SG: Aurora #27 - Scramble! (Part Three of Three)
Frobozz
[Continued From Part Two.]
Al Peterson stood in the middle of a buzzing, questioning crowd and
felt conspicuous. As his job was now to be the centre of attention, this
meant that he was doing his job properly. Dark glasses and a suit was what
he had been told to wear and so, that's what he had put on. One look in a
mirror had convinced him that he should have an ear-piece and slicked hair,
just to complete his G-man image.
"Mr Peterson! MR PETERSON!" yelled reporters, waving tape recorders,
memo pads, press cards and in one case, a hundred dollar bill. Remembering
his priorities, Peterson nodded to the man with the money.
"Mr Peterson, what is the nature of this threat that's facing the
world?" asked the reporter, giving Peterson his best 'hard hitting where
the news happens' look, which was quite easy to confuse with his 'I've just
been hard hit in a very sensitive area and I'm doing my best not to double
over gasping for air' look. Peterson, Aurora's public liaison, loosened his
collar. He had no idea whether or not he was cut out for this job, but if
he flubbed his lines here he knew that it was not meant to be. Taking a
deep breath, Peterson remembered the briefing on what to do in this
situation.
"We have no comment at this time, sir." Perfect. Beautiful. Anyone in
the American intelligence arms would be green with envy at his delivery.
Anyone in the Canadian arms would be too drunk to care. "You will be first
informed once news is released, of course."
"Mr Peterson!" cried another reporter. "Jacobson from 'New Age and
Garden Quarterly'. Isn't it true that you're secretly defending against the
second coming of Elvis and that in fact, you're trying to prevent Earth
from attaining celestial harmony with the spheres?"
"Who can say?" shrugged Peterson. "Those transcendental rock singers
all look the same, don't they? Better to block a million Elvi than let a
single Kenny Rogers through."
"Mr Peterson!" smiled a sultry reporter who strode with a sexy sashay.
"Sheila Shelby, 'Alliterative Album Annual'. Perhaps I could persuade you
politely to take me tomorrow to dinner on a date where I could conduct a
comprehensive interview that's intensely intimate?"
Peterson grinned. He could tell that he was going to like this job a
lot. Even if it did mean that he would have to date every gorgeous reporter
who asked politely. Oh well, any sacrifice for Aurora he reasoned as he
anxiously accepted the asked assignation.
***
On the Separated Shoulder-class Frigate 'Thunk, Splat, Roll' (named in
honour of the sound that Grand Leader Nox'on's head made as it fell from
its usual perch somewhere above his neck and skittered under a couch were
it gave the cleaning lady quite a fright), the ship's computer technician
scratched his head and swore slightly. Organic computer circuitry was a
royal pain to troubleshoot because you were rarely sure whether to run a
debugger or hand over two aspirin and a glass of water. The Invader cursed
under his breath as he checked for the source of the computer failure. It
seemed to have manifested suddenly, almost as though from some outside
source. This was an impossibility of course, as the computers interfaced
with nothing except each other, linking the fleet in a complex web that was
absolutely wicked to play Doom over.
"Buildup of psychic energy?" muttered the technician, shaking his
head. "The machine doesn't have any sense, much less a brain to store
psychic energy in."
The technician ran several corrective programs in the hopes that
someone who had written cheap pre-packed software had known how to deal
with this problem. When he looked back at the screen, sure enough there was
no trace of psychic energy anywhere in the computer systems. His job done,
on the theory that out-of-sight was out-of-mind and problem-in-sight was
technician-out-of-job, the Invader kicked back and did his level best to
look very busy while managing to accomplish surprisingly little, in the
grand tradition of any sysadmin who knew more about computers than the
people paying their salary.
Naturally, he did not notice the transmission that was being sent to
an orbit-high structure in the northern-most country of North America. This
was a pity because he could have piggy-backed a signal onto it to find some
of the best Doom players in all of the paramilitary world. Truth be told,
the ones in the fleet were starting to get a bit stale, but to critique a
superior's computer game playing style was to invite demotion, death,
dismemberment or all of the above.
***
It was work enough keeping people busy, mostly because one had to move
constantly from place to place making sure that people stayed occupied.
Because of this, chains of command came into being so that the top dogs
needed only keep their immediate underlings busy, who would in turn keep
their underlings in turn and so on and so forth, thus saving whoever was on
top a mint in shoe leather. What was even more tiring than keeping people
busy was keeping them busy while at the same time staying busy one's self.
Doyle was very, very tired. Even though his body was composed entirely
of solid light, he could and had become mentally fatigued. Slipping into
his office, he found his couch - which was right where he had left it, to
no surprise - and settled down for a well-deserved nap. This nap lasted
exactly fifteen seconds, which was just enough time to get comfortable
without actually getting any rest whatsoever, a nap well known to anyone
who has ever tried to sleep while small children were in the house.
"Mrgh," he mumbled, as he felt himself being paged through the
Beanstalk's computer systems. "Glrph," he managed, derezzing and retreating
into 'netspace. Accessing the system that allowed for communication with
the outside world, Doyle let the virtual reality interface take over,
translating his cybernetic world into a recreation of a small, comfortable
room complete with recliner. There was also a picture of dogs playing poker
hanging on one wall, on the somewhat subconscious belief that any room
which had a comfortable recliner was incomplete without this piece of art.
Several moments after the talk request was answered, a virtual form
entered the room. It was humanoid in appearance but beyond that the details
ended, as it was as featureless as any implementation of CP/M.
"What might I do for you?" asked Doyle, raising an eyebrow at the figure.
"Oh no," replied the figure, in a somewhat familiar voice. Doyle was
completely unable to place it, however. "I'm here to see what I can do for
you."
"I'm sorry, don't we know each other from somewhere?" asked Doyle,
looking confused. The figure chuckled lightly, resolving a davenport on
which to sit.
"We almost did, but coincidence kept us truly meeting by moments,"
replied the iconified person. "Still, I've kept track of you... I feel
almost like I know you. I want to help you."
"Help me?" asked Doyle. "Why do you want to help me?"
"Don't turn down the offer of help when you're in a hopeless
situation. Just listen to my offer. You're preparing for a battle that you
can't possibly win and you're ready to die trying to win it. But there's
another way."
"What's that?"
"I need your forces as a distraction. But when I give you a special
signal, I want you to have everyone retreat. Leave the battlefield. No harm
will come to your Earth, I promise."
"You want me to throw the war?" asked Doyle, incredulous. "This is
paramilitary action, not professional wrestling! We don't wear silly
costumes by choice and we don't fix the battles!"
"By losing it, you'll win it. I can promise you that."
"Who _are_ you?"
"I'm sorry, Arthur. I can't tell you that. It would spoil everything."
"You know that I can't trust you based on just what you've told me."
"I had hoped for more from you."
"I'm sure you did. The people I protect expect exactly this from me.
But you're asking me to leave my homeworld undefended on the chance that
you're telling the truth about keeping it safe. I can't risk something like
that. You have to understand."
"Arthur, I risked everything once for your world. When I did, I lost
everything. When I thought that I had nothing left, hope was dangled before
me. That too was taken from me, leaving me with even less than before. I've
learned a very valuable lesson about your world."
"That being?"
"It takes everything and leaves you with nothing. You're intent on
leaving me with nothing too. I'll go now. But when the battle comes, we
won't be friends anymore. We'll be bitter enemies. Those who are my enemies
fall, Arthur. You will fall. Your troops will fall. The invaders will
fall."
"What about Earth?" asked Doyle, quietly.
The figure said nothing, but rose instead and vanished, cutting
transmission.
Doyle closed his eyes, feeling so much more than tired now. One enemy
had left them with almost no hope of victory. But now Aurora faced two, the
second even less known than the first.
"May Elvis have mercy on our souls," muttered Doyle, hoping that the
day of battle would never come while knowing full well that it would. Stand
or fall were no longer the options. Doyle knew now that he had only the
choice of how he would fall.
***
Twenty-eight hours later...
"Sir!" shouted Davison, jumping up from his seat at the Beanstalk's
distant early warning sensors. "Alien armada has entered into an intercept
course with Earth's orbit!"
"Get Graham on the horn," barked the senior staff member on duty.
"Sound full alert!"
Davison stared at his sensor readings in shocked. "Oh bugger..."
"What?"
"I'm reading... over one-hundred fifty ships of war approaching..."
Silence fell upon the room, as eyes were turned down to consider that
number. Minds began to compare one-hundred fifty ships to two. Eyes were
closed and one young sensor operator curled into a fetal ball, shivering. A
single voice broke the silence.
"I said contact Graham! Report and get to your duties everyone, am I
understood?"
"Yessir!" came the shaky response, as most hands returned to their
duties. The shamefaced operator picked himself up off the floor and plodded
to his seat, still shivering with the shock of the news.
It seemed that today, Earth would be going to war. It was bringing
bringing a knife to a gunfight. But worse still, the knife had been made by
K-Mart.
[To Be Continued!]
***
As usual, this story is trademarked, all rights reserved 1997 to
Frobozz/Chris Angelini (email:fro...@eyrie.org, homepage:
http://www.eyrie.org/~frobozz). Everything alluded to is intended as
satire, and no trademark infringement is intended nor implied. I am the
jumping bean. Kaloo. Kalay.