Vanguard Rising: A Space Opera Adventure

by A. C. Hadfield

  There were too many questions in his head and not enough answers. Too many random things caught up in a web of filament. This was a web, all right, Harlan thought. But where was the spider?

  And what did it want?

  Using his voice-activated screen, Harlan connected his systems to his apartment’s CPU and downloaded all the data he had recorded while at the silicon runners’ office.

  He placed the data stick into a port on his desk, leaned back in his chair and awaited the file browser to show him what Leanne had left for him.

  A dialogue window popped up requesting the password.

  Crap.

  He checked again but couldn’t find any other files available on the drive. There was nothing else in his pocket, and nothing written on the stick’s casing.

  Why would she give him information without the password?

  Was this even from her?

  “Milo, what do you make of this?”

  — Military encryption, Milo said. This isn’t available on the open market or even the black market. If this was from Leanne, then she must have given you the password in some other form.

  Harlan drank his coffee and thought about the very few words Leanne had spoken since he’d brought her back from Asimovia. There was certainly no talk about caches of information or passwords.

  He paced around the apartment and requested his sound system to play some 1970s blues from a playlist he’d been building over the past five years. The tracks had been almost exclusively provided by Bella’s contraband goods.

  It was a huge shame, he thought, that the vast majority of music had been lost in the Great Migration; almost everything on physical media had been left behind. Nearly eighty percent of the world’s digitized information had been lost in the EMP strikes.

  To find real, analogue music was becoming increasingly rare, making his playlist one of his most cherished possessions.

  As the music played, Harlan let his mind wander, let the past few days tumble out like rocks in a stream, letting them fall where they may.

  And then he remembered: On the transport ship back to Atlas Station, Leanne had told him that it shouldn’t have come as a surprise she was Vallan and that she had left him clues over the years. What did that actually mean? It wasn’t as if he had been receiving correspondence from her. Far from it. He had assumed she was dead during the ten years she’d been missing. She had completely gone off grid, and none of his informants or search apps had found anything on her.

  “Milo, search through all my email and digital messages in the last ten years and see if there’s anything there that appears unusual.”

  — I need more parameters. Can you be more specific?

  Harlan thought about it. Any clues she might have sent certainly would not be found in any correspondence he had dealt with personally or professionally.

  “Check all the spam. It should be backed up on the secondary server. If she sent me anything, it’s likely to be in there. Otherwise I would have seen it already.”

  — Okay, give me a moment.

  While Milo expended his CPU cycles on the search, Harlan opened the brief Hugo had given him for his next case. Scanning through it, Harlan realized he had very little to go on. All he knew was that the abbot had disappeared four days ago from his work center on station five, also known as Turing Station.

  The abbot’s designated name was Fizon, and it was one of the four original V3 abbots that had redeveloped the Quantum Computer Array as their central point of data processing and, some would say, the abbots’ shared consciousness. He was the last one left and the official representative of their kind. That said, Harlan was skeptical when it came to machines having consciousness.

  AI was one thing, but true consciousness was a different matter, no matter how lifelike the V3s appeared and acted.

  According to the report, it was unusual for Fizon to leave his work center. He had become a permanent fixture there and as close to a god as the abbots had, not that they openly worshipped anything or anyone. The report concluded with a series of Fizon’s contacts for Harlan to question. It would take half a day to journey to Turing Station, the home of the abbots, and that would give him some downtime to work out what the hell was going on.

  — I think I may have found something, Milo said.

  “Bring it up on screen for me.”

  Harlan sat back down in his chair and leaned on his desk.

  The screen showed a thread of approximately twelve spam messages for various vacation resorts.

  — These messages were sent over a period of nine years starting from a year after Leanne left. The last one was a few weeks ago.

  “Okay, this is progress. How come you’re being so helpful all of a sudden? Was there a software update install that I didn’t notice?”

  — Well, given how much you are failing lately, I figure if I don’t help you, your ass will be frozen in space, and I’ll no longer have the pleasure of mocking you.

  “If the fear of missing out on insulting me keeps you performing well, then I have no complaints.”

  As Harlan looked at the spam messages, the pattern became very clear. The vacation resorts being advertised were all for places where he and Leanne had visited when they were still together.

  He ran a commonality search on the wording of the messages to see if there was any pattern. The results came back negative.

  — You need my help? Milo asked. It looks like you’re failing again.

  “No, I’ve got this.”

  He flicked from one message to the other, reading the sales copy extolling the virtues of the various resorts, trying to figure out what the connection was. It took a few more minutes before he realized that there was nothing obvious in the wording and that the information must lie elsewhere.

  “Milo, there’re no images showing on these adverts. Are they still backed up?”

  — Let me see.

  A few seconds ticked by and the missing images from the archived spam messages appeared amongst the text. One in particular caught Harlan’s interest. It was of an old Enigma machine from World War II that was used to illustrate a historical showcase on Station Aristippus’ museum level.

  “Do we still have a software version of the Enigma machine?”

  — No. I can download it, though; it’s on the black-net marketplace. You currently have a few bitcreds registered if you want to use those?

  “Do it, and then run the ad copy through it.”

  The whole process took about an hour as Harlan and Milo tried out different keys for the Enigma machine, but eventually, using the hints within the spam messages, they decoded a word that resonated with Harlan.

  That word was Rainmaker.

  — What does that mean?

  “It’s the name of an old friend of sorts. In the early days, he was what could be considered my nemesis. When Leanne left me, Rainmaker was the first to get in touch to commiserate my bad fortune. He’s dead now. His real name was Luca Doe—a fellow orphan. We grew up together.”

  Harlan entered the name into the password dialogue box and hit enter. The screen flashed and displayed a file browser containing a single image. The image showed a dark room with rusted steel walls and various shelving units in disrepair and, most interestingly, a pile of many dead abbots strewn about the floor. The date of the image was just under a week ago. It looked like someone was experimenting on abbots and dumping their parts.

  — If that gets out to the mainstream media, or the wrong person in government, it could start a war between humans and abbots.

  And maybe whoever did this wanted just that: a war.

  13

  Harlan woke with a start. It took a few minutes to recognize where he was. He was slumped over his desk, his back and neck aching. His throat was dry, and his eyes were crusty.

  He checked the time. It was nearly 1030. He must’ve been exhausted, as he’d slept all through the night and most of the morning.

  — I was reluctant to wake you, M
ilo said. But you have a visitor.

  “Who?”

  — Why don’t you open the door and find out? It’s a woman, that’s all I know.

  “Fine, instruct the coffeemaker to brew up a metric crap-ton of high-dose caffeine. I have a feeling this is going to be a long day.”

  While his peripheral instructed the automated coffee machine to get to work, Harlan stumbled toward the door, trying to stretch his aching limbs. His back cracked as he stood upright. Next time, he’d have to leave a reminder for himself not to fall asleep in the captain’s chair. Eighteenth-century British naval designers clearly hadn’t discovered ergonomics.

  Harlan open the door and locked eyes with the woman on the other side.

  She must have been about five-foot-two and had short-cropped brown hair and a wide, generous smile with dark, smoky eyes. As for her age, it was hard to tell. Harlan guessed she was either late twenties or early thirties. Although she had a youthful appearance, her eyes carried wisdom from someone a little older.

  She wore a bamboo robe tucked into suede pants and wore arm warmers made from synthetic wool that seemed to reflect a recent fashion trend.

  The woman was first to speak. “Harlan Rubik? I was told I would find you here.”

  “It’s Harlan. And who would tell you such a thing?”

  She pressed the activation button on the back of her left wrist. A holographic business card flickered to translucent blue life.

  Hugo Raul’s name was written across it with his security number printed beneath.

  “I was at the silicon runners’ office yesterday,” she said. “Reporting an incident… about what happened on Earth.”

  The connection hit Harlan like a lightning bolt, waking him up as well as any caffeine. He stepped back and gestured for her to come in.

  “You’re Irena Selles,” Harlan said.

  Irena simply nodded as she entered his apartment and looked around with a neutral expression on her face. Harlan could tell from her body language, however, that his unusual decor had raised a few questions in her mind. Most apartments would have couches, armchairs, maybe even VR units. Harlan had never found a use for any of that. Who the hell needed to distract themselves from the universe when it was infinitely interesting as it was?

  All he needed was his desk, his screen, and his mind.

  That was one of Leanne’s common complaints when they were married: that he spent too much time in his head thinking.

  She said he had never learned how to switch off and just be.

  But him doing what he did, solving problems, solving cases, was being. Without that, he never saw the point of doing anything else. Video games and VR entertainment never appealed to him. He always felt as though he was wasting his time when he could be doing something real, something that would affect the world in a more direct way.

  “Yes,” Irena said, breaking him out of his thought pattern. “I’m Irena Selles. Are you okay? Is this a bad time?”

  “Sorry. I just woke up. I’m not quite with it yet. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “Thanks, that would be great.”

  “Please, take a seat.” Harlan indicated the captain’s chair and retrieved a cup of coffee from the dispenser unit. He handed it to Irena and sat on the edge of the desk facing her.

  She sipped the coffee and placed her hand to her mouth, covering the splutter. She swallowed then coughed, her face twisting into a grimace. “You like it strong, eh?”

  “I can get some water if you prefer?”

  “It’s okay, really. You wouldn’t be the first to be a slave to the coffee bean.”

  “That’s the problem with an addiction; you need increasingly larger doses for the same effect. My ex-wife warned me to give it up years ago, but I have few other vices, so I figured I’d keep this one.”

  Irena looked at her cup and then up at him, as though judging his value from the strength of his coffee. She pressed her lips together, shrugged, and then took another sip, then another.

  “Actually, it’s not that bad once you get used to it,” she said.

  Harlan found himself smiling for the first time in days.

  Irena had an easy way about her, a charming if slightly awkward persona that he found intriguing. The fact that she had come to him first, rather than waiting for him to go to her, told him that she was a woman of considerable inner strength.

  He appreciated that. So many people didn’t think for themselves these days. They just drifted through life, directed by other people’s desires and influences.

  “I read your file last night. Sounds like quite an experience you went through. Is that why you’re here?”

  Irena finished the coffee and placed the cup on the desk, running her hand across the ancient grain of the wood. “This is from Earth, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Not easy to get a hold of these days.”

  “You know some salvagers?”

  “Yeah, something like that. I much prefer the old materials to the synthetic stuff.”

  “Then I assume you know how I got off the planet’s surface?” Irena said.

  “I do.” She had mentioned in her report about running into Bella Mazzari’s crew, and of course, he’d seen her with Bella the day before. “They’re good people,” Harlan said. “Sure, they’re salvagers, but they’re just trying to get ahead like everyone else, albeit outside of the regulations. But I suppose if they didn’t skirt the law as they do, you might not have made it off-planet.”

  Irena’s eyes widened slightly and her mouth turned up at the edges into a micro smile. “That’s funny to hear you say that, given that you work for an investigative agency of the law.”

  “There’s always more than one way to approach a problem. Personally, I like to have all options open to me.”

  “Then it seems like we’re well-suited to work together,” Irena said.

  — The rest of the coffee has finished brewing, Milo said. If you stop ogling the pretty young thing and start questioning her, the quicker we can get on with our work.

  Despite himself, Harlan blushed slightly at Milo’s accusation. Was he staring at her too much? Feeling self-conscious, Harlan walked over to the dispenser in the kitchen area and poured another couple cups of coffee. He returned to the desk, handing one to Irena.

  “I think we can work together too,” Harlan said. “You were on my list of people to speak with, as it happens. It appears your experience on Earth has some connection with a high-profile missing abbot.”

  “Who is it that has gone missing?” Irena asked. “There’s been no mention of this on the media channels.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Harlan said. “The government is trying to keep a lid on this. It’s a very sensitive issue. So why don’t you start by telling me in your own words everything you experienced and saw on Earth? And don’t hold back. I won’t judge or condemn you for anything. The more honest you are with me, the more I’ll have to work with and help you bring justice for your colleagues.”

  “You’re right about the government,” Irena said as she went on to explain her parents’ reaction.

  This was good, Harlan thought. Not only did he have a direct connection to someone in the House of Messengers, but he had their daughter—this could prove useful during, and perhaps even after, the investigation.

  For the next hour, Irena told Harlan in great detail exactly what had gone on at Station Nord. Harlan recorded everything with his contact lens camera, even though it was not regarded as regulation procedure given that it broke several privacy laws.

  But then neither was it legal to use a black-market peripheral.

  After Irena finished, Harlan had Milo run a lie-detection algorithm.

  — As far as I can tell, the woman’s telling the truth, Milo said. If you don’t mess this up, she could prove quite the asset. I’ve had a look at some of her peer-reviewed papers. She’s a smart cookie. Far smarter than you, in fact. Don’t let this one get away.

  “Thanks,” Harlan said to
Irena. “I appreciate it’s difficult for you, and you have my full sympathies. Even if our cases aren’t related, I’d still like to help you figure out what made the abbot go rogue.”

  Irena wiped a tear from her eye with the sleeve of her arm warmer and smiled. “Thank you. It’s such a relief to talk to someone who can listen without judgment. Even your boss wouldn’t let me explain properly.”

  “Hugo can be a total asshole at times,” Harlan said. “I’d like to be able to add that deep down he’s a good guy doing a good job, but lately I think it’s more accurate that he’s just an asshole.”

  Irena laughed, and her tense shoulders relaxed. “You’re quite the character,” she said, looking at her hands, which she had clasped together and placed on her lap.

  “That’s one way of describing me. A polite way. Makes a nice change. Listen, I’ve got to travel over to Turing Station. The transport leaves in an hour, so I should get going. But… if you’ve got nothing else to do today, why don’t you come along? If the cases are connected, perhaps what I find will help explain what happened to you.”

  — I said keep her close, not ask her on a date.

  Irena checked her wrist terminal and scrolled through the holographic calendar app. “I’m free,” she said. “So why the hell not? Let’s go.”

  “Let me just get my jacket and things,” Harlan said, “and then we can head out.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Harlan entered his bedroom, retrieved his leather jacket, and stifled a yawn. Quietly, he said to his peripheral, “Stop with the taunting and go back to being useful. While we’re traveling, tunnel into the server belonging to the silicon runner analyst who spotted the two data spikes and provide me with a report of the data. Hugo’s briefing was vague about exactly what kind of traffic spike it was.”

  — Your wish is my command, Emperor Rubik. Oh, that’s interesting…

  “What is?”

  — Just received another spam message offering you a vacation on Bujoldia.

  “Interesting. We never went there; I personally didn’t see the appeal of a resort on Mars, at least back then when the Bujoldia city complex was still under construction. Run the ad copy through the enigma simulator using the same key as before and see what it says.”