The turbolift doors opened with a noise which was half hiss, half squeak, and Barth Vapour wheeled his chair out onto the bridge. Cavity Brusher followed him, and the doors hiss-squeaked closed behind them.
The bridge of the USSS Ender's Prize was calm. The red lighting and the low whoop of the red alert klaxon added a certain tense air to the room, but there was no panic evident in the crew; they sat or stood at their various stations spaced around the circular room, in orbit around the lone Captain's chair in the centre.
All eyes were on the Captain, who had obviously arrived only moments before Vapour and his escort. He was standing in front of his chair. He tugged at his tunic, and sat down. In the two chairs to either side of him sat Billy-Bob Piker and Dee Dee McTroy.
"Would somebody silence that alarm, please?" said the Captain.
After a moment, the alarm fell silent, and the standard bridge noises—various beeps and blips and trills—reasserted themselves.
"Thank you," said the Captain. "Now, what is our status, Mister Piker?"
"Sir, a Mowglian Battlebird is claiming that we have violated the Tract of Tranquillity. They fired upon us immediately, and are now demanding our unconditional surrender."
"I see," said the Captain. "Lieutenant Chowder, you were in command when this happened. How did you respond?"
A young woman, obviously Lieutenant Chowder, turned from her seat at one of the fore consoles. "I attempted to point out that we are nowhere near the Tract of Tranquillity, sir," she said. "When they fired again, I requested that they wait and speak with you. They gave us five minutes, which is..." She consulted her terminal. "Almost up, sir."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," said the Captain. "Well done."
Vapour realised he had been sitting up in anticipation, and he slumped back in his chair. Had he been in charge, he would have had the young woman summarily executed for her gross incompetence. Of course, whether she could have done any differently under the circumstances was irrelevant; gross incompetence was everywhere, and the occasional execution was necessary to keep everybody else in line.
"Then I contacted you, and..." she paused.
"And, Lieutenant?"
"And Ms Brusher," said the Lieutenant.
Vapour frowned slightly. Wasn't Brusher standing beside him?
"Very good, Lieutenant," said the Captain.
"Sir," said the pale-skinned Info, "we are being paged."
"On screen," said Captain Pilchard.
The large view-screen at the front of the bridge shimmered briefly with static, then resolved into the image of a young man with a severe haircut, and eyebrows which angled upwards rather than curving to follow the delicate line of his eye-sockets. His forehead was subtly ridged—nowhere near as severely as Bork's bony crest—and his ears were pointed.
"Surrender, Foundation ship," the man said, "and the lives of your crew will be spared."
"I am Captain Jon-Lurk Pilchard," said the Captain, "of the USSS Ender's Prize. To whom am I speaking, please?"
"Ah, Captain," said the other man, "are you ready to surrender your ship? Lower your shields and prepare to be boarded."
"To whom am I speaking please?" the Captain persisted.
"My identity is unimportant," said the other man. "You are in violation of the Tract of Tranquillity Treaty, and must surrender your vessel immediately."
"Sir," Info said in a low voice, "two more Mowglian Battlebirds are decloaking, one to port, one to starboard."
"According to the Mowglian Naval Charter, section seventy-three, sub-section five, paragraph sixteen," said the Captain, "all vessels operating on behalf of the Mowglian Triumvirate, in defence of the Tract of Tranquillity, must identify themselves upon reasonable request."
"Is that so, Captain?" said the other man.
"It is indeed," said the Captain. "Given that we are three point two light years from the Tract, and that you refuse to identify yourself, I am forced to conclude that you are merely Mowglian pirates preying upon innocent shipping lanes, and that you have no official jurisdiction here."
"In that case," said the Mowglian pirate, "conclude this." The screen went blank.
"All three ships have fired photogenic torpedoes, Captain," said Info calmly.
The Captain glanced expectantly at Vapour.
What the hell am I supposed to do? thought Vapour. Then he realised that Pilchard was looking past him, towards the closed turbolift doors.
"Five seconds to impact, Captain," said Info. "Three seconds, two, one..."
The ship shuddered under three separate, almost simultaneous explosions.
"Damage report?" asked the Captain. He was still calm.
"Shields are down to fifty-three percent," said Info. "Sensors indicate sub-molecular stress planes forming in the hull at each of the points of impact. One minor injury reported: crewman Smithers fell out of his bunk and sprained a finger."
The entire bridge crew chuckled with amusement at this news; Vapour blinked in disbelief. What in all the hells was going on here?
"Very well," said the Captain. "All reverse, one third impulse."
"Aye sir," said another member of the crew.
"Sir," said Info, "another two Mowglian Battlebirds decloaking, directly astern."
"Hmm," said the Captain pensively. "It seems they have us boxed in."
Billy-Bob Piker leaned towards his Captain from the next seat. "Sir, it seems from their chosen locations, that they have boxed us in—but only in two dimensions. Is it possible that they are not accustomed to three-dimensional space travel?"
"You mean...?" said the Captain.
"Yes," said Piker. "I mean that if we go straight up, we may yet elude them."
"Personally, I was never convinced that anyone would fall for that trick when they taught Captain Quirk's adventures in the Academy—but it's worth a try, Number One." The Captain stood up, and tugged his tunic down.
Wouldn't it be easier to get a size that fits properly? wondered Vapour.
"Ensign," said Pilchard to the young officer manning the helm. "Set a new course, straight up. One third impulse."
"Aye sir," said the ensign again. "And may I just add, sir," he said as he tapped the controls, "that this is a brilliant manoeuvre."
"Sir," said Info, with just a hint of concern now appearing in his calm, inflectionless voice, "another four, five, uh, seven Battlebirds have decloaked around us. They have us boxed in, in at least six different dimensions."
"Oh well, Number One," said the Captain calmly, "it was a useful thought at the time."
"Worth trying again sometime," agreed Piker wistfully.
"Sir," said Info, "four of the newcomers have also fired at us. Photogenic torpedoes closing."
"Brace for impact," said the Captain. Again, to Vapour's bemusement, the Captain glanced to the door of the turbolift.
The ship shuddered again, more fiercely than ever before.
"Damage?" asked the Captain.
Info picked himself up off the floor and returned to his seat. "Shields down to two percent, Captain. We have two hull breaches; decks six and fifteen have been sealed. No casualties reported, although there are several more minor injuries. And, uh, Smithers has sprained another finger."
Everyone—except the thoroughly confused Vapour—chuckled again. This time, though, the laughter sounded a little forced.
"Captain, another direct hit will destroy our shields, and the Ender's Prize," said Info. He sounded tense now.
"Acknowledged," said the Captain, still with that same infuriating air of calm. "Any ideas, Number One?"
"There is one idea I'd love to try sometime, if we had a convenient flammable nebula to hide in," said Piker. "Failing that, though, I'm all out of ideas."
"McTroy?" asked the Captain.
Dee Dee shrugged, a catlike move which lifted her bust and briefly incapacitated every male in the room. "I am sensing triumph, Captain, and arrogance. They think they have won. It may make them careless."
"The pirate is paging us again, Captain," said Info.
Captain Pilchard blinked, tore his eyes away from Dee Dee's cleavage, and turned to face the view screen. "Put him on," he said.
"Surrender or die, Captain Pilchard," said the pirate, without wasting any time on pleasantries. "We can plunder your ship, or we can pick through your debris for anything of value. Either way works, for us."
"What of my crew?" asked Pilchard. "Can you guarantee their safe return to a Foundation planet?"
"I can guarantee them death in deep space if you do not surrender," said the pirate.
Dee Dee leaned closer to the Captain. "He does not appear to be bluffing, Captain," she whispered.
Piker also leaned closer. He said nothing; as far as Vapour could tell, his only purpose had been to stare down McTroy's gaping top.
We're going to die here, thought Vapour, and nobody seems the least bit concerned.
"Sorry," said the Captain to the Mowglian pirate. "Not good enough. I have a better deal for yoü surrender now, and we won't have to destroy your ships."
The Mowglian pirate laughed. It was not a friendly sound. "Oh Captain," he said at last, "you have been most amusing prey. Even if we find nothing of value in your debris, the story itself should be worth a few drinks! Goodbye, Captain."
The screen went blank again.
"Captain," said Info. "All Mowglian ships have fired. That is a total of twelve photogenic torpedoes inbound. What are your orders?"
"Um," said the Captain. He glanced again at the turbolift doors; they remained closed.
Vapour saw the first hint of worry furrow the Captain's brow.
"Ten seconds to impact, Captain," said Info helpfully.
"Lieutenant," said the Captain, with just the slightest hint of an impatient edge in his voice, "are you sure you..."
The turbolift doors hiss-squeaked open behind Vapour and a young woman—barely more than a girl—in civilian clothing ran onto the bridge.
"Hello Captain," she said. "Sorry I'm late, but I got..."
"Five seconds to impact," said Info.
"Oh yes," said the girl. She ran down onto the floor of the bridge, and stood beside Info's console.
"Excuse me, Info," she said, smiling prettily at him as her fingers danced across the controls. Suddenly the front view screen began to flicker rapidly, showing image after image of small objects—presumably the incoming torpedoes—moving through space towards the camera's location.
"That should give us a few seconds," said the girl. She ran across to the other console.
"That's amazing," said Info. "The missiles have slowed down. Impact now in, uh, ten seconds."
The girl smiled at the Ensign on the helm console. "Just a quick change here," she said, her fingers flying. The ship lurched briefly one way, then the other.
"We appear to have slipped back twenty seconds through some sort of localised temporal vortex," said Info. He spoke in hushed, awed tones as though in the presence of a god. Or, in this instance, a goddess. "Impact in, uh, I estimate thirty seconds, but the ships have not actually fired yet."
The girl had now run back up to the tactical console.
"Excuse me, Bork," she said. "I'll need a few seconds to recalibrate these phasers." Her fingers danced as though they had lives of their own. "Now, targeting," she said.
Her face was half-turned away from Vapour as she concentrated on the console in front of her, but he could see, reflected in the glass, that the tip of her tongue was protruding slightly from one side of her mouth.
"There we go," she said. "That ought to do it. Three, two, one, and fire." She hit the appropriate button. There was a bright flash from the view screen, and then it went dark, showing only the empty blackness of space and the twinkling of stars.
"Wow," said Info. "That was just so cool!"
"I'm glad you could join us, Ms Brusher," said the Captain. "You cut it a little finer than usual."
"I know, Captain. I'm sorry." She moved down to stand beside the Captain's chair. He gazed up at her as though besotted.
"No harm done," he said at last. He blinked as though recovering his wits. "Info," he said, "what is the status of the pirates?"
Info stared stupidly at the Captain and the young girl for a few seconds. "Huh?" he said at last. "Oh, the pirates. They are, uh..."
"You will need to look at your console, Info," the Captain reminded him.
The rest of the bridge crew laughed at Info's momentary look of confusion.
"Oh yes," he said. "The pirates. They are, uh, all pirate ships have been destroyed, Captain."
"Excellent work, Ms Brusher," said the Captain.
"You truly are a credit to this crew," said Dee Dee. "Or you will be once you actually become a member."
The girl blushed prettily, and smiled. "It was nothing, Dee Dee, really."
"That's my girl," whispered Doctor Brusher proudly in Vapour's ear.
Piker leaned closer, and put one hand on the girl's hip. "I'd like to give you a member," he said. He blinked. "Uh, make you, that is. Make you a member. Of this crew."
She smiled at him too, and lightly touched his hand. "Perhaps one day," she promised.
"But how did you do it?" asked the Captain.
"It really was nothing, Captain. Destroying the pirate ships was simple. All I needed to do was take the data that our sensors recorded as each of them fired their photogenic torpedoes, feed it back into the targeting computer before they were fired, and program our phaser banks to target each torpedo just before it began phasing through their shields. This caused their shields to solidify in the path of the torpedoes, which detonated on impact. The resulting explosions were contained by their shields, and inflicted massive damage upon their own ships, thus destroying them."
She shrugged. "Like I said; simple!"
Several members of the bridge crew began a ragged round of applause. She curtseyed.
"Very impressive," said the Captain. "If I had a son, I'd want him to be just like you."
Doctor Brusher's daughter smiled some more. She seemed to be very practiced at smiling. Vapour wondered whether a frown had ever dared to darken that pretty face.
"But," said Info, "I'm confused. How did you slow down the torpedoes?"
"That was a little trick I thought of while reading the latest Starship Weapons Monthly," she said. "Because of their method of propulsion, photogenic torpedoes are inherently vulnerable to external imaging devices. It's complex, and involves conflicting reversals of the photon/tachyon interface field, but essentially I programmed the view screen to display each of the torpedoes in turn, and they each stopped, in turn, to have their photograph taken."
"That's incredible," said Info. "But doesn't that mean that our own photogenic torpedoes are similarly vulnerable?"
"Well, yes, it does," said the girl. "And that is one of the reasons I was a little late getting here." She turned back to the Captain. "I was down in Engineering when the red alert sounded, attempting to explain the principle—and my suggested fix for our torpedoes—to the staff there. Of course, it was a little beyond some of them, so I felt it worth waiting an extra couple of minutes for Gordo to arrive."
"Well done," said the Captain.
"Excuse me, Miss Brusher," said the Ensign on the helm console.
"That's Ms Brusher," said the girl, her eyes flaring briefly.
"I'm sorry, Ms Brusher," said the Ensign, cringing. "Please forgive me."
"Of course, sweety," she said, all hostility apparently forgotten as quickly as it had flared up. "Do please go on."
"Well, it's just, I was wondering, how did you...?"
"The temporal vortex," she asked. She giggled. "That was the easiest part of all, although I wasn't sure if it would work—in which case, I might have had to try plan 'B'." She sighed.
"But how...?"
"Oh yes," she said. "It's something I found in a fascinating old documentary—dating, I believe, from the late twentieth century. Hard to believe that they had such amazing technology back then. All about aliens, and teleportation, and..."
The girl gushed. In fact, it would not be too much of an exaggeration to say she enthused. Effusively, at that.
"But," the Ensign tried again, "how did it work?"
"Oh, right," said the girl. She blushed. "Sorry, I do get so excited about these things, don't I? Silly of me, I know. It's actually quite simple. They call it the Time Warp."
"Yes?" asked the Ensign.
"It's just a jump to the left," she said, "and then a step to the right."
"I see," said the Ensign, although he sounded a little discombobulated by her explanation. "That's nothing short of astounding!"
"Of course, I had to modify it slightly to suit a whole ship, but if you replay your flight logs you'll get the idea."
"Thank you, Ms Brusher," he said sheepishly.
"If you like," she said to the young Ensign, "I'd be happy to stay back with you one evening and teach you a few moves."
The Ensign's jaw fell open, and she giggled at his response. She turned, looking around the bridge, and her gaze fell upon Vapour.
"Oh my," she said. "Captain, we have a visitor. Here I am showing off and wasting time, and I haven't even been introduced." She took a step forward. "Please do forgive my rudeness, sir," she said to Vapour.
Under the full glare of her dazzling smile, Vapour suddenly felt like a trapped animal, unable to move. Yet he felt no fear, only a wild, trembling exultation. His heart fluttered in his chest in a way he had not felt in far too long. The rest of the bridge seemed to disappear, fading away, leaving nothing in his universe but the girl and her beautiful smile.
She was beautiful, he realised; her eyes were pale and limpid, with a hint of violet glimmering in the iris. Her hair was long and flowing, and highlights of russet and rubellite tourmaline shimmered through its fiery auburn strands as she tossed her head. Her teeth were perfect; dazzlingly bright, impossibly straight and even. Only one minor flaw marred her perfect face, and even that—a tiny scar above one eye, disappearing into her eyebrow—served only to enhance the effect of her beauty.
Then she blinked, and cast her eyes shyly downwards, and the hypnotic effect seeped away. No longer under its influence, Vapour could see that she was, in truth, nothing special—although he still felt a twinge of guilt run through him as he dared to express the thought to himself. Her hair was brown, her eyes were the same blue as her mother's—attractive, perhaps, but not out of the ordinary—and her teeth were, well, a little crooked. Surprisingly, he noted, there was no scar above her eye.
Then she met his gaze again, and even despite being prepared for it this time, he found himself pinned helplessly to his chair, unable to think clearly, unable to do much of anything but gape at her tragically flawed beauty, and admire her quiet determination to always do the right thing.
"Hello," she said.
"This is Mannequin Splitwhisker," said Cavity Brusher, although Vapour was barely aware of her voice. "And this," continued the Doctor, "is my daughter, Fanny."
"Although," said Fanny Brusher, "I prefer to use my middle name, Marisu."
"Blah," said Vapour stupidly. "Blah blebble bler." He blinked, and tried again. "Very pleased to meet you, my dear Marisu," he said.
She giggled, and he felt his heart soar with delight, despite himself.
"It was nice to meet you too," she said. "And now, if you will excuse me, Mannequin. Captain. Mother. I have homework to do."
"Of course," said the Captain, "please do come back anytime. We love having you on the bridge."
"I'd love to have you on the bridge too," said Piker with a smile.
"Be good," said Marisu's mother, as mothers are wont to do.
"Oh, mummy," simpered Fanny Marisu Brusher, "I'm always good."
"Yes, you are," agreed Cavity proudly. "Yes you are!"
"Love you, mummy," said the girl. Then the turbolift door hiss-squeaked open, and she was gone from the bridge.
Vapour blinked, waiting for the feeling of love and admiration to fade. It took longer than it had the first time. Finally, he felt clear-headed enough to examine the events of the last few minutes.
What the fuck was that? he thought.
Once safely back in his sickbay bed—he had claimed exhaustion, although in truth, he had never felt more awake—Barth Vapour meditated upon the enigma that was Fanny Brusher. 'Marisu', she called herself. That was the clue that led Vapour to the enlightenment he sought.
In his training as a Stiff Lord, Vapour had been immersed in many of the finer details which knit together to form the totality of the Array, the virtual reality in which they all lived. As a master of the Hard side of the Source, he knew many things which the Jubbly, the Soft-siders, did not.
One detail, though, of which both sides were aware, was that this particular version of the Array was based upon certain forms of popular entertainment taken from humanity's prime, their peak, their golden age. Of course, there was more than one simulation running—a fact Vapour had learned first-hand when he had woken up here—and each simulation was loosely based upon a script. Not a programming script, but an actual story which defined the characters, the places, the events.
Some scripts, of course, were better than others. All had their flaws, their inconsistencies, and as such, the machines had long since given up attempting to enforce an exact adherence to the scripts. Occasionally they would correct a particular plot point which was necessary for the furtherance of the story—when such a change occurred, those nearby often experienced some form of deja vu. If he followed that particular thought too deeply, Vapour found himself wondering exactly how his own cross-over had been permitted to occur, and such doubts left him feeling unsettled.
Characters, though. Heroes, sidekicks, cannon fodder, villains—Vapour had no illusions about his own standing on that scale. However, some characters were just poorly written extensions of their own author's wants and needs. Such characters could be dangerous, in that they completely overrode any attempt at consistency or fairness in the stories in which they appeared. Everybody loved them, and trusted them, and needed them—Vapour remembered his own feelings of helplessness in the girl's presence, and shuddered.
Fanny Brusher, it seemed, was such a character; a singular singularity around whom all else revolved. Vapour had heard the rumours, but until now he had never encountered one in the virtual flesh.
Vapour scowled. She would be a danger to his own plans, he realised. He already knew that this weak, insipid crew were worthless to him. He needed to get back to his own universe, to hunt down his son and turn him to the Hard Side so that they could overthrow the Imperator and turn the running of the galaxy into a family business. As it was, he feared that his own absence left things dangerously unbalanced, liable to spin out of control before he could return to put things right. To do that, he needed to find a ship of his own—or, better yet, take control of this one. It would be easy, he knew; the crew were weak-willed, weak-minded, vulnerable to his Stiff ways.
The one obstacle to his plan was Fanny Marisu Brusher. Anything he attempted which threatened the status quo—or, at least, her status quo—was doomed to failure.
There was no doubt in his mind. Marisu must die.
He sat back, and closed his eyes. Staring at the swirling patterns of red and black—blood and death—which played across the insides of his eyelids, Vapour wondered where she got her power.
Obviously, it must be Source-based. The Source was, after all, the ultimate, well, source of all power in the Array. The image she projected was very strong, and very specific. It must be her own residual self-image. The troubled yet carefree beauty, the intelligence, the instant ability to win people's hearts, this was how she truly saw herself. And her Source ability was so strong that she could imprint her own reality onto everyone, and everything, around her.
Essentially, he realised, whatever she believed became reality.
He wondered idly how many times he could face her reality before falling into it completely, inescapably. Obviously the rest of the crew of the Ender's Prize were entirely under her spell, all the time. Or were they? Certainly the Captain seemed to be. And Fanny's mother, Cavity, but that went without saying. What about Piker, though? His comments had been more than a little skewed, probably quite a way beyond the innocent little thoughts of Fanny herself. Was he a potential ally?
And the Ensign had made a mistake, had upset her briefly. Perhaps he was new to the bridge crew, and had not been exposed to her self-fulfilling delusion before today.
How far did her influence extend?
Suddenly he found himself thinking of the attackers—the Mowglian pirates. Had they been real? Or had they simply been part of Marisu's reality, conjured up to give her a convenient foe to utterly defeat with such spectacular timing?
And did the concept of reality make any sense in this virtual setting?
Vapour frowned. "This fucks with your head," he muttered. Deep in thought, he lifted Boadicea into his lap and began to idly stroke her soft, plush fur.
It was like dealing with a conspiracy theory, he realised. Conspiracies were ridiculous at best—until you bought into them. Then, once you believed, everything became connected, no thought was too bizarre to be entirely dismissed. Where did you stop? Was Marisu's influence merely localised, contained within the hull of the Ender's Prize? Or did it extend to the space beyond? Or, worse yet, was this entire reality nothing more than her private playground, existing only to make her look good, to feel good about herself.
Had her very presence subverted the reality of an entire universe?
What chance did he stand against her? Any weapon he aimed at her would mysteriously fail to fire, or perhaps even misfire. Any trap he set would miss her. He suspected even flushing her out of an airlock, bound and gagged and naked, would somehow backfire upon him.
Marisu must die, but she led a charmed life. She could not be harmed, she could not die. Unless...
Vapour opened his eyes, and laughed. "Of course," he said. "How obvious..."
Marisu could not die, unless she believed it was for the best. From what he knew of her type, he knew that a tragic, heroic death would likely appeal to her. All he needed now was a suitably threatening foe to challenge her.
"Computer," he said aloud. Ensign Pi had been good enough to teach him how to retrieve information from the ship's library.
The computer beeped softly.
"Tell me everything about the 'Droid," he said.