Chronicles of Suran, by Catherine N.X. (holokittynx@fastmail.fm).

Author's website: http://www.asstr.org/~holokittynx

Chapter codes:  Mg, bb, rom, ped, cons, ScFi, nosex.

Third person - childlove, science fiction, political, semi-utopian. Synopsis:  A fictional island democracy with no child-sex taboo, as seen through romantic and political vignettes focusing on the people who live there.

COPYRIGHT NOTICE:  This story may be freely distributed provided it retains all story codes and credits, including the author's email and website.

Full Steam, chapter one.

Saturday, 17th February, 2046.

          "How are you doing?"  Since they had already been in each other's company for several hours, the question took on a different meaning.  Amanda squirmed against Tristan's chest, unwilling to spoil the moment by talking about her home life.  Her father was out of the picture, but Tristan was sure her mother was even more of a basket case with him gone.  Janelle didn't seem to have self-esteem separate from that gauged by the arousal she could cause a man.  And not just any man - she needed the biggest hypocrite she could find.  A man who always had to look good in public but turned into a brute at home, and both for the same reason.  Which Marc Pettengill did.  Something about that made Janelle feel powerful, as if he were some hollow monument that would crumble without her worship.

          "I'm glad he's gone," Amanda said.  "My mom's always talking about finding a new man, but I don't think she will.  She's always dressing like a skank and flirting with every guy she sees.  So embarrassing."  Tristan's brow wrinkled.  "I'm sure she doesn't mean to be.  I don't know what she gets out of it, but it must be something she thinks she needs."  Amanda sighed.  She didn't hate her mom, at least not all the time.  Janelle's unstable personality occasionally forgot to repress the maternal instinct; at those times she could be encouraging, even kind.  Maybe those times would come more often now that she had left Marc (for the second time), but Amanda wasn't betting on it.

          She lifted her head, and the muted sunlight soaking through the apartment's blinds made her eyes sparkle.  Normally her eyes would have matched her oversize sweater, but in the light they were less hazel than gold.  Her lips parted as if to say something, but instead spread into a patient smile.  She returned her head to his chest, trying to calm herself with the sound of his heartbeat.  She was safe for now.  No need to do anything rash.  She just didn't want to go home, and they both knew it.

          Tristan knew she needed a change of subject, something more than going a month bruise-free.  Marc was just a little too well-connected around town, and three tip-offs to Child Protective Services had been dismissed as political backbiting.  Had Janelle not left Marc when she had, the latter would have found himself unceremoniously deceased.  Tristan easily deemed Marc's life expendable if he used it to make Amanda's a living hell.  All sorts of accidents were possible.

          Amanda deserved to be celebrated, not treated like a nuisance.  Tristan thought to himself;  this is one mind that's going to get every chance, no matter what I have to do or to whom.  He wondered what was wrong with Marc and Janelle, and found that he honestly no longer cared.  Obsolete motherfuckers.  He looked down his chest at Amanda, and knew that even at 12 years old she was learning from their faults.

          He asked, "Did you decide what you're going to do for the science fair this year?"  Amanda pulled her lips to one side - the possibilities that came to mind were all a little daunting.  She was, however, starting to enjoy daring herself into things.  She'd been just as wary of last year's air-driven maglev train, but she'd won first place.  She played with Tristan's collar and replied, "I was thinking about a water clock, but a Lego robot would be more fun.  Maybe useful too."  Tristan raised his eyebrows and said, "Yeah.  Especially as good as you've gotten with calculator programs.  What kind of robot did you have in mind?"

          Amanda looked into his eyes and he saw the subtle hint of pride in hers, the pride that comes only from sensing one's own abilities.  "I think I can build one that'll roll on two wheels side-by-side.  I could make it follow a line, or just use the ultrasound to navigate.  That's easy.  My three-wheel robot already does it.  I could connect a video camera, make it a patrol robot."  She looked past him, over the back of the La-Z-Boy, trying to imagine the chassis.  "I can do that."  Tristan smiled and firmly kissed her forehead.  Thinking like hers was what made the world go 'round, and he suspected she knew it.

Wednesday, 2nd May, 2046.

          Cara slumped in her chair staring past her lunch.  The restaurant's pastrami was always respectable, but she'd lost her appetite when Commander Murtaugh told her about her phones being tapped.  She wasn't suspected of being a security risk - the rumors about her sexuality were enough.  If the command wasn't worried about someone blackmailing her, they still didn't mind being able to do it themselves.  That, and the brass wanted to appear tough on 'inappropriate conduct' in the wake of several recent scandals around the shipyard.  None had involved same-sex relationships, but outing a lesbian would be a perverse feather in the command's cap.

          Had the Navy been more vigilant and less paranoid, their attention might have turned towards Tristan Murtaugh himself.  He was loyal to the Constitution, but for him that no longer meant loyalty to the state.  In fact it meant the opposite; the American government had done more to erode liberty at home and abroad than any foreign terrorist ever would.  He would have felt sorry, but it was hard to pity Americans who'd willingly handed over so many freedoms.  He would have felt sorry for the people of Suran, but they didn't need pity.  They just needed time.

          He would also have left the Navy long before this point, but for the singular opportunity of designing the next-generation standard in submarines and seeing it afloat.  Of course, the boat wasn't an end unto itself.  It would never serve the government that built it; he had decided this before the first blueprint was drawn, and otherwise could not have drawn it.  This ship would serve an ideal, that which the United States had betrayed.  And so he had given the designs his all; his boat would be quiet, fast, versatile, lethal.  A number of matters had been outside his expertise, but when DARPA asked for the best engineers it got them with mint jelly.  If he couldn't make his plan work, he was ready to destroy the ship and its blueprints.  Three copies had been maintained at the end of its construction; one was in the ship's computer, one was in the project yeoman's office, and Tristan had his own encrypted copy in storage.

          He watched Cara passively, his kind face subtly betraying his care for the promising young ensign.  Her work was helping make SGNX-47 a marvel of tactical integration, and he saw the best of himself in her work ethic.  Cara looked up at him, past emotion.  "You saw this coming, sir?"  His eyes sank, and he nodded as if he deserved to be slapped.  Cara wasn't angry at him - the guy was spectacularly crazy, but he'd watched her back throughout the boat's construction and testing.  And there was no telling what would happen to him if anyone found out that he had warned her about the phones.  Abruptly she remembered that this was the least of his or the Navy's concerns.  He was a pedophile, and what Washington would call a seditionist, and had told no American except her.

          She leaned forward, relaxing elbows-first against the table.  "You're going to take the boat right out from under them after they move it to New London, aren't you?"  He granted her a nod that no one could have seen from more than ten feet away, and her heart pounded.  He was serious, and he just might be able to make good on it.  Especially if the project's lead programmer could prepare some back doors.  She already had.

Friday, 17th August, 2046.

          Petty Officer Carmichael turned away from the dock, heading back towards the guard house.  The night was quiet, comfortably brisk, and he had tomorrow off.  He stretched to loosen his back, thinking about what he'd do over the weekend.  Wednesday had been payday, and he was getting a little bonus for guarding DARPA's fancy new boat.  Funny, since nobody knew it was being stored here.  The dock was damn near 350 yards long, with a huge hangar suspended over it on pilings.  Even Carmichael didn't know what the ship looked like.  NAVSUBASE New London occasionally berthed surface ships, mainly destroyers and Coast Guard cutters.  He imagined that something like a Lawson-class DDG could fit under that hangar.

          Chief Wisniewski squawked something over the radio about the motion sensors acting up, and Carmichael sighed before picking up his pace.  A few moments later he turned past the dock's prefab records office, and caught sight of someone's feet on the ground.  They were being dragged into the guard house, and from the khaki cuffs Carmichael assumed it was the Chief.  Oh, what the fuck...

          He raised his weapon and started sneaking closer, but before he could get three feet his body froze.  Every muscle cramped at random, the pain surging in time with the alkaline taste in his mouth.  He was sure he had soiled himself.  It was an electrolaser, and a good one - like what the cops used on rioters or Spax overdoses.  He tried to move his finger onto the rifle's trigger, since gunfire would attract attention.  He didn't realize that he was already on the ground and had dropped his weapon.

          Still holding the side button that activated the 'Tesla coil,' Dale squeezed the main trigger on his rifle.  The tranquilizer dart hit home, and he released the button.  The electrolaser had put the guard down, and the dart would keep him there.  By the time the NSA had found out about the Crystal Shield's existence, the Shield had already been manufacturing this and other weapons for over a year.  It even included wireless controls for the user's radio or phone.  Dale pressed the 'talk' button.

          "Carmichael's knocked out in front of the records office."  The transmissions used encryption that would make them sound like static to anyone using one of the base's storebought radios, and nobody was likely to be on this frequency anyway.  He panned to the right with his scope, and watched Janis Frasure drag the petty officer inside the guard house.  The guard must have weighed a buck eighty.  What a woman.

          As soon as she had Carmichael inside, Dale spoke again.  "That's it for the outside watch.  Move on the hangar."  He watched as Tristan stepped out of the records building with his hands up, one of the team holding a gun to his back.  One of Cara's programs had been looping the feeds from the cameras surrounding the hangar, but Tristan had removed it.  They needed to be seen on camera now, and it wasn't a great idea to leave the program where it could be found either.  The team fanned out behind Tristan as he approached the double doors at one corner of the hangar.  He entered his code on the keypad, and stepped back.  Janis gripped the handle of the door as the rest of the team lined up in front of it.  Two lay on their stomachs with tranq rifles.  Two more kneeled behind them ready to fire lethal armor-piercing rounds.

          As expected, the dock had only two guards.  Both were at the near end, and both succumbed to Tesla coils and tranq darts before they could raise their weapons.  The electrolasers had been the team's first resort, to avoid both a body count and the risk of someone overhearing a 'silenced' gunshot.  Tristan was glad this precaution had worked out.  The guards weren't bad guys, but if getting the boat out of American hands meant killing Bauer and Dykstra he had been prepared to do it himself.  Now that choice was past him.  He breathed a sigh of relief as the last of the team stepped inside behind him and secured the pier.  They started moving along the dock past the drive section, ready to advance on the sail at the far end.  He checked his command PDA.

          Full wireless signal from the boat.  He called up another of Cara's programs.  If this didn't work the team would have to storm Control.  On one hand the bow was out to sea, so nobody in Control could see the team on the dock.  On the other, it would mean a body count and possibly damaged equipment.  He ran the program, and waited.  The environmental readout came first, concentrations of anesthetic gas rising for fifteen long seconds and finally reaching saturation levels.  Without further delay an isometric deck plan of the ship came up.  Ten human-temperature infrared signatures, all where he expected them.  None moving.

          He waited.  Still no movement.  He tapped an icon, and the environmental readout returned as the gas was flushed and neutralized.  Janis leaned close and asked, "What's wrong?"  Tristan looked as if he'd seen a ghost.  After a moment he found his voice. "It worked.  The boat's ours.  Let's go."  She smiled, and hit the talk button on her headset.  "Testing crew secured.  Get down here."  Still on a rooftop a hundred and fifty yards away, Dale grinned and packed up his gear.

Monday, 20th August, 2046.

          "What have you got, Admiral?"

          The defense secretary's voice hinted at anger, and Vice Admiral Faulkner shared that feeling.  Half a trillion dollars for a sub that was almost worth it, only to have the damned thing stolen.  SGNX-47 could have been operated at a lower annual cost than any other capital ship in the fleet.  A work of art from bow to stern, one that would probably outlive him, and he never even got to stretch its legs.  Once or twice over the past three days he'd punched a wall.  He'd even laughed at himself; a little less secrecy and he might still have his boat.  But no, he'd kept the security and activity around the boat low-key to keep from attracting the media.

          Standing almost at attention with his hands folded in front of him he replied, "We found a record marker transmitting off the coast of Newfoundland, sir.  Looks like Murtaugh deliberately took the ship below implosion depth.  We're performing a search, but the boat probably sank into the Laurentian Abyssal.  Even our smallest automated submersibles can't get more than halfway down."  Secretary Curtiss clicked through the security images showing Commander Murtaugh being led at gunpoint.  "Why did he wait until they were on the boat to do anything?"  Faulkner replied, "The hijackers could have managed to steal the boat without his help, or at the very least made off with the specs from the office.  Either way he was dead anyhow, and he knew it.  Getting them on the boat and sinking it was the only way he could be sure they wouldn't get anything."  He glanced off to the right, at the agent from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.  The agent's face was blank.

          The secretary slowly shook his head, awed by Murtaugh's resolve.  "And none of the guards or testing crew remember anything?"  Faulkner shook his head; "The testing crew was knocked out by gas before they saw anything out of the ordinary.  The guards can't remember much from that night at all, like somebody slipped 'em a mickey.  Looks like they were hit with darts, but the darts were taken out.  Doctors can't find shit in the guards' systems.  Sir."

          Curtiss looked back at the tablet and said wistfully, "Crazy sonofabitch musta loved that boat.  Sacrificed himself just so they wouldn't get the specs.  We need more like him."  The admiral nodded.  "That we do, sir."  The secretary regarded him coldly.  "And we need fewer like you.  You swore you could keep the project secure without a circus. Now half a trillion dollars are down the drain, the best submarine engineer in the service is dead, and we don't even have the goddamn blueprints to show for it!  And the icing on the cake?  The hijackers coulda been from Tehran or Boise - we just don't know."  He set the tablet down.  "Well, if my career is in jeopardy then yours is over.  Agent Brinkley?"

          The NCIS agent stepped forward.  "Yes, sir?"  The secretary turned his back on both and said, "Admiral Faulkner is under arrest for criminal negligence and dereliction of duty.  Have your people round up the rest of the command staff too.  These hijackers couldn't even have found out the sub existed unless some talk got around.  I suggest you revise your last will and testament, Admiral.  Dismissed."

Monday, 14th January, 2047.

          "Thanks, Danielle.  What you're seeing behind me is the deck of USS George Washington, the lead carrier enforcing the US-imposed no-fly zone around Japan.  Hold on...we're expecting a launch..."

          "..."

          "Alright - that was a Navy F/A-32, I think, taking off to join the rest of the patrol.  A Navy spokesperson says that Coast Guard personnel are on hand, inspecting the few ships which are being allowed in and out of Japanese waters.  We're not clear on everything they're looking for, but apparently it includes the illicit weapons, rare metals, technology and cash the State Department believes have been flowing between Japan and the Commonwealth of Suran, which as you know is a US territory and currently under severe trade restrictions."

          "Alright Mike, I'll need you to hold on for a second.  President Mitchell just arrived to start that White House press conference.  Let's take a look."

          "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.  As you know, on Friday on the advice of the NSA along with CIA operatives working in Suran and elsewhere overseas, I signed an executive order stating that any nation transacting unauthorized trade with the Commonwealth of Suran would be placed under embargo and blockade.  I realize that these are extraordinary measures, but these are extraordinary circumstances.

          "We're talking about the world's largest veins of the two most dangerous metals known to man, uranium and plutonium.  And now, after a buffer zone has been established around an American territory for the whole world's security...certain parties want to decide that they should ignore that and take what they please.  We don't know what's getting out of Suran.  And all we're getting from Tokyo on this matter are excuses and static.

          "Meanwhile fringe groups, mostly inside Japan, Sinorussia and the United Kingdom, are clamoring for Suran to be an independent nation while they supply weapons and manufacturing equipment to the Crystal Shield.  The question the Congress and I pose to these governments and to the United Nations is this:  Why aren't they doing anything to stop their people from aiding and abetting a terrorist organization which also happens to be within a stone's throw of trillions of dollars worth of nuclear materials?  Speaking of questions...let's start with you, Russ."

          "Mr. President, what about the allegations that people in Suran were being harassed by the FBI if they voted for Crystal Shield or other nationalist candidates?"

          "There's no actual evidence of that, unless you count gossip.  The FBI presence is to aid local law enforcement in investigating violent crime and smuggling.  Certain security measures have to be in place to safeguard these nuclear materials.  But...at the same time we are letting the people of Suran govern themselves.  We can't call ourselves a democracy and then interfere in theirs.  Donna."

          "Thanks, Mr. President.  On that note, do you know if the FBI has made any progress in the investigation into Objectivist candidate Emery Breslin's disappearance the day before last year's gubernatorial election in Suran?"

          "That's really outside the scope of this conference, so I'm not quite up to date on that although I do know the investigation is ongoing.  Any questions about the situation with Japan?  Anyone?  Richard."

          "Thank you sir.  What exactly are these Coast Guard inspection teams looking for aboard ships entering and leaving Japanese waters?"

          "Excellent question.  We're looking for nuclear material.  We're looking for weapons.  We're looking for large unexplained shipments of cash.  We're looking for shipments of rare-earth metals in amounts that could only have come from Suran.  We're looking for unauthorized shipments of mining, enrichment and manufacturing equipment into Suran.  We're also looking for unauthorized transit of persons into Suran from the outside.  Yes, Donna?"

          "Mr. President, if the concern is weapons, cash, and materials, why aren't any travelers at all being allowed in or out of Suran?"

          "Excellent question, Donna.  We really didn't want to enact that measure, but the fact of the matter is that we don't know who's a member of the Crystal Shield and who's not.  We..."

          "Sir, what distinction are the CIA and NSA making between the Crystal Shield's armed wing and its political wing, beyond the group's own claims?"

          "That determination has to be made on a case-by-case basis, unfortunately.  Their internal structure is something our intelligence community has been trying very hard to determine, and nothing's panning out as yet.  We're trying..."

          "Well as you just heard that was President Mitchell, giving a press conference at the White House.  Apparently the big concern here, the risk that unnamed parties inside Sinorussia, Britain and Japan may be arming members of Suran's nationalist Crystal Shield, the armed wing of the Objectivist Party.  This party has been described as both conservative on some issues and highly liberal on others, as well as being strongly anti-American.  Chuck Edwards is standing by with more."

          "Thanks, Danielle.  Suran's Objectivist party is a totally new creature in the world of politics.  Based largely on the philosophies of Ayn Rand, an avowed Atheist who held selfishness as a 'moral virtue,' they reject much of what you and I consider morality.  They say that a person who puts others first doesn't really have any self-worth.  They say that belief in God is dishonest and has no place in government or public life.  They say they stand for freedom but would allow the sexual exploitation of children, saying that children can be taught to enjoy sex.  What this kind of 'teaching' would entail I'm sure none of us care to imagine.  

          "They also consider America a fascist state, saying that we haven't been free or democratic, or truly capitalist, in decades and will never allow them to be.  They blame us and all of our dealings with the Mideast, even Israel, for the rise of Islamic terrorism.  In the opinion of many Objectivists Arab culture should be allowed to, and I quote Emery Breslin, 'rot like the corpse it is, rather than being reanimated by the intellectual and economic electricity of those civilizations which are truly alive.'  They've got a lot of venom for those governments that spend billions a year aiding the Third World, especially ours.  They say that American law enforcement agents inside Suran are intruders who should be arrested if they try to enforce federal law.  Their leadership includes multiple self-described pedophiles, some of whom are known to have children themselves.

          "Their paramilitary wing, the Crystal Shield, just may be one of the most well-funded terrorist organizations in history.  It is believed to be responsible for the deaths of more federal agents in the last five years than have been killed inside the United States in the last ten.  None have been uncovered as yet, but their activities indicate large stockpiles of weapons and tactical electronics.  They haven't said so, in fact they've barely said anything at all, but we'd be fools to believe that with Suran's industry and natural resources they aren't working on nuclear weapons.  Suran is a nation of engineers, of scientists, of people who live solely for the intellect.  It's estimated that 82% of Suranese over the age of 17 are either in college or have a degree.  Their GDP was skyrocketing before the trade restrictions were put in place, and even now it's steadily inching upward.  And the polls are clear; they hate us.  These Objectivists say that the Founding Fathers would have waged war on our federal government as it exists today.

          "They look like us.  They work like us.  They talk a little like English bankers, but that's okay.  What's not okay with most Americans is that the Suranese consider us and our way of life a farce.  They ask why we help countries that can't help themselves.  They ask why we defend Israel.  They ask why we don't let our children engage in acts of depravity.  And more and more they ask that we grant them independence, that we leave the most valuable and dangerous region of its size on Earth in the hands of people whose strongest moral value is the self.

          "There are no easy answers to the rift between Suran and the United States.  At my age it seems like yesterday that we thought the discovery of Suran's true natural resources was the answer to all our energy problems.  Shortages of many minerals have long stalled the development of new technologies that seemed to be just over the horizon when I was a child.  But as the cultural rift widens and the rhetoric grows sharper, fewer and fewer Suranese energy or mineral companies will do business with American concerns.  While America invested in the islands themselves, the Suranese - their culture amalgamated from Americans, Britons, Japanese, South Americans and Australians and in the most unexpected ways - refuse to invest in America.  They've given up on us, and demand that we do the same with them.  Back to you, Danielle."

          "Thanks, Chuck.  A few questions...one thing that I often hear people wondering about is why Suranese culture is turning out the way it is.  You touched on that towards the end of your report, but who would have thought that this combination of values would emerge?  The Suranese are 38% Atheist, 24% Pantheist, 21% Buddhist, 12% Methodist, and 5% other religions.  They champion capitalism but have socialized healthcare and some sort of stipends for children.  Their STD rates are among the lowest in the world and there's virtually no infection rate among children, but their law enforcement agencies are notorious for refusing to prosecute many cases of incest or child molestation.  They actually prosecute parents who try to treat their children for attraction disorders like homosexuality.  I mean, what's going on there?"

          "Well, Danielle, for one we're not sure about the stats on Suran regarding STDs or the success of their social policies.  Little if any of that has been peer-reviewed outside Suran.  Aside from that I think the main problem is their complete disconnect from any established morality.  Humanist influences like Buddhism and Atheism have watered down the concept of eternal consequences, even among Suran's handful of Christians.  They're able to walk around in denial pretending that these behaviors give them fulfilling lives, because they're managing for now to avoid the Earthly consequences.  The material is really all these people live for - they think that life is about pleasing oneself rather than God or one's fellow man.  If you can't make money or create some new pleasure they don't have any use for you.  Plain and simple the problems are self-absorption and Godlessness."

Tuesday, 15th January, 2047.

          "I can't believe it's come to this.  Son of a bitch..."  Tristan was talking less to Cara than to himself - the image before him wiped from his mind all thoughts which did not address one immediate issue.  He would get to Japan.  He would get to the shore undetected by both the Maritime Self-Defense Force and the American ships moving to encircle Honshu.  The question remained; how?  The longer he waited the more comprehensive the American patrols of Japan's coastal waters would get, but neither could he run headlong into a potential war zone with three passengers aboard.

          Cara had immediately intuited his dilemma, and in her usual style helped him collect himself logistically.  With no doubt that they would head for Japan, or that they would first drop off their passengers, she immediately plotted a new course.   "Balls-to-the-wall we can get to Suran in forty-three hours.  Assuming you want to hold position outside the Americans' sonar range, we can get to a recon position off Japan in another forty-three at AFC.  That'll be Monday or Tuesday, depending on how much time we spend in Suran."

          Tristan leaned back in his seat, a weary half-smile crossing his face.  "Don't know what I'd do without you. We're damn lucky we put up the antenna, or we wouldn't have found out about the blockade 'til we cruised into it."  Cara raised her coffee mug in salute.  "Here's to people who watch the news."  Tristan chuckled as he signaled the Vampire Aerial Reconnaissance and Attack Drone to return to the ship and opened an email.  If he couldn't get to Amanda right away, his love and reassurance would.  He kept talking to stifle the twinge of panic in the pit of his stomach.  "No shit.  MSNBC's sure done alright by me, opinions notwithstanding."  

          He thought for a moment.  "If anything's out there I don't wanna find out by roarin' into their range at flank.  How's that course for range intersection?"  Cara checked the map, which included projected courses and sonar ranges for every ship they could detect or whose movements had been relayed by friends.  The range intersection or 'RI' projection was based on a program she had written using stolen copies of the confidential specs for every American class and a few foreign ones.  Where their projected course crossed within the range of a military ship, it turned red and was marked with probabilities of detection at various speeds and depths.  Cara nodded; "At ahead full the Truman group should be in range after four hours."  Tristan opened a copy of the projection she was watching.  "Yeah.  Ahead full until then.  Ahead one-half going past them, and once we're past them we'll call ahead flank.  Their subs won't be too far from the rest of the group, so we'll make the speed changes when we're fifty miles outside the surface ships' range.  We'll make another stop later.  I wanna stay on top of the news and make some calls, but this ain't the place."  The engine calls and cruising depths he entered into the course projection showed up on her display as well, and Cara saved it.

          Upon receiving its instructions, the ARAD banked away from the US carrier group.  The name 'Vampire' had been chosen because this particular class of drone truly had no reflection.  It was close enough for the sailors to see it, but its 'lightwrap' system made it just as invisible to the naked eye as to radar.  LIDAR wasn't much better.  A close scan or look from the front or rear at a distance of a few yards might let one pick out the intake or exhaust - if the thing weren't flying at over Mach 1.  And with flight ops going on around the clock they certainly weren't going to hear it.

          A hundred and twenty miles away SGNX-47 was practically invisible itself, two narrow antennas and a small docking clamp sticking out of the water the only indication that it even existed.  Only a handful of people on Earth had any reason to know, but Tristan had christened it the Albert Ross after his psychology professor.  Long a friend and mentor of Tristan's, Dr. Ross had come to be considered highly subversive for his views on sexuality.  Eventually he had left the United States after his books started appearing on state and academic blacklists.  

          Of course, as far as the Navy knew the boat was sitting at the bottom of the Laurentian Abyssal with Tristan's bones and those of the 'terrorists' who had 'kidnapped' him.  It helped that the Ross' crush depth was nearly twice that listed in the Navy's remaining files on the project.  Tristan's first order of business in taking his brainchild with him had been ensuring that the Navy thought it destroyed.  If they found out that it was still afloat, its exorbitant price tag would be secondary to securing its arsenal.  

          Supposedly committed to building a more streamlined Navy, the Pentagon and DARPA had leaped at Tristan's well-executed blending of so many roles into one ship - even one of such size and expense.  Even without using flying or submersible drones to extend its recon range, the Ross savagely outclassed any sea target on the surface or below it.  The two Vampires were likely invincible against any fighter jet or conventional drone in service, and if a mission required taking out any major surface targets the ship's complement of guided missiles would deal with anything from a bunker to a football stadium with one launch.  The ship's torpedo magazines included both high-explosive and plasma warheads.

          Contrary to the Navy's impression the Ross was in fine condition, save for some dust on the ionic air filters and the occasional coffee spill by one Cara d'Ancato.  Besides Tristan she was the only official member of the SGNX-47 project who was still aboard, but the Navy no longer knew or cared where she was now.  Their command had had reason to suspect for some time that Cara was lesbian, but had waited for her to perfect the tactical programs to make an issue of it.  Competent programmers weren't hard to find, but bringing in someone new and getting them a security clearance and familiarizing them with the code could have taken more than a year.  

          Of course there had been no thanks for her at the end, just the sort of frowns someone might make at the smell of trash.  Along with blaming her for her 'psychiatric' discharge from the Navy, her parents had nearly gone hoarse explaining why she wasn't allowed to like girls.  Finally she'd found out that they wanted to commit her to a psychiatric hospital, and she'd promptly gotten out of town.  'Treatment' for homosexuality was big business in the United States - and though she was well over 18, legalities had a tendency to be overlooked.

          Two months in a strange and boring suburb had been ample time to perfect the hacks and programs Tristan had used to take control of the boat in short order - one-man piloting, the compartment-gassing sequence, etc.  Graduating Annapolis as a programming major and electronics minor had left her a true Jill-of-all-trades when it came to computers and power systems.  On top of that a childhood full of BMX bicycles and high-tech hot rods had put her on Tristan's level when it came to basic ship's maintenance.  According to Tristan and to the submarine's specs, it was the ship's relatively low need for regular maintenance and repair (at least by humans) that had made their plan feasible.  The ship would never need refueling.  But on most ships parts would wear out quickly, oil and chemicals would need frequent changing, et cetera.  

          Along with the obscenely expensive materials used for every component except the sea rations, the Ross had been designed with an eye towards self-maintenance and a small crew.  pH control in the reactor and steam plants, lube oil flushing and cleaning, hydrostatic testing, anything that could be safely handled by machinery was handled by machinery, with Tristan and Cara supervising.  Lube oil and most chemicals could be recycled for over a year before needing replacement.  The ability to run a high-res ultrasound scan throughout the ship and get an instant warning if there were any structural damage or pipe leaks was a godsend, and for the sake of other submariners Tristan had ordered snap-in versions of the same system designed for every class in service.  The SGNX-47 concept had also included the possibility of maintenance androids for heavy lifting, repair and assembly.  Twelve custom water-resistant models from Honda's versatile ProBot line had been ordered for this role, and had been aboard the ship for training when Tristan had commandeered it.

          With this combination of designed-in safeguards, system modifications, and androids Tristan and Cara had reduced the number needed to operate the ship from forty to two under most conditions.  Given a choice they would have preferred to have a night watch, but if their attention were needed in the night the main operations computers would wake them.  Along with the ship's own judgment went dozens of automatic alarms independent of the computers - depth, course, proximity, reactor plant pressure and so on.

          As it was, the only sound the Ross now presented to Tristan or Cara was a low beeping as the ARAD decloaked and approached for a landing.  When its shadow darkened the water outside the maneuvering compartment's transparent-composite canopy, Tristan got out of his chair.  "I'm gonna go check on the Count - once the drone bay reads shut put us on that course to Suran."  

          Approaching from the bow, the Vampire slowed to a standstill above the docking arm and used its VTOL nozzles to spin 180 degrees and line up with the ship.  The docking clamp consisted of a thick rubber-coated metal plate, inside which were arrayed sets of powerful magnets which could line up to concentrate their fields into a single cohesive one.  The drone's docking plate was integrated into its hull, visible only as a section which had been outlined with a thin red rectangle.  Laser rangefinders and the drone's ventral camera confirmed its alignment with the clamp; with a half-inch gap between it and the drone, the clamp aligned its magnets.  A rubbery groan issued from the docking clamp as its surface cushioned the ARAD's hull, and the drone was secure.

          Once docked the drone sealed its intake and exhausts, and it sank beneath the surface just as Tristan arrived at the drone bay.  A small porthole allowed him to see the water inside the bay and the ARAD as it lowered to storage height.  Once aligned the docking magnets required no power to keep the drone firmly in place, but on general principle Tristan always inspected both the docking arm and the ARAD itself when the latter returned from a sortie.  The light from the surface slowly narrowed as the launch door slid shut, and the sea water emptied from the bay in less than a minute.  Only after this was complete did the hatch separating the bay from the rest of the deck unlock, giving Tristan time to grab the diagnostics laptop from the nearby maintenance cabinet.  Just as he did his PDA announced that the new course to Suran had been set.

          The ARAD would cease to be waterproof if it were opened up for repair, so the first thing Tristan did was to run the bay's high-powered blow-dry system.  Setting the drone on maintenance mode opened the intake and exhaust seals, revealing a scramjet that had continuously scorched its own inner surfaces clean.  Some grit had accumulated on the intake as always happened on a long flight, and a little bit of Windex took care of this.  As the laptop's Bluetooth link brought up the ARAD's diagnostic program and the drone bay's ultrasound scanner, he checked his PDA for the ship's velocity.  

          He had reset the maneuvering readouts for statute miles, so it read forty-five miles per hour on course one three five - without any vibration or sound he could detect.  He would never get used to the inner-sanctum quiet that permeated the Albert Ross.  Soundproofing and tight tolerances in all moving parts kept the operations section silent, and isolated engine and reactor plant noise inside the drive section.  A careful sonar operator (or good software) might notice the Ross as a 'hole' in the water where the ocean's natural noise was absent, so speakers embedded in the hull selectively replayed the sounds surrounding the ship.

          He knew the passengers would have no indication of the course change, so his next order of business after preparing the drone bay for future launches was to pay them a visit on the lower deck.  All three kids were in the enlisted berthing area he and Cara had partially converted to a rumpus room, with dance music playing at a volume that made Tristan glad for that expensive soundproofing.  Gisela and Seth raced each other around a video-game track, Seth's boyfriend Kyle watching boredly as he worked Gisela's warm brown hair into a French braid.  Tristan suspected that Seth hadn't had the heart to give a 12-year-old his best game, and now he was paying for it.  Owner of an actual driver's license or not, he would not be catching up to her even though now he was pushing as fast as his car would go.  He frowned at Gisela as if she were evil incarnate, a grudging gesture of respect.  It didn't make her go any easier on him, and in less than a minute she had won.

          Tristan had been waiting for the end of that particular race to say anything.  "We'll have to take a detour, I'm afraid."  All three looked at him, having no idea what to expect next.  Tristan continued.  "Well, actually it gets you to Suran faster.  The American Navy is blockading Japan's eastern coastlines.  I guess they were serious about nobody doing trade with Suran.  I was hoping to get everyone with one trip before the shit hit the fan, but now I've got to run the blockade to pick up the other passengers.  So we've set a course for Suran to drop you off first.  I'm sure we'll get by the blockade just fine, but I wanna play it safe with you guys."  Seth and Kyle, both 16, were headed for a safe-house which was used to kids showing up a few days late or early.  Gisela's prospective home in Suran was with her recently expatriated 28-year-old partner.  She was the only one who spoke, the boys nodding matter-of-factly.  "Can I call Andy?"

          Tristan nodded.  "You can use the satellite phone later.  We have to stay submerged until about eleven tonight - another US carrier group's steaming around, and we won't be past them 'til then.  We'll surface once they're out of range, and you can use the phone."  His gaze drifted past them.  "I...need to make a few calls, too.  That and I could go for some ocean breeze.  And a race, if I can get the winner."  He indicated the computer.  Gisela's face took on the look of Satan preparing to snack on a fresh soul, and Tristan wondered if he really had a chance against a state-of-the-art 12-year-old.

          He moved to take a seat next to Seth.  Gisela cracked her knuckles as Seth handed over his controller.  The game had a horizontal split-screen option, but instead Cara had put two screens side-by-side with each player getting their own full view.  Tristan adjusted the contrast on his screen and flexed his joysticks to see if they were moving smoothly.  He leaned forward past Seth to wink at Gisela just as she chose one of the hardest courses.  The lights turned green and Tristan accelerated out of the gate, but not too hard because the course started curving immediately.  "Think you're slick.  I've had this game a year."

          Gisela pulled up behind and dodged his car like it was stationary.  "I've had it for two."  She took the first hairpin turn at 80mph like it was a chore, and getting close enough to eat her dust three laps later was the high point of the race for Tristan.

Wednesday, 16th January, 2047.

          Seth's eyes opened, the honey composite grain of the overhead the first thing to grace his vision.  Light strips recessed into the bulkheads on all sides provided the same dim glow to which they had been set the night before, and he ignored the dimmer switch next to his bunk until he had let out a good yawn.  With a human crew of two, Tristan and Cara almost always berthed passengers in the junior officer staterooms.  These had wide bunks along with carpet and individual restrooms, and Tristan had installed miniature refrigerators in three of them.  Seth rolled out of the bunk and stepped over to the fridge for a bottle of water, his morning erection comfortable in his loose cotton pajama pants.  He looked down, and had a chuckle.  So reliable.

          He took a long drink and turned around just in time to find Kyle sitting up, as topless as himself and just as ready.  Seth lay down next to the lovely boy Fate had brought into his life three years before and then failed to take away from him despite so many attempts.  He turned onto his side to look over Kyle's elegant smoothness.  Blushing white except for the full round pink of his lips, Kyle turned to kiss him.  He wanted to say something, but Kyle's lips answered the question on his own.  Months of talking and worry had gone into their decision to elope to Suran.  For two years before that they had thought their situation hopeless.  At last Kyle's sister had contacted him from Tashkana City to tell him about the Crystal Shield's underground railroad into Suran, and direct him to a CS web forum.

          The Crystal Shield's 'brochure' for asylum-seekers had come in pieces.  To a law enforcement officer or suspicious parent, the file on the Suran Island safehouse would appear to be an article about the history of a Mediterranean church.  Without place names or famous landmarks in any of the photos, only someone who had been to the safehouse would find anything suspect about the file.  Seth and Kyle had only taken the offer seriously because Kyle's sister had joined the Shield and sent the information herself.  The Shield was increasingly well-funded from sources inside and outside of the Commonwealth, and there were whispers about it having sympathizers inside foreign governments who were starting to see the US as a rogue state.  The more they had found out about the organization, the more confident they had felt in its help.

          The way things were getting in Suran they might wind up finding jobs within a month and their own apartment in a few more.  Kyle was a hard little worker, and while Seth didn't think about it so was he.  Both well-versed in computing and math, neither would have trouble with virtually any entry-level office position in Suran.  The Crystal Shield was prepared to offer free room, board, and papers to get them into school, but both had gotten used to making at least some money back home.  Even small successes were addictive - especially in contrast with the hells their home lives had become as rumors about them had gotten around. That was all in the past now, and once aboard ship they had started to feel truly safe.

          Kyle broke the kiss and pulled back just far enough to speak.  "We're really going to be okay."  Seth nodded matter-of-factly.  "More than okay.  You know how strong you are.  How strong we are."  Kyle's eyes watered, more than two years of pressure and stress coming out a few drops at a time.  He kissed Seth hard, and in the kiss each could taste the other's determination never to feel shame again.

*                                  *                                  *

          Tristan stretched and switched off the music on his wrist PDA.  Gatorade was the only thing keeping him from feeling like a bag of sand after running what he had estimated to be three miles of circuits around the Ross' topside.  Eighty push-ups had spread the ache of fitness evenly through the rest of his body, but the natural air conditioning of the ocean soothed his joints like nothing else.  Good rock 'n' roll was essential to a morning run for him, but what had really preoccupied him was the upcoming blockade run.  He had the American fleet's size and disposition as of Tuesday.  Of course, by the time the Ross approached Japan next Monday that information and a twenty-dollar bill would buy a cup of coffee.  The Truman had been headed for Brisbane, but there was nothing to say they wouldn't be in Japanese waters by Sunday or Monday. 

          Of one thing he was certain - he and Cara would need help, and not just in the form of tip-offs.  Finding people to join the Ross as crew grated on his sense of independence and could stretch his Shield cell pretty thin, but Tristan knew the boat could only be run for so long without constant watches and human maintenance staff.  At least funding was taken care of - he had sold blueprints for certain parts of the ship's design, such as the turbines and pressure hulls.  He also took smuggling contracts from officials and business cognoscenti in various countries, and that could bring hefty sums.  There was already enough gold and cash saved to operate the ship for another two years, and within two years he'd probably have enough for six years.

          He stepped inside the sail, opened the floor hatch, and slid down the inner ladder to the deck at the back of Control.  Cara was just walking past, her giant conical coffee mug steaming and whiffing of amaretto.  "Air's switched out.  Messages sent.  News recorded.  Are you gonna take a shower?"  Tristan nodded, half yawning and half catching his breath.  Cara took a sip of her coffee, and set it into the oversize plastic cup holder she had bolted to her station.  "The kids are up.  I'll get them after I set up the table and whatnot.  We're good on RI for at least the rest of the day.  Oh, and I wanna shut down SERPOS number 4 later - it's fine, but there's a full diagnostic on the schedule.  Probably take me twenty minutes - nobody'll notice."

          "Sweet."  He saluted her lazily, and as he was stepping away he caught himself with a hand on the rim of the rear hatch.  He gazed at her steaming mug.  "Please tell me there's a full pot of that going."  Cara nodded wisely, and Tristan woke up a bit as he went in search of a fix.

          Cara took a long swig of her coffee, and set it back in the holder before turning to head out of the compartment.   She took out her PDA and pressed the hotkey for calling the androids on deck watch.  "ProBots Laurel and Hardy, report to the drone bay."  The ProBots answered, and she headed down the corridor.  As soon as she spotted the drone bay hatch she looked across the corridor for the storage cabinet.  Inside the cabinet a folding table was tied upright against the bulkhead, and undoing two carabiners released it.  She inspected the knots that held the carabiners - double bowlines replacing the singles she had used.  A smile crossed her face.  Tristan's such a geek.

          Both ARADs were in watertight storage cabinets, one above the other, on thirty-foot-wide C-shaped 'drawers' that would roll out over the docking arm for launches.  The docking arm had been lowered until the clamp was flush with the deck.  The launch space's center deck plate was essentially a large square with a square gap in the middle for the docking arm; the deck plate could be locked to the arm and unlocked from the surrounding deck, turning the docking arm into an elevator roughly thirty feet square.  In the center of this large elevator Laurel and Hardy set up the table, and after sending Hardy back on watch she made a few more trips through the side hatch to get five padded folding chairs.  She arrayed them about the table, and headed for the galley.

          Since she and Tristan had done this a few times before, they had setup down to a science.  Laurel carried the insulated electric 'hotbox' Cara had gotten in Tokyo, containing the pancakes, eggs and bacon she had prepared while Tristan had been running.  She plugged the hotbox into an outlet next to the top of the docking arm, and so they would be able to keep breakfast toasty.  She turned to the droid as she set down the coffeepot and the wicker basket with the dishes, utensils, butter and syrup.  "Set places for five, and stand by.  I'm going to get my coffee mug from Control."

          As she returned, she found the kids already sitting at the table as Laurel set the last of the dining places. Tristan was approaching the drone bay from aft, absently stretching his arms to loosen them up.  A shower supplied by a desalinization system designed for far more use than it was getting had washed away the fatigue of his morning PT, and he was back in four-pocket work slacks and a close-fitting black T-shirt.  He waited for Cara to enter the drone bay before following her, and plucked the drone bay remote from the waterproof maintenance cabinet.  The kids were already badgering Cara with questions about the drones and ProBots, but Tristan suspected he knew how to chill them out.  He found his seat, and pressed the appropriate hotkey on the remote.

          The launch door above the drone bay retracted to reveal the lightening blue sky overhead.  As soon as the door disappeared, the deck plate started to ascend and fifteen seconds later was flush with the Ross' topside.  The drone bay deck emitted a low thud as hydraulic struts secured the perimeter to the ship's topside.  Since the ship was on 'hover' the water around it was calm, and a light morning breeze ruffled everyone's hair.  Kyle stretched in his chair and sighed, instantly appreciative of the fresh air after three days inside catching whiffs of Febreze all over the place.  The scent being Febreze because Tristan had jerry-rigged a bottle of said air freshener to a post-recycling injector on the ventilation system.

          Seth and Gisela swiveled their stunned faces around to get their bearings, since none of the kids had been given any inkling that they would be having breakfast outside.  Cara had simply told them that the drone bay had more room than the officers' mess and it would be a nice change of pace.  In a way this was true; they had sat down in the drone bay, and now they had lots of room.  Seth finally turned to Tristan.  "Fucking awesome, dude.  Wait...does this elevator thing launch the UCAV?"  Tristan nodded, already cutting up pancakes.  "Except it doesn't lift the deck when it does that, and we don't call 'em UCAVs anymore."  Cara asked through half a mouthful of eggs, "Why is that, you think?"  Without missing a beat Tristan smiled and replied, "I guess 'cause they're not vehicles.  Besides.  ARAD sounds cooler."

          Gisela flashed Cara her cutest smile, having sensed that Cara liked girls.  "Can I have a ProBot?"

          "Sure.  Got two million dollars?  I'm afraid I only take cash and precious metals."

          Seth smirked.  "Forget a robot.  Don't know what I'd do with one.  One of those SDVs, on the other hand, or the yacht..."  He nodded at the two tubular SEAL Delivery Vehicle housings well aft of the drone bay, and the massive command launch farther aft.  Tristan looked at Seth like he was crazy.  "Dream on, man.  Hell, I've only gotten to use it once."

          Tristan was chuckling and reaching for his coffee when his PDA announced that he had an email.  He leaned to one side to take it out, and his face lit up at the sight of Amanda Pettengill's heart-shaped face in the address box.  It sank as he started to read, and as soon as he finished he unfolded the keyboard and began typing furiously.  Tears welled in his eyes as he slowed down and caught his breath, reading back over what he'd typed and sending it.  He folded the PDA shut and set it down as if fighting an urge to smash it.

          Cara moved her chair closer, putting one hand on his back reassuringly and watching his face.  She didn't know what to say, and guessed that she should wait until he wanted to say something.  Tristan gradually regained his composure, his face settling into a resolute blankness before he spoke.  "I'm fine."  What Tristan refused to say was that when he got his hands around Marc's neck and duplicated every bruise the bastard had left on Amanda, he'd be a lot better.  He could never endure anger without action.  He picked up the PDA again, put in his earpiece and made a phone call.

          "Yeah, it's Triton.  We'll probably be there on Monday, actually.  We're gonna need some crew, and it looks like the folks we need are in Suran.  One thing...Yeah.  Amanda...She did?...No, Janelle isn't to be trusted.  Amanda said that herself...No, but she doesn't have the guts to stay away from the guy either.  If we take them both, eventually Janelle's going to get in touch with that bastard again, and spill her guts about the Shield...Well, it's up to Amanda.  She can decide what she wants to do about that later.  But for now we just have to get her and the rest of you guys out of there..."

          "...Where's she going to meet you?  Okay.  Well, yeah.  Otherwise you're raising the stakes pretty high.  The cops'll be all over it.  Okay.  And Monday you'll be...okay.  Yep, I just got the address.  Great, that's right by the docks....right, the boat's too big.  I'll use the command launch.  Well, that's why we'll need extra crew.  I figure the Ross hovers outside the blockade, we slip in with the launch and nobody knows we're there until we pop up next to the dock.  Yeah.  Well, I've got a thing or three up my sleeve.  You talked to our guy at the dock, right?  Yeah.  Oh, let him know there's a cell that wants to hire him.  The buffer zone around Suran's being handled by the US Coast Guard.  Most of their boats don't even have sonar, so private subs are coming and going all the time.  They'll start him at 400 bucks an hour.  Alright.  Catch you later, man."

          He nodded rapidly at Cara, letting her know that he was back in the saddle.  Amanda was a tough kid, and by Friday she'd be hiding out with friends.  By next Monday she'd be safely aboard the Ross, and never have to endure one of her father's rages again.  Bastard probably wouldn't even miss her, though he'd raise hell publicly.  A few more days, Tristan told himself.  It would just be a matter of stealth.

*                                  *                                  *

          Lady Miranda Forsythe turned her glass slowly; the sunlight streaming in across the River Thames made the crystal and ice sparkle, and her nerves calmed.  She asked, "Do you think Triton is going to have any trouble with that blockade?"  Mr. Iwakura turned away from the screen showing the telemetry the Albert Ross had transmitted to one of his company's satellites.  He thought for a moment and said plainly, "Two possibilities, no matter what specifics he's got in mind.  One - he gets in and out undetected, and everything's fine.  Two - he gets detected and the Americans try to sink him.  Stopping and boarding him, of course, won't be possible.  And they'll be assuming hostile intent."  Forsythe took a sip of her gin and set it on the conference table.  She flashed a wry smile at him.  "You don't sound too worried."

          Iwakura returned her smile.  "We have to get our people out of there, Minister.  You and I both have too much invested in their work.  History has too much invested in the Crystal Shield and in Suran itself.  Wringing our hands is pointless.  The Americans could discover the Yokohama cell any day now, and the cell and their equipment certainly won't be getting on a plane.  The Albert Ross will get them out of there."  Forsythe's voice was flat as she addressed the obvious; "And if the Ross is detected?"

          Iwakura leaned back in his chair and tried some of the gin.  Horrid stuff - Lady Miranda's got one strong stomach.  He answered, "Then the Americans get their ugliest military surprise in over a century.  Only this time they won't know who delivered it.  Does that worry you?"  Forsythe looked at him the way one regards an unbeatable chess opponent.  He's been right all along - enough is enough.  Her smile returned as she answered in a tone of mild surprise, "Only politically."