The Prodigal Sun

by Sean Williams

  With half a mind he followed the activities of his senior officers as they prepared the ship for reorientation and thrust. His virtual senses reported the firing of attitude jets and the priming of the reaction drive. The slowly changing orientation of the stars kept him occupied for several seconds. The sight was peaceful, and reminded him of his true purpose.

  Where had he failed? His ship ran well; not one major system had been compromised on this, the Ana Vereine’s maiden voyage. And with the superior ability he possessed to study crew as well as ship, he had suffered none of the minor dissensions many new captains endured on their first command. Ship, crew, and captain were all in perfect working order, a unified system operating under his command.

  Yet, to his dismay, there was evidence that he had failed, and it was mounting steadily...

  Priority C (stealth) had already been broken, and now, after the day’s events, priority B had followed. Despite his denial, Roche had escaped from the ambush and was roaming free somewhere on the planet. She was the only person within easy reach who might be able to explain the operation and purpose of the AI, but the chances of her being captured alive were diminishing by the second, and his desperation to meet the last priority increased proportionately. If he failed at this mission, regardless how he had performed every other aspect of his mission, his command, and therefore his life, would be terminated. He had no doubts about that. To the Ethnarch’s Military Presidium, there was only success or failure; there was nothing in between.

  Priority A was all he had left to hope for now.

  capture the AI

  Destroying the planet to find it wasn’t really an option, as far as he was concerned. Even his mission wasn’t worth risking all-out war with the COE Armada, which would retaliate regardless of Port Parvati’s inherent corruption. But he had no choice: whatever he did, it would work. He would achieve his goal and satisfy the orders written into his mind, branded onto his thoughts. What other choice did he have?

  His priorities were like steel bars enclosing his free will: contemplating even the slightest deviation caused him severe mental pain. He could not disobey his superiors in the Military Presidium even to save his own life. And, to make matters worse, he would not want to. No matter how he might rationalize the alternatives, he would sacrifice his own life to meet his orders, if the situation demanded it. Where might once have been written “Do what thou wilt,” now it read “Obey...”

  Some minutes passed before Makaev came to meet him. When she did, he projected his image into an armchair and assumed a relaxed disposition.

  “I received your message,” he said without preamble. The memo had arrived just moments before the data from the warden of Port Parvati, leaving him little time to ponder it. The timing had seemed a little too unlucky, which only made him all the more anxious. “A full report, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” Makaev remained at attention, standing with her arms at her sides in the center of the room. If what he suspected was true, she hid it well. “During your last rest period, as you instructed, I ordered a technician to examine your life support.”

  “And?”

  She leaned over the desk to key a wall-screen. Complex schematics appeared, an endless series of lines and junctures scrolling from top to bottom. “The system matches the diagnostics in the Ana Vereine’s mainframe exactly, with only one exception. At the base of your brainstem interface, there is this.” The display zoomed in on one particular point, where a knot of biocircuits converged; highlighted in bold red was a denser clump, not unlike the network of fibers surrounding a dreibon root.

  “The back door?” Kajic prompted.

  “No, sir,” said Makaev. “At least the technician doesn’t believe so. The device is quite ingenious. It will lie dormant and not interfere with the overall system until it receives a coded command from an outside source.” Makaev paused, her eyes suddenly restless. “Upon receiving that command, it will immediately sever all communication between your brain stem and the ship’s mainframe.”

  “A kill-switch?” said Kajic.

  “That appears to be its purpose,” said Makaev. “Yes, sir.”

  “But who would dare sabotage a warship in such a way?” His ship—his very being—had been compromised!

  “With respect, sir,” Makaev said, “it is not sabotage. Although the device does not appear on the circuit diagrams we have access to, it is not an afterthought.” Again she paused. “It’s an integral aspect of the life support’s design.”

  “Integral? What are you saying? That it cannot be removed without damaging the system?”

  “No, sir. I’m saying that it’s supposed to be there.”

  Kajic used every sense at his disposal to assure himself that she was being honest. All the data concurred: she was telling the truth. A truth that he feared, that brought his mind to a halt.

  “Why?” he finally managed.

  “I can hazard a guess, sir,” said his second in command, then waited for him to indicate that she should continue. He did so irritably. “It makes sense, sir, if you examine the ‘how’ of it first. The plans for your life support were approved by the Presidium itself. If such a device was deliberately included, then the decision to do so could have come from nowhere else. As to the ‘why,’ well, we must remember that you are a prototype, one that has never been field-tested in genuine combat before. Who could anticipate what might happen, or how you would respond to the pressures of battle? The kill-switch must be a safeguard against command instability. Were you to become unstable at a critical moment—and I am not suggesting that you have, or will—your actions could cripple the ship. The kill-switch could then come into play, freeing the command systems for another officer to employ.”

  Kajic mulled it over. Yes, it made sense, and it mirrored almost exactly his first thoughts on the matter. Makaev put the case well. Too well for Kajic’s liking. If she was lying, then her only fault was that she was too convincing.

  “So where does the command signal come from?” he asked, following the argument to its conclusion. “And who decides whether to send the command or not?”

  “One would assume, sir, that a high-ranking officer would enact that decision. Perhaps not the person who would actually assume control of the ship,” she added quickly, “but someone at least who knows the truth and is in the correct position to act upon it.”

  “Which could be anyone from the bridge crew,” he said. “Or even life support. Anyone, in fact, with access to the back door. He—or she—need not necessarily be high-ranking, either.”

  She nodded. “That is true.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Kajic, “regardless who actually gave the order, it would be you who would assume command of the Ana Vereine.” Of my ship. His unblinking image locked eyes with her, daring her to look away. Of me.

  She nodded. “Yes, sir. It would seem that I am the most likely candidate.”

  “So tell me, Atalia,” he said coldly, “are you the betrayer? Are you the one waiting for the first opportunity to strike me down?”

  “If I said I wasn’t, would you believe me?”

  Kajic smiled, finding some pleasure in the confrontation. “I might,” he said. “But I still wouldn’t entirely trust you.” He broke the locked gaze, letting his smile dissipate as he glanced again at the circuit diagram. “Perhaps I shouldn’t even ask.”

  “Perhaps.” She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “The only way to be sure is to watch every member of the senior crew as they go about their duties. Try to find the one who is acting suspiciously.”

  “That might work,” he said. “But I am just like any other Pristine: I can only think one thing at a time; I am limited to one single point of view. And—”

  priority gold-one

  “And I have more important things to contemplate at the moment than my own personal survival.”

  She absorbed this in silence—perhaps with relief—and he watched her closely while she did so. How true his words w
ere: the data he required might have been at his fingertips, but he had neither the ability nor the freedom to study it. He could feel the priorities bending his thoughts subtly back to his mission. Even now, at such a moment, he was unable to take concrete steps to save his own life. To remove or to interfere with the deadly mechanism would be to disobey the Ethnarch’s Military Presidium itself.

  “Atalia,” he said after a moment. “This conversation will be kept between ourselves. We will continue our mission as though nothing has changed.” What else can I do? he asked himself. The fact that the Presidium didn’t fully trust him—had never trusted him—could not be allowed to interfere with his duty. Otherwise it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy—which was, perhaps, exactly what Makaev intended by telling him about the kill-switch, if she truly was the betrayer at his side. She could just as easily have lied about it to protect herself. Instead, she had thrown him off balance by sowing the seeds of distrust in his mind...

  “I agree, sir,” she said, killing the display before them. “When we have recovered the AI and completed our mission, perhaps then we can discuss the matter in more detail.”

  Yes, he thought to himself, and in the meantime I have my neck on the line. The slightest mistake and—

  “Atalia?”

  “Sir?”

  “Please reinforce with Major Gyori that our orders are to capture both the AI and its courier. I want those orders obeyed to the letter. I want Commander Roche taken alive.” That way, he hoped, he might be able to improve his position with his superiors when the Ana Vereine returned from the mission.

  “Yes, sir.” Makaev snapped a salute and turned to leave.

  “And one more thing,” he said. She stopped and faced his shimmering image once again. “The investigation was to be conducted discreetly. The technician that you used—?”

  “Has already been... transferred, sir,” she said. “No one will ever know the truth.”

  Again Kajic studied her minutely, searching for the slightest sign of deception—and this time he thought he detected something. A tiny smile played across her lips, seeming to add silently but more evocatively than speech one single word:

  Unless...

  Kajic ignored it; better for her to think him a fool than to allow his fear to weaken his position further. “Good. You may return to your duties.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She turned away for the final time and left the command module.

  11

  Sciacca’s World

  Port Parvati

  ‘954.10.32 EN

  0900

  The orange sun rose above the horizon, casting brownish dawn-light over Port Parvati. Dull shafts crawled over the already bustling cityscape, here touching foodsellers arranging their produce in preparation for the day’s business, there catching artisans dusting their wares. The light crept with casual sureness into dusty streets and garbage-strewn alleys, melting pockets of shadow that had gathered in the night and waking the few remaining curb-sleepers that had yet to join the growing throng.

  Even at this early hour, business was brisk. The sound of complaining machinery was nearly drowned by a rising hubbub of bargaining and arguments. And over that, the constant arrhythmic chug of the truck that carried Roche and her party through the streets.

  At first, Roche watched the proceedings going on around her with indifference. Then, as they moved through the streets and various marketplaces, she found herself succumbing to a profound melancholy—one she saw reflected in the faces of the people bustling around their truck.

  If Port Parvati had been a city on any other planet, Roche thought, it would have been demolished years ago: flattened, pulped, and turned into artificial topsoil fit for treading on and little more.

  There was also an unpleasant smell about the place— something other than the stench of sewage occasionally spilling from the inadequate drain system, or that of rotting food rising from the dirty market stalls. The air was thick with it, lingering through all the streets they passed along, strong enough even to penetrate the fumes issuing from the methane-fueled engine of their vehicle. It was with some revulsion that Roche suddenly realized what that smell was: disease.

  “Destroyed,” Roche muttered to herself, “and burned.”

  Emmerik leaned forward from his place on the flatbed to speak. “What was that?” He raised his voice to be heard above the noise of the truck.

  Roche shook her head. “How much further?”

  “About five minutes.” The Mbatan raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and turned to bang on the cab of the truck. The truck suddenly veered down a narrow alleyway. Emmerik cursed aloud, steadying Roche. The abrupt turn unbalanced her before the armor’s built-in overrides could react. The truck’s suspension had needed an overhaul about twenty years ago, Roche thought; now, suspension was the least of its worries.

  When their trajectory steadied, Roche turned her attention once more to the goings-on beyond the truck. This particular section of the city they were passing through appeared dirtier and more cluttered than other parts. The streets were certainly narrower and grimier, the dwellings often low and shabby. Wide and jutting verandahs shaded dark interiors from which dirty faces glanced briefly as they passed. Others paused upon the flimsy walkways that now and then arced between buildings, their solemn expressions enhancing the already growing melancholy that Roche was feeling.

  Most of the people, she noted, were Pristine—but not all. The penal colony held all manner of nonviolent criminals, from habitual thieves to industrial conspirators, from Olmahoi to Hurn. Yet all looked the same beneath the universal garments of cheap robes and wide-brimmed hats, as dictated by environment and limited resources rather than fashion. Roche herself had donned similar garb to cover the combat armor. From a distance, she hoped, she would pass as a skinny Mbatan.

  She ran her hands over the coarse and threadbare garment and frowned. “How the hell can people live like this?”

  Despite the noise, Emmerik seemed to have heard her. “Ninety percent of the population lives here, Commander,” he said. “But it’s not as if we have any choice. There just isn’t anywhere else.”

  The Box’s voice was clear beneath all the noise from the street.

 

 

  Roche nodded to herself, leaning away from Emmerik. Indeed, as she watched the crowd milling through the dusty streets, she realized that security was lighter than she had expected—and feared. Only infrequently did an Enforcement patrol serve to remind her that this was a supervised penal base, not one of the poorer COE planets.

  Waving a hand to ward off the stench of a herd of vat-bred cattle, she looked back to Emmerik. Even his eyes seemed slightly more moist than usual in the high air of the city.

  “Is all of Port Parvati like this?” she said.

  He shook his head. “These are just the outskirts. Like any other city, we have varying standards.”

  The truck lurched again as it took another sharp corner. This time Roche was prepared, and the suit kept her balanced. When their motion had steadied somewhat, she glanced under the makeshift canopy tied over the truck’s flatbed. The stretcher hadn’t been disturbed by the sudden turn, and the Eckandi’s face expressed no more distress than it had at any stage of their journey so far. Strapped to the Mbatan’s back through the old mines honeycombing the mountains beneath Houghton’s Cross, by petroleum- powered, propeller-driven airplane to one of Port Parvati’s many makeshift airfields, passing through a casual security check (with the aid
of several small bribes in a currency unfamiliar to Roche), then onto the truck for the penultimate leg of their journey—he had remained unconscious throughout it all, oblivious to the rough plaster encasing his head and the distressed Surin constantly at his side.

  “How’s he doing, Maii?” Roche asked, concerned as much for the reave as she was for her friend.

  The girl didn’t respond at first. Her posture hardly shifted. But Roche could tell that she had heard—by the subtle change of the girl’s sullen expression, the way her head tilted ever so slightly to face Roche.

  After a moment, the Surin’s quiet voice filtered through the noise of traffic and animals into Roche’s mind: <1 can still feel him. He’s deep—very deep. He has retreated to somewhere I can’t reach him. Somewhere he can heal.>

  Or die, Roche added to herself, forgetting that the reave could read the thought if she wanted. The shrapnel from the downed troop carrier that had struck Veden on the back of the head required delicate nanosurgery, not stubborn, blind denial. If she heard, however, Maii didn’t contradict her.

  Turning back to Emmerik, Roche picked up the conversation where it had left off.

  “You work underground here, too?”

  The Mbatan spoke without taking his eyes from the road. “The city is built on the ruins of the original port. When the Commonwealth moved in, they decided it was cheaper to build over than rebuild. So that’s what they did,” he said. “And continue to do. The original city is buried under layer after layer of later settlements, but it’s still intact in places.” He grinned wryly. “The Dominion built well.”

  Roche nodded. Houghton’s Cross was testament to that. “So you moved in?”