Evergence: The Prodigal Sun
Page 2
The voice remained silent, perhaps considerate of her mood for a change. Before it could begin again, she walked to the work space and put the valise on the desk. The cuff was made of monofilament cord wrapped in black leather and ended in the bracelet that fitted around her left wrist tightly enough to prevent it slipping loose — or being removed by force — but not so tight that it caused her discomfort. Tiny contacts on its inner surface matched nodes on her skin, which in turn patched into a modified ulnar nerve leading up her forearm and into her spinal column, thus enabling data to flow in either direction. The voice in her head — intrusive, often unwelcome even though it was her only company — was not so much heard as insinuated directly in the aural centres of her brain.
Flipping open the valise's grey lid, she studied its interior with an emotion bordering on hatred.
"Oh, for an axe," she whispered out loud, although she had no need to.
" — a nuclear strike from one hundred metres." She nodded wearily. "I know, I know, but if it wasn't for you I wouldn't be in this mess. Can you understand how frustrating it is to be cooped up in here with nothing to do?"
Roche bit her lip. Of course it understood. The AI's previous environment had been the massive information workshops of Trinity, the planet of its birth. There, protected by the system's neutral status, secretive craftspersons in the service of High Humanity produced the AIs of the COE — rare and precious mind-machines lovingly crafted by carefully guarded techniques. Few people were allowed onto the planet itself, and she had been no exception. As she'd waited in orbit for the envoy from the manufacturers to arrive, then for the Midnight to collect her on its way past the system, she had had almost a week to watch the world below, but had learned little. Only a handful of what might have been cities were visible above the smoky-orange surface of the planet; apart from a ring of five skyhooks circling the equator, there was little sign of advanced life. And yet ...
Somehow she had been rendered unconscious prior to their arrival. She had no memory of the High Caste manufacturers — who they were, what they looked like, or how they behaved. There was just a blankness, after which she had woken in her singleship with the valise already strapped to her. The experience had been dreamlike, surreal — and frustrating. Such levels of secrecy were paranoid to an extreme — all for the sake of technology no mundane Human could understand anyway.
The valise's imitation cover fitted over an ebony rectangular box with a small keypad of touch points and recessed nodes along its top. The heart of the valise was a densely packed mass of complex microtechnology, crammed neatly into the small space available, both shielded and camouflaged by the shell of the briefcase itself. Molded in superhard composite along the inside of the lid was the AI's identification tag: JW111101000, one digit longer than usual. Without a name in the usual sense of the word to fall back on, Roche resorted as billions of people had before her to popular slang. In this case, the term 'Black Box' was even more appropriate, given the shape of the AI's container.
"The sooner we're back in HQ, Box, the better."
"Only six weeks ... " She forced a short-lived smile. "If it wasn't for Klose being so pedantic, I'd probably enjoy the break from normal duties."
"I don't want to talk about it." Swivelling the room's only chair to face the workstation and placing her left palm on the contact pad, she activated the console and called up the ship's outlet of the Information Dissemination Network. IDnet granted her access to all nonrestricted data, from the volume of processed foodstuff in the Midnight's holds to current affairs on any of the worlds in the COE. Raw data coursed up her arm into the small processor at the base of her skull, where it was interpreted as visual and audio signals and routed to the implanted systems in her left eye and ear. Her implants were by no means the most sophisticated available — lacking three-dimensional clarity and line-of-sight commands — but set her above ninety percent of Armada employees. Such subtle means of communication were sometimes required of Intelligence operatives, so these basic implants were standard to all of her rank.
A virtual screen appeared over her field of vision, seeming to hang two metres from her, impossibly deep in the bulkhead. Skimming at random through the channels, she found a station devoted to general COE news and settled back to discover what the rest of the universe was up to. Try as she might, however, her mind kept returning to Klose and his reasons for denying her what she wanted, while the patient, steady voice of IDnet murmured into her ear, an incessant counterpoint to her thoughts.
* * * *
// in the wake of crippling solar flares, which destroyed asteroid mining facilities and a hydrogen purification plant in orbit around the system's innermost gas giant. Ede Prime's Presiding Minister today released a statement exonerating two members of her advisory staff who yesterday committed ritual suicide, after it was revealed that the Eckandar Trade Axis has been conclusively linked to corruption within a local chapter of the Commerce Artel //
* * * *
Ship and captain: for better or for worse, their destinies and characters were intertwined. The post of ship command, contrary to popular opinion, offered not liberation but a lifetime of snail-like confinement. With a prison strapped to his or her back, unable to shrug free even for a moment, every captain had the power to travel vast distances but in reality no more freedom than any of the convicts on Sciacca's World.
Few deep-space commands led to promotion, at least in the COE Armada; captains quickly learned that the chance of achieving advancement via success in battle was slim, as battles themselves were rare and usually fatal to those involved, and most missions were more concerned with distribution of resources across that region of the galaxy than the expansion of the COE — the Commonwealth of Empires, which had ceased expanding entirely some centuries ago and indeed had, upon the secession of the Dato Bloc, begun to shrink. If they failed to die in space, captains inevitably retired to one of the bleak Space Command planets (whose very architecture mirrored deep-space engineering) and spent their remaining days reminiscing about imagined glories. Meanwhile their ships, unfaithful lovers at best, flew on, piloted by younger versions of themselves who were no less doomed than their predecessors. Doomed to a life of confinement, first in their ships and later in retirement or death.
In a very real sense, then, Proctor Klose was the Midnight, but only for a little while. Jealous of his small command, he would resist any attempt to undermine it. And therein lay the problem.
Roche didn't want to take over. She just wanted something to do. Armada training had prepared her for a wide range of combat scenarios, not months of being cooped up on a worn-out frigate acting as nursemaid for an artificial mind. She knew she should be patient, and perhaps even grateful for the undemanding task, but it wasn't in her nature to sit still for long. She wanted to move, to act, to investigate.
* * * *
// shock discovery of remains in the Greater Vexisen Republic dating the emergence of Pristine Humanity into the wider galaxy fifty thousand years earlier than the previous best estimate. Renowned xenoarchaeologist Linegar Rufo, nominal overseer of the excavation, was not available for comment, but acting overseer Dev Bogasi commented that 'This find represents the most exciting development in the field for over five hundred years. I'm not saying we've found the ultimate source of the Human race, but we're well on the way. The further back we push the envelope — and we're up to half a million years, now — the closer we're coming to a pure genetic strain. Give us another discovery of this magnitude and I predict we'll be able to narrow our field of search to a handful of //
* * * *
&n
bsp; Feeling the tension knotting her muscles, Roche shifted in her seat and unbuttoned the tight collar of her uniform. Brooding on it wasn't going to do her any good, and talking was better than doing nothing. The Box wasn't the confidante she would have chosen, but she had no choice. It was either that or go stir crazy.
"To be fair, Box," she said, picking up the conversation where she had ended it earlier, "it's partly my fault. You remember that derelict we picked up seven days ago?"
"Well, I've been hearing rumors among the crew — "
An all-stations announcement interrupted her, warning the crew and transportees alike of imminent deceleration. The Midnight had come out of the anchor point at the edge of the system seven days earlier; this final manoeuvre would bring the frigate into an inclined polar orbit around the planet, dipping through the belt of moonlets once every two hours. Within moments of the announcement, the engines groaned through the bulkheads of Roche's room, and a wave of rattles and clatters shivered through the ship.
"Hang on." She adjusted the workstation to bring up a view of the planet, overlaying IDnet. "It's nothing, really. The derelict was a life-support capsule with one man inside."
"Apparently. No one knows where he's from, though, which makes me curious. The other eight capsules we picked up coming here all contained survivors ejected from the wreckage of the Courtesan, the passenger cruiser that broke up near Furioso. But this one ... They don't recognise him. I asked Klose if I could interview the man, but he told me to mind my own business." She shrugged. "That's it, I guess."
She didn't mention the other snippets of gossip she'd heard: that the capsule had been drifting through space far longer than usual before being detected by the Midnight, and that its design was anything but orthodox.
The AI's overt praise surprised her. "It is?"
"That doesn't seem likely."
"Not forgetting modesty," Roche cut in.
The Box ignored her.
Roche rubbed her chin thoughtfully. She hadn't considered this possibility before. The Midnight had been chosen as the vehicle to carry the Box because its route to Intelligence HQ was circuitous, not the direct route one might expect for such an important cargo. If the man in the capsule was a spy, all he had to do was ascertain that the Box was definitely aboard this ship, instead of one of the many decoy ships, and notify his superiors.
It was barely plausible, certainly not likely.
And it didn't make sense, not if the capsule was older than the plans to ferry the Box to Intelligence HQ. Still, it would be an interesting point to raise when she and Klose were next at loggerheads.
* * * *
// until the vector has been isolated and the outbreak contained, all scheduled traffic in- and out-system — including that for the purpose of trade and Armada activity — is either severely restricted or cancelled indefinitely. Anyone attempting to break the blockade will be in violation of the Commonwealth of Empires Security Act and liable to face the severest penalty, by order of Chief Liaison Officer for the COE Armada, Burne Absenger. Repeat: Palasian System has been declared a no-go zone as a result of a Class Three Medical Emergency //
* * * *
The Midnight's engines roared again, swinging its ponderous bulk around to the correct attitude for polar insertion.
"So this is the way you spend your time, Box. Is there anything that could go wrong that you haven't thought about?"
"Such as?"
Before it could answer, a red light flashed in the virtual screen, indicating a deviation from the mission plan. She returned her attention to the view of the planet and its attendant asteroid belt — "the Soul," she reminded herself. The halo of moonlets had grown in size dramatically; individual motes of light now stood out against the indistinct glow of dust and pebbles. Nothing seemed immediately out of the ordinary, so she superimposed a navigation overlay across the view. Multicoloured lines defined the vectors and mass of the largest rocks, while bold green angles indicated the Midnight's orbital approach. The latter should have been clear of all obstacles larger than the frigate's shields could handle, but it wasn't.
Four red circles — ships, judging by their mass and velocity — occupied the exact centre of the Midnight's path.
"That's strange," Roche mused, more to herself than to her artificial companion. "The corridor should be clear by now."
replied the Box.
"Any ident?"
"Typical." Roche could well imagine the Midnight's captain fuming at the woman's impudence. All manoeuvres by the Armada were booked well in advance; there was no question that Klose was in the right. That didn't mean, of course, that he couldn't do the courteous thing and oblige her, but it wasn't in his nature to deviate from the regulations one iota. Not for COE Intelligence, as Roche knew well, and especially not for a civilian.
announced the Box shortly.
"Between the freighters?" Roche frowned, concerned.
"That's not what worries me. What if they're freebooters? We'll be at a disadvantage should one of them take a shot at us. It goes against everything I learned in Tactics."
"Captain Klose is — " A fool, she had been about to say, but thought better of it. He had travelled this route many times, after all, and knew its dangers better than she. A course correction would cost them energy and delay their docking at Kanaga Station. Why should he give way, when he was so obviously in the right? Besides, fears of freebooting and other forms of treachery seemed naive even to her.
" — just doing his job, I guess," she concluded with a sigh, and settled back into the chair to watch the approach. The red circles on the navigation display drifted apart, widening like a mouth to swallow the Midnight. Although she was no longer protesting, she was unable to quell the flutter in her stomach.
* * * *
// continuing hostilities forced intervention on the behalf of the Commerce Artel. The long-running dispute betw
een the Hierocratic Kingdom of Shurdu and the Pan-Rationalist Alliance of neighbouring Zanshin flared into open warfare two months ago, following racist comments made by Hierocrat Kaatje Lene in response to a plea for peace from his opposite number, Provost Hemi Felucca. The exacerbation of inter-Caste tensions as a result of these comments has been cited by concerned observers as a major contributing factor to the current situation. Some have even suggested that the comments were made deliberately, in order to incite war. Exactly why the Hierocrat would do such a thing remains a mystery at this time, although some delegates have not ruled out interference from an unknown third party keen to see war between the two nations.
Meanwhile, on a more cheerful note, an explanation has come from High Human Interventionist, the Crescend, regarding a garbled transmission received from the homeworld of the Jaaf Caste — which, it turns out, has successfully Transcended to the status of High Human, not been annihilated by the nova of their primary star as was first thought. Concerned friends and business associates can contact //
* * * *
A brisk rap at her door startled her from both the view and IDnet's incessant patter. She stood automatically and straightened her uniform. The moment her hand left the contact pad without cancelling her link to IDnet, an inactive screen mounted in the wall above the workstation flickered to life, continuing the display of the Midnight's approach.
"Who is it?" she called into the intercom.
"To be honest, I was hoping you might be able to help me answer that question."
Her hand hovered over the switch that would open the door. The voice had been male, deep and articulate, but the statement itself suggested anything but conviction. "If this is some sort of joke — ?"
"I assure you it's not." There was a moment's pause before the man on the other side of the door spoke again. "Look, my name is Adoni Cane, but that's about all I can tell you. Everything else is just — " Another pause. "Please, I need to speak to you."