Shadows of Golstar

by Terrence Scott

  She had been deeply hurt to discover the allegations against the Grand Patriarch were indeed true. Worse, he was infecting others with his delusions. She was only consoled by the fact that her information would help halt the damage caused by their misguided leader. He had to be stopped.

  Her recordings and report would soon provide her father and his associate with the damning information that would confirm their dark suspicions. They could then take action as they saw fit. She surmised her father and his friend would present the information to the full Council of Guidance. With this last act, it would be over. Her report would discharge her responsibility, and she would then be free to return to her interrupted life. Sitting back on the living area’s lounge, waiting for the evening to come, she closed her eyes and thought of returning to her comfortable home.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Rialto’s AI or Hec, the name it now answered to, finished its long explanation on how the original Hec recorded his personality and memories, and loaded the resulting overlay into the matrix buffers of a specially modified AI module. The AI’s voice took on a note of particular pride when it described the matrix buffer augments, increases in memory capacities and micro-mechanical interface modifications the human Hec had designed and installed in the AI. Without these modifications, the personality matrix overlay could not have been achieved, the AI assured Owens.

  Owens took advantage of a momentary pause to ask a question. “Just how did you figure to get off the planet as a surface transport? All this work was aimed at interstellar travel the original Hec was so avid about. It seems to me a ground transport would not be the best choice as a means to get into space.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t intend to get stuck chauffeuring a ground-bound transport. No, I had something else entirely in mind, but things just didn’t seem to turn out quite as I had planned,” the AI responded. The AI finally fully embraced Hec’s identity in its mode of speech.

  “That sounds like an understatement,” Owens snorted.

  “Hey, I really did have a plan,” the AI protested. “And it was a good one too.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What was it?”

  “I was going to incorporate this module into a servitor, specifically one employed by a commercial star-liner. You know the kind I mean, the A7 models?” When Owens didn’t respond, the AI continued. “The A7s are part of a liner’s crew and designated for the exclusive use of VIP passengers. Once assigned, the A7 serves the passenger both on-board and accompanies them at ports-of-call along the itinerary.”

  “Now I’m really confused. Just how were you going to get your module installed in a servitor, a Starliner’s A7 servitor?” Owens asked.

  Hec answered, “Actually, that was the easy part. Lisemore Star cruise ships stop here regularly as part of their exotic animal tour. Did you know there’s a section in the northern jungle that’s been set aside as a nature preserve? The preserve has a rather large variety of unique animals native to Genhome. I understand the stopover is quite popular with the tourists.”

  “Can we get back to my question?”

  “Sorry. Anyway, I have… or I should say I had a maintenance contract with Lisemore to service and upgrade their A6 and A7 servitors. Their liners dock here on a regular scheduled basis, at least once every quarter. There’s usually one or more A7s brought in for service. At about the time I had the identity overlay incorporated into the AI module, a liner had docked for a planned layover of six local days, and sure enough, two A7s were brought in for a memory upgrade. I was lucky to have the opportunity and time to make the switch. I finished the modification and loaded the ‘alter-me’ into the personality matrix.”

  “So, what happened?” Owens asked. “Obviously something went wrong.”

  “It was bad luck, pure and simple bad luck. The rejection syndrome had started to accelerate,” the AI explained. “The day I had set aside to switch the AI mods was the same day I lost the neural connection to the hover-chair’s servo-manipulator arms. I could move myself, but not my artificial arms and hands. Until I could go through a risky, emergency medical procedure for a temporary repair, I wasn’t capable of performing the AI swap. To schedule the procedure and allow time for my system to stabilize, provided the procedure actually worked, didn’t leave me enough time to do the job.”

  “This is becoming quite a story. So, what did you do?”

  “Well, like I’ve said all along, I was desperate, but in that moment of desperation, I had a brainstorm.”

  “How do you know that? You said that the personality transfer had already been made. You were a bodiless mind sitting in a metal shell.

  “I know this because my... that is, it was Hec’s last act was to inform me through a transcription of his final intention.”

  “Talk about confusing… let me make sure I understand,” Owens interrupted. “The original, living Hec uploaded a message. In it, he told you of his plan for switching the AI modules.”

  “That’s right,” the AI answered. Then the AI told Owens he received no further updates from the original Hec after receiving the description of the idea. The first conscious thought the AI had, was awaking in the late model Rialto. It was obvious something had gone very wrong.

  “Okay,” Owens said, “What was his plan?”

  “Hec’s message described his idea to engage a part-time worker whom he… or rather I had occasioned to use in the past,” the AI responded. “He planned to have the worker do the switch. By my present circumstance, it’s obvious this man must have thoroughly bungled the job.”

  Accessing Hec’s implanted memories, the AI recalled there was a number AI modules mounted on service stands arrayed around the work area in Hec’s shop. AI equipment cases and their interface plugs were standardized and to the eye, were identical. The AI went on to surmise the worker had somehow confused the serial numbers he had received from the human Hec, which was the only way to identify the module designated for the A7.

  “When I found myself in the Rialto,” the Hec AI continued. “My real self had already made the trip to the cryo-center. I guess he was slipping fast and left the completion of the final task in what he thought were the worker’s capable hands. The real ‘me’ probably went to sleep, serene in the knowledge that everything was taken care of and at least a part of his dream would finally come true."

  Owens asked, “What do you think happened?”

  “In my memories as the human Hec, I remember thinking I needed to replace the original refurbished AI back in my Rialto so it could be sold off with the proceeds added to my assets. You know, I was always tinkering with the thing. I must have lost control before I placed it back in the Rialto. I can only now assume I had left additional instructions for the worker to take care of the Rialto.”

  “So,” said Owens. “This worker must have mixed up the modules. You ended up in the Rialto and the Rialto’s original AI ended up in the A7 servitor.”

  “That seems to be the only answer,” agreed the AI. “I can just imagine the crew’s reaction when the servitor started signaling the ship’s core computer for data input intended for weather, grid maps and surface traffic road conditions.” The AI fell silent.

  The silence stretched to a minute. Then, shaking his head, Owens said, “Okay. Okay, let’s say I believe this wild story. I still don’t understand why you blew your cover. The shutdown mode is a simple ship safety protocol. All it does, as I understand it, is prepare you to disconnect from the Rialto’s onboard reactor so we can power it down for safe storage when we’re in space. Basically, you go to sleep at a minimal power level on your own internal backup battery. So what triggered the balk?”

  “That would have been a real problem. You see the modification I made to this module took up a lot of space,” the AI answered sheepishly. “Actually, the modification took up more space than was available, but I needed to keep the external dimensions unchanged if it were to fit properly in an AI receptacle.”

  “So,” Owens said. “Since the
mod needed more space than was available, you obviously had to sacrifice something.”

  “Well, yes,” the AI admitted. “The extra memory and interface hardware consumed about seventy percent of the space normally used to accommodate the AI’s battery. The original battery had to be replaced with a much smaller one. My reserve is now down to twelve standards, instead of the normal sixty. Still, I didn’t see that as a problem. I expected to have regular access to the A7’s on-board ship reactor. A servitor is not typically required to shut down for storage. On a star liner, the A7s have their own standby power receptacles when not assigned to a passenger.”

  “So when you discovered I had decided to keep the Rialto and planned to ship you back with me on a thirteen standard day journey,” Owens began. “You…”

  “Panicked,” the AI finished. “By the time your ship would reach the Central Cluster, my matrix would be empty of the personality overlay and this version of me at least, would be dead.” The AI again fell silent.

  Owens thought a moment, trying to decide what to do next. He had spent some time listening to Hec’s unusual story, and the end of the launch window was now approaching. If it was discovered he hadn’t turned the Rialto into the local authorities at the first mention of the illegal, human analog overlay, he could be considered an accessory under the Act’s restrictive laws.

  At a minimum, his PI license would be suspended. At a maximum, in addition to the suspension, he could be required to serve a short stint in jail. Of course, these infractions were comparatively minor in relation to what Hec would suffer, both versions of him. Hec had made a conscious decision to break the law. The majority of the consequences were therefore on his head. The AI’s matrix would immediately be wiped clean. The human version, upon waking sometime in the future and receiving a cure, would then face a lengthy prison term. Hec would not soon take up space travel as he had long dreamed, if at all.

  Owens was not unsympathetic to Hec’s plight, but he had to consider his own welfare as well. He needed to weigh the options. Owens thought for a few more minutes and then made his decision.

  CHAPTER 5

  Sharné sat on a cushioned commode before a large mirror framed in complex filigrees of gold and platinum. She was making final preparations for the evening Service. The image in the mirror was striking. It revealed a tall, tawny skinned, lithe young woman with auburn hair cascading to her shoulders in waves. She had light amber-green eyes, high cheekbones and above a slightly pointed chin, a generous mouth with full lips.

  She stared intently into the mirror expressionless. She was oblivious to the beautiful woman framed in its reflection. She pulled back her hair severely and rolled the excess into a tight spiral on the back of her head. She fastened it with numerous pins. Reaching to her side, from a small table, Sharné retrieved the light, webbed platinum headpiece she was required to wear during Service. A blue signet jewel sparkled at its center. With practiced hands, she quickly donned the headpiece and made deft adjustments until she was satisfied.

  Nodding to herself, she stood, straightened the plain white under-dress she wore and walked over to one of her spacious walk-in closets situated throughout her cavernous dressing room. She selected the cream-colored robe of office, trimmed in gold and black. Sharné then carefully stepped into the garment. She pulled the long, heavy garment up and onto her shoulders. Methodically working from the waist up, she fastened each gem-encrusted closure, ending with the final one at the robe’s high collar, concealing her slender neck.

  Having completed this oft-repeated ritual, she turned back to the mirror and checked to see that the headpiece had remained in place. A tiny frown creased her perfect brow, and she made one more slight adjustment to the webbed cap in her hair. She finally looked at her appearance in the mirror and nodded in satisfaction. She judged the image presentable.

  As she readied to leave her rooms, she reflected on her obligations of office. Sharné was not enthusiastic about evening Service but as the Keeper of the Way, it was her obligation to lead the Inner Congregation in the Litany of the Way. She had been performing this duty since reaching her twenty-fifth birth year, almost three years before. It was not a task that she particularly enjoyed, but one she dutifully performed, as had the Keepers before her.

  As she reflected on her many responsibilities, her thoughts turned to the plan on which her father and Uncle Tal were now working. She believed her father was right in his conclusions. His plan seemed to be the only means to save their race and Way of life, but she was uneasy about the part she would be required to play. She was told that she had a key responsibility for the plan’s success and worried she wouldn’t live up to her father’s expectations.

  Thoughts such as these were unwelcome as they distracted her from her more mundane duties. She took a deliberate, deep calming breath, trying to set aside these off-putting thoughts. Until she knew exactly what was to be expected of her, worrying about it was fruitless. She redirected her mind to the immediate task at hand and made to exit her apartment.

  The trip to her father’s receiving chambers would not take long. Opening the gilded door of her palace suite, she entered into a wide, extended hallway. As she walked towards its end, she couldn’t help but glance up at the pictures filling the tall, wood-paneled walls lining the hallway. The portraits were of members of the royal families dating back to the Founding. As she progressed down the hallway, her pace began to slow. To the left, near the end of the hallway and just before the two tall doors that opened into the Hall of Greeting, a large portrait of a woman holding a baby was hung.

  She stopped before it and gazed at the beautifully rendered image. The woman in the portrait was dressed in formal robes of state. The court artist captured the gentle smile, the mischievous twinkle in sea-green eyes and shining cascades of auburn hair - her mother. The baby in the portrait was Sharné at less than a birth year old.

  Her mother had died nine years later. An accident, a senseless accident had taken her mother away. They had been close. The loss of her mother had been devastating to young Sharné and it had taken more than a year for her to recover sufficiently to resume her place in palace life and attend once more to her schooling.

  Since then, she often came to the hallway to look at the portrait and recollect those wonderful first years of her life when she and her mother were together. The sight of this picture never ceased to move her and somehow provide a small sense of comfort. It did so now.

  After a moment, her thoughts drifted to her father. He had tried to bring her up on his own, but with his lofty position came great responsibility. He spent as much time with her as he was able, though often she found herself in the company of a governess for days on end. Fondly, she remembered, when he was absent, he would send her regular messages telling her about his day and assuring her she was always in his thoughts.

  In the beginning, when she was too young to read some of the more difficult words but old enough to understand them, her governess would read his notes to her. After she grew older and could read for herself, she would look forward to each day when a messenger would arrive bearing a new message from her father.

  He also frequently sent her presents to help make up for his absences. And although they were quite nice and often extravagant, his messages were what she treasured the most. She had saved every note and still, on occasion, would reread some of them with fond recollection.

  When he was able to spend time with her, her father gave her all of his attention. Their time together, though often limited, was precious to her nonetheless. She sighed. Truly, she had nothing to regret, yet when she viewed her mother’s picture, she still felt a small ache of longing for what might have been, what might have been had her mother lived.

  She looked at the beautiful woman in the portrait. And then, as she often did, Sharné reached out and reverently touched the bottom of the gilded picture frame, closing her eyes for a moment in silent prayer. Until we meet again in the Light, she thought. She straighten
ed her shoulders, then turned and resumed the path to her father’s receiving chambers.

  Along the way, she passed numerous dignitaries, palace staff and military personnel, all striding with a purpose to some meeting, task or assignment. The contrasts between their colorful uniforms often reminded her of actors scurrying to the stage in preparation for some classic play about to begin. She smiled at the activity. The palace’s beehive environment was a familiar, comforting backdrop to her life. Its bustling activity was infectious and without realizing it, she increased her own pace.

  A short time later, ignoring the two hulking sentinels standing rigidly at each side of the great, carved doors, she briskly walked through the entrance of her father’s main receiving room. Pausing at the open door to the negotiation room, she could hear the voices of her father and Uncle Tal in quiet, earnest discussion. At first, she hesitated, not wanting to disturb what seemed to be a serious exchange. However, then remembering the lateness of the hour she entered, cleared her throat and announced in a ringing voice, “The time for evening Service is fast approaching, and it is time for you two old conspirators to change into proper attire.”

  Her father looked up and smiled. “We will be with you in a moment.” He hesitated, and then said, “Our plans are still coming together. But soon, the preliminaries will be completed and your first briefings will begin. I trust that you are prepared?”

  Her stomach fluttered with her father’s announcement, “When?”

  “Soon, but exactly when I cannot say,” her father responded.

  “So, you cannot say how much more time may yet be required before my preparation begins in earnest?”

  “A few weeks at most,” he frowned at her phrasing and the tone of her voice. He asked, “Is something wrong? You are harboring some concerns?”