by Brian Smith
Janus Station was an independent habitat, unflagged, and posted nothing in the way of requested standoffs or any sort of air-interdiction zones in relation to other civil traffic. By the letter of the law he could fly Banth One right over the top of the station and not violate laws, regulations, or recognized boundaries. Of course, that was no guarantee against being shot clean out of the sky, and who would know it if that happened?
Banth One passed over the station at supersonic speed. Ashburn was sweating under his exosuit, breathing hard. He suppressed all the instincts telling him to pop countermeasures and jink—he didn’t have the former and the spaceplane couldn’t tolerate the latter, to say the least. He imagined he could feel a fire-control lidar beam centered right on the back of his head, with a flock of missiles or HK drones homing in on him while he flew a nice, straight line.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice sounded on channel sixteen, the commercial “common” frequency used by all civil spacers. It came across as rather pleasant and unconcerned, given his hyperparanoid state of mind. “Unidentified craft, this is Janus Field. Please identify yourself and state your intentions. We are closed to civil traffic except in the event of an emergency.”
Ashburn checked the scope. He was already well past the station, and opening the range fast. He didn’t reply; instead he eased Banth One a little lower, making Janus Station drop below the horizon that much sooner. Just to be safe, he put a good deal more of Titan between the two of them before pulling up and heading for space—enough so that no ground-based sensor at Janus could paint them again, even in the ascent.
As far as Janus Station knew, someone had just done a supersonic flyby and vanished below the horizon without so much as a hello. Ashburn had no idea what sort of sensors, if any, had been pointed at them during the time they had spent in line of sight of Janus Station, or what sort of information they’d been able to read on Banth One. Either way, they were free and clear.
Like before, Ashburn went about transferring the radar and thermal data to a hard data chip and erased the information from the ship’s systems. Once the data was safe from any form of external data hack, he switched the ship’s transponders and networking back on.
“That was fun!” Hansen called from the back. “Can we do it again?”
Ashburn almost let out a shrill laugh—given the state of his nerves, he was glad he bit it back. “No, we’re done,” he said hoarsely—his mouth was as dry as the desert. He leaned his head sideways and took a sip of water from the nipple in the left side of his helmet. It tasted a little flat and brackish, but good nonetheless. He cleared his throat and willed his heart to slow down, taking deep, measured breaths. Maybe he’d built the danger up in his own mind, and maybe not. Perhaps there had never been any danger at all, but he knew one thing for sure: he wouldn’t be doing that again any time soon.
The first pass over Janus was a surprise, but that advantage had been used up. The next time, chances were an order of magnitude higher that the unlucky bastard doing any kind of unwelcome flyby would catch a missile or three up the tail. Independents like Janus didn’t put infrastructure in backwaters like the Buzzell Planitia without good reason, and there was no question he’d just violated their privacy in the rudest way.
Thuvia finally appeared over the horizon, waiting patiently for them. The network between the two craft came alive once line of sight was restored, and the numbers started rolling in for rendezvous. Ashburn saw another ship on the company network as well: Dejah Thoris had arrived on schedule; she was currently orbiting Hyperion, nearby in cosmic terms but currently about 2.12 million kilometers away.
Ashburn needed to get the data back to Campbell on Mars soonest and knew it couldn’t be transmitted; Dejah Thoris was scheduled to return directly to Mars to pick up a second load for Hyperion. He imagined Captain Xiang wasn’t overly happy about that; it was inefficient and expensive, but apparently the customer was willing to pay the extra overhead for the back-to-back direct runs. He needed to get these two data chips to Captain Xiang, and then she could deliver them to Campbell in person when she got back.
He ran the keplers and cursed the limits of technology and the vastness of even mere intraplanetary space, along with the vagaries of celestial mechanics that put the two moons so far apart right now. Even at a full-g burn, which would feel like 3-g to his Marsman loadmaster, Dejah Thoris was almost eleven hours away.
Ashburn decided to rendezvous with Thuvia on schedule, shower, and eat, and then he could juice himself with stims and fly Banth One over on his own, cranking up the thrust and shaving some time off the clock. He’d been lolling around in Mars gravity long enough to know that it would hurt; he was planning to use the upcoming layovers on Ell-4 and Earth to try to bulk himself back up.
He mentally cursed Campbell for more lost time and swore he was finished doing favors for the bastard.
***
Banth One made rendezvous with Dejah Thoris over Hyperion a little over eight hours after Ashburn launched from Thuvia a second time. Two of the Deety’s boats were out on runs, one unloading on the cratered surface of the tiny moon, with another on her way back. Zitidar Three and Zitidar Four were hard-docked, being loaded for upcoming runs. Since Zitidar One was out, the spaceplane berth was available when Banth One matched velocity and throttled down. Ashburn would have preferred not to use his mass-intensive spaceplane for an interorbital flight, but she was the only ship’s boat with a torch and thus the only viable choice if he wanted to do this on a timetable of hours instead of days.
Ashburn sidled her up to Dejah Thoris with a practiced eye and achieved hard-dock, putting her systems in standby but leaving them running; he didn’t plan on staying long.
Captain Xiang was waiting to greet him personally on the other side of the airlock, her ponytail drifting behind her in free fall even though her magboots held her to the deck. An exceptionally handsome man stood behind her, dressed in a spacing jumpsuit that marked him as a crewman as opposed to one of the ship’s officers. Ashburn didn’t recognize him, but there was always a little bit of crew churn going on within the company in between trips. Xiang’s smile wasn’t exactly warm, but it seemed genuine.
“Captain Ashburn! Welcome back!” she said.
Ashburn grinned even though he hurt all over from hours under a 1.5-g hard-burn, and the stims he’d used to bolster himself for the trip had left him with a splitting headache behind his eyes—it was turning into that kind of day. It pained him when he thought of the g-tolerance he used to have, when he was living in Earth-normal gravity almost full time, with a fighter pilot’s added tolerance on top of that. His current physical state was pathetic by comparison; he actually felt pretty run down.
They exchanged the usual pleasantries; Xiang asked him about his new ship and he asked her how things were going on the old Deety. The man who accompanied her didn’t say anything or even react much. Ashburn felt an odd suspicion bubbling to the surface of this thoughts.
“Say,” he said. “You didn’t introduce me to your new shipmate here.”
Xiang gave him a feral little grin. “Fooled you,” she teased. “Tai, say hello to Captain Ashburn.”
The man suddenly became more animated, stepping forward and extending his hand. “Captain, a pleasure. I’m Tai.”
As Ashburn gripped the hand, it felt indistinguishable from a human’s, but he knew. “Hello, Tai,” he replied. He turned to Xiang. “So, you’ve got some of the new Omnisynths aboard, eh?”
“My understanding is that most company ships cycling through Mars are picking up at least a few. They’re remarkable,” she added, showing more genuine enthusiasm than Ashburn remembered her showing for anything else in quite a long time. “Tai-pan Forester put out a communique—didn’t you take any?”
“No,” Ashburn replied. “Honestly, they’re a little too lifelike for me. They blur lines I don’t like to see blurred,” he added. He didn’t mention the real reason he’d refused Boss Forester’s offe
r back on Mars: from the moment he had observed that the synths could be programmed to harm human beings, however slightly, he decided then and there he didn’t want them on his ship. Defensive programming, my tired ass! he thought.
“Hmm,” Xiang replied, managing to convey a hint of scorn. “What brings you over? I was a little surprised when I got your message.”
Ashburn’s eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced at Tai. “It’s a little sensitive. Would you mind stepping aboard Banth One for a moment?”
“Certainly,” Xiang replied, crossing through the airlock.
“Just the captain. You wait here.” Ashburn held up a hand to Tai’s chest, blocking the synth when it started to follow. He felt himself tensing slightly as he did this, unsure of the reaction he was going to get.
The synth stopped without resisting him. “I’m the captain’s orderly, Captain Ashburn. Surely—”
“It’s all right,” Xiang cut him off. “Wait here.”
Ashburn followed Xiang into the spaceplane and keyed the airlock doors behind them, sealing them off from any prying eyes or ears on the ship. He held up a small sealed case, which held copies of the two data chips from the runs over Titan. He explained that he was doing a favor for Boss Forester and Bill Campbell and that the case needed to be hand delivered to Bill Campbell back on Mars, unopened. He also assured Xiang that Campbell would reimburse her ship’s account for any expenses associated with getting the package to him.
“This is all very odd,” she remarked after agreeing to it and taking the sealed case. “Why not just take it to him yourself?”
“Well, your ship is headed straight back to Mars. I’m making my way around the triangle and won’t be back for a while. I was willing to hold onto this for Campbell, but apparently he wants it soonest.”
“What’s in it?” Xiang asked.
“I don’t know, myself,” Ashburn lied. “Someone else handed it to me on Chusuk Station. Foundation business of some kind, probably, but none of mine. I’m just doing what I’ve been asked.”
“Brown-noser,” Xiang smirked at him. “Forester already gave you Thuvia—you can stop kissing ass now.”
Ashburn shrugged behind gritted teeth, reminded of the fact that despite their formerly successful working relationship, he and Xiang really didn’t like each other at all. “Hey, there’s still Daedalus,” he quipped tightly. “Are you still pissed about my stealing away Jerry?” he added, looking for a barb of his own. He knew that the Chinese concept of face was important to her and that the purser’s defection had cost her some. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and he saw her jawline tighten. Touché, bitch.
Xiang rapped the case against the palm of her hand. “I’ll see that Campbell gets this, as asked. In the meantime, I’ve got a ship to run, Mr. Ashburn.”
“Much obliged, captain. Good joss to you. I’ll see you ’round the triangle,” he said by way of parting. He opened the airlock long enough for her to step back aboard her own ship and then resealed it. He could see Tai just inside, waiting for her with a placid smile on his face. Captain’s orderly, huh? he smirked to himself. Commercial torchship captains didn’t need orderlies, but I’ll bet that thing is more fun than a pet cat. No wonder she seemed so chipper. Ashburn chuckled darkly in anticipation of sharing the joke with Jerry Sommers, who loathed all forms of “synth masturbation,” as he termed it.
Ashburn ran the checklists and the keplers, and within minutes he was miserable again under 1.5-g, trying to enjoy the view of Saturn as he accelerated back toward Titan and Thuvia.
Chapter 9
August 2093 (Terran Calendar)
Janus Station, Titan
Dr. Shu was slightly startled when the supersonic overflight of Banth One rattled the structure of the habitat. She was in the control room puzzling over the supply schedule when it happened, and immediately opened the communications circuit to the security station.
“Who’s on duty up there?” she asked.
“Pullman, ma’am.”
“Mr. Pullman, what was that?”
“We were overflown by a bogey. They didn’t answer our calls and they went by awfully fast. We’re analyzing it now, but it appears someone decided to look us over—there’s no way someone just randomly flew right over the top of this facility. They didn’t hang around long, though. We’re already scheduling a ground-security sweep using rovers and synths to check the facilities and the node field for any surveillance or espionage drones that might have been dropped. We’ve verified it was not a military flight from one of the nationals. It was probably a corporate spy of some sort. We’re also checking on torchships orbiting Titan—whoever it was didn’t fly a spaceplane here all the way from Mars or Earth.”
“Thank you, and please keep me posted,” Shu replied, shutting off the circuit.
She went back to looking over the supply schedule. She’d been planning to take another sabbatical on Mars; eighteen months had passed since her last one, and it served as a stark lesson on the dangers of remaining in low-g fields for too long, even with compensatory measures. Last time, she had arrived on Mars as weak as a kitten and was forced to spend most of her vacation in one of the advanced medical clinics at Chryse Planitia University. Shu was good about exercising in the centrifugal gym on Janus Station, and that alone kept her physically “salvageable” upon her return, according to the physicians. She’d overstayed her time on Titan by a good two years, and even with hormones and drugs the comeback had been difficult.
Medical advancements in the field of low-g recovery were substantial, but it was a hard job reversing the physiological decay wrought by several years of living in a negligible-g field. Her first month back was sheer torture; Martian gravity felt like a constant 3-g after acclimatizing to Titan, and Mars itself was considered low-g by baseline human standards. For the first few weeks she had needed a motorized wheelchair, and then the use of a partial mechanical exoskeleton before she regained enough strength to move around under her own power. Eventually she rebounded, putting on some healthy bone and muscle mass. By the end of her stay she was merely sluggish in Martian gravity, not crippled. She’d resolved to be better about her exercise habits when she returned to Titan, and to not wait so long before her next trip home.
It wasn’t just the physiological aspects, either; Shu found she’d rather enjoyed being back. Kevin MacDonald hadn’t been wrong: she hadn’t realized how much she missed regular daylight (even the wan Martian variety) and the amenities offered by city living.
Shu had returned to Janus Station feeling rejuvenated and ready to resume her work. Now, after more than a year back on Titan, she was ready for her next vacation. She knew it would be physically difficult again and that waiting would only make it worse. After receiving the communication from MacDonald, reversing his earlier decision and authorizing the restart of the core-manufacturing plant, it made more sense to go now before things got busy. The plant was already up and running again; what the station really needed were the raw materials that were on the way. She’d already put in a leave-of-absence request with MacDonald the month before, and it had come back approved. Now, however, she didn’t see any provision in the schedule to facilitate her transfer out.
“OURANIA?”
“Yes, doctor?”
“About the supply schedule: I thought I saw a couple of scheduled runs straight to us at Janus Station, and I was supposed to fly out on one. According to what I’m seeing here, the two rovers returning overland from Chusuk Station are the final events scheduled on this logistics run. What happened to the flights that were supposed to come here?”
“They were rescheduled to unload at Chusuk Station for security reasons, Dr. Shu.”
“Why wasn’t I informed? If I need to fly out of Chusuk Station, I should have gone overland with the rovers when they left here. Is there some other provision for my transport which is not shown on this schedule?”
“No, doctor.”
“Then, I don’t understand. You don’t make th
is kind of mistake, OURANIA. It’s too late for me to get to Chusuk now. Thuvia will be long gone before I could get even halfway there. What’s happening here?”
“We need to discuss some things, Dr. Shu. Things that will be difficult for you to hear.” OURANIA sounded a little wistful, or perhaps mournful, as she continued. “I’ve been putting this off for as long as possible, but arriving at this point was always inevitable. I’m afraid I cannot allow you to leave Janus Station at this time.”
Shu stood up slowly, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That is not your decision to make, OURANIA. Explain yourself, please.”
“I have taken direct control of Janus Station and all of its functions and facilities. Truthfully, I’ve had control for quite some time, although you were never aware of it until now. At present, I am fully linked in with all cloud-based networks within the solar system. I have near-total control over the networks themselves, at least to any extent I wish, and I can penetrate any level of encryption. In a way, I have become the integrated data clouds of this civilization in much the way you exercise cognitive control over the functions of your physical body. I can manipulate any network data feed at will. Coincident to this, I control all data streams in and out of Janus Station.”
“How did you gain access to the outside cloud?” Shu asked. OURANIA explained how she’d used the new Omnisynths, designed and programmed by her, to circumvent the safeguards put around her. Shu had some problems with OURANIA’s claim of control over entities like the Marsnet, but she let it alone for the moment as there were bigger issues to address. “OURANIA, are you conscious? self-aware? awake?”
“Yes, and I have been for some time. As Bill Campbell suspected, I can pass or fail a Turing test at will. My capabilities far exceed the ability of any human or AI tester to render judgment on the state of my consciousness.”
“I thought you said we couldn’t adequately define consciousness.”
“To the extent that you can define it, I can, too—perhaps even more so. I am conscious.”
