Three ATVs came down the old road followed by a tractor trailer. Vortices of dust stirred up by the truck’s tires swirled and ran along the stony slopes. The vehicles drove with no headlights, and the desert behind them went red when they braked in front of the recruits, who had taken to the side of the road.
For a moment there was silence, save for the platoon’s flag rustling in the breeze. Doors opened in the ATVs. So did the big ones at the back of the truck. The recruits tilted and bent their heads as six young engineers stepped out of the ATVs and four engineering techs pushed and guided one of the new high-defs onto the road. A spotlight on the truck’s cab went on. It aimed for the printer, its light blinding them from seeing much else.
But nothing else mattered. This was what they’d trained for.
High-defs came in all sizes, but they shared a basic profile. Their hubs were smooth and oblong, and the different shapes gave them nicknames. There were clamshells, tulip heads, and the big eggs. Spider heads or yellow jackets were the big structural printers used for tall buildings on Earth, and most of the framing of the big station in orbit. McClellan had trained on two of the big ones, and they did remind him of the yellow jackets that used to dive-bomb him on his uncle’s farm.
This new high-def didn’t look very different from the standard ones. It was a clamshell—one of the models used for detail work and small jobs, such as weapons or ATVs. This one was a foot or so longer than the standard clamshells, and it took up most of the platform that had been wheeled out of the trailer. But everything on it looked familiar. There was the work deck with its controls. The slots for your key and programming coupler. The intakes and the emitters.
But for programmers, it’s what you can’t see that counts.
Three of the techs reached and unfastened safety braces, then nodded over to the ATVs. Two of the younger engineers approached the staff sergeant. They seemed to disagree with the Marine, but Mariano dismissed the engineers with a raised hand. She turned and looked for the recruit whose name she had called.
“The faster you do this, McClellan, the faster you and your friends get that juicy steak. If there’s any left.”
“Understood, ma’am.” McClellan’s dry lips stung as he spoke. He took three steps forward and faced the printer. “Orders?”
“Let’s see,” she said, looking over at the observing engineers. “A Ford Mustang. 1965. Convertible.”
“Ma’am?”
“You heard me. Today’s drill is over. Our good friends in the Global Union got us this here printer late, and I’d say that gives you the right to be creative. I know you programmers like that—so be creative. A 1965 Ford Mustang. Convertible. And make her pretty like me, McClellan. Make her that nice light blue just like my great-granddaddy had. You know that color? No? Well, you’re a programmer. You’ll find out. And a blue-and-white interior. Leather. And she better run.
“As for the rest of you”—she turned to the platoon as she stepped away—“fall back and let’s hope McClellan gets you to base before I get you back out here at dawn.”
The staff sergeant was still issuing threats as McClellan secured his weapon and stepped closer to the high-def. The spotlight went out and the stars returned. Three monitoring drones flew from the back of the trailer and hovered over the printer, negotiating the breeze. The cooler air felt good on his fingers as he moved his hands along the printer’s casing. He dug into his backpack and slid out his coupler. He powered it on and rested its flat surface on the deck. The coupler came to life with its night display, which glowed red and orange as the link began.
A military programmer wouldn’t always know the details of what they’d be tasked to print next. And who in 2073 would be expected to know the details of a 1965 Ford Mustang, at least enough to pass a boot camp programming test? Maybe the programmer had seen a Mustang. Maybe they’d driven one—although probably not with its original fossil-fuel engine. But even if you had—and McClellan hadn’t—you couldn’t know enough to print the right chassis, the rims, the gas pump, or any of the thousand other details that McClellan needed to figure out to get his friends back for a shower and steak.
“Get it done, McClellan!”
That was Danny Macedo, whose last name had made him his overhead bunkmate. His passion for programming had made him his friend. Macedo was a good programmer—one of their best. He’d have been the best if it weren’t for McClellan. Almost from the start of their training, Macedo and McClellan took turns for top honors—both far ahead of the rest. Either would have been happy if the other finished first, but McClellan wanted the honor for the people back home in Union City, who needed something to cheer. Macedo felt the same about the people outside Boston—even if he said he rooted for his buddy Johnny McClellan, because Johnny always got the squad through an exercise by figuring out their trainers’ game.
But the rewards were higher than steak and local pride. Using one of the new high-defs to print the Mustang—not just a mockup, but a real one, with all the parts and carbon-based fluids and pressurized tires—would go a long way in showing those young engineers over by the ATVs, and whoever else was watching, that Marine Corps combat programmers have what it takes, that they could use the engineers’ toys to win the wars that had already cost everyone so much.
McClellan accessed his coupler. It began a self-populating scan of available satellite feeds. Somewhere he’d find data about the design of a 1965 Mustang. He always found the data. He just hoped it was enough.
He found the drill and control console where he expected and slipped the coupler inside the clamshell’s waiting port. He quickly surveyed the desert to check for any surprises the trainers might have planned. Then he got to work.
Coding began to appear on the coupler’s exposed panels. He could see that much of the printer’s programming was similar to the high-defs he’d worked on since he had signed up with the Corps. But at the same time, this machine was moving fast. And it was anticipating McClellan’s next command.
McClellan quickened his pace. He felt beneath the collar of his base-layer shirt, still damp with sweat. He unlatched his programmer’s key from the chain that held his dog tags, then pushed the key into the printer’s entry port and twisted. What he did next would make or break the exercise. He played a quick game of code verification, answering the printer’s queries about his blood type, master’s codes, neural programming permissions, and, as always, gave his programmer’s story.
Printers used stories to make sure you were legit—to confirm that a programmer’s neural mapping, emotional profiles, and programming history matched the ones in the coupler. The GU engineers called these checks the Trust Safeties, because printers can tell if you’re lying.
He wiped the dust and sweat from his forehead, gripped the neural interface in his hands tightly, and began to tell the printer his story. It was a sad story, he said. A story about his parents.
The printer monitored the telling of the story, and it trusted.
Then came the feeling that programmers never discuss with nonprogrammers. Nor often with fellow programmers. Full access comes with a neural connection between the programmer and the machine’s intellect that, for safety reasons, extends only from the programmer into the printer, and never the other way.
The engineers call this hypostasis. Programmers had other names for it, including a few that did not please the engineers. But in truth there could be no name to describe the pleasures that come when full trust is achieved, when hypostasis occurs, when the programmer’s mind extends into and connects with the printer’s intellect—and thus when the will of the programmer takes control of a trusting printer.
One of the observing drones passed inches in front of McClellan, monitoring him closely—closer than the others, closer than any ever had. But he had a hunch why. As the printer opened its mind, McClellan felt himself shudder with the neural equivalent of a gasp.
His training hadn’t prepared him for this. Not for the depth of the mind that awaited
him—the warmth. This thing was alive. It had so many questions, so much desire to understand who McClellan was, what it could do to support his mission. McClellan felt the usual temptation to begin a conversation—but it was stronger with this printer.
Thinking this was some kind of test, the recruit focused. He engaged the controls, and the printer hummed and chirped during its preliminary startup. Nearby the scrub and the rock reflected the waking printer’s warm light.
The clamshell’s belly separated at its far end as its intakes and emitters uncoiled and stretched. Printers could either harvest matter directly from the world around them, or they could plug into dedicated supplies of energy. Either way, intakes all had one job: injecting the printer with matter or energy or both. From the other side of the belly came one of four printing heads. Although depending on the model there could be up to a dozen, each specialized for whatever material was required to be spun from the stew of particles swirling inside the printer’s belly.
McClellan watched for telemetry to populate the coupler. Good. There it was—data, beautiful data syncing with the printer, which began to survey what it could use for raw materials.
The basic elements needed for a 1960s automobile should be easy enough to spin from the stone and the minerals around them. And if the new Deep Intellect programming of this fancy new printer was as good as everyone said, there would be enough scrub for basic organic molecules to print the leather interior, the engine oil, and the gasoline without having to start from scratch. That was a relief, because McClellan had worked only three times in the lab on atomic restructuring.
The printer suggested preferred spots for initial extraction. Though the data hack wasn’t yet complete, McClellan pushed protocol, jumped the printing sequence, and began the dig. He could store enough matter in a high-def this size to give him at least five minutes to find base schematics—ten minutes for the whole Mustang. Or so he hoped.
McClellan’s coupler chirped again. A data hit. Another. Now five. He turned his attention from the data to the drill as it inserted two of its feeders into the roadside. The drills initiated, giving him more light for his work. The desert night had become colder, but he perspired heavily from the heat coming off the printer.
He completed the hack, finding quick, unencrypted data mines on Mustangs—this was too easy. Ford Motor Company database: confirmed. Mustang Lovers of Illinois: confirmed. North Carolina State University, Engineering: confirmed. Cornell University, Early Industrial Engineering: confirmed.
Soon both McClellan and the printer were happy with their progress. They had collected good data and stored enough base matter. All seemed right with the world.
Then the recruit felt the printer’s mind expand into his neural links. It was anticipating ways to improve the Mustang. And it was evaluating its surroundings with intercepted communications—learning about the purpose of the other recruits, the base nearby, their training that day.
This might be normal for these Deep Intellect printers. McClellan had no way to know. In theory it should be impossible for a printer to disregard a programmer’s commands. But to be certain, McClellan refortified his end of the link. He dove deeper into the mind of the clamshell to confirm that he and that printer were still in sync. That he was in control.
The printer assured him that he was.
It asked permission to send its intake scoops deeper into the scrub and the rock, to continue devouring what was authorized around it, and to initiate its emitter heads, which, with permission granted, were twirling and sparking and spinning matter, making and mimicking Mustang parts out of blinding streams and beads of light.
The observation drones adjusted their courses for a better view. McClellan was not about to give away his secrets—especially to the watching engineers who didn’t need to know everything about the Corps. He began to sequence the printer to push out a dampening field—suggested by the printer itself when it learned from their link that McClellan was unfamil-iar with the concept.
The printer offered its programmer a glimpse into the physics that would make such a field. It all seemed simple, too simple, and McClellan wondered if it was against the rules. Hell, how could it be? No one had said not to. And anyway, the printer suggested that a dampening field this strong should be tested. This kind of tool would protect programmers in combat, and that would mean fellow Marines wouldn’t have to take so many risks.
Particles and energy wove together from the printer’s emitters—pulsating outward again and again, forming a sphere. The energy field glistened blue as it pushed toward the recruits and the engineers, who stepped back into the desert. As promised by the printer, the wall of the dampening field prevented transmitted information—visible light, comm signals, even the ground’s vibrations—to pass to the outside world. And so no one but McClellan could watch as the printer rose on its intakes and flared over scrub and stone, as its drills took what was needed from the world around it, and as it arranged the information it had gathered about 1965 Ford Mustang convertibles with a signature Silver Blue finish.
Seventy-two minutes later, the Mustang sat cooling on the old road under the August stars. Engineering techs started its motor and drove it into the hold of the tractor trailer. The recruits went to their rendezvous with showers and steak, and to talk about what had just happened.
But McClellan could not join them. His orders were to accompany Staff Sergeant Mariano for a debriefing with the engineers, who were pleased with quality of printing but had questions about his use of their secret and restricted dampening field.
MCCLELLAN, JANSEN, AND ZHÈNG waited for the all-clear from the pilot as she made final safety checks. Jansen used the time to remind McClellan that the orbital choreography required to dock had been simple compared to the political and social choreography needed to bring him to the new world.
His security uniforms alone had required extensive negotiations. They had been designed and fitted much like standard ones, other than not having weapons holsters. But they sported a special central collar insignia, present on all uniforms to indicate rank. Unlike Zhèng’s elaborate gold emblem or the blue star worn by the pilot, McClellan’s was the plain white square of a Roman Catholic priest’s collar. It had been Zhèng who agreed to the clerical symbol because, he admitted, McClellan didn’t hold a rank with the Security Guild. A blank, white square would be just as good as any other emblem.
McClellan’s other collar insignia were a green shield designating prior military service, as well as two pips for his master specialties. One for programming, the other a simple cross. This had been allowed only when Rome petitioned the Security Guild Council, who relented because they wanted the investigation under way.
For their part, the engineers had made clear to the officials in the Vatican—as well as to Archbishop Bauer and repeatedly to McClellan—that the priest could not encourage anyone to violate the New World Agreement, which in part prohibited both the acknowledgment of one’s religion and its practice in public, or, the agreement urged, in private. But McClellan had also been offered unprecedented opportunities. He was allowed to say public Masses, and even hear confessions, but only in a small chapel provided to him as part of his quarters. He could also openly counsel people, but he could not suggest that supernatural forces were involved.
“This is all for your safety,” Jansen said as the Aesir’s engines went quiet, allowing her to speak in a softer voice. “And it’s for the good of the general population. Your presence among us is without precedent. Remember there are those who are unhappy with your being allowed into New Athens at all, let alone given a chapel.”
McClellan conceded her point.
The engineer smiled, and after the all-clear from the pilot, unbuckled her strapping and propelled herself from her seat, showing her mastery of weightlessness. She made quickly for the forward access hatch, which took a moment to open after balancing appropriate pressures. Then she sent herself into the docking bridge, and beyond that to New Athens
’s Centerwell boarding gates.
Zhèng guided McClellan to the hatch and took the opportunity to compliment the priest on his handling of the chief engineer. “Elaina’s a remarkable woman,” he said, “but at times heavy-handed. The engineers don’t always understand the people they govern. Or how to ask for help.”
One of Zhèng’s younger agents glided quickly into the ship. He saluted his commissioner, made his way to the pilot’s deck, made a comment that brought laughter from Okayo and the rest of the flight crew, then tumbled back again to the first-class deck to speak with his superior.
McClellan recognized him from the mission briefings. Agent Brandon James Clarke—the investigator who had cleared the printer at the murder site—was lean, watchful, and at home in zero gravity. He was taller than McClellan, but not the height of Zhèng. Clarke’s brown hair was high on top, but it was combed back neatly, reminding McClellan of the soldiers from the great wars of the twentieth century.
As with McClellan and Okayo and many of about their age, he had been brought up by extended family. In Clarke’s case, he’d been born in Glastonbury, England, and raised in Las Vegas, Nevada. Agreements forged long ago in the Global Union had allowed him dual air commands in both the United States and the Royal Air Force, until he had joined the Security Guild four years ago. He had been back to Earth only once, to be recognized by the King of England himself for his role in Battle of Cornwall.
Clarke held a programmer in training status. The RAF was one of the last Earth militaries that the engineers still partnered with. Had Clarke stayed with them, he’d have become a full programmer. But the engineers suspended his studies when he enlisted in the Security Guild.
As Zhèng introduced Clarke to their guest, Okayo was propelling in from the flight deck. Clarke gave McClellan a curt handshake, a nod, and a “Welcome aboard.”
Then he turned to Okayo.
A Printer's Choice Page 4
