Event Horizon (Hellgate)

by Mel Keegan

  “Good enough,” Travers decided, and headed away, leaving the drones to close up and plunge Supply back into its customary darkness.

  The Mercury’s night staff were on, and the halls were quiet. The docking rings were deserted, but from the Wastrel side they heard voices – a tech crew making its way back to the engine deck, arguing about the relative merits of Chiyoda over Zamfir on the firing range. They were all ex-Fleet, and like most veterans they kept their skills honed.

  Lights shone from the stateroom assigned to Ernst Rabelais, and the music issuing from within was pulsing, a little odd to Travers’s ears, not quite enharmonic but old, without the charm and sophistication of Bevan Daku. For a moment he tried to pick out melody or rhythm, and then dismissed the ‘music’ as pure sound. Doubtlessly, it was the noise Rabelais had grown up with and he found it comfortably familiar.

  The stateroom was not dissimilar from the one Travers and Marin shared, with an idling threedee, a wide bed, a recliner by the long armorglass panes with the view of the Drift, a small, personal ’chef. Rabelais had been out of the Infirmary too short a time to put much stamp of individuality on it, but a painting of a square-rigged sailing ship hung opposite the bed, and the open closet displayed an assortment of clothes Travers would have described as quaint. The colors and styles spoke of other centuries, and he would have been surprised to see anything different. Rabelais had read all the history, sampled the different and still changing culture, and through Alexis Rusch he had caught up with the massive, extended clan which traced its lineage back to him. But Travers was unsure how much of their world Rabelais actually wanted – how much he could deal with on any personal level.

  The man himself had set his back to the view of Hellgate and was peering at the labels of two bottles, neither of which he recognized. One was a rum from the warm seas of Borushek’s equatorial region; the other was a tequila from the hot, dry hinterland three hundred kilometers from Elstrom City. Jo Queneau was in the recliner, thumbing through menus on a large handy. She had changed into a black kimono. It flowed around a body that had only just begun to fill out and still looked little like a woman, much less the Kuchini Travers remembered. Vidal sat on the side of the bed, cradling a cup of green tea and looking as if he had lost all interest in any party, while Bill Grant perched on the swivel chair by the threedee, discreetly scanning the trio.

  “Neil.” Vidal stood and held out his hand. “I hoped you’d be here.”

  “Happy return,” Travers said glibly, shaking the offered hand with mock solemnity. “From the dead, that is. Here, brought you something.”

  “Gifts?” Rabelais looked up from the bottles.

  “Welcome back.” Marin passed the cologne to him, and the tunic to Vidal. “Hey, Big Jo, catch.”

  She was quick enough to snatch the datacubes out of the air, and murmured in surprise. “Hey, where did you find Bloedbroeders? I didn’t think anybody remembered them these days.”

  “You’d be surprised what you can turn up on this ship,” Travers told her, “if you know where to look. If you’re staying on, after the war, you’ll find it all. Enjoy.” He let go Vidal’s hand and sat beside him on the side of Rabelais’s enormous bed. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else in the Deep Sky.”

  “Tired,” Vidal admitted, and Travers knew he would have made the confession to no one else.

  “Bed. Sleep,” Marin advised softly.

  “Can’t sleep,” Vidal muttered, as if disgusted with himself.

  “You did when you were right between us.” Marin’s hand fell on Travers’s shoulder. Neil looked up, saw a question in Curtis’s face and nodded minutely.

  Vidal never saw the exchange between them. “Being alone, the dreams hit me,” he said not much above a whisper. “You know.”

  “Which tells you where you’ll be,” Travers said bluffly.

  “Intruding.” Vidal looked away.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Mick.” Travers stood and gestured at the tunic Vidal still held between his hands. “Go and try that on.”

  “It’ll fit like a bloody bag. Everything does.” But Vidal stood and deliberately stepped into Rabelais’s bathroom. “Excuse me while I protect your sensibilities. I look like a hybrid between a fucking xylophone and a coat rack.”

  The bathroom door closed over, and Bill Grant snorted. “You should’ve brought him something useful, like a sandwich.”

  “We just came from dinner,” Marin protested.

  “Which he didn’t eat. I noticed.” Grant gestured with the handy. “He’s getting himself worked up over something.”

  “We’re going back to the Kiev.” Travers jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You don’t know what’s bugging him? Damnit, Bill, you can be an insensitive little sod at times! He’s going to walk back into the same company he used to serve with – the Delta Dragons, the command corps – and you know what they’re going to see. They’ll look at him, and they’ll see a shadow of the Mick Vidal they used to know.”

  “Shit.” Grant had the grace to duck his head. “Sorry. I didn’t even think that far. You can get too caught up in the numbers to see the people.” He turned off the handy, threw it onto the bed and scrubbed his face with both hands. “No point telling him not to go aboard?”

  “Save your breath, Billy. Mick’s got to do what he’s got to do.” Rabelais was experimenting with the cologne. “This is great – I never heard of it before. Then again, how would I have?”

  “They don’t make it anymore,” Marin told him, “but if you’re interested, there’s plenty more where it came from. And I have to agree with him, Bill. Mick’s not going to sit here on the Wastrel as a spectator at one of the pivot points of history! People will have to take him as they find him, and if they don’t like what they see –”

  “They can take their opinion and shove it,” Vidal said as the bathroom door slid open. He was wearing the tunic, and Travers was right. It flowed about him, exotic, exquisite, changing color with his body heat and the lights.

  It was Jo Queneau who graced him with a piercing wolf whistle. Vidal showed her his middle finger, which she ignored. “There’s places in Sark and Elstrom and Hydralis where they’d eat you alive, loverboy.”

  “They’re kinky for bones, are they?” Vidal seemed to scorn himself.

  “Bones have always been chic – among humans,” Rabelais added, and looked down into Queneau’s impassive face. “Sorry, Jo. You know what I mean. You and Mick, you’re engineered. Different. And I like different, you know that well enough.” He leaned down and kissed Queneau’s cheek with a display of old worldly charm.

  For the first time in so long that Travers had forgotten the last time, Vidal actually laughed with a rude, healthy sound. “The Rabelais men seem to like their women big and buff,” he informed Travers. “My father saw Elaine Osman one morning, and didn’t quit till he had the ring on her finger. Charles is a Rabelais through his mother’s side of the family, you know? Go all the way back to great-grandpa himself, and he sees the first Kuchini woman he’s ever set eyes on, in the flesh…”

  It took some moments for Travers to register what he had said, and then he glanced back at Rabelais and Queneau, and actually noticed he had taken her hand and was still holding it.

  “We went through hell together,” Queneau said quietly. “It gives you a whole new perspective on life, Travers.”

  “The reengineered races were out here in the Deep Sky back in my day,” Rabelais protested. “As far as Velcastra – and the family – are concerned, I’m just a ghost. The truth is I even feel like one, but I’m not quite from the damn’ dark ages! But you didn’t see Pakrani or Kuchini or Mazjeet in Elstrom City way back when, and the only Lushi you saw were, uh, well –”

  “Professionals. Hustlers,” Grant said cynically. “I know, Ernst, don’t think you’re about to insult me. Lushi are still far more likely to get into the trade than any other colonials.” He looked down at himself, small in stature with the velvet skin,
luminous eyes and luxurious hair which were typical of his people. “It’s the way we were designed. Blame the environment on Lushiar, if you like … it’s also a big cultural thing.”

  “Cultural? Meaning?” Rabelais angled an odd glance at him.

  Alexis Rusch arrived in the doorway in time to hear most of what Grant had said. “Meaning,” she answered, while Grant himself made vaguely obscene gestures in Rabelais’s direction, “very little is taboo on Lushiar, and most Lushi tend toward comprehensive hedonism, which is the main reason the planet is the foremost vacation spot on the frontier. Don’t take it personally, Doctor Grant. It’s the world that has the Deep Sky green with envy.”

  Grant laughed out loud. “I haven’t been back since I was conscripted! I ought to book a vacation … I remember it differently. Classrooms, odd jobs and trying to figure out what I wanted to do if I actually survived my five-year hitch and got home. My parents are still there.”

  “Alexis.” Vidal opened his arms. “Thanks for coming.”

  She held him gingerly, as if afraid she would break him. “I can’t stay long. I’ve a tonne of work ahead of me, returning to the Kiev.” She let him go, held him at arm’s length. “The Sark. Get used to the new name, Michael. Oddly enough, it seems to sit well on the ship.”

  “It does,” Vidal agreed. “And we’re not making life easier for you, with this project.”

  “The transspace simulator?” A gleam brightened Rusch’s eyes. “Actually, I relish the challenge. Ernst sent me a lot of your results, and I’ve taken a quick look. Some of your parameters don’t agree at the minute levels where the simulation is wrangled by the AI. This means the computer is constantly trimming and tweaking – which is fine, in itself, but it’s causing aberrations.” She looked over at Rabelais and Queneau. “Aberrations, because no existing computer can comprehend transspace, so your core controller keeps trimming and tweaking your simulation to make it conform to e-space logic. You three have actually flown transspace. You know the sim is off by a fraction – the computer doesn’t. What you’re asking me to do is get your parameters to balance out, conforming to transspace, not e-space.”

  “You can work a solution?” Rabelais’s face was a study in optimism.

  “I’m sure I can, using material from Barb and Mark and even Lai’a itself.”

  “She was never happier than when she had her teeth in this kind of project.” Vidal smiled faintly at the memories. “To us kids, she was weird, scientific old Aunt Lex.”

  “Not so much of the old, thank you,” Rusch said tartly.

  “And not so weird, actually,” Rabelais observed. “Alexis, will you drink our health in rum?”

  “I’d be honored.” Rusch sat on the foot of the bed, waiting for him to slop the deep brown spirit into a glass. “Give me a day or two to work through your problem. I’ll get back to you, soon as I can. You might have to test-fly a couple of versions to get it right. Remember, I’m no transspace pilot! I’ll make best guesses based on what I got from Barb, Mark and Lai’a. There’s only three people in the cosmos who’ll know if I guessed right.”

  The remark weighed heavily on them all, and when Vidal smiled the expression had the edge of the predator. “That’ll change. Soon. We get the simulator running properly, and we can train others.”

  She cocked her head at him as she took the drink from Rabelais. “Your health, Michael … Ernst, Jo. And I can see you don’t trust Lai’a.” She tried the rum with appreciative noises. “Tell me, how far don’t you trust Lai’a?”

  For a moment the survivors of Elarne frowned at one another, and it was left for Vidal to say carefully, “It’s a machine. According to Jazinsky we’ve known for years, machines go haywire as soon as they cross the transspace horizon.”

  “It’s not quite a machine,” Rusch said slowly. “Certainly not any kind of machine you and I might be accustomed to. The Resalq AIs are enormously more complex than ours. And then, Lai’a is as different from the conventional Resalq AI as water is from wine. Talking to it, you have to remind yourself it’s not actually alive. It can be like talking to Mark Sherratt.”

  Vidal seemed to hunt for words, perhaps even for the kernel of what he meant. “Illusion,” he said at last. “The more sophisticated they get, the more personality an interface designer has imbued them with, the more an AI can imitate life. Doesn’t mean it’s alive, and behind the mask it’s as much a machine as the contraptions that go haywire in transspace.”

  “Oh, I know,” Rusch said quickly. “But think about this, Michael. Any AI pilot we ever sent into transspace was operating on a more or less standard platform. The probe AIs have always been upgraded versions of existing navigation computers. Machines with one single purpose, limited memory capacity, no potential to learn, no real self-awareness or sense of self-preservation. Oh yes, they monitored their systems, temperature, power and rad levels, what have you. But dumb machines have been doing this for over six centuries, and nobody ever mistook a camera for an artificial intelligence because it knew to switch itself off when it overheated! Our AI probe pilots were jumped-up navtanks. Lai’a …” Her brows arched and she looked over the rim of her glass at Marin. “Do you ever feel like it looks at you?”

  “As if it’s interested in what you’re thinking,” Marin agreed, “and your opinion might give it a new perspective, help it learn. I’ve felt that. It’s very much Mark’s child.”

  “Exactly my point.” Rusch turned back to Vidal, Rabelais and Queneau. “It’s like no machine you ever worked with before. Don’t sell it short.”

  “We don’t,” Vidal said quietly, “but even if Lai’a were alive, Alexis, even if it were sentient, it’s still one entity. One mind, or brain, or whatever you think is the appropriate term for an intelligence balanced on the point where a mechanism crosses the line into life. Ernst will tell you the truth … in transspace, having just one of anything is risky. Going into Elarne with one pilot qualified to shoot the rapids between the Orpheus Gate and the Orion Gate?”

  “Suicide,” Rabelais said succinctly. “Living or machine, it doesn’t matter – Lai’a could be the best in the business, and probably is, but it’s one. Where’s your backup?”

  “Now, there is your bottom line. I’ll buy that.” Rusch drained the glass and handed it to Travers. “You’ll have your simulation fixes – a day or two. Certainly before we drop out at Omaru.” She looked speculatively at Travers and Marin. “You two will be trying your hand at transspace.”

  “Us, and Perlman and Fargo.” Marin took a long deep breath. “Between us, we should be able to develop the skills to avoid this bottom line of yours.”

  Queneau reached for another tequila. “Murphy’s Second Law: disasters that can be predicted will always be underestimated.”

  “Not,” Vidal said acidly, “if we can help it!” He sat on the bedside again and his chin rested on his chest, as if he were running on power cells that had suddenly drained. “I gotta get some shuteye.”

  Bill Grant was moving at once. “Infirmary.”

  “No,” Vidal grumbled. “I never sleep there.”

  “I can give you something –”

  “No more drugs!” He made sharp, dismissive gestures.

  “You’re the boss,” Grant sighed. He had been nursing a tequila, and finished it in one toss. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning for your shots.”

  “05:00. I’ll be there,” Vidal swore.

  “Then, get some rest, wherever you decide to crash.” The Lushi was on his way, and turned back only to give the rest of the company a wry smile. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

  “I need to be leaving too.” Rusch was a pace behind him. “I’ve a week and a half’s work to do and four days to do it in.” She hovered over Vidal, almost about to say something, and then seemed to think better of it. “Take care of yourself, Michael, since you won’t let Doctor Grant do the job.”

  The snapped retort was clearly hovering on his lips – Travers heard it, though Vi
dal never spoke. Mick sealed his lips, nodded, and forced a smile as he looked up at the woman who had been his mentor as he headed into Fleet. “Get some sleep yourself, Alexis. If you think the Kiev is going to be fun, and the battle group will just roll over and play dead when it’s told to, you’re due for a wicked shock.”

  “I never said word one about fun,” she said shrewdly, “and as for the battle group, it was me warning Harrison about what we can expect.”

  “About turning our guns on old comrades,” Vidal said darkly.

  She looked over his head at Travers and Marin, and it seemed to Travers that her face was lined with pain. “I promise you, we’ll shoot to disable,” she said in a rasp, harsh in her throat. “You don’t trust my people? You want to take Tactical yourself, on the – the Sark?”

  His head came up fast at that, and the tiredness was gone from his eyes. “You’re serious?”

  “Dead serious.” Rusch stepped back, folded her arms and studied him with a deliberately rude scrutiny. “You want it, Michael, it’s yours. When push comes to shove, Colonel Vidal can take Tactical in the Ops room of the Sark, and if those ships can be stopped before whatever lunatic commanding officers can either hurt us or make it out of the Omaru system, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

  “Do it,” Travers whispered. “If anyone can do it, Mick, you can. You and Hubler, and maybe Rodman. We watched the three of you at Ulrand.” It was more than half a question, and he lifted one brow at Rusch.

  The woman nodded assent at once. “If you want them beside you when it happens, you can have them. My own officers would welcome the chance to get out of the hot seat, pass the buck to a specialist Tac team and not have to live with the consequences.” Her tone sharpened. “And make no mistake, Michael. There will be consequences, and you’ll live with them, if only as burdens of conscience. I’m sure Harrison would be willing to write off seventy percent of the battle group as legitimate collateral damage, but can you live with those numbers?”