location of Earth at some particular point in time. Those lines were used to divide the galaxy into eight sections. And the divisions were not fair.
Free space would be established beyond a certain radial distance from Earth. The borders between the political sectors - civilized space against this new free space - were defined based on population counts. The lawful borders of the sectors were defined as the distance from the center within which ninety five percent of the lawful population lived. The census included individuals who had not been convicted of any major crime, and who swore allegiance to the Quorum and to the sector governments. These borders defined the areas within which the sectors could operate, and the areas the sectors were required to provide welfare and security services.
Once beyond the borders of free space, neither the Quorum nor the sector governments would intervene. Laws were considered enforceable by the Quorum government, and a criminal, upon returning to civilized space, could be tried and punished for their behavior in free space. But the central governments made no promise of protection - stations outside the sectors were occasionally subject to raids by pirates and privateers, funded by the governments of competing sectors. Free stations would hire private corporations to protect and govern them, and private corporations specializing in security, mining, engineering, and construction would operate with no presence in civilized space. As these corporations and their constituents grew in size, they would push deeper into free space, racing against the sector borders that would expand at the conclusion of each census.
In the beginning, expansion was rapid and violent. As the distance between stations grew, pushed apart from each other by the growing number of massive gravity-dilaton generation arrays installed on dead planets, expansion became limited by the distances ships could travel to provide supplies. As populations grew, engineers would construct new stations attached to existing ones, and as those stations neared completion, the population would split, and the new station would be pushed towards free space. Some of these new stations were quite far away from both Earth and humanity, and collected members practicing radical philosophies and religions.
A Gorman man, dressed in traditional white robes made of thread-bare organic linen, walked along the primary promenade of the Uran Station U-Z-112. The station straddled the border with Gorman space, and though the man's presence was unusual, pilgrims from the Gorman sector visit to entertain occasional desires. Pious Gormans avoided other sectors; the sort of pleasures available meant temptation to stray from their strict religious code. Many forms of distraction were restricted by Gorman society: fiction, sex, and drugs.
He was tall and thin, with an uncut blonde beard and a shaved head. Intelligent blue eyes peered out from underneath his sweat-soaked brow. Both of his arms hung at his sides. In one hand he held a palm-sized medallion, tenderly rubbing it with the tip of his thumb. The action of his finger on the medal as he prayed had polished the surface to a brilliant sheen. His other hand concealed something, as if he had trapped a small insect or a bird. He paced into the center of the promenade. A rare event began as the Gorman man crushed the small glass vial in his hand, dropped the shards, and fell to the floor, dead.
The poison consumed the lives of others who were passing within a dozen meters. The air recycling system in the promenade detected the toxin without delay, and vented the area to space with a deafening roar. Fifteen people died in the attack, out of six million living on the station.
The per-cycle death count was small by Gorman standards, a people used to suffering and death, who eschewed prosthetics, radiation therapy, clone tissue, and other forms of engineering as a solution to the diseases caused by exposure. But on the Uran station, this was as many as had died in the last 30 megaseconds. Uran deaths were quite rare, most often the result of a voluntary refusal of medical treatment. Dying on a planet, or in free space, was easier than in any advanced Uran home. The Ura were masters of prosthetic implants, and had developed technology to replace any failing body part or organ. Brain tissue could be replaced from cloned tissue or augmented with electronics. Effective counseling prevented most forms of auto-euthanasia.
The event sent a wave of panic through the local community. Adherents of the Gorman Faith admonished the attack with devout fervor and yet praised the humbling of the arrogant Ura in secrecy. No one, Uran or Quorum, had the will to push the investigation of the murderer into the public eye. The Gorman man was identified as a lost cause, a beggar who left his home hoping to make his name. And the Ura refused to allow him to succeed in that.
The attack was discussed for less than two cycles on the local nets, and the more distant networks were concerned with more trivial matters. The shock and outrage diminished as one moved from the epicenter. Uran arrogance fed into dissonant thoughts, and in the end, excepting grieving families, few Ura believed the attack could have happened.