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    Arlchip Burnout
    Arlchip Burnout
    Arlchip Burnout
    Ebook377 pages4 hours

    Arlchip Burnout

    By Sean Monaghan

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Flis Kupe only wants to quit her life enduring the horrors of the interstellar war. Even willing to burn out her embedded arlchip. The device that pumps her miliary talents to the absolute limit. At a cost.

    Ready to return to a simple life, a cryptic message from her brother Bryce on Paulding throws Flis’s plans into disarray.

    A boarding by merciless river pirates thrusts Flis into a desperate race to make it home. A race that becomes deadly.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTriple V Publishing
    Release dateMay 3, 2015
    ISBN9781311600677
    Arlchip Burnout
    Author

    Sean Monaghan

    Award-winning author, Sean Monaghan has published more than one hundred stories in the U.S., the U.K., Australia, and in New Zealand, where he makes his home. A regular contributor to Asimov’s, his story “Crimson Birds of Small Miracles”, set in the art world of Shilinka Switalla, won both the Sir Julius Vogel Award, and the Asimov’s Readers Poll Award, for best short story. He is a past winner of the Jim Baen Memorial Award, and the Amazing Stories Award. Sean writes from a nook in a corner of his 110 year old home, usually listening to eighties music. Award-winning author, Sean Monaghan has published more than one hundred stories in the U.S., the U.K., Australia, and in New Zealand, where he makes his home. A regular contributor to Asimov’s, his story “Crimson Birds of Small Miracles”, set in the art world of Shilinka Switalla, won both the Sir Julius Vogel Award, and the Asimov’s Readers Poll Award, for best short story. He is a past winner of the Jim Baen Memorial Award, and the Amazing Stories Award. Sean writes from a nook in a corner of his 110 year old home, usually listening to eighties music.

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      Book preview

      Arlchip Burnout - Sean Monaghan

      Chapter One

      When the pirates came, Flis grabbed the sapphire cutlass from under her pillow. The weapon was illegal. Captain Jacobs didn’t know she’d brought it on board. Would have thrown her off if he’d found it.

      Whether the narrow boat was tied up at a dock or not.

      Flis had seen bodies floating in the river. It didn’t bode well for what she might find when she finally got to the homestead. Her brother’s message had been too cryptic.

      The pirates whooped. Their boat bumped against the Jemima May with a crude solidity. Designed for boarding. Flis heard a shot from some kind of laser rifle. The boat buzzed with electricity. Shields.

      Flis bent and blew out her paraffin candle. There were LEDs throughout, but she liked the feel of reading by candle. A rustic life, so different from the white steely canyons of Handrattan.

      Out in the hallway someone shouted.

      Perhaps it was too rustic.

      Too remote and lawless.

      Kneeling on her bed she pulled back the curtain to peer through the circular porthole. Her tray of dried fruit tipped and some pieces skittered onto the patchwork quilt. Flis felt an internal crackle from the arlchip, like a busted electric outlet arcing.

      Black outside. Was that just the night, or had the pirates brought their boat this far along? Jemima May was eighty feet long and the pirates all had small, low boats. At least that’s what the captain had said.

      More shouts from the hallway.

      Flis checked the door. The wall and door were fine-grained oak, but shielded with shimplastic and a brass surround. The simple mechanical bolt was in place, and the coded magnetic lock showed a red light.

      No one could get in.

      From above came the sounds of a pitched battle. Someone shouted Fire., and there were more shots from the laser guns.

      It wasn’t going well for the crew.

      Flis turned to her locker. She grabbed her knapsack. Put in sandals, the diary and her book. Phantom of the Marshes by Aldin Dent. Gripping.

      A roll pack of Thwackos Choc, a water filter and a pack of Band Aids. She threw in underwear and her rippletalk. The little device almost glared at her. As she scooped in toiletries from above the cabin’s basin she cursed herself for not having a go-bag prepared.

      Or a plan.

      Jacobs had talked about pirates. Almost nonchalant. Knew how to deal with them, no big worry.

      The rippletalk’s guidebook had been similarly positive. Few and far between.

      Not far between enough, apparently.

      Flis listened at the door. It had gone quiet.

      Just the buzz of electricity from the vessel’s shields.

      Advice? she said.

      Stay put, the rippletalk said from the bag. Wait for the crew. They know what to do.

      Stupid thing. Sounded like it was AI, but it was less than proto-AI. More like rote-reciting standard phrases from some situational algorithm.

      I’m trading you, she told it. Next time we reach civilization.

      We are further from civilization that either of us have ever-

      With a crash the door burst open.

      Flis stumbled back. Smoke billowed through the room. She coughed.

      Something smacked her across the cheek. She yelled and swung the cutlass.

      It dug into something. Flesh.

      Her assailant grunted. He smacked her again. Grabbed her hand in a crushing grip. Twisted.

      He had to be twice her size. One of those muscle freaks. Usually her speed was enough.

      Not this time. He was fast too.

      He let go and the cutlass clattered to the floor.

      A thick-fingered hand grabbed her hair. He dragged her from her cabin.

      Chapter Two

      From the shore they watched the Jemima May sink in the shallows.

      The narrow boat tipped as it struck the muddy bottom, rolling on its side. Robot scrubworms scampered along the exposed hull, looking for somewhere to hide.

      Flis stood with the other passengers. They weren’t prisoners, though everything they owned had been stolen, save for most of the clothes they stood in. The rippletalk had crept from her bag in the melee and wound its way up to her armpit.

      She’d lost the book, toiletries and chocolate.

      Uncomfortable, but at least she still had it. She was still going to need its help to get to the homestead. Assuming the brigands didn’t kill them all.

      Want to make a break for it? someone whispered just behind her.

      Flis turned.

      The passengers stood in rows on the damp bank. Rushes and thick-stemmed grasses pressed against her legs. She was sure she’d felt more than one insect climb over her foot.

      Bent toward her was Grae Sinder. She’d met him when the Jemima May had set sail up the River Haxley. Thirty-two, short, with spectacles and a boyish smile. Beyond him loomed a wall of the thick trees that lined this part of the river. The leaves rustled.

      Maybe, she said.

      They’d been standing here for an hour while the pirates had plundered the vessel. They’d killed three of the crew, including Captain Jacobs. The bodies had stayed on deck until all the passengers were on the weathered jetty. The pirates had made a show of tossing the corpses into the river. Just in case any of the passengers thought fighting back was a good idea.

      Jacobs still lay face down in the mud, right at the edge.

      There were the remains of other vessels in the margins too. Skeletons, mostly. Just their structural parts remaining. The pirates used this place a lot.

      Somehow Flis didn’t believe the pirates would kill them. They might abandon them here–thirty kilometers from the nearest town–but the effort of actually slaughtering twenty-three more people wouldn’t be worth it. They’d already started into the rum.

      That was what gave Flis the thought that it might be possible to get away with Grae.

      Where would they go, though? It would be sunset soon. Paulding’s day ran to twenty-one hours, and she still hadn’t re-adapted to the rhythm.

      In the river the Jemima May creaked. The water around the vessel bubbled. Out over the water a cormorant-like bird plunged below the surface.

      The pirates had tied their own boat to the end of the jetty. A makeshift vessel, Flis thought, bigger than she’d expected. She could see that it probably once been a tug, with a high bridge wheelhouse and a low, flat stern. They’d added on sheets of steel, shimplastic and wood, making high, defendable sides. Painted in garish reds and yellows. Some attempts at patterns, but it was clear they’d given up at some point. Just trying to look menacing now.

      Her rippletalk vibrated in her armpit. Quiet, she said.

      Copy that. It fell still.

      A tall white wing mast rose from just behind the wheelhouse. There were barrels on the stern too, that contained oil, she was sure, though some were probably filled with rum or other hearty pirate poisons. An odd shape on the afterdeck. Possibly some kind of aircraft under tarpaulins.

      After dark, Grae whispered.

      Flis didn’t think it would make much difference. The pirates had taken what they wanted. They would sail off. The river here was more than a kilometer across. There wasn’t much in the way of boat traffic at the moment. She’d seen a couple of high-flying planes, on their way from Parnish to points north.

      We’ll take one of their speedboats, Grae said.

      Ambitious. What if they’ve sailed by-

      Quiet there. One of the pirates came up from the jetty. He had thick leather boots and a matching jerkin.

      Great, one of the other passengers muttered. You two will get us killed.

      Spread out, the pirate said. Enough with the talk.

      Flis took a step away from Grae. He would be a liability anyway. She had her own plan.

      #

      With the Jemima May scuttled, the pirates gathered their things up and boarded their stout vessel. Some of the passengers ran down the jetty.

      You can’t leave us here.

      The pirates ignored them. They cast off and pushed away. After a moment the current caught the boat. Flis got a glimpse of the captain standing on a barrel at the stern.

      Flis lifted her arm and pointed her finger at him. The captain laughed. He crouched and picked up a long tube.

      Crap, she said.

      The captain shifted the weapon to his shoulder. The pirates around hooted and cheered.

      Run, Flis said.

      One of the passengers screamed. Everyone still clamoring on the jetty ran for shore.

      Stay down there, Flis shouted. She ran for the jetty. If he really was going to shoot, he wouldn’t risk damaging that. They needed somewhere to tie up.

      Someone coming the other way smacked into her. Flis slipped in the muddy ground.

      The weapon’s fire was louder than she’d expected. Like a rocket blast.

      The ground shook. Mud and plants pelted her. Flis rolled and pulled for the bank.

      She lay on the dirt, ears ringing. People around her moaned and cried.

      Over it all she heard the pirate reload the weapon. That distinctive sound of setting it down with a hollow clunk. Followed by the slippery slither of the next round sliding into the barrel. A click-clank-click as he reset the launch mechanism.

      She had about one second.

      The jetty was out of the question now. So was her second choice. If she made for the trees he would pick her out. The projectile would blast her to cat food.

      The river then.

      The last clank as he put the weapon back on his shoulder.

      Flis pulled at the grass, scrambling to the edge. She tipped over and rolled. Something jabbed into her side.

      She smacked the water at the same moment the pirate fired.

      The blast blew over her. She went into the mud.

      Face first. Sticky. It stank of dead fish.

      She pushed up.

      Pieces of the bank peppered her again. A clod of earth struck her temple.

      She fell back.

      And landed right on top of Captain Jacobs.

      Chapter Three

      Half an hour later, in darkness, she managed to reach the solid part of the bank. She was coated in mud, head to foot. She could smell herself. Before she went too far she was going to have to jump off the end of the jetty for a good rinse.

      Digging her fingernails in she pulled her way up.

      From the trees, animals gave quiet howls and louder screams. Not fear, she thought, just night calls. It was creepy though. This part of Karnth had been returned to forest after the crazy wave had passed. A lot of the other countries on Paulding had been abandoned entirely, but here the population ran about ten percent.

      On the way up the river they’d passed dozens of buildings, from tall brick and steel siloes with conveyors and high antennae, to mills and homes and hotels. River traffic had become a fraction of its heyday. Even the hotels that still operated were run down.

      When she got to level ground, she took a look around. The light had almost gone. Dull streaks of a blackish-blue still struck the sparse clouds, but it was hardly enough to see by. Stars twinkled, the constellations familiar to her. She was surprised by how disconcerting that was. From the trees some fireflies or points of phosphorescent fungus glowed.

      The river was black, like a void. Some stars reflected, their shapes elongated and twisted by the low waves. Far off she could see light from a boat. The pirates, she guessed. Their engine puttered.

      Anyone here? she said. Hello? She could feel the cracking of the dried mud on her skin

      No response. She heard a movement to her left, along towards the head of the jetty.

      Hello? she shouted.

      Over here. A man. Frightened.

      She started walking, trying to slide her feet along so she didn’t fall over the bank again. She found the crater from one of the shots. At least five feet across, a foot or two deep. The ground rough with stones.

      Who’s that? the scared man called again.

      Flis Kupe, she said. I was one of the passengers.

      Oh it’s just that artist girl. An older woman. Frightened too, Flis could hear it in her voice.

      That’s me, she said. Artist was a good enough cover. She’d even sketched some of the buildings as the Jemima May had crept along the river. Fair enough pieces. No one would know that the rippletalk was anything more than a stretchable drawing pad. She’d slideshowed some of the pictures for the other passengers.

      From far off in the woods something roared. A deep feline sound. The return to wilds had progressed fast. Much faster, she was sure, than anyone had expected.

      It made her more anxious about getting to find Bryce. He and Maria had two kids. One message, and no replies to any of her queries.

      Part of her wanted to simply abandon him to his fate. After what he’d done to her before, it felt almost right. Leaving her alone.

      But there were the kids. And he seemed to be a new man.

      If she could have flown, she would have. The whole area was banned. The only flights out of Turneith headed over to Quaithe and the mountain country. Tourists on five-day tours, with twelve stops. People bookmarking their lives with videoed memories.

      How many? she said, sensing she’d reached the owner of the voice.

      Huh?

      Has anyone got a flashlight? Or a flare? Flis was conscious of the pirates still out in the river. Would they be too drunk to see a light from there? Would the sober wheelsman care?

      Flis? Grae said from off to her right.

      Here, she said. She was surprised by the darkness. It was a long time since she’d been outside a city. Some romantic part of her had expected more useful light from the stars.

      Think some people got killed in that shot, Grae said.

      It was her fault, the first woman said.

      Easy, Grae said.

      She called him out. I saw her pointing at him.

      The woman was right. Flis needed to learn not to taunt jerks with big guns. At least that’s what her brother would say. Had said.

      I didn’t mean for that to happen, she said.

      He would have shot anyway, another person said. Younger. They’re just pirates. Shoot things up for the fun of it.

      What’s that stink? someone said.

      That’s me, Flis said. I fell in the mud.

      I thought she’d died, the first woman said. Would have served her right.

      What’s done, Grae said. Just leave it alone. We need to help each other now.

      We need a fire, Flis said. It’s going to get cold.

      They’ll see us and come back, someone else said. A man. Mid-fifties, Flis guessed from the sound of his voice. She remembered a trim former soldier. White moustache, bald pate. Chuck or Bob or Dan. Some non-descript name.

      Fire’s a good idea, Grae said.

      Back into the trees a ways, Flis said. She hadn’t figured how they would find their way in. At least there would be wood.

      Good, Grae said. Everyone gather around. Here. Come to my voice.

      I’ve got a flextalker, another person said. Young too. Male. Was that the first officer? It’s got a lowlight screen. Might help us find our way. A dull glow flickered up from nearby.

      Good, Grae said. Aim it a the trees, not the pirates.

      In ten minutes they’d struggled back through the first row of trees and undergrowth. Eight survivors from the attack. Most had died, Flis figured, from those two big shells fired right at the end.

      She should have just turned and walked away. Let the pirates go about their business.

      Any plans about how to light a fire? the young woman said.

      Gather some wood, the military guy said. Chuck, Flis remembered. Build a pile. We can start it.

      Pick up pieces as we go, Flis said. Deadfall is best. They were right. Already it was getting cold.

      I can’t even see my hands, someone said, and you want me to gather wood?

      By the light of flextalker they found a gap in the trees. Chuck congratulated them on finding wood. He piled the few pieces they’d brought into a small pile. With a folding knife he cut a green stick and stripped off a length of bark. He quickly fashioned a bow, put in another, stiffer, stick and flicked it around.

      Could use some dry leaves, he said. Moss, lichen. Anything.

      He put the tip of the stick against a broken piece of wood and held the top with part of the folded knife.

      What are you doing? Flis said. She crouched to watch.

      Wish we had an ignitor, he said. This can get tiring.

      I can help.

      Good. He started moving the bow back and forth. The twisted strand of bark made the stiff stick rotate.

      Friction. She got it. Dry leaves, she said. Tinder.

      You got it.

      The others were standing or sitting around. In the dim light Flis couldn’t tell their expressions, but none of them was helping.

      Anyone got any food? someone said. Flis couldn’t tell who.

      She saw movement to her left. She tensed, expecting some wild animal, but it was Grae.

      Found some leaves, he said, coming through the group.

      It took another ten minutes to get a flame, with Flis and Grae spelling Chuck. Once the fire was going the light was better. They went and found more wood.

      Chuck had them make a stack beside the blaze. Keep it stoked through the night.

      Can’t we call for help? the woman said. She was younger than Flis remembered. Some businesswoman having an early mid-life crisis and trying to get back to nature. Well, she was back to it now.

      You got a phone? Grae said.

      He’s got a flextalker, she said. How come the pirates didn’t take that?

      Hid it, the kid said. You don’t want to know where.

      Eww.

      Anyway, it’s dumb. Doesn’t pick up satellite or tower signals. Can’t talk to much else anyway.

      Flis slipped her rippletalk from her armpit.

      The little device shivered and unballed. Its screen popped right up and showed her a location.

      We’re seventy kilometers from the homestead, it said.

      What’s that? The woman stood and came around the fire. Is that a phone? A communicator? Who are you talking to?

      It’s nothing, Flis said. A toy. She could see Grae staring at her. My sketch pad.

      Okay, Grae said.

      We’ll be all right, the military guy said. He built up the fire and encouraged them to use the light to find more wood.

      There’s got to be deadfall around. He stared at Flis. Johann Stahlle.

      Felicity Kupe. She held her hand out to shake. His grip felt consciously loose. As if he could crush her bones to powder if he chose.

      Where were you headed? he said.

      Lake Anostine. Then into the canals. I’m looking for my brother.

      Stahlle frowned. Bigger concerns now, yes?

      Yes. The temperature was dropping. Flis stood and began gathering wood. Some of the others helped and soon they had a good blaze burning with a stock of branches.

      Flis was surprised by how the fire calmed people. Even with the sounds of the animals prowling the forest. The group sat around on the damp ground talking.

      Stahlle had retired from the corps–he didn’t say which–from Loventhal II. A generous package, he told them. I’m touring. A dozen systems already.

      So you’re used to pirates, then, the kid said.

      Stahlle laughed. Thought all that nonsense was long behind me.

      The angry older woman was Stella Millar. Seriously, she said. Had to live that name down all my life.

      The others laughed.

      She was a Karnth local and was on her way to see the cataracts on the Haxley. I’ve never traveled out of Turneith.

      The kid–J.D.–was looking for work at some of the smaller towns along the river. Flis thought he was idealistic. The changes in the landscape were noticeable–even in the short few years she’d been away.

      The others, Songaphorn Til, Mrs Butler and Kaylee Dubrovich were all off-worlders trying to find out of the way spots to travel.

      You sure found that, Grae told them. This is off the beaten track to anywhere already off the beaten track. He threw another branch on the fire and it crackled, sending sparks into the air. Flis watched them mingle with the fireflies before winking out. The fire’s smell was soothing.

      My husband died in the attack, Mrs Butler said.

      Flis felt a chill go through her. For a moment it had almost been possible to forget how they’d come to be here. As if they were just a tour group, trekking into the wilds and making camp for the night. Almost.

      In the morning, Stahlle

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