Day the second

[aesmael]

Originally published at a denizen's entertainment. You can comment here or there.

Still hating this story. At least I have decided the main problem is it is badly written. The plot has no merit but if it were written skilfully it at least might be fun to read.

Coming out more like a sketched, rushed outline than a full story. I have that problem with most things I write lately. Maybe I'm doing it wrong. Have very nearly reached the end of the first part and it is looking more like a prologue than an equal part of the story. This whole thing is looking increasingly less than novel length, would probably need to stretch for it to be more than 20 thousand words, and I don't want to force something like that.

Tempted to quit and revise, get the story some proper outlining or work on something else, but I know whatever I work on I will hate it and be miserable anyway, so I'm going to continue and make this thing get to its end. I don't know what I will do about the later parts. There is no way I could write those quickly; they require a lot of invention of the sort I do slowly and poorly.

It could be better. I could be more patient, or write it out quickly and then go over it more carefully. I was going to outline this story, all proper-like, but then I ran out of time. Characterisation is going badly, of course. It is something I am especially bad at, at I have no idea how to show the qualities I put in their design, or even how to come up with decently peopled characterisations.

Anyway, it's all rubbish. But it's my rubbish, and I decided to produce it, and keep a log of it, so that's what is happening.

I have been trying to write in whole scenes, not leaving them incomplete at the end of the day, but the last one here is unfinished. I was tired and did not have a clear idea of how Nawar interacts with the world, or how to depict Shula in that scene.

Shula was compact, but not so cramped ver crew could not carve out their own niches of privacy and comfort.

Ferideh found Hanifah passing time as she usually did during their nominal day, in the keeping up and keeping herself familiar with the latest of Zaran medicine. Her only other hobby that Ferideh knew of was her models, tiny, delicately constructed representations of various and sometimes improbable things. Every time battle required hard acceleration of them, she had to rebuild.

"Did you cut anyone this time?" Hanifah did not look up as she turned the page; she seldom did, at first.

"No one invited me. Don't worry, I'm sure there will be a loooot to do in a few days." Ferideh drew her arms out wide, as she drew out 'lot', seating herself on the bed beside Hanifah.

"I don't know why I bother reading up on all these diseases, when the only thing I get here is people cut up and punctured, burned and frozen... is it too much to ask for one mission where everyone stays whole?"

"That's how most missions go. Besides, our job is just to deliver ultimatums, not our fault if people refuse to go along with them. It's like walking into a, a threshing machine."

"That's how you see us? As a threshing machine?"

"Pfah, metaphor. That is how we could seem to those who ignore our warnings and blunder where they should not be." She stretched out her hands, next to Hanifah's. "And you must admit, these hands do fine work."

"Must I?" she chuckled. "We are a bloody pair, whatever we turn ourselves to. And you, I suppose you've been ordered to enjoy yourself again, and come to find your fun in pestering me?"

"Yep. If I must suffer the travails of relaxation, then so. must. you."

At last Hanifah looked up from her book. "Crosswords?"

"Of course."

* * *

After so long waiting and preparing, not knowing until a few days ago if any of them but Ferideh would have any role to play, of knowing those few days what was to be done and the hour of its doing, still when the time came it seemed to have arrived with sneaking suddenness that caught them unprepared.

Shula, officially a police escort in what Zara termed its 'agency for the maintenance of order and defence' (never a military, nothing so uncouth, so unmercantile, not even on those occasions when escorts much like Shula faced down the officially military vessels of neighbouring nations), was a very efficient vessel. Though ve had a crew of five, including ver Commander Algol, nearly all operations were carried out by the AI which had been installed as standard on these vessels for nearly two dozen years. Shula handled systems, navigation, combat especially, and on most occasions the only use for the crew was for the commander to issue an occasional order. Shula could have done that too, but didn't have the rank for it officially, and those in charge hadn't quite acclimatised to the notion a crew was nearly entirely superfluous on nearly every mission.

Consequently when the time approached for their confrontation with the operators of Base 13 most of the crew's action stations consisted of making sure they were somewhere Shula could protect them from the dangers of high acceleration if combat ensued, rather than killing them. The two exceptions to this were Algol, who as commander had the additional responsibility of talking to their targets until either surrender or some offensive action took place, and Altair.

Altair's position, rank, and vocation was geometer. Her part in such missions was to inscribe the patterns which would open their enemies' defences and render them vulnerable, to close space tighter than their foes could pass easily through and, in this case, to pry open their targets' sanctums wide enough to slip them right into Shula's and Hakem's holding cells if they proved uncooperative.

When the chime came signalling time for final preparations Altair was dancing in her cabin, something she generally did privately so as not to discomfit others. She flickered her fingers and let off a brief, tiny firework of exasperation, then reported for duty.

* * *

Altair was restrained and protected, engulfed on the bridge, just as was Algol. They could still speak and act vicariously via muscle sensors and limited neural interface. They could still, being not engaged in battle, and not undergoing any acceleration artificial gravity could not compensate for, perform these activities mostly directly. Altair preferred not to.

She requested a triplet of stelae from Shula and began her inscriptions upon them by remote. Projected in her mental space, they were arranged and rearranged, tweaked continuously to work in better harmony, the three effects she was shaping made to interlock and enhance each other, updated as she worked by fresh data from Shula's sensors.

They were held back from activation, potential wrenchings of space, only, until the moment came, if the moment came, when they would be needed.

Algol, and Hakem's Commander Bashir, had been engaged in their confrontation with the operators of Base 13 when she signalled readiness on her part but Altair had not noticed at all until that moment.
One of the operators was insisting they had no jurisdiction, despite this being Zaran space. When that did not work, they switched to increasingly less implicit threats of retaliation and dire consequences should any action be taken against them. They did not grow frantic in the face of the Zaran's implacability. Altair readied herself to make adjustments. Monitors showed a slight excess in local traffic, defensive posture. Then...

"Base 13, order your vessels to stand down immediately or you will be considered engaged in hostilities against peaceful vessels."

"Zaran vessels, we have no ships under our command. We are a peaceful free-base."

"Those ships are in your space, with weapons armed in contravention of your stated policy. Do you or do you not have a problem with that?"

The connection went dead. Pressure mounted on Altair's body. Monitors
showed them under fire near-simultaneously.

Shula's voice whispered in her ear: "Requesting your assistance in 5, 4, 3, 2, now."

Lines engaged, fields cut. Seconds later results returned, defensively postured vessels in Base 13 space being progressively shredded, those not registering ready to fire ignored. They hadn't expected the last few. Heavier armed, Altair's tuning imperfectly capturing them. Still moving, firing, shielded, they rocked Shula hard.

Altair ignored that, focusing on her enjoyment of the pressure of acceleration, retuning, re-scribing her fields to account for what had been eliminated and especially focusing on the unaccounted newcomers. Eventually they too were opened to space and things quieted.

A long silence of nearly a second.

"Status?"

"Our opposition has been eliminated, Commander. Base 13 stripped of defences." Pause. "Brig is empty."

An unspoken profanity hung in the air.

"Hail them."

"No response, Commander. Neutrals are scattering, there's no way, and I'm badly damaged. Suggest we call it loss, retreat and repair."

There was a brief consult with Commander Bashir, then agreement. They pulled out high and in, counter-spinward, away from the scattering of Base 13.

* * *

They had reported back to their superiors. They, and the Hamek, had departed separately. Now they were more than a hundred million kilometres away, in close orbit, more travelling along with than orbit really, about a body no larger than that which had housed Base 13. This one had been untouched by human activity and bore only a catalogue designation.

After the ambush they had gathered in the bridge. There was not actually much to discuss. They agreed to the destination Shula suggested. They discussed the unexpected extra ships which had done so much damage, and how it was that Altair's 'port had managed not to snatch any of their targets, and came to a unified conclusion: Base 13 had known about this operation for months, probably as soon as it had been ordered, and its operators had staged a trap for them. They survived and had in some sense prevailed was therefore testament partly to their ability, but probably mostly to the limited resources an operation like Base 13 could call upon.

Which brought them here. Shula had been lowering their orbit steadily for an hour now and was on the point of final descent. Nawar watched the landscape spreading out below, unravelling and becoming as near to flat-seeming as it could manage, tapping restlessly through various metrics and views.

Shula's voice came through light, playful, for Nawar's ears only. "I can manage a landing you know. I'm pretty sure. There were simulations and everything."

"Yes, and when we're down who is going to identify the best spots to drill or operate the remotes for you?"