Shifting Infinity: ISF-Allion

By Patty Jansen

Melati escaped New Jakarta space station when it fell into Allion's hands. Her family was left behind the enemy lines.

She signed up for active duty with the International Space Force in the hope they would liberate the station. Instead, they chose to maintain a crippling siege that has lasted for ten months.

A small ship escapes from the station with on board a single male occupant whose mind appears to have been wiped.

With her skills in artificial mindbases, Melati is part of the team that tries to get information out of him.

He could be a human Trojan horse sent by Allion and his calls for help nothing more than a trap to get ISF to send people to the station. Or he could be a genuine escapee from the station where the recycling processes have collapsed and ten thousand civilians have mere weeks until they die of asphyxiation. Either way, the time for watching and waiting is over. War is about to begin. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Capricornica Publications
• Release date: Jun 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513067193

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/

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Chapter 1

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THE FLIGHT DECK of the Starship Felicity operated in slumber mode. The main lights were switched off, rows of chairs that faced consoles were empty and screens idled in power-saving mode. Up at the front, near the central command module, a skeleton crew attended to the basic ship functions, but most of those were automated, so they had plenty of time to gawk at the newcomers on the deck.

Melati walked across the soft carpet between the rows of workstations, feeling very visible under their stares. She was following the broad back of the private who had come to see her in the Lab & Research rec room with a message that contained words such as need to come immediately and Captain wants to see you.

The private—second class—was Force and his presence this high up in the ship caused a few raised eyebrows. Force personnel needed a pass to come to the flight deck, and those passes weren’t given out lightly. Melati wore her new shiny Fleet badge but since she worked in Research three levels down, she never came here either. The captain was very strict on that.

For that matter, the captain wasn’t on the flight deck at the moment. The entire central command module was powered down. Only a few lights, blinking occasionally, proved that the ship wasn’t dead. Lazy text scrolled over a strip of screen near the ceiling, detailing in green letters which docking tube, which entry, which weapons access, which airlock and hatch were open or in use, but no one was there to see that information.

Everything said, We’re a dangerous warship, but right now we’re not doing anything.

The Felicity hadn’t done anything, in fact, for about ten months.

Parked in orbit was the term.

Dangerous. Waiting. Watching.

Servicing weapons. Taking them apart and putting them back together again. Checking the nuclear heads. Counting them. Putting them back. Servicing the engines. Checking the life rafts. Cleaning the ship. Mucking out the recycling plant. The list went on. Anything that wasn’t engaging in active conflict.

Currently the ship drifted in the ink-black shade of the gas giant Sarasvati. The main projector screen at the very front of the room showed sharp-edged backlit curves that were part of the planet’s ice rings. Out there in a wider planetary orbit would be New Jakarta Station, which had been the subject of the Felicity’s shadowing since the occupation of the station by Allion.

Watching. Waiting. Ready to pounce.

The flight deck of the Felicity followed the basic ISF ship layout: there were command meeting rooms at the flight deck’s back wall, and it was here that the private led Melati.

He stopped at one such door, knocked and opened it.

Melati followed him inside.

The soft threatening silence and dimmed light of the flight deck were replaced by luxurious surroundings and a warm glow. And the ubiquitous smell of hot chocolate.

Seated around the oval table in the centre of the room were a good number of the ship’s resident top brass, both Fleet and Force. Some, like her, had just arrived, still finding seats and taking off jackets. A Fleet private second class was distributing cups from a tray—the source of the smell.

The Felicity’s captain, Polina Dolchova, sat at the head of the table in her utilitarian everyday Fleet uniform. Next to her, Major Song Chevanchy of Fleet Special & Tech Services sat ramrod straight, with a comm pad on the table in front of him, which he held, in perfectly symmetrical fashion, in both hands. Next to him sat Force Base Commander—now without a base—Sandy Cocaro, who greeted Melati with a nod. Lieutenant Rudiyanto.

That sounded new and strange and made her heart jump a little. Better than just Melati. She had acquired the rank two ship days ago when she completed her officer training and she was a Lieutenant Second Class in the Research Division. It came with a shiny white uniform and a badge that said SS Felicity. She had been assigned to Fleet, because she needed to be based somewhere and there was no more ISF base on New Jakarta Station, so they couldn’t allocate staff to it. Word was that Cocaro hadn’t liked this development.

On the other side of the Captain sat Force Major Alan Dixon, former head of Communication and Information Technology at New Jakarta, and speaking to him in a low voice was Fleet Major Pippa Fujimoto, of Artillery and Ordnance, SS Felicity.

Wow. The room was almost too bright for the stars.

Melati pulled back a chair while Commander Cocaro dismissed the private. Right. So she had sent him.

Chocolate? the Fleet private asked Melati, while holding a thermos jar in front of her.

Yes. Thank you.

He poured and passed her a cup of the frothing liquid. Melati clamped her hands around the cup. She was probably just nervous, but her hands were cold.

There was a techie in the room. His toolbox, on the floor against the wall, said Flight Electronics Officer Second Class Parson, but the owner of the box was crawling under the table to—Melati thought—prod a misbehaving router into action. Dolchova had a comm pad in front of her, and the nozzles of the holo-projector on the table glowed with light.

Are we almost done, Parson? The captain was not known for her patience.

Almost, Ma’am. His voice sounded muffled under the table.

Melati eyed the pad facing the captain, but there was nothing on the screen. What was this meeting about?

The atmosphere had an ominous feeling. Melati was seriously outranked by every single person in the room save for the techie under the table, and the request for her presence could mean only one thing: there was important news from the station that had come from the barang-barang, expat Indonesian, tier 2 section and needed a native speaker for interpretation.

And since the Allion annexation of the station, such news had been scant.

She met Commander Cocaro’s eyes. Her former superior had bags under her eyes and lines on her face that Melati hadn’t seen before. Did she imagine it or had she lost a lot of weight?

Well, let’s start anyway, Dolchova said and met Melati’s eyes. The captain’s eyes were light grey and each time Melati saw her, she noticed yet again how far apart they were. We have a dilemma, Lieutenant. A dilemma, of which, as the only representative of the native tier 2 of New Jakarta, you can possibly give us some insight. Are you and your cousin in regular contact with your fellows?

"I wouldn’t call it regular, ma’am. My cousin Ari fiddles with

radios—"

Ari fiddled with everything to the point of worrying her, but that aside. —and sometimes picks up communication from the station. He doesn’t want to go much further than ask about our relatives. The loyalty of the people who provide the radio contact is dubious.

Those who owned the radios were hypertechs, and they were the ones who had allowed Allion operatives to establish themselves on the station by buying technology from Allion spies. Melati would love to think that the hypertechs were loyal to the tier 2 people, but unfortunately, the hypertechs were secretive and loyal only to themselves. They might well be passing information to the Allion station management. Melati had warned ISF communicators of that possibility.

The dilemma is this. Captain Dolchova let a silence lapse as if for effect. Two days ago, one of our regular scouting operations intercepted a small commercial vessel inside the exclusion zone. When our patrol asked the ship for identification, it took off. Our people gave chase and managed to capture and bring the ship in. Its movement vector showed the vessel’s likely origin as New Jakarta. There were no logs on board and no flight plan had been submitted to the Sector Authority.

A commercial ship? Which business is still operating in the war zone?

None. We first considered that the ship had accidentally deviated from the commercial route to New Hyderabad, and got spooked when our people turned up, but the vessel’s single male occupant is a bit of an enigma. He carries no ID, is not chipped and refuses to answer any of our questions regarding his presence in a restricted zone and his reason for leaving the station and indeed his ability to do so without attracting hostilities from Allion’s forces in charge of the station. Dolchova glanced at Base Commander Cocaro, whose face remained blank.

While he refuses to answer any of our questions, he does appear to be fairly talkative, albeit not in a language we can understand. Commander Cocaro suggested that, before we subject him to more intense questioning, we show you a sample of this man’s ramblings. A look passed between the two women hinting that suggested did not quite cover the nature of that conversation.

Melati said, He might simply not speak Standard. Treading carefully here, until she understood the hooks and barbs of this issue.

The captain snorted, as if she couldn’t imagine anyone not speaking Standard.

Melati knew a good number of people who didn’t speak Standard. The B sector of the station was full of them. Would it be possible that one of the tier 2 people had escaped?

Well, I guess that’s why we want you to check this. She bent to look under the table. Parson?

The tech crawled out from under the table. It should work now.

Good. Captain Dolchova hit the corner of her pad and an image of the ISF logo sprang up in the air. She gave the tech the thumbs-up and he collected his tools and scurried out of the room.

The logo made way for a grainy image from a security cam. Taken from near the ceiling of an empty white room, it showed a dark-skinned man tied to a chair by his ankles, with his arms behind his back. Melati flooded with disappointment. This was not a barang-barang man. His skin was too dark, his eyebrows too heavy, his nose too straight, his eyes too deep-set. And besides, he had a short beard. This looked like someone from New Hyderabad.

He wore a tattered suit bearing the New Jakarta maintenance logo. The tier 1 enforcers used to wear those, but the man was not an enforcer either.

In the room with him were two ISF personnel one of whom Melati recognised as Lieutenant Kool, who was in charge of the Correctional Department. He was a tall muscular man, with a head bald and shiny as a billiard ball and skin black as the night.

You’re going to regret playing games with us, he was saying in the recording. I’m asking you for the last time: who are you? Answer clearly.

The man spat at them. You’re dogs!

Now Melati took in a sharp breath. He spoke B3, albeit heavily accented.

Stop talking rubbish. Lieutenant Kool hit him in the face with a slap that made Melati wince. The man’s left eye was already gummed shut with blood. Speak in a language we can understand.

You’re dogs, said the man in B3. I don’t know what you’re saying blah, blah, blah. You want me to tell you everything, huh? I don’t need to understand your filthy language to know that.

Lieutenant Kool repeated, hovering over the prisoner and spitting the words into his face, What is your name and what were you doing in a restricted zone? How did you get a commercial craft that was not yours and how did you manage to leave the station without being blasted to pieces? Who are your masters?

Why are you treating me like this? I’ve done nothing. I’m a merchant. I’m asking for help. But I should have remembered that dogs like you don’t help people in need. You sit and watch, like cowards.

Don’t talk rubbish! The Lieutenant hit his face again. The prisoner’s head jerked to the side with the force of the blow.

And so it went on for a while. Both ISF officers took turns at shouting at the man and the man replied in B3. Melati fidgeted in her chair. Each slap in the prisoner’s face made her cringe; each time he called ISF cowards, she wanted to scream that he was right. They were cowards. They’d shadowed the station and watched, and, for ten long months, done nothing.

Eventually, Captain Dolchova turned the projection off, looking at Melati. This goes on for a while. It’s not the prettiest of interrogations. He flatly refuses to speak to us in Standard.

He’s not a member of the New Jakarta tier 2, Melati said. "But he does attempt to converse with the interrogators in B3."

That earned her a few frowns.

B3? asked Pippa Fujimoto.

Bahasa barang-barang. The words sounded odd in this sterile room in this environment that Melati’s fellow tier 2 people would consider hostile.

Isn’t that just Indonesian? Major Fujimoto asked.

Not anymore. The ignorance of the Major’s question just about summed up the ISF’s involvement and concern for the station. B3 sort-of resembles Indonesian, but the meanings of most of the words have migrated, and sentence structures have changed. Why were these people even here, guarding the station, when they didn’t know any of this? Why did ISF not have a training module for incoming rotation crew that told them about the kind of place and people they were meant to protect?

Why would this stranger speak your language and not Standard? Captain Dolchova asked.

There could be lots of reasons, ma’am. At the station there are lots of people who don’t speak Standard. Their births were never registered, and they never went to school.

Those types of people never had a pilot’s licence either.

True, but by God, she had to do her best not to let her frustration show. Clearly, Standard was the be all and end all of languages. Does this man have a pilot’s licence? If so, why were they asking for his name? It would be in the register.

That is the question we can’t answer without knowing who he is. I’m not ruling out that he never obtained a formal licence, but his proficiency makes it hard for me to believe otherwise. I have no idea how he came not to be chipped, but he clearly made an attempt to hide his identity.

How about the registration of the craft?

He is not the owner. The vessel belongs to a commercial operation called Lagota Enterprises and is registered in the name of one Socrates Finlay. I’ve been informed that he used to run several businesses at the station. Another sideways look at Cocaro.

Melati nodded. Socrates Finlay is one of the people who escaped the station with us. He disembarked when we docked at New Hyderabad.

I am aware of that. He’s the shady fellow who used to operate the mindbase exchange, too. Rest assured that he is on our watch list. Our people have asked him about the ship. He confirms ownership, but insists that he knows nothing more of it. He says that the business was run by a manager, but that business and everything related to it was left behind in the siege. He has no idea who this man is. He says he’s probably just ‘borrowed’ the ship. But anything that Mr Finlay says is highly questionable.

Well . . . Melati eyed Sandy Cocaro, who gave her a small nod. Socrates Finlay is a fairly colourful character.

Dolchova snorted. That would be understating the truth. He was the one who allowed Allion agents to obtain sensitive data within the station.

Cocaro said, "His involvement with the New Hyderabad mafia was a one-off deal

that—"

He compromised the station’s systems.

Melati added, He told a couple of Allion agents where a person they were looking for was. He did not allow them to access the system. Socrates was odd and no friend of hers, but she could not abide untruths.

So you believe that he knew nothing of this escapee?

I don’t think he did. My other cousin used to work for him. He’s a bit odd, but he is quite wealthy. He owns a good number of commercial ships on the station. It’s likely that if someone stole a random ship from the station, it would be one of his.

Sandy Cocaro nodded. "That’s what I’ve been saying. I strenuously object to a civilian from my station being subjected

to—"

He worked for Allion. He is an enemy.

Socrates Finlay operated the mindbase exchange for many years with no problems . . .

Captain Dolchova cut her off. That’s because you didn’t see any problems. Now there are problems, and what do I get? Complaints about his treatment! For fuck’s sake. We’re running an army here.

Sandy Cocaro took a deep breath, and pressed her lips together, nostrils flaring.

Ooo-er. Somebody had been putting Socrates Finlay under stress, and he, in true flamboyant Socrates fashion, had complained about it, and Dolchova had received that complaint dished up by her supervisor. Well, at least that explained her bad mood.

Let’s get back to the reason we’re here. Lieutenant Rudiyanto. What would you make of this escapee? She nodded at the screen.

Melati spoke carefully. By his looks, I would judge this man to be from New Hyderabad. There is a fair bit of trade between the New Jakarta and New Hyderabad tier 2 sections. The New Hyderabad merchants often learn B3. Most of them for illegal or vile reasons, and it surprised her how much anger she still possessed for these predators who ruined so many lives by trading in babies.

But then riddle me this: all merchants coming to the station would speak Standard. In order to become a pilot, he would have to speak Standard. Why doesn’t he?

I don’t know. It was frustrating that they hammered on about this, as if they couldn’t believe that there were people who didn’t speak their language. But because she thought she sounded belligerent, she added, I’ve never heard any of those merchants speak Standard, so I couldn’t tell you if they speak it or not.

Major Fujimoto said, All of New Hyderabad speaks Standard. The schooling rate is a lot higher than in New Jakarta. Standard is the main language spoken at the station.

Melati heard unlike this backward station. She got very tired of their underhand stabs at the tier 2 natives of New Jakarta.

As far as I’m concerned, this guy is lying, Captain Dolchova said. He’s an Allion agent. He speaks Standard, and he’s putting on a show.

You can’t draw conclusions like that without proper questioning, Sandy Cocaro said. And it’s certainly not a reason to treat him like a criminal. We have the International Convention of Human Rights to consider.

"I have the safety of my ship to consider. If somehow, Allion pulls with us what they pulled with your base, then we’re gone."

Can I remind you that the Mindbase Exchange uses Fleet hardware, so who was at fault?

"If you had been more vigilant about what you allowed to come into the base

perimeter—"

Major Chevanchy interrupted. Please, Ladies, can we keep to the matter at hand?

Dolchova breathed in through flaring nostrils. Cocaro glared at her across the table. Yes, she had lost a lot of weight, but her expression had also hardened considerably.

There was a short and tense silence.

Major Fujimoto turned to Melati. Lieutenant Rudiyanto, please go through the recorded section and translate for us, to the best of your ability, what this man is saying.

She replayed the recording. Melati translated and everyone listened silently until she got to the part where the man asked for help.

Major Dixon said, Help? What with?

He doesn’t say. Probably because he knows he’s not being understood.

Dolchova snorted. He’s just talking rubbish because he knows we can’t understand him, trying to play the sympathy card. It’s clear to me: he tried to escape the station to contact Allion ships. He ran when our patrol found him. Now he pretends he can’t understand us.

You don’t know that, Cocaro said.

Dolchova spread her hands. All right, all right. I said I’d let her talk to him. But it’s pretty clear to me what’s going on. But never mind. Let’s get this circus on the road.

She pressed a button and a moment later a Fleet private came through the door. You wanted me, ma’am?

Take Lieutenant Rudiyanto to Lieutenant Kool. He knows she’s coming.

Melati rose, but Cocaro met her eyes. Before you go, can I have a word with you, please, Melati?

Chapter 2

---

MELATI FOLLOWED her former Base Commander out onto the flight deck. They walked past the Fleet private, whom Cocaro dismissed with a Just wait a moment until we’re ready.

He snapped into a salute with a Yes, ma’am, but Melati could see the bewilderment about whose orders to follow on his face. Bewilderment that had, in fact, divided a huge section of the ship that regularly got caught in the power struggles between Fleet and Force.

Cocaro led Melati to a part of the flight deck where the command modules were powered down, away from the curious ears of the bored attendants. She leaned against one of the workstation chairs.

I’m very sorry I have to drag you into this, she said.

Ma’am?

"The captain is making a grave mistake taking a hardline approach to this situation. I managed to stop the man being transferred to the Repentance." That was the fleet’s prison ship, and being transferred there was usually one step away from execution.

What were they going to do with him there?

They want to put him in isolation, off the ship, and question him under force.

Torture him. Melati shuddered.

The term, Lieutenant Rudiyanto, is ‘strong questioning’. Cocaro met Melati’s eyes with a penetrating look. Melati always had trouble guessing the meaning of Cocaro’s looks. The captain says he’s a spy and doesn’t want him on the ship. She seems convinced that he’s a plant from Allion through New Hyderabad and that Finlay has something to do with it.

Because he complained about his treatment?

Cocaro grinned and a moment of understanding went between them. Silly, pompous, nervous, dishevelled Socrates Finlay would make stupid decisions, but everyone who had lived at the station and knew him would know that he wasn’t smart or patient enough to hatch plots or keep secrets. And he would consider his accounts much more important than any ideology, whether ISF’s or Allion’s. That was precisely the thing that had gotten him into trouble.

Cocaro’s expression sobered. This escapee is important to us. We want to reestablish the base. Sadly, Allion’s occupation and the infection of the computer systems had made it necessary to decouple the base. "We need as much information from inside as possible. We need it. I don’t want it second-hand, passed through some Fleet personnel who couldn’t care less about the station."

Another penetrating look.

I know your objections to the procedure, but I’m going to ask you to take a mindbase readout.

Melati nodded. Her boss, Dr Chee, objected strenuously to mindbase technology being used in questioning. I could simply question him in B3.

"You could, but there was more to that recording that she didn’t show you and that was not more of that thug of hers trying to change the shape of that poor man’s face. He appears, in fact, quite deranged, and frankly I have no idea how he managed to pilot that ship. It’s not straightforward. He’s not a simple escapee, not a simple spy either. I think mindbase technology might well do the trick of unmasking what he really is. As well as giving us much-needed information about the station."

And that information had been painfully scant.

Apart from the sporadic contact between Ari and the hypertechs that centred mostly around questions about Uncle, Grandma and the Aunties, the only other communication between the ship and the station would be the occasional broadcast sent by Allion’s station director Sep Kerakis.

Whenever one of those came in, Dolchova would call for a general assembly of the crew, and they’d all laugh at his pompous language and empty threats. But his messages never contained any useful information about the station.

I know you think that we have forgotten your family, but rest assured that I at least haven’t. I’m acutely aware of the fact that we still have over ten thousand civilians trapped on the station and that those people are my responsibility. At this point in time, I’m not in possession of any hardware to do anything about it.

Of course Dolchova adhered to the Fleet version of warfare: long distance battles where you couldn’t see the enemy and where war was being fought in terms of orbits and engine burns. They shot from great distance. Nice and clean, where you couldn’t see the suffering inflicted. They didn’t fight for stations, much less enter them.

And Cocaro had left all her materiel behind and was left at the mercy of a captain unwilling to support her.

I’ve been able to negotiate a delay of transfer of one day in which you can see him.

One day is not enough to examine a mindbase.

I know. I’m sorry, it’s all she would let me have, and unfortunately, this is her ship and she has the ultimate power. Talk to him. Take whatever equipment you need down there and do the best you can. Evaluate his mindbase and judge why he’s here. Make a case for further study. Argue for his transfer to be delayed.

I’ll do my best.

Melati was about to return to the Fleet Private who was still waiting patiently, when Cocaro held her back.

There is no second chance, she said in a low voice. We get one shot at this. Something is brewing and everyone is nervous as hell. Allion has been too quiet recently. We may have hung around here for ten months doing nothing, but that is about to change. Do your magic while it’s still quiet. We owe it to all those people who were left behind.

The look of pain that crossed her face did more than anything to explain why she looked tired and unhealthy. Melati found it a bit embarrassing, but it had not been the first time that Cocaro let her guard down in her presence. It seemed that she considered Melati as spokesperson for the tier 2 people of New Jakarta.

*     *     *

Lieutenant Kool was one of these people whose name sounded like a B-grade comic, but people laughed about it only once, at least in his presence. When new relief crew arrived aboard the ship, they would say, Is that really his name? And then they were informed that yes, it was.

The rumour went that the name meant cabbage in some old Earth language, but fart jokes were also strictly off-limits in his presence.

He was the head of Correctional Services and Internal Security on board the ship, Fleet Division. He was at least two heads taller than Melati, and twice as wide. He shaved his head shiny like a snooker ball and his skin was black as space. He wore his on-board fatigues in impeccable condition. They were comfy, if not the most elegant of outfits, known amongst the crew as pyjamas.

Correctional Services of course meant the brig, not a place that Melati, working in Research, had much to do with.

The department consisted of a long and bare corridor at the very outer level of the ship’s habitation donut. It rotated over the various reactors and engine chambers that powered the ship. The constantly shifting magnetic fields generated by the engines made it not the healthiest of places to be. Regular staff were subjected to limits as to how long they were allowed to work there. Such concerns, however, did not extend to the potential occupants of the six cells at the end of the passage.

The lowest level of the ring also operated at 1.3g, which made it an exhausting place, especially for big guys.

Lieutenant Kool was one such guy, but his muscles compensated for any disadvantage caused by his height and bulk. When Melati came out of the lift with an oof, feeling heavy and lightheaded, he met her.

He shook her hand, but all she could think of was how she’d seen him hit the