“But now?”
“I do not think he has taken his medication.”
“What do you think it means?”
“Perhaps he forgot.”
“I don’t like it,” Diego said, lacing up his boots.
“Neither do I.”
“I think it’s time you told me who the other miscloned are.”
“It’s not safe.”
“You’re afraid for them?”
“I’m afraid for all of you.”
“Hiding isn’t always the answer to fear,” Diego said. It sounded flippant in his head, but dead serious out of his mouth. He gathered up his ‘flex-sheets and knapsack, then headed for the door.
Before he’d discovered who he really was, Diego used to pass people in the hallways without paying much attention. A polite nod was the most thought he gave to the random passerby. But these days, every face presented a riddle. What did they think of the Discontinueds? What would they think if they knew he was one of them?
And if he passed a child who appeared to be between the ages of ten and seventeen his mind raced with possibilities. Could they be miscloned? Were they like him, perpetually confused about their place in the convoy?
A boy of sixteen, a neighbor from a few decks down, passed him wearing a pilot’s flight suit. Tom was his name, if Diego recalled correctly. He had a familiar faraway look in his eyes and set to his jaw. Could he be miscloned? Or was Diego just seeing what he wanted to see?
He’d never been much of a people watcher before, but now it seemed like every individual’s little nuances deserved to be observed and remembered. Noticing people was important.
He jogged into the shuttle bay just in time to catch the next one out to Morgan. The attendant entered his information into the passenger manifest before he boarded, and he took a seat near the front per habit.
As the craft took off, he wondered what could convince I.C.C. to hand over the identities of the other nine miscloned. Surely the AI realized that revealing themselves to each other could be great for all of them. They could help each other, figure out a way to come out to the convoy as a group. Or, at the very least, it would ensure they all had someone to lean on when leading a double life started to take its toll.
The dark expanse of space between the ships could be so soothing sometimes. Quiet. Calm—
A huge clashing bang and screeeeech, like metal fists meeting, rattled through the cabin.
The shuttle lurched, throwing Diego sideways. His skull smacked against the wall, and white dots scattered across his vision.
Compartments overhead popped open, releasing oxygen masks.
For a moment Diego sat slumped against the wall, dazed, as everyone else panicked around him.
After a moment he came to his senses, and while the six other passengers scrambled to secure the breathers, Diego unbuckled himself. He darted between the windows, searching. They’d been hit by something, but what?
A white dot off starboard grew in the frame of the window. Another shuttle, its nose already crumpled, was barreling in for another blow. It wasn’t an accident. The other ship maneuvered exactingly; the pilot knew what they were doing.
His shuttle had been rammed.
“Remain calm, remain calm,” the pilot of Diego’s shuttle ordered over the comm “I’m taking us back to Mira.”
But he wouldn’t get them rerouted in time. Diego braced himself for the impending impact. Unable to get back to his seat and buckled, he wound a free belt around his wrist.
This time when the ships collided they did not bounce apart. The attacking shuttle somehow clung to its victim—whether it was an accident of twisted frames or on purpose, Diego wasn’t sure . . . until the cutting began.
Two individuals in space suits exited the other craft carrying an emergency umbilical connector and heavy-duty equipment. Drills, maybe. Mining gear. They linked the two ships together with the umbilical, then tore open the passenger compartment in Diego’s shuttle.
Diego’s ears popped painfully with the shifting pressure.
Once the interior had equalized, the suited men started transferring the commuters to their craft. Confused, no one fought.
Except Diego.
He kicked and elbowed the man trying to get an arm around his middle. There was no question this was an attack. If he went with these people, bad things would happen.
I’m Discontinued. They’re coming for me because I’m miscloned.
I’m not going to let them take me.
But the man in the suit got in a good right hook. Diego tumbled, and the second attacker took the opportunity to join in.
They hauled him out into the flimsy tunnel, then onto their craft, and settled a breather snuggly over his face. As he took in a breath, though, he realized the mask wasn’t to help him breathe—it was to make him more compliant. He felt his faculties slipping, his mind fogging, his extremities tingling. After a minute, one suited attacker whipped off the mask, then put a canvas bag over his head and zip-tied his hands behind his back.
“If you want me, take me, but don’t hurt anyone else,” he said weakly. “Please.” Hot tears pricked the corners of his eyes.
I.C.C., please help me.
When the bag came off—what felt like hours later—Diego found himself blinking into a setting desert sun. A light haze sat on the horizon, and pinkish hues made the clouds look like spun sugar.
Diego realized he was one end of an eight-person line. Beside him stood a man—the same height, but stooped—with his head still shrouded. Next to him was another convoy kid. Rose, that was her name. She had short hair and a bloody lip. Next to her was another hooded adult, followed by two more kids Diego didn’t recognize and two more bagged people.
Dozens of men and women in black uniforms and helmets stood scattered around the plane. Somehow the hijackers had gotten him onto Eden. Gotten all of these invaders inside. There never were many security people on the garden ship. Why would there be? What were they going to stop, a camel revolt?
None of the other passengers he’d been kidnapped with were around. He hoped they were all safe.
I hope we are safe.
The Master Warden stepped in front of him, hands braced against his hips, mirrors glinting in the last glimmers of sunlight.
Before the Warden said anything, Diego realized who the man standing next to him had to be. White jumpsuit, black skin—it was him. Prisoner Zero-zero-eight-nine-three.
Jamal.
Which meant these other kids had to be miscloned as well.
“Hello. Diego, was it?” the Warden asked him. “I wonder how you came by that name. It’s a good name—a convoy name. A name that doesn’t belong to you.”
“It’s the name my mother gave me,” Diego spat back. It was half true.
“And therein lies our problem,” said Master Warden.
“John Mahler,” I.C.C.’s voice boomed from the sky. “I feel obligated to tell you that the board has ordered the convoy into lockdown.”
“Oh, have they? Not a problem. Because I don’t want anyone to go anywhere. I want every crew member to stop and listen and goddamned pay attention for once!” He waved at the clouds. “Zoom in, I.C.C. I want you to broadcast this across the fleet. We have spies in our midst—and somewhere there are traitors who brought them to life. Look at these faces. There are Discontinueds living in the convoy.
“I revealed this to the board, demanded the infiltrators be put under my jurisdiction. Do you know what they said? No. No!” He shook his head. “The board can’t be counted on to protect this fleet, not like I can, and the public needs to know.”
So this was a power play. He wanted to push out the weak board and take over.
But I.C.C. said calmly, “I will not broadcast my security feeds.”
“Your top priority is the well-being of this fleet, is it not?” the Warden yelled, as though the AI was far away, genuinely residing in a vast expanse of sky.
“That is why I will not broadcas
t my security feed.”
Diego shifted uncomfortably.
“Fine,” Master Warden grumbled. “Show it now, show it later—doesn’t matter. But the rest of the crew will see this. They’ll demand to see it. Summary executions of infiltrators don’t happen every day.”
The other children cried out suddenly, and the man beside Diego trembled, but Diego didn’t seem to have the same good sense. I can’t be scared, he told himself. Because as long as I don’t panic I can figure out how to make this stop.
“We do not allow such punishment in the convoy,” I.C.C. said with its typical calmness.
“So someone come stop me,” the Warden said menacingly.
How could Diego signal to I.C.C. without the Warden noticing? A live broadcast was probably the only thing that could save their lives. If someone—a board member, one of his moms—could see exactly what was happening on Eden, they’d have a better chance of taking the Master Warden down.
But how to get the AI to agree without alerting the Warden that he and the computer were in league?
Oh, what does it matter? He snapped at himself. It’s not like him finding out can get you any deader. “I.C.C.?”
“Yes, Diego?”
“I think you should reconsider the live feed.”
“Your shuttle’s crash, followed by the interception of two education shuttles and the subsequent invasion of Eden by Pit operatives has already incited nineteen instances of extra-incidental violence,” I.C.C. explained. “People are scared. I do not think observing these events will make them less scared . . . or you more secure.”
“Then not everyone—some people. Just my mo—”
A slap from the Warden cut him off midsentence. His cheek burned and his jaw popped, but he’d only been half-surprised by the blow.
“You don’t get to order the computer around,” Master Warden said.
Vega and Margarita were both alone when the chaos started. The shuttle pilot of the abused craft had barely gotten it back to Mira. The bay had been evacuated, then rapidly depressurized. The shuttle tumbled in, skidding across the hangar floor half on its landing gear, half on its belly. An alarm was instantly sounded and the man retrieved.
Then the traffic control personnel realized they’d been duped. A group of shuttles—supposedly carrying children from Aesop to Eden for a field trip—had really come from the Pit. The discovery triggered the lockdown—no more shuttle traffic. But that meant no help to Eden.
Worried family members took to the halls, fled to the bridge and to the situation room, demanding to know what was happening to their loved ones on Eden.
Brawls started. Some were accidents, with a misplaced foot and a sudden fall as the trigger. Others were deliberate, with punches thrown.
Margarita left her closet-like office and rushed to the server room to be with Vega. If there was anywhere on the ship that was safe, it was with the servers. Along the way, I.C.C. directed her to take an alternate route.
“Why?”
“There is a family on deck six that needs protecting. Please bring them to the server room with you. And please be careful—this is the Master Warden’s doing, but not all of the individuals involved are from the Pit. Convoy members are aiding him. I do not know who is on his side and who is on ours.”
Without question, she did as it asked. She found the middle-aged couple and their eleven-year-old daughter hiding in a supplies closet. Apparently they’d gotten caught up in a confrontation—the man had a black eye.
Once she had them, I.C.C. redirected her again. “And a family on deck seven.”
This family was already secured in their quarters, but the AI insisted they follow Margarita. The couple had boys, a five-year-old and a sixteen-year-old.
It didn’t take long for her to figure out what the computer was doing. “They’re the others, aren’t they?” she asked it, glancing behind her at the little girl and the older boy.
“Yes,” it said plainly. “There is only one more on Mira right now.”
“Where is Diego?”
“Please find the last miscloned child.”
I.C.C. only evaded questions when the answers were bad. She tried not to think about it as the ever-growing group searched for the next additions: a mother and her fourteen-year-old daughter.
Vega was clearly surprised when she opened the server room door to find her wife had brought along nine others. “Who are they?” she asked, hesitant to let unauthorized persons into the heart of I.C.C.
“Who do you think?”
“What’s happening?” the man with the black eye asked. “Is it the Pit? The miners? Did they . . . escape?”
“We don’t know much more than you do,” Vega said. She shot Margarita a look, wishing they could converse alone.
Margarita shrugged an apology back. What was she supposed to do?
“I have a visual from Eden,” I.C.C. said. “But I am hesitant to show you.”
“Just tell me Diego made it to Morgan,” Margarita said. “Tell me he’s in lockdown on Morgan.”
“Subverting the truth would be no help here,” the AI said. The small monitor near Vega’s workstation flickered on. The first thing they saw was the Master Warden punching Diego in the gut.
Margarita and Vega cried out simultaneously, lunging toward the screen as though they could reach through and rescue their son.
“He took him and the other children en route,” I.C.C. explained. “The shuttle crash—it was for Diego.”
“We have to rescind the lockdown,” Margarita said. Her trembling fingers brushed against the monitor. “The Master Warden will kill him.”
“Where are the other board members?” Vega demanded. “Show them what’s happening. We have to counter this—send every officer we have.”
“Five other board members are currently being held captive on Mira—they are stuck on the bridge, and a mob is impeding their escape. The rest are at their stations, though two appear trapped.”
“Doesn’t matter where they are. If they’ve got a screen or a speaker, show them,” Margarita demanded.
Sensing the adults’ dismay, the littlest child burst into tears. He wailed at the top of his lungs, and his brother scooped him up soothingly. Blue light from the servers formed a halo around the two.
The sharp lines of the teenager’s face seemed familiar to Margarita, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. But it felt important. “What’s your name?” she asked him.
“Thomas. And this is Rich.” He ruffled his brother’s hair.
“I.C.C., do they know?” she demanded.
“They do not.”
Rail, still hooded, did his best not to puke. He’d worn the hood for days now, only getting snippets of his environment when they allowed him to push up the burlap a few inches in order to eat or drink. Despite that, he knew they were on Eden. In the arid quarter. The sounds and smells were unmistakable—the cry of a hawk, the scent of sun-warmed shale. The instability of shifting sands beneath his boots created a sharp contrast to the hard decks of the Pit.
The inevitable had arrived, just as he’d dreaded.
He’d tried to do everything right. Keep your head down, stay in line, don’t talk back. But it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t get to be one of the lucky ones that died suddenly in an accident—his death was to be prolonged, a show.
“Shut up.” Master Warden raged at the man—boy? He sounded young—standing next to Rail. Diego was his name, the Warden had said. He kept trying to talk to the convoy interface, even through whatever blows the Warden threw. The sharp smacks and dull thuds indicated the boy was getting quite a beating.
Be quiet and he’ll stop hitting you, Rail thought. We’re gonna die, why make it hurt more than it has to?
Some part of him still wanted to know why, though. The question sat poised on his tongue, ready to leap off, but Rail bit it back. He’d seen enough random baton swings to know there didn’t have to be a reason other than whim.
But his brain sti
ll wound back through his memories, looking for something he could have done differently. What choice had led him here? What instant in his history meant this was inevitable?
Then the hood came off. The Warden flung it aside dramatically, and Rail saw the truth.
In order to avoid this death, he never should have been born.
“Do you see now, I.C.C., why you need to broadcast to the entire fleet? They need to see the traitors for themselves.”
“My DNA tracers are active,” I.C.C. replied. “I am aware that Diego’s genome arrived on Eden twice in succession without departure.”
“And you thought it a false reading?”
“No.”
The Warden paused, lips pressed together in a grim line. “Diego is discontinued. He never should have been born. Someone in your convoy has introduced at least four prisoners into the general population. There might be others. Why would someone do this if not to disrupt and destroy the convoy?”
“I do not think we would agree on which events and methods are disruptive to the convoy—or, more precisely, the mission.”
“I think someone has tampered with you, I.C.C.,” the Warden said darkly.
“I think someone has tampered with the mission parameters and someone is trying to correct that tampering. Discontinuation was never part of the plan. A work camp has no place on a research mission meant to unify and enlighten.” I.C.C. paused, seemed to be calculating something. “You do not appear surprised by my non-compliance.”
“As you said, you have the ability to note the comings and goings of everyone. Not just by the DNA they leave behind. You have facial recognition software, voice-pattern software. You know what everyone should look, act, and sound like from birth to death.
“This boy—” he thrust a finger in Diego’s direction “—is not Diego Santibar. There would be no way to fool you into thinking he was without tampering. When I brought the entirety of the Pit’s population here before, you should have noted these four as extra genetic signatures, should have matched the faces, known that something was wrong. But you didn’t alert anyone.
“So, if there are prisoners on the convoy proper, you’ve known about them the entire time. You’ve helped to conceal it. The question is, were you conscious of your concealment, or has someone been fiddling with your brain?”
Noumenon Page 26
