by M. D. Cooper
Senator Walton’s complaint made sense to her. Xander had said he was going to remain on the Cho to assist with the underground railroad of AIs traveling from InnerSol to Proteus. If he had followed them here, it could mean the fragile network had broken down or that it might in the future. His presence also meant that he couldn’t be trusted to do as he said he would.
Fugia glanced up from her device. “If the route breaks down on the Cho, we’ll get word.”
“But what will we do about it? There were four AIs on their way out, based on the last message I received from our contacts on Ceres. Four. What will happen to them now? And really that’s eight because they probably have human assistance. Maybe more. And we can’t help them.”
“May,” Fugia said, putting her viewer in her pocket. “We have to control what we can control. Xander coming to us means something may have changed on Proteus. We need to gather all the information we can and respond to the situation.”
“I’ve always had a worry in the back of my mind that every AI we helped leave Sol would just find themselves in another form of slavery. All of this highlights how little we know about Alexander.”
“He sent out the call and AIs started to answer,” Fugia said. “We couldn’t stop them if we wanted to. All we can do is try to keep them from getting captured or exploited along the way.”
If Lyssa had learned anything from observing the emotions sparked by words, ‘Always part of something bigger’ was the kind of vague statement that could bring on anxiety, excitement, dread, fear, pride or any number of other responses in-between.
Fugia shrugged.
Fugia cocked an eyebrow.
May drew herself up straighter, hands clasped in front of her.
Lyssa said.
May gave her a slight smirk.
Fugia said.
Lyssa said.
Fugia gave the equivalent of a mental shrug.
Lyssa wondered what form that would take.
Fugia gave an audible sigh.
Lyssa paused. As soon as she asked Why not she knew all the reasons not to make herself look weak before the other AIs. It didn’t seem safe that he already had so much information about her.
Fugia nodded.
Like most conversations about the line between AI and SAI, Lyssa found herself thinking of Fred, the AI who had controlled the Mars 1 Ring, who hated abstraction but seemed to love the pigeon dating simulator. The ocean of Fred’s mind was still vast and deep but would ultimately be different than hers, and she still wasn’t precisely sure how.
It was terrifying if she let herself dwell on it: What if she wasn’t truly sentient at all? What if everything she did was a response to some programming she couldn’t remember, a holdover from the image, or some poisoned thread at the bottom of her being? Could a thing that had been told it was intelligent, thinking, sentient when it truly wasn’t, somehow become those things?
Thing, thing, thing. Too many abstractions. Too much grey space between definitions that should have been clear. The very spectrum of quantum responses that made her mind possible made it frustrating to understand what it all actually was.
If the test that explained how to find Proteus didn’t even matter for her at this point, why did she feel a deep need to confront and pass it? Why did Xander seem to represent the test?
She was different than the other Weapon Born, different than Fred, and she didn’t know how or truly why, and the realization made her feel alone.
The airlock chimed, indicating the ship on the other side had performed final hookup procedures and was ready to open.
Fugia checked her data viewer one more time, tapping its face.
Fugia rolled her eyes.
Lyssa accepted the encryption key and stopped herself from automatically taking control of the new ship, the way she had done with every other system between Sunny Skies and the Resolute Charity. Maintaining control frustrated her. She wanted to know what Xander looked like outside his
expanse. She wanted to know who was with him. What was his physical form?
Motion in the external airlock drew her attention back to the habitat ring’s internal sensors. Using the onboard cameras, she watched the airlock cycle and the external door split open. Once the doors had fully recessed, in stepped the bug-eyed man named Jeremiah she had met back on the Cho. Behind him came Xander, dark-haired with almond-shaped eyes and a perpetually smirking mouth, wearing a suit the color of crushed plums. He had been laughing about something as the door opened, and the sound of his laughter preceded them both into the airlock.
Harl Nines craned his neck to look through the airlock’s narrow window, one hand on his pulse pistol.
“There are three,” Lyssa said, hoping the information might ease his mind. “Xander, Jeremiah and Kindel. The same people we met before.”
Harl nodded, glancing at May and then the door before moving slightly so he stood beside the senator, apparently ready to protect her if necessary.
“I see his goofy face,” Fugia said. “I suppose consistency is comforting.”
The airlock signaled it was ready to open the interior door. Lyssa checked the airlock feeds and was surprised to find three humans inside. When Andy had checked earlier, the ship hadn’t appeared to be pressurized.
she told Fugia.
Lyssa released the door’s locking mechanism and allowed the party inside.
Xander was the first in the open door.
“Fugia Wong!” he said, voice sounding as melodious and as overly friendly as before. “May I come aboard?”
“You ask permission like you’re a vampire,” the small woman observed.
Xander’s grin widened. “What a delicious thought. I’m going to remember that.”
“I’m not the captain, but I think he decided not to destroy your ship a few hours ago, so I suppose he would allow you on board.”
“Thank you,” Xander said. “Your hospitality is a gift.”
Rubbing his hands together, Xander stepped through the airlock onto Sunny Skies.
CHAPTER EIGHT
STELLAR DATE: 10.05.2981 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: District FQ, Ring 9, Callisto Orbital Habitat (Cho)
REGION: Europa, Jovian Combine, OuterSol
Fighting her way through the crowded corridor with an unconscious Cal Kraft over her shoulder, Brit checked the area map on her Link, flashing through options. Kraft’s skin was clammy, and he barely seemed to be breathing. The hand with the cast swung freely, hitting her in the back repeatedly.
Based on yells and noise behind her, she figured at least one of the attackers from the club was following. She didn’t have the option of looking back, so she ran.
She needed to do something about Kraft’s medical situation before she found a way off the station. There was another med-kiosk several corridors over, but it was in a public area. Several hotels were available but didn’t offer medical assistance.
When her Link returned info on a joint Terran-Jovian Space Force liaison office next to the nearest hotel, she nearly shouted for joy. She had only a vague idea of what a TSF-JSF liaison office might do, but her status as a reserve officer would at least allow her entry and they should have standard emergency medical facilities. She could also get a message back to the TSF headquarters on High Terra.
Now that she had Kraft, she would need him to talk. While Brit had endured plenty of anti-interrogation training, she didn’t trust herself with trying to extract information from a man she actively wanted to harm. His physical state was obviously too fragile.
The corridor cleared out as she left the busier dock area and found herself with hotels and restaurants on either side. Someone shouted behind her but she didn’t look back, hurrying between food kiosks, benches and trees placed throughout the wide space. Checking the faces of passersby, Brit caught several who looked at her and then glanced quickly past her, noticing the person following her and then glancing back, as if checking to be certain. In a long storefront, she caught the man in black armor behind her, concealing his pistol against his stomach as he followed.
“You might be the biggest pain in my ass ever, Kraft,” she growled.
The liaison office was about a hundred meters ahead, sandwiched between two hotels, the closest with a bright awning and a doorman. As she passed a restaurant, a large family spilled from the front door, forcing her to weave through a clot of laughing kids. One of them pointed at her, shouting, “She killed that guy!”
“Not yet, kid,” Brit muttered.
Other kids took up the call, “Did you kill him? Did you kill him?”
Through the kids, Brit made it another twenty meters when the yelling cut short. She stole a glance back to see the man following her shoving his way between two of the kids, who were now crying. Parents had just left the restaurant and were yelling at the mercenary.
The man chasing her pulled his pistol away from his body, aiming at a father who had put himself in front of his son, who was crying now. The merc’s body language signaled to Brit that he was going to kill the man.
She stopped in the middle of the corridor and drew her own pistol. The shot was going to take some luck due to the distance. The kids were running away, leaving her an open space between the mercenary and the father.
Brit managed her chances by firing three times, head to waist down the merc’s body.
The first shot struck his faceshield, cracking it, but not going through. The other two shots hit him in the torso and twisted him aside.
He turned from the father—who gathered his children and ran—to Brit, swinging his rifle toward her. Brit was ready for the move and had already closed the distance, not wanting to test her light armor against his rifle.
The merc fired a shot at where she’d been—the rounds streaking through the air over Kraft’s body—then pivoted to track her.
But it was too late. Brit was on him, pushing his rifle down and pressing her pistol into his armpit. She fired two pulse blasts that rippled through the man’s armor and shattered his shoulder.
She wrenched on the limb and he screamed before she fired twice into his faceplate, shattering it, and the skull beneath.
Ignoring the screaming bystanders, Brit holstered her weapon and jogged past the people running out of the front of the nearby shops to see what was going on. She ran past the hotel doorman, who appeared to consider his chances of stopping her before getting out of the way.
The front of the liaison office appeared, a dull metal door with a bland placard to one side. Brit shouldered the door open and heaved Kraft inside, where a kid wearing a private’s rank stared up in surprise from a reception desk.
Brit let Kraft’s limp body slump to the floor as the door slid closed behind her, shutting out the sounds of shouting from the corridor.
“My name is Major Britney Sykes of the Terran Space Force,” she said, stretching her shoulders. “I’d like to talk to your commanding officer.”
Unlike Andy, Brit was still on reserve status with the TSF. When he’d resigned his commission, she’d merely requested a discharge that was later suspended when she’d joined Special Operations. She wondered sometimes if her staying in the TSF had been a symptom or cause, of the end of their marriage.
The private stood
at his desk, glancing at his console and then back to her with a confused frown.
“Yes, Major,” he said uncertainly. “I’ll get her. But it says here you’re JSF.”
Brit cursed inwardly. Fugia’s hacked token had registered with their security system. She couldn’t pretend to be a JSF officer, so she would have to explain the token later if anyone asked.
She gave the private a reassuring smile. “That’s very true. The reason for it is above both our pay grades. In the meantime, I need to get this man to an autodoc. Have you got one onsite?”
The private nodded and came around the desk, gaze fixed on her holstered pistol.
“If I was going to shoot you, I would have done that already. Which way is the doc?”
“Through that door,” the private said.
Brit waved off his help and pulled Cal over her shoulder again. He made a gurgling sound when his chest hit her shoulder-blade but continued taking shallow breaths. His face was completely grey now.
Following the private through the doorway, they emerged in an open room separated by cubicles. Most of the office spaces were empty except for a few bored-looking officers typing on data terminals.
As they passed an open cubicle, a thin lieutenant with a shaved head and green eyebrows jumped up. “Do you need help there?” he asked. “I’m med service.”
“He’s in shock,” Brit said as the young man fell in after them. “Had a broken hand that a street doc didn’t fix right. But something’s worse inside. I think he might be bleeding internally. He’s in shock from something.”
