Equinox

by Christian Cantrell

  This final obstruction was eventually identified—though it was not by a doctor or by the Judicial Committee, but by a member of the janitorial staff who was wheeling in a refreshment cart halfway through a weekly status meeting.

  “He’ll never talk as long as you keep trying to make him,” she announced with a surprising lack of inhibition. When all heads turned in her direction, she unabashedly continued. “I used to know Luka,” she said. “He’ll talk, but it’s going to have to be on his own terms.”

  The day that Luka was told that he would never again be placed in the quiet room—that he had beaten them, and they had unanimously agreed to yield—he activated his bed, laid down, and looked up at the ceiling of his hexagonal capsule. And when Ellie emerged from the depths of the opaque polymeth surface and asked Luka if he was ready to begin, he found that he was.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CRYOSTASIS

  THERE WAS ONLY ONE CRYOSTATIC crate aboard the Accipiter Hawk large enough for a body. Omicron retrofitted two others using parts from cases designed to transport organs and other organic cargo. Long-term hibernation was not the intention since they had neither the technology nor the biological proficiency to induce true dormancy. However, temporary metabolic suppression would reduce the refugees’ short-term need for sustenance and hydration, and would hopefully help to ensure a quick and orderly transaction.

  On two separate occasions, Ayla had asked Omicron to assess their options and follow them through to their most probable outcomes. Both times, he reached more or less the same conclusions she had: if they did not deliver the refugees as Nsonowa instructed, there was little doubt that V1 would be destroyed. Additionally, Omicron’s implant would almost certainly be deactivated, and it was probably only a matter of time before the Accipiter Hawk appeared either on Nsonowa’s grid, or the grid of someone else under the direct control of the Coronians.

  On the other hand, it was possible that both Nsonowa and the Coronians stood to benefit from keeping their promise—that although they clearly had the advantage, they understood the importance of promoting trust among those they employed to act on their behalf. Ayla believed it was also possible—not very likely, but possible—that the refugees would not actually be killed once in the Coronians’ possession, but rather would be studied, preserved, and might one day even have the opportunity to take back control of their own futures.

  one way or another, Ayla and Omicron agreed that Nsonowa and the Coronians would get what they wanted. The only question was how many people would have to die in the process. And so it was with the belief that she was ultimately saving lives that Ayla suppressed her initial instinct to flee, and gave Omicron the order to deliver the refugees as instructed.

  As the Hawk approached the coordinates specified in the MIS dispatch, Ayla wondered if there had been some kind of mistake. Either the location was wrong, she speculated, or their navigation systems were incorrectly calibrated. The Hawk’s long-range sensors were reporting a cross section unlike any vessel she had ever seen—a signature much more consistent with a small island than a ship. But as the radar, lidar, and sonar systems continued to accumulate data points and incorporate them into higher resolution models, Omicron reported that the structure was far too symmetrical to be organic. It appeared to be an almost perfect square of 333 meters per side, and it was topped by a tremendous air dome reaching a height of roughly 160 meters above sea level at its highest point. Before Omicron could find a match in the ship’s archives, Ayla believed she had already figured out what it was. Her crew used to talk about old Metropolis-class nuclear-powered industrial rigs—nomadic and largely self-sufficient sea-mining and refinery operations tasked with providing the Equinox effort with massive amounts of raw materials. Roughly a dozen of them had been built—each named after a major American city—though Costa had postulated that all of them were long gone. It was common nautical knowledge that a design flaw, one which allowed fumes to build up around the bilge pumps, resulted in some of the fleet being destroyed by fire, and that some of the first Metropolis rigs were used as salvage to keep newer models in service. The rest, it was believed, were lost to pirates and raiders who didn’t have the knowledge or expertise to keep the ships’ nuclear reactors functioning properly, eventually resulting in either gradual core breaches or flash meltdowns severely irradiating everyone and everything inside of a five-kilometer radius.

  The Hawk’s sensors gave two reasons for rejecting Ayla’s hypothesis: the first was key structural deviations from the schematics it had pulled from the ship’s archives, and the second was the notable absence of any type of radiological signature. But even a casual side-by-side glance at the model from the archives and the three-dimensional rendering of the vessel in front of them showed how much computers—for all their spectacular brute force capabilities—still lacked even rudimentary imagination. There was no doubt that at least one Metropolis-class mining rig had not only survived, but had also been extensively modified and upgraded over the years. To Ayla, that was clear evidence of a long-term affiliation with the Coronians.

  After being hailed by the vessel identifying itself as the San Francisco, they were instructed to place the cargo on the forward deck where it could be verified. The three cryostatic crates were already laid out on the forward freight elevator—eerily like caskets, Ayla had observed—so Omicron was able to raise them into view without leaving the bridge. The Hawk was then instructed to reduce speed to half ahead and approach the rig’s port bow. Visibility this far out was fairly good, and as they got closer, they could see the vessel’s insignia emblazoned across the curvature of the dome: some kind of majestic bird with its wings raised and head turned, rendered in irregular grayscale geometric shapes. They could also see that the entire northwest corner of the platform was essentially cut away into an angular overhang, presumably to accommodate cargo vessels of various displacements. The breach appeared to be a combination hangar, mooring deck, and port, and from all the time Ayla had spent on the docks back home, she knew that the ceiling was probably an open network of gantry cranes for hoisting and transporting crates and equipment. A bewildered look passed between her and Omicron as they reduced their speed again—this time to slow ahead—acknowledging what both of them were thinking: the top of the Hawk’s mainmast was probably too tall to fit inside the cargo bay. But as they continued to follow the San Francisco’s instructions with increasing uncertainty, they realized that they were not headed directly for the overhang, but rather an area of open water just off the vessel’s port bow.

  As requested, Omicron locked in their position relative to the rig, which was now directly starboard. A few minutes passed and Omicron was about to hail the San Francisco to request further instructions when they looked down and noticed movement on the digitally stitched and synthesized external panoramic view. They watched as a type of seawall or break emerged from the water around them like the surfacing of a vast, serpentine beast. The air quality was good enough that Ayla suggested they watch what was happening from the forward deck, and Omicron—also clearly intrigued—hastily agreed. He undocked a polymeth panel from the console, and they both pulled full-face breathers over their heads on their way through the forward airlock. Omicron paused on the way out, then lifted one of his rifles from the rack by the bulkhead hatch and slung it over his shoulder. Ayla turned and noticed that he had armed himself.

  “Good idea,” she said.

  “Just in case.”

  From outside the ship they watched the wall continue to rise, then at some point realized that it had stopped moving, and that it was the local sea level around them that was falling. When enough water had been pumped out to make the Hawk sit several meters lower—sufficient for clearance of the mainmast—they were told to reset their position lock to the seawall around them rather than the rig. Omicron drew new virtual anchor points on his tablet, and a moment later, they felt the deck lurch as something below them took the ship’s keel firmly into its grip. The next in
struction from the San Francisco was to cut their engines entirely. Omicron complied, and the seawall began to retract beneath the overhang like a tremendous drawer carved directly into the open sea.

  Ayla and Omicron shared a long look as the Hawk continued to be absorbed by the much larger vessel.

  “No turning back now,” Ayla said.

  “Apparently not.”

  “If you see me scratch my nose,” Ayla said, “kill anything that moves.”

  “What if your nose actually itches?” the Neo asked.

  “I’ll try to remember not to scratch it.”

  Ayla’s mood had been one of resignation and resentment going into the maneuver; however, she could not help but look around her now with some amount of astonishment and even awe. It was dim and dank beneath the overhang, and even through her respirator she could smell the pungent acridity of the sea, which had always been every bit as wonderful to her as it was offensive to almost everyone else she’d ever known. As she expected, there were I-beams above them forming dual-axis rails on which winches and booms could be maneuvered into precise positions for lifting and stacking transport containers below. A silica crow’s nest glided along one of the rails as the man inside inspected both the cargo and the Hawk’s crew, reporting on what he was seeing to the three men waiting on the berth below. There was a well-maintained ship’s tender of an enclosed catamaran design Ayla had never seen before moored a safe distance from the Hawk, and farther back inside the hangar was a sleek and finned airship with transparent view panels along its belly, hinting at a fully integrated passenger gondola. Below the dirigible was a type of vehicle Ayla had never seen before. It was part plane (but with wings that were obviously far too short for flight), and part boat (but with eight massive topside aviation engines). She guessed it was an old GEV, or Ground Effect Vehicle: a mode of transportation that relied on floating on top of a cushion of air that formed when generating lift in close proximity to the ground.

  There was the occasional breach of the seawall behind them by lackadaisical waves, followed by spray and white wash careening down the fused hexagonal plates where unseen pumps compensated to keep the Hawk safely within the floating city’s embrace. Ayla could feel that wonderful and terrible churning and burning feeling in the pit of her stomach that always accompanied new and unfamiliar experiences. Although there were certainly times when she found it difficult to make sense of her life outside of the pervasive and relentless themes of tragedy and loss—the rejection of her father, the destruction of her home, the slaughter of her former crew and husband—there were still these moments when she could not help but be amazed by where she was, and how far she had traveled, and by all there was in the world still worth seeing and experiencing.

  “We’re going to need you to lose that rifle,” one of the men shouted up from below. The man in the crow’s nest overhead was wearing high-visibility orange and a matching hard hat, but the men on the wharf did not look like dockworkers. All three were wearing light ballistic armor, and while their sidearms were not drawn, the position of their hands suggested that could change at any moment.

  Omicron looked at Ayla and Ayla nodded. The rifle was kept in an ostensibly neutral position as the Neo removed it from his shoulder, squatted, and placed the weapon gently on the deck. one of the men gestured up to the crow’s nest and the capsule resumed gliding along its rails. What looked to be a solid walkway began to descend from a gantry above them, though as one end of it aligned with the gap in the rail along the perimeter of the forward deck, the remainder of it segmented into steps that fell perfectly along the contour of the Hawk’s hull, finally terminating not far from the feet of the men on the dock.

  Ayla realized that this entire operation—the external and maneuverable lock for raising and lowering ships before pulling them in; the framework overhead for dynamically assembling various methods of lift and leverage; the infinitely configurable gangplank capable of conforming to vessels of any size and shape—was all designed to serve a system of trade and commerce in which the only standards and protocols that mattered anymore were those that embraced diversity.

  “Why don’t you two come on down,” the man said. Although Ayla could not identify any kind of visual rank, it was clear that he was the one in charge. He had short, sandy hair and was clean shaven, while the two men beside him wore several days’ worth of dark growth.

  “No thanks,” Ayla called down. “You come up and get your cargo, then we’ll be on our way.”

  “The thing is,” the man said, “we’re going to need to verify it.”

  Ayla watched the man for a moment before responding. “Fine,” she said. “How long will that take?”

  “Not long. Just a day or two. Three at the most.”

  Ayla shook her head. “No way,” she said. “We’ll stay long enough for you to open the crates and verify whatever you need to verify, but that’s it. And we’ll wait up here, not down there with you.”

  “Come on, now,” the man said. “We have very comfortable rooms all set up for you. It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”

  “Sorry,” Ayla told the man. “Staying here wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “I understand,” the man on the ground said. “But unfortunately, that’s the only deal there is.”

  In her peripheral vision, Ayla noticed Omicron look up, and when she followed his gaze, she saw the muzzle of a rifle protruding from the crow’s nest. It occurred to her at that moment that gun barrels were not unlike men’s eyes in that it was surprisingly easy to tell exactly where they were pointing. In this case, it was at her bodyguard’s head.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CULTURAL HYPOXIA

  LYING DOWN AND STARING UP at the ceiling hadn’t worked. Luka needed to be able to move around, turn away, pace. Even though Ellie was virtual in every respect, there were times when Luka found it necessary—in order for him to say the things that truly needed to be said—to turn away from the compassion and consolation in his virtual therapist’s placid brown eyes.

  He was now sitting on the edge of his cot, head down, forearms on his knees that bounced like a roughly idling motor. Beside him was a cold, picked-over boxed meal: termites cooked in oil with peppers, tomatoes, and onion, served over a type of cornmeal porridge. The accompanying probiotic capsule and vitamin supplement were still secured in their recesses.

  Ellie was in her usual purple armchair against a simple and somewhat dreary aluminum-to-charcoal gradient background, legs crossed and spine characteristically rigid. She was plain, but pretty; professional, but warm. Her use of Standard American English completed her perfectly neutral disposition. Luka speculated that the reason her presentation never deviated from pulled-back, chestnut hair, a plain taupe cardigan over a jade blouse, and gunmetal-gray slacks was to establish a level of drab familiarity intended to help counter the tendency of patients to transfer strong feelings of intimacy onto those with whom they have grown comfortable sharing their emotions—even if that someone happened to be nothing more than a collection of relatively low-resolution textures and pixel shaders wrapped around a moderately feminine 3D wireframe. Ellie didn’t even appear to be wearing a belt that, in order to avoid uncomfortable questioning, one might entertain fantasies of unbuckling.

  Luka wasn’t quite ready to begin. By way of stalling, he stood and took the two steps permitted by the distance between the bed and the front of the capsule. He looked down into the common area—a wire-mesh pit illuminated by ruby-red plasma panels—and saw that three prisoners in incarceration suits were being led to their cells by an equal number of armed officers. The guards were familiar, but he did not recognize the captives: a young woman with short, black hair and two men. He was positive he’d never seen the one in front before as the man was broader and more muscular than Luka would have previously thought possible. As the prisoners were directed into adjacent capsules, Luka decided they were probably just brokers or traders who’d tried to breach the port lock before settl
ing a disputed transaction. A row of opaque slats slid across the openings of all three cells, pivoted into an interlocking configuration, and then there was nothing more to see.

  As had become customary, the avatar was the first to breach the initial awkward silence.

  “Would you like to continue talking about your parents, Luka?”

  Luka watched the guards exit the catwalk. “Not particularly.”

  “Does it make you uncomfortable to talk about your parents?”

  “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable,” Luka said. “I’m just tired of it.”

  “Why do you think you’re tired of talking about your parents?”

  “Because there’s nothing left to talk about,” Luka told her. “They wanted a better life for me, so they brought me here. That’s all there is to it.”

  “It’s interesting that you use the word ‘brought.’”

  “Why’s that interesting?”

  “During our last session, you used the word ‘sold.’”

  “They aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “Do you believe your parents received payment of some sort for bringing you here?”

  “I know they did.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “It doesn’t make me feel anything. I know they didn’t do it for the money. They did it because they couldn’t take care of me. But they would’ve been stupid not to accept payment in return.”