by B. V. Larson
“What is six times five?” recited the woman into a microphone.
Her voice was evidently carried into the chamber with the helpless prisoner, for the man on the table answered, “Thirty.”
“Now what?” she said.
“Push a button,” replied the researcher.
The woman tentatively reached over and pressed down on the big green button with her palm.
The prisoner immediately moaned and writhed. Straker thought at first the man was in pain, but it soon became evident he was experiencing pleasure.
Straker looked back at the civilian woman. She was smiling, her eyes alight. When she was given more questions to ask, and the man got them right, she pushed the big green button and he moaned with more pleasure.
Now the woman was licking her lips, her face was flushed and she breathed deeply. Clearly, she enjoyed meting out pleasure.
The researcher tapped his handtab. The readout screen scrolled. The civilian read the words on the screen and spoke. “What is ten plus two?”
“Twelve,” the prisoner said.
The civilian leaned forward to slam her hand on the green button, an expression of slack fascination now fixed on her face.
The researcher tapped his handtab and the screen scrolled to a new question. “What is the square root of thirty, to six decimal places?”
The prisoner’s eyes darted. “I—I—I don’t know!”
The woman leaned forward and, after a moment’s pause, triumphantly slammed her hand on the red button. The man writhed again—though this time it was clearly in pain. He cried out, “Stop! Please, stop!”
“Stop this!” Straker growled, looking for a door into the research rooms, but not seeing one. “This kind of brainwashing shit is exactly why I liberated the Mutuality!”
Myrmidon didn’t move. “You can’t stop it. This is part of the diz process.”
“Hell if I can’t. You said they don’t police the dizzes, right? Whatever happens, happens?”
“That is correct—for the ordinary Facets. You, however, have been tagged as an agent-trainee. You’ll be seen as interfering.”
Straker clenched his fists and forced himself to watch. The woman seemed just as aroused by the man’s agony as she had been by his pleasure a moment ago. In fact, when the system suspended the pain, she slammed repeatedly at the red button, even when it did nothing. She made a sound of frustration.
“Next question,” she said, turning to the researcher. “Next question!”
“You’re turning people into sadists,” Straker said. “Give them an authority figure and instructions, power and rewards, and people do what you say.”
Don shook his head. “Did you hear the researcher give any instructions on which button to push?”
Straker thought back. “I guess not. So she could push either button?”
“Of course.”
“But you cued her which was pain and pleasure—red and green. That’s assuming these Facets associate green with positive and red with negative, like standard displays, or traffic lights.”
“The choice is hers. Yet, like most young human Facets, she doesn’t care whether she metes out pain or pleasure. Both excite her. Combine that with her unconfirmed assumptions—such as the assumption that rewards go with right answers and punishments go with wrong ones—and she might just torture this man to death.”
“You let them do that?”
“They’re only Facets. The controllers do what they have to in order to achieve their greater goals… just like we do.”
“I don’t!”
Myrmidon faced Straker fully. “Oh, no? With your combat skills and biotech, you could have disarmed those police officers in Baltimore. You could have broken up the brawling at Campus. You could try to break this glass and rescue that poor fellow on the table. Why don’t you?”
“Because you told me…” Straker realized what he was saying. “Because you’re my authority figure. It’s not because I’m afraid!”
“Did I bring up fear? Is it important that you be seen as brave?”
Straker’s fists clenched. “I—getting caught here would be pointless, that’s all. I might save one man or two, but I can’t save the thousands—”
“—billions—”
“—okay, billions of Facets you’re destroying in these dizzes.”
“So you’re doing what you have to do in order to achieve your greater goals. You’re ignoring your moral principles because of practical concerns.”
The man on the table screamed again.
“Turn that shit off!”
“Why? So you won’t have to face it?”
Straker punched Myrmidon in the jaw. The Opter-man—only a Facet, after all—sprawled, knocked out cold.
By the time Myrmidon came to, Straker had mastered himself. Besides, he couldn’t seem to open the door to the room, no matter how hard he kicked and pulled at it, nor break the transparent window material.
He’d faced the fact that he couldn’t go save the poor soul strapped to the table. He’d managed to ignore the screams and groans, telling himself that the prisoner was unlikely to die—though death itself had little to do with torture. He’d even figured out what Myrmidon was doing—maybe.
When Don sat up, rubbing his jaw ruefully, Straker squatted next to him. “Sorry about that.”
“I expected it, actually, but you’re so damn fast.”
“Be glad I didn’t hit you as hard as I could have.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Getting punched?”
Straker chuckled. “The whole thing. The why. This isn’t just a diz for these Facets. It’s for me.”
Don raised an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”
“You’re not just testing and corrupting these people. You’re testing and corrupting me.”
“People corrupt themselves, Derek. Nobody can do it for them, if they really want to resist. Testing you? Of course. More importantly, you’re learning.” Don stood, brushing himself off. “Not only are there many different dizzes, there are meta-dizzes. We all go through them. We are observed, then we observe, then we observe the observers. Sometimes we even observe those who are observing the observers.”
Straker stood also, wondering who was observing them. “Is that why humans call, um, us, Opters? Something to do with optics, eyes, observing?”
Don chuckled. “An astute guess, but no, just coincidence. ‘Opter’ came from one of the first humans to encounter insectoid Facets. Hymenoptera is the human name for the order of insects comprising wasps, bees and ants.”
“I guess ‘hymens’ would have been weird.”
“Sure would.”
“So, did I pass your test?”
“The jury’s still out, but you’re coming along.”
Straker rubbed his face with his palm as if to scrub off dirt. “Why are you showing me all this? What if I do pass?”
“Finally, you’re asking the right questions. Unfortunately, that’s above my pay grade.”
“Make a guess,” Straker said.
“Perhaps those above me will take stronger measures in your favor.”
The Miskor, he meant, though Myrmidon couldn’t confirm it aloud. Trusted agents like Don were given lots of slack to train their protégés, he’d said—but Straker didn’t want to give whoever was watching cause to really wonder. Probably the very unlikeliness of a real human agent infiltrating Terra Nova, combined with any system’s usual complacency when presented with what it expected to see, had protected them so far.
Straker had already done some pacing and thinking while waiting for Don to regain consciousness, and now he continued. “I think there’s more to it than you’re telling me. Every time I think I know what’s going on with you, there’s another layer, another twist… and you told me I couldn’t possibly beat you at your own game of secrets.”
“That’s true.”
“But this is a game you
hope I win, because if I win, you win. You want me to figure this stuff out instead of spoon-feeding me, I get that. People don’t value what they don’t work for, so you’re making me work for these lessons.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“I’ve been told that personal experience colors everything anyone does. We think we’re objective, but really, we have a lot of unrecognized assumptions. The Queens, for example, live their lives surrounded by drone slaves. They’re the only ones with free will around them, other than fellow Queens, and aliens. Except…” Straker snapped his fingers as he paced, trying to corral a fleeting thought. “Except for us. Us human Facets. Once we make it through all the dizzes and all the experiments and games, once we’re sharp enough to blend in with the humans, we’ve developed free will and individuality. We’re no longer really Facets.”
“An interesting observation.” Myrmidon’s bland eyes nevertheless seemed to be watching Straker closely.
“So now we have a whole world brimming with potential individuals—and we’re training them to have free will, to make choices, even bad ones. Some make it through, some don’t, it’s all very Darwinian—but the fittest survive. Some are good, some are evil, but they’re all Queens in their own right—individuals. Like you said, perfect copies of imperfect humans.”
“You seem to be building a coherent picture.”
“So by your logic, you’re—we’re both—human.”
“That is so.”
Straker stopped and stared, unseeing, as the researcher on the other side of the glass led away the protesting woman. She seemed to want to go back to her button-pushing. In the other room, medics attended to the tortured man.
“So, hypothetically speaking…” Straker watched Don carefully for any hint he should shut up. “Hypothetically, if we were real humans and saw all this, we’d want to rescue these people. And we’d hate the Queens.”
“Stipulated.”
“In fact, if I were this Liberator guy, I’d think this planet was primed for revolt.”
“If you were this Liberator guy, it would be natural for you to come to this conclusion.”
“But since I’m not, and since we Sarmok want to keep the humans out of our business, we’ll need to make sure the Liberator never finds out about this planet.”
Don made a dismissive motion. “It’s far from human space.”
“No worries, then.”
“None.”
“Okay.” Straker clapped his hands in satisfaction. Finally, he felt like he was starting to understand Myrmidon. “I’m hungry.”
“Let’s go to the cafeteria.”
“Is it part of the diz? Will they be testing weird foods on us?”
Don pondered. “I’m really not sure.”
Without warning, the door to the room burst open. Straker reacted immediately, dodging out of the way as stunners fired. Myrmidon fell. Men poured into the room.
There was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. Straker got his hands on one of the attackers, but his muscles locked and his nerves blazed from repeated stuns.
They pummeled him into unconsciousness.
Chapter 9
Admiral Lucas Braga, Calypso System
As his Tenth Fleet entered Calypso’s planetary nebula at C-1, Admiral Lucas Braga sat upright in his flag chair, hands firmly on its arms and feet flat on the floor. Appearances were important, and he always maintained his image as a by-the-book commander.
Not so by-the-book that he hadn’t brought along Captain Lydia Verdura to command his flagship, the HWS Luxemburg. It was good luck that she’d also survived Corinth, and good fortune that the boards of inquiry had found them both guiltless in the debacle. In fact, he’d been promoted to fleet command for the current offensive against the Hok.
Admiral Danica Downey, however, had been posthumously court-martialed and convicted of dereliction of duty. This provided Braga a tiny sliver of satisfaction, yet failed to balance the anger he still felt at the loss of life and ships the stupid, politically connected officer had caused.
He shook off haunting memories and concentrated on the business at hand. His holotank—a proper device for a proper flag bridge—showed his fleet maintaining maximum search dispersion while still keeping his ships and scout drones networked.
“The enemy defense force is eliminating the probes we dropped outside, sir,” said his Sensors officer, Lieutenant Lexin. Like most of his best technicians, he was Ruxin.
That reminded Braga of that annoying but innovative Ruxin who had almost—almost!—snatched victory from the jaws of defeat at Corinth with his stealth mine trick. What was his name? Zaxdy? Zaxty? Zaxby… that was it. Too bad he hadn’t survived.
“Save the probes for later,” said Braga. “We’ll need them to scout our departure path after we destroy Felicity Station.”
“Sir, why do the Hok sometimes use human names for their installations?” asked Lexin.
The others of his flag crew seemed to listen closer. Rumors had been swirling for some time about the troubles the Hok were experiencing with an upstart warlord called “The Liberator” or somesuch. Fleet Intelligence had provided farfetched guesses that, in Braga’s opinion, only made things more confusing for the rank and file.
The Parliamentary Intelligence Agency had provided separate, eyes-only briefings for senior officers, revealing what the flag corps had long suspected: the Hok aliens were in league with human traitors, who existed in far greater numbers than he’d thought. Whole planets-full, in fact, allowed to prosper within the Hok Empire. That explained the occasional human defectors and captured prisoners.
Braga wished the PIA would simply reveal the truth, rather than try to keep it under wraps. If his own feelings were any indication, the average Fleet crewman would fight even harder when they found out about the traitors. But now, he had to come up with an answer to Lexin’s question—or deflect it without revealing classified information.
“I can’t really tell you,” Braga said, which was technically the truth, though misleading. “Maybe intel uses the Earthan translation for the Hok word. Or maybe they simply assign a name.” He didn’t like playing semantic games, but his only other choice was telling them the answer was classified, and that might reveal more than it concealed.
“But—”
“Attend to your duties, Lieutenant,” Braga said sharply. “I know you think you can split your attention, but I’m not so confident.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Lexin turned his eyes and tentacles back to his consoles. A moment later, the holotank identified a new contact. “Fixed facility dead ahead. Emissions consistent with Felicity Station, though faint.”
“Probably powered down as much as possible,” Verdura mused.
Lexin continued, “I’m getting some intermittent contacts on our periphery that concern me.”
“What kind of contacts?”
“They might be ships. They are at extreme detection range, but occasionally the vagaries of the gas dispersion allow sensor distance extension, and one of our scouts or probes gets a hit. We’ve also lost an unlikely number of probes, even accounting for the enemy mines. Lurking enemy ships would explain both phenomena.”
“What kind of ships?”
Lexin tweaked the holotank. “Tentative identifications range from cruisers to superdreadnoughts.”
Braga gripped the arms of his chair. “Is that possible? Capital ships in the nebula with us?”
“Self-evidently, it is possible, sir,” Lexin said with the hint of supercilious annoyance characteristic of his kind. “Average sensor range is barely one hundred kilometers, and the nebula’s diameter exceeds one million kilometers. However, I cannot judge the likelihood of enemy capital ships being present. That is a strategic question beyond my current competence.”
Braga thought furiously. Could the enemy be laying some kind of trap for him? He thought about the string of operational decisions he’d made since arriving at the Calypso system and reluctantly concluded it wa
s possible.
Fortunately, his fleet was robust and well supplied. “Pass to all ships, each to launch two active probes outward, on the same mark. Choose a mark that will allow for a coordinated launch. On the same mark, push our scouts out an extra hundred kilometers.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the Flag Comms chief replied, and set her subordinates to issuing orders.
When the mark came, the holotank view expanded suddenly, like an inflating balloon, to show—
“Bogeys englobing us, sir,” Lexin reported. “Over one hundred capital ships. They’re still moving into position.”
“Shit,” Captain Verdura said, swiveling her chair to face Braga’s. “We have about five minutes, sir.” She visibly restrained herself from barking orders, like a hound quivering to bolt after a fox, as she waited for Braga’s instructions.
Braga ignored her, staring at the holotank, using a full minute of the five. The enemy ships he could see appeared to outmass him by two to one. Even adding in the usual ten percent advantage of Hundred Worlds technology, ship for ship, he’d suddenly gone from comfortable to vulnerable, and he was acutely aware of his inability to see far. No doubt the enemy had better intel.
The way ahead seemed thinly held, though. It might be a trap, but it also could be his salvation. He might yet pull these chestnuts out of the fire, and accomplish his mission to boot.
Braga snapped rapid-fire orders. “Light units to the fore, maximum minesweeping and recon mode. Fleet to accelerate at one-quarter. Heavy cruisers to back up the lights and attack Felicity Station as soon as it comes within range. Carriers, full attack ship and drone launch to supplement our perimeter. All other units to maintain vigilance. We’re assaulting through the ambush and we’ll fight our way out the other side as soon as we’ve destroyed the fuel processing plant.”
His staff scrambled to pass his orders through the network. Attack ships and remote drones blossomed from the carrier launch bays and spread out. Asteroids and moons seemed to leap toward the fleet as his ships accelerated as fast as they dared. Point defense weapons worked overtime to pick off chunks of orbital debris and enemy mines. Ships rocked with explosions and impacts as those efforts sometimes failed.
