Koban

  Koban

  By Stephen W Bennett

  Text copyright © 2012 Stephen W Bennett

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover image used curtesy of NASA and the Space Telescope Science Institute.

  Table of Contents

  1. White Out

  2. Newborn

  3. Silence

  4. Suspicion

  5. Tiger Lily

  6. Ambushed

  7. Captured

  8. The Krall

  9. The Marking

  10. Assessment

  11. Clean Up

  12. Jump to Koban

  13. Private Conversations

  14. History Lesson

  15. Strategy

  16. Heaven and Hell

  17. Under Their Very Noses

  18. Deadly Reminder

  19. Advanced Planning

  20. Koban White Out

  21. Landing on Koban

  22. Welcome Party

  23. Odd Prey

  24. Inner Turmoil

  25. The Other Captives

  26. Colonel Grease

  27. Ship Shape

  28. Setting up Shop

  29. Koban Dawn

  30. Second Week

  31. To Catch a Cheat

  32. Put up or Shut up

  33. Dirty Tricks Bag

  34. Scout Mission

  35. Loading the Dice

  36. Crap Shoot

  37. The Hunters

  38. Pay Back

  39. Spider and Fly

  40. Spider Hole

  41. Spiders and Prey

  42. Final Gambit

  43. Life Goes on

  44. Influx

  45. Open House

  46. Rippers

  47. The Mark

  48. Second Wave.

  49. Power to the People

  50. Home Sweet Hell

  51. Kobani to the Core

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  1. White Out

  Mirikami watched dispassionately as the Navcomp display decremented through the final minutes in the Hole. Three and a half weeks made for a long damned Jump, and a bull’s eye re-entry from over two hundred light years away was hardly probable. For the Captain to win a small bet with his First Officer, the Flight of Fancy needed to overshoot the White Out coordinates, computed by the ship’s Artificial Intelligence, Jake, and emerge on the far side of Newborn’s star by at least two Astronomical Units, or over 185 million miles beyond the star.

  Noreen placed a little too much faith in Artificial Intelligence, in Mirikami’s opinion. As he anticipated, she had sided with Jake when the central computer predicted that the Jump would terminate shy of an optimum re-entry. Optimum in this case was two AU’s short of the target primary star, sometimes called Mother in jest, but which had only an uninteresting catalog number for its official designation.

  Small quantum uncertainties, when traveling within Tachyon Space, became magnified in Normal Space the longer a ship stayed inside the event horizon. Any Spacer had an even chance of predicting when a ten light year Jump might miss the targeted position by plus or minus one AU. So the game wasn’t to predict the exact White Out coordinates but rather if the ship would over or under shoot the target, and by how many AU’s. A 200 plus light year Jump made for a large error factor.

  Tetsuo Mirikami had plied his trade for forty-seven years, certainly time enough to hone his intuition, although he never contested Jake’s prediction on a Jump of less than five light years. However, he was running seventeen percent better than even money on Jumps of ten light years or greater. By downplaying misses and jokingly exaggerating his skill when he won a bet with one of his officers, crew scuttlebutt had it that the Old Man beat the computer’s projections most of the time.

  That small-added confidence served to offset an unavoidable drawback, which Mirikami’s personal background presented to the crew. The tag “Old Man” was the result of genuine affection for him, although it caused the Captain to cringe inwardly, since it had an uncomfortable ring of truth.

  At sixty-nine, Mirikami was by far Interworld Transport’s oldest and most senior active flight officer, having twenty-three years invested in this one company, serving the last fifteen years as a Captain. However, his long service record was a distinction only within this small company. His seniority and age would be average for a Captain employed by one of the major Hub carriers.

  Just reaching middle age, Mirikami expected to continue working for Interworld, or a similar small carrier, for perhaps another thirty to forty years. It struck him as ironic that his success and longevity at Interworld was entirely a product of discrimination. Otherwise, he would have moved up the career ladder years ago, leaving Interworld behind.

  As with any male, of course, the top promotion opportunities in large or small companies would be limited, but gender wasn’t the roadblock it once had been for men. There was more serious obstacle than a glass ceiling in Mirikami’s path.

  No, his inescapable stigma was recorded in his every cell, and in a huge genetic database shared by every settled planet. His actual birth world was a matter of record, open to anyone that wanted to crosscheck a sample of his DNA.

  The DNA linked birth records showed that Mirikami had been born on New Honshu, and none of the major lines would risk their carefully built reputations by hiring him, no matter his outstanding record of competence. The passage of three hundred years, barely more than two lifetimes today, wasn’t enough to erase the scars caused by the Clone Wars, and the so-called Gene War that ended those wars.

  The government and scientists of New Honshu had perfected cloned workers for labor poor new colony worlds. A significantly higher priced offering of soldier clones, intended for the ranks of small but capable colony armies was not finding a market. Therefore, New Honshu created a market.

  They used a hundred thousand of their “stock” to invade several of their nearly undefended neighboring colonies in bloodless actions. They “urged” those governments to agree to certain trade arrangements with New Honshu. Subsequently they sold most of their Trooper clones to the defeated worlds for their own future protection; after all, clones would also fight other clones. Except by design, the new owners could not force the clones to attack New Honshu.

  The New Honshu government didn’t fight with its neighbors anymore; it simply sold anyone soldiers to fight for their new owners. The invasion immunity factor no doubt made New Honshu the particular retaliatory target of vengeance. That revenge nearly wiped out the human race.

  Bio-engineered soldier clones were the intended target of some anonymous world’s biologists and geneticists. Clone buyers were awaiting shipment from New Honshu when someone quietly triggered what later was called the Gene War.

  The timing was exquisite. The buyers had just paid a nonrefundable purchase price, the soon-to-be delivered living goods rendered highly perishable, and the sellers themselves were financially ruined.

  Just weeks before several large Trooper shipments were scheduled; a few dozen stealth missiles were released above New Honshu. Later, investigators found the small missile casings and their empty biological containers on the surface of the planet near their target areas.

  It was a designed slow acting genetic modification virus. Six or seven months after the clones suddenly died like old Mayflies, a mutation in the human designed male-specific virus permitted the disease to jump from the targeted clones to the general population. Women were immune to the effects (having no Y chromosome), but any human could be infected and they became carriers. Every male became a target.

  The plague had moved off New Honshu as they shipped clones to customers on over a hundred worlds, and its spread went undetected to normal humans, where it was harmless, initially.

  One of the viru
ses designed self-defense mutations caused the infectious agent to lose track of a unique set of genes found only on the Y chromosome of a male clone’s common New Honshu derived template. Instead of killing only clones, the virus widened its scope to kill anyone with a Y chromosome.

  The resulting loss of perhaps ninety-seven percent of the male population of the human race virtually wrecked society, and altered interstellar culture profoundly. The virus designers themselves probably died from the mutated pathogen, but no one knew. At least no trace of their work was ever discovered, and there certainly was no miracle cure or vaccine developed.

  Universal panic and a violent backlash towards biological sciences hindered the development of advanced treatments, let alone a cure.

  About six months after one hundred percent of the clones were dead; nearly ninety-eight percent of the normal male population joined them, within a single month of terror.

  Citizens of New Honshu ranked highest on the “punish” list because the originators of the plague were never discovered. Unable to focus revenge on the plague designers, public anger fell on their perceived proxies. First on the laboratories and scientists that made the clones, and then anger fell on those biologists and geneticists that were studying the virus, to find a way to prevent or cure the genetic disease. The mobs lynched their potential saviors or drove them into hiding.

  The scientists and doctors caught by the mobs were burned alive or torn apart by the infected male plague victims that had only days or hours to live. They rampaged in mindless mob justice, destroying the labs that might have saved others.

  Even today for citizens from New Honshu, the sins of the Fathers lived on in the eyes of many, and three hundred years wasn’t enough to erase the memories completely.

  Mirikami became aware that a lengthy silence had passed on the Bridge. With a twinge of guilt, he realized that he had been shamefully neglecting his guest, the only other person present on the largely automated command deck, at least until his First Officer returned from her pre re-entry inspection.

  Glancing over his right shoulder, he saw that his visitor appeared to be deeply engrossed in thought, staring intently at the forward view screen. The man (his gender itself had been a surprise) was a representative from the consortium of universities that had chartered the Flight of Fancy. He was present to observe the re-entry and to furnish Midwife Station, their final destination, with a cargo manifest, personnel rooster, and unloading priorities. It was a prestige sort of duty, normally given to a well-connected young woman on her way up.

  Probably his passenger’s rare bioscience specialty had subconsciously sparked the Captain’s own dark musings of the past.

  Taking advantage of Martin’s preoccupation, Mirikami studied the man. Martin was quite tall, roughly two meters, with a large and muscular build. His features were ruggedly handsome, the neat dark brown hair trimmed in a fashion current on Ramah, the planet where they had departed. His stylish single piece form fitting body suit was of an expensive “Smart” Dalgonian stretch fabric. It featured a wide and flamboyant magenta stripe over an indigo background, running diagonally from left shoulder to right hip, front and back, with a hand-sized heart shaped red accent patch right over his groin. Definitely, a stud male, and advertising his wares, thought Mirikami.

  Overall, Martin looked nothing like a bio-scientist, or at least nothing like those generally depicted in old Tri-Vid horror dramas of the Clone War. Those defaming old portrayals typically seemed to be of skulking, repulsive looking little men, often oriental, but never females of course. Mirikami felt a sense of ironic amusement as he realized that he had mentally expected the same appearance for this man before he even met him, as many might have anticipated for a wartime scientist from New Honshu.

  The Captain thought he detected an aura of tension in Martin’s posture. The doctor’s broad shoulders were hunched forward, right fist clenched in his large left hand, his piercing dark eyes staring fixedly at the forward view screen.

  Guessing at a reason for his visitor’s intense preoccupation with the view screen, Mirikami spoke in a reassuringly casual manner. “I certainly hope our re-entry is within four or five AU’s of the primary star, Doctor. That would sure save us some time vectoring in towards Newborn and matching orbits with Midwife station. We can’t realistically expect to be any closer than that.” It was a subtle attempt to convey an impression that the possibility of actually hitting the primary star or a planet should be nothing to worry him.

  Dillon Martin, his mind far from thoughts of disaster, had been engrossed in speculating on the research ahead of him at Midwife, the huge station orbiting around Newborn. The sudden awareness that the Captain had just spoken directly to him forced him to replay the words his mind had subconsciously registered. He noted the emphasis on “hope” and “expect,” as well as an awareness of the slight ache in his arms from isometric strain. He realized he had unconsciously assumed a tense posture while allowing his excited imagination free reign.

  He replied, registering a warm smile. “Captain, I believe you have mistaken my eagerness to arrive for a fear of hitting the target. I’m not particularly versed on Jump physics, but I do work with probability in my work. I’d think the risk of hitting anything here should be exceedingly small.”

  The grin on Dillon’s face and the refined Ramaian accent countered any trace of rebuke his words might otherwise have conveyed. Nevertheless, Mirikami was at a momentary loss for words.

  Just before the exchange had started, one of the Bridge lift doors had opened behind the two men. Overhearing both of them, and correctly interpreting the Captain’s intention, the First Officer arrived on the Bridge just in time to save her superior from his minor embarrassment.

  “Fine Sir, please understand that our Bridge guests are usually colonists, predominantly farmers and untraveled craftswomen making their first Jump, more fearful of the voyage itself than of the wild new world they plan to settle. A ship full of scientists is a refreshing change.”

  As she spoke, Dillon pivoted his seat to face her. She was tall and stunningly beautiful. She was also the reason he had called in a number of favors to gain the purely token observer’s post.

  “Quite understandable Good Lady,” Dillon flashed another winning smile. “The number of biologists, geneticists, biochemists; all of the various ‘ists’ of the life sciences on board is rare on entire planets, let alone aboard a single ship. We are exceedingly eager to study the emerging life of Newborn, which will likely be the culmination of our collective careers.”

  Mirikami, with a small nod of gratitude to his First Officer, stepped in again, “Doctor, I apologize for misjudging your mood. Often our passengers are colonists, apprehensive about where the ship might White Out. A few hundred accidents each year, out of several hundred million safely completed Jumps, receive an undue degree of news coverage.”

  “No problem Captain. I would hardly allow the Gracious Lady’s valiant rescue effort to fail.” Dillon gave a lopsided grin that made him seem boyish and he looked expectantly from Mirikami to his subordinate.

  The Captain, deferring his superior rank for the social grace expected, extended his right arm and pivoted towards the new arrival, “Gentle Sir, may I present my extraordinary First Officer?”

  Enfolded in his chair’s restraints, ship custom permitted Mirikami to make an introduction without rising for a full bow. “Gracious Lady, I am pleased to present for your approval, Doctor Dillon Martin, our observer.” Continuing, as he executed the slight bow his restrains permitted, swept his arm in an arc from his First Officer to his guest. “Distinguished Sir, I have the honor to present my very able and indispensable First Officer, Commander and Lady, Noreen Renaldo.”

  Dillon’s preferred gesture of gallantry with a woman he was interested in, old fashioned as it was, would have been to drop to his right knee, then with eyes averted, offer his right hand palm down to be lightly held, or if fully successful, kissed. His own seat restraints thwarted such
action now, and he offered an alternative greeting, almost as archaic and conservative as well. Averting his eyes, “On my honor, my Lady, it is my pleasure to be presented.”

  Unexplainably, Noreen found herself pleased by his restraint. The absence of an overt sexual invitation or proclamation of fertility from a male with obvious breeding potential was refreshing. She decided this subdued approach was probably a calculated and successful technique for him, and yet this knowledge made it no less appealing.

  She chose a suitable sexually neutral form in reply. “Gentle Sir, how noble of you to speak so. I am pleased to have you presented,” and she stepped past him with a light stroke of fingertips along his jaw line.

  Circumstances compelled Mirikami to interrupt further social interplay. “Please excuse me Gracious Lady. Doctor we will able to view the Newborn system first hand shortly.” Then, abandoning formality, “Better strap in Noreen, we only have a few minutes. I’ve advised Ms. Willfem that I want to begin acceleration just as soon as we have our bearings.”

  “Aye, Sir.” Noreen moved to her station directly to Mirikami’s right, with the observer’s chair between and a meter behind them. The Flight of Fancy’s command section was on the topmost deck of a three hundred-meter diameter elongated sphere, and four hundred fifty meters on the long axis.

  Dillon watched appreciatively as Noreen, in her near skintight white dress uniform, eased her trim figure into the amorphous Living Plastic couch-seat. Sensing her presence, it promptly molded itself to her contours, folding the control arm smoothly down in front of her. Pseudo pod like appendages extruded from the sides and over the back to merge and gently but firmly secure the seated occupant.

  Watching the seat fit itself to her body brought a vague tingle to Dillon’s mid-regions. Her Earth-Hispanic heritage was apparent in silky soft flowing black hair draped about her shoulders, as well as in her light olive complexion, full lips and dark eyes. He detected the scent of some pheromone-based perfume that accentuated the tingle he felt.

  Noreen made a rapid entry at a keypad on her control panel and a long slender rod grew from the console, curving slightly toward her face. She spoke into it to address the ship’s Artificial Intelligence. “Jake, display status of all couches on screen three B.”