James Doohan - Flight Engineer Volume 1-The Rising

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The Rising: Volume 1 of the Flight Engineer

James Doohan and S. M. Stirling

Fout! Onbekende schakeloptie-instructie.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-87758-5

Cover art by David Mattingly

First printing, November 1996

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Doohan, James

The rising / by James Doohan & S.M. Stirling

p. c.m — (Flight engineer ; bk. 1)

“A Baen books original”—T.p. verso.

ISBN 0-671-87758-5

I. Stirling, S. M. II. Title. III. Series: Doohan, James. Flight

engineer ; bk. 1.

PS3554.0566R57 1996 96-27744

813'.54—dc20 CIP

Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

CHAPTER ONE

“And what happened then?” the bartender asked eagerly, her eyes

shining as she leaned close.

“Why, then I died,” Commander Peter Ernst Raeder said, voice

solemn and low.

“Ooooh!” She whapped him playfully on the shoulder with the towel

she usually carried over hers. “Watch the vid. I’ve got a bar to clean.”

He sighed and thumbed the controls:

*Flick*

“I want you, Vorn!”

“But, Lyrica, I have a wife, children!”

“You don’t want them, Vorn . . . you want me!”

“I pity you, Lyrica! For not knowing that there’s a world of difference

between wanting and loving!”

*Flick*

“Genuine anthracite from Earth. Formed millions of years ago of

actual living matter, this glittering stone can be yours for just . . .”

*Flick*

“Ssssiiiiiinnnnn! Oh, we tried to save them. Our fallen brothers and

sisters. We sought them out and reasoned and pleaded, but they wouldn’t

hear us. And so we turned our backs and fled them and the carnival of

EVIL. They wouldn’t leave. They sold to us a place they thought was a

desert. But we knew that we would make it a paradise!

“And yet . . . temptation was waiting for us. Yes, even here, with only

our brothers and sisters beside us. In the place we sought redemption

there lay a serpent . . . whispering of wealth . . . of pow-errr. We could

buy our paradise, we need not build it. There was so much we wanted

and the means was right there. In an almost unlimited supply of fuel.

And we fell.

“They wanted it! They would pay any price. . . . And we fell. We sold

them our precious resource, we let them build their factory platforms,

peopled with their own technicians. And WE helped them spread the

black stain of sin across the stars. WE gave them the means to

rrrrraaaappppe . . .”

“Uh. D’ya mind if I change that? When the Mollie Interpreters start

talking about rrrraapppe like that I get nervous.”

Raeder chuckled and handed over the vid control to the bartender.

They’d been flirting mildly since he’d sat down. She seemed to approve

of his black-Irish good looks, and he didn’t object to her cuddly caramel-

colored prettiness. And it was a very pleasant way to pass the time as he

sat waiting for transit orders.

He looked around. A big square room, the light level was just right,

lightened by beveled mirrors scattered around. The booths were roomy

and comfortable looking, and the tables were big enough to accom-

modate your elbows as well as your drink; even the bar stools made you

feel welcome. Golden oak accented the bar along one side with a

genuine brass foot-rail—spacers were finicky about things like that—and

signed holographs on the wall. The older ones were mostly Survey

Service types; the people who went out and found new systems, or died

trying. Lately it was fighter pilots and gunners and Marines shipping out

to fight the Mollies. The Oblaths Bar of Cape Hatteras Naval Spaceport

was a gem of its kind.

Of all the gin joints in all the bases in all the world, Raeder thought in

a Bogart voice, why did I have to walk into this one? This is what a bar

is supposed to be. He sighed. I’ve only been here once and I already

know I’m really gonna miss it, he thought wistfully. But he wasn’t going

to miss the hospital, with the grueling hours of physical therapy, and he

was eager to get back to work.

The bartender flicked to a sports contest, which broke his reverie. The

wall dissolved into a montage of shapes and thuds and groans, with the

roar of a crowd in the background.

Colorfully clad behemoths charged into each other at full speed,

emitting spectacular grunts and growls. It was a variation on football,

played without the ball. The big men pushed each other down the field to

the goal-posts, grappling and gouging. The viewpoint jiggled and

blinked as it shifted from one helmet-mounted camera to another.

They watched for a moment and then turned away in mutual

disinterest.

“Why did we ever get into a war with those fanatics?” she asked him

in exasperation, referring to the program she’d just flicked away from. “I

mean if the Mollies wanted to separate from the Commonwealth, why

the hell didn’t we just say, ‘So long guys—good riddance’ when we had

the chance? I mean, really?” She rolled her eyes in disgust.

“Apparently you’ve never heard of antihydrogen, hon.” Peter took a

sip of his beer. “Be awfully hard to run the Commonwealth without it.”

Though he could understand the question. The Mollies are so

obnoxious it seems insane to actually fight to keep ’em around.

She wrinkled her pert nose at him. “Don’t bother me with reality when

I’m grumping about Mollies. It’s not polite. And why are they Mollies,

anyway? They sure don’t like women, so how come they’re named after

my favorite aunt?”

“It means Mission of Life Lived in Ecclesia.” Raeder watched her take

that in; she shrugged the corners of her mouth down in disapproval.

“Ecclesia . . .” she muttered. “Sounds like a digestive disease.

Something with gas.”

Peter snorted, then took her hand in his left and said earnestly, “My

dear, I’m sorry to tell you this . . . you have ecclesia. Could you please

leave my office before you explode.”

She exploded in laughter. She was pretty when she laughed. Her eyes

sparkle, Raeder decided.

“What’s it really mean?” she demanded, bringing one shoulder

forward coquettishly.

“Ecclesia? It means an assembly or church.”

Oddly, his knowing the answer seemed to intimidate her and she

withdrew shyly. Having the right answer too many times in a row seems

to do that to people, Peter thought in resignation as he watched her walk

away. He hated it when it happened with pretty women, though. He

pursed his lips. Maybe it’s for the best. Be awfully inconvenient to meet

the love of my life in the Oblaths Bar at this point in my career.

His new orders had been cut and he’d be leaving Cape Hatteras Naval

Spaceport just as soon as the shuttle pilot arrived to hand them to him.

And who knew when, if ever, he’d see this place again.

Peter grimaced wryly and very carefully picked up his drink with his

left hand, glaring at his right. I hate that thing. The best prosthesis

medical science could provide. It looked just like his real hand had.

Which was why they took three-dimensional holographs of every

soldier’s body, so that if you were careless enough to lose part of

yourself they could come up with a mechanical duplicate.

But it ached still, and it was virtually numb. The techs had said that

once he got used to the signals from the neural interface there would be

more nuance—more of a perception of heat and cold, hard and soft,

though never the sensitivity of his real hand.

And he was still learning to control it. Peter could see the sparkle of

tiny slivers of glass from where he’d shattered the first beer he’d been

given. He’d been brooding, had a flash of temper, and pop! he’d been

picking glass out of his palm. Raeder sighed and shook his head,

remembering what his physical therapist had said.

“Whatever you do, Raeder, for the first few months, anyway, don’t go

into the bathroom mad.”

The worst thing about the prosthesis though, the thing that made him

hate it, was the fact that it couldn’t properly interface with a Speed’s

computer.

A pilot dropped his gloved fingers into receiving cups that plugged

him directly into the ship’s AI. The inside of the glove was filled with

sensors that registered every muscle twitch, analyzed blood pressure, and

the chemical content of your sweat, to make the Speed respond like your

own body. The machine aimed its weapons and took direction from the

position of your eyes, but it was your hands that determined if those

weapons fired and where and how fast you flew.

The prosthesis lacked the subtle control needed, and the chemical

component was nonexistent, which meant that half the controls on the

ship wouldn’t respond as they should. Which meant he was grounded.

His dark brows came together in a frown. It still bit deep and felt like

the amputation of something even more vital than his right hand.

Yeah, he thought glumly, why couldn’t we have just let the Mollies go

when they told us they were leaving? He shook his head and smiled

ruefully. Even the most fervent and naïve conscientious objector knew

the answer to that one. Because without antihydrogen there’s no

commerce between systems, and with no commerce between systems,

Commonwealth civilization would be a fond memory in less than a year.

The Commonwealth had tried to offer a garden planet to the Mollies in

exchange for the desert they’d bought way back when, but their

theocratic rulers, the Interpreters of the Perfect Way, had refused.

Foaming at the mouth and denouncing humanity all the way back to

Adam, I believe.

Because, just to prove God had an ironic sense of humor, the Mollie

cluster proved to be the only place in human-explored space that

contained large amounts of antihydrogen, naturally suspended in a

magnetic matrix material. In the century or so since then, the old

synthetic plants had shut down, their dribble of expensive fuel swamped

by the flood of cheap, abundant power from the mining platforms.

Commerce boomed. The Commonwealth became united as never

before—and very dependent on that flood continuing.

Peter imagined Star Command forcibly evicting the Mollies from their

withered dustball of a planet with its too harsh sun and its half-poisoned

water and transplanting them to a world of soft breezes, luxuriant plant

life, and sweet water, stuffed with ores and all good things. They’d hate

us, he thought. We’d be right up there with the Philistines, or worse.

Whereas, normal people, like say, the denizens of a hell-world like

Wildcat, which was heaven compared to the Mollie homeworld, would

sell their grannies, their virtue, and their eyeteeth for the chance to

change planets. Heck, they’d sell their grannies for a decent vacation.

The fall of the Commonwealth could still happen, of course.

Scuttlebutt had it that the stockpiles of antihydrogen were sufficient for

only eighteen months of naval operations, a stockpile only sporadically

replaced by daring raids on Mollie processing plants. The newly

reopened synthetic antihydrogen plants were capable of producing

virtually nothing at ten times the cost.

“The plug’s out of the bathtub and there’s no more than a trickle

coming out of the tap,” one of Peter’s friends had said.

Raeder raised his glass in memory of that particular buddy, killed in

the same battle that had taken Peter’s hand, his Speed, and his glory.

He’d made four “kills” in that action, but the recording computer had

been destroyed by the heavy particle beam that tore him out of the sky.

Those four victories would have brought his total to seven, making him

the first and highest scoring ace of the war.

Never rains but it pours, he thought, not without humor. He’d had a

dream about it when he was recovering in the hospital. A crusty old

admiral was about to pin a medal on him for becoming an ace. Peter was

standing there proud as a peacock, when someone came hurtling onto the

stage screaming, “Stop! It’s a mistake. We’ve checked all his recordings

and they show him shooting down the same Mollie every time.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Raeder exclaimed.

“Gimme those,” the admiral growled, and grabbed the holostills from

the little man. Then he glared at Peter. “We had a cake baked for you,”

he said. “Decorated and everything. My wife ordered it. I had my mouth

all set for that cake. Now I can’t eat it.”

“But he’s lying,” Peter insisted. “That’s not proof, it’s only seven

identical photographs. The least you should do is review the recordings

themselves,” he pleaded.

“Nah! It doesn’t matter now,” the admiral grumped. “It’s all spoiled

anyway.” He turned and left the stage beside the little guy who’d handed

him the holos and clearly wanted them back. The admiral tossed them

into the air and they fluttered stageward.

Peter turned and the band was packing up its instruments, the audience

was pushing back their folding chairs, gathering their belongings and

departing as though this was a perfectly normal ending to the ceremony.

“But I did shoot them,” Raeder insisted.

“G’home,” the admiral shouted. “And take yer damn cake with ya.”

Then the stage lights went out and after a confused moment he woke up.

Loud, exuberant voices brought Peter’s head around. A gaggle of

fighter jocks had just come in, laughing and joking. They looked Raeder

over, noting his engineering tabs, and dismissed him, taking their seats at

a table and calling out their orders to the pretty bartender.

Peter turned back to the bar feeling slighted. Jeez! Was I that

arrogant?

Well, yes, in all probability.

Piloting a Speed was grace and glory, and massive power literally at

your fingertips. To a fighter pilot life consisted of Speeds and the rest of

the world. No matter how hard you fought the feeling, you couldn’t help

but know that everything else lacked . . . something.

Color, texture, meaning, Peter thought gloomily.

Engineers, for example, were valued and respected for their service to

you and your machine, but they just weren’t on the same plane as fighter

jocks at all.

Raeder suddenly wondered if it should be fighter jock or fighter jerk.

Ah, you’re just feeling left out, he told himself. Missing the excitement,

the camaraderie. When he reached his assignment and felt part of

something again, he wouldn’t be so inclined to take offense where none

was meant. You’ll be acting like the old man, next, he warned himself, if

you don’t watch out. His father had been good at finding reasons to get

angry—when he’d been drinking—though he was the kindest of men

when sober.

There was a sudden burst of laughter from behind him, almost

certainly having nothing to do with him at all. Even so, Raeder felt heat

rise up his neck as though he’d heard them mocking him and his sudden

ship-bound status. He carelessly picked up his glass with his right hand

and it popped like a soap bubble. Fortunately it had been almost empty.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the bartender.

“Not a problem,” she said, smiling. “You want another?”

“Sure,” Raeder said. “You got a plastic glass?”

“Nope, something much better.” And she yanked a heavy frosted mug

from the freezer, filled it with good draft brew, and placed it before him

with a flourish.

“Now that,” he said, gratified, “is almost as pretty a sight as you are,

ma’am.”

She laughed. “That’s the first time I’ve ever been compared to a beer.”

“But this is more than a beer,” Raeder asserted, “it’s an experience to

treasure.” As I’m sure you are, the devilish glint in his green eyes said.

She read that message as easily as if it had flowed by in digital letters

and gave a little toss of her head, a dimple peeping on her cheek. She

opened her mouth, but before she could speak a massive crowd of pilots

and mechanics burst through the doors howling for attention. She gave

Raeder a regretful smile and rushed to serve the happy mob.

Peter gave an inward sigh. Oh, well, he thought. So much for their

enjoyable, light flirtation.

Raeder looked around at the patrons of the bar and wondered how long

it would be before he was once again part of such a group. The other

members of his engineering class had departed two weeks ago, but he’d

needed to finish up his physical therapy program. Until now he’d kept

himself too busy to notice that he missed them.

Raeder speculated briefly about just where he was bound and what

form his new duties would take. There was an important job waiting for

him wherever it was, and Peter knew he could do it better than almost

anyone in the fleet. He’d attacked his retraining as he had the Mollie

rebels, and had enjoyed it, too. Learning more about the machines he

loved was no great hardship. It’s watching them fly without me on board

that hurts. He’d graduated at the top of his class; those he couldn’t best

were the men and women who’d taught him to be a flight engineer. And

once I get a little more experience under my belt, watch out folks.

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摘要：

TheRising:Volume1oftheFlightEngineerJamesDoohanandS.M.StirlingFout!Onbekendeschakeloptie-instructie.Thisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright©1996byBillFawcettandAssociatesAllrightsreserved,inc...

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James Doohan - Flight Engineer Volume 1-The Rising

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