Inflexible (fiction)

Devil's Triangle Region (in green)

Makandal's picture of Retila

Inflexible by Stranger (2014, 2020)

The first sector of the Galaxy, the southeast quadrant. Community-colonized systems form a vast two-horned appendix in this region, far from the transgalactic highway linking the Old Worlds with the Pulsar Worlds. None of the three dozen systems in this galactic nook and cranny are to be found in the tourist guides "Famous Planets" or "One Hundred Wonders of the Galaxy That Must Be Seen". But you have almost certainly heard something about this corner of the Universe. The region owes its grim reputation to the Devil's Triangle, a group of three anarchist systems at the heart of the Appendix.

A group of ships lay adrift in the dim light of the almost unheated sun. Here, far beyond the outer limit of the habitable zone, the scanty remnant of heat of the central star would barely be enough to maintain a cold, rarefied atmosphere in an ice-free state, practically unsuitable for breathing. However, the only inhabited planet of the system, much closer to the sun, could hardly be called a hospitable world. A ball the color of a burnt brick, without a single mirror of an open reservoir. Only dull patches of greenery at the bottom of deep depressions, which were once seas, said that in the relatively recent geological past that the planet had known better times.

Retila was unlucky with its central luminary. A white star of spectral class F8V entered a period of instability and from time to time burst into violent bursts of solar activity. The colonists waited out such periods of a solar storm in shelters buried in the ground. However, even during periods of decline in solar activity, the planet's climate was too hot for walking and working in the open air. Not a very attractive world for tourism. And completely unsuitable for agriculture.

The main wealth of Retila was powerful deposits of polymetallic ores. Initially, miners worked in the mines on a rotational basis, but over time, permanent settlements arose on the planet around the city-forming enterprises - metallurgical and machine-building plants. However, it never came to the establishment of a strong central authority: just before the war with the Thargoids, a particularly powerful solar flare burned the electronic circuits of the beacons and the system was left to fend for itself. Against the backdrop of post-war chaos, mines, shipyards and factories migrated into the hands of crime bosses, and economic competition turned into open war without rules. The ninth-level industrial system, which once attracted talented engineers and ambitious managers, now appears in the register of the Commonwealth as anarchy.

Ships lying adrift far from the trade routes could hardly be mistaken for a merchant convoy, even by an inexperienced observer. Yes, a Python, accompanied by an escort of fighters, is a familiar picture in our turbulent times - but what would an ordinary huckster be doing in this wilderness? It is rare for a desperate merchant to dare to visit the anarchist system in search of a risky profit, and if he does stick his head into this death-trap, he will fly full steam ahead to the GalCop station, without turning from his path and not stopping anywhere en route.

An observer with minimal combat experience would have noticed that the composition of the group was unusually heterogeneous for a typical escort, but well balanced for predatory raids on trade routes. (Tight-fisted merchants usually prefer to hire the same type of inexpensive ships such as the Cobra Mark I or Sidewinder - such a group has enough firepower to drive away a lone pirate, and holds the formation well.) A strong and powerfully armed Python in the group was perfect for storing looted goods. It was covered by two high-speed Asps, a Cobra Rapier with a scoop for collecting trophies and a light Sidewinder. This last ship could, if necessary, act alone, sniffing out prey and directing the flock to the victim. Taking into account the above circumstances, an external observer would consider it a good idea to bypass the company at a good distance, if possible without attracting attention, and go on about his business. Or decide to attack the group at his own risk.

The pilot of the single Cobra Mark III, was in no hurry to choose either one or the other. Dropping the thrust of the engines to zero, he carefully examined the group, remaining outside the range of their scanners. Then he looked around his stern and side quadrants. And only after that he moved the joystick handle away from him. The Cobra purred predatorily and moved forwards.

Old space tramps are incorrigible romantics at heart. Pragmatic to the point of cynicism in business, whatever its kind, they put the fervour of fantasy into the names of their ships - pretentious, proud, and even just plain sentimental. Or sonorous, like the names of port taverns on ancient Earth. This Python was called "Breakfast in the Ruins". A name, which as a name says absolutely nothing about the occupation of its crew. The "gentlemen" on the bridge of the ship wore the usual gray-blue non-marking overalls, such as are worn by traders throughout the galaxy. Not, Giles Forbid!, a bandana and a holster with automatic pistols - what are we, children, right? Not all members of the Python's team were immaculately shaven, but everyone was sober – work is work. Only the contents of the ship's hold were not quite ordinary for a law-abiding merchant, and in truth, the Python's skipper was nervous. Six light-years to the east was the base of the Oresle Navy Command fleet, and in recent times the fleet has often raided neighboring systems. At one time, the fleet was created to repel the onslaught of the Thargoids, and GalCop's police force ensured the safety of trade routes and hunted smugglers. The old rules of the game are changing - the fleet is no longer so scrupulous in observing the principle of separation of areas of competence between thargoids and pirates. It would be better to deal with insects.

- "Your man is late for the rendezvous", the skipper said dryly, turning to the young man, who with a bored look had settled down in the free seat of the right-hand pilot. The young man was not a member of the team and, in principle, did not have the right to be on the bridge. And in general, this whip-most of all looked like a traveling salesman, concerned about selling housewives another model of a shitty food-blender with radically improved intelligence. Blender with intelligence, fuck. But the skipper of the "Breakfast in the Ruins" had lived long enough to develop a sense of danger. And something in the expression of the young man's blue eyes said that it was better not to harp on about bridge-rights. The skipper did not like the neighborhood of the fleet base and did not like his fellow traveler. And it's hard to say what worried him more.

- "This is not a cruise liner, skipper". The young man remarked condescendingly. "We are not talking about force majeure, at any time. An uncertain component of the business, don't you know it. Ten minutes - and anything above this comes with an increase in margin of ten percent, as we agreed".

The skipper took a deep breath. Exhaled. "Fifteen percent".

- "It seemed to me that we had agreed on everything in advance. Isn't that right? Of course, if in the future, you will find that the conditions did not suit you - well, it is your right".

- "Okay. But believe me, I know what I'm saying. It's not safe. Devilishly dangerous. Thirty minutes is exactly how long it will take GalCop's Vipers to get here. Consider the time for transshipment of goods. I wait twenty minutes. More than that, I can't, understand?

The young man shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

The skipper grimaced painfully, feeling the usual spasm in his stomach. "It's time to finish this job".

- "Contact at eight o'clock" - the navigator reported. - "Single ship, Yellow status. Approaching at a speed of two hundred and seventy".

– "Target data?" The skipper demanded.

- "Cobra Mark Three, intruder. It is registered under the name 'Atropos'".

- "That's him". The bored expression left the young man's face. "He was only a couple of minutes late. We have a lot of time left".

The skipper didn't think so. He was not going to stay in these parts for a second beyond what was necessary. "At my command - inch forwards and dump the cargo overboard".

– "The cargo is ready for unloading", the engineer confirmed.

On a Python, there can be no shift watches with such a small crew - and there can be no rigidly defined "ship's roles" as is customary in the navy. Everyone has to do what they do best. On this voyage they had set out with an incomplete roster and the skipper had to recall his old skills as a pilot and navigator in order to give the guys a break before hitting the dangerous sections of the route - at the end of unloading. - "Set the generators on 'maximum'. Move, guys!"

The Cobra Mark III slowly approached the group of ships and spat out a small tetrahedral container. Especially valuable cargo is usually transported in such sealed safes - jewelry, valuable documents and purified drugs. The Cobra pilot showed little interest in the contents of the container. After getting rid of his load, he took his place in the wake of Python. The pair of asps did not let him out of the sights. The Cobra pilot had every reason to believe that their guns were disarmed, and did not make sudden movements.

The Cobra Rapier moved forwards and picked up the load.

The Python slowly inched forwards. A line of cylindrical containers fell out of its belly like eggs from a spawning fish.

The pilot of the Cobra Mark III, smoothly made a small turn and shot towards the nearest container, scooping it. His automatic cargo handling system transferred the captured container from the magnetic trap to the hold, scanned its contents and placed it in the desired cell. It took five minutes to collect the cargo. After completing the gathering, the Cobra pilot opened the screen with the cargo manifest.

Humanoid slaves, twenty tons.

- "The goods are fine, guys", confirmed the pilot of the Cobra. "We are counting. Happily."

It seems incredible that the shameful practice of the ancient slave trade could be revived among the stars. And it is even more incredible that this curse was inflicted on the body of the Galactic Commonwealth, a voluntary association of worlds created for mutual assistance. Inherently, space is appallingly inhumane. Not hostile to life, not at all. Just indifferent to it. The universe, by and large, does not care about our poetic longings and ambitions. We ourselves determine what is good and what is evil.

And where does one draw the line beyond which rationality turns into promiscuity? The galactic commonwealth is not at all a friendly team of like-minded people, but a motley team, united somewhat by a common mercantile interest, somewhat by fear of a common enemy, somewhat skillfully woven by a network of political intrigues, somewhat by a finely tuned mechanism of checks and balances.

There are worlds in the Commonwealth, the main wealth of which is the human resource. Oh, not in the sense of the immeasurable value of every human person that the democracies tirelessly preach. In these impoverished worlds, a single human life is worth almost nothing. Minerals must be mined, agricultural products must be grown, and rogues breed themselves. And they breed in abundance. There are worlds in which workers are in demand, not brains. The work of a miner in an asteroid mine does not require more sophisticated instincts than the labor of a worker in a termite mound, and the value of a single life is negligible. One working individual can always be replaced with exactly the same working individual as it wears out or dies - there would be a source of uninterrupted replenishment.

And there are other markets where cheap healthy human material is required - uncomplaining farm laborers and docile girlfriends for colonists in outlying worlds, cannon fodder for endless clan-wars in unstable systems, workers in the underground sex industry on galactic highways, donors of organs and biomaterial for the gerontocracy in well-to-do systems. Where there is demand, where there is supply, there will be a mechanism.

In truth, the skipper of "Breakfast in the Ruins" was not a complete scoundrel. People of his ilk do not like to be called pirates. They prefer to call themselves free traders. For the most part, this is the case, although on occasion this brotherhood does not disdain smuggling, or sometimes even something worse. But judge for yourself: is it possible in our times to live within the framework of what these bureaucrats from GalCop call the legal path? A step to the left, a step to the right - and you quickly realize how densely mined this path is. Becoming an outcast overnight, a target of legal bounty-hunting, is easy. A month ago, the skipper saw with his own eyes what happened to the huckster, who, by mistake, slammed a charge from his pulse fart into the station. Ten seconds later, the poor fellow was closely involved with three GalCop Vipers, and half a minute later his account in the GalCop database was sent to the archives with a laconic note "The ship is destroyed."

Yes, the skipper was well aware of what kind of goods were in the cryocontainers, but he preferred not to ask unnecessary questions. After all, it's just once... this year... and it was a crime to miss such an opportunity. They had said: "Old Man, it's up to you to take twenty tons of canned food on board and deliver them wherever you are told. What else you fill the hold with on the way is not our concern. And, mind you, we will not demand a penny from your profits, and as for the roof, do not load - everything will be the way. (Not too sure what is meant here!) Indeed, the flight to the Appendix turned out to be profitable, and the impressive escort had not been worth the money. But in truth, there was something about these short-haired guys that made one's blood run cold in one's veins. And when the escort picked up the young man and whizzed off, the skipper was relieved. The return trip was not short, but he thought with the selection of a relatively safe route, it should promise a good profit.

And the first step on the long road home was taken. After leaving the inhospitable Retila, "Breakfast in the Ruins" surfaced in the agrarian corporate Ququor. The system was famous for its original "Abouou" liqueur - it would sell well in the next port, industrial Raleen. The oppressive forebodings were dispelled, the heartburn finally let go, and life started to seem not such a bad thing. Especially if there were such cute trinkets in it as a snifter of brandy (quite a bit, two fingers worth, to 'relieve stress') and a fragrant cigar.

- "What was the name of the ship that picked up the order?" The skipper asked, puffing on his cigar. "It's a wonderful name, but I can't remember it".

- "Atropos" - replied the navigator. "We must pay tribute to this bastard - you can't deny that he has taste".

The navigator was the only one of the crew who had been honoured at one time to receive something similar to an education. Atropos was the oldest of the three classical Furies, she who cuts the thread of a man's life with scissors. Perhaps one of the poor fellows, whose path was crossed by this black ship, managed to appreciate the sinister humor in the end. The navigator would not find the situation so amusing if he knew that the thread of his own life had already been measured and the scissors had been brought in.

A couple of Fer-de-Lances emerged from the darkness and opened fire while on the move. The beams of military lasers struck the Python's protective field and pierced it. The lamps pouring cozy dim light from the ceiling and walls of the wardroom went out. Immediately, the dim scarlet light of combat mode came on. The bar counter was plunged into twilight. However, there was still no time and no one to slowly contemplate the lovingly selected collection of alcohol: the wardroom was empty. The skipper, following the navigator, ran to the mouth of the transition well and, with the usual push, sent his body flying towards the bridge. There was the turmoil of battle. - "Everyone to the rescue, this is a civilian ship! We are attacked by pirates!" The pilot shouted over an open connection.

"The captain is on the bridge!" the navigator proclaimed. He was heard, but no one responded - now everyone had worries more important than subordination. The skipper took his seat. A quick glance at the scanner screen was enough for him to grasp the picture. And he didn't like the picture. After firing at the "Breakfast in the Ruins" on the aisle, a pair of aggressors dispersed with scissors. Now they were deployed for a second attack.

The skipper took the chewed, extinct cigar out of his mouth. - "Report on the status of the systems".

- "We've lost the fuel injectors" - said the engineer.

It's a bad thing, the skipper thought grimly. Without fuel injectors, "Breakfast in Ruins" turned into a lame duck. - "Jump status?".

— "Negative" - the navigator responded. "There is not enough fuel."

Generators in the bowels of the engine room whined, pumping energy into depleted shields. A Fer-de-Lance synchronously completed its turn and went on the attack. The skipper looked for the ashtray. Then he remembered that he himself had forbidden smoking on the bridge. And in disgust he threw the remains of the cigar on the deck.

- "Aim the missile at target number one".

- "Target number one is locked" - the pilot reported.

- "At my command: a rocket for the first target, fire the cannon at the second. Fire!"

The missile escaped from its pylon. A tongue of blue flame rushing towards its goal - and then disintegrated in sight with colourful but harmless fireworks. The high pitched shriek of the ECM pulse died away. The first Fer-de-Lance did not even dodge - the beam of its laser mercilessly stung the Python. The pilot caught the other Fer-de-Lance in his sights and pulled the trigger. That was the only thing he could do. The shot was accurate. Running into oncoming fire, the second Fer-de-Lance interrupted its attack with a sharp break in its trajectory and ignited its afterburners.

- "Missile launch! A second one has now fired!" - the engineer reported. "I engaged our ECM: we're running out of energy, but their blue flags on the scanner are still there.

- "Two hardheads in flight" the engineer announced grimly. "Impact in ten seconds".

Amongst civilians who have survived attacks by ECM Hardened Missiles, there is a definite opinion that it is useless to use electronic counter-measures against such a missile. This is not entirely true. Such a rocket can be defeated by a series of ECM pulses at a minimal distance. The technique is risky and quickly empties the energy banks without guaranteeing the result, so one shouldn't rely too much on it. The pilot took evasive action. "Breakfast in the Ruins" went into a defensive turn, placing the missiles astern. The slow-moving Python had no chance to get away from the missiles, but fleeing the rockets at full speed would reduce the damage when hitting the stern.

A pair of red flags on the scanner were gaining ground to launch a new attack, a pair of blue ones were rapidly approaching. Now the priority threat was the missiles. The engineer waited, keeping his finger on the ECM key. He let the missiles almost touch. The ECM emitter sent a stream of pulses. The front rocket exploded astern. The shock wave shook the "Breakfast in the Ruins". The second missile survived. The pilot pushed the throttle over to full speed. He tried to dodge the missile to evade the homing. An almost hopeless manoeuver on a clumsy Python. The rocket turned towards its target. Its proximity sensor reacted to the closeness of the Python's mass and activated at the defined distance. The explosion occurred at the level of the engine room. A concentrated burst of energy crushed the stern shielding and slammed down on the bare hull of the ship. The control panels lit up with a scattering of scarlet emergency lights.

- "Aft shield generators - failure. ECM is down. Hyperdrive is down." the engineer hurriedly listed.

The skipper, yet again in this short skirmish, looked at the scanner, hoping to see on it the purple flags of GalCop patrol ships. The miracle did not happen. The second Fer-de-Lance, damaged by cannon fire, was withdrawing from the fray. His chum went on the attack again.

The pilot turned the crippled "Breakfast in the Ruins" towards the enemy. The second Fer-de-Lance did not engage in a risky cannon duel. He fired two missiles from a distance, from a safe distance. And then he fell away.

Well, that's it. The skipper thought wearily.

He had never harbored illusions about reaching extreme old age. People of his occupation rarely live to see it. And they never wonder haphazardly when and how it will end. Another day lived, another flight survived - and then...

A blue spark flared. The rocket twisted along a helical line. The pilot opened fire in a desperate attempt to shoot down the missile. The tongue of blue flame slipped out of the crosshairs, traced around the sky and then struck the bow shields. A blinding flash. The islands of lights on the control panel faded, the shriek of the generator was cut off. The bridge was plunged into darkness. The second rocket rapidly covered the last kilometers. The blue glow of her exhaust striking their numbed faces.

The navigator was the first to come to his senses. He grabbed the handle between his legs and jerked it towards him. The straps pulled his body to the chair. An electromagnetic catapult pushed the chair into the open hatch of the escape pod. The steel diaphragm of the hatch closed, plasma knives cut off the connections between the capsule and the ship. The auxiliary engine puffed, leading the escape pod away from the doomed ship. "Breakfast in the Ruins" was dead, but the missile continued to hold the target. She missed the escape pod and hit the ship, turning it into a shaggy fire bush. No one except the navigator managed to leave the ship. But that didn't save him. A hail of red-hot debris fell on the hull of the escape pod. The tiny craft tumbled helplessly, spewing a misty jet of air from its torn side.

The navigator screamed in piercing pain. He screamed until he choked on blood. Fingers convulsively scratched the top of the chair, trying to feel for the mask of the remLock, but the brain had already died. The fog thinned out, covering the motionless figure with crystals of frost.

Translator's note

Based on Stranger's pdf of Непреклонная - the above is down to the first line on p.8. Translated using Google Translate and then edited to make more sense (I hope!). See Language for links to the Russian download.