EMPIRE SHIP

by Christopher McKitterick

Tadpole Dofbatyc XIV, Ship Chi‑1

A troop of twelve boys marched through thornbush and cactus across a stone plain. Just discernable both ahead and behind was the training level's curvature, lifting the horizon upward with the curve of the Ship. Dofbatyc's ankles ached as his boots clapped against the rock, dust rising with each step. They'd been crossing Ship level 104 for ten hours now, practicing aim, windage, and other cyber-rifle techniques on the march and in full run. He was beginning to have trouble concentrating on classwork.

An automated holo of an instructor lectured about reaction ammunition, old-fashioned stuff that no one used anymore except during Occupations – but he had to learn how to be a good Technician and Occupation soldier to reach his goals. Even fatigued beyond the stim's capacity to counter, he still put together the right chemical combinations during the load simulation, and his virtual rocket soared away from the virtual tube he held. He smelled a metallic tang of exhaust momentarily stronger than the sage and dry grass. A good, detailed sim program. Clearly designed by an experienced Technician, something he could appreciate. During normal class, he would have smiled at this little success. But now he was just too tired. The platoon marched on, each boy concentrating on his individual tutelage, even as they were randomly ordered to fire at prepared targets.

Thousands of white suns hovered in the sky, packed so tight that he couldn't look up without forcing his pupils to iris down to pinpoints – and even then he couldn't see the next Ship level, 200 meters above this one. And hot, so hot. Already, two tads had collapsed from the heat. Dofbatyc, in a central – therefore, more protected – position because of his pre-Tech designation, hoped they were okay; one was Iudos, his only real friend and fellow pre-Tech, who always had trouble regulating his temperature. If Iudos didn't recover in a hurry, he might be pulled from the squad. No tad who had been pulled was heard from again. Rumor had it that they slaved in the manufactories on the actual surface of the planet, cast out of Ship into Exile. What would become of those outside when everyone else shipped out from this world?

The computer teacher ordered Dofbatyc to research another fuel combination. Dofbatyc hardly even saw the sweaty tan uniform of the boy in front of him as he mentally sorted through library files. He wasn't paying proper attention to the primary lesson, and somehow Platoon Leader noticed.

"Hey, girl Dofbatyc," Biicyzov said loud enough for everyone to hear. Several tads giggled; this was their favorite name for him because he had no ambition of becoming a muscleheaded combat Shipman. "Keep your eyes open!"

Gernoon tossed a stone at Dofbatyc, who didn't sense it soon enough to avoid a glancing hit. More giggles, more pebbles. Keep your mouth shut, Dofbatyc told himself. Don't let them know they're getting to you. He'd learned that the hard way. Years of beatings had taught him to keep quiet, though that didn't completely stop them. But his submission didn't prevent his fantasizing about returning their treatment. It was bad enough that he was still a tad who was a year older than everyone else in the squad. Some days he didn't accomplish any homework, so intent was he on revenge daydreams. Luckily, Dofbatyc's younger brother was more conventional and didn't have to endure so much torture. Dofbatyc occasionally worried that he'd still be a tad one day when Lars joined a squad – and what if it was in Dofbatyc's own platoon? That would be too much dishonor to survive. Finally, Biicyzov told the boy's harassers to knock it off.

Soon, accelerator rifles began to pulse somewhere just ahead. A tad screamed in pain. The mocking laughter ceased.

Dofbatyc instantly shut down his holo-lesson to a wait symbol at one side of his vision and fell flat on his belly, shrugging the rifle from his shoulder and taking it into his hands. He crawled toward a dense growth of thornbush, dust dry in his mouth.

Squad leader Biicyzov gave unnecessary orders: "Spread out and take cover!" his holo shouted inside Dofbatyc's head. "Return fire at will when you identify a target."

This attack was no sim.

Dofbatyc lay as still as possible while he used his rifle's scope to scan the rocks around them for heat signals. He had to blink sweat out of his eyes often, and dust tickled his nose. The shots kept coming, but only one at a time from two or three snipers. This would be easy if only the tads could find them. Another tad grunted as he took a hit. Dofbatyc's heart pounded loud in his ears as he narrowed his search. They have to be somewhere in those rocks, he thought, listening to the echoed whine of accelerators. He carefully monitored his pulse and adrenaline level, though he'd already taken a heavy dose of the latter. Yet another tad was hit and started to cuss like an off-duty Shipman. That only made him more obvious to the assailants.

Dofbatyc tilted his head to see who it was. Big, dumb Gernoon squirmed in the dust, an exit-hole in his thigh the size of a fist. Because the bullet had penetrated armored pants, Dofbatyc deduced the attackers were using coated rounds. Dofbatyc looked away. He didn't care if that bully shithead took another few whacks. Of course, he didn't want the boy to die; that would leave the squad one weaker, and it's dangerous to be part of a weakened squad. There had been 18 of them like all the others at New Year Fest. Twelve was a little small, especially when it was only three-quarters of the way through the year.

A ceramic bullet ripped through the bush and ricocheted off Dofbatyc's helmet. He winced at the pain in his neck and then let his head fall face-first into the dead spines. The ground smelled of stripped soil and rotting plants. It only took a few seconds for him to determine the vector of the bullet, gauged by impact and ricochet angles. He slowly lifted his head and peered through his scope, scanning the area to affirm his calculations. Dumb, dumb, dumb, he thought. How could we all miss that? About a hundred meters out at three o'clock, tiny puffs of dust rose from the shockwave of rounds leaving a sniper's rifle. The soldier was underground, only the mouth of his rifle barrel above the surface. The sniper's partner must be feeding him targeting data. Dofbatyc arranged the info, fed it out on his platoon's scrambled band so they could all pick it up on their implanted headcards, and then fired at the barrel-tip.

Biicyzov had armed the boys that morning with accelerator rifles, too, because they had best range, and desert fighting usually required range. But a plasma rifle would have done a better job of sealing the plastic tube of that sniper rifle; tiny ceramics require precise aim. Dofbatyc kept firing in semi-auto mode as fast as he could while keeping the magnified crosshair on the target. He still had trouble, though, controlling the computerized muscle micros that would have kept him rigidly on target, so someone else's bullet struck the enemy gun.

The energy must have transferred along the barrel to the sniper, for Dofbatyc watched a square of gravel rise after the shot as if someone had bumped the hole's cover. After that, all the tads maintained fire on the loose mat. Only then did Nigel, their grenadier, get smart enough to lob a grenade at the target – late but with perfect aim. Dofbatyc ducked when he saw the black ball land in his scope's field of view. Thud, the concussion collapsed the sniper's roof and threw up a ring of dust. Boy, thought Dofbatyc, I hope that sniper's well-armored. Tad squads that killed their attackers tended to attract ever more dangerous ambushes. Grenadiers who used anything nastier than frag grenades – but gentler than concussion rounds – usually went down next ambush. Maybe that's why Nigel had waited so long.

The other sniper chose to open fire full-auto now. Ceramic slugs raked the ground ten per second, shattering and tearing the rock, sending up storms of shrapnel. A sliver of stone burned through Dofbatyc's right calf. He winced and tried to concentrate on finding the source. How could a sniper using full-auto stay hidden?

Biicyzov found him first. Dofbatyc watched the top-left corner of his vision fill with targeting info; he swiveled his scope into rough position, then let his rifle/neurosystem graft assist him in fine targeting. There. Blatant as hell, a rifle the color of grey stone rested atop a boulder, and an optic feed floated a dozen meters above that. The sniper was using the suns' glare to hide his surveillance system, which didn't look all that different from an ever-present security robot. This time, Dofbatyc's shot was one of the first to strike the target, the optics globe. It shattered into a puff of brown muck and glass, clanking when its parts hit the ground. One grenade and then another landed behind the boulder and blasted, sending out dusty ripples and whistling shrapnel.

The sniper ceased firing for a few seconds. Biicyzov ordered the tads to encircle, sending each specific orders. Dofbatyc was crawling as ordered when the Shipman burst from behind the boulder, rifle held loosely in his hands, firing full auto, an ammo pack swinging beneath the weapon big enough to hold 100,000 rounds... and the man wasn't armored except for tan pants and short-sleeve shirt that weren't likely to do more than resist bullet penetration. Arms as thick as a tad's thighs knotted as he aimed and ran, keeping the weapon level. Even his meaty head was bare.

Dofbatyc wasn't sure what to do. They could accidentally kill this practice enemy, this Empire Shipman. Dofbatyc wondered if he was the father of some tad in the squad to offer himself thus. But to delay action would be even worse: Shipmen who gave the gift of simulated ambush wasted no pity on squeamish tads, especially their own sons. Already, Dofbatyc could see the soldier gritting his teeth into a feral smile as bullets pierced his forearms and tore his clothing. Bones were surely breaking, organs bruising. Yet still he fired, mowing up the ground where the tad platoon crawled, tearing up the boys' flesh. He was pleased, and that was good. Few of the tads' shots struck anywhere but against the armored regions, and the concussion grenades only made him leap around a bit more to avoid a direct hit which could tear off even a Shipman's leg... and not even the best blood bots could rebuild one of those. One blast sent the man somersaulting through the air – firing accurately through the complete circle. He landed, rolled, and continued the movement back to his feet, not missing a shot.

He was invincible. He was the epitome of all that was great in the Empire. Dofbatyc swallowed hard. It was beautiful, this ugly display of power and fearlessness and body modification. Even though Dofbatyc secretly hated combat, even though all he really wanted to do was become a Technician and start a life of his own away from shiplife, he couldn't help but admire this demigod. The warrior moved so fast from boulder to boulder that he seemed able to avoid the blinding-fast bullets themselves. He must be pumped full of stims, nerve-dampened, fully muscle-assisted. The man's tendons must be like rhino leather.

Well, Dofbatyc wouldn't let his squad go down, even if it meant seriously hurting or killing their assailant, even if he hated his fellow tads' guts. Without a strong squad, he wouldn't survive the year, and he had hopes and dreams for a future with Jinka. He had to survive. Either way – killing the Shipman or not hitting him hard enough – they were in trouble.

Dofbatyc took aim at the exposed throat, slowed his pulse to 60, tracked his target, and slowly exhaled as he squeezed the trigger. Whine-crack. A fraction of a second later, a tiny red spot opened on the front of the man's neck and a volcano of blood and flesh erupted from the back. Because the Shipman had to bring up a hand to staunch the bleeding while his micros and nanos repaired the wound, he lost a bit of accuracy in firing at the platoon. But the important thing was that he'd been hit badly – but not too badly – by a tad: The floodgate opened.

A grenade concussed right at the soldier's feet, hurling him backwards in a loose-limbed arc. While he was still in the air, dozens more shots struck, several into exposed flesh. Someone shot the rifle out of his hand. Blood spattered the ground before he hit amid a shower of bullets.

"Cease fire!" Biicyzov shouted, and again until all the screaming accelerators fell silent.

The sniper didn't leap up to continue the battle. The ambush was over. The squad medics ran forward to him and the other who still hadn't emerged from underground, though armed tads accompanied the medics. Dofbatyc swallowed, tasting dust. He stood and stretched his jaw, glancing around at his fellows. His calf ached where he'd been hit.

"Exercise complete," Teacher said, strolling into the battle scene in full dress. Dofbatyc hadn't noticed him during the ambush. Tads squirmed and bled all over the stony ground; it seemed no one hadn't taken a hit. One had sustained a face shot and looked real bad, motionless. Dofbatyc checked the platoon computer and found that the boy was in shock.

Teacher, accompanied by a pair of security robots, stopped in front of Dofbatyc, and at that moment Dofbatyc realized this was the Shipman in person, not a holo. Teacher was an old man, maybe 40 – about as old as a Shipman gets – and he wore no hair. His body was powerful and bore long limbs, huge hands. A dozen or so cured penises hung from small, wooden planks – symbolic of the Ship's planks – on his trophy vest.

"My lord Teacher," Dofbatyc said, bowing his head and slinging his rifle as he came to attention. "How may I serve?"

"Come," the man said and turned away. He began to march, polished black leather boots and dark blue uniform dramatically contrasting with the desert.

*

What's this all about ? Dofbatyc wondered, following Teacher away from the battlefield. Was he in trouble for taking down the Shipman so roughly? Had the sniper died and this was the man's brother, here to settle the score? "Vengeance Quest," they called it, and an elder or ranking officer needn't even declare one to destroy a lesser or junior Shipman, let alone a tad. Dofbatyc hardly noticed the microscopic robots swarming beneath the skin of his calf, working to heal the wound and remove the foreign matter. He did, however, notice that even the badly wounded tads stared silently after him.

"Kept your head today," Teacher said, still facing away, a few paces ahead.

"Thank you, my lord."

"It was your shot that opened Yongh's jugular. Your data that pinpointed Nenko and led to his removal. Fine work, tad."

Dofbatyc wasn't sure what to say. He was unfamiliar with praise, all too familiar with mocking. Was this some kind of trick? Was Teacher about to spin around with a knife and open Dofbatyc's throat in revenge? They passed an outcrop of rust-colored granite behind which nestled two personnel-conveyer bubbles. Dofbatyc could hardly breathe. He'd never been this close to a Shipman's transport before. The heavy plastic door of one swung up.

"Get in," Teacher ordered. He relieved the boy of his rifle.

Dofbatyc loosened his grip on the weapon and stepped to the back of the bubble, unarmed. He turned about face in time to see Teacher smile just as the door hissed shut between them.

Zoom, the desert fell away so fast his knees buckled and it was a struggle to straighten back up. His calf felt hot and damp, and it began to throb. The white suns that had seemed so high and ever-present during today's march flashed past as if he'd broken the surface of a foaming sea and then – as he rose to their level – they vanished, dark on their upper hemispheres. Dofbatyc slammed back against the wall when the conveyer abruptly changed vector through 90 degrees, flashing sideways along the underside of the next Ship level. Now he clung to two of the numerous brass handholds.

Vast networks of metal and wood bracings hung like spiderwebs, supporting the 400-kilometer-long floor. Beams big enough – if they were hollow – to contain entire divisions of soldiers stretched from inner hull to inner hull, lost in the hazy distance to each side, microfactured strong enough to support the Ship under gravity or against the heaviest known bombardment. Massive toruses of dark nickel-iron-ceramic composite nestled quietly among the braces: gravity generators the size of small auditoriums, ready to affect the floor above them and simulate heavygrav planets or be reconfigured to support the floor during combat. Machines performing unknown tasks swarmed over the catwalks – and those were only the visible ones. Trillions more micros and nanos maintained everything from sewage systems to hull repairs. Occasionally, another conveyer would flick past too fast to see its occupants. Once, Dofbatyc even glimpsed two one-man fighter ships dancing deadly in the shadow region amid floor supports, lasers set to dull red for tagging instead of destruction. But it was only a glimpse as they flew so quickly from shelter to shelter, silver streaks weaving intricate trajectories among the dark woodwork.

Dofbatyc drank in all this excitement, this new vista and velocity he'd never before experienced. He completely forgot to reactivate his lesson or even to monitor his vitals and chemistry. Pressed against the clear plastic, his palms left foggy patches of sweat between the spread fingers.

Then, again as sudden as everything else, the conveyer burst out of the strutwork and into open air. Dofbatyc couldn't help but feel dizzy; straight below him, for some hundreds of kilometers, forest and mountain filled a space nearly a third the internal volume of the Ship. It looked like a vast bowl, inner surface coated with minute life and architecture. Vast bridges stretched from the terrain to the Ship's zero-g core that extended the full length of the vessel, fore to aft above him.

The conveyer shifted direction again, this time angling toward the bridge and administrative region near the prow. So fast it made Dofbatyc nervous, the great bulb of stone and wood grew larger, a bulging disc wrapped around the zero-g tube. When the boy thought he was sure to be crushed to mush against the stone face, his bubble began to decelerate so rapidly he could barely hold himself upright, until soon he could make out an open port. Finally, the conveyer settled onto the inset balcony and opened. Dofbatyc took one last look down at the Forward Environment, then stepped out. A man who appeared to have been waiting for a ride replaced Dofbatyc. The door shut and the conveyer flashed away with its new passenger. Dofbatyc was stranded.

"Tadpole Dofbatyc XIV, Pre-Tech?" a disembodied voice asked inside his head.

"Yes, sir," Dofbatyc said. "How may I serve?"

"Come forward to the blue door."

Dofbatyc regulated his vitals and located the central door at the back of the half-circle room. No one else was present, and the other dozen doors were shut. He crossed the room, placed his hand against the print reader, and the door slid open. Beyond lay a square, white room, as bright as the desert but lit by the walls themselves. Several men in white and red medic uniforms busied themselves with various gleaming instruments. One came forward and grabbed Dofbatyc's upper arm.

"Come."

The medic's face was covered by a grey membrane Dofbatyc recognized as an atmospheric biohazard filter. Is this place infectious? Is this my punishment? I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But he didn't dare voice anything, not unless asked a direct question. Years of indoctrination hadn't been lost on him, or he'd be dead by now.

They entered another white room, this one barely large enough for the two to stand without touching.

"Remove your clothing."

Dofbatyc did as ordered. This was an unpleasant yet familiar ritual. As he pulled off the pants, he quickly checked the wound in his calf; it looked fine and was healing well. Even as he watched, a bit of cloth began to slide through his skin, foreign matter ejected by his faithful micros. He had taught himself to do this sort of thing, this distraction, to keep his mind off the treatment adult Shipmen sometimes gave him. He didn't enjoy it the way some tads said they did. It didn’t make him feel close to the men, more integrated into shiplife, the ways those tads explained it.

The medic took both of Dofbatyc's arms and pushed him gently against a wall, where metal bands emerged and held him fast by the limbs and around chest and abdomen; something snaked between his upper thighs and cupped his testicles. The man checked the fit and left the room. Dofbatyc knew better than to ask any questions; he was just a tad, after all. He struggled to not let his body reveal his terror. This was not the sort of thing he was familiar with, not at all.

Then white pain as needles lanced him everywhere the bands held him. Against his will, he bucked and barked a quick cuss. The needle pricks grew hot and the bands seemed to grow tighter and tighter. Dofbatyc no longer cared what the medics thought; he activated his pain shunt to cut off the torture. Slowly, the agony faded and changed to numb pressure – pain shunts were only effective in combat if they still let their user know his body was damaged. He looked down at himself and saw that, indeed, something was entering his body through the injections. Distantly, he felt sad that all he'd endured over the years was for nothing. He had no future. He wished he had killed Gernoon; if he was to die, he wished it were for something he had fantasized about....

Dofbatyc began to feel dizzy, but not in a way he could counter. Something new was invading his body. He couldn’t move, couldn’t call for help, couldn’t stop the invasion. Now he realized what happened to tads who killed an adult soldier: death by torture. He wanted to cry out, to scream, to beg for mercy, but twelve years of training kept his mouth shut.

Then it was over. The straps released him and folded back into the wall. His skin had bright red bands encircling his arms, legs, chest and abdomen, and his testicles were swollen. Dofbatyc felt shaky, yet he began to recognize the marks....

The door slid open and a medic – The same one? – entered.

"Congratulations, Technician Dofbatyc XIV," the man said. Dofbatyc could just barely make out a faint smile beneath the membrane. "Your blood and hormone levels show you're well into adolescence. You're practically a man now, an Empire Shipman. A conveyer is waiting to carry you to your new commanding officer's facility."

He reached out his hands. Dofbatyc was too shaken to do anything at first, to even recognize the gesture. Then he realized the man wanted to embrace – Man to man, not man to boy! Dofbatyc awkwardly took the man's forearms as the medic gripped Dofbatyc's; Dofbatyc's hands gripped palm-up, the medic's palm down. Of course, Dofbatyc thought; now he recognized the marks on his arms: They matched those that Shipmen bore, scars he'd seen during late-night visits. The medic and Dofbatyc squeezed and shook in Shipman fashion, and the man laughed.

"Congratulations. This is the best part of my job. The new micros and nanos will feel uncomfortable for a few days, and you'll run something of a fever and possibly experience quite a bit of intestinal distress, but they'll adapt to your biology soon enough – more to the point, your biology will adapt. Now you better get along."

"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord." Dofbatyc nodded and almost left without dressing. When he was done, he hurried back to the dock and found two conveyers waiting. One opened as he approached, so he entered. Without orders, once again, it whisked him out and away to another dock several kilometers up. During the trip, he felt a bit nauseated while the tiny machines altered his body chemistry. Occasional flashes of light, humming sounds, burning sensations, sharp odors, and noxious flavors shot through his senses as the micros and nanos burrowed into his nerves. But all this was to be expected, minor inconveniences that led to great reward.

Dofbatyc was still stunned when the door released him. Only then did he realize the medic had called him Technician! He was a man now, a Shipman, a Tech, ready to begin a new life! Some new tad would replace him in his old squad. Suddenly his daily suffering and revenge fantasies seemed childish and distant. All his efforts from now on would mean something, at last. He had survived the worst, and it wasn't for nothing! And someday, yes, someday, he'd be off the Ship and on some new planet, engineering a new life for himself and Jinka.

Dofbatyc laughed. Tears ran down his cheeks. These he wiped off as soon as he realized what he was doing.

As another young soldier met him in the dock, Dofbatyc felt himself grow serious. The man didn't mock him as a sissy more interested in fixing machines than blowing them up, didn't call him tad, didn't snicker... the man nodded and turned to lead Dofbatyc to his new Chief – as if Dofbatyc were just another Shipman. Because that's what he'd become – well, practically, anyway – only needing to go through the legendary rituals. They marched along a bright corridor.

Dofbatyc's body certainly felt more adult, what with the enhanced micros swarming through his blood to their proper organs, glands, muscles, and so on. Now he could feel an odd sort of itching in his bones as the micros built up mechano-chemical servos to assist his already-enhanced musculature. He was certain he stood half a head taller already, and his lung capacity had doubled. His senses seemed enhanced, as well: He couldn't help but notice the scent of hot wiring, the taste of dust lingering in his mouth, the numb bands of raw flesh on all four limbs and testes, the exact chromium tint of the kickboards at the base of the doors he passed, the steady thump of his boots on the cushioned flooring. As they marched, he nonchalantly rolled up the sleeves of his uniform to display the red rings around his forearms, badges of manhood. No one would mock him now.

Dofbatyc glanced to make sure he wasn't being watched. Then his face exploded into a grin so hard his cheeks ached.