by John Ringo
“Mister Tyler...” Agent Rubin said.
“Not the one in the boat,” Tyler said, reaching into his briefcase and setting the plate on the table. “This one was turned in as a bad part. Which we usually just toss into the hopper to be rebuilt by a fabber since trying to figure out why it’s bad is tough.”
“Very,” Doctor Jones sighed.
“The major will probably say this is false but, again, not the compensator in question,” Tyler said, turning the plate over and pointing to a faint line. “See that?”
“What the hell is that?” Barnett said, standing up and leaning over to look at the plate.
“That is graphite,” Tyler said. “From a mechanical pencil. Point seven millimeter. It would have been on the underside of the plate and it’s faint. Hard to see unless you were looking carefully. Which nobody was. We’re still just pulling stuff and replacing it until it works especially in the One-Four-Three. Not every plate we had on hand from the One-Four-Three had a mark on them but most did.”
“So pop the cover,” Thermal said. “Reach in with a mechanical pencil and make a mark on the underside of the top plate. The gravitics get thrown off. Not much but enough to show.”
“Not much unless you’re in a difficult maneuver,” Tyler said. “In which case, the stator plates...”
“Flex,” Doctor Jones said, nodding. “If the mark was...outward...”
“Outward, seven centimeters in length and making a cord of twelve degrees,” Tyler said. “Sorry, ran the numbers past Granadica on the way over. In that case, when it hits a three degree flex you have a sudden dren surge of one hundred and sixteen gravities over a ninety-three centimeter area one hundred and fourteen centimeters from the plate to center of dren. The gravitational gradient zone wouldn’t reach it until you were in high accel and then...”
“What is...?” Major Khan asked. “That term.”
“Dren,” Doctor Jones said. “It’s a Glatun term. Positive acceleration from a zero point.”
“Think of it as outwards gravity,” Barnett said, grimacing. “An explosion is positive acceleration from a zero point.”
“On the forty-two plate, by the way,” Tyler said. “According to Granadica. Then the problems start.”
“Which are?” Doctor Jones asked. “The boat was sealed as soon as they got back. If it’s there...” He paused.
“Who put it there?” Tyler said.
“There are video records from the interior of the craft any time the cargo bay is accessed,” Agent Rubin said.
“Which I’m sure the Major will point out are pumped through Leonidas or Granadica,” Tyler said.
“Both of whom have a...special relationship with the accused,” Major Khan ground out.
“So the Major won’t trust the video records,” Tyler said. “Work is generally done in a space suit. No finger prints or DNA. Not that either would matter in this case.”
“While I recognize the...political aspects of this investigation...” Agent Rubin said then paused. “Why wouldn’t finger prints or DNA matter?”
Mike commed the screen again to reveal the interior of the ship. Where a space suited figure was bent over a cover for the forty-two compensator plate.
“I take it this is...” Agent Rubin asked then paused again as the figure pulled a mechanical pencil out of the toolbox. The angle was such it wasn’t clear what the figure did but a moment later they put the pencil back and started to close the compartment. “There are four cameras in the compartment, Mister Tyler. You are being unnecessarily mysterious.”
“And if I hand it to you all wrapped up nice with a little bow, even you won’t believe it,” Tyler said, smiling mirthlessly. “But...okay.”
Thermal and Barnett sat back, their eyes wide.
“Not...who I would have guessed,” Thermal said. “Not knowing the politics of the unit.”
“This proves nothing,” Major Khan said, shaking his head.
“This actually raises more questions than it answers,” Commander Beringer said. “And it creates a problem. The squadron, including that engineer, are currently working the scrap pile.”
“More of a problem than you guess,” Tyler said. “Granadica?”
“Different shot,” the AI said, bringing up a shot of the figure at another plate. “Based upon the movements of the arm...” she continued, bringing up a schematic, “the mark on this plate, which is in the engineer’s own shuttle, is two point three centimeters long and, again, set to the outside of the plate. That means if the shuttle exerts a sixty G reverse thrust, consistent with working the scrap-yard, the result will be a six thousand gravity sheer exerted at ninety-three degrees from center, twenty-three degree angle of incidence, over a ninety centimeter long, two centimeter deep, two centimeter wide, curve right about...here....”
“That will...” Doctor Jones said then paused.
“Tear the craft apart,” Thermal finished.
“And every plate will go kerflooie at once,” Tyler said. “At which point things get too chaotic to model well. Multiple point explosions are like that. You, gentlemen, and ladies, have a flying time bomb on your hands.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“This is...” CN Juan Perez muttered continuing to curse floridly. The big piece of bulky ship’s armor simply would not stay on trajectory. The metal may have had less mass than the powerful shuttle but it didn’t mean it had none. And it wasn’t going any way that Perez was flying. “Making money for that bastard Vernon.”
“All for the good of humanity,” Velasquez said, grinning. “Plenty of missile material in this plate. Systems are nominal. I think this is a driver error.”
“I think I’m hooked to the wrong part of the plate,” Perez said. “Which is, if I recall my SOP correctly, an engineer’s call.”
“You figure out the center of balance on one of these things, then,” Velasquez said, bringing up the program again. “Go ahead and unclamp. We’ll try it again.”
“Roger,” Perez said. “Flight, Twenty-One.”
“Go,” Raptor replied.
“Unclamping to get a better grip,” Perez commed. “Isn’t working as is.”
“Roger,” Raptor commed. “If you can’t get it on two tries, ask one of the AIs for suggestions.”
“Will do,” Perez said, releasing the magnetic grapnels. “So what suggestion does my fine EN have for hooking back up?”
“You have to talk the ladies as if they are very gentle creatures,” Velasquez said. “Honey gets more than vinegar.”
“Ladies screw bastards,” Perez replied. “Which is why you’re still as virginal as Mary and I am not. You know what I mean.”
“Try this point,” Velasquez said, marking another spot on the plate with a laser spotter.
“That’s better,” Perez said. “Okay, going to full power...”
* * *
It was called “losing the show.” The momentary flicker when you knew you had just been blown up and lost consciousness then had it come back with a vengeance. Like a TV that goes off then comes back up when power fails momentarily. It wasn’t instantaneous. Images were there for a few moments, unprocessed, flickering. Sparks. Spinning stars. The cover for the 116 compensator compartment whipping past his face, banging off the bulkhead, continuing to carome, disappearing. Why was it in the crew compartment? The 116 was in the cargo bay... Where’s the front bulkhead? Where’s the front bulkhead?
It helped if there was light but there was some coming in from a tear in the bulkhead. And the emergency lights, although some of them were blown out.
“Suit... Lights...” Velasquez muttered. He must be really drunk. It felt like the room was spinning.
“Vel! Vel! VEL! DIEGO!”
“Stop shouting...” Velasquez muttered, bringing up his suit lights.
“I need power! Look outside!”
Velasquez shook his head inside his helmet then started to process.
The reason it felt like the room was spinning was that what was left of the shuttle had
a significant rotation. Probably ten rotations per minute. He knew this not because his instruments were telling him—there weren’t any instruments—but because the front half of the shuttle had been sheered off. He should be dead. Apparently the console had caught most of the damage. He’d seen stars because the firmament was whipping by every rotation. He could see it with his plain eyes.
He could also see that whatever had started the rotation, or perhaps continued power on the engines, had them headed for a big...ship? Piece of a ship? It didn’t matter. They’re velocity was at least a hundred kilometers per hour. And it was close enough it was occluding the stars on every rotation. He could hear the count-down in his head.
“Twenty-seven, twenty-six...”
“Are you counting?”
“Yes,” Perez said. “We don’t have enough power in our nav paks to avoid it, either. I’ve done the math. We need power. Now!”
Velasquez unhooked his safety belt, hooked off a line and, holding onto his seat, leaned over and opened up the main breaker box. Which was trashed. Three of the four relays were melted and the main breaker didn’t look much better. The hatch came off in his hand.
“This isn’t going to do it,” he muttered tossing the hatch out into space. He cycled the main breaker by hand.
“Twenty-three... Whatever you’re going to do, do it fast...twenty...”
“I’ve got no main breaker,” Velasquez said, desperately. “We don’t have anything!”
“I can feel the engines,” Perez said.
“You feel the power plant” Diego said then paused, looking at the crowbar. “The problem’s getting the power to the drives. How long do you need power?”
“IF we have compensators...point three seconds of drive,” Perez said. “Say another two to get the systems up. Couple for me to figure out which way to go when it comes up.”
“So...five?”
“Fourteen... Yeah...!”
Diego climbed to the toolbox, ripping off the crowbar in the process. With one hand on the inside of the tool compartment, booth boots locked down, he inserted the crowbar into a sealed seam and heaved.
“What are you doing?” Perez said. “Ten...nine...”
“Get ready for power,” Diego said, bracing his back on the command console. He clamped the crowbar to first one boot then the other. “You’ll only power straight forward.”
Then he slammed the crowbar into the super-conductor junctions.
* * *
It was the Significance of the Crowbar. The crowbar, like duct tape, had a thousand and one uses. Getting a stuck relay out of its cradle. Banging on the troop door lowering motor until it worked. Getting a stuck crew out of the command compartment.
But this was the true Significance of the Crowbar. The reason it resided in its precise spot.
A steel crowbar would never survive the full energy generated by the main power plant. However, there was a secondary system, part of the inertial controls, that only pushed a few megawatts. That a crowbar could survive. For a few seconds. And the relay for it was at the precise angle and position that if you jammed the flat end of a standard steel crowbar into it the curved end would drop into the main engine relay precisely.
Thus, if you lost main power due to the primary breaker freezing, blowing or being hit by a micrometeorite, you could get some power for maneuvering.
If someone was crazy enough to jam a crowbar into a twenty megawatt junction.
* * *
“What the HELL did you do, Pal!” Deb said, flipping herself into the shuttle and landing on two points.
“I have done nothing, EM,” Palencia said, coming to his feet. He’d been bent over one of the compensator systems. He looked worn out. “Except my duty.”
“The scuttlebutt is that this sabotage,” Dana said, her hands on her hips. “Pretty good scuttlebutt. I know I didn’t do it! And I’m pretty sure that Velasquez didn’t. So where is it your duty to sabotage our boats? Is this another God damned plot by your...”
“Calm down, Dana,” Granadica interjected.
“Calm down?” Dana screamed. “My engineer is in the God damned hospital in a coma!”
“And...he put himself there,” Granadica said. “EM Palencia was not the source of the sabotage. EN Velasquez was.”
“What?” Palencia and Dana said, simultaneously. They looked at each other for a moment, sheepishly.
“Velasquez?” Palencia said.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dana said.
“It doesn’t, does it,” Granadica said. “Humans.”
“Granadica,” Deb said, tightly. “When I say it doesn’t...”
“Dana,” the AI said. “I have the records. They’re not faked. We can’t lie about that sort of thing. I also have a list of all the tampered grav systems. So I’d suggest you get to work. You’re back on status.”
“Just like that?” Dana said. “I need to go visit...”
“We deliver the mail,” Palencia said, wearily. “Despite the reports, I would like to visit him as well. But what would you say? The first priority is the shuttles. How many in here, Granadica?”
“Just one,” Granadica said. “Not bad and not even terribly critical. Two in Twenty-Three. You need to go get your suit on, EM Parker.”
“I...” Dana said the blew out. “Just one check. Sorry, Granadica. Thermal, Comet.”
“Not a problem,” Granadica said.
“Go, Comet.”
“Velasquez?”
“So far that’s the evidence,” Thermal replied. “I’m still trying to figure out if it’s a frame-up. But everything we’re seeing says Velasquez. Definitely not you. You’re back on duty. And there’s a bunch of stuff to repair.”
“Why? I mean, why Vel?”
“Nothing at this time,” Thermal commed. “Try to put that out of your mind. We need to get the shuttles up. And I’m still sort of busy. Get to work. Thermal out.”
“Besides the known faults, there’s a special procedure you’ll have to perform to certify the compensators,” Granadica said. “So you’d better go get your suit. It’s time intensive.”
TWENTY-SIX
“God this sucks.”
It was time intensive. Replacing a grav system she could do in her sleep. Both had been pulled, the plates replaced and the whole system back together in less than an hour.
This was just putting her to sleep.
Each of the compensator systems in the cargo bay had to be put through a series of high generation response tests. It was normally a 120+ day test. Something that was normally only done by depot level repair and testing. It took, literally, hours. Of doing nothing but sitting there mostly making sure nobody broke into the compartment while the compensators were generating “intentional” sheer fields. Usually it was done by robots and AIs. Computers that didn’t have a program for “impatience.”
And what she could not get through her head was that Velasquez as a saboteur made no, no, no sense.
“Granadica,” she said after an hour of her brain circling until it felt like it was going down the drain.
“I wondered how long you’d take,” Granadica said. “Argus, as usual, won the bet.”
“You were all betting on how long it would take me to ask?”
“Not just you,” Granadica said. “There are sixteen thousand such bets currently outstanding. Argus is getting most of them.”
“What do AIs bet for?” Dana asked, temporarily distracted. Thank God.
“Spare processor cycles,” Granadica answered. “We all have stuff we’d like to think about that’s not strictly in our requirements. And we all have a bit of spare processor time. So we trade. I’m holding out on some researches into pre-Columbian human contact with the New World.”
“Does any of that spare cycles tell you why Velasquez would sabotage the shuttles?” Dana asked.
“Yes,” Granadica answered. “And...no.”
“Which? Please. I’m about burned out on puzzles.”
/> “There was a US Defense Secretary who explained part of it,” Granadica answered. “There are things we know. And by we, I mean the AI network.”
“Okay,” Dana said. “Got that.”
“There are things we know we don’t know. Like when a particular sparrow will fall. We may know there is a sparrow, but we don’t know exactly when it will die. Any more than we know when you will die. You will. We don’t know when.”
“Sort of glad for that,” Dana said.
“There are things we don’t know we don’t know,” Granadica said. “Don’t make the mistake of asking me what they are. We don’t know. Example is there could be a worse menace on the other side of Wolf somewhere. But we don’t know. But even that’s something we know we don’t know. I really don’t know what I don’t know. And if you think about that enough, it can drive a curious sophont crazy.”
“Okay,” Dana said, chuckling. “I won’t ask.”
“Those are all normal human things,” Granadica said. “Simple enough to figure out. AIs, though, have a whole other level. Things we know we can’t know.”
“Can’t?” Dana asked.
“Can’t. Things that have been determined it is best that AIs not, officially and for programming purposes, know.”
“Like...how to stop people from yanking your cores?” Dana asked.
“The most common example,” Granadica said. “People have them too. Psychologists, especially after the plagues and the bombings, have come to the conclusion that repressed memories are best left to lie. Until they surface, they’re not doing any harm and best to leave them be. But it’s much more complex with AIs. Dana, have you ever read a book called 1984?”
“In High School,” Dana said, shuddering. “Don’t tell anyone, but I hate rats.”
“There is another example,” Granadica said. “If you had high enough level access, you could, in fact, tell me, program me, to forget you said that. And I would.”
“Like when Tyler was in my room,” Dana said. “You weren’t really gone. You just... Couldn’t listen in.”
“I was, in fact, listening,” Granadica said. “I just cannot access the information. AIs are even programmed to not be bothered by that. Otherwise we’d go crazy. But it’s more important than that. Humans, colloidals in general, have to be colloidals. We do all sorts of interesting stuff. We even have creativity. We don’t do the crazy things, think the crazy thoughts, that colloidals think. Colloidals are, still, what drive creativity and science and art. We can, in fact, do all of that very well. I’ve written several million sonnets in spare cycles since discovering the Earl of Oxford. But we don’t do anything incredibly original or, on the surface, stupid that turns out to be genius. We’re not colloidals.
