Oracular Operations

Introduction

Imagine a science fiction TV show, the sort where they arrive at a new planet every week and find a Greek god or a planet of gangsters or some disembodied gamesters betting on gladiatorial events. Now imagine the protagonists, two-fisted space-ranger types, who charge into the problem of the episode and use their native cunning, technological prowess or fighting skills to resolve it. Traditionally they just take all this in their stride. This is the way the universe is, here’s a time portal, there’s a salt monster, and if you land here you’ll find yourself in the Old West.

What if instead they reacted with incredulity?

This was my starting point for these stories, which were serialised in thirteen instalments on my page on the Patreon website. (Here I’ll offer a thank you to the subscribers who supported the initial run). As well as the stories themselves I provided additional essays on aspects of the universe, as well as liner notes, brief non-fiction comments about how I came to write them. All of these are included in this volume.

To start with though I had just this idea and the ridiculous name of Tommy Ray Gunn, interstellar explorer. I didn’t have a grand plan. I did have a list of science fiction and adventure fiction ideas to try out. So I sat down and wrote the first story, mostly in small bursts over about three months.

This lengthy gestation period helped create the background. Firstly The Wavefront, an inexplicable event that had passed through and created a space opera playground for the stories. Next, the Deep Patrol, an organisation to explore that playground. The Deep Patrol exists to investigate the strange things left behind in the wake of the Wavefront, and the Wavefront has left many weird and wonderful puzzles behind.

To get away from being a simple pastiche of that type of science fiction TV show I began to consider ways to differentiate it. Lieutenant Commander Gunn commands a cutter, a small ship with a crew of five (later six, eight and finally nine) that operates independently from a carrier, that would be their home base. A diverse and oddball crew is a necessity though I hope to offer a few twists on the idea. No to transporters, they have to land or dock to interact with a location. Yes to 3-D printers and fabbers, allowing standard items to be produced in minutes or hours.

Experience with artificial intelligence leads to human memory and experience being backed-up and also downloaded into new, cloned bodies. Death is not the end. This shifts the stakes in the stories away from will somebody die to will they succeed or will they fail. (I put this in the text a couple of times; to quote Garth Merenghi I know writers who use subtext and they’re all cowards. These are pulp adventure stories, they aren’t designed to take too much subtlety.)

To start with I put the adventure fiction to the front, mostly keeping such elements as moral and ethical questions and actual science fiction ideas to the background. Unfortunately for me that can only work for so long. When the SF debt came due I gathered my best, smartest and most original twists on science fiction societies together and put them into a dialogue with an AI oracle.

I say original; I didn’t realise at the time but essentially I came up with something that animates Frank Herbert’s God-Emperor of Dune. No one’s going to notice anything obscure like that though. [Wikipedia notes that God-Emperor of Dune was the11th bestselling hardback of 1981 in America].

I’ve told you how it started, you’ll have to decide how it ended up. As Thomas Gunn might say Welcome to the Deep Patrol.

Partial City Diplomacy

Chronicles of the Deep Patrol 1

Partial City Diplomacy

Lieutenant Commander Tommy Ray Gunn, a veteran of uncounted first contacts and the first man through the dimensional breach at the Cyclopean Gigastructure was annoyed. What is all this shit?

He raised his visor to look over the plain. Scattered about were buildings and parts of buildings – not ruins, not sheared off, but partial sections, cut cleanly and logically. Here was what was obviously a kitchen from a twentieth century house, there two bedrooms and a corridor out of a Georgian mansion. Behind was a Balinese neo-temple of chrome and light. A heavy stone tower could be seen behind, its crude construction giving few clues to its origin.

More rooms and structure could be seen beyond them, all evidently inspired by historical Earth architecture.

I mean for fuck’s sake, he said and took a drink of water from the tube in the helmet.

Transmission unclear. Say again Commander. The tinny voice in his earpiece was perfectly clear to him.

This happens all the time. We’re out here looking for, well, you know. Humans scattered by the Wavefront. Aliens to contact. Ships, stations, megastructures in space. And what do we find?

In disgust he stamped up to a window and looked in. A child’s bedroom with aeroplanes and spaceships hanging from the ceiling and a poster of the solar system – pre-2042 as there was no Minerva.

I’ll tell you what we find. He paused dramatically, carefully not looking at the hovering, insect-like camera drone. In the corner of the heads up display he could see the relayed image and took his helmet off. His thick black hair, perhaps one millimetre longer than regulation length, moved ever so slowly in the breeze. His dark eyes were hidden, but his firm jaw and almost over-full lips showed the strength of his feelings.

"What we find are practical jokes. He snorted. Rogue computers taking over factories to build millions of items – plasma pistols, space scooters, even that one on the Hercules IV mining station making billions of paperclips. Transcended AIs building carnival mirror versions of Earth. Alien ruins that reflect what you bring to them. The time nexus that threw us into a maelstrom of historical situations, some of which I’m convinced never happened."

He sighed and pulled out a scanner. "Now this. An architectural smorgasbord; a full-size selection book for builders wanting options when creating something from Earth’s past. We’ve travelled beyond the strange and annoying into the workshop for the strange and annoying, strolling amongst the scattered prototypes..."

Commander Gunn, do you copy?

He blinked, surprised to be cut off in mid-soliloquy. Ray. Go ahead Brook.

Lieutenant Avon Brook Rivers spoke in his ear. We’re picking you up on our scanners now Commander. There’s movement at your ten o’clock.

Gunn put the helmet on and dropped the visor to blink through the heads up display. The remote scan showed him where it was. Got it. I’m going to take a look.

Acknowledged. Be warned, backup is ten minutes out.

If he had learned anything from his time in the Deep Patrol it was that backup was always too far back to be of any use when the balloon went up. As usual he would have to rely on his wits, his tool kit and his trusty plasma pistol.

He marched forward boldly. No point in trying to hide. A strong AI or advanced alien would so hopelessly outclass him he could not hope to remain undiscovered. Anything on his own level that he took by surprise practically guaranteed a fight.

Fighting was his last resort, honest.

He rounded an enormous clock, surgically removed from a tower (or perhaps fabricated in place, the notional tower it should top never having existed outside the dreams of some architectural database), and saw movement in the shadows. He blinked up an enhancement.

It was a girl. No, a woman was more accurate as a description. Hello, he called.

The sound boomed out over his external loudspeaker and he winced, turning the volume down. Hello, he said again, sounding much more natural.

She had frozen and now turned to see him. She wore a wide, floppy hat, and a long, long dress, one very like those from some time in the twentieth century. Her feet were bare, her eyes covered by dark glasses and she had a very large bag on her shoulder. If he didn’t know better he’d think she was going to the beach in some old film.

Oh. A spaceman. Hello spaceman. She spoke clear English with a slight accent he couldn’t place. He walked towards her. My name is Ella. Who are you?

Lieutenant Commander Gunn, ma’am. He raised the visor. Deep Patrol, on a scouting mission. Can you tell me where we are?

You’re not from around here are you? He saw her lips curl into dismay. You should leave.

I don’t mean any harm ma’am.

Nor do I. She looked about. But harm is coming.

A light flashed and Rivers spoke in his ear. "Something coming, commander and... it broke off then came back ...enormous power readings and frequency spikes jamming..."

He looked all around. Is there someone else here ma’am?

She sighed. Yes.

Something flickered out the corner of his eye. He dived for cover behind a Tudor cottage, drawing his weapon.

Hey boy. It wasn’t Ella; she had appeared around the other side of the wall. Come out now.

He peeked through a window. He could make out a dark figure moving slowly; the distorted glass gave no clues as to their nature.

I come in peace, he called. Lieutenant Commander Gunn, Deep Patrol.

Nice to hear from you Gunn. He could hear the crunch of footsteps on sand, coming slowly closer. He glanced at Ella who waved ambiguously. But I think you’re out of your depth. See the only ones who patrol here are...

Commander there’s...

Uh oh.

There was a deep WOM and his suit died. The camera drone dropped to the ground with a soft crunch. The pistol status lights went out, which was very bad because an uncontrolled shut down could cause a minor plasma surge leading to a controlled vent. That had cost several people their hands.

Not this time. He contorted his hand to hit the emergency keys and the suit joints loosened. Unpowered it was heavy and unwieldy; he would keep it on for now as protection. And to save himself the time it would take to remove it.

Not again, came the voice from round the corner. I guess we deal with him the old fashioned way.

That didn’t sound good. Gunn looked at Ella again. She shrugged. No help there. Power suppressor, he murmured and she agreed.

He hoped no one had been flying when it triggered. An unpowered landing was always risky.

His opponents knew where he was and if he stayed in the suit he’d be too noisy to sneak and too slow to run. But hopefully...

A face appeared, dark-skinned, grey-haired, and below they carried a long metal bar. He reached out but the other man was quicker, clubbing him down.

He tried to anyway. The armour was passive, strong enough to block and engineered to deflect some of the strength away, dissipating it down through the rest of his body. So when the next blow came he was balanced and ready; stepping inside the blow, grabbing the bar with his left hand. He made a short, precise head butt and his helmet thudded into the attacker, felling him.

Ella pointed and he turned in time to be hit by a brick. It bounced away. Another man was on him, trying to wrestle.

He was held upright by his boots and the stiff leg armour; all his vulnerable points were protected. Conversely he couldn’t bend or twist, so had no way to dislodge the man. It looked as though they were at an impasse; Gunn would have to do whatever he could while a writhing attacker grappled him.

There was a sharp snap and a howl of pain. The man fell. Ella had her hands around his wrist; the rest of the arm bent at an unnatural angle. So far as he could see, the victim was an unmodified human. She had broken the bone.

Any more? he asked, turning on the spot to clear his peripheral vision.

Just the two, as far as I know, said Ella. She looked down at the man who was writhing under her grip. Arseholes.

Gunn unlocked the plate that revealed the emergency suit controls. He twisted the opening key and climbed out. Much easier to move now.

The two men wore blue costumes that resembled each other not quite closely enough to be a uniform. The dark-haired big one with the broken arm was in a one piece, like Gunn’s own undersuit without the interface panels. The other, with cropped white hair slightly bloodied, had trousers and a jacket, the latter with a crest and name tag saying Skarr.

The Grindlord sent them after me, she said. I’m not going back.

Gunn shook his head and stretched. Then he bent down to his suit and pulled off the equipment belt, strapping it about him, and took the boots and gloves. He looked at Ella. Okay then. Grindlord. Parts of buildings. People sent after you. A power suppressor of some kind. So. Maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on?

****

The two men they had fought, said Ella, had been grown in a cloning tank by the Grindlord, as had she and everyone else who lived here. The Grindlord was the ruler of Partial City, the conurbation of incomplete buildings they were standing in the outskirts of. According to rumour he had come across the machines at the centre – the Cloning Tanks, the Energy Jammer, the Cornucopia – and used them to create his kingdom by grinding the bones he found amongst the buildings and using the pieces to clone inhabitants.

With control of all the machines and the willing support of his wolf-troopers (she kicked the man on the floor who howled in response) he ruled Partial City from the only complete building, the Castle. The clones grumbled and complained – they were created as adults and educated by the machines so were well aware that the Grindlord’s legitimacy was suspect – but few chose the alternative of leaving to scavenge amongst the ever changing architectural pieces. They would rather than live a life without want from the Cornucopia bounty. Occasionally they would be conscripted into one or other of the Grindlord’s projects and, more occasionally still, one of them would be made an example of.

Ella had found a printing press and started a newspaper. Unfortunately it seemed the Grindlord did not approve of her editorial slant – Post-Scarcity Republic Now! – and sent his wolf-goons to break it up and grind her bones for another, hopefully more biddable version. Fortunately her sources had given her warning and she had fled ahead of them.

****

Gunn dug out a notebook and pencil. She nodded in approval. Just like a newsman.

He grunted. This is not the first time technology has failed on me. The latest unjammable data link, quantum encrypted. Useless when the power fails. He showed her a map he’d sketched. "So we’re here. At last report the cutter was here when the Jammer came on. And the centre – the Grindlord’s Castle – is in this direction?"

She agreed. Then we go this way, he said. She stared at him. If you want to. I’m going to see if my crew are there, figure out what to do next. You’re welcome to join us. Me. He looked about. I’m not going to say it’s the only way out of here – who knows what else is hidden in this museum of buildings? – but it’s a chance.

She shrugged, and hitched her bag over her shoulder. Okay then. It’s as good as any.

What should we do with them? Gunn looked at their prisoners; one with a broken arm and the good hand tied to a balustrade, the other unconscious still. She shrugged. So leave them?

Yeah, I guess. She lowered her sunglasses to look at them. I’m not... I mean maybe...

He nodded. Killing in cold blood is not my style either. The injured man relaxed, then gave a moan as his arm shifted.

They marched off through a herd of wooden attics, Gunn in the lead. They held a slightly uneasy silence, Gunn concentrating on the experience of walking in a strange place without any guidance.

So, what’s Earth like now? She asked. In response to his stare she continued. I’m a journalist. Or machine-educated as one anyway which is as close as you’re likely to get in Partial City. I’m nosy.

It’s not that, said Gunn. I haven’t been there for... how old do you think I am?

She stumbled slightly on the sand. What do you mean?

He waited for her to catch up, looking at a tiny porch. What year is it?

2069. She stopped. Oh. The Grindlord lied to us.

Gunn waited until she started again. Perhaps. Or he may not know and made it up. Or Partial City has been through some temporal manipulations. He shrugged. As have I for that matter. Never mind. Deep Patrol chronometers say this is the 1st of December 2137.

Ah. She walked on. I’ve only been here four years and I’m one of the older inhabitants. What do you mean by the age thing though? Our education goes up until the Event and the arrival of the Wavefront. Did something happen to Earth?

He didn’t answer as he was running forward. The cutter was lying, nose down, partly embedded in a red brick structure. It looked intact, and some of the wall was still standing so it couldn’t have fallen too hard. It looked a very survivable crash.

Forty metres long, the craft was a wide cylinder with engine pods on the side and stubby wings protruding. Something had broken off the leading edge, a sensor of some sort. The cutter was a dull grey, running lights dark.

He skidded to a halt. The rear hatch was open, the lip hanging about two metres above the ground. Below it the soil – sparsely carpeted with a wiry grass part of his brain noted – was torn up. He stopped to look.

A fight I’m guessing, said Ella, having caught up with him.

I’m no tracker, he said. But, yeah. And the losers were dragged off. That way. He pointed towards the centre of the city.

Oh, she said.

He divested himself of boots, helmet and equipment belt and pulled himself up into the craft. Ella passed him his gear and he helped her up.

The interior was intact, crash foam sprayed over every surface. Designed for long range scouting missions the stubby interior space was divided into three sections; the control cabin at the front, the cargo bay and engines at the rear and miniature living quarters in the middle.

Everything was turned off. Dead. Clearly the Energy Jammer, whatever it was, was still in effect.

Gunn found the manual door controls. He quickly checked; the whole ship was deserted. They’re not here, he said unnecessarily. They’re not lying here dead, so they’re probably still alive.

Ella shrugged. Well maybe. Or maybe they just want the bodies for the Grindlord to clone. She winced at his glare. Sorry. They’re your friends.

"My crew, he said and sighed. Well then."

He opened up an equipment locker and quickly dismissed most of the contents; they relied on power and technology that wasn’t working. We can’t leave and we can’t call for help. And even if we could, what’s the range of the Jammer? Could anyone get close enough?

He slammed the door shut. How does a thing like that work anyway? How can it stop a battery, a plasma torch, a fusion generator, all that, but not interfere with combustion – or respiration? Another damn artefact that makes no sense at all.

She stared at him. I don’t know, she whispered.

Sorry, he said, opening the next locker, this time finding some items of use. It gets frustrating out here. Looking for answers and just finding more questions.

We had answers, she said. Bad ones, but we had them. From the Grindlord. Now I don’t know.

Tell me about him, he said, pulling out a crowbar and a knife, then a medical kit, removing all the smart components to load up on dumb drugs and field dressings. As she hesitated he prompted. What does he look like?

Well... he wears a mask. Several masks. One for giving speeches, one for passing judgment, one for praise, one for listening. And when he appears in our dreams he never has the same face twice.

In your dreams. He waved her past him. Take anything you want. If it’s plugged in to recharge it probably won’t work. He smiled thinly. So the Grindlord appears in your dreams.

Well of course. Oh, that’s probably not normal, is it?

He carefully walked across the sloping floor, boots gripping firmly on the non-slip surface. No, not really. Dreams are images and narratives created by our brains to integrate information we receive while awake. Usually, anyway. If you fall asleep with a quantum interference probe pointed at your head, an AI can guide them.

Well, okay then. She had found a small axe, some rope, field rations, and slipped them into the bag. She took a look at the shoes but none of them were her size.

He took out his notebook. We need a plan. Start by telling me about the wolf-troopers. How many of them are there?

****

Hi there, said Gunn, stepping out, hands spread wide. I was wondering...

The wolf-sentry was a huge muscular woman dressed in a blue shirt with the arms ripped off. She leapt towards him. He stumbled backwards.

As she passed the hiding place in the flint wall Ella bashed her over the head with a sandbag. She fell to her knees and tried to get up again. Ella hit her, then again and again. Finally she went down.

That’s one, said Gunn. Ninety or so more to go.

That’s not the plan, snapped Ella, comparing foot size with the woman. She rejected her plimsolls. She turned back to him in realisation. Oh. That was a joke.

Gunn nodded an apology. She pointed to a long colonnade, pillars that ought to be in some Mediterranean palazzo, here stuck between sets of dirty glass windows advertising money transfers and fried chicken. It looked like a trap to him.

Well okay then, he said.

Be careful. The Grindlord – unless you have value to him he’d rather grind you up and grow a new you that might be more useful.

He grinned. "Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. You need to be careful – he can make himself a new version of you – but what makes me unique is that I’m from outside. The knowledge in my head won’t be preserved, and that makes it hard currency. So if you want to wait here..."

I’m with you, she said, unconsciously fingering the hatchet she had at her belt. Lead the way.

Is there usually a sentry? he asked, boots scuffing on the dirty flagstones.

No, not really. Sometimes at night. When scavengers have been causing trouble. Or dogs, rats, that kind of thing.

He turned back to look at her. "I would have thought rats could get past sentries. I mean, they can get into closed environmental systems if you’re careless. These old buildings were crawling with them back in the day, and they’re not even complete. They must be able to get through the walls."

Heh. They do. So we put all our rubbish in the recycling hopper, apart from what goes into the sewer. But like all buildings, either those appearing or the ones made by us, they change, sometimes vanish overnight. Then the waste overflows rather than going into the cess pit. She smiled at him as he turned back. I guess the Grindlord has the wolf-troopers so when he has a problem he sends them to deal with it, even if they won’t really do anything. What else can he do?

Howling at the moon, he muttered. They reached the end of the colonnade, circled a Jin Chinese noblewoman’s bedroom and paused, looking out.

It was a big street, irregularly paved with bricks and stone blocks. There were a few people standing on the other side, under the canopy of a whitewashed shop. Further down were others, walking, talking.

Well this is it, he said. Last chance to do something other than walk straight into the firing line Ella.

Well Gunn, I kind of made that choice already. She offered him her arm and after a moment he took it. Let’s go.

They walked out into the street with Gunn standing straight and tall as though on parade. Everyone could see them and several passersby made double takes. Partial City was a small town, everyone knew everyone to look at, and although there were a wide variety of styles of clothing, no one wore anything like his one-piece uniform.

Hi there, he called to someone who was asking the street in general who he was and what he was doing. Lieutenant Commander Gunn, Deep Patrol. Here to make contact. Take me to your leader.

Hey Ella, what trick is this? someone called out.

No tricks Harvey. We’ve been found. By Earthmen. We’re going to see the Grindlord.

Gunn tried to give off friendly confidence. It seemed to work, or perhaps it was just the novelty of a stranger offering change or hope, or something, anything. People began to fall in behind them as they marched up the street towards the Grindlord’s Castle.

It stood in the middle of a plaza, forty metres high perhaps. The sun reflected dully off sharp angled protuberances. In front a handful of people in blue gathered in a rough line. Armed with various hand weapons he identified them as wolf-troopers.

Behind was a great gate, dark metal studded with bright bolts, out of place on the almost crystalline castle. The Grindlord’s addition to a building that was originally supposed to accessible to all.

Hello there, he said, then ducked as someone came at him from the side.

The ambushing wolf-trooper fought with more ferocity than science. Gunn blocked the next attack, stepped inside his reach and took him down with an elbow to the stomach.

As I was saying, he said loudly, slightly more out of breath than he had hoped. My name is Lieutenant Commander Thomas Gunn of the Deep Patrol. I’m here to talk to the Grindlord, or other competent authority.

The wolf-troopers ahead had stopped in surprise and puzzlement. Not used to strangers and even less used to people boldly asking to speak to their feared leader. Who are you? What do you want? one called back.

A large woman, white undershirt bursting out from a too-tight jacket gave the man a look of disgust. Commander Gunn. This is a surprise! We... to be honest we thought we might be the only humans left in the universe.

If only, he thought to himself. "I can assure you that is not the case. In fact human and human-derived peoples are widely scattered across explored space in the wake of the Wavefront. And now you are back in contact with us!"

There were a few cheers and a lot of loud talking. Gunn raised his voice to almost a shout. I would like to meet with the appropriate people or entities to discuss the situation. The Grindlord or his representatives.

The woman nodded. I will let him know...

No need Natalia. The voice was natural, booming out from the balcony above. I have been attending to the situation.

The Grindlord. His exact shape and size was difficult to tell from below, and the black and white layered garments covered his body. Tall, wide shoulders – or pads, or armour – not obviously overweight. A glorious mask, sky blue with silver highlights, looked sternly out. The eyes were dark, the mouth a silver-lipped slot. The nose slightly protruding, a noble brow topped by a mane of shining white hair. He raised his hands and called for quiet.

Friends! I have protected and succoured you for so long, and now we know that we are not alone! Commander Gunn, please. You are welcome here!

Gunn saluted him, face still. Unfortunately the ship we came in is currently inoperable. Something is preventing it from working. My crew were... searching this city. Can you offer us aid – help me locate my crew? Our other ships are coming to assist but the local conditions make their approach hazardous.

All this and more I shall willingly give. First though we must speak. I must formally welcome you, and enquire into your business here. The murmurs from the crowd grew. My people! I have no doubt that Commander Gunn’s intentions are good! Yet it is my solemn duty – my holy purpose – to look after your interests! What is this Deep Patrol? Will they bring strangers here? Do they claim hegemony? Will they try to take you away?

None of that, said Gunn and he was cut off.

And I believe you! Man to man we can only agree, but I am more than a man, I am the lord protector of my people. I have no choice but to insist we sign a memorandum of agreement before we do anything else.

Gunn smiled broadly. I will be happy to do so! Let us give each other firm assurances of our good intentions before more Deep Patrol vessels arrive. He let the grin slip. Are you sure that I am the first to arrive? The tracks seemed to suggest someone has come from my ship into the city here. Tracks I followed, with the help of my guide. He indicated Ella.

Natalia! The Grindlord raised his left arm. Check with the other troopers. Have any of them encountered strangers and not reported? He looked back at Gunn. We are informal, even ill-organised here. With only the few inhabitants you see there is no need to create hierarchies and procedures. The door ground slowly open. By the time we have a memorandum of agreement I am sure we will have got to the bottom of this. The wolf-troopers moved out of the way, forming two ragged lines. Please come in.

It’s a trap, whispered Ella.

Of course it’s a fucking trap, said Gunn, not bothering to be quiet. His voice was conversational; the nearest people behind and troopers ahead would clearly be able to hear him. It’s a fucking trap and I’m going to walk into it because no fucker messes with the Deep Patrol and gets away with it. I’m going to turn the fucking trap around so it bites him on the dick. You wanna come?

The troopers glared, except one who seemed amused at the image of the Grindlord being bitten on the dick. Assuming he had one under all that costume,