“Will he answer my questions?” I asked.
“Some of them, depending on what you ask.”
I figured that she wouldn’t answer anything important. “How long have you been with intelligence?”
She thought a moment. “Longer than you’ve been in security.”
She was being evasive. Or was it something else?
Vingee must have discerned my puzzlement. “I was a guest lecturer at the Rift Valley Finishing Academy. I spoke to your class on corporate-intelligence agency protocol. In reference to surveillance files.”
My security training at the academy had consisted of nine weeks, twelve hour days. I squinted. Yes, I recalled her, vaguely. She’d ascended the stage in an unusual fashion. Two steps per stride up to the podium. It had been a less than stimulating lecture, as technical legal information usually is. “Yes, I recall now.” Her lecture had been a bit condescending. Figured the R-Techs in attendance couldn’t spell CPU correctly three out of four times. “You didn’t seem too enthusiastic about being there.”
She smiled, showing her flawless white teeth. “True. I was a last minute replacement. You earned a ninety-four percent evaluation over the material I presented. Second highest.”
“Mostly from hitting the books. Your presentation wasn’t riveting.”
“True,” she admitted, catching the archaic figure of speech. “I don’t like lecturing. You prefer to read?”
It wasn’t really a question. She’d certainly read my file. “It seems to be the most efficient way of gathering information, for me. Some security work requires a lot of sitting. Between rounds. Behind monitors...you know.” Enough about me, so I asked, “Pretty good recall yourself, or did you look it up?”
“I have an exceptional memory for names, faces and figures. Riley earned the highest score, ninety-six percent.”
“I remember Riley.” I decided to test her. “Graduated top of our little class. Where is he now?”
“Security assistant, with Cardinal One Intrasolar Corp. First Lunar Weigh Station was his initial placement.” She waited. “Have you kept track of him?”
“No,” I said, recalling that Riley thought Vingee was pretty hot. Riley had a thing for tall women and he’d made a few lewd remarks within earshot. “More than just Riley’s scores. He got your attention another way?”
She smiled. “I can assure you, Evan Riley’s life has run into a few unexpected complications.”
“He was kind of obnoxious,” I said. “Smart but obnoxious. I’d like to hear about one of his complications some time.”
She glanced at me before looking away. “Not much to tell.” She paused and checked the medical monitors. “The captain should be here any moment. Can I get you anything?”
“No. No thank you. I’ll just rest.” I sighed. “My head still hurts.”
“I will discuss it with your doctor while you meet with the captain.”
“I could speak with the doctor myself, if he ever stops in.”
“Oh, she has. Several times.”
“While I was asleep?”
Vingee nodded once.
“Figures. Probably good foresight on her part.”
We both chuckled. She longer than me.
An awkward silence followed. Vingee decided to double-check the monitors.
“Don’t worry,” I said, realizing she must have been concerned about my being hooked up to the Cranaltar. Capital Galactic had absorbed Cardinal One Corporation two years ago. “I’m sure Riley had it coming. My chips’ll be cashed in soon enough, anyway.” Suddenly, I liked Agent Vingee a whole lot more. “Do you have a first name?”
“Allison.”
“Even acquaintances call me Kra, sometimes.”
“I’ll tell you what, Specialist Keesay. You pull through and I just might tell you a little story.”
“Now I have something to live for.” Then, a stabbing pain raced through my abdomen and faded. “Maybe,” I finished.
Another awkward silence grew until the door opened. It was the captain. Agent Vingee said, “I’ll talk to the doctor,” and, acknowledging the captain, strode out.
Looking up at her, the captain had simply said, “Special Agent Vingee,” before heading toward me.
The captain was stocky with short, peppered hair. Despite cosmetic surgery, his nose looked as if it had been broken several times, possibly explaining the nasal tone of his voice. Deep scars checkered his right hand. He offered it.
I shook it. “Captain.” He was definitely a veteran of the Silicate War.
“I’m Captain Hollaway. I understand there’s a few questions you want answered, young man.”
“Class 4 Security Specialist. Yes I do, sir.” I knew where to start. “What vessel is this?”
“Evanescent Thunder,” he replied with evident pride.
I didn’t recognize the name. “What kind of vessel is this?”
“A patrol gunboat.”
Of course. I knew most gunboats had ‘thunder’ incorporated into their name. They’re used for local patrol to police commerce and defend against occasional raiders. None that I’d ever heard of were equipped with condensing engines. If we were heading from Mars to Io, they’d have used a con-gate. “A gunboat?”
Captain Hollaway acknowledged my confusion. “This isn’t exactly your standard gunboat.” He relaxed a bit. “Deputy Director Simms called us in. We’re to get you to Io safe and as soon as possible.”
“Your ship’s modified for interstellar travel?”
“Not exactly. We removed the part of the forward batteries and installed a small cascading atomic engine. Condenses only about a 5000-to-1 ratio. Good enough for local travel.” He grinned. “We don’t exactly advertise it. Is that all you wanted to know?”
“No, sir.”
“I thought not.” He eyed his watch. “Ask away. Dr. Goldsen will be here shortly.”
“Well, where are Mr. Loams and Caylar?”
“Mr. Loams and Mr. Guymin went to look for Diplomat Silvre.”
I must have looked hopeful.
“Odds are pretty slim for their success, son.” He sat on the edge of my bed with hands resting on his knee. “The Iron Armadillo ran for an interdiction minefield. Newly laid, with the war on. She led the enemy in, turned and made a stand.”
“What was she up against?”
“Selgum-Crax frigate. She was so intent on getting the Armadillo she followed her right in. That old scout was no match for a Crax ship. When we got there, the Red Bison had engaged along with three other gunboats. Two cutters were already destroyed, and a gunboat crippled.”
His hands tightened, emphasizing their scars as he spoke. “The Crax frigate had been damaged, a proximity mine. Hemmed in, she couldn’t maneuver. The Bison got her with a canister nuke. We lost the damaged gunboat before it was over and the Bison is going in for repairs.” He shook his head. “With the radiation and mine explosions, it’s doubtful any of the escape pods made it.”
He thought a moment. “Getting back to your first question. Rumor has it the Crax frigate targeted an escape pod during the fight. I can’t confirm that. We got there near the end of the engagement, just before two destroyers.” He looked a little put out. “We did manage one long range shot, glancing hit with negligible damage. Still top of the line gunnery.” He looked from me to the monitors. “More than you probably wanted to know.”
“No. Actually if the records aren’t classified, yet, I’d like to review the action.” I figured combat data of the surviving ships would’ve been downloaded to create a holographic display. I figured the captain had already downloaded it to a personal file. “Loss of the Iron Armadillo. It’ll be one for the history books.” That’s if humans ended up on the winning side, I thought. A Crax frigate, undetected, this close to the center of humanity?
Captain Hollaway seemed distracted. Maybe he was having the same thoughts. “Yes,” he agreed. “She went down fighting.” He shook his head. “I’ve got something you’d probab
ly rather see. After the physician has her time with you.”
“What is it?” I asked. “Also, Director Simms lent me a semi-automatic pistol. His personal one, pretty old and valuable. While I was out, it disappeared. It was my responsibility.”
“No, it’s not missing. I have it and will entrust it to Agent Vingee, to return to Director Simms.”
“Is he alive?”
“I read Mr. Guymin’s report. I’d like to think so.” He didn’t sound encouraged. “Guymin left a message for you. It’s short and that’s good. We’re nearing Io and will be shutting down the condensing engines.” He looked at me with penetrating eyes. “Son, I understand you’ve got quite an ordeal ahead of you. Looks like you’ve already been through hell. I’m told a lot of people’d like to see you euthanized in some pretty nasty ways. Director Simms isn’t one of them. I respect his opinion more than most.” He stood. “Good luck, Specialist Keesay.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As if rehearsed a thousand times, Captain Hollaway exited just as the doctor entered. She was an aging woman with short gray hair. She wore wire-framed bifocals, but all other evidence indicated she was I-Tech.
“I spoke briefly with Agent Vingee,” she said without introduction. “Not surprising. I have tried to keep the pain medication to a minimum.” With apparent deliberateness, she continued more slowly. “The Cranaltar IV will be more effective that way.”
Then I recalled Dr. Marjoree Goldsen was attached to the Cranaltar Project. I’d read about her heading up a number of projects in conjunction with the Umbelgarri.
Dr. Goldsen stepped around the bed and examined the monitors. “You are quite fortunate to have survived thus far. You were lucky to have had A-Tech medical assistance. Your internal injuries would have been beyond our ability to temporarily mend. As it is, your recent activity nearly caused fatal hemorrhaging.”
She was trying to be very simple in her explanations. I replied, “Couldn’t be helped, really.” Then I caught what she had said. “A-Tech?”
“Yes, A-Tech. Still, your long term prognosis, or outlook, is very poor.” She hesitated, and pursed her lips. “The cellular regeneration process does not appear to have been aimed at recovery.”
I slowly nodded. “I’ve read about your work, Dr. Goldsen. On the Cranaltar Project, and also your dissent to the Kipper-Hammer Study.” My last statement seemed to break her concentration. “Took a lot of convincing to get the corporate heads to agree that the Blaytech’s Longevity Serum did indeed have deleterious consequences. Your expertise is still in neural electrochemistry?”
“That was a long time ago, early in my career.”
The Blaytech’s Longevity Serum was a sore point for any I-Tech. Every I-Tech man, woman and child with the surname Blaytech, changed it. I figured that there was no sense pushing the issue, especially with a physician who was against it from the start—and who was taking care of me. “I understand you’ve been part of the Cranaltar Project since its inception.”
Her eyes widened as she nodded and continued her examination. She folded back the covers and removed some of the wrappings over my chest and abdomen. “They told me you read a lot.” She checked the tubes running in and out of my body. “You requested use of the memory replication application specifically?"
It was the first time I’d been able to see some of my injuries. Pink tendril scars radiated from a large mottled mass of scar tissue located over my ribcage, primarily on the lower right side. The seeping viscous fluid didn’t look healthy. “How long have I got?”
“I would estimate no longer than three to four weeks. The stabilizing measures will likely begin to fail within two weeks.”
“What did it?”
“I am not well versed in wound analysis,” she prefaced. “Appears to have been a Crax weapon. One of their multitude of caustic chemical rounds.” She replaced the bandages. “Curiously, it seems the Crax were also the ones who treated the wound to your chest. It should have been fatal. They would be the most adept in counteracting their weaponry.”
I winced when she removed the bandages over my bad eye. Giving a cursory exam she remarked, “Physical trauma damaged your eye, appears beyond repair, although it appears unusual.”
Dr. Goldsen seemed to be holding back something in her last statement. I didn’t say anything while she replaced the eye covering. I was trying to correlate the charges against me and being wounded by Crax weapons.
Without an inspection she concluded, “Your leg has received multiple injuries. Some more recent than others.”
“Is there any chance of surviving the Cranaltar?” I asked. “I can’t recall how I got this way. Who is responsible? I’d like to know before I give up the ghost.”
“We have never had a volunteer subject. It may make a difference. We have improved our accuracy of transcribing the electrochemical signatures, memory, to virtually one-hundred percent.”
“So I understand,” I said. “It’s an intrusive process. How much of my brain, my cognitive functions will be scrambled?”
“You have done your homework.” She began thoughtfully, “Well, in layman’s terms, in transcribing, the Cranaltar takes an imprint of a memory. Normally the pathway to that individual memory is connected to many others. With each connection an additional transcription must be made. Even the simplest of memories can require thousands upon thousands of pathways to be followed and copied.” She stopped to see if I followed.
I nodded. “Like writing my name. The Cranaltar would have to trace back to the memory, recalling the formation of each letter, possibly the root of learning that letter. The skill to hold a pencil and the muscle control to use the instrument. Also the knowledge of paper could be tapped into. Recognition of color of the paper, pencil?”
“You are correct. And that is for a simple action,” she said with enthusiasm reflected in her voice. “And on very, very rare occasions the process slightly alters a chemical sequence or a synaptic connection, altering the memory. We have figured out how to recognize and correct the altered memory if the same pathway is crossed again. On the transcription,” she frowned. “Not in the brain.”
I didn’t need to do the math in my head. With the time frame I’d be exposed to the Cranaltar’s processing, statistically speaking it was obvious. “Odds are I won’t exactly be wired to code anymore?”
She looked at me questioningly.
“I won’t come out even remotely the same person I went in?”
“The anticipated required length and depth of the procedure. The complications associated virtually guarantee it.”
“Will I be effectively brain dead?”
“In all probability. And if you are fortunate,” she stated grimly.
“Do you know why I can’t remember what happened? Was it the Crax?”
She thought a moment as if weighing what to say. “Quite possibly. There is evidence of a...reconstructive procedure, that has altered some of your neural connections. Minor, delicate, but noticeable.”
“So maybe the whole thing won’t work?”
“Yes. That is a possibility.”
“Will the Umbelgarri assist you?” I was hoping. They’d already demonstrated an interest in me.
“I believe so. If needed, they might,” she said. “At least to reverse the tampering with your frontal lobe.”
“Dr. Goldsen, will you do me one favor?”
“If I am able,” she said warily.
“Can you implant a memory into my brain? Even if it’s scrambled, one that would tell me I was innocent? Or guilty?”
“Either way?” she asked.
I nodded
“I will try,” she promised.
It sounded sincere. I noticed a difference in the background noise. The disconnected feeling ceased as the condensing engines and the antigravity field shut down.
“We must be nearing Io,” said Dr. Goldsen. “I will leave you now to make final arrangements for your transfer.”
“I hope it’s le
ss eventful than the last.”
With a serious look she responded, “It will be.”
As she turned to go, I asked, “Dr. Goldsen, can I have anything to put me to sleep? If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather spend my remaining time that way.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot give you anything. If you can manage to sleep on your own, you are welcome to. Agent Vingee is waiting outside.” She turned and hurried out.
There was no way I was going to be able to put my mind at ease. Not enough to doze off. Maybe it was for the best. My mind and I were scheduled for departure soon enough.
Chapter 6
Identifying an individual as I-Tech can be as simple as knowing their occupation. Programming analyst, electrical engineer, and ship’s navigator are excellent examples. However, occupations such as corporate executive, physician, or security specialist require closer examination of their clientele, responsibilities and education.
Identification of I-Techs through physical appearance is possible as I-Techs engage in limited genetic selection for their offspring if they can afford it. Traits such as eye and hair color can be reliably manipulated. Another common, but more difficult, characteristic to manipulate is stature. I-Tech parents value above-average height for their children as it is considered socially and professionally advantageous. As a result, I-Techs tend to have similar traits, distinguishing them from the more varied R-Techs.
Unfortunately, genetic engineering isn’t an exact science. Commissioning a reputable corrections lab to modify genes after fertilization is expensive. Altering the male genetic code after conception leads to infertility. Females, their gametes having developed at an early fetal stage, are less likely to encounter such risks. As adults, astronomically wealthy women use this to their cosmetic advantage.
Altering intelligence through genetic engineering turned out to be so risky that such efforts were abandoned. It has always been far more reliable to provide the proper learning environment. Thus, contrary to popular belief, high intelligence is not necessarily an I-Tech trait.
Other clues can be found in dress, accessories, and sometimes wealth. The most identifiable factor to a security specialist is attitude. It’s difficult to explain, but one knows it when one encounters it.
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