Risk Analysis (Draft 04 -- Reading Script)

by David Collins-Rivera

  "From up here, you can see it all. Our own little workshop is over that way, the red door -- we'll make our way there eventually. It's not much. Understand something, though, Ejoq... Onboard Defense is its own Sub-Department."

  "No one said anything to the contrary to me," I told her, but she just frowned.

  "They will. Mostly, we work with three other groups: Hull Design, Power GenDis...uh, Generation and Distribution, and Computers. You're a real commercial gunner then?"

  The non sequitur caught me off-balance, but I nodded.

  "Uh, yeah. Civilian Class. Licensed for work here in Corporate, back in the Alliance, and over in Noblespace...gotta renew that one soon," I muttered, just thinking of it then.

  "No love for the Papals?"

  "Never been," I confessed, and shrugged. "I work the borders on this end of AINspace. It's where the jobs are."

  "If all goes well, this could be a long term position. Does that interest you?"

  It was a legitimate question, and one I'd rather been expecting, yet...suddenly, it felt like she was fishing.

  As a manager, she would want to know if her new employee intended to hang around, but maybe it was more than that.

  Was she, in fact, on the look-out for spies?

  Well, probably everyone was around here, and for spies of many stripes: on top of the immense security in place, the various Sub-Departments of R&D were seemingly engaged in little internecine wars -- maybe making distrust to the point of paranoia a normal frame of mind.

  It would be a difficult environment for any project to flourish in, but on something so important, so sweeping, it was flat-out dangerous. It screamed of classic mismanagement, bloated bureaucracy, and a security force that either didn't understand the implications involved -- which was preposterous -- or one that was hamstrung by Corporate policies too conflicting or opaque to ever be followed properly.

  "It depends on how things go...right?"

  She just nodded, without any further probing, then pointed to a hatch on the far end of the bay.

  "C'mon, this way. It's a bit of a walk from here, but I'll show you some history."

  * * *

  "The very first freejump?!" Dieter whispered, envious as all get-out, his beer stopped half-way to his mouth.

  "Yep. Prototype Number One, codenamed Cageless. Just over a year old, and already obsolete. They have it mothballed in a storeroom all its own. Tiny thing. One-seater."

  He laughed at the thought of it, and took a drink. I did the same.

  Dieter was half-way through a double-shift he was pulling for someone, and was on lunch break. His beer was a sad one-percent thing that Corporate okayed for on-the-job consumption. He didn't seem to care much. Barney and the team had smackball practice, so that left me with a night to myself.

  "Anyway," I said, changing the topic, "what do we do now? If malicious code was introduced somehow into Mavis' system, then she's in danger. If it wasn't, she's still in danger, because we don't know what's wrong. This was only a viable plan so long as we weren't hurting, as a crew. It might be time to give it all up. Sure, she'd end up in custody, just like the rest of us, but at least she'd be alive."

  "I'm not so sure about that, for any of us," he argued. "You know what's at stake here. Those Team johnnies do, too. I won't feel comfortable until we're light-years away."

  I was drinking a beautiful, rosy-umber colored brandywine. It was strong, and I was feeling it. I rather needed to, to be honest.

  The very idea of being light-years from here seemed light-years away. I looked around the dark pub, half-expecting to see the webs that were holding us, holding me to this very spot, and moment in time. They were there, to be sure, but just out of sight.

  "Any news on General Store's fabrication schedule?"

  "Nope. And even if the parts were ready right now, I can't possibly pick them up in person. No one with my job needs starjump propagators. I could have them ship it to me without drawing attention, but it's their policy to only send parts or materials to the Routing Office over on Centerline, or to the dockside Receiving Depot up on the Hub."

  "It might raise eyebrows on the Hub, too," I mused, working it out, "if a Tech Maintenance guy for the station picked up some ship parts. Lots of mechanics walking around up there, who'd know better. But a busy Routing Office, downtown, wouldn't think twice: they're only function is to move packages. Afterwards, we can have our...friends just delete the fabrication and delivery orders from the system, in case somebody wonders about it later on."

  He considered that for a bit, then nodded.

  "I like it. You know, even after the parts are in hand, I'll still need time to install them. I have to do it in and around my work schedule here -- and, brother, they've been piling on the mandatory overtime! Fixing a jump engine isn't the sort of thing you want to do when you're exhausted, let me tell you."

  That sounded like a good thing to trust him on, but the image of our hung-over engineer working a separate day job was somewhat riveting. It made me think of my own situation, and of all the people who saw me now, but didn't see me at all.

  Mavis had asked, before, if I was going native.

  I'd been sure of the answer then.

  Now...?

  After a night out with the gang, it was sometimes hard to remember that there were other people here (or, rather, out there) who were in need. People I mostly didn't trust, yet didn't have any choice but to.

  There was no way to get Mavis off the ship without fighting with the others about it (and in Chris' case, that was likely a literal concern). There was no way to get her on-station without getting caught. And there was certainly no way to get her any cybernetic-type help without revealing everything.

  Yet there was also no way to leave this place quietly without her.

  "Life has gotten surreal," I muttered, and Dieter laughed bitterly.

  "We can't exit the way we came," I reasoned. "We simply can't manage it without Mavis, but if they've hurt her, we can't let her stay there. Agreed?"

  "I want to say yes," the Engineer replied, and then drained his glass.

  "Then say it. The first step to this is actually making the decision. They're the enemy now, if they did this thing."

  "They might not have," he pointed out, swiping at a ring device he'd bought on-station. It popped up with the time in bright green numerals, and he cursed, lowly. "It could be a software bug of some kind. Or maybe they did do it, but if so, they're holding all the cards until we come up with a plan. John and Stinna should be able to look at her code, and get an idea of what's wrong. I would say that's actually the first step."

  I thought about it while he got up, shrugging on his uniform jacket (they had him working in a coolant pump-house this shift, and it was cold in there).

  "Okay," I said at last. "But if, for whatever reason, they say they can't do it...it'll be telling."

  "You need to mend some fences, either way," he advised, gathering his tool bag, and shouldering it. "Otherwise, it'll be hard to tell what's duplicity, and what's just hatred for the gunner."

  "They don't all hate me."

  He made a noncommittal sound, and trudged off.

  I sat there for a long time, thinking, and eventually ordered a large plate of scobble. This was a greasy concoction of protein and carbs, drowned in gravy. It was fairly popular along the border here, but actually had its origins in some ethnic dish from Noblespace. It had been featured in a long-running entertainment sim -- Burning Loyalties, I think it was, or some other soap opera -- and had percolated into the popular consciousness; so much so, in fact, that it could now be found in bars and restaurants throughout much of settled space. Samples was no exception.

  The waitress eyed me oddly, I thought, so I did the same back at her.

  "All alone tonight?" she asked.

  I made a show of looking around at the now empty table, which got a laugh.

  She was a large woman, tall and stocky. Strong-looking. Seemingly in her early-thirties,
she had brown curly hair, and frank eyes. Her mouth was done up with lipstick that matched her hair, only outlined in a lighter color. It wasn't a great look, actually, because it made her mouth seem vague, like it had no borders; as if her face just sort-of morphed into a coppery-looking orafice, right there in the middle. Still, it was a smiling orafice, and that was very welcome just then.

  "I don't think I know your name," I announced.

  "Laydin," she answered flatly, tapping her nametag, though the smile didn't waver. "I've only been been working in this pub, and in this exact same shift, since...oh, I don't know...before you even moved here...?"

  "I'm getting it left and right today," I complained. "Have a heart!"

  "You are Ejoq," she pronounced. "I've added up your tab more than once."

  "You know my name, and you know what I like to drink. What else do you know?"

  "I know you don't like smackball, though you pretend to for the sake of your friends. That's either a horrible thing to do, or a noble one."

  "Maybe it's both."

  "Both? Okay, so now I know you're comfortable with ambiguity."

  I took up a gooey protein chunk, and bit down, then whimpered and panted through my mouth, because it was still very hot.

  "Careful, they're hot."

  When I could talk again, and after wiping gravy from my mouth, I scowled at her in only partially mock irritation.

  "What kind of waitress are you?"

  Her boundaryless lips curled on both sides, and she turned away without another word.

  I went in for a second brandywine after the food was gone. That was a mistake.

  A station shift change had occurred while I was sitting there getting sozzled, and the pub was getting quite full. Laydin was still on duty, and too busy to talk now, or flirt, or whatever that had been, and I ended up feeling isolated and lonely, even among all the noise and activity. They needed the table anyway, so I chugged my beer, and tottered out.

  The main drag was congested -- at least this part of it, because it was residential, with flats and sleep cubes on both sides of the road. A shift change meant people leaving for work or coming home from it. My own place wasn't far, but it seemed like an endless walk. I could have taken the tram, but didn't feel like waiting.

  I didn't spot the man following me until I'd almost reached home. It was just a couple of glimpses: a dumpy round guy, not unlike myself, wearing a floppy hat. I'd seen hats like that on the heads of many production line workers and machinists hereabouts, which they wore to keep welding sparks, and stray plastic and metal shavings out of their hair (the overhead lights had a reputation for causing headaches, too). Such things weren't required, but they were common. They also did a decent job of hiding a person's face, if said person kept their eyes to the floor...or seemed to.

  I was tempted to just keep walking past my apartment door, but that was stupid. Individual living quaters were all in the public registery. If someone was interested in me, they would already know who I was and where I lived.

  When I got to it, I opened the door with alacrity and scuttled inside, the beer lending panic and clumsiness. I waited for several minutes, trying to listen, but the door was probably sound-deadened, like most residential ones, and I heard nothing.

  Eventually, I risked a peek. A young couple, likely on a date, floated by in their own world.

  That was it.

  No dumpy hat man.

  When I closed the door again, and turned around, Barney was sitting on the couch in our small living room, watching me.

  "Everything okay, Ejoq?"

  I think that's what he said. That's what I answered anyway.

  But the room was spinning now, looking foreboding and insecure, like the streets, so I waved goodnight, and stumbled off to bed.

  ||||||||||

  The journey was like a dream.

  I squirmed out of my cheap pressure suit, once it reached the end of its air supply -- which only took a few minutes, with that hole in the sleeve. It was a scary thing, trusting in the atmo of the small ship. It smelled of ozone and machinery.

  My errant pilot never woke up from his quiet little seizure, though I tried to bring him to repeatedly. He only sat there, shivering and breathing raggedly.

  His heart could have given out, or he could have had a stroke. He could have died a hundred other ways, except that I didn't know how much of him was really human, and which, if any, of his biological systems were being strained beyond tolerance. Even his cybernetic ones were likely being tested, and I feared for his life.

  His blank gray face and lidless eyes were unmoving. I tried to slide his human-looking upper face back where it belonged, since the eyelids were integrated into that part. It wouldn't move, and I was afraid of breaking it if I kept messing around. Unlike before, it was now completely slack, displaying neither surprise or even cognizance.

  I worried the eyes might dry out, since even some artificial ones required moisture. In the end, I wrapped a strip of cloth around his head that I tore from my shirt. Tying it tightly like a blindfold, I thereafter did my best to keep it damp with water from a Z-G cup. That might not have mattered at all, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

  I thought about disconnecting the man entirely from the control panels, but didn't know what it would do to him -- or to the jump. A ship in starjump makes trillions of calculations on the fly, continually adjusting the jump bubble and its crafted expression of space/time. The starship, itself, is the creator and source of the micro-universe it inhabits during any extra-dimensional travel.

  I suspected we were already misjumping to some extent, but it was a dead certainty that a catastrophic failure would occur if I forced some kind of shut-down now.

  The only thing I could do was wait...

  ||||||||||

  seventeen

  * * *

  "Station Security?" Chris speculated. He looked genuinely concerned, which I found strangely, and genuinely, comforting.

  "StaSec doesn't need to play games," I replied, shaking my head at the vid pickup on my wrist. "They don't even need to put a tail on anyone; in-station sensors can track my every move, and possibly, my every word and action if they're so inclined."

  "Then that leaves...?"

  "R&D? SpecSign? SpecSign's bosses?"

  "Maybe you have a secret admirer," he joked without humor.

  "Though I could use the ego boost, the timing is nothing but creepy."

  "Agreed. Keep your eyes open."

  I told him I would, and closed the connection.

  I was in the bathroom at home. Barney had already left for work, and I was running a little late because of a hangover, but I figured Shady Lady would want to hear about my new shadow, if that's what he was. I then called up Seven Ursga, and reported it over on that side of the fence as well.

  "It's not us," he assured, looking concerned in my eye-view. (Honestly, I was liking all the sympathy.) "Normally, I'd put in a call to Station Monitoring, and see if they can get a bead on him -- they should have foot traffic records from last night -- but CPS09 Maelbrott's office is in the loop on this operation now, and he's demanding absolute discretion."

  "Nine Maelbrott? Who's that?"

  "Commander of Caesar's Palace."

  "Okay. Why does a Team shiprat, no matter his rank, have any say in station-bound investigations? This is just a glorified efficiency study as it is."

  He frowned in my eye-view.

  "I like to think it's more important than that. But, my instincts are that Team will be taking over security entirely from station personnel within the next week or two; I'm not in on those meetings, but I have a few contacts who have gone strangely quiet. If it happens, then the Nine, as the most senior officer for several dozen light-years around, becomes the de facto head of the entire project. His people will be placed in charge of any investigations into negligence, incompetence, treasonous behavior, or even just plain...efficiency issues."

  Branden was nettled by my rema
rk, which, honestly, I'd never intended as a put-down. I hadn't been thinking at all.

  "Are you okay?" he pursued, studying me. "What's with the nerveblock?"

  "Headache," I stated, truthfully.

  "You've been having a lot of them, lately, haven't you, Ejoq? Especially in the mornings...?"

  "Hey, I'm getting the job done!" I nearly barked, then shook my head. "Sorry. I'm doing okay. Don't worry about me. Look, I have to get over to R&D. I'll talk to you later."

  "All right. Since Station Monitoring is a no-go, keep your eyes wide open, and be ready to grab some vid with those retinals of yours. Maybe we'll get lucky and your secret admirer will show himself again."

  He cut the line.

  I kept staring into my wrist.

  The same words?!

  Oh!

  Oh, this was not good...this...!

  No.

  He didn't know.

  He hadn't been listening to my conversation with Christmas Giordano. If he had, I'd be in tapecuffs already, and he wouldn't have chided me over the late hours.

  It was just a coincidence. Nothing more. A natural thing anyone might say, after hearing about what happened.

  That was exactly the case. I knew it. I was sure of it.

  I was running late, but I still took the time to initiate a full layer of hyper-encryption on the entire contents of my wristcomp, retinals and bonecons. The implants had minimal onboard storage, and I made it a habit not to keep anything on them directly. I encrypted them anyway. Then I copied it all out into a separate directory; compressed that down; encrypted it again; and sent this copy out to the Gunnery communications account on Shady Lady. SS1 and SS2 would see the file come in, so I also sent a quick text note to John, to say I was doing a backup. He acknowledged without comment.

  Then I wiped my rig clean. A full-on data shred.

  Every file. Every application that wasn't essential to the actual functioning of the devices themselves. Every history record, every communication record, every everything.