Charlotte's Army: ISF-Allion

By Patty Jansen

An army of 7000 artificial soldiers accidentally received the same brain implant: they are all in love with the same woman.

A space fleet with seven thousand artificial human marines hurtles through space at near-light-speed to an interstellar war...

Doctor Charlotte West, the neuro-technologist responsible for the soldiers’ artificial brains, travels in the support fleet. Two months before the arrival at the war site, the marines start fighting each other and disobeying commands. 

When they are brought in for tests, Charlotte finds that someone has made a disastrous mistake that endangers the entire space fleet. They're all in love with her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patty Jansen
• Release date: Nov 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502205247

Patty Jansen

Patty lives in Sydney, Australia, and writes both Science Fiction and Fantasy. She has published over 15 novels and has sold short stories to genre magazines such as Analog Science Fiction and Fact.Patty was trained as a agricultural scientist, and if you look behind her stories, you will find bits of science sprinkled throughout.Want to keep up-to-date with Patty's fiction? Join the mailing list here: http://eepurl.com/qqlAbPatty is on Twitter (@pattyjansen), Facebook, LinkedIn, goodreads, LibraryThing, google+ and blogs at: http://pattyjansen.com/

Book preview

1

The young woman's skin was pale as milk. Curls of red hair danced about her face when she moved her head. The sign on her lab coat said Starship Comfort , the hospital ship in the fleet .

Aidin stared, one hand on the bar, standing in the glare of the screen that displayed her larger-than-life. All around him, his fellow soldiers laughed and drank and talked, but their voices faded as he concentrated on the newscast.

You are aware that your work causes controversy amongst certain groups on Earth? This was an interviewer, out of view of the camera.

The young woman tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with a delicate hand. "I am aware of that, but the construct soldiers are fine-tuned to our requirements, and have different abilities. They like what they're doing. They are people and not mindless clones. No one has ever won a war with an army of identical soldiers."

Something clicked in Aidin's mind.

Charlotte. That was her name.

The barkeeper's voice broke his thoughts. Mate? Are you listening? Can I have your account?

Aidin's attention returned to the noisy bar of the Starship Forward, the strobe-lit sea of International Space Force uniforms. He flipped his account card out of his breast pocket.

He could only think Charlotte, Charlotte.

How could he ever have forgotten her?

Donagh waited in the corridor, leaning against the wall. He stood on one foot, while he braced the other at waist-height against the opposite wall.

Aidin stopped, swaying with the effects of too much beer, or travelling long-term at hyperspeed, it was hard to tell which. Can I get past, mate. I want to get to my cabin.

Donagh didn't move.

Aidin considered pushing past him, but Donagh was taller than him, broader in the shoulder and shorter of temper.

Why won't you late me past? What's your problem?

Donagh's face twisted in a snarl. I saw you looking at her.

Aidin froze, glanced into Donagh's eyes. What did he know about Charlotte? Yes, so what?

So what. She's my girlfriend. We met way back on Earth.

"You are mistaken, pal. She's my girlfriend. I met her in that restaurant on the beach."

"That's bullshit. I did."

Donagh swung his arm. Aidin ducked and Donagh's fist slammed into the opposite wall. Aidin ran, but Donagh grabbed the back of his shirt. They both fell.

Boys!

Silence.

Captain Crozier stood in the corridor, her hands on her hips, several shades of thunder on her face.

May I ask what this is about?

Well—uhm... Donagh sat up, brushing dust off his uniform. He gave Aidin a sharp look. Nothing, Ma'am.

Hmph. Make sure that 'nothing' doesn't interfere with your duty. Go back to your cabins, both of you.

A gun, that was it.

His superiors had trained Rane in rockets and guns, bombs and explosive charges.

Every night he dreamed of those, as if they had been grafted onto his brain, which of course they had. He was not dumb. He vaguely remembered waking up in some sort of cubicle, and attending sessions with a psychiatrist. He remembered the room, its military cleanliness, and remembered passing out on a table with something attached to his head.

Since then, he'd dreamed of exploding rockets and plasti-bombs. Setting charges, calibrating how much to use and where to attach it, how far to move away and how strong the trigger signal needed to be.

Guns exploded, too, even though his tutors seemed to know little about this.

For this job, a rocket would be too coarse. Delicate girls with fox-red curls did not appreciate rockets. But she would appreciate his very personal gun. He could feel himself take it out. He could feel her hand on it, soft and dainty.

He would slide it into her soft flesh and ride her like a horse. She'd buck and writhe and...

He arched his back.

Hit his head on the bottom of Karl's bunk.

Ouch.

It was pitch dark in the cabin, and silent except for the hissing of air out of the ceiling vent and the humming of the starship's engines. And the thudding of his heart.

Oh for fuck's sake. He'd been humping his pillow.

Yet the girl was real, he knew that. Red-headed. Charlotte.

He needed a drink.

He scrambled from his bunk and went into the corridor.

Someone was already there, a lanky silhouette leaning against the wall.

Rane took a cup from the dispenser set it in the wall recess and turned on the tap. Goodnight, Stani. Waiting for anything?

You.

The low light glistened off Stani's gun. I'm gonna get you for messing with my girl.

2

Doctor Spencer cracked his knuckles; he always did that when he was nervous and I knew the figure who sat opposite the desk made him more nervous than usual .

With her stiff dress jacket, buttons and stars of her uniform glittering, Commander Carla Avery looked severe without even trying.

Dr Spencer licked his lips and looked at the screen, as if that would make the bad news go away. He broke the tense silence. I'm afraid we need some time to investigate, Ma'am.

Time? How much time?

That depends on what we find.

Commander Avery fingered her upper lip. The construct is still alive?

He is, Ma'am. His organs may be damaged, but his brain functions normally. We can replace the organs, but... whatever is wrong in his mind might take much longer to repair.

What sort of malfunction are we looking at?

Could be anything. Men from his unit say that they managed to wrestle him to the ground and to divest him of his laser. Apparently, the other soldier said something that upset him.

Enough to turn the gun on a comrade?

In the treatment room next to Dr Spencer's office, I glanced at the face of the construct agent. A clone, some said. I preferred to call them men. He had been brought in, pale and near death, from the emergency shuttle that had dropped off Starship Forward, out of hyperspeed to meet us, the support fleet.

Even though he was out of danger, we kept him sedated. His eyes remained closed in crescent-moon slivers of hair.

His nose, straight and aristocratic, reminded me of the marble statues of classic times. There was a nasty bruise on his cheekbone and there were laser-inflicted injuries on his legs, now invisible under the blanket. Whoever had shot him had done damage to a major artery and he had nearly bled to death. He'd have to go into surgery again later today.

What does the other soldier have to say? Carla Avery's voice drifted in from the office.

Dr Spencer replied, "We don't know. None