Historians Proper Page 5

  On a good day, that’s what it’s like to be a Journeyman going through a time shift. No wonder so many of them don’t survive the process while the others simply crap themselves. It’s a lot.

  Rounding up the survivors. Finding loved ones. Preventing a time collapse and the extinction of all mankind.

  It’s a lot.

  Alex and the Journeymen will return in Time-12.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  S. David Acuff was five years old in 1977 when he saw his very first movie in a theater: “Star Wars.” This ground-breaking film set a very high bar and forever doomed him to a life-long quest for great Sci-Fi story-telling and imagery and underoos.

  The condition worsened in 1995 when Acuff discovered Japanese Anime the likes of “Ghost in the Shell,” “Macross Plus,” “Evangelion,” and later that mop-haired rapscallion Spike Spiegel of “Cowboy Bebop.”

  Acuff is currently a writer and filmmaker in Los Angeles and full-time Editor for Walt Disney Television. He has co-written two Indie films, “Masquerade” and “Restoration.” The second film began distribution through Sony Home Pictures in January of 2019.

  Sadly, neither of the films were Sci-Fi, just plain Fi.

  Unrelated, Acuff is a huge advocate for removing wintergreen flavor from gum and candy and pharmaceuticals as it is a garbage flavor.

  Follow him on Instagram and Twitter: @DavidAcuff

  www.davidacuff.com

  CREDITS

  (in alphabetical order)

  Frank Capezzuto III 3D Models and Book Cover Art

  Krista Creighton Cover Titles and Layout

  Jean Laidig Copy Editor

  Tisha Martin Content Development Editor

  Mara Purl Publishing Consultant

  Beta Readers: Krista Creighton

  Jeremiah McLamb

  Ken Niblock

  Gorman Woodfin

  REVIEWS*

  “I regret to inform you that your manuscript does not suit the needs of OMNI at this time.”

  Ellen Datlow, OMNI Magazine

  “It wasn’t bad, but the beginning isn’t good. I would cut the entire first section and begin with Alex.”

  Algis Budrys, Tomorrow Science Fiction

  “It does not suit the needs of the magazine at this time.”

  Gardner Dozois, Asimov’s Science Fiction

  “Many thanks for giving me a look at ‘Historians Proper,’ but I’ll pass on this one. I’m afraid this SF story didn’t quite grab me, alas.”

  Gordon Van Gelder, Fantasy & Science Fiction

  “Thank you for the opportunity to examine the enclosed material for publication in Analog. We regret that we cannot make use of it at this time.”

  Stanley Schmidt, Analog Science Fiction & Fact

  * Reviews of early drafts of "Historians Proper" circa 1998

  SNEAK PEAK

  BATTLE TIDES

  BOOK ONE: Pirate Slayer

  COMING

  FALL 2020

  PROLOGUE

  TEST FLIGHT

  Conditions were pretty damn perfect. Above the salt line of Miramar Bay it was 16˙C. The Caribbean airstream pushed lazily across the inlet and swept long-tailed Sea Condors — years descended from the first batch imported from the Outworlds — along its thermals. Every so often, an Alpha would swoop down, disappear below the salty brine and resurface with a Tuna or a Dolphin squirming in its talons. The condor’s mate would circle low, forming a protective barrier from the rest of the eager pack as the female feasted and chummed the waters. This, of course, brought the sharks to the surface to be snatched into the air; soon the entire pack was dining. Occasionally, the sharks would score a Sea Condor but more often than not, the advantage was aerial; the evolved flight maneuvers favored the alien birds of prey.

  High above, Cumulus clouds hung in the sky like one of those CiCi-D paintings from the Colonial Rise, just after the Third World War, circa 2264. But, that was over 150 years ago. The difference being - unlike her brilliant and peaceful oil renderings eschewing Man-made Tech - this perfect vista was pockmarked with Four Ranger Skiffs hovering in Delta formation just off-shore.

  With their matte-black elongated fuselage and short, fat wings, it was obvious from this distance how the elite group got their handle, SkyCross Squadron. Up close, their Tartan-Ballard Engines hummed and whirred electronically as internal gyros fought the up-drafts and cross-winds to anchor them all securely in a precise 3D space.

  Below the waterline the ocean was calm. The crystal blue waters created high visibility for fifty meters. Sea life swam in and around an active underwater city. This was Miramar, the top secret test facility of the Kingdom Alliance Corporation’s Naval Air Corps. But, its formal military designation had long since given way to the nickname by a handful of test jockeys that even knew it existed: Bravo Bay.

  A brand new D/U/G was moored beyond the base, tracking sea life, area conditions and a million ever-changing variables. The Defensive Underwater Guardian was scientist, gatekeeper, weatherman and, in case of attack, first line of defense. Although the AI Mother Drone was anchored in place by a retractable leash, the 40+ micro-drone swarm it housed was highly weaponized and coordinated efficiently, effectively and completely autonomously by D/U/G.

  In its signature style, D/U/G relayed its report in to Bravo Bay, It’s exactly twelve microns before high tide and a statistically acceptable day to rattle death’s door.

  The AI’s message pinged the Heads Up Display (HUD) of the day’s fresh meat — a 24-year-old Aussie Captain named Michael “Dash” Strouthers.

  Roger that, DOUG, he relayed back as he squeezed his 6’ 2” frame into the cockpit of the H2X-Ø Mustang and latched the umbilical cord into the life support relay at the base of his neck. As the water levels outside the ship engulfed the wings, he cinched his make-shift restraints into place across his chest and lap. The final seats hadn’t even surfaced from the design labs yet, so this retrofitted HX-45 chair had been bolted in.

  There was no rear seat for his RIO, either, which was just as well because per Bravo Bay protocol, the optional NAV would be empty for this inaugural run. What with the recent upheaval from the Drakonian secession from KACorps, hot shot pilots were even harder to come by. Everybody wanted a piece of the new Mustang. Nobody but Strouthers came close to passing SIM quals.

  From the thigh pocket of his flight suit, he pulled out a small book with a single black rose on the cover. He kissed his lucky charm and slid it into the scrum box; an empty sealable compartment usually containing emergency toolkit, some rations, a weapon, etc, when a sub has gone active.

  Next, he triggered the canopy. As the dual interlocking halves slid forward and back into place, the ComLink in Dash’s HUD crackled to life again with a familiar female voice, Captain Strouthers, radio check. Radio check one, check one.

  “Radio check: Affirmative, Step. Readin’ you loud and clear,” Strouthers voiced back with his thick accent. “Though I won’t be gettin’ used to someone else’s words rattlin’ around in my head, that I won’t.”

  It’s devilish, he added over HUD link.

  “Roger that, Dash,” said Major Stephanie “Step” Phillips from her position up in Flight Control. “All the new toys…”

  …and all the glitching bugs to work out, she said, saving her private commentary for the encrypted mindlink relay.

  In contrast to the ominous bubble of silence inside the Mustang, Flight Control was an echo chamber of activity. A half-dozen international personnel monitored various flight gear, network traffic, atmospheric and vehicular stats and especially those damned pesky sea birds who had picked a helluva spot for a morning picnic. Stephanie watched another shark get plucked clean out of the water and sighed, annoyed.

  “Ranger Lead, who’s on point up top,” she asked into her headset.

  “It’s Gigsby, ma’am, over,” the Ranger confirmed.

  “Gigsby, keep an eye on the sky trash and barbecue their ass if they swarm any closer to our reef.”
>
  “Roger that, base.”

  “Sir,” D/U/G chimed in, “I could swarm the flight hazards in 22.3 seconds if cleared for live ordinance.”

  “Negative. Stand down, Dug,” Step smiled, “last thing KACorps wants is for their trillion dollar brain robot to be used on a duck hunt.”

  “Heard.”

  “Good. Dash, you all set to go for a swim,” she asked.

  Dash checked the gauge overhead showing the cockpit seal as solid.

  “Aye, snug as a bug.”

  “All right, then, what say we preflight the new Sheila?”

  “Aye,” Dash said, hitting a button labeled スタート he knew to translate “Start” in Japanese.

  Start.

  Humble beginnings to such an auspicious and historic event.

  Fwooom.

  Goosebumps formed on his arms as the whole cockpit shimmied to life — readouts, monitors and heads-up displays. They cycled through startup sequencing and settled one by one into ready status.

  “Not bad! Cold boot to systems ready in 3.4 seconds.”

  “What did you do? That’s almost 5 seconds faster than last week,” Step asked.

  “Talked with Gator and we decided we c’bypass the Break Cycle all together since it’s pullin’ the same as the G12 adapters.”

  “I mean, yeah it totally makes sense.”

  The Brass at KACorps R&D will be thrilled to know you’ve outfoxed their brightest Engineers, she relayed.

  Roger that, Dash smiled, it’ll be worth the demerits.

  In the launch tube, a Seabee removed fuel hoses and retracted the gangplank from the H2X. Stepping back through a porthole, he closed the hatch behind him, lifted off a safety latch and punched a big red button. Yellow lights accompanied a warning buzzer.

  “Flooding the tubes,” he announced on the Comm, watching the floodgates open all the way and water levels rise around the mid-sized fighter. It was odd to see a naked fighter, totally void of the standard marks or colors of any specific Ranger unit. This one was much larger than any of its predecessors because of the new triple engine build. It was the first time they’d all seen the new Cyrenium shell, too, which wrapped around the ship like a smooth and curvaceous protective skin.

  “Damn that’s sexy, Captain, I may have to visit the Flight Surgeon and ask about these tingly feels it gives me in my nethers,” he smiled through the portal to Strouthers, adding the hang-loose, all-ready signal — something the Bravo boys had adapted years ago over the traditional thumbs up on the more regimented Carriers.

  “Y’ain’t seen nothing, yet, mate, hold on to your knickers,” Strouthers smiled back, returning the sign through his cockpit window just before it was engulfed in a swirling agitation of sea-foam.

  Dash returned his focus to the readouts, checking and double-checking them three and four times. He slid his left hand over the throttle controls and his right hand gingerly cupped the flight stick. If it weren’t for the climate conditioning, his palms would have been sweating. While these controls, augmented by the mental relay, had definitely improved since the first trials, for a while they were notoriously touchy. He remembered at least two SIM flights he crashed and flooded because he was so used to the older HX-45 — the AirCorps’ fastest and most maneuverable ship. Correction: formerly the AirCorps’ fastest and most maneuverable ship.

  “Well, Dash,” Stephanie cut through his head space, “All systems are go. You ready to take her out?”

  “Aye, light ‘er up!”

  First time outta the gate, Captain, the Major cautioned via Relay.

  But, Strouthers broke in, I got it, I got it, you break it you bought it. I’ll be gentle with her, Step. Promise.

  “Just looking for a nice easy lap around the Lunar Dale and back,” Stephanie replied.

  What the hell is she so nervous about, Dash thought. I’m the spam in a can strapped to the 2 megaton space submarine!

  You know I can hear you until you close your mic, Step said.

  “Crap! I’ll never get used to this new tech.”

  Strouthers exhaled slowly. There were three engine modules on the panel in front of him. He flicked the safety off the first, hesitated a second and then punched it. The Hydros slowly began to whine as they spiraled up to speed. He wiped a dust fleck off of buttons two and three and then focused his attention up the tube, as the bay doors opened. At the end of that track lay the open waters of the Caribbean. And D/U/G.

  “SkySAT, this is Bravo Bay,” Stephanie called up, “requesting clearance for that moon dance, over.”

  “This is SkySAT. Roger that, Bravo Bay. Be advised in 90 minutes the entire Drakonian Fleet begins mass exodus. Until then, the lanes are clear.”

  “Well, crap on a sunbeam. That’s two days ahead of schedule. Okay 10-4, SkySAT. Alright, Dash, the waters are smooth, the sky is clear and you’ve got the ball.”

  Open the gate, DUG, and count me down, Dash relayed out.

  Heard, D/U/G replied as he lowered the shields. You’re in the clear in ten, nine —

  Dash pressed a thumb against a MobileComm mounted to his left and a 3D picture of a beautiful Japanese woman and two precocious little toddler twins rezzed up on screen. He and Mizuke had met when he was stationed under NeoTokyo. They had fallen in love and been married almost five years ago. He rubbed the cheek of his 3-year-old son, Quinn, and Nadia, whose single ponytail atop her head resembled more of a whale spout than a ponytail. He smiled again and then resolutely returned both hands to the controls.

  Quinn. Nadia.

  “Bleed the edge,” he said.

  “Bleed the edge!” Stephanie echoed.

  Six. Five. Track lights illuminated down the launch tube. Three. Two—

  At zero, the sub restraints flicked open and Dash juiced the throttle and the Hydros sucked in thousands of gallons of water per second in a frothy frenzy that catapulted the Mustang swiftly forward down the tube. Lights strobed overhead as he glided along. Half-way down he felt the sonic safety pulse D/U/G emitted which safely scrambled any unsuspecting sea life lingering near the mouth of the portal. Most of them would dissipate after the first pulse, by the second, not even a sardine remained - the coast was completely clear.

  Captain Strouthers shot out of the portal and into open water. Urging the hydros faster, the Mustang jumped forward leaving the huge Bravo Bay superstructure and D/U/G behind in a cloud of bubbles.

  “Mustang clear,” Strouthers notified the base.

  “Mustang clear,” Stephanie confirmed. “Have you got a visual on your escort? Aft. 7 o’clock high.”

  Dash turned his head and, sure enough, there was the chase sub, bearing down. HX-45f class. Old school.

  “Visual confirmed, welcome t’ the party, Gator.”

  “Had to see the new toy causing all the freshmen to cream themselves,” said Lt. Colonel Vincent “Gator” Gordon.

  “Roger that. Just try t’ keep up, old timer,” Dash threw him the hang-loose.

  Gator returned the signal, “Now, this is being recorded for posterity, so try not to puke up your toenails this time.”

  “That’s something Mizuke would have said.”

  “Stay with us, Dash.”

  “I know. I got this.”

  Dash flexed his fingers once more and then took the throttle smoothly up to 18%. As the two subs cut across the ocean floor, they suddenly crossed over the lip of the Puerto Rico Trench and a bottomless deep lay open beneath them. Strouthers rolled the Mustang over and dove into the abyss. Gator followed.

  Inside the cockpit the ambiance of the HUD changed over seamlessly. With limited window visibility, the augmented reality maps provided eyes into this dark wonderland. Moving from your physical eye to cybervision is strange the first few times because the ship around you just sort of disappears and it’s almost as if you’re free-floating through the water at break-neck speeds. Dash relaxed a bit because this felt just like any of a hundred SIM rides he had performed.

  The two ships darted in
and out of huge underwater structures. Gator took a curve that thrust him forward into pole position. He and Dash had played this game many, many times. Dash snugged up tight on his contrails. Back during the topside racing days, this was known as “drafting”. They had studied the technique back at the Academy to glean any combat advantage it may have to offer. The two moved seamlessly in and around murky structure after murky structure. Close enough to see that these underwater playgrounds of theirs used to be a thriving cityscape. Miami from the looks of it.

  They flew past a skyscraper and Gator’s slipstream knocked a spire loose from a balcony of what was left from Freedom Tower.

  “Oh, crap!”

  Dash jerked the stick to the right and almost over-compensated himself right into an iron skeleton of an abandoned construction project. He deftly rolled out of the collision course and rejoined Gator on the building’s far side.

  “Easy,” Gator soothed.

  “What’s going on out there, boys?” Step chimed in.

  D/U/G chimed in, the Mustang was almost —

  Shut it, DUG! Dash relayed and then breathing heavily, read from the displays, “Just a little remodelin’, Ma’am. Pressure’s stable. HUD Sync and Visibility excellent. Hydros maintaining 20%. Very responsive, ma’am.”

  “Roger that, Dash,” Stephanie confirmed, “You are clear to begin Level 2 maneuvers. Take us up.”

  Dash reached up to Engine number 2 and engaged it.

  “Spinnin’ up Atmospheric drive,” he called back. “Increasing throttle to 25% and breaking for the surface.”

  The sunlight began to penetrate through the deep blue waters more and more with the shallower altitude. The Mustang cut through the Caribbean under-waters like a knife, leaving the chaser sub in his wake. The stern of the ship creaked and groaned a bit with the vastly changing pressure, but all the shielding seals held and the ascent was a smooth ride.