Chaos Vector

by Megan E O'Keefe

  “Don’t really have a job now, do you?”

  She stopped turning the piece over and stared at the Prime logo, cyan and bright, dead center over where her rotator cuff would be if she strapped it on. “We can’t wear this shit until we take the logos off.”

  He arched both brows at her. “Not sure it matters. We got people running around in fake GC armor. A couple of good guys wearing fake Prime can’t be too far off-center.”

  “Come on,” she said, and stood, tucking the piece under her arm.

  “What? Where are we going?”

  “Cargo.”

  Sanda strode off, and Nox had to jog to catch up to her. The Light opened doors as she passed, Bero giving her total access. No need to swipe a wristpad on this alien ship.

  Even now, she wasn’t sure she would have allowed the risk of uploading Bero if she had been in her right mind. She wasn’t even sure that this being that talked and thought like her friend and captor was who he claimed to be. She wanted to believe. Just like she believed that the chip in her head and the prosthetic on her leg didn’t change her mind any more than switching a body should for a digital consciousness.

  She wanted to believe, but she couldn’t know, and she was getting sick and fucking tired of the boundaries in her life being muddied, trampled-over messes.

  She passed into the cargo bay, Nox dogging her heels, and moved so quickly that she startled Knuth, his head bent over an open slit in the wall of The Light.

  “Uh—Commander, hi,” he said lamely, and started to salute before her glare stopped him short. He swallowed. “Can I help you?”

  She eyed the hastily stored cargo. While tearing through it to find what she wanted would be satisfying, it’d only make a mess for her to clean up later. “We brought everything that could move over from the Thorn, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want the silver paint guns used for refreshing the call sign on the side of the Thorn.”

  He blinked owlishly. “Uh. Okay. I mean, The Light is already silver and it doesn’t really have a call sign, but—”

  Her grip tightened on the armor piece. “It’s not for the ship. Get me the paint.”

  “Right. Right-o.”

  He popped up from his crouch and scrambled through the crates, tapping each one as he passed, then popped the lid open on an aluminum storage trunk and pulled out three pneumatic guns marked with the same color silver as their contents. “This is all we got.”

  “It’s plenty. Thanks.”

  She stuffed one in her holster belt, shoved one at Nox, and carried the other.

  “Is there anything I can help with…?” Knuth asked, bewildered.

  “As you were. We’ve got this.”

  “Okay,” he said, but she was already back in the hall, charging toward the armory.

  “You know, defacing the Prime insignia is a court-martialable offense,” Nox said.

  “So is smart-talking your commander, but we’ve gone a little off-script here, haven’t we?”

  “Touché,” he said.

  She missed the doors onworld. Doors she could kick open when her hands were full. But the weapon and armor lockers were almost as satisfying to yank open. She pulled down everything. Every gun, every scrap of armor, every lifepack or helmet or supply case that bore the Prime logo, and passed it to Nox, who arrayed them all on the floor behind her, for once keeping his mouth shut while they worked, emptying everything in the ship that had been born of Prime.

  She didn’t have to tell him what to do. When she started spraying those cyan logos into blank squares of silver, he followed her lead, and if he looked a little too gleeful while he did it, well, maybe she did, too.

  After a while, she looked up and asked, “Why are you and Arden still here?”

  He blinked, sprayed a last stretch of logo, and set a chest plate aside, hands coming to rest over his knees as he picked his head up. “Wondered if you’d ask that.”

  “Well? You could have left after Janus, after Monte. Okonkwo would have given you new idents and a tidy sum for your service, and you two could have gone back to your lives. Our deal was done.”

  “I can’t speak for Arden,” he said, “but yeah, we could have left after Janus. Even talked about it. But not after Monte.”

  “Don’t tell me this is some pissing match with my dad—he leaves, and you have to prove a point by staying.”

  He snorted. “This ain’t about Graham. I stayed because you stayed on Monte.”

  “I seem to remember that choice nearly getting us all killed.”

  He smiled, shook his head, and reached for another piece of armor. “You forget, I was with you on that dock when Arden called to report the GC were incoming. You had the sample in your hand, and your ship a quick sprint away. No one would have blamed you for running. I saw you look.”

  She licked her lips. “Look at what?”

  “The Thorn.” He kept on painting. “Saw the calculations behind your eyes, more or less. You knew staying was suicide. And you knew leaving meant those people didn’t have a chance in hell. I figured, I was too late to help Jules. Maybe if I stuck around you, I might be able to help someone else. Also, chances of getting to shoot Rainier are higher around you.”

  Sanda laughed to herself and stared at the painted armor spread around the floor. “Don’t get too sentimental on me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Commander.”

  Hours passed. Conway poked her head into the room and nearly jumped out of her skin. Her eyes were huge and her mouth open, but then, slowly, she relaxed. Sanda looked up from crouching over a breastplate and brushed the hair from her face, smearing silver paint across her cheek.

  “I won’t have anyone say we were impersonating the fleet,” Sanda said. It was only a half reason, but explaining to Conway that she couldn’t be sure those logos stood for something good anymore wasn’t a step Sanda was willing to take. It was a solid enough reason, though, so Conway nodded and stepped into the room, holding out her hand.

  “Give me that other gun,” she said.

  Liao was next to interrupt, but her surprise was mild, only a slight raising of one brow. “Well. At least my people won’t think I’ve brought an invading Prime battalion.”

  “I won’t fly false colors,” Sanda said, and stood, brushing paint onto her jumpsuit thighs, which was quickly absorbed. She sighed. They’d have to do something about the logos on the jumpsuits, but at the very least the armaments were without creed.

  “If you’re done redecorating, we’ve arrived.”

  “Already? It’s only been a few days.”

  “I am faster than most ships,” Bero said.

  Sanda grinned. “Show-off. All right, Doctor. Let’s go see what kind of welcome your old boss will give us.”

  CHAPTER 72

  PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3543

  PICKING UP THE PIECES

  Biran reviewed the statement he’d sworn never to give, finger hovering over the delete button. This was no off-the-cuff speech, no heart-to-heart with the people of Ada. This was PR, carefully prepared. Cultured by a committee to nurture the right kind of mood, the right infectious tone. He could not give this statement. He had to give this statement.

  As Biran reread those fallow words, he was intimately aware that his public address was late. The investigation into the asteroid’s “accident” had dragged on too long. Rumors had festered, and many of them verged close enough to the truth that Biran believed they could not be squashed.

  He wanted honesty. He wanted to stare down that camera and tell the people of Ada that Keeper Hitton had done what she thought was best—had sunk the ship to drown the rats—but that could not be done, for there was enough of the asteroid left to support the build, and the gate must go ahead. Any sliver of doubt regarding the stability and safety of the project from those on high would shatter their fragile peace.

  But he did not even have honesty. He believed Hitton had done what she thought was best, whatever her reas
ons, but he could not prove it. Could not reach back through time and beg her to tell him why she would self-destruct the survey site. If she had left some clue for him, some breadcrumb to scrape out of the ashes of her death, he had not yet found it. The uncertainty tore him up inside.

  “Speaker,” Anford said across the table. “You’re stalling.”

  “Forgive me, but there is a general in my home requesting I make a statement as fabricated as my kitchen. I have a hard time seeing how this will help ease the minds of the populace.”

  Anford’s presence didn’t mesh with his home. Not that Biran entertained many visitors, but the general looked too solid, too crisp, to be sitting in the shabby chair he hadn’t upgraded since he first got the house. An irrational part of him feared that the weight she carried would break the flimsy structure and send them all tumbling down.

  “This is a matter of gate security,” Anford said.

  “And that’s it? The High Protectorate says gate security, and we abandon our ethics for safety?”

  “Speaker, the asteroid was your plan. Are you so eager to see it fail?”

  I would see this undone, he thought, and the second the words came to mind he realized how irrational he was being. Churlish and childish. There was no going back. No taking Hitton off of that asteroid on the Taso and whisking her away to a Prime hospital where her paranoia could be heard and treated if it came to that. Sabotage or no, he’d left her there to stew in her fear. And now he had to fix his project, because he could not undo what he had already done.

  “I hate this,” he said, as he turned his arm so he could point the wristpad camera at himself.

  “Not my favorite job either, buddy.”

  He blinked, tearing his gaze away from those traitorous words long enough to catch the sad smile that ghosted across her face—wry with an internal conflict he could only guess at. Biran had made Anford’s life hell, he knew that, but here she was, pushing him to cross this threshold in person. It was gentler coming from her, someone he knew, than a faceless row of GC waiting for him to work up the nerve and hit broadcast. She didn’t have to be here. And he was being a shit.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She merely nodded.

  Biran switched the camera to record—they wouldn’t let him broadcast this one live. It wasn’t the kind of message that could be done off-the-cuff, or in an interview format. The people were used to him making addresses from his home, especially during lockdown. He hoped they’d forgive him if his words seemed a little too polished, a little too formal.

  “My friends,” he said, because the people of Ada Prime scrawled at the top of his prepared speech felt woefully distant. “We have suffered a grave loss.”

  This part, he felt, Olver must have written, or at the very least directed. “While the crew of the asteroid was, thank the stars, saved before the accident, Keeper Hitton was still on-site.”

  His throat caught over the first lie—accident. But he must assure them. Assure them that there was not another phase opening to the war, that the robots all worked flawlessly. There could be no doubt. Only hope. Only progress. While one woman lay dead for fighting a threat that may or may not have existed.

  “I understand your fear. I understand the rumors. I can assure you that the asteroid was not attacked. This was not an act of war, but a terrible mistake.” The other lie. Bitter, bitter. “Not in the equipment, Prime engineering functions as intended, but in the mind handling it. Missions like these, where one spends so much time at the spearhead of a small team, can be isolating.”

  You’ll paint me as mad, Hitton had said. Olver had mentioned age creeping up on the elder Keepers. It wasn’t impossible. But she’d been so confident, not raving and peeking under tables. She’d had experiences she couldn’t explain, and Biran’s own experiences confirmed the existence of rogue guardcore.

  He’d promised. Biran had promised.

  Deterioration of the mind was such a tricky thing to pin down, especially with Prime’s advancements allowing people to appear as young and strong as they wished. His chest clenched.

  “And despite all of that,” he found himself saying, “she still made the right choice. Keeper Hitton got her people off that asteroid, before a critical failure in the hab dome could take them all out with her.”

  Anford did not twitch a muscle. This was recorded, after all. The Protectorate was watching it now, yes, but they’d decide after the fact if it would be broadcasted to the rest of Prime. They could make him do this a thousand times before he got it “right.”

  “The dome was hastily erected,” he pressed on, this lie tasting less slimy than the others, “and old stock. Once Hitton detected the failure, she got her people off station before an explosive decompression event. Under normal circumstances, she would have evacuated with them. However, due to the presence of sensitive Prime materials on station, Keeper Hitton found it necessary to initiate a self-destruct sequence to ensure the erasure of all such materials from potential scavengers.” He took a long, slow breath.

  “This is the cost of Keeperdom. This is the price we know we must pay, should our data ever be threatened. That Keeper Hitton did so without hesitation, I can assure you. Whether she did so without regret, I cannot say. But I can say that Keeper Hitton loved Ada. Loved Prime. And wanted us all to grow into a safe and prosperous future. She gave her life for that. We are all going to have to give just a little more time, while we wait for the system to be secured beyond a doubt and the gate construction to begin. A small price, for all of us. Let us never forget how much it cost one, to ease the burdens of we many.”

  Biran stopped recording. Anford hadn’t moved so much as an eyelash.

  “Do you think they’ll air it?” he asked.

  “I would.”

  A heaviness eased in Biran. He didn’t feel lighter, not exactly. The burden was still there—it was just a tiny bit easier to carry. As if he’d found better leverage, a better grip.

  An incoming call from Olver flashed, and he accepted it without hesitation.

  “That was not as planned,” Olver said carefully, “but we have decided that it will suit.”

  “Thank you, Director.”

  “This was the High Protectorate’s decision.” He hesitated. “But thank you, Speaker Greeve. Hitton would not approve, but she would have appreciated that direction.”

  Olver blanked the call. Biran pressed his elbows into the tabletop and leaned forward, dragging his fingers through his hair. Anford stood. Hesitated.

  “There is something else I’m meant to tell you.”

  A chill crept into Biran. Anford did not stall, but she was stalling now. “What is it?”

  “I have been informed that you are not to attend the spin-up of the gate. The Prime Director wants you in the Cannery, ready to make a statement after the event. Not, in her words, ‘parading around on that stage during the spin.’”

  Biran licked his lips, wondering why this didn’t hurt as much as it should. This was his punishment. Biran had gone to that asteroid and made the wrong choice, tainting the project, and now she was sitting him on the sidelines while the others claimed the final glory of initializing the gate he’d fought to build. He did not pick up his head.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “I’m sorry, Speaker.”

  The door swished shut behind her, and Biran did not know how long he sat there, head bowed, fingertips digging into his scalp, before his house AI chirped: “Visitor request.”

  He blinked and looked up with bleary eyes. Few could get around the lockdown. “Who?”

  “Keeper Singh. Under lockdown provisions, it is advised that you deny all unnecessary requests.”

  “Yes, yes. Let her in.”

  Singh appeared as a washed-out specter in his doorway. Biran pushed to his feet, feeling leaden. He forced himself to cross the room, to reach out and take her elbow, guiding her gently into the chair Anford had vacated.

  “Tea?” he asked, already h
alfway to the dispenser.

  “Sit down, Speaker.”

  He did.

  “I am not here to be… ministered to. I have information that I must share with someone. You seemed as good a candidate as any.”

  Biran pressed his lips together. Singh’s ally in all things before this moment had been Keeper Hitton. He held no illusions that Singh’s respect may have grown for him since Hitton’s death. She was here because Hitton was not, and while Hitton had never been his enemy, she had not been his friend, either.

  A chill crept up his spine. It would be an easy thing to place the blame for Hitton’s death at his feet. Though he could not have controlled her actions, he certainly felt responsible. If Singh felt he was responsible, too, then he’d made a powerful enemy.

  Biran sat across from her and, under the table, silently pressed a series of buttons on his wristpad to record across all wavelengths.

  “Before Isa’s accident,” Singh said, and he had to strain to pay attention as it took him a moment to remember that Isa had been Hitton’s first name, “… she attempted to send a tightbeam burst of information to a nearby satellite. Angling for a gate relay, I presume.”

  “Had she found evidence?”

  Her expression twisted between bitter amusement and mild disdain. “Ah. So you believed her, then? Believed there was a saboteur?”

  “I don’t know. Didn’t you?”

  “I couldn’t be sure.” That disdain, he realized, was for herself. “But you. You were actually there.”

  “She seemed to me unsettled,” he said.

  “But not unbalanced.”

  “No. Not that.”

  “Thank you. I had come to the same conclusion. But after her actions, I had wondered… And then there was this transmission.” She adjusted the plush, white pashmina draping her shoulders.

  “What was she sending?”

  “That’s the very thing. I don’t have a clue, but it was wrapped in an encryption envelope that made me wonder, well… You had better see for yourself.”

  She turned her wristpad around so he could see, and pulled up a file. At first, he thought she was joking, or had made a mistake. The cubical 3-D wireframe package used to represent Keeper data spun in the center of the screen. It was what they used in teaching materials, and what every Keeper saw when they accessed their chip and asked the scanner to display their data on the screen to be sure it was intact. None of them could unravel that data—it was useless without the construction bots to act upon it—but still. It should not, under any circumstances, be sent anywhere but into a gate-building robot.