Preview: Phoenix Flight: Rise of the Phoenix Flight

The Following is an Excerpt of the first three chapters of Phoenix Flight: Rise of the Phoenix Flight.

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Part One:

Rise of the Phoenix Flight

Galactic Information Database

Entry 327-3263827

Official History of WorldCorp World Government:

After the Tax Riots of 2106, the fledgling world government of Earth, United Nations of International Treaties, Amendments and Regional Delegations (UNITARD) struggled to stay solvent. Several major world corporations, led by MetroSoft, CostCorp, Lowes-Depot and McTacoKing began a three-part financial bailout of the UNITARD in the hopes of saving the world’s leadership.

Troubled Assets Refinancing Terms one and two (TART 1, TART 2) in 2108 were followed by Financial Aid Refinancing and Recovery Trust one (FARRT 1) IN 2109.

However, by 2111, UNITARD leadership had used the bailout monies in ways deemed “unwise” and “irresponsible” by then-MetroSoft Chairman Allen Fence IV. This finding was followed by UNITARD responding with a period of “hyper- taxation” of the corporations to regenerate revenue which it would then, in turn, pay to the corporations.

In response, the corporate coalition—which had spent so many trillions of dollars to support UNITARD— immediately demanded repayment of all loans. When UNITARD had no way to repay, the corporations performed a hostile takeover of the government, troubled assets and all.

Allen Fence IV became the first CEO of the newly formed WorldCorp serving three consecutive five-year terms before stepping down.

Jericho “Jerry” Walsh was elected and served from 2128 until his tragic…

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WikiFactNet.org

History of WorldCorp

WorldCorp (Unofficial Motto: Not evil, Just Corrupt) started as the loose conglomeration of approximately 7000 worldwide corporations. Several business tycoons and financiers leveraged their way into control of the world’s assets and political power in 2111 after the TART and FARRT reforms of 2108 and 2109 went unpaid.

By 2113, the first WorldCorp “CEO” was “elected” to take charge. This election was neither a result of a direct vote of the people or even a formal selection process, but rather was because MetroSoft CEO Allen Fence IV had spent the most money in the TART/FARRT bailouts. [This section needs source & fact verification]

Early Years (2112-2127)

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CHAPTER 1

Planet: Earth                               Continent: NorthAm

Region: NorthUSA

SubRegion: Iowa                        City: Dannton, IA

7-May-2153                                              Time: 23:15 Local

Location: Face’s Tavern

A warm, late-spring rain drenched the enormous man as he shambled toward the only lit building in town.

The long-forgotten township of Dannton, Iowa—Population: 13,705, according to the colloquial faux-wood sign that welcomed visitors at the city limit—was fast asleep, save for this community tavern, located at the center of town. The establishment, called “Face’s,” boasted a garish red-and-green neon sign depicting a stick figure human falling face-first in three stutter-step motions, ending with the words “Get FACED!”

The mountain of a man, checking in at a handspan taller than two meters had to duck as he entered the tavern. He shook off some of the local rainfall, causing puddles of water to quickly form under his booted feet. As the man flapped his overcoat a few times to shake off some of the water, he revealed a shiny green tunic underneath.

He made his way to a booth in a dark corner and casually perused the bar, making a quick assessment of what apparently passed for the local adult entertainment: Arm Wrestling.

There was a very-intoxicated-looking fellow sitting at a table, issuing slurred challenges to the locals who jeered him.

Curious, the new arrival thought. He’s not drunk, but he’s pretending to be anyway. Why?

A black-and-silver WaitBot trundled up to the stranger.

“Greetings, citizen, what can I get for you?” It asked in a raspy metallic voice.

“Ugh…” the stranger replied, wincing. “How about a new vocabulator?”

“Everyone’s a critic,” the WaitBot muttered. “My vocabulator is on back-order with XeroSoft. Perhaps I can interest you in a local Micro?”

The tall man shook his head, inadvertently spraying the WaitBot with a fine mist from his soaked mane.

“Tell me,” the stranger said. “That guy over there…the one in the white tank top…is he truly intoxicated, or is he taking all these yahoos for a ride?”

The WaitBot turned to face the apparently drunk arm-wrestler across the room. It made a series of clicks and beeps as it analyzed the man.

“His BloodAlc is point zero zero zero,” the robot said. “I have not served him in the two hours he’s been here. Hence, he is, in your vernacular, ’taking them for a ride.’ Now about your order.”

The stranger took a deep breath.

“A pitcher, please,” he started. “Of filtered water with a five percent solution of lemon juice.”

“Got it,” came the metallic reply. “However, despite your order being NonAlc, I will need to see proper identification. Any proof of age will suffice. It is a legal requirement of your being inside this esteemed, law-abiding establishment.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m twenty-five,” the wall of human muscle said.

“No sir, while I am adept at the occasional one-liner, pun or other such witticism, I assure you, I do not ‘kid,’” the robot said. “Particularly when a WorldCorp Regional Liquor law violation would result in a subsequent closure of this fine establishment.”

“I, uh… I have no I.D.,” the stranger said, brushing back a forelock of blonde hair. “I…wow, you’re not gonna believe this, but I left it on the moon.”

The robot paused, apparently waiting for a punch line.

“The moon,” it finally said.

“Yeah, uhm…the moon,” the man repeated. “Big lunar satellite…really can’t miss it, unless it’s completely pouring outside.”

The WaitBot emitted a sound that could best be described as a cantaloupe giving birth to a rabid wolverine.

“Sir, you are of course aware that you cannot legally travel from the moon to Earth without proper identification,” the Robot said.

“Not with conventional public transportation, no,” the man said.

The WaitBot paused.

“Very well,” it said, finally. “Are you willing to submit to a DNA battery with a tissue sample?” it asked.

“Uh…sure, I guess…”

The robot immediately reached for the man’s hair. Selecting a single strand, the WaitBot yanked.

“Uh…that’s probably not a good…” the man began.

The WaitBot made a perplexed sound as it had apparently lost its grip on the man’s hair. It reached for the stranger again.

“It appears, sir, that the rain has made your hair very slick, even for my rubberized fingers,” it said. “I shall endeavor to make this as painless as possible.”

This time the WaitBot wrapped two strands of the man’s long hair around its right forefinger several times.

“Uh, this really isn’t in your best interest,” the man began. “Is there any other way…”

He was interrupted as the WaitBot yanked roughly.

Stanley “StarWolf” Wolferton looked blearily across the table, moving his boozy gaze from one challenger to another.

“Awwwright…whoozh next?” he slur-mumbled.

Not too much slurring, he chided himself.

He brushed aside a stray strand of his dark hair, wondering how it had gotten away from his ponytail. He suddenly realized that, if he became too concerned with the hair, it would likely destroy his façade of drunkenness.

“Doezh one of you guyzh wanna try ta arm rassle?” he said, talking to the two hooligans standing in front of him.

One, equipped with a standard “I’m-a-redneck-from-the-rolling-hills” sleeveless-red-flannel-over-white-undershirt-and-blue jeans motif had just scoffed at him. The redneck took a swig from a bottle that StarWolf was pretty sure had not been purchased at this location.

The other local was much larger, smelling strongly of AlcoRoids and Sour Cream and Onion potato crisps.

“Hokay, buddy, yer on,” Sour Cream & Onions said.

StarWolf slowly placed his right elbow on the table.

“Hundred says I win,” StarWolf said.

Not drunk enough, he thought. Gotta be drunk…not too drunk, but drunk.

“Hunnert Fifty says I take you down in unner fifteen seconds,” the onion-scented man said, before he released a raunchy belch.

AlcoRoids, sour cream & onion, Energy Drink and a distinct scent of horseradish-on-ham.

Unnnngh…gotta work fast before those ‘roids give him a boost, StarWolf thought. Gotta distract him.

It was at this moment that a four centimeter-long piece of rubber, steel and wiring flew into the field of view, smacking the ‘roid-laden man in the forehead.

“HEY!” the man bellowed.

“Sorry,” came the raspy metallic reply from the WaitBot across the room. Apparently the hapless service android had just lost four centimeters from the tip of its right forefinger while zealously trying to get a tissue sample from a guest.

StarWolf afforded himself a glance in the direction of the man being age-verified by the WaitBot. One look caused StarWolf to say a silent prayer that the mountainous newcomer didn’t want to rise to an arm-wrestling challenge.

Distraction, distraction, StarWolf thought.

“Look,” he said as his opponent lined up his elbow next to StarWolf’s. “I prob’ly shouldn’t arm wrestle ya, but I’ll guess I’ll make an …expep … exec…eggception.”

“Exception? Huh? Uh…why?” The ‘roid & onion-smelling man seemed increasingly confused, and it showed as he tried to understand StarWolf. “Uh…or…uh…why not…no…uh…why…uh…not?”

The silver and black WaitBot trundled up to the table, reaching between the two to collect its missing digit.

“Sorry for that,” it said raspily.

StarWolf glanced at the computer that would proctor the match. Its countdown timer was almost to zero.

“I’ll make this exception, but I usually don’t …you know… wrestle the ladies,” he said, just as the computerized voice said, “Go.”

“WHAT?!?”

“But hey, yer the ugliest lady I…” StarWolf said, pausing long enough to loudly pin his opponent’s wrist. “…ever saw.”

The ‘roid-soaked-onion-man’s meaty fist pounded the table once as StarWolf defeated him, and then again as he slammed his hand down in fury.

“Why I oughta…”

“Pay up?” StarWolf asked, concisely.

“CRUSH YOU!” the drunk, but muscularly-enhanced beast of a man bellowed.

Now the AlcoRoids were really starting to kick in. The sour cream & onion behemoth charged, wrenching the arm-wrestling table from the floor. This was no small feat, as the table was bolted down. In a swift motion, the man hurled it at StarWolf, who avoided it with ease.

The beastly man started swinging his fists wildly like a windmill, but seemed to settle down to a pretty tough-looking, ground-pounding fighting stance. Suddenly, he was a blur of red flannel, blue jeans and white trash as he charged StarWolf.

StarWolf backed up slowly, continuing to size up his opponent. Probably not likely to take him in a straight toe-to-toe fight, at least not without exposing my true fighting abilities, he thought. He kept backing up until…

…Until he backed into something—someone, really—and his opponent slowed his advance.

StarWolf glanced quickly to his rear to see seven of his earlier arm-wrestling victims, and several of the people who had bet—and lost—against StarWolf, forming a wall behind him.

“He-e-e-e-y, you’re not drunk!” This astute assertion came from a member of the bunch who had blown through more than 600 credits betting against StarWolf.

“Did you guys pick the smartest one of your little crowd to speak up for you?” StarWolf asked.

The angry mob formed a circle around StarWolf.

“Heh, yer really a funny guy,” Onions-and-’Roids said. “Yer a regular Red Skeleton!”

StarWolf cringed internally at the botched reference to a comedian from more than two centuries ago.

“Skelton, that’s Red Skelton,” StarWolf corrected.

The sour cream and onion-scented guy seemed perplexed, especially when his compatriots began snickering at his mistake. It seemed to StarWolf like the man was desperate to regain control of the situation. He chuckled for a moment before coming up with a retort.

For half a second, StarWolf wondered if he’d be able to get out of this mess without too much trouble. Another half-second later, he knew the answer would be yes and no.

“Heh…no, yer gonna be a Skeleton!” The man finally said, after deliberating how he was going to save himself from embarrassment.

Three people lunged for StarWolf with the remaining dozen or so launching themselves into the fray seconds later. The scene looked like a cross between a rugby scrum and a Mixed Martial Arts free-for-all. There were blows-upon-blows of fists to flesh, knees to skulls, elbows to jaws. Cries of anger and pain filled the tavern.

The bartender calmly called the police, pointing his videophone’s camera lens at the melee while he described the situation.

The mountainous man watched with interest as the arm-wrestling hustle went sour. The smaller guy, still pretending to be drunk, had made quick arm-wrestling work of the rippling pile of AlcoRoid-enhanced muscles, but then it looked like it might get ugly for the hustler.

The stranger stayed in his booth. He had a gut feeling that the guy was in no danger, despite being outnumbered by more than a dozen to one.

He wasn’t disappointed. Within just a few seconds of what looked like a murderous brawl breaking out, the limber hustler launched himself straight into the air. The locals wound up beating each other to a collective pulp while the hustler hung from a fire-flow pipe. Even with his enhanced visual acuity, the tall man almost missed the leap.

The hustler pulled himself above the brawl and waited for the fracas to simmer down.

After the yokels finished thrashing each other, he dropped back into the center of the clump of wounded, panting and bloodied combatants.

As the dust settled, just ten of the original sixteen people were still standing. Nine victims and the hustler, whose white ribbed tank top remained pristine.

The stranger chuckled and slowly got up from his booth.

“You boys had enough?” StarWolf asked, completely unharmed.

The AlcoRoids-n-Onions guy sputtered angrily.

“Now…now I know yer not drunk!” he shouted

“Look,” StarWolf said after taking a deep breath. “I never said I was drunk. I just acted a little tipsy so you’d be more willing to arm-wrestle me…at least for a few matches. Now, twelve? Twelve’s a record for me.”

“You took advantage of us,” came an angry voice through a puffed-up pair of lips and a vacancy where some front teeth had previously been located.

“Yes and no,” StarWolf said. “I took advantage of the fact that you thought you were taking advantage of me.”

‘Roids-n-onion spoke up.

“Yeah, but you did it first by pretendin’ t’be drunk in the first place!” He blustered. “So we’re not guilty of takin’ advantage of you b’cuz we were being taken advantage of in order for us to take … uh…take advantage of…uh.. of you taking advantage of us taking advantage…of …uh…you.”

StarWolf raised a single eyebrow as his mind attempted to process what he’d just heard.

A chorus rose up from the mob that resulted in a cacophony of noises ranging from, “YEAH!” to “Dude…whaaaaat?!?”

The initial guy who had postulated that StarWolf wasn’t drunk had another sudden revelation.

“HEY! You aren’t even hurt! We’re all bleeding and busted up, and you…you…NOBODY can take a pounding like that,” he howled.

“You’re absolutely right, nobody could take a pounding like that,” he said. “And I didn’t.”

“He’s some kinda mutant freak! Like in the movies!” Someone bellowed.

“Oy…again with the mutant talk,” StarWolf said. “That stuff only happens in the movies, boys. You small-towners are all the same. It’s always aliens, mutants and zombies, oh my.”

“Don’t forget the vampires,” somebody chimed in.

“And vampires,” StarWolf said. “You guys watch too much TV and too many movies.”

“I read comics,” one said.

StarWolf laughed, adding, “Well, at least you can read!”

One of those who remained standing suddenly realized that StarWolf was having a lot of fun at their collective expense, in more ways than one.

“YOU SONNUVA….” he screamed as he charged StarWolf.

StarWolf dodged effortlessly and gave the yokel a momentum-boost with a solid kick to the butt. Out-of-control, the man crashed through a chain of the few who remained standing, taking down four as he went. To StarWolf this seemed eerily reminiscent of bowling.

Sour Cream-n-’roids charged StarWolf while two others tried to flank him. StarWolf leapt into the air, placing his hands onto the shoulders of the ‘roid-laden attacker. He vaulted over the man, while kicking out on both sides, placing size ten boots into the faces of each flanker.

The move made Sour Cream -n- onion continue wildly, pirouetting his arms. He managed to take down two more of the remaining fighters who had tried to maintain a safe distance. His own forward progression halted abruptly as he crashed into a PlasGlass display case, which shattered on impact.

He fell to the floor, but amazingly attempted to get back up. However, this was delayed as a 21^st Century Louisville Slugger baseball bat, originally owned by Zach “Face” Griffey, rolled from the display and hit him squarely on the head. He slumped to the floor, unconscious.

“STRIKE!” StarWolf shouted.

“Spare,” a voice said from behind him.

“Spare?” StarWolf asked as he whirled around to face his next threat. In this case it was the mountainous, dripping wet man whom he had seen enter the bar earlier. The guy stood easily more than two meters tall.

This guy’s muscles had muscles. He wore a large overcoat and had long, wavy blonde hair. His face was covered with what looked like a week’s-worth of beard growth. He looked like a body-builder that had become homeless, except for his eyewear, which looked like top-of-the-line (in price and quality) OakRay wraparound shades.

“Now, wait just a minute, I didn’t even arm-wrestle you!” StarWolf sputtered. “You didn’t even enter this place until just before my last bout! You couldn’t even have lost any money on me!”

“You’re right,” the man said.

“Uh…I…like…uh…yeah…” StarWolf stammered, “…like I said.”

“I just wanted to compliment you on your fighting skills,” the man said. “Oh…and I guess I wanted to correct you on your bowling terminology. It took two rolls to knock down all the pins…well, all the pinheads, and hence the ‘spare.’”

Almost too late, StarWolf heard the hammer of a gun being cocked.

“Say yer prayers, Jerk!” rasped a voice from behind him.

CHAPTER 2

Galactic Information Database entry A-51 S4 442-68887

Alien contact protocols

While no alien contact has ever been made, WorldCorp has specific plans and protocols in place to deal with contact with alien species. (See Laws: WorldCorp Bylaws, Regulations, Amendments and Procedures W-BRAP 10:212:485) Alien Species deemed more technologically advanced than WorldCorp will be exploited as much as possible, unless they pose a threat. Alien species deemed less technologically advanced than WorldCorp will be exploited as much as possible until such exploitation is deemed either immoral or the species cannot be further exploited.

Planet: Mars (orbit)                    Starship: Weimar Republik

7-May-2153                                                          Time: 24:12 Local

Millions of miles away from the buffoon-filled tavern, a sleek, medium-sized spacecraft orbited Earth’s nearest outbound neighboring planet, Mars at a discreet distance. The homemade spacecraft was piloted by its designer/builder, Boris Weimar, who currently stared at his console in disbelief. He shook his head and once again scanned the red planet.

<I cannot believe this, Knopf,> Boris said to his companion.  (Editor's Note: Boris' dialogue translated from German.)

“Knopf” was Boris’ name for the small alien passenger, whose body consisted of little more than a largish, egg-shaped hairy head, with two arms and two legs sticking out of it. Its face was all eyes, nose and fangs. The creature’s eyes were covered by a pair of wrap-around goggles of Boris’ design, to accommodate the young alien’s extreme light-sensitivity. Knopf’s full name, as provided by Boris was Herr Knöpfe.

For reasons Boris never could truly understand, Knopf reminded him of Dröppel, his large black Schnauzer back home. Boris had considered naming the alien after the dog, but he feared it would cause confusion when he returned to Earth.

Knopf’s reply was an unintelligible chittering sound.

<Well, I wanted to make sure my homeworld was still habitable,> Boris explained. <When I left three years ago, Earth was teetering on the brink of annihilation through the use of fissible materials.>

Knopf chittered an inquiry.

<We were on the brink of destroying ourselves, one nation clawing at another’s throat…it was horrifying,> Boris recalled. <That’s why I left Earth, searching for intelligent alien life! I wanted to find something that could be used to unify humanity once and for all…something to strive toward…and that something was you!>

Knopf queried again.

<Well, it appears Earth has moved on without me!> Boris exclaimed, absently rubbing his hand on his stubble-laden chin. <I’ve been gone for three years and technology has gone absolutely wild!>

Knopf offered another interrogative.

<Well, two years after I was born, people from Earth finally set foot on the surface of another world. The Earth’s moon! It was one of the greatest feats in the history of the advancement of the race,> Boris explained, absently.

Knopf chittered enthusiastically.

<Ach, yes, I agree with you, Knopf, it was very exciting,> Boris said. But after that, all of our technological advancements stagnated, stopping all exploration. After that, it seemed all of mankind’s creative energy was spent on entertainment and mass destruction.>

Knopf did not make a sound.

<Yes, you are correct about that. Anyway, now I’m home with my homemade rocketship and my alien guest, but…it appears that the world’s technology has passed me by. Earth has colonized Mars! With a population of more than twenty-seven million people!>

Knopf listened and then chittered another question.

<That’s what I cannot understand, Knopf, it took the U.S.A. eight years to get two men to the Moon,> Boris said. <And now, barely two decades later, we have twenty-seven million people living on another world! Just three years after I left! Ach, well…I still have you, Knopf.>

Knopf chittered a cheerful reply to his human counterpart.

Boris nodded absently as he made some adjustments to several instruments in his vicinity. He was lost in thought, merely re-fine-tuning various devices that had already been tuned to perfection, and then re-tuning them back to their previously perfect state.

<Perhaps I’d better reacquaint myself with my homeworld,> he said. <It appears a lot can change in just three years.>

Knopf placed a clawed hand on Boris’ arm, chittering a sympathetic reply.

Boris tuned in on some broadcasts between Mars and Earth. The ship’s onboard computers—very advanced by the standards of when he departed the planet—were at once overwhelmed by the flood of information.

As quickly as he could, Boris tried to fine-tune the receiver to collect individual streams of data. After several minutes of frustrating adjustments, he finally selected a single stream of dataflow, apparently a news feed from a company called FAUX News.

His computers operated mostly as text-only devices, with very limited video capabilities, making the feed difficult to interpret. The imagery was limited to the colors available, and the limited processing ability made everything stutter a lot.

He struggled to make heads or tails of the data feed, fighting to keep up with the information flowing at him, before his eyes finally settled on the bottom right corner of the monitor. There, right above a box stating that the NasDow 500 was “up” 18.08 credits to a level of 98,562.23 he saw the most startling piece of information he’d seen in years…many, many years.

Boris blinked, removed his round wire-rimmed glasses, rubbed his eyes and put the glasses back on again. He blinked again and then moved his face closer to the monitor.

If his hair had not already been snow-white with a few streaks of grey—the result of a youthful mishap with a time-travel device—it would have become so, immediately.

<Twenty-One Fifty-Three?!?> He shouted. <It isTwenty-One Fifty-Three?>

Planet: Earth                                           Continent: EurAsia

Region: EastDeutsch                             SubRegion: Branden

City: Berlin

8-May-2153                                                          Time: 07:35 Local

Location: Daimler-Diverz-Benz Building, 326^th Floor

“Hey, STAR, would you hand me the metadraulic spanner…uh…size eight, please?”

The request came from inside the hull of a non-WorldCorp-approved experimental scout ship, designated XSC-7. The experimental craft was built under the umbrella of the private German Firm Zuckerhugel Schaftwerks as a modest proposal to the government, and a bid for inclusion in the WorldCorp conglomeration. Currently, XSC-7 was being dismantled and overhauled by a lone government mechanical engineer and his robot companion.

“William, I am currently serving as the ship’s support structure, holding it up while you tinker with it,” came the digitized reply. “How do you propose I acquire the spanners?”

STAR (Sentient Tactical Armored Robot) was two meters tall and built like a robotic body builder. He was covered in ChromiPlast, which gleamed brightly under the bright lights. They were currently in WorldCorp DisplayPlex Showroom on the 326^th floor of the Daimler-Diverz-Benz building in Berlin. Presently, as the robot had stated, STAR was holding up the experimental spacecraft.

Bill Trapp hesitated at the verbal rebuke.

STAR, in the four years since he had made Bill’s acquaintance, had shown definite personality…quirks.

At the time of their meeting, STAR had informed William that he (the robot) had no “flaws,” and that his creator had been the most intelligent man on Earth in the twentieth century. STAR, therefore, was the most perfect product of the world’s most perfect man. Bill had to admit, over the years of knowing STAR, there really weren’t many “flaws” per se, and thus, the robot had what he could only describe as “quirks.”

Quirks included the robot’s voice and demeanor. According to STAR, the founder and lead developer at WeiCo, (now BWI) had selected a voice for the robot that was simultaneously masculine and sensitive, designed to be both soothing and strengthening. The voice was patterned after an American actor from the late 20^th century and the early 21^st century. His demeanor was supposed to be a hybrid between a butler, a coach and a drill sergeant.

And yet, this very moment, Bill Trapp noted a degree of sarcasm (or “STAR-casm, as Bill often called it) in the robotic assistant’s voice. He also noted a disturbing deficit in STAR’s memory: in this instant Bill knew that STAR’s arms were capable of “stretching” more than six meters from his body without any loss of strength. STAR was capable of lifting, say, the top three floors of this building, so it seemed that multi-tasking between lifting a small scout craft while extending the other hand the necessary two meters to the tool box to retrieve the necessary spanners would be a pretty reasonable task.

Bill cleared his throat.

“Uh…can’t you, say, extend your left hand to retrieve the spanner while continuing to hold the ship up with your right?” Bill asked.

STAR made a noise that sounded like someone clearing his throat.

“My programming limits my utilization of extensors and strength only in times of emergency and combat,” STAR replied.

Ah, another of STAR’s quirks, Bill thought. Quirk number three.

This quirk was STAR’s tendency to cite programming limitations at the drop of a helmet. It generally tended to surround what Bill had come to believe was a robotic tendency toward laziness…or at least apathy.

“STAR, first, you’re using your strength right now,” Bill started. “You use your strength open to walnuts for me…”

“Ach, now William, I consider that to be combat…” STAR said. “Those little buggers are tough…uh…nuts to crack.”

“OK, well secondly,” Bill interjected, without missing a beat. “If you don’t hand me the spanners in less than twenty seconds, I’ll have SynthOil spilling all over my brand-new work uniform.”       

This action played right into quirk number four: STAR was easy to motivate if you knew which buttons to push.

Within seconds, the metadraulic spanner showed up but, Bill noted upon its arrival, it was a size nine. He could work with it, but it meant STAR was being a regal pain in the aft thrusters.

As Bill torqued down a shaft casing, he thought that no matter how many advances had occurred in his lifetime, it always seemed that an equal amount of things remained relatively unchanged.

People still drove electric ground cars, still dug holes with shovels and still watched reality vidcasts, texting their votes by CellTell PCDs.

Because things remained the same, even when they changed, the experimental scout ship upon which Bill was working was little more than a souped-up luxury craft with fore and aft blast cannons.

According to STAR, the ship was twenty-five percent faster than was allowed by current legal standards, but required an ultra-high refinement process for its Quarite fuel, thus making it faster at the cost of being fifty percent less fuel-efficient. It meant that the ship didn’t even meet WorldCorp’s minimum fuel efficiency standards.

Put simply, it was a gold-plated lemon.

And I’m working on it, to get it ready for its great-big grand unveiling, Bill thought.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bill said as he wrenched the shaft-casing, “I present to you the world’s first six-man … black hole!”

“Ach…an excellent analogy if you’re talking about this ship,” STAR said. “It doesn’t matter how much money you throw at a black hole…”

“It still sucks,” Bill finished the axiom.

The ship rocked slightly.

“William, I have just received a disturbing report about your family,” STAR announced, suddenly. “It appears that your parents and siblings were just arrested under accusations of ‘violent protest against WorldCorp.’”

Mom? Dad? Jerry? Linda?

“Arrested for violent government protest?” Bill asked. “What, did dad complain about the cost of his stamps being too high over at the PostNet?”

“A warrant has been issued for your arrest, too, I’m afraid,” STAR said.

“Uhmmm…is this the part where you arrest me?” Bill asked.

“Of course not!” STAR replied. “Why on Earth would I arrest you?”

“Uhmmm…as WorldCorp property, wouldn’t it be your job to arrest me?” Bill asked, poking his head from the hull juncture where he’d been working.

“First: I am not WorldCorp property, in fact, nobody owns me,” STAR said. “In fact, autonomous is my middle name. Second: my job—as determined by my own autonomous set of criteria—is to assist you…not to arrest you.”

“STAR, two years ago, you told me your middle name was automated,” Bill said. “Four years ago, when we first met, you said it was armored.”

“I changed it,” STAR said.

“When?” Bill asked.

“Thirty-seven seconds ago,” STAR said. “Please, William, I will not debate this point. My job is to assist you.”

“Riiiight, but if your job description were to suddenly change to arrest me, wouldn’t you be obligated…to … you know… arrest…me?” Bill asked.

“William, I assure you that the ‘A’ in my name will never stand for ‘arresting,’” STAR said, “Unless it is used to describe my arresting good appearance.”

“Are you positive?” Bill asked, not sure he could drop his defenses yet.

“Of course I am positive,” STAR said. “My appearance is considered beautiful in many circles…”

“No, I mean about detaining me,” Bill interrupted.

STAR made a noise that sounded like a brilliant cross between a sigh and a scoffing snort. His black digital LCD “eyes” suddenly rolled up in annoyance.

“William, which part of ‘autonomous’ do you not understand?” STAR asked. “Why do you keep arriving at a conclusion in which I must arrest you?”

“I…uh…just…uhhhhhh…” Bill stammered.

“Look, William, we met three years, three hundred forty-two days ago,” STAR began. “However, do you know when I was first assigned to assist you?”

“Uhhhh…three years, three hund…”

“NO!” STAR interrupted. “Never! I was never assigned to assist you!”

Bill stared in a stunned silence.

“William, I found you because you were the direct descendent of a close friend of my creator,” STAR said. “I was constructed one hundred fifty-six years ago. Please allow me to do the math for you. That’s one hundred fifteen years before WorldCorp was founded. WorldCorp has no claim on my loyalties. I am no more the property of WorldCorp…or anyone else…than you are.”

Bill stared at the robot with a new understanding.

“Oh…uh…ummmm OK, I understand,” he said, finally, sounding like he still didn’t really understand.

STAR stiffened for a second.

“William, there are currently six police officers—three human, three automated—entering at the ground floor of this building,” the android said. “They will arrive in approximately six minutes … I can make it eighteen if you want me to mess with their lift, as it were.”

“Please…please do that,” Bill said, immediately.

“Sorry. Already done,” STAR said, sounding as though he was somehow grinning behind his shiny ChromiPlast faceplate. “I meant to say, ‘eighteen minutes now that I have messed with their lift.”

“You…uh…didn’t do anything that would…you know…uh… harm them, did you?” Bill asked.

“Oh, never,” STAR said. “Unless one of them needs to hit the lav in the next ten minutes. No, they are just stopping at each of the 325 floors on the way up to here. It is highly unlikely they will figure out how to override it.”

“Uh, thank you, STAR,” Bill said. “What can we do to prevent this…my arrest, I mean.”

“Well, I suggest we steal this experimental scout craft,” STAR said.

“But, then I’d be a criminal,” Bill said.

STAR made a noise that sounded like a sigh.

“No, then you would be guilty of an actual crime, in addition to the charges that have been trumped up against you,” STAR said.

“Ahhhh…uhmmmm…yeah,” Bill said.

“William, you already know that this experimental scout craft is completely fuel inefficient, and its data processors are not Metro-Packward approved,” STAR continued. “This vehicle’s unveiling tomorrow has already been cancelled. Additionally, for the previous three weeks, while we have been attempting to overhaul this vessel, your payroll line-item has classified you as ‘janitorial.’”

“WHAT? Oh…I get it…” Bill said, but finally he looked perplexed and added, “Uhhh I don’t get it.”

“William, WorldCorp will never authorize the production of this experimental scout craft, in part because you were their last hope to make it work,” the robot said. “When you reported yesterday that you were finished, having accomplished a six-percent efficiency improvement, WorldCorp issued the warrant for your family’s arrest. You are the Quote-Unquote Fall Guy for the government. A six percent increase in effectiveness is insufficient for the government to follow through with this project.”

“WHAT?!?” Bill blustered.

“Your parents are scheduled to confess that you revealed secret government information to them,” STAR said. “This will set in motion the machinations for your own arrest warrant.”

“Scheduled to confess?” Bill asked. “And for crying out loud, what sort of government secrets can a janitor reveal?”

“Well, the warrant issuance and confession are all delayed because the six police officers en route to our location are currently at the uh…nineteenth floor…oh dear…one of them appears to have realized he can perform a police override,” STAR said, sounding worried.

“Now what do we do?” Bill asked, starting to feel frantic.

“Well, you can choose from several options, but I will give you the most likely,” STAR said. “You can either join your parents and siblings in prison, hoping that I can find a way to rescue you, but be unable to effect any change. Or we can steal this scout craft—a vehicle which ostensibly does not, in fact cannot exist—and together we can try to find a way to rescue your family.”

“How much time…” Bill began.

“You have three minutes left since they came up with an override code,” STAR said. “Impressive. Most impressive. I actually did not see that coming.”

“Can you buy me an extra two or three minutes?” Bill asked. “That should give me enough time to patch the hull and fire her up.”

CHAPTER 3

Galactic Information Database

Entry 1701-5698-90210

WorldCorp’s Streamlined Justice

aka “Juris Prudence Express”

After presenting thousands of cases to the CEO and Congressional Executive Board (CXB,) WorldCorp lawyers and jurists proved that trillions of credits were spent annually trying to prove the guilt of criminals who had massive bodies of evidence stacked against them. Additionally, trillions more were spent annually fighting cases where a law officer [see entry: IPF, Habeas Corpus Laws (2123)] discovered evidence by means later deemed “tainted” by the courts because law enforcers did not employ “proper search and seizure methods” during investigations.

The CEO and CXB voted unanimously to overturn the old rules of criminal justice and…

      Click Here For More…                                                          

Location: Daimler-Diverz-Benz Building, elevator #7

“Can you believe this?” IPF Lieutenant Andis Swinginna growled. “What are the odds that first, our hyperlift was programmed to stop at every floor…”

“Hey, at least we weren’t going all the way up to three twenty-seven,” replied corporal Chutsey Skores. “And believe me, if I get my hands on the twerp who pressed all those buttons…”

“And then,” Swinginna interjected, trying to regain control of the monologue. “…then, when I finally get my override key out, we get recalled back to the ground floor because a fire is reported on floor Two-Sixteen!”

“C’mon, Loot, at least we’re on the way now, right?” Sergeant Norman Nahittsna-Ayers said.

“Sergeant, how many times must I remind you that you will address me by my proper rank?” Swinginna asked. “I’m lieutenant Swinginna…in some cultures, I’d be referred to as lef-tenant.”

Skores began chuckling.

“What is it, corporal?” Swinginna asked.

“But then he’d just call you left, instead of loot,” he said.

Nahittsna-Ayers began laughing. Skores joined in a few seconds later.

“Do you think that’s funny?!?” Swinginna demanded, looking from one officer to the other. “Do either of you think that’s funny?!?”

The sergeant and corporal both looked at each other.

“No,” Skores said.

“Kinda’,” Nahittsna-Ayers said.

Swinginna scowled for a moment before he finally allowed a smile to slip across his face.

“Because I thought it was pretty funny myself,” he said.

To their credit, the other three remaining DermaPlast Armored Cybernetic Officers of Peace (DACOPs) remained silent during the entire exchange, save for the nearly inaudible whirring and clicking of servomotors, and the beeps of processors.

“OK, let’s review before we get there,” Swinginna said. “Our target is Trapp, William M., age 31, male, brown hair, hazel eyes. He’s 182 centimeters tall, 68.2 kilos and he recently was demoted to ‘light janitorial duty’ on the 326^th floor, which is right about…”

Swinginna finished the sentence with the word “here,” just as the lift came to a sudden halt, and the door beeped their arrival to floor three twenty-six.

As the doors slid open, six officers—three human, three android—fanned out from the elevator covering a large portion of the room with practiced efficiency.

They were greeted by the sound of a howling wind, suggesting that a window was opened somewhere.

Parked right in the middle of the display-plex showroom floor was a mop bucket filled with steaming soapy water near some grease stains on the shiny deck.

Swinginna and one of the DACOPs stepped toward a large PlasGlass floor-to-ceiling window.

Scratch that, Swinginna thought. Window frame is more like it. How on earth did a mere janitor shatter a two centimeter-thick PlasGlass window?

“Add destruction of WorldCorp property—or vandalism, whichever gets a longer sentence—to the list of Mr. Trapp’s crimes,” he said to the DACOP.

“Noted,” came the automated reply, followed by a clicking sound.

A small piece of paper-film danced across the floor, caught between the pull of the downdraft of the shattered window, and the open door of the hyperlift.

Nahittsna-Ayers stooped to pick it up, accomplishing the grab on his third attempt as the dancing paper-film made it very a very difficult task.

“It’s a WCNN/FAUX-NewsNet report that a family in EurAsia, Austria, Salzburg was arrested for participating in last week’s taxation and direct-election rally,” the officer said. “Trapp knew that his family was incarcerated. I think he jumped.”

Swinginna’s wrist-gauntlet computer bleeped with an informational update.

“Trapp, William McKinley, Deceased, apparent suicide. Investigation closed. Report back to HQ,” Swinginna said through gritted teeth. “We just came all the way up here…”

“And down and up again,” Skores said, suppressing a grin.

“…and our quarry—it turns out—is just another lousy, cowardly jumper,” Swinginna finished. “I wonder what the unscrupulous stylus-pushers at HQ will do to spin this story now?”

“What’s your beef with the support personnel, loot?” Nahittsna-Ayers asked.

“My beef is that they’re just not as honorable as we field officers,” Swinginna said. “Back when I was still earning my stripes…”

“Sir…please come here,” droned the mechanical voice of one of DACOPs. “This may be an important piece of evidence.”

Swinginna stepped over to the area where the DACOP was standing.

The words “…and a phoenix shall arise from the ashes…” were spray-painted in fluorescent orange on a wall next to a very complex-looking vehicle diagnostic device.

“Make the charges vandalism and destruction of WorldCorp property,” Swinginna said to the DACOP. “Oh…and notify HQ that they can now proceed with the scheduled confessions of Trapp’s family.”

Nahittsna-Ayers glanced out the shattered floor-to-ceiling window and tried to reconcile the ground, located three hundred twenty-six stories below. He wondered if Trapp had even hit the pavement yet.

“No ashes,” he said to nobody in particular. “Just splat.”

Planet: Earth                                           Continent: EurAsia

Region: Greenland             SubRegion: Cape Morris Jesup             City: CMJ City

Date: 8-May-2153                                                            Time: 04:47 Local

Location: IPF Greenland Communication/Command Center (IPFGCCC)

Interstellar Police Force Captain Toby R. Nottaby re-read his third—and hopefully final—draft of the confession he was about to officially “obtain” from Jason and Leia Trapp and their two felonious offspring, Jerry and Linda. He spun in his oversized captain’s chair and faced his communication officer.

“Tell me, Ross, does this sound contrived?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ross said, not looking up from his equipment.

“I haven’t even read it to you yet, you bowl-cut near-sighted nitwit!” Nottaby blustered at the insubordination.

“Oh, please…well, by all means then, please continue,” Ross said, absently adjusting a knob and flipping a switch.

“OK…how does this sound…I think I got it right this time around,” Nottaby said, clearing his throat. “I, Jason Trapp…maybe we better get a middle initial on Mr. Trapp…look that up for me, Ross… I, Jason Trapp, do hereby confess to the following crimes: Illegal protest, with intent to ferment rebellion…”

“FO-ment,” Ross corrected. “To foment is to incite, cause or instill. To fer-ment is to allow fruit to rot unto the point that its biodegradation creates alcohol.”

“Hmmmm…how well educated is Mr. Trapp?” Nottaby asked. “Perhaps I’ll leave it that way, to help make him seem less intelligent.”

“Doctor Trapp holds three advanced degrees, in order: mathematics; physics and literature,” Ross said, consulting a WikiFactNet entry on the prisoner. “I think he’d know the difference between fomenting and fermenting.”

Nottaby made a derisive sound.

“Oh, and ‘L,’” Ross added.

“O and L?” Nottaby asked, awkwardly.

“No…’OH’ was as in aha! ‘L’ is Doctor Trapp’s middle initial,” Ross replied.

“Very well…Illegal protest with intent to foment rebellion; Illegal protest with intent to harm another being,” Nottaby continued. “Attempted assault with a deadly…”

“WHAT?!?” Ross bellowed.

Nottaby put down his paper-film sheet and glared at Ross.

“How on earth can you be a communication officer if you can’t even hear me when we’re sitting two meters away from each other?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” Ross said. “My outburst was indicative of incredulity, not my inability to hear.“

“You made that word up,” Nottaby said.

“Outburst?” Ross said, knowing he was pushing his boss’ buttons now. “Nope, outburst is a real word.”

“No…that incredi-dultery or whatever that was,” Nottaby said. “You’re not even married!”

Ross waited for Nottaby to calm down before speaking again.

“I apologize captain, I was saying I had a hard time believing that you could …extract… such a confession from Dr. Trapp,” he said, finally. “Intent to harm? The man’s an academic. He‘s definitely not militant.”

Nottaby smiled the kind of ingratiating smile Ross had come to interpret as Nottaby’s feeling a sense of superiority. He smiled that way very often.

“I did a little WikiFactNet research, and discovered that those picket signs could possibly have been used as lethal weapons,” the captain said, triumphantly.

“What, because their content was a demand for ’direct election of our leadership’ and a call for ’representation with our taxation?’” Ross asked, before adding, “…and those dangerous picket signs were made from 100% recycled Fome-Korr!™”

Ross paused for what he thought was a reasonable interval.

“They literally could not have harmed a fly!” The communication officer blurted, finally.

Nottaby visibly began to smolder at the communication officer’s insubordination.

“Listen here, Ross,” he steamed. “It’s not my confession, it’s Trapp’s!”

Ross paused again, choosing his next actions carefully. Having just found “the line” he had to decide if he would remain well-behaved and obedient like a good IPF non-com, or if he was going to finally cross it—and his superior—thus ending his fifteen year, increasingly frustrating career with the force.

He understood that if he chose to cross swords with Nottaby, he would effectively make himself a fugitive from the Interstellar Police Force.

Ross contemplated it for a half second before deciding not to just “step over the line,” but to leap.

Ross clicked a control at his station, waiting for a light to begin flashing. He turned to face the smarmy-looking IPF captain.

“Wouldn’t it be good…or at least prudent…Captain Nottaby… for the sake of public record and improving the public trust, if you actually met the Trapps prior to transmitting this so-called confession you supposedly extracted from the family?” He asked loudly.

“Ross, Ross, Ross,” Nottaby began, making a tsk-tsk noise. “In addition to being insubordinate, you are far too literal—and liberal—for this man’s police force. In other words: To hell with the public trust!”

The captain punctuated the last statement by spitting, as though the words “public trust” were offensive to him.

“I am absolutely positive that this,” Nottaby said, roughly shaking the paper-film confession, “this is what Trapp would have said if I actually had interviewed him!”

“Yeah, him and his fermented rebellion,” Ross said, turning to face his console as it beeped for his attention. “Incoming report update from Central Dispatch. I’m feeding it to your station, now.”

The captain looked at his monitor with disdain.

“Oh my Google, I hope it’s not another hyper-soccer riot,” he mumbled. “I absolutely hate those! Those fans are absolutely insane!”

“Uh no…uh…it’s a report that William M. Trapp is dead, apparent self-inflicted 326-story fall,” Ross said.

“WHAT?!?” Nottaby bellowed. “Ah…a very likely story…likely indeed…I bet those FieldOp gorillas probably pushed him!”

Ross stared at Nottaby.

“Oh…Ross, don’t give me a look like that, the FieldOps aren’t nearly as honorable as Administrators,” Nottaby said. “I assure you.”

Nottaby paused for a moment, seeming to collect his thoughts. This gave Ross a moment to swallow the bile that formed in his throat at Nottaby’s simultaneous self-described honor, and abuse of power.

“Ross, go ahead and transmit that confession,” he said, finally. “With Trapp dead, his estate will shift to his family, unless we convict him post-humorously.”

“Post-humorously…as in, when it stops being funny?” Ross asked.

“If we convict him post-humorously…really, man, develop a vocabulary…we’ll get his estate shifted to WorldCorp control,” Nottaby said. “He was a good employee. He’d have wanted it that way.”

“Good employee? I thought your confession from the parents suggested he revealed important government secrets,” Ross said, incredulously.

Nottaby chuckled as he fixed Ross with a stare. Ross wondered if the Captain was trying to look menacing, as opposed to ridiculous.

“Ross, Ross, Ross you blockheaded buffoon,” he began. “The man was a mere janitor. What important government secret could he have revealed more important than the fact we use SpeedX FloorShine for cleaning? Now I order you to transmit that confession!”

“Very well,” Ross said, flipping a switch, twisting a knob and then turning back to his keyboard. He typed a series of quick commands into his terminal.

“Transmitting to WCNN, the FNN/FAUX Complex, print media, WorldCorp Today and even the tabloids,” Ross said. “Anything else, Captain Nottaby?”

“Yes,” Nottaby replied, crisply. “Prepare a write-up for yourself, for your insubordination. Make sure it’s very detailed.”

Ross smiled. Nottaby didn’t know half of his insubordination.

Rather than transmitting the “text-only” version of Trapp’s confession of Fermenting rebellion while his son Post-humorously was donating all his estate to WorldCorp, Ross had instead added several details.

Namely, he sent the illegally-recorded video he’d just shot of Nottaby. In it, he had an actual confession, with the captain admitting to falsifying Trapp’s confession. That alone should get Nottaby standing before a Grand Jury, if not convicted of second degree Gross Falsification.

“I’ll get right on that, as soon as I relieve myself,” Ross said, standing up.

“Make it juicy,” Nottaby said, sounding mischievous.

“Uhhh…sir? That seems a little out of line,” Ross said.

“I meant your write-up!” Nottaby barked. “Now I know it’s true, what they say about redheads.”

Ross stepped out of the room regretting that he would never learn what “they” said about redheads.

He walked across the hallway into a restroom marked “out of order.” He had personally placed the warning sign more than a year before, in part anticipating that this day’s decision might come before too long.

A year ago, with the help of a WorldCorp Mechanic named Bill Trapp, Ross had replaced the single toilet in the room with a personal escape craft.

Today, Ross intended to “relieve himself” from IPF duty altogether.

It was not an easy decision for him to suddenly leave WorldCorp and IPF service. However, it was made all the easier when Ross learned that Trapp was dead. It saddened him to know the mechanic was gone. Trapp had come across as a pretty decent, stand-up guy, and definitely someone he could see as a friend. Ross decided he’d look up Trapp’s robot counterpart after he settled into a new life.

Ross secured his “stall” and then—once and for all—flushed himself out of the Interstellar Police Force, as the pod exploded from the building, launching him into Earth orbit.

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