The Law of Quantum

By Chino Hill

During a military experiment, a time traveller who died six hundred years ago re-incarnates. After years of failing to find an explanation for the incident, the British counter-intelligence sends him from the Kuiper Belt to the distant Earth. As an expert in the 20th-21st Century, he has to assist in the capture of a desert agent. But on Earth, team members are not the least interested in the desert. Soon the time traveller must decide: he will kill, or he will be killed. He is forced to take his fate into his own hands; together with his 9mm. But it is hard for him since, in addition to his severe PTSD, he appreciates everything more whose calibre is at least .500 Magnum. But there is no time for emotion in the whirlwind of events, he must keep a cool head. Which is too hard for him to do. Especially when he must meet the memory of his dead loved ones and he knows that changing the past has no effect on what has already happened. Because the future is not written, and the past is not permanent.
A fast-paced story of tomorrow that began fifty years ago. Robots, augmented intelligence, holography, gene modification, and the law of quantum; which we know nothing about but are actively using. Live and let live. An idea that consists of two parts. But you can choose only one of the two. How do you decide?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chino Hill
• Release date: Mar 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463192962

Chino Hill

Something similar should be written here:“A strange, inexplicable feeling overmasters the writer when he grabs a keyboard and starts writing driven by an inner force. Ethereal joy permeates his soul as the lines are flowing out through his fingers, and his soaring imagination comes alive on the pages. This is a mystical connection, which creates a link between the thoughts of the mind and the tangible reality. But this reality flies the reader into another dimension along a recurrent circle.”Well, that text will never be put down here. The writer stands with both feet on the ground and he wouldn’t be able to write down the above sentences without smiling. Don’t expect bittersweet lines of sadness from this author. However, if you dope your coffee with rum, cognac or whiskey without any remorse and write comments on your buddies Facebook posts with a restrained laugh while the others are listening to the marketing bullshit of a mediocre manager with piety, then you are at the right place. Those who are able to look on the sunny side of life with a smile despite of the big lethargic beginning of the workweek on a Monday morning shouldn’t change the channel either.

Book preview

Chino Hill

The Law of Quantum

Copyright 2020 Chino Hill

Published by Chino Hill at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover art by Martin Rožek

Disclaimer

The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Contents

The Law of Quantum

About the Author

π×1,000056792640724

Thallon gas exhaled into the fire whereby the freshly sprung flames become greenish, biting enthusiastically in the blackness of space. They flared their lights, from the meteorite torn surface of the asteroid, to the distant stars; thinking, they were their sisters, bright like they were. But those did not spare them even a glance. They glittered stolidly in the faraway endless, knowing, these soon die in the ruthless dark depths of space, and their vestiges of memory disappear forever; because they do not count evanescent seconds from long ago, since everything that matters to them, its existence must be measured in billions of years here, and anything that is less than that, it may never have existed.

Smoke streaks leaked from the depth of the crashed satellite hit crater in the thin atmosphere and flew towards the ice-cold stars. On rugged edges of the barren, grey rocks tiny fires fluttered under the silent abyss of the frosty Universe; lightning a path to the smoking ruin of the church.

It was night. Which had no significance here, on Benzaiten, three and a half times farther away from the Sun than Pluto. Beyond the outer border of the Solar System, the Sun was just a white dot amongst the other millions, and nobody could tell which was which between them at first sight.

I climbed out of the ditch, from where the detonation threw me, and, fighting the dizziness, headed towards the only surface building; that was the colony’s church two minutes ago.

Flames were whining in the rare air, like burning wood in a furnace, like a shrieking banshee. They were the sounds of pain. The pain, that accompanies the ultimate passing, as a piece breaks away from inside of a man, and he knows he will never get it back. It belonged to fear. That hits in the stomach, horns heart and stamps down the cry of the faintest hope; and although the mortal wants to deny it, the brain knows the truth: this is the end. And there is no further.

Not giving thought to the content of my stomach that wanted to break out, I started to run as I was able.

Scattered wreckage smouldered around me. Off-white smoke wreathed into the air. The ground shook and rumbled under my feet. It was about two hundred metres before I reached the entrance to the church. A part of the facade was all that remained of it. Behind the entrance there was nothing but a cavern, the whilom undercroft. I kneeled to its edge and looked down.

The pale light of an intact lamp illuminated feebly from the side into the below darkness. The sudden pressure equalization had blown out the fire and captured the dust in the atmosphere; that fell down softly on the mound of sluggishly glowing shattered beams. There was someone moving below. The vicar. He knelt next to a body almost totally covered by the debris. Only her left arm was out of it, and her head.

The vicar, as if feeling that I was there, looked at me. There was an awful laceration on his head. Blood, like dirty slime, trickled from his forehead, soaking his torn clothes.

The depth of the asteroid quaked. Loose stones fell into the cavern. The vicar shook his head ‘no’. Then he sprang to his feet and ran away; perhaps towards a corridor. I did not see where to. I was watching the body where he had knelt next to. Her bloody arm rested on the debris. I could see her crushed face. Her eyes stared towards me. But they could not see me and could not see anything. They were empty. Emptier than a frame without a picture in an abandoned house. I moved forwards and jumped down to her.

I did not get down. A detonation exploded from the direction where the vicar had disappeared, and it threw me out into space.

The gravitator, the artificial gravity generator, was destroyed. The atmosphere escaped like vapour. I whirled far from the asteroid; between silvery, sparkling liquid drops. My diaphragm gave itself up. Something else also mixed amongst the lustrous drops. Some of them looked red. But I could only imagine that. Because what could be seen in the black nothing that eats the light? The air ran away from my torn sweater. How long can a man last in a vacuum? Thirty seconds? Fifteen? I did not care. I just saw the eyes. Those empty soul mirrors as fixed on me but stared only vacantly. I had already seen such eyes. Not so long ago. Maybe tomorrow?

π

Some faintly fluorescent roots lit the narrow corridor into a pale pink shadow. The bare-footed woman let the man to lead her by her hands. Her brown eyes stared somewhere else, as if she was dreaming, as if she was watching the slowly vibrating ambience of the moment, which someday – on melancholic winter evenings – would be just memory. Blood-red lipstick glittered on her porcelain white face. She turned her head slightly back and aside, like she did not want to lose even a piece of the man’s monotonous whisper. The wide, V-shaped male back was elegantly covered by a suit. It was not a low-priced, ready-made product. It was not the kind which creased in minutes, but neither a known luxury brand. For the maker of that did not need a business card. The fathers personally took their sons to him when the time came. And for noble families that came quickly. Because wearing a suit is not a skill learned but has to be born in. That man was born in it. His straight posture and purposeful, yet easy, movement expressed that; which ingrains itself in a real aristocrat at the first steps, and which is polished more elegant by educators. A samurai, moulded in an English Lord. His deep, muted tones almost hypnotised the woman; whose big, heavy breasts pressed hard against her kimono-like, fine cloth. The man’s fingers were entwined with her fingers. The room, where she was brought in, was relatively large, about seven times seven metres. The wooden door closed behind them with a click. Inside, strong roots of a tenzing tree grew amongst the rock walls. Their faint light as cherry blossom mist curled down to the floor. The ceiling vanished infinity. Love flooded. It was tangible. A man and a woman who were already one. One because love gives. And it does not expect anything in return. And they gave. Themselves. Their fullness. Because giving from heart, and accepting by heart, can be only by heart. From the deepest to the deepest. So they both received. From the other, the other. Selflessly. This is love. The love which creates life.

Like silent night, softly, unnoticed, fell down the dress of the woman. A marble smooth body appeared. White makeup covered it thick. Yet, perhaps from that, at the attractive places the spectacularly well-formed woman somehow seemed light. Nike, the ancient goddess. Irresistible.

The man did not try to hold back his hand. And the woman did not want either. The touch was gentle. But desire throbbed in it. Which was more than sensual. Something of deep affection. Offering and reception. From both sides. Mutually. Becoming one.

I knew I was not watching a movie. But it was much more than an ordinary home video. A memory for the closest family members. About the most sacred moment of a marriage. The body sensations were relayed by aeriform neurotransmitters. I could feel their heartbeats. I could feel touches; that told of a fulfilling eternal dream. Sighs came to life on my skin. And tiny pain. Awaited. Blissfulness.

The man’s chest tightened against the woman’s back. His head leaned over her neck. Kiss. Opening lips. Tensing muscles, throbbing heart. Pain. Short. Sharp, twinge. At last! Gladness. Calmness.

After the man’s bite, two droplets ran down the woman’s neck, drawing two red stripes on the white skin. By the time they reached the ample bosom, the man was already in the woman. Because what is one soul, is one body. He was mellow and gentle. Even when the core of life pulsated out of him into the woman; which oozed back whitely to her thigh. And even when he grasped her head and broke her neck.

‘Whore life!’ yelled somebody jumping up from her chair. A lamp lit, and the film, that surrounded me, disappeared. But not fast enough. The woman’s eye drilled into my eyes and engraved in my brain. I saw them well. There was nothing in them. No consternation, no pain, no peace. Nothing. Only emptiness. Because already nobody was behind them. Who was, was thrown out of it, and the body was abandoned; with glazed eyes looking into the nothing. It felled me. I just sat in shock.

‘Why for my cunt did I have to watch this?’ continued the woman angrily who had jumped up from the chair.

‘That’s exactly why. To perceive the severity of the situation,’ a mature woman calmed her down. She looked about fifty. Which, in this century, meant she was closer to ninety than eighty. ‘Sub-Lieutenant Fujiwara sit down!’ she commanded the upset woman. ‘Since not everyone knows me, I’m introducing myself. I’m Vice-Admiral Dhupia, Assistant Director of Navy Command Headquarters. She is,’ she pointed to another woman next to her, ‘my deputy, Captain Swanson.’

Six heads turned to me. Six female faces. They looked me up and down briefly and understood why the Vice-Admiral had to introduce themselves. I was the only one who did not know them here in the room where we were ten: The Vice-Admiral, the Captain, the six women in front of me, and, at my back, Commander Naoko Kawaguchi, head of the Navy Archives. She described herself as a simple librarian, but I guessed, there were more behind her official position. She sometimes disappeared for days, so to speak, for professional conferences. But what kind of conference is the one from where the participant returns with slow-healing bruises? Of the six women, I knew Midshipman Jun Xiong too, my probation officer. Because of this, it was demanded that I appear at her twice a day. Sometimes, she came to me suddenly, so to speak, to check my job or my cell. She had a pretty mouth. She liked crimson red lipsticks. Of the six women, she was the shortest. With large breasts and thin hips. She did not even look twenty. So she could have been forty-x. The other five were roughly seventy. With my thirty-two years, in biological sense, I was the youngest amongst them. A youth between the milfs.

Vice-Admiral Dhupia started to speak. With her mouth. I was surprised that she used that old-fashioned form of verbal communication instead of telling her words through microwave. It was audible that the Vice-Admiral had to make an upright effort to speak fluently. She, likewise anybody, had not used her mouth for speech for a long time. Though my body did not contain a DNA-generated communication circuit, the poppy-seed-sized headset was in my ear, so I would have been able to understand all her words without her having to open her mouth.

Gesture-controlled smartphone? Guffaw! I thought I went insane the first time I had to wave a phone number to a phone. In a more advanced version, I had to scribble a text message with winks. Just imagine that you’re standing in a shabby pub and you’re Morsing to your chick Baby come to the Washer Mosher! Kiss and bring rubbers! And in front of you is standing a sturdy, bald-headed action hero of the Alt-right; over three halves of Vodka and with twelve knocked out policemen on his achievement list. What ya think? Doesn’t he ask why the fuck are you winking to him?! Sure! He does. And I guarantee you that by the time you talk yourself out of the situation, your chick can donate your nightly rubber pack to a beggar. One of the biggest bullshits in the history of technology is the gesture control. I message to that idiot who first invented it that, after fifty years, the name of his company won't be mentioned even in articles of the history of technology. That’s what happens when somebody, without technical talent, entrusts product development to marketers. The future is in the body-built gadgets. The best is when your modified DNA creates a mobile phone in your body. From that point on, you push out a ten words sentence within a second and never stumble over your tongue. Of course, if you can’t control your thoughts, then it’s a debacle. It’s still survivable when the busty waitress, at the company’s canteen, asks what she can do for you, and having a look at her cleavage, you lose control over your thoughts and your real wish beams out of your brain... The catastrophe happens, when, at the yearly performance review, your boss lets you know how much pay rise you will get as compensation for your exceptional hard work, and, after that, you’re unable to clearly focus on the part of your speech, With having regard to the company’s outstanding financial profit in the last year, I understand and agree, why nobody’s salary has been rising for six years. If then your real thoughts slip out into the microwave link, then don’t be surprised if you have to refresh your résumé soon.

(Pub Tales: Wyn Yard’s beers)

‘I’m sorry chicks but there’s no time to waste time on manager’s bullshit,’ said the Vice-Admiral. ‘What you saw is clear and have no doubt about it. Today at 1:32, Sir Martin Yates, Captain of the Intelligence Corps, ritually murdered his wife, Maya Volkova, representative of the Neptunian emigrants. Then he stole a time machine and documents from the Sahalin. The left behind traces show that he wants to pass those documents to the Neptunians.’

‘Ma’am!’ a tall thin woman butted in. ‘I thought we didn’t touch the Sahalin ergo we can’t own documents from her. Then what exactly Sir Yates wants to give to the Neptunians?’

‘None of us started in the business of intelligence today,’ replied Captain Swanson. ‘None of us can think seriously that, without a prior check, we allow a civil rescue vessel to go to a ship that sailed away one hundred and eighty years ago, sent a Mayday distress call ninety years later, which she repeated again after fifty-five years, then she appears at the edge of the Solar System and sends a distress call again. Yes, we investigated the Sahalin for two reasons. One: she appeared two days away from one of our patrolling frigates, sending a distress call. It’s natural that we went to help as everyone else would have done so. Two: we are talking about a ship that no one’s had information on for one hundred and seventy years. Who knows what’s on her deck? War is at the doorstep. Neptunooga seizes every opportunity to find a pretext to justify, for the League of Nations, the lawfulness of its attack against us. We don’t want to give a cause for a war and either to war. Of course, we looked-over that ship, even though it is Neptunian property. After we didn’t find anything that is clearly harmful, we covered our tracks, diverted our civilian rescue vessels and let the Neptunian rescue team to reach her first.’

‘Dhupia-sama mentioned documents. What is in them that was worth bringing from the Sahalin?’ the thin woman asked.

‘Until now, we didn’t have any information that we’d have taken anything from it. Sir Yates was one of them who searched the ship, but that small thing is missing from his report, that he may have taken the Codex Roxolan with him.’

Silence of surprise sat on the attendances. The mention of the Codex Roxolan hit them like a physicist the sight of the unified field equation.

‘This is only an assumption,’ said Vice-Admiral Dhupia. ‘But it’s certain that Sir Yates found something on the Sahalin. He lost his common sense because of it, killed his wife and is now trying to disappear in time in order to pass that thing to the Neptunians, be it the Codex or anything else. Your mission’s that to go after him and bring him back and all that he has. Assuming, he has anything at all.’

‘Why aren’t active agents going after him? Why is it entrusted to office clerks?’ asked Fujiwara.

‘According to the analysts, Sir Yates went back to the first quarter of the 21st century. This is also confirmed by a signal of one of our space-time buoys. We’re living in a time of crisis, and we don’t have enough staff. For a couple of years, you were all out in the field and were one some of the best. At most your routines faded a little bit but haven’t disappeared. You’ve seen life, also as a data analyst, and spent more or less time in other time locations too. You’re able to survive in any given age and are experts of undercover operations. Lieutenant-Commander Dr. Nyagawa is participating with you. Her main aim to predict Sir Yates’s possible behaviour and actions.’

‘Sincerely, Dhupia-sama!’ the Lieutenant-Commander interrupted the Vice-Admiral. ‘I took the final qualifying exam, but I haven’t practiced it for fifty years. I’ve never had time for it.’

‘Then now, you’ll have time to do it; under the leadership of Commander Kawaguchi. For managing the five hundred years of civilization difference, Landsman Vanhanen, who is the expert of that age, helps you,’ the Vice-Admiral pointed me.

Landsman? The lowest ranking GI Joe of the Royal Navy? A Private? Half an hour before, I was still a prisoner and a disruptive factor; they did not know what to do with me. I empathised with them. Neither I knew what to do with myself. I was theoretically dead. I was executed by the Gestapo circa six hundred years ago. It was a nice sunny April day. Early afternoon. They had me stood in front of the wall in the yard. They did not muck-about with me too much. I saw the woman who I rescued, and because of whom the Nazis caught me. Although this was not her fault. I should not have gone back for her. But I did not want her to get into the hands of the Dutch resistance. She was saved, I was not. I was dragged to the wall, she was delighted to chat with some German officers. I do not think she even noticed me. The line raised their rifles to their shoulders, and I died. I did not hear the volley. The bullets were twice as fast as sound. I do not remember the flash either. Even if there was, I did not have time to grasp it. I simply and quickly died. The next moment, I came to life in a medical room. On the deck of a warship, at the outer side of the Kuiper Belt. The calendar showed a date nearly six hundred years later. Time spectrometers freaked out from me. In theory, I was older than the universe. At least six times. I was transferred to a hospital of the Fleet. Since my age could not be determined by those instruments either, the question was left open. Similarly that, what they should do with me. I was physically intact – more or less. After three months of mental rehabilitation, they declared me un-risky to myself or others, so they threw me out. Of the hospital. But not from the claws of the Admiralty. Though they never arrested me, I was not free. As if I had been a Guantanamo prisoner – although my circumstances were much more human. I might say those were quite pleasant. What is more, half a year after my materialization, a mental hygiene therapist was assigned to me. It meant a kind of Thai massage. Full service. Not for my sake were they so kind and amiable. Under the terms of the law, it was a benefit for all trouble-free prisoners once a week after the first three months. I got my first treatment after half a year. Once a month. I could tell them to ‘suck on it,’ but this was done by my therapist. Many times. In several ways. So, in spite of this, I was practically a Guantanamo prisoner; though me comparing to those, I was well off. Nonetheless, they should suck on it. OK, I was a little bit weird, but just because I appeared uninvitingly in the middle of a strictly secret military experiment, in the trans-Neptunian region, and just because my existence was a physical impossibility, my rights should have been the same as ordinary prisoners. I was enrolled into the community work program one and a half years after my appearance. For that, I can be grateful to them actually. Most prisoners are never released from Guantanamo. But the community work program served for driving prisoners back to the free life. I became a cowboy under supervision of my probation officer Midshipman Xiong. I grazed cattle on the prairie. The cattle were meat-plants. Genetic hybrids of animals and plants; carefully taking care that the living creature so obtained stays strictly a plant. There was no longer a dilemma between eating and animal protection. Meat-plants, like any other plant, were beautifully photosynthesised in space, producing meat instead of seeds and fruits. Which seems simple but technically was complex. On the one hand, they needed soil; which had to be artificially created. That soil was called prairie in colloquial speech. On the other hand, they needed sunlight; which was emitted to the necessary places by artificial suns. In addition, they needed water; that was sufficient, but had to be shipped from very far. So the irrigation was a bit of a cumbersome process. Then there were all kinds of stray asteroids that were able to bust soil up if you did not pay attention. In addition, it was necessary to keep an eye on insane whales who lost their human nature and gobbled up plants during their wandering. And there were the Apaches. It was alleged that you know they are prowling in your region when you die. And of not a natural death.

That was me, and the brief history of my two years existence. And the officially unofficial status of my being. Until now. The fact that I had entered the Navy, and served as a Landsman, I knew just at this moment. Since I had experience in being dependent on others’ benevolence, I did not comment on it.

Five pairs of eyes gazed at me with unconcealed curiosity; and a sixth, Midshipman Xiong’s. She knew me officially. If she was surprised, she did not show it. She looked at me expressionlessly.

‘We have a killer and a date. Everything else is just assumption,’ said Sub-Lieutenant Fujiwara. ‘I don’t know how the Sahalin could make a mind crazy if nothing harmful was found on her. If, however, I have to play manhunter in time itself, may I know of what things harmless were on her?’

‘Some of the crew. Dead. Either they killed each other or got help to do that.’

‘And the rest of the crew?’

‘There were no rest of the crew.’

The Sahalin. She’s one of the most famous of the modern-day ghost ships. She went back to the Cradle, to the Homeland, to the origin of mankind. At least according to the origin myth of the Hungarians. The purpose of the expedition was... Damned if I know. I’ve never been able to memorise those marketing bullshits. It was something like the first Mars missions’: must go there because it’s there. Studying the nature of the Universe as a goal is only like a government communication, a technique of hiding stolen tax. Exploring of the possibilities of interstellar travel is beautiful and rotund, but if you find people with superior national consciousness amongst financial supporters of the expedition then you can be assured that scientific research is just powder. As a matter of fact, the Sahalin wasn’t the first starship. The Alpha Centauri had been deflowered much earlier, even before the Robot Wars. With all its stars. Both with automatons and with people. But after the Robot Wars, that was the first interstellar expedition. She was targeted to Sirius. It was the subject of debates whether she reached there or not. Some said she had been there when she sent a distress call one month after her arrival and started her return back. Others said it was a humbug, and she turned back before she’d arrived. There was believable data on both sides. What is certain is that during her return, after about halfway, she sent a distress call again, then, about thirty-five years later, she appeared on the edge of the solar system. Just not exactly there at the point where she was being awaited. As the straightest way isn’t always the shortest way on the Earth, it’s not in space either. Attempts were made to locate her route, but she wasn’t found anywhere. Her appearance in the solar system happened when it was expected, but not in any of the fucking calculated positions, but moreover in the worst possible place. Baltroyal’s colony was far beyond Pluto. They proclaimed their independence from Neptunooga about twenty-six years before, which was never accepted. During the Fifteen Years’ War, Neptunooga unsuccessfully tried to recapture the breakaway kingdom and lost even a part of their own territory, at which Baltroyal formed a buffer zone. In the year before the appearance of the Sahalin, the Neptunians thought it was time for the re-occupation. Unfortunately, the ship appeared at the border of Baltroyal. Although, when the Sahalin started her journey, Neptunooga didn’t yet exist, they claimed her as their spiritual inheritance. Later they claimed that Britons had stolen data from her when she appeared at their border. What is true in that? Hell knows. In any case, Neptunooga interrupted the diplomatic relationship with Baltroyal one month after the official announcement of the first serious allegations. Or two months. Dick knows exactly after eight beers.

(Pub Tales: History fears with us)

π×0,1859335046945074 = e

I wanted to get up, but I was not able. The arousal system had activated in my head, but the cerebral cortex did not come back yet. Body and volition fought against each other in me. Somewhere deep, in the distant fog of consciousness, I felt it was time to open my eyes. But I was unable to persuade myself to do so. I was weak. My eyelids felt like lumps of lead. My brain was paralysed by numbness. Get up! It would be good to stay. A light, pleasant touch pulled my consciousness out of the swamp of deep sleep. Fingers caressed my face softly. A soft voice whispered in my ear.

‘Wake-up, Landsman!’

I opened my eyes in a daze. The face of Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa bent over me. Her skin was dark like the steaming coffee she held in her hand. The nice scent flitted into my nose. Then the coffee’s too. I woke up.

Darkness surrounded me. Beside my head, the dim light of a small night lamp lit. It did not make any effort even to light my bunk; its presence was indicated only by a weak glow on the reddish-brown wall. The Lieutenant-Commander sat on the edge of my bunk. In the narrow space, she had to bend over me deep to avoid hitting her denuded head on the other bunk above me. I sat up and took the coffee cup from her. It was white like her teeth behind her gentle smile. The Lieutenant-Commander reached her hand down next to my bunk. I saw her back. Not only her head was naked. She picked up something and handed to me. I did not see what it was. The light of the lamp fell on her heavy bosoms. Patterns of bio-circuits stood in rows on the mounds. One side, the little bumps lined through her neck to her face. Her nipple stared darkly at me. Slight goose pimples grew around the areolas.

‘Your whiskey is Irish, as you like it,’ she said.

I did not like whiskey. I thought the enthusiasm for it is simple snobbism. I did not know where she got the information, but I did not enlighten her about her mistake. I did not mean to hurt her. Her kindness seemed to be sincere. Her breast to be firm.

‘Someone really likes you at the Fleet. I’ve never met with arabica coffee beans yet.’

I did not respond. I took a sip of whiskey, like I had seen it done in the movies, and then tasted the coffee. It was hot, soft and silky. My head cleansed slowly.

The Lieutenant-Commander stood up. She was nude from the waist down too. Geometrical engravings of some circuits ran through her Venus mound to the foot.

‘Pull yourself together and cut your hair! We’re there in three hours and then jump.’

I watched as she went away and drank the whiskey in one gulp. I did not cherish either the coffee for too long a time. I got out of the bunk, which was also my cabin, put on my trousers and went to look for food. During the three months of light hibernation, I had eaten twice a week, but neither I nor my stomach remembered it.

After the Robot Wars, it became a vital question how to replace artificial intelligence with humans. Developing on the built-in augmented intelligence was obvious. As if a full scientific academy would be deployed into your brain with decision support staff. Devices built in people began to spread. Initially biochips were favoured. However, they were still foreign objects in the body, often causing allergic diseases. Later discovered, chips can be made directly onto the skin by printing. They seemed to be tattoos at first sight. Most of humanity had already been totally sewn, so wearing chips on skin spread quickly. However, the skin is available in a limited amount on humans, which will run out sooner or later. This problem was solved by 3D tattoos for a while. People suddenly began to look like they came from Tanzania. The bodies were covered with bumps and ditches. The next step was the genetic modification, so newborns were born with the necessary nanochips; and interfaces to install other devices. Thus began the evolution of the new species of mankind; of which some became genetically incompatible with Homo sapiens a couple of hundred years later. It wasn’t particularly troublesome until the new species remained approx humanoid; with the necessary organic interfaces for interactions between different sexes of species. Well, fucking a plastic girl hasn’t caused a conscience crisis for many since the 20th century.

(Pub Tales: Pt Darwin’s not half pint)

‘We’ve got here as slow as if we towed something,’ Sub-Lieutenant Hye-jin grumbled. ‘It’d have been faster by a cargo ship too.’

The galley was smaller than an airliner’s. Hye-jin was tall, thin and nude. She had worked as a model in her civil life. She had swung herself on the runways of Milanor and La Roma on Uranus. Then the Fifteen Years’ War came, and she got the call-up. She could have roughed it in Baltmoor, but her patriotism won. After the war, she remained in the Navy Intelligence. Thus, looking back twenty-four years later, she was no longer convinced of the correctness of her decision. But she had less experience about the world at twenty-five. Her small B-sized breasts could be half than Lieutenant-Commander Nyagawa’s. Her buttocks were rather cute than round. We ate standing up, like horses, in the dim light of the deck. I tried to hold my plate so that if I had to look down it would hide her labia.

‘What do you know about Louis XIV?’ she asked softly as if she tried to make conspiracy.

Her question annoyed me a bit. What is this? A history test? I replied that he was the Sun King, the longest ruling monarch in Europe. Hye-jin, however, wanted to hear something else. Something more intimate, something juicier. The plate trembled in my hand. I was wondering if she wanted to screw me in the galley. Fortunately, she misunderstood my silence.

‘All right,’ she let me off. ‘Everyone has secrets.’

She winked and suggested me to look for Midshipman Xiong who would surely be pleased to shave me. She slunk in front of me and went out of the galley. I tried to squeeze myself up and make room, but her breasts rubbed up against my chest. And her groin against mine. I was glad that boxer briefs tied me down underneath my trousers.

In the narrow shower, it was laborious to shave myself. Everywhere. I did not pity my eyebrows and eyelashes either. Stepping out, I bumped into the navigator. Since my awakening, she was the first woman on the ship who did not enter the next level of the Free the Nipple movement. She wore naval panties and a T-shirt which did not reach her navel. She invited me to the cockpit to see the Earth as we ascend our level to periscope depth, to the normal space.

The passageway was relatively wide. We were almost able to go side by side. Its wall was smoothly melted by plasma drill.

Building spacecraft of metal? Or of something plastic? Why? You take a proper size and composition of stone and you carve a spacecraft out of it. Literally. There’s no simpler solution for a medium or bigger sized transport vessel. It’s particularly cheap in the case of a destroyer, or something less, whose life expectancy is about forty-eight hours. What is life expectancy? The time that a spacecraft can survive with eighty percent chance in combat. After that, thanks can be given for each minute spent alive. It’s just wasting a lot of composite materials if a small thermonuclear missile blasts it into molecules in no time at all. Of course, environmentalists are going to yowl because you uglify the beauty of nature, and you shit on the gravitational balance of the Solar System with which you might drive a stray asteroid to the Earth. But my little dick! Anybody who can build a spaceship must be able to deflect an asteroid too! Even a processor can do it which barely consists of some hundred vacuum