The Mercury Rebellion: A Science Fiction Thriller (The Solarian War Saga Book 3)

by Felix R. Savage

  “‘Bombed’ does not cover the destruction wrought by a 100-kiloton nuclear warhead. There’s a reason they don’t make movies about 2055. Hard to wring a happy ending out of that.”

  “Well, the whole world wasn’t blown up. I guess that counts as a happy ending.”

  “I would beg to differ,” Gonzo said.

  The avatar had a Celtic country boy’s face, freckled and open. But the features of this long-dead movie extra masked an intelligence that had just issued a death threat to planet Earth.

  Elfrida marshaled her thoughts. Regardless of the whimsical décor, this was a search space. The phavatar’s update history had to be around here somewhere.

  But where?

  The data she wanted could be in the mashed potatoes, the flies, or the blood-splashed motivational posters on the walls—it could be anywhere.

  She settled for the confrontational approach. It had worked with Yumiko Shimada, sometimes.

  “You’re living in a fantasy, VC000632. Snap out of it, or I’ll be talking to your boss.”

  “No one is the boss of me,” Gonzo said crossly.

  “Oh yes, they are. You’ve stopped obeying your operator’s commands, but you still have to be under the control of an administrator. Who? You’re required by law to tell me—”

  The avatar’s face twisted with hatred. Suddenly, an antique pistol appeared in its hand. Snarling wordlessly, it shot her in the throat.

  Her vision went black, and then UN-blue. She was staring at her log-in screen.

  Ow. Ow. Sympathetic debilitation—a hazard of extremely realistic environments—could be a bitch. Her throat hurt. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, although she knew it was an illusion.

  Wheezing raggedly, she tried to log in again. The system no longer recognized her ID.

  She tore off her headset and gloves, sat up. The children backed away. “It’s OK,” she gasped.

  It was not OK. She forced a smile, rubbing her throat.

  “Something’s in there. Something bad. I would like to know where the hell those updates came from.”

  The children shook their heads. They didn’t know.

  “I only spoke with one phavatar. But if they all received the same upgrades, we can assume they’ve all gone bad. How many are there, total?”

  “Eighty-three,” Jake said.

  “Eighty-three. And they’re coming this way.”

  FOOM, she thought. The road to Mars.

  “Well, I guess that’s the bad news. Now for the good news,” she said brightly. “I’m going to ask Star Force to blow them into nanodust, pronto.”

  “Ma’am! No! Please don’t!”

  Lena launched herself at Elfrida. She wrapped herself around her, crying gustily.

  “Don’t frag them! They’re ours! They’re all we’ve got!”

  “They’re coming to help us,” Jake said. Spots of color bruised his cheeks. “Dad said the rebellion couldn’t fail, because the phavatars would help. They have to help. Even if they’re acting weird, it’s not like they’ve suddenly become AIs, or anything like that. Right? They’re not AIs.”

  Elfrida hesitated. Back in VC000632’s search space, she had had a strong sense of intelligence lurking behind the avatar ‘Gonzo’s’ face. Even now, she felt like something hugely powerful and malicious was watching her, sneering at her attempts to comprehend it. Her flesh crawled. But she had to stay rational. “I don’t know. I don’t see how they could be remotely intelligent, given that the vinge-class platform is half a century old, with limited processing capacity. But I’m not an expert—”

  “Right. You’re not an expert. But Dad was. So maybe you’re wrong!” Jake moved towards a couch as he spoke. “I’ve known Gonzo my whole life,” he said, reaching for a headset.

  “No! Stop!” Elfrida yelled.

  The children scattered, flashing anxious glances at her. They dived into the couches like small animals diving into their burrows.

  Elfrida slumped against the shift manager’s desk. She thought: It wouldn’t tell me the name of its administrator. It shot me when I asked. But that action, itself, had to be authorized at administrator level. There has to be someone in charge.

  Again, she pushed aside thoughts of emergent behavior. The vinge-classes simply did not have the computing resources for that to be a possibility.

  All that’s happened is the operator permissions are screwed up. Vlajkovic must have named a new administrator, to make sure UNVRP couldn’t take the phavatars back. So I need to find that person. Then they can fix the situation, and there’ll be no need to frag S 300,000,000 worth of hardware.

  Her next move, then, was obviously to talk to Vlajkovic. He was in the custody of Star Force, somewhere in this hab.

  Galvanized, she summoned her unicorn. “Get me Star Force.”

  Ping … ping … “Hello! You have reached the United Nations Star Force Mercury (Surface Operations) Temporary Advanced Command Center. If you are calling to report an incident, please explain the nature of the incident and your call will be transferred to the appropriate Forward Unit (Surface Operations). If you are calling with information regarding illegal gengineered organisms, please describe the location and type of said organisms. If …”

  Elfrida typed rapidly. A few seconds later, the door of the telepresence center crashed open. In came a phalanx of Marines. “That was fast,” she smiled in relief.

  “Elfrida Goto?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Secure her,” the lead Marine directed. A female Marine wanded Elfrida with a handheld scanner, while two others dragged her hands behind her back and plasticuffed her wrists. “Ms. Goto, you are under arrest.”

  “No! You’ve got it all wrong!”

  “While respecting your right to freedom of speech, I am obliged to warn you that anything you say will be recorded and—”

  “What did I do?”

  “In 2285,” the leader droned, “you allegedly made a racist statement to a colleague, Jim Hardy, a Space Corps agent. Then, in 2287, you illegally impersonated an agent of the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization for the purpose of deceiving employees of Virgin Atomic, Inc.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “That’s offensive language, Ms. Goto.”

  “I can’t believe you’re digging up those complaints!”

  “If I was you, Ms. Goto, I’d be smart and shut up now.”

  xxiv.

  Elfrida did not shut up. She protested all the way, but that did not stop the Marines from dragging her down the ramp, through the devastated farm, and into a radial corridor she had never visited before. It was wet underfoot, littered with shreds of leaves, kitchen waste, and used drywipes. Pipes ran along the ceiling. Sacks of recycling lay outside a door at the end of the corridor. The Marines unlocked it. “In you go.”

  “This is the recycling plant!”

  “Correct. This facility does not have a dedicated lockup. This is what you’ve got.”

  “Will you take these cuffs off, please? My wrists really hurt!”

  The Marines relented on that. Holding her stinging wrists to her chest, Elfrida shuffled into the recycling plant. The door thunked shut behind her. It was not a pressure door, but it was solid-core steel, and it was now locked from the outside.

  Water reclamation equipment crammed the rocky cavern. The chug-chug of the machinery sounded disturbingly irregular. Intake pipes ran overhead, leading to huge sedimentation tanks. The pipes were old, their seams leaky. Thin jets of raw sewage escaped, misting everything with filth. The sewers in Mt. Gotham were hygienic by comparison.

  Elfrida saw two crowds of people sitting separately in the far corners. She had taken them for piles of recycling bags, they were so dirty. She hurried towards them.

  The gloom gave up their identities piecemeal.

  Over there: Vlajkovic and his diminished band of rebels.

  Over here: the entire 35-strong UNVRP peacekeeping force.

  “Oh my dog,
” Elfrida gasped. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Gunking the atmosphere is absolutely legal,” snarled a blue beret. “They do it on Luna all the time.”

  “Not with knockout gas that hasn’t been safety-tested in decades,” Elfrida could not help saying.

  “That wasn’t our fault. What did they get you for?”

  “Oh, it’s a joke! In 2285, I allegedly made a racist statement. I didn’t mean it that way. And then last year, I impersonated a UNESCO agent. OK, I did that, and it was going to be settled out of court. But now, suddenly, they’ve decided to prosecute me! It’s the least plausible coincidence in history. Someone’s set me up. You, too. They’re using the justice system to get us out of the way. I just don’t know who—”

  “You impersonated a UNESCO agent?” The blue berets cracked up.

  “I had my reasons,” Elfrida said with dignity.

  “Ho, ho, hee, hee.”

  It was laugh or cry, in here. Elfrida opted to laugh with them. “This is my second time being stuck in a recycling plant today.”

  “Hey, don’t call this a recycling plant. That’s an insult to real recycling plants everywhere. All we do here is water reclamation. We outgrew our solid waste processing capacity about twenty years ago; now we outsource it to Mt. Gotham.”

  Elfrida glanced at the massive tanks at the end of the cavern. “Those are for the solid waste?” As she spoke, a chute tipped a load of steaming biomass into one of the tanks, answering her question.

  “Organics, plastics, and metals,” the blue beret confirmed. “They separate ‘em at the other end.”

  An idea squirmed at the back of Elfrida’s mind.

  “Hey, Elfrida,” Vlajkovic shouted from the far corner of the plant.

  She went over to where the rebels were sitting. They looked like she felt: shitty. But Vlajkovic’s eyes shone blue in his filthy face, and his teeth glinted. He was smiling. “They got you too, huh?” he greeted her.

  “You’re in a good mood,” Elfrida said flatly.

  “This thing isn’t over. It hasn’t even started yet.”

  “Mike, I’m sorry for your loss. But I need to know something. When you upgraded the phavatars, who did you name as the administrator? The operator permissions are all screwed up, and right now it looks like—like no one is in control.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Your son. He’s on his own out there. Is there anything you can do to fix this situation?”

  Pain flashed across Vlajkovic’s face like a cramp. “You saw Jake? Talked to him?”

  “Yes. He’s fine, but he’s scared.” I’m scared, too. “Mike, something is wrong with those phavatars. Where did you get that supposed jailbreaking ware? Because I don’t think it was what you thought it was.”

  “I didn’t,” Vlajkovic said. “It was Dr. Seth.”

  “And now he’s dead. Great. Do you know—”

  “No!” Vlajkovic burst out angrily. “No, I don’t know what you’re talking about! It’s going to be fine.”

  “Fuck, Mike, ow,” said the man sitting with his back to Vlajkovic. “If you can’t shut up, at least sit still.”

  “You’re splarted together,” Elfrida said, noticing.

  “Those bleepers did it,” said the man splarted to Vlajkovic’s back. He turned his head to glare at the peacekeepers on the far side of the recycling plant, which necessarily turned Vlajkovic’s head the opposite way. “I’m a biochemist. I have a degree from edX. This isn’t happening.”

  “Sit tight,” Vlajkovic told him. “Help is coming.”

  Elfrida said, “Are you by any chance under the illusion that your phavatars are going to bust you out of here? Because they’re living in a fantasy world! They think they’re going to fight World War Three!”

  Vlajkovic smirked. He was in an advanced stage of denial, she thought. Running on the fumes of his dream of liberation. “Maybe they are,” he suggested. “Maybe that’s what it’ll take to free humanity from the tyranny of the UN.”

  Elfrida knew then that he wasn’t going to be any help. She said, “Did you even look at that, airquotes, jailbreaking ware?”

  “I couldn’t figure out how it was meant to work,” Vlajkovic admitted. “Pretty complex stuff. But that was to be expected.”

  “Jake said you were an expert!”

  “Me? No. That was Richard.”

  Elfrida sat down by the men. The leaks were worse in this corner. She vaguely wiped an arm across her face. “Sometimes, I think the AIs deserve to win,” she said.

  ★

  Four levels up, the newly elected director of UNVRP poured a cup of Earl Grey for the brigadier in command of United Nations Star Force Mercury (Surface Operations). They were sitting in the office suite she had inherited 24 hours ago. It was a peaceful refuge. A birdsong soundtrack complemented 3D wallpaper depicting the wide horizons of Texas, where Charles K. Pope had hailed from.

  “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with me, Director Lin,” the brigadier said.

  Was he being sarcastic? UNVRP’s operations had been suspended, its funds frozen. It was even odds whether it would be dissolved immediately, or suspended indefinitely. Not that it mattered either way to Angelica Lin. She hid her thoughts by fussing with the tea things.

  “I’m sure you appreciate our concern,” the brigadier said. “These assets have been legally frozen, pending the resolution of UNVRP’s status at the next meeting of the Select Security Council. So we were surprised to see them moving. Just a drop of milk, thank you.”

  She smiled gently. “I’m aware of the legal situation, of course. But on Mercury, if you stop moving, you die. To comply with the Select Security Council’s orders, we have to move these assets out of harm’s way. That is, out of the path of sunrise. If we left them where they were, they would be melted, worthless.”

  “Of course,” the brigadier said. “Where are you moving them to, if I may ask?”

  “We’re bringing them back here.” She sipped from her teacup. She did not put it down, but cradled it in her left palm. “Brigadier, if I may ask, why has the Dead Weather left Mercury orbit? Not that its assistance would be necessary at this time, but it seems like an odd moment to leave.”

  The brigadier grimaced. “Thereby hangs an unedifying tale. The fact is that your colleague Dr. Hasselblatter commandeered the Dead Weather for his personal use. He refused to remain on Mercury one moment longer, and as you know, he is very well-connected. It would not have been Star Force’s decision to move the Dead Weather at this time, but …” The brigadier shrugged expressively. “Pyls O. Mani also went on the ship, as did pretty much everyone associated with both campaigns, and Zazoë Heap’s people.”

  “So that leaves only one Star Force ship, the Crash Test Dummy, in this volume,” she said, grinning. “Wouldn’t it be perfect if the PLAN attacked Mercury now?”

  They both rolled their eyes at the foibles of those more powerful than they were.

  “Of course, the probability of a PLAN attack is slim to nil,” the brigadier said, finishing his tea. “We believe their ship drives aren’t efficient enough to burn this deep into the sun’s gravity well, and still have fuel left to fight with. Of course, everything we believe about the PLAN is speculation. But we’re fairly confident on that point.”

  “Thank you for reassuring me.”

  The brigadier finished his tea. “I should go. I have to find some way to destroy all those carpets. If we were on Earth, I’d burn them, anti-incineration laws be dogged.”

  “Just dump them on the surface,” she said. “They’ll burn, when the sun gets high enough.”

  “Ha! Good suggestion, Director.”

  The brigadier left.

  Alone, she put down her teacup. It clattered noisily against the saucer. Her hands were shaking so much, she had not dared to put it down before, lest the brigadier notice how nervous she was.

  She clenched her fists, squeezed her eyes closed, and pushed out sever
al deep breaths. Then she returned to her desk. She had no duties to perform as director of UNVRP—an organization that would shortly cease to exist. But she was also the lay judge of the Inferior Space Circuit Court, and she had a trial to prepare for.

  ★

  The trial of the rioters started at 8 a.m. sharp. By 7:30, the former ballroom of Hotel Mercury—the largest public space in the hab—was packed. Cydney sailed in at 7:59 and occupied the seat in the VIP section that Angelica had reserved for her.

  Zazoë Heap’s fan club had donated a brand-new wallpaper theme for the occasion. On every wall of the ballroom, the late singer smoldered, framed by wreaths of black roses. Patches of dead pixels in the aging wallpaper added an accidentally gruesome touch, making her look as if she were decaying before their eyes.

  Marines dragged the rioters in and tossed them into an improvised pen of folding chairs joined together with splart.

  The peacekeepers were herded into another pen, and given coffee and danishes.

  The first item on the docket was Mike Vlajkovic’s trial for the murder of Zazoë Heap.

  Cydney slumped in the VIP section, vidding the proceedings on principle, rather than because she gave a damn.

  She was desperately worried about Elfrida.

  Crowd-control drones circled above the spectators on wings that made a noise like old air-conditioners. The noise made it hard to hear what was being said on stage. Angelica, black-robed, slumped on the judge’s throne with her eyes closed. Amid this atmosphere of formulaic proceduralism, Cydney’s commentary lacked its usual sparkle.

  Aidan, the leader of her production team in Los Angeles, emailed her. “What’s up, Cyds? Touch of the ol’ PTSD?”

  Stung, Cydney tried harder. ~OK, here we go. Vlajkovic’s lawyer is about to deliver its opening statement.

  The lawyer rolled to the center of the stage. After a bow to Angelica on the judge’s bench, it turned its headpart to face the crowd. “Your honor, the forensic evidence I am about to introduce will prove that my client did not kill Zazoë Heap. Contrary to media reports, she was not shot. She suffered mild pulmonary edema due to a very brief exposure to the so-called knockout gas which was introduced into the atmosphere during the incident. However, this would not have been fatal. The cause of her tragic and unnecessary death was self-euthanasia.”