New Chapter
Introduction
Over billions of years and thousands of alien civilizations spanning the galaxy, one problem has always been present since space travel became a… thing: Communication.
No matter how far we can bend the laws of physics one thing still chaps our collective asses… at least those races that have asses. You can’t send messages faster than the speed of light.
And damn, when we humans found out about that, we were pretty freaking surprised. We just thought that once we figured out how to travel at warp speeds, we’d just work out that whole communication snafu later. Nope. Then when the rest of the galaxy stepped up and said “Hello” we were like, “Hey, so… how do you guys manage to break that whole ‘Faster-Than-Light’ communication issue anyway?”
All we got was a collective shrug of the shoulders… from those races who have shoulders.
As it turns out all the spacefaring races of the galaxy just use the interstellar equivalent of bike messengers to pass information back and forth. Other things were tried of course. Artificial wormholes took up way too much power. Warp drones were tried, but damned Space Pirates intercepted them. Yes. I said Space Pirates.
So we’re all basically stuck using the space-age version of the Pony Fucking Express.
...That sounded better in my head.
Wait, did I say all? I meant most. There’s actually one race that figured out a way past the problem. We call them the Saurians because they look like big lizards. What they call themselves is unpronounceable to humans. Most people just call them assholes. They figured out a genetic secret that allows two (or three, or four) of their kind born from the same egg - twins basically - to have a psychic connection no matter where they are in the galaxy. Nobody knows how it works for sure, but our scientist think it’s some kind of quantum entanglement thingie at birth. Nobody has been able to replicate it in live subjects or through artificial means. They’ve leveraged it into an enormous galactic business empire. Everyone hires them for real time data transfer. They get wired into machines, and information flows.
For a price.
Their services are in high demand, which means they can basically charge an arm and a leg… for those races with arms and legs. And there’s no guarantee of security, no way of preventing the Saurians from getting a copy of everything you send.
Which means if you want it quick, secure, and - most importantly - cheap… you hire a courier service.
- From the memoires of Willard “Hermes” Jackson, founder of the Terran Galactic Courier Service
Chapter One
I used to watch a lot of sci-fi movies as a kid. I loved the way ships would have this iconic look to them. The Millennium Falcon from Star Wars,1977. Battlestar Galactica, both the original and the remake. Serenity, from the show that ended too soon. Woeful Disregard, the coolest ship of the 22nd century.
But in space, when there’s no atmosphere, you need to go with the most efficient design. For the Mad Ann that design is a brick strapped to another brick with two more bricks for engines. Actually, I say engines but since the whole thing uses reactionless thrusters and an Alcubierre Warp Drive they’re more like enormous glowing power plants, separated from the ship for our “protection,” and make us a half step away from being a flying fission bomb.
Sci-fi made space travel look so cool. But it turns out that, once it becomes routine, it’s just as boring as anything else.
Until it’s not.
Let’s see, where can I start this report so everything makes sense? Yeah, I know this isn’t the standard format for a report of this kind, sue me. You want to know what happened? This is how I process things.
Alright you probably want the basics. Let’s get them out of the way.
Name: Paul R. Wells
Rank: First Mate
Serial Number: 572987656BA44CEF
Ship Assignment: Mad Ann
Yeah, it’s not the Hermes, or even the Herodotus, but it’s home.
So I guess this all started with our normal stop at the orbital station around Gibson 5. They say Gibson’s a nice looking planet, with it’s rich and colorful flora, and amazing rainbow oceans. I wouldn’t know. We always seem to show up on the night side of the planet.
We had a twenty minute layover while we dumped the info for this planet and picked up the outbound data, and swapped a few hard drives. I’d gone out to make a food run and pick up yet another new recruit. The fabs on our ship basically made mashed potatoes in different flavors while the fabs on the station could simulate pretty much anything. As for the new recruit, well… that was a pretty regular occurrence.
There seems to be no end of dumb kids who want to get off planet, see the galaxy, and travel through space. Most of these kids can’t afford normal space fares, and are too young or not physically fit to join the Terran fleet, so instead they sign on with the courier service. Then they either realize how useless space travel is and jump ship at the first available port, or they realize how useless space travel is and go home, or - once in a great while - they stay on as a full time courier, maybe even eventually make first mate, or even captain.
At one time I’d planned to jump ship at the first port. Who knows? Might still do that someday.
Anyway, I put in the food order then headed over to the Gibson Station Galactic Courier office.
Gibson station is pretty nice by most standards. They keep it fairly clean and well lit, and everything is made of a metamaterial that always looks polished. The courier office is a shithole by comparison. It looks like a dentist office waiting room. In hell. This is pretty much a design standard for GCS offices. No price too low.
I walked in and greeted the bored, haggard looking receptionist.
“Hey,” I said. “First Mate Wells, Mad Ann.”
She nodded, and we both pulled out our scanners. We quickly scanned each other’s irises, getting the familiar beep of a solid confirmation, then with a quick practiced motion traded scanners and gave a thumbprint, the traded back and confirmed the exchange by scanning our own irises and thumbprints. The whole exchange took less than 3 seconds.
“So, I hear you’ve got a fresh space monkey for us,” I said.
She grunted and jerked her thumb toward the row of chairs, where I had been vaguely aware that something had been vibrating. When I looked, a young girl of about 18 or 19, bolted out of her seat excitedly and headed toward me.
“Yes sir, that’s me sir,” she said excitedly. “I have been dreaming about this day ever since I was four years old, I am SO happy to have this opportunity, I swear I will be the best recruit you have ever had.” She squealed a little and bounced in place, and I got the impression she was restraining herself - with no small amount of difficulty - from bounding over and hugging me. Her face a mask rictus of pure glee she said in a small squeak, “I think I have to pee.”
I stood there frozen in place to see what she would do, but she just stood there, vibrating slightly. I glanced over at the receptionist, who jerked her thumb over toward the door in the far wall marked “Restroom.”
My shoulder slumped in relief as she zipped over to the bathroom and shut the door, and I thought, ‘This is our new recruit? She won’t last five minutes.’
I pulled out my Tab and glanced at the receptionist again. “Paperwork?” I asked resignedly.
She held out her own Tab, and we tapped them together, transferring the information, then went through the ritual of scanning each others irises and thumbprints again. I looked down at the paperwork and frowned at the profile there, with the name at the top.
Hilde Jorgenson.
I frowned, thinking that there was something familiar about that name, but for some reason, I couldn’t place it at the time.