Authors: Dave Freer
Riders: projective-receptive Telempaths. Possibly an innate human ability, it only tends to be expressed by sensitive, intelligent, emotionally deprived, usually insecure, often unhappy and physically abused people. Their emotional sensitivity is heightened if they have communication problems. The League began with natural cases but very soon resorted to physically imposing conditions including deafening of riders. Selection was vastly refined in 2130 with the discovery of emotional-moss, a Denaari relic, a species of emotional echoing silicate-animal, little more than a fuzzy patch which changed color when in the presence of empathic-projectives. This stuff remained one of the trade secrets of the League, not even available to the Empire, who thus had to resort to more brutal methods of finding sleepers to infiltrate into the riders. A mechanical device, less effective and sensitive, was devised by the Satellite folk. Armed with this the ISPCA had been attempting to find rider-recruits before the League, and provide shelter for them.
The riders were trained in schools where the conditions to heighten their misery were deliberately engineered. From these conditions they were taken to rider compounds, then into space and introduced to their dogs. Thereafter while the life of a rider on shipboard or in the spartan compounds was no easier there was an end to actual physical abuse. Riders were still held in thrall by the toxin canisters placed in the missile launch tube and linked to the EEG and heart monitor of the League agent who rode with them. On a normal ship League and rider quarters and airlock were wholly separate from the other people onboard. The rider would actually sit, suited, between the Stardog’s eyes. Early riders had lost themselves, dog and spacecraft, by running out of air or freezing to death. Now hookah lines pump warm air to them and jumps are restricted to short hops. In space, but out of jump the League operates a cell-system restricting contact.
Sil: Warlike, xenophobic and totally mechanistic culture on world close to Arunachal. Engaged in active aggression against first Denaari explorers, and foresaw rapid conquest of the same. The Denaari genetic engineers tailored copper-devouring bacterium which caused famine and near-total destruction of society, but the Sil turned to the use nylons, plastics, and a new special alloy to build silicate/chitin complex disintegrators which they let loose on starlanes. The Denaari replied with a sterilization plague virus: This gave Sil years to develop own mechanical ‘plague’ of mutable self-replicating nano-circuit brained microscopic robots and send it out. The only Sil colony was on Arunachal, a Denaari-mapped for colonization world. The Sil colony hid itself successfully from the Denaari, but with mechanical destruction of Sil Homeworld, was isolated and gradually became run down. The Sil colonist numbers declined due to a lack of trace elements. The last survivors did meet Humans before the species became extinct. Intervening in the human conflict they used their appearance to give rise to a new religion, which preached undying hate for Denaari.
Stardogs: originally feral with limited wormhole surfing capacity. Silicate, sheetlike, filamentous, like vast bearskins when feeding or drifting (top-fibre-optic skin for effective light collection, bottom-modified cilia for mineral ingestion). In flight they change their shape to allow optimal micro-rocketry positioning and acceleration or braking. They can build up and lose velocity by minor flatulent rocketry shifting mass with inertia. Often they assume a half-open umbrella-shape. They have vastly complex nerve-nets with endless local nodes and billions of inputs. Their eyes are large and telescope-like, and bifocal. They have brilliant visual imaging and memory. A low intelligence, but a vast memory.
They have huge canine-tusks from their feral pack status-maintaining origins. They ingest small asteroids or leach minerals from larger ones, and use solar energy to feed. They enjoy titbits of certain chemicals. Enjoy filament combing with a food/comb. Only visit worlds of the long dead Denaari Dominion. Because of the Sil plague they may not return to the Denaari Homeworld, which they are genetically imprinted to do to breed. They have long lives, but need males (planet-bound) to mate. Fertilization occurs at the end of the larval (planet-bound) stage, when females are transported into space. Eggs are laid after crash-down. (Original feral species, both sexes flew, but the Denaari, to control numbers, removed flight capability from males. This also assured that females were available for route imprinting. There is a huge imprinting center near breeding grounds. Stardogs can live a maximum of 4000 years, therefore those in service in the Human Empire are nearing the end of their natural lifespan. At the time of this story there are about 2200 Stardogs in human space. Initially there were more than 3700 when humans were first encountered. The number of Stardogs is the main limit to interstellar commerce. Most Stardogs used to live +- 200 years, normally linking their lifespan to a Denaari eggwarmer. At the start of the plague there were about 40 000.
The Wienan League: Hans Wienan had strong political connections, which got him into space. Quick thinking, he saw the potential advantage of Stardog control. Using Joan Cheng’s inarticulateness, he claimed credit and sole control for himself, silencing the rest of the crew with bribes of power and wealth, or resorting to outright assassination. He moved rapidly with his powerful political connections to isolate her and to control her, after early attempts, by Wienan and several pet scientists, to communicate with the Stardog had failed. On establishing that Joan Cheng could communicate and take the dog star-hopping and that there were several other ‘biological starships’ (the name never caught on. Stardogs is what they remained) out there. Wienan then set about working out why she could. Intuitively, he decided it was some kind of emotional bonding, and brought a group of children from an abused children’s refuge up to the Stardog. He located immediately another communicator who had remarkably similar psychological characteristics to Joan Cheng. Thus with the collusion of senior government officials the interstellar space development League was formed with a board drawn from the ruling elite, who actively and secretively recruited Stardog riders. These unlucky individuals simply ceased to exist as far as the populace of earth was concerned. Control over them was maintained as the powers that be had no desire to lose potential control of the starlanes to ‘mentally unstable individuals’. The League was given
carte blanche
to recruit and control the riders with the political heads of earth’s governments thinking that they in turn could control the League. They were wrong. From the first Hans Wienan conspired to obtain total control. Those he could not blackmail, he bribed, the one he could neither blackmail nor bribe he married. The League released information to the G8 about 130 of the 432 of the discovered worlds — The least promising 130. These it opened up to colonization and exploitation at a small price which was steadily and slowly increased. The remaining worlds the League began colonizing and ruling as its private fief.
With sole control and understanding of how the Stardogs were managed the relatively tiny League with some twenty thousand members, agents and sycophants maintained an increasing stranglehold on trade and movement between the stars. Increasingly the organization became two arms, those who rode the dogs with the riders, and those who conspired to maintain the status quo. The formation of the security arm of the agency from fifteen years before the Brandahar rebellion, marks the beginning of the golden period of the League, which ended in the reign of Vespasia (2403-2416). Thereafter the Empire began actively attempting to succeed from the League, and through sheer enormity had, to some extent, managed
The League, long aware of declining Stardog numbers have a cloning project off New Tambor: Aims: to create a Stardog that Leaguesmen can control mechanically, a Stardog which is not imprinted with a fixed library of stars.
Yak-Syndicate: Criminal guild controlling crime on most worlds. Run ‘smugglers’ but are unaware that these are controlled by League. League profits from illicit traffic in drugs, slaves,
etc.
Hierarchical (based on Mafiosi) with Russian-Mongol underclass, ruled by Chinese-Italian overclass. Loyalty enforced brutally. Upper echelon bought titles
etc.
Attempted to penetrate the Empire’s power core, but resisted by Imperial secret service who uses them. Their use has been too pervasive and the Empire has decided they’re getting too much of a share of the lifeblood of society. One parasite does not easily tolerate another.
A sample of Dave Freer's other work, available from Amazon:
Morningstar
Dave Freer
CHAPTER 1
Port Tinarana was like an old, decaying tart, her face lined with a myriad of streets and alleys, inexpertly caked with a crude makeup of overhanging buildings. The alleyways seemed to grow narrower and more choked in filth with the passing of each year. Judging by the ankle-deep slush, this dead end hadn’t had the garbage cleared in the last three hundred of those years. And in a few minutes his body would become yet another once-human part of it. He shrank back against the cold, oozing stones of the overhanging wall. The night haze of fog and coal smoke streamered in twisted eddies about the ragged boys. They were vague, almost ethereal, except for the silver-pale lines of low held knives, moving in slow arcs as they closed in.
“Gonna cut you, dink.”
“Yeah! Gonna spill your guts, cull. You bin workin’ our turf.”
Keilin knew there was no use in pleading. They weren’t going to listen. They were all bigger than he was, used to using those knives. He touched the stone of his pendant, pressing it into his thin chest. It was always cool, but now it seemed almost burning cold against his skin. His pale eyes darted, trying to assess his best chance. Oh God, for some kind of break . . . They came closer. . . .
“What’ve you got there, gutter rats?” The voice was coarse, adult and slightly slurred with alcohol.
The advance of the ragged gang stopped. “Piss off, guardsman, if you want to stay healthy.” The rat pack’s leader was wary, but defiant.
“Huh! Hear that mates! The rats are worried ‘bout my health!”
Another rough voice responded. “Soon have their own to worry about, heh heh!” There was the steely rasp of a sword being drawn.
Keilin knew this was no rescue for him. The city guardsmen protected those who paid their dues. To this brethren of thugs he was as much of a louse on the city’s underbelly as his attackers were. The dead end the gang had caught him in had now become their trap, too.
“Wait a minute, Sill. Let’s see what they’ve got first. We might even want it instead of a rat.” There was a nasal quality to the voice that failed to overlay the lust. With a sharp metallic click the slide of the dark lantern was pulled back. Light spilled out. It revealed four boys in tattered clothing remnants. They were stunted and malnourished, but visibly between the ages of fifteen and the wispy first traces of beard. Their victim was smaller and younger still.
The light was directed at the victim. “Ooh! Pretty one, isn’t he!” The nasal voice thickened. Here, in the deep south, a pale skin, green eyes and red hair were rare, as was the hawksbill nose in the middle of it all. Enough of the light washed back for Keilin to see the holder. His belly crawled. Guard-Captain Kemp. It was widely rumored that Kemp got his kicks from pain . . . and that his young victims ended up dead . . . much later.
“Go on, rats. Get lost. It’s your lucky night.” As the ragged figures scampered past the guardsmen, Keilin saw the Guard-Captain set the dark lantern down and start fumbling with the buttons on his pants. “Hold him for me, boys. Looks like this one’ll fight back.” Something in his voice indicated that this would simply add spice.
Keilin struggled vainly against the big hands that held him. He was wild with fear, into the realms of panic, too far gone to feel pain from the sudden bitter cold of the jewel on his chest.
“Holy shit!” The rough hands loosened their grip on his arms. Keilin writhed free, pulling up his trousers. Whatever this was, he was going to run, and he’d not get far with them around his ankles. He heard the scraping sound of swords being drawn. Looking up, he saw just how futile this act was. In the lantern light the bull was huge, filling most of the alley. Living in the gut of the city, Keilin barely knew what the animal was, but hearing the beast’s bellow, seeing those long horns lowering, he was sure it was very, very angry.
The city guardsman nearest the beast knew equally little about the temper of an old swamp aurochs. If he’d been from the wide, wild marshes of Vie’en, five hundred leagues to the southeast, where the vast beast had been grazing peacefully in the pale morning a few moments before, the fat one would never have been so stupid. But the nearest thing to this beast he’d ever met was an elderly milch cow. So he waved his sword ineffectually at it, as one might a hazel switch, and shouted, “Go on! Shoo!”
The sweeping horn caught him, sheer weight and power punching it through his rib cage, like a spear through wet tissue paper. His bubbling scream was cut off as he was tossed and flung with bone-smashing force to crack against the wall. He bounced off it, to fall beneath the angry hooves.
The guardsman called Sill grabbed Keilin’s arm, and pulled the boy across his body, holding him as a human shield. Such a shield was, of course, meaningless to the three-ton beast that was pawing the rag-doll remnants of the guardsman’s former companion.
Then Keilin heard a high-pitched thin whine. He knew what came next. It had happened three times before. The guardsmen didn’t appear to be able to hear it . . . or didn’t know what it meant. With frantic strength the boy lunged forward and bit his captor’s lower bicep with all his might. Sill grunted with pain and jerked the boy away; Keilin desperately threw himself downward. The guard’s chest, and a tardy lock of Keilin’s hair vaporized. So did half the wall behind them, and the door beyond that.