Well some fairly major plot events are incoming shortly, so just you wait and see.
Possibly I was a bit heavy with the intro. In part, it was aimed at setting the scene from a political standpoint and allowing the time for a little tension and/ or intrigue to build. I could have shortened the initial few sections, but I feel things might seem rushed if I did that improperly.
But I digress... more incoming very soon (i.e when I can find an uncorruted floppy disk).
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"
"Blasted computer model, stigmatizing my aeroplane! Lower the Induced-Deity coefficient next time."
The cabin enclosed her, pressing in on her senses mercilessly, with her vision constricted and the dull muffled roar of the environment percolating ever-present through her headphones. The aircar’s mechanisms and processes, siding with the small natural oscillations produced during flight, made themselves known through the feet and body, through vibrations sensed through motion, as much as through muffled, guarded sound.
Outside, Narodgorod flitted past at speed. Helen Poistra turned to look through the curved transparent canopy at the panorama, squinting as the focused sunlight, intense and scathing, arced through the canopy to be focused brutally within the cabin. She observed the ordered layout of the city, planned and structured from day one of construction, with the old cities and settlements that lay there previously long since having been demolished, ground up and arranged anew into provinces of the new Supercity.
But whatever the order implicit in its gridlike austerity, Narodgorod betrayed it’s essentially chaotic inner nature. Residential zones, flitting by, revealed cramped tenements built side by side, wall to wall. Their paintwork crumbled in many places and their roofs were forests of aerials and transmitters, arranged haphazardly and at frequently random angles. The sunlight bronzed them all to a dull, tired beige.
Then the industrial zones, moving by. Boxy factories mixed in with curved domes, studded with solar receptors, their gradients measured out to many decimal places, aligned with precisely engineered precision. These mixed too with towers and the crowded aircar routes that characterised the industrial regions, all aircar roads raised some distance from the ground, allowing the pedestrians and workers to move in the shadow of their own prepared goods roaring overhead.
The ground effect vehicle’s wing moved slightly, the ducted fan at it’s tip flexing and twisting on unseen bearings to alter the vehicle’s trajectory minutely as the highway curved to the left. The whole was painted a glossy red, shining triumphantly in the glare and emitting a hundred shining highlights over it’s length.
And Conrad stirred uncomfortably next to her, shifting himself into a more accommodating position.
"Conrad?" She spoke, levelly. There was no response from the other side of the passenger seat where he sat. The engine noise and the sound of their travel obliterated her isolated sentiment en route to him. Up front, the chauffeur remained impassive, concentrating on other things, ensuring the flight computer did it’s job soundly. Doing a crossword.
She leant over to her comrade, so that she might be better heard. "Conrad?"
"Hmm?" He turned, eyebrows raised quizzically. He wiped an errant bead of sweat from his brow in the heat of the cabin.
"Aren’t you excited?"
"I’m hot."
She frowned. "Why must you be so damned typical? You know what I mean."
He grinned boyishly at that. "I suppose so. I guess I’m just putting it out of my mind. It’s quite a thing really, making diplomatic big-talk with an alien race."
"An honour." She finished for him.
"Damned straight." His grin amplified itself. "This will certainly be worth a favour or two in the council, I think. We could be heading for the big time with this."
"Your true colours are finally revealed, eh? Mr. Ideologue?" She winked.
"Yes, yes. I know. But even I’m not immune to greed when it comes to a promotion." He grabbed his labels and posed, mockingly. "Councilman Ellis. Sounds good, doesn’t it?"
"Splendid, your honour."
He allowed his grin to subside to a mere smirk. "I take it you are perhaps a tiny bit nervous?"
A nod. "You could say that. There are quite a few things weighing on my mind right now."
"Then share them. You’ll feel better for it."
"Ever the gentleman, Conrad. Why, I think I will." She looked thoughtful, and lapsed into silence.
Conrad spoke up first. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Well what on Earth was it you were going to say?”
“Ah.” She shuffled in her seat. “Well I was just wondering.” –More shuffling.- “I was wondering if you thought there was anything odd about this trade offer we are making.” She spoke quietly, barely enough for Conrad to pick up.
“What? I don’t see anything wrong at all.”
“No?”
“No.”
She turned away again, into the sunlight and the silhouetted figures and monoliths of downtown Narodgorod, as they traveled East. She turned back. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that we are sending, what, fifteen ships in the first wave?”
“Not at all. What were you expecting from a first trade deal with an alien species?” He was briefly surprised to see Helen placing an admonishing finger over her lips, signaling quiet. He raised an eyebrow, deciding to listen to what she had to say, caught in the current of minor intrigue as he was now.
“Listen, Conrad. When one society makes a first example of trade with another like this, it doesn’t do it with a massive fleet of ships or a huge stretch of caravans.”
“Caravans?”
“Shut up. What it will do is make a very minor deal with goods of value. Something small of little more than ceremonial importance, to please the press. Massive deals are not worked out to commence on day one.”
He stopped his reply for a moment to consider, before rallying regardless. “Why would this deal not be small? All fifteen of those Pokoi class ships wouldn’t match even one of those new superfreighters that are being made in terms of haulage capacity.”
“That doesn’t matter. The superfreighters are new, still in development, and to be used with major trading partners only. My point remains; what possible use would the Bunali have with fifteen freighters? What possible goods could we have placed on them?”
“Anything. Precious metals, cybernetic software. Who knows?”
“Conrad!” She looked at the still un-attentive chauffer and started again, quietly. “We only met them a short while ago. We barely even know how their society functions. How could we possibly have worked out a trade deal yet?”
“Well.” He spoke. “That’s what we’re going back to Oman for, right? To work out a trade deal. Find out what they want.”
“To find out what they want to fill freighters with after we’ve fixed fifteen ships for a course to their system? Use your head. What do you think is going on?”
He didn’t say anything. Not only that, she was appalled to see, but he actually sighed and seemed to shake his head, faintly. The nerve of the man!
“Well?”
He shook his head. “You are paranoid, Helen. Nothing more.” Smiling warmly, he continued. “It’s perfectly forgiveable, given the circumstances; you are to talk to an entire race about their partnership with Earth.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, only to have it brushed away. “You’re going to make history! Show those separatists once and for all who any species will deal with when they deal with humanity!”
But she could only shrug and turn away, to the moving panorama of light and shadow that was the great city. Moving past rapidly and sending flickering shadows moving across the road, the aircar and herself, as the sun lazily moved down towards the distant horizon.
All this order; this brute, hard-edged, wonderful order, and she still found herself doubting her government and the intent of those within it. Certainly it was right that Earth be given the honour of central position amongst humanity, that Earth should be a beacon of order, sanity and good socialist values for the community and the species.
She could certainly see that it was good.
But what she was uncertain about were the methods. How many might have suffered to bring forth this order in front of her? How many must have suffered in the reordering of the old, crumbling systems and their collectivization into this new Earth, this new Sol? How could she possibly know?
She thought about the documents Avoss had given her. About the vessels that would be moving to the Bunali homeworlds and their intent and purpose. She thought about what the aliens would think of this provident fleet from the human bipeds and their swarming masses.
She thought about what the ships really represented.
It was evident that her society and it’s layers of government bureaucracy were essential. It was evident that they were good, and that they worked to the ultimate good.
But what she was uncertain of was whether they were actually capable of evil.
End of Part 6.
Last edited by victorhadin on 2004-02-10 05:50pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"
"Blasted computer model, stigmatizing my aeroplane! Lower the Induced-Deity coefficient next time."
Well exams are incoming, so I don't know when I can have the next part after this out, but I cross my fingers...
Part 7:
Avoss sat, poised, at the large ceremonial table and scowled. Deeply.
Around him the air buzzed with conversation, as a hundred middle-aged Councilmen sat, dressed to the nines, and ate their various sumptuous meals. Servants came and placed the dishes in front of the men and women, individually tailored to their own orders and preferences, and the finest of vintage wine was available for drinking.
God, he hated it.
"Well, Dieter? What do you think?" The voice came from the insufferable gentleman on the left, whom he was rapidly growing to loathe as the evening went by. The man was a fat individual, cheeks rosy and full, equipped with huge mutton-chop sideburns, and whose face was inset with a couple of piggy little eyes, neither endearing nor intelligent. Harold, he reflected, was his name.
Avoss’s features froze, as did his fork, halfway to the plain beef meal in front of him. "What do I think of what?" He returned, coolly.
"Dear me, Dieter. You don’t even try to follow the conversation, do you? We were talking about that new program the network is putting out these days. What’s it’s name again?" He gestured vaguely with his fork at several others. "Family Tree! That’s the one, isn’t it?"
He nodded, none too keen on whatever else was going to follow.
"Anyhow" the fat man continued, "we were trying to work out the name of that actor in it. You know; the main character, walks with a bit of a strut? That one."
Avoss placed his fork down and leaned back, doing his best to attempt a look of at least feigned interest, before giving up trying. "I don’t know." He said, flatly. Harold, clearly, felt nonplussed by this answer, and went back to his conversation with the nitwits further down the table. That answer, Dieter felt, should suffice for maybe two minutes more silence from the man before he next attempted to accost him with some further issue of complete and utter unimportance.
How very irritating. It was, as ever, a matter of formality that he attend this annual function, amongst a bevy of other similar functions within the Council, serving only to waste time and energy in the most expensive and pointless fashion imaginable, as he saw it. He attempted once again to slice his simple meal into manageable portions that might be eaten with some rapidity while the conversation hummed over his head.
‘Who was that actor?’ ‘What’s the name of that thing, you know?’ ‘The weather really does seem to be getting worse these days.’ –So much benign drivel poured out of mouths that should really know better, and he had to sit in their company, pretend to be interested and make a show of enjoying the company of these people he would ordinarily never even glance at outside work.
He wished he could shut it all out; let the hubbub of meaningless conversation, clinks of cutlery and noisy chewing of mouthfuls just wash over him unnoticed. Instead, every sound went straight into one ear and attempted with some success to apply sandpaper to his patience.
And to his right side, some oaf of a man was attempting with vigour to chew rough meat in a way that would put a cow to shame. Dieter grimaced instinctively. Half the time his mouth was open as he chewed, half the time he remembered enough tact to keep it shut.
You just edit this out, don’t you? He thought, hatefully. The loathesome individual was clearly completely unaware of the amount of noise he was making as he turned the mouthful over between his teeth.
He looked up and around the table. Over there was Councilman Cerratte, the eternally unpronouncible, he thought darkly. A man full of misplaced festive cheer. Over there sat Councilmen Smith and Garotovich, dour and dull to the point of sensibility until the promise of alcohol became available. And over there…
He was interrupted in his thoughts by a grumble from the man at the right. –The noisy eater.
“I beg your pardon?” He said.
“Ah. Sorry. I have something of a sore throat.” He coughed, as if in exclamation. “I said I wondered if you wished to talk politics.”
“At a time like this?” Spoke Dieter. “When there is so much in the way of finery and aspects of great personal life importance to talk about, as we sit here sipping expensive wines?” He gestured over-elaborately at the assembled men, the servants, the champagne and the dangerous presence of an excessively decorated chandelier. “You’re damned right I do.” He said with a grin.
“Very well.” Said the man, now blissfully without food in mouth. “To take a very… general subject to start with, what are your views on the separatist colonies?”
“Traitorous. Harmful to humanity as a whole-.”
“No.” The man waved his hand and grinned. “I suppose I should be more clear. How do you think they will go in the future? Will they succeed and be free and wealthy?” Dieter frowned inwardly at this; something which was no doubt noticeable and may have pre-empted the additional qualifier. “Or will they inevitably collapse and be re-absorbed into the Confederacy?” He sat back. “What do you think?”
That’s more like it. Thought Dieter. Keep talking. “Do you speak of economics, or of social cohesion?”
The man sat back and raised an arm, forming the beginnings of some elaborate gesture; a relic of body-language no longer translated or recognized by most. “Both really. One could, for example, point at the economic growth of the Allenian State and it’s thriving business interests.”
He continued before Dieter could interrupt. “But of course that is but one side of the coin. A state cannot succeed without both economy and a stable society. All other matters; military, foreign policy and external influence, stem from these two primary arbiters.”
Avoss nodded. It was so. More worryingly, the comment about the Allenians was so; their separatist experiment in unchecked capitalistic growth was, contrary to all official Sol proclamations, working. Their society, -more a collection of feudal corporate entities- he reflected, seemed at least to be wealthy.
Of course wealth comes in many forms, and Allenia’s was naturally a very elitist, concentrated form of wealth, held by the few and doled out only haphazardly to the many. Typical of similar capitalistic systems; the people worked from necessity rather than from natural social conscience.
-But, of course, so do ours, after a fashion.-
He put aside the rebellious thought. “Quite so.” He responded. “Without social integrity wealth matters not one bit, as no collection of elites can hold what the public will not stand for, and then…” he made a motion with his fingers. “The wealth disappears. Frittered away, as always.”
“You believe Allenia and it’s ilk are unstable?”
“Possibly. Maybe. What do you think?”
The noisy eater contemplated the answer. -Though only briefly, Dieter noted. This response was to be genuine. “No. I don’t.”
“No?”
“Absolutely. What I think many misunderstand is that not all have the attachment to the mother planet as we do.”
“Why ever would they not? Earth is the giver of civilization; of life. The place of all our origins, no less.”
The noisy man wagged a finger. “Ah, but only to one born here, or exposed to our own ideals. The colonists now have several entirely separate generations behind them that were not raised on the mother planet. And that isn’t all…”
“Go-on.” Be careful, councilman.
The man raised a wine glass and tapped it. “The secret is the exowomb technology. The accelerated learning and the external wombs are changing every colonial society, forcing each generation to start from a unique perspective, parentally. One especially vulnerable to social independence.”
“So… you believe that this individualism safeguards their stability?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Because they are not tied to us in heritage anymore?”
“That’s right!”
Wrong move. “But, Councilman. I believe you are looking at this from the wrong perspective. It is not heritage or loyalty to Earth that will decide whether the separatists rise or fall, remain stable or collapse. No.”
“Well what else could possibly do it?”
“What indeed?” Dieter smiled, coldly, and lifted his own glass. “They are capitalists, my friend. Have you not forgotten this?”
“Oh.” Spoke the man. Avoss could almost taste the drunken apprehension steaming from the man. –This man who had finally figured out who he was talking to, and was frantically rearranging the conversation in his head. “But, well, our authority cannot really be contended with. These separatists are no real threat.” He fumbled.
Wrong. “Carry on.”
The man smiled, feeling himself on firmer ground. “Well we are Earth, sir! Sol! We have a population equal to all twenty colony systems combined.”
“Is that it?” He watched the man stumble, before carrying on, recovering.
“And we have everything else. Out of those twenty, a full seventeen are with us in the Confederacy. What possible threat are the remaining malcontents?”
“Correction.” Spoke Dieter. “We have seventeen planets in the Confederacy. Seventeen planets and their attached governments, many but not all of which encompass their own systems.” He took a sip of the wine. “But of the few independent asteroid nations, practically all are with the separatists, in effect if not in actual name. And their numbers are growing.”
“But we have our antimatter!” Came the rallying call of an argument thought won.
“Quite. We do indeed hold the superweapons. Alone, for now.”
“Absolutely. None will challenge us while we hold them.”
Dieter’s smile collapsed. “'While we hold them'?” He gestured to the man speaking quietly so as not to be overheard. “So you are saying, in effect, that the reason we are the centre of human space, why we lead the Confederacy and why we have our great position is…” He placed the glass back down on the table, pointedly. "Because nobody dares tell us otherwise?”
He sat back in his chair, his briefly sunny outlook entirely stricken and his willingness to talk of greater matters dissolved. He peered at a tiny plaque in front of the man’s dinner plate which, as if noticing his attention, presented a small, tidily-written hologram. –The name of the individual.
Dieter picked up his knife and fork. “Well…” he peered. “Councilman Dawkins. It has been an interesting conversation, but I am afraid I must turn back to my meal. The desert course is coming soon, after all.”
He turned away and briefly glimpsed, with some satisfaction, the man glancing at his own name-plaque and reacting, his eyes widening with ill-disguised fear.
“Thankyou.” He stammered. “It has been a pleasure... Mr. Avoss.”
End of Part 7.
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"
"Blasted computer model, stigmatizing my aeroplane! Lower the Induced-Deity coefficient next time."
I can't promise to be prolific right now, sadly. Among other things (such as a fairly significant job offer) my exams start tomorrow with one on military avionics. Wish me luck.
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"
"Blasted computer model, stigmatizing my aeroplane! Lower the Induced-Deity coefficient next time."
I can't promise to be prolific right now, sadly. Among other things (such as a fairly significant job offer) my exams start tomorrow with one on military avionics. Wish me luck.
Right. Minor edit to preceding chapters (name of freighters) for reasons that will become immediately obvious.
I have decided that I will finish this before the new job starts, by god!
And so.....
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"
"Blasted computer model, stigmatizing my aeroplane! Lower the Induced-Deity coefficient next time."
Here, in the heart of Oman, was the reception area.
In the flat rocky desert, northwest of the old town of Hayma, lay the airstrip. Within sight of distant rocky djebels it lay, a bright technological stain on an ancient landscape. Runways many miles long ran out in several directions from the central reception complex, adjoining in the middle where the complex of hard-edged buildings sat in the ferocity of the midday sun.
A long way from the urbanized sprawl of Eastern Europe, this place of dust and dry, forlorn purpose. A distance away from the stretches of radioactive desert that lay to the North and the poisoned oil fields that exist there.
Equally, a quiet place is this. A place cleansed of unwanted sound and intrusion and laid bare for the contemplations of the extraterrestrial visitors.
Moving south from the base is the single raised aircar route, it’s surface mostly clean of sand and grit. Along this route the ambassadors, fresh from their vac-train arrivals, would move to meet the sentients, along this quiet road unknowingly surrounded by autogun emplacements, mines and snipers, hidden in the dirt.
Oman. It was a country that Helen Poistra would forever dislike after this occasion, after this duty she had to perform.
The heat, to her conservative, small European sensibilities, was appalling. It dug inside her and leached out nearly every grain of willpower, energy and cheer. She could feel the radiated brilliance of the desert sun on her forehead, her face and her exposed hands, the sweat forming on her brow and the hot dry air which was dragged, over and over again, into her lungs as she walked from the vac-train behind her.
In front of her was a broad stretch of tarmac, it’s edges wavering in heat-induced mirage, tantalizingly close to the appearance of some shallow puddle of cool water. Her aircar, white and clean-lined, stood in the distance with it’s driver standing outside in white robed clothing, suitable for the heat.
It would be nice, she thought, to turn around and walk back into that vac-train cabin and it’s cool, air conditioned climate. To sit in a cool seat and breathe cool air.
She could only imagine what the inside of that aircar must be like, with it’s curved canopy so effectively trapping all heat.
And next to her, of course, was Conrad. Smiling faintly as he walked, he exuded confidence and faith in the way things were going. They were to talk to the aliens, seal the trade deal according to the guidelines given to them and be set firm in the history of Earth forever.
-Seal the trade deal.-
Even now she could hear, in her head, the comments of those they had met on their journey and through the networks. The empty platitudes and prideful patriotism that leaked from every pore over this matter, from media to society.
‘What will the aliens have to teach us? Many things, no doubt.’
‘The technological advances alone…’
‘This will keep Earth on the throne of power it rightfully deserves…’
‘… they trade with us, not the separatists…’
‘… we represent ordered humanity. We are above the petty rivalries of separatist colonies…’
‘We are the natural choice. They approach us because we are the sane heart of our species.’
The terrible irony of it struck bitterly. It was Earth they approached; the mother-planet, the heart of humanity. They see us, possibly, as the most ordered, the most cultured.
And what will we give them in return?
The Pokoi’s were the heart of it, she was sure. The squat, almost aerodynamic figures of those ships, which would be approaching the alien homeworlds following the trade agreement, stocked full with useful utilities.
-But they wouldn’t be. She knew.
The aliens thought they were getting a trade deal. Conrad thought it. She had thought it, even. Taken in and suckered into this by that man Avoss.
She looked to her side at Conrad again. He was still oblivious to the fact of the matter, and she yearned to tell him. She had to.
There was no trade deal. No agreement with the alien sentients to supply anything of worth; that was all a show.
She thought back. She had first realized it when she had sat in the aircar, fresh from the meeting with Avoss, and looked at the freighters which were to transport needed goods to and from the aliens systems. It was obvious now, she supposed, but she hadn’t seen it at the time. Indeed, if she had, she was sure, Avoss would have noticed it in her eyes.
She turned to Conrad.
“We’re going to bomb them, you know.”
He turned to face her and looked puzzled. “What?”
“The aliens.” She said, focusing on her breathing. “We’re going to bomb their worlds.”
He stopped walking then, he actually stopped, and stood still behind her on the tarmac. His face was one of puzzlement mixed with shock.
“What?” He repeated.
“Keep moving, you fool.” She said. “Act normally for god’s sake.” He did so, catching up with her to walk once again by her side.
“Helen.” His brows curved together to form a quizzical frown. “I would very much like you to explain yourself now.”
"Think for yourself, Conrad. Think! What are we sending to the aliens?"
"A trade opening. Goods." He looked at her, pity now appearing in his expression. "What I think, Helen, is that you’ve let your nerves get the better of you. It will all be all right."
She turned on him, eyes drawn and furious as they walked.
"You don’t realise it, do you Conrad?" She gestured, before self-consciously cutting back her exuberant body-language, fearful of the distant gaze of the aircar driver. "You just like to hear what you want to hear. Did it never occur to you to look at what we are sending the sentients?"
"Fifteen freighters." He said. "A lot of generosity." His confused smile was palpably infuriating. She yearned to hit it, as if it would be possible to force the reason of the matter in with sheer violence.
"You blinkered fool." She whispered, hoarse. "You did look at the documents. I saw you. Tell me this much; where does the name ‘Pokoi’ come from?" Her eyes slitted and dry, she repeated "Where does it come from?"
Conrad looked affronted at this, his mouth curving downwards and eyebrows knitting, annoyed. "There’s no need for that!"
"Answer the question!"
He stuttered somewhat, but carried on. She was, after all, somewhat his superior, if only in name, and it was quite possible the poor, unshakably confident young man was warming to this challenge. Curious.
"Pokoi." He said, a single finger moving to his lower lip as he concentrated. "I’m not sure. It sounds Slavic."
"It is." Answered Helen. "Old Slavic."
"I really don’t know." He admitted, finally. "I don’t study the old languages. I never grew up in your environment. What does it mean?"
"Pokoi." She said. "Pokoi means peace. Tranquility."
"Well. So what? That isn’t a bad name for these freighters; consider their purpose."
"No? How many goods-haulers do you know named after peace, exactly? This is not their real name."
"So?" He shrugged, honestly puzzled. "Of course they would be renamed. It’s diplomatic. Reasonable."
"No." She searched her memories. "Remember their outlines, Conrad. Look into yourself and remember those ships." She had, some time ago, before she finally arrived at the inevitable, unavoidable truth.
Those silhouettes, standing there in the image on those documents. Sitting there in space.
-They were curved! They had none of the erratic edges, boxlike structure and unpredictable, random clusters of protuberances that festooned the hulls of normal freighters. The hulls of the Pokoi were nothing like that. The Pokoi’s were contoured holes in the lights of space; dark, shapely silhouettes of infinite engineered beauty and menace.
They were contoured for a purpose, she knew. Their outlines designed, as ever, for engineering concerns, not aesthetics. No freighter looks like that.
He looked back at her, his eyes just as hooded, his mouth just as carefully drawn, but this time in genuine thought and curiosity rather than doubt. "They seemed familiar. I’m not sure where from."
"You shouldn’t." She said. "Only the oldest ships follow the Slavic naming tradition, but there has never been a Pokoi class before now, to my knowledge."
"Well?"
"What there has been" she continued "is something else. Something entirely different. Remember, if you will, a vessel used in the early Sol system conflicts. A class of ship known as the Poboi class."
"Yes." He said. "I remember that. A sort of torpedo-shaped thing." He slowed and considered this, silently. "By god! It looked exactly like the Pokoi’s!"
"Not just that, Conrad. It didn’t simply look similar. It was exactly the same vessel class. The profiles are identical. And remember those profiles, Conrad. Think about them."
"How so?"
"Their profiles were curved and streamlined for a reason. Stealth, Conrad."
"No." His face radiated shock. His hands twitched. A single flicker of grim, morbid amusement rose and died at the sides of his mouth. "But why would a freighter be designed for stealth? Blockade-running?"
"No, Conrad. Our navy has never been blockaded at any time in it’s history." She looked to the ground, and then back again, staring him in his tiny, glimmering pupils. Ready to explain it all. "Poboi has a meaning too, Conrad. The language has changed over time, but it means, loosely, ‘conflict’ or ‘fighter’."
"What!?"
"Conrad." She licked dry, dehydrating lips. "Our vessels up there are warships."
End of Part 8.
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"
"Blasted computer model, stigmatizing my aeroplane! Lower the Induced-Deity coefficient next time."
Quiet, you. I am preparing for defence-sector work and doing other general stuff. I can't devote endless time, y'know.
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"
"Blasted computer model, stigmatizing my aeroplane! Lower the Induced-Deity coefficient next time."
