inhabitant of the new colony had the same birthday, the same emotional and
mental age. And, knowing that the Quantum Beacon was a constant source of information and wealth, a virtual safety net, they
ran riot together.
For five whole years the colony of Hope was a drug and sex and rock and roll Utopia. No useful work was done. Wild oats were
sowed. The “accelerated maturity” process became a joke, as the colonists spent the years between fifteen and twenty either
stoned or drunk or delirious with sex.
Well, good luck to them I thought. I myself, I must concede, had the dullest-ever teenagerdom. So, by proxy, I was now sowing
my own wild oats. Through vidcam and virtual-reality links, I followed the lives of my children, I watched them get spaced
out, I watched them fuck, I watched some of them play suicide games that tragically ended their infinitely promising lives.
I watched, but I didn’t meddle. I merely waited until my children grew into maturity.
And then I gave them independence. With independence came power; with power came a sense of responsibility. We still kept,
through our robots and virtual-control programs, a grip on the mineral and energy wealth of the new colony. Solar panels orbiting
Hope’s sun pulsed energy that fuelled its space factories and telescopes. And spaceships travelling down the Beacon’s path
carried valuable raw materials back to Earth on a regular basis; the first cargoes took sixty years to arrive, but after than,
a cargo ship arrived every three months . All this allowed us to run an Empire with infinite resources, infinite power.
On Earth, we had everything we could possibly desire. So why be greedy? Why dominate, why control, why bully? Why not let
the children of Hope have their total freedom?
Why not?
Why fucking not?
Flanagan
“There she is, five sectors off our port bow.”
“I see her.”
“She looks ripe, Cap’n.”
“Fire the flag.”
We shoot a flare into space. It unfurls and creates a holographic skull and crossbones. Our way of saying: let’s do this the
easy way, guys,
or else
.
The merchant ship begins to tack. At the same time, a flotilla of missiles is dispatched towards us.
“Fire the microwarships.”
We fire a cluster of metal ants into space, creating a wall of chaff that sends relentless interference patterns into the
path of the missiles’ guidance systems. One by one the enemy missiles explode, well short of our ship.
“Prepare to engage the grapples.”
“We’re prepared,” says Brandon.
“Well fucking well engage them then.”
“We’re too far away.”
“Ah.”
“I’m ready to accelerate into position, Cap’n, if you’re minded to give that command.”
“I took it as read. Accelerate into position, Harry.”
“Aye aye Cap’n.”
We accelerate into position.
“You humansss should sssuit up, perhaps?”
“Indeed. Suit up, people.”
“Your leadership leaves a great deal to be desired Cap’n.”
“Less of the insubordination or I’ll clap you in irons.”
“Ironssssss?”
“Fire our warning shot.”
Harry fires a missile. It ploughs straight through the debris of their wrecked missile defence systems, and crashes through
the bow of the merchant ship.
“
That
was a warning shot?”
“It must have been caught by the wind,” Kalen says, snidely.
“Engage grapples.”
Two roboships are sent hurtling from our main vessel and they land with an inaudible smash on the surface of the merchant
ship. The magno-grapples are switched on automatically, pinning them against the hull, and they then engage with reverse polarity
the magnets on our ship. Thus, the merchant ship is locked solidly on to us, unable to move.
A sealed polytunnel unfurls along the length of the magnetic arm that links ship to ship. We are all swiftly suiting up, apart
from Alby, who merely flares a little more vividly.
Jamie stays on the bridge, ordering up doughnuts and Coke from the ship’s
mental age. And, knowing that the Quantum Beacon was a constant source of information and wealth, a virtual safety net, they
ran riot together.
For five whole years the colony of Hope was a drug and sex and rock and roll Utopia. No useful work was done. Wild oats were
sowed. The “accelerated maturity” process became a joke, as the colonists spent the years between fifteen and twenty either
stoned or drunk or delirious with sex.
Well, good luck to them I thought. I myself, I must concede, had the dullest-ever teenagerdom. So, by proxy, I was now sowing
my own wild oats. Through vidcam and virtual-reality links, I followed the lives of my children, I watched them get spaced
out, I watched them fuck, I watched some of them play suicide games that tragically ended their infinitely promising lives.
I watched, but I didn’t meddle. I merely waited until my children grew into maturity.
And then I gave them independence. With independence came power; with power came a sense of responsibility. We still kept,
through our robots and virtual-control programs, a grip on the mineral and energy wealth of the new colony. Solar panels orbiting
Hope’s sun pulsed energy that fuelled its space factories and telescopes. And spaceships travelling down the Beacon’s path
carried valuable raw materials back to Earth on a regular basis; the first cargoes took sixty years to arrive, but after than,
a cargo ship arrived every three months . All this allowed us to run an Empire with infinite resources, infinite power.
On Earth, we had everything we could possibly desire. So why be greedy? Why dominate, why control, why bully? Why not let
the children of Hope have their total freedom?
Why not?
Why fucking not?
Flanagan
“There she is, five sectors off our port bow.”
“I see her.”
“She looks ripe, Cap’n.”
“Fire the flag.”
We shoot a flare into space. It unfurls and creates a holographic skull and crossbones. Our way of saying: let’s do this the
easy way, guys,
or else
.
The merchant ship begins to tack. At the same time, a flotilla of missiles is dispatched towards us.
“Fire the microwarships.”
We fire a cluster of metal ants into space, creating a wall of chaff that sends relentless interference patterns into the
path of the missiles’ guidance systems. One by one the enemy missiles explode, well short of our ship.
“Prepare to engage the grapples.”
“We’re prepared,” says Brandon.
“Well fucking well engage them then.”
“We’re too far away.”
“Ah.”
“I’m ready to accelerate into position, Cap’n, if you’re minded to give that command.”
“I took it as read. Accelerate into position, Harry.”
“Aye aye Cap’n.”
We accelerate into position.
“You humansss should sssuit up, perhaps?”
“Indeed. Suit up, people.”
“Your leadership leaves a great deal to be desired Cap’n.”
“Less of the insubordination or I’ll clap you in irons.”
“Ironssssss?”
“Fire our warning shot.”
Harry fires a missile. It ploughs straight through the debris of their wrecked missile defence systems, and crashes through
the bow of the merchant ship.
“
That
was a warning shot?”
“It must have been caught by the wind,” Kalen says, snidely.
“Engage grapples.”
Two roboships are sent hurtling from our main vessel and they land with an inaudible smash on the surface of the merchant
ship. The magno-grapples are switched on automatically, pinning them against the hull, and they then engage with reverse polarity
the magnets on our ship. Thus, the merchant ship is locked solidly on to us, unable to move.
A sealed polytunnel unfurls along the length of the magnetic arm that links ship to ship. We are all swiftly suiting up, apart
from Alby, who merely flares a little more vividly.
Jamie stays on the bridge, ordering up doughnuts and Coke from the ship’s
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