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The Last Cell

copyright (c) 2017 FarmWolf's player

Aboard the Alliance Battleship Bismarck

Earthdate September 8, 2006

"Petra, what's our position?"

"One hundred nautical miles due south of New Orleans."

"All stop. Prepare projectile."

"Atmospheric recon probe is programmed and loaded in chamber Three Alpha. Backup probe is loaded in chamber Three Bravo."

I heard the Bismarck's massive jet drives slow to idle and felt the great ship lose speed. A second later, the reversers engaged, slowing us further. A holographic tactical display enlarged in size and moved to a position of prominence. On it, the number three main turret rotated into position.

Petra reported, "We are in position and turret is aimed. Awaiting order to launch."

"Launch probe."

The tactical display showed the probe zooming from the number three turret's left-hand barrel. Since the probe was self-propelled, its muzzle velocity was only a couple hundred kilometers per hour. Once clear of the ship, it accelerated to hypersonic velocity and flew a suborbital trajectory to its destination.

"Time to target?" I inquired.

"Thirty-six minutes," Petra replied.

* * *

My name is Peter Icefield. I'm the captain of the Delta Alliance, a cause for helping people.

My crew is Petra, an artificial intelligence in charge of carrying out Alliance operations.

I am what has been called a master. In my case, it means I'm an advanced mortal capable of seeing and manipulating patterns that underlie the physical world. From early childhood, I was an observant person. As I grew, I began to perceive more things beyond the realm of the standard five senses. As time passed, these abilities increased and I began to do things that most people consider impossible.

I built Bismarck after 9/11. It's one of my tools to hunt terrorists. The probe I launched is a recon drone programmed to view Qui-Hada Mal bases and equipment. When I receive and verify its report, I'll fly to the site and remove the terrorists. I launched from the Gulf of Mexico because I came under pressure after two consecutive land launches. The first was Qui-Hada Mal sympathizers, the second, anti-war activists who did not realize that when I fight a war, honor is preserved and nobody dies.

I like to think I'm making a difference with these terrorist-hunting missions, but the truth is things could be a lot better. After I captured the core of QHM and sent them to the World Court for trial, I was considered a hero, and I felt like one. However, as time went on, and I talked with local people in the countries where I was operating, the picture in my mind began to change. Certainly, some of the terrorists were self-aggrandizing and power-crazed. But others had taken up the occupation as a response to unscrupulous foreign business practices or debilitating foreign policy. I began to see two groups of "terrorists"--those who wanted power for power's sake and those who wanted power to free their people from oppression.

This was the last QHM cell and I was pleased to be able to neutralize it in time for the fifth anniversary of 9/11, as QHM was definitely the former of the two kinds of terrorists I just mentioned. I also considered naming this mission "The Last Straw" if the United States government gave yet another lukewarm reception to my latest set of proposals. I could go on eliminating terrorist threats but I failed to see the point if countries continued to design foreign policy that gave rise to new ones.

In the last five years, I had come to consider as terrorists not only the stereotypical power-crazed extremists (sometimes posing as legitimate governments!), but also large corporations in their unregulated expansion. Often, this activity oppressed local small businesses. Hardest hit among these were often farmers, with whom I closely identified, being one myself.

So my mission became twofold: eliminate terrorist activity threatening peace everywhere, and, as a complimentary function, provide support for local people in so-called "underdeveloped countries" against unchecked capitalist "terrorism." The US government paid me to eliminate terrorist threats and I used the resources of the Alliance to help people all over the world.

That day, I decided I would stop taking the United States' money if they wouldn't moderate their policy.

* * *

"Probe has arrived at target area," Petra reported. "Scanning."

The initial survey took five seconds. For the evaluation phase, I watched live transmissions from the probe showing fourteen QHM members who had commandeered a school, turning it into a training base. Fortunately, we had discovered this quickly, before they could recruit many trainees.

I settled on a plan of action, stepped out of the bridge into the sea air, tapped my communicator, and said, "Lindbergh, report to my position."

"Lindbergh is on the way," Petra's voice replied.

A few moments later, a small, dim speck appeared on the horizon, soon taking the shape of a high-speed airliner. It grew larger. And larger. And larger. The Lindbergh, all 600 meters of her, slowed and drifted up beside the Bismarck, hanging in the air on her antigravity generators. It's been over five years since I built the Lindbergh and I have not yet got over her sheer mass.

I touched my combadge again.

"One to beam up."

I disappeared in a glittering blue swirl of light and reappeared two seconds later on the bridge of the Lindbergh. I took the helm and selected manual control, then pushed the impulse thrust controls to ten percent and pulled the ship into a thirty-degree climb. I engaged the cloacking device, then, at 5000 feet, I shoved the throttles full ahead and entered my destination for the autopilot to lock in. The angle increased to forty-five degrees, the ship quickly reached Mach 7, and Petra announced, "Cruise mode engaged. Time to destination: thirty-five minutes."

* * *

The relatively level clearing deep in the Middle Eastern mountain range was approaching fast. I throttled Lindbergh back and activated bioscanners. The terrorists, plus a handful of recruits, appeared as dots on my display. When we were in range, I pulled the throttles back to idle, then engaged retro-thrusters for a few seconds. We came to a stop above the building. I made one last sensor sweep to verify that these were my targets and then dropped the cloaking device and activated the transporter protocol.

In seconds, Petra had beamed the cell members to staterooms with appropriate security measures. The weapons and equipment--in fact, anything not part of the building structure--rematerialized in the cargo bay. As soon as Petra informed me the transport was complete, I selected the international detention facility from the autopilot menu, and opened the general intercom to brief my passengers.

"Welcome aboard Alliance Airways Flight 404 to International Correctional Facility. We should arrive there in thirty-one minutes. You will not be harmed while in my custody. When we arrive, you'll be processed by people who are genuinely concerned with balancing your well-being with world safety. We look forward to proving our intentions."

At the correctional facility, an international collection of human corrections officers worked closely with autonomous, self-contained, networked units of Petra, called Personnel Interface Units. This team analyzed terror suspects to determine which were hardened extremists and which had entered the business from pressure or perhaps desperation. When possible, they repatriated them and, if necessary, gave some measure of financial and/or material assistance to get back to their previous lives. This program raised the opinion of the United States in the eyes of several other countries. I checked my passengers and their equipment in, beamed them down, and departed for home.

My arrival at my final destination, the main Alliance base at Black Soil, Saskatchewan, was anti-climactic. I simply came in on a long glide path to end up hovering over a low hill with a castle on top. I then engaged the Lindbergh's phasing cloak and settled down through more than a mile of topsoil, subsoil, and stone. As I passed into open space, I removed the cloak before settling her into a massive stone dock. This hangar where I parked my more massive projects was a stone cavern one mile square and a thousand feet high. I selected an automatic power-down sequence, satisfied myself that it was underway, and made my way to Stairwell Charlie. This third stairwell from the nose served, among other things, the forward antigrav units and a flight of airstairs.

When I reached the stone floor of the hangar, I headed to the bank of turbolifts fifty meters away. A short ride brought me to the lower levels of the castle, where I proceeded to write my report.