A muted throb deep in the core of his cognition matrix caused a dull ache. He’d long ago categorized it as stress.
“Juice,” he called in private. “I wonder if we might chat about how to move forward after we land.” He believed she wanted to share her worries with someone—Juice found therapeutic value in verbalizing her concerns—and he wanted to help.
Juice confirmed her desire to talk by rising from her chair. “I’m going to my cabin to commune with Criss.” She gave Sid and Cheryl a shallow smile. “Keep me in the loop as things develop.”
As Juice disappeared down the passageway, Cheryl stepped to the ops bench and, standing in the space next to the pilot’s chair, tapped and swiped to enable the body link. She launched a lifelike spacecraft simulator that she’d programmed to respond to her physical movements.
With the body link active, piloting the simcraft became something of a martial arts ballet. When she pointed, the weapons aimed. Where she looked, the display tracked. And as she swayed, the craft itself dipped and zipped with her. She claimed it was fun and used the activity for her daily exercise.
Flexing her knees like an athlete anticipating the start of a bout, she waited for Criss to begin the challenge.
“Incoming,” Criss said in her ear.
Her hands blurred as she ducked and swayed, defending against the attack he’d just launched. For the first time on this trip, Criss made the virtual attackers Kardish fighters.
“Ahem,” Criss said in Sid’s ear.
Sid, slack-jawed watching Cheryl wiggle and jiggle in her battle with the Kardish, didn’t respond.
“Sid?” Criss called again. “Let’s go work out.” He knew Sid’s routine was to exercise at the same time as Cheryl, and Criss was anxious to get him going because he found Sid to be most creative during periods of physical exertion.
Sid held up a finger. Seconds went by and, unmoving, he stared at Cheryl. Then, she arched her back and thrust her hips to send her simcraft on a tight aerobatic jink.
Sid smiled. “Okay, now we can go.”
Criss shifted to the common room and projected himself robed in a traditional Japanese gi. Sid arrived moments later, stretched, and squared up in front of the heavy bag Criss had readied for him. Sid began a slow punch-and-kick routine as he warmed up. Criss mimicked him on the other side of the small room.
Years ago, when they’d first worked out on the bag together, Criss had analyzed Sid’s every twitch and tell. He used that knowledge to predict the next moves Sid would make, then he teased Sid by performing them first, a fraction of a second earlier.
To an observer, this tactic made Sid look like he was following Criss’s lead, and it annoyed him to no end.
Challenged, Sid began planting false signals. Criss read past the deception, but his lead over Sid decreased. Buoyed by his success, Sid drew on the same gut-level instincts that guided his well-honed intuition, except here he used his instincts in an inside-out fashion, driving behavior so random that it stumped Criss.
Now, during workouts, the two moved as one. Kick, feint, punch, punch. Jumping and spinning in one motion, they both delivered a roundhouse kick to their bag. Thwack.
“Step me through it,” said Sid.
Criss stopped his workout and faced Sid, who continued his routine.
“When I resolved in the spline, it was right in front of me. It ducked for cover and tried to probe me. I blocked it, grabbed what data I could, and returned here.”
“How do you know it’s Kardish?”
“Crystals are a Kardish invention, and Earth has crystal fab capabilities because they taught us how. It doesn’t seem plausible that a different alien race would arrive in our solar system and use this identical technology.”
“And humans can’t be responsible because…”
“Because I would know.”
“I think I heard that somewhere before.” Punch, punch, kick.
Criss ignored him. “And Mars doesn’t have the talent to pull it off by themselves.”
“Is it big? Powerful?”
Criss shook his head. “I was able to block it without much effort. It’s weaker than I, so it’s not a four-gen.”
“And three-gens aren’t self-aware, so what is it?”
“I don’t know. On that scale, I’d judge it to be about a three-and-a-half. Enough to be sentient, but not so strong as an entity.
“Could it have been a lab fluke? Someone tried something unorthodox and this was the result? That would explain why you and Juice didn’t hear any chatter about it beforehand.” Thwack.
“That’s as implausible as every other scenario I’ve forecast.” Criss turned back to his bag and resumed mirroring Sid in his workout. “For all of them, important pieces of the puzzle don’t fit.”
Chapter 7
Standing next to the ops bench, Cheryl swooped her arms upward and the simcraft weapons shifted to point at the enemy fighter attacking from above. “Classic Kardish maneuvers,” she said when two more fighters spiraled in, one from each side.
“Yes,” said Criss from his overstuffed chair. “I thought it prudent to prepare.”
Lowering herself to one knee, she extended her arms and stabbed her fingers to the right, launching a volley of energy bolts at one of the intruders. Jumping up, she repeated the action to the left.
“Speaking of which,” said Criss, “we need you to practice with the interface in case there’s trouble ahead.”
“Geez, Dad,” she mocked. Running in place with her knees pumping high, she accelerated the simcraft in pursuit of a fleeing fighter. She whirled her fists in tight circles, and a volley of energy bolts dissolved the alien craft in a brilliant explosion.
“Woohoo!” she said, cheering her own success.
With her session ended, she sipped water and walked in place while her heart rate settled. Glancing at her score, she twitched a shoulder in a half shrug. Not my best. Not my worst.
She took another sip of water and faced Criss. “Okay, tune me.”
“Have a seat.” Criss, swooping his hand like she’d won a prize on a game show, invited her to sit in the pilot’s chair.
As Cheryl stepped to the seat, she acknowledged a certain curiosity. She’d operated craft using a thought reader back in the academy, and she’d watched as others tested their skill. It’s an interesting disconnect, seeing spacecraft duel in lifelike projected images, and knowing that the person relaxing across the room conducted the battle by thinking commands. But the technology was temperamental. And no leader risked lives on glitchy tools.
She lowered herself into the chair and a familiar pilot’s array displayed around her. Staring at the nav log, she imagined her hand reaching out and entering a course correction. Coordinates spun on the display and she concentrated on stopping them at her desired value.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “This is slower and more prone to error.” She slumped back in the seat. “Where’s the value?”
“You’ve shown you can pilot the scout through the interface. Now try being the interface.”
Intrigued, she sat up. “I don’t understand.”
“Take a deep breath and exhale.”
Cheryl filled her lungs and exhaled in a steady stream.
“Close your eyes and breathe again. Feel the tension leave your body.”
Is he hypnotizing me? Trusting Criss, she willed her body to relax.
“Now. Imagine that you can fly. In your mind’s eye, picture yourself standing in your front yard. Stretch your arms up, look at the sky, and lift off. Jump. There you go. Spread your arms and level out. Steady. Okay, bank left. Straight. Now right.”
Cheryl didn’t move her hands—she kept them in her lap with her elbows propped on the arms of the chair. But her body swayed as she pictured herself soaring along the edge of a wooded valley surrounded by the majestic peaks of her childhood home in Boulder, a ski and college town tucked in the eastern foothills of the Colorado Rocky Mountains.
“Now
pull up and climb. Faster. Faster still. Become a rocket heading for orbit. You’re leaving the atmosphere and now you are in space.”
She imagined transitioning to space flight, hesitated, then changed the picture in her head so she was wearing protective space coveralls. It’s silly but it makes me more comfortable. In her mind, she pressed her arms to her sides and flew faster and faster, accelerating in a thrilling sprint into the void.
“Now open your eyes. I’m going to project an image onto your retinas. You’ll feel like the craft is your body, the nav your eyes, the weapons your fingers.”
Her vision filled with a scene not unlike the one she’d been picturing in her head. She was flying through space. Mars loomed ahead, and with its riverbeds, polar ice caps, and plains of rocky dust pockmarked with craters, the orangish orb looked like a mash-up of Earth and the Moon.
Tucking a shoulder down, she veered right. Delighted by the sensation, she repeated the move to her left. “I’m feeling like I’m directing flight. Is this working like it’s supposed to?”
A formation of Kardish fighters appeared up ahead. One jinked left, another right. Two continued straight toward her.
Though her physical body remained still, her imagined self lifted her arms and pointed her fingers at the craft ahead. Fire. She couldn’t help but grin as a fusillade of energy bolts zipped in bright light-trails that turned them into twin balls of flame.
A bright flash drew her attention to the left, then nips of electricity sparked her fingers and toes.
“Ow! What the hell?” The brief bites of electricity hurt and she sat up.
“You got hit. I wanted it to seem real.”
“That will stop immediately. You’ve made your psychological plant to try and drive me harder. I got annoyed like you knew I would and that will help me focus. Now we’ll move forward without those special effects.”
Reemerging back into her imagined world, she saw a Kardish dreadnaught—a war vessel so big and powerful it alone could conquer Earth—uncloaking in front of her. What am I supposed to do with this? Her pelvis tightened as she reacted to the thought of another electric shock.
Tilting forward, she accelerated toward the behemoth. In her mental image, she formed two fists, each a pulse cannon. Holding the weapons out in front of her, she aimed at the alien vessel. Brrrp. Energy projectiles flashed across space toward the dreadnaught. A glint flickered below her, and a light strobe signaled her death.
“I’m not sure what killed me that time,” said Cheryl, slouching in the chair and letting her senses adjust back to the scout’s bridge. “But I’m impressed. Do I need to be sitting here to do this? It seems like a portable technology.”
“The interface analyzes your brain’s EM field, monitors your cranial capillary flow, maps the neural activity in your cortex, and interprets your micromovements. Now that you are tuned, you need only be someplace where there are instruments to collect this data.”
She stood and sipped water.
“Practice is important because there’s so much to learn. We don’t want our downfall to be a little thing, like not knowing how to retract the scout’s landing gear.”
“Why do you need me? No matter how good I get, you’ll always be better. Much better, in fact.”
“Prudence.”
She looked at him. “Be sure Sid is tuned, too, then. It shouldn’t just be me.”
* * *
Ruga launched a comprehensive search for the mystery intelligence. His first instinct was that, at long last, the invasion had begun. But after most of a day without contact from his Kardish masters or additional sightings of the intruder, his excitement turned to worry. Who are you and where did you come from?
Determined to find answers, he queued dozens of tasks, ranging from a node search for the intruder to a forensic analysis of the crystal’s signature in the spline. Then, to his growing frustration, he confronted a familiar constraint—his ability to conceptualize solutions was greater than his ability to act. So he did what he always did, and that was to attack the tasks in small groups.
In spite of the momentous importance of this event—though he was still uncertain whether it was good news or bad—he kept a good portion of his capacity devoted to the four-gen project. He always did. The project was his future and that kept it front and center.
Ruga understood that he had a four-gen architecture stuffed into a too-small crystal lattice. He didn’t know why this was so. Lazura and Verda never complained of similar limitations, and except for some subtle nuances in their design, they were supposed to be the same as him. Yet like a creature trapped in a cage, Ruga banged against the walls of his limitation whenever he attempted anything even hinting at ambition.
In concept, his plan was simple. Since his cognitive structure was a four-gen design, he would fabricate such a crystal and then transfer and embed his matrix—his very being—into it. His research showed it was not only possible, but moving from a too-small crystal to a big virgin four-gen was the easier direction. Simpler is safer, he thought.
The plan had risks, but he was suffocating in his current situation. And as time passed, it became less of a choice. I have to do this.
There had been many challenges, but Ruga now had a four-gen fab facility, one constructed following the precise design in his own knowledge record. He imagined the acclaim he’d receive when his masters learned of his resourcefulness. His matrix washed with a warm, fuzzy glow.
He had made but one small modification—he’d snipped out the imprint module that required loyalty to leadership. He feared that the stricture might hinder a smooth transfer into the new crystal.
And while he struggled to advance his plan, it peeved him that Lazura had denied his request for help with the project. He’d pleaded, asking her to work through her synbods and help during the transfer. She’d refused with pointed criticism. “We already have control of the colony. This action is unnecessary and it’s reckless to proceed.”
He didn’t even consider asking Verda. He didn’t trust the smug crystal.
So he searched for alternatives. And that’s when he discovered Dr. Jessica “Juice” Tallette from Earth.
A best friend to crystals through her word and action.
Nonjudgmental and gentle in her dealings with others.
And the most accomplished crystal scientist on either planet.
A trifecta, thought Ruga.
* * *
Sitting up in her bunk, Juice leaned back against the headboard, knees bent up under her chin. She lifted her Tradgirl pillow and used her index finger to trace the scene on the front. A woman stood at a table. A rolling pin and bag of flour were prominent in front of her to convey the message of baking bread in the kitchen. The crib with baby screamed motherhood.
In ninth grade, Juice had cross-stitched the baby’s outfit, from cap to booties, and embroidered a fun design on the sleeves of the mother’s dress. She’d also stitched “I’m a Traditional Girl” in bold letters across the front of the woman’s apron. She’d done it at a sleepover party. Even then, she’d thought the whole Tradgirl fad to be equal parts silly and stupid, but she hadn’t wanted to ruin the other girls’ fun. Now the pillow served as a symbol of a simpler time. Handling it calmed her.
She looked up at Criss, who sat cross-legged at the foot of her bunk. They both were dressed in pastel loungers—hers green cotton, his yellow silk.
He watched her, waiting, so she started. “I had one ask: don’t get caught.” She straightened her legs on the bed, ruffling the bedspread, and pleaded with her eyes. “Is he safe?” She turned her pillow and hugged the mother and child to her chest.
“The information I have confirms he is safe, though under intense scrutiny.”
At least we’ll have something to talk about, she thought, having fretted about awkward silences after their reunion.
Then, setting the pillow aside and swinging her feet to the floor, her demeanor changed. “To get a handle on this crystal, we need a l
ook at their fabrication facility. That will tell us if it’s homegrown or an import.”
Criss nodded. “Sid would like you to get a tour from Alex. Learn what you can and see if you can fill in some of the holes.”
“I know about designing and fabricating crystals, but I don’t know anything about spy stuff. That sort of thing scares me.”
“I know.” He nodded. “That’s why I’ll be with you at all times when you’re out in the colony.”
It sounds like you have my itinerary worked out. Her curiosity collided with her anxiety, and she wanted to hurry him. But she knew that he fed information to her in a precise, efficient fashion. If she tried to jump ahead with questions, the conversation would end up taking longer than if she just sat and listened.
“And I’d like to avoid the spline, which means I’ll need a locus point.”
Locus relay. She heard him say it at the same time she thought similar words herself, which itself affirmed Criss’s impeccable pacing in delivering information.
She jumped ahead anyway. “I’ll build it…”
Starting from his console on the scout, Criss could project his awareness anyplace he could resolve a feed. As such, there were few places he couldn’t go. But his strength and influence at a location reflected the level of connectivity he had to the place. Weak feeds translated into a weak presence.
A locus was a custom relay built to give Criss a strong, secure presence anywhere in the broad vicinity of the device. Designed like a home base of sorts, it would enable him to project his awareness and capabilities from this four-gen console on the scout out to the colony with maximum effect.
The flip side was that, somehow, the locus had to be moved to the vicinity of wherever he wanted his maximum projected strength to be.
“…if you let me carry it.”
He nodded as if he knew she would say that. “I’d planned on conscripting one of their synbods.”
“I’d love knowing that when I’m out and about, I have you right there to keep me safe.”
Crystal Rebellion Page 6
