The Machine Awakes

by Adam Christopher

  To the cheers of the spectators, Kodiak selected a single chip—a sliver of clear blue plastic, the logo of Helprin’s Gambit embedded within in glittering gold—and slid it forward on the table. One hundred thousand credits. It was a lot of money to lose on the next play, but two more rounds after that he would win it back, and more besides. A couple more plays after that and it would be time to high-tail it off the platform and hide in the shadow of an asteroid, watching while Helprin’s empire suffered a financial meltdown.

  The holographic Sentallion game board realigned itself, presenting a new challenge to the players. There were three seated on Kodiak’s left. They were all men, each dressed, like him, in scarlet evening wear. Two were young—younger than Kodiak by something close to twenty years, he thought to his own chagrin; exactly the kind of annoying rich kids he was pretending to be. The third man was much older, sixty at least, the tattoos covering his face and bare arms—and the jewelry studding his nose, ears, eyebrows—suggesting he was, or had been, a starminer. The real deal.

  The first young man reached forward into the air in front of him and traced some lines on the puzzle board, solving his equation. The grid tilted toward player two, who did the same. Then the grid aligned itself to the older man with the tattoos. The mathematical puzzles on the grid were randomly generated—when Kodiak’s hack wasn’t at work, anyway—and the level of difficulty fluctuated. The game might have been created by starminers as a useful way to stretch the mind as their ships’ automatic systems processed tons of ore, but that didn’t necessarily mean the tattooed man had a natural advantage. Kodiak winced as he saw the equation presented to his fellow player. The poor guy had drawn a very difficult calculation indeed.

  The gnarled player had already pushed a large pile of chips toward the dealer, an early gamble that now looked like a gigantic mistake. He frowned at the grid, reaching out with a finger, ready to drag his solution through the air in front of him. But then he quickly drew back, like he’d got a shock. He wet his lips and tried again, slowly drawing a series of lines over the puzzle as he linked formula and mathematical functions. Kodiak watched, trying—failing—to solve the problem in his own mind. Tough luck.

  The tattooed man hissed in annoyance, dropping his hand and pushing his chair away from the table. He couldn’t solve it. He shot the other players a dirty look, his lip curling into a snarl, and pointedly picked up his remaining chips—just six small yellow pieces, a fraction of the teetering stack he’d gambled and lost—before walking away from the table, mumbling under his breath.

  Kodiak’s turn. The equation appeared in front of him, and it was just as bad as the one the third player had drawn. Kodiak took a breath and did his best to solve it, but it was impossible. There was a tiny error, introduced by his hack, that made it unsolvable. Kodiak glanced at the other two remaining players, but they were expressionless, as any good gambler would be. He turned back to the equation, tried a couple of options, but then—all according to plan—had to concede defeat.

  The holographic board dissolved as the game was reset for the next round, the dealer sweeping Kodiak’s bet back into the bank and counting out the winnings of the other two players. While he waited, Kodiak drained his glass and scanned the room, pretending to look for a top-up from one of the wandering hostesses. Green squares flew around in his vision as his AI glasses crosschecked faces, but no flags popped up.

  No sign of a hostess either. Kodiak sighed, licking the last remnants of the sweet, sticky liqueur from his teeth as he turned back to the game. The Sentallion dealer, a young woman about the same age as the two young men seated next to Kodiak, smiled at him as she invited him to place his bet.

  Kodiak blinked. The HUD in his eye line flashed. Time to start making waves.

  He shoved his entire pile of credits forward. “Double-up,” he said.

  The crowd gasped in awe. Kodiak smiled to himself. Were they in for a show or what?

  The two other players glanced at each other. Then one laughed and shook his head, slapping Kodiak on the shoulder as he got up from his chair. The other man looked more annoyed than happy, and the pile of credits he then bet was, in comparison to his earlier plays, very small.

  The game board shuffled. Kodiak watched the HUD in his glasses spin as his hack fixed the equation. He quickly dragged the formulae around and solved it. When the board tilted toward the other remaining player, Kodiak felt his chest begin to tighten. He’d worked it out, calculated the risk—well, okay, guesstimated it—figuring out how much he needed to lose and how much he needed to win. The hack in the servitor dock far beneath his feet would not only throw the games computer, but block any failsafe, preventing alerts being sent to casino security, keeping the games floor open even when the monetary losses became too heavy.

  And it would work. Of course it would work. But that didn’t stop him from being nervous. Kodiak reached for his glass and went to take a sip before remembering it was empty.

  At the other end of the table, the other player sat and stared at his equation, not lifting a finger to try and solve it. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Still he didn’t move. A minute.

  Then, without a word, he got up and walked away. Kodiak watched him leave, his throat suddenly dry.

  It had worked. He turned back around on his stool and blinked as the dealer gathered up the other player’s bet with his own, added a sizeable stack from the bank, and slid the whole lot toward him with a clear plastic paddle.

  “Congratulations,” said the dealer. “Double-up, winner takes all.”

  The games room erupted into applause, and Kodiak realized he’d just won five million credits. He whooped at the top of his lungs and, grinning wide, pulled the credits toward him with both arms. “Come to daddy!” The exhilaration he felt wasn’t entirely faked.

  But there was still that tight feeling in his chest. Fight or flight. Even if the games computer was unaware of what was going on, there were people watching, weren’t there? Kodiak looked around again, acknowledging the applause of the sizeable crowd, noticing for the first time that his table was the only one still running, the other gamblers having abandoned their own bad luck to watch him haul in the credits. The plan might have been working, but it was hardly discreet.

  But there were still no flags in his HUD. According to his AI glasses, there were no undercover casino staff in the room. Not even the usual security.

  Wait. No security? That wasn’t right. Even on a quiet night the casino floor was patrolled by the station’s private police force.

  “Excuse me,” said a low voice in his ear. Kodiak flinched and turned around to find a man smiling at him. He was dressed in the crisp white tunic of the station security service. Behind him were two more officers, similarly attired.

  As Kodiak watched, the green face recognition overlay in his glasses moved over the three officers, mapping key features and characteristics. Then the overlay faded away.

  No match.

  “Shit,” whispered Kodiak. His crosscheck algorithm was bugged. Dammit, he should have taken more time over the coding.

  The security officer closed his eyes and bowed his head, as though tacitly acknowledging Kodiak’s unspoken summary of the situation. “Mr. Helprin would very much like to meet you,” he said.

  “Yeah, right,” said Kodiak. He returned his attention to the table and began sorting his credit chips into a more manageable pile. “Maybe some other time, pal.”

  The man gripped Kodiak’s right biceps, hard. Kodiak froze. He was held fast.

  The security officer smiled again.

  “That was not an invitation,” he said. “Mr. Helprin wants to see you. Now.”

  “Shit,” said Kodiak as he was led away to the hushed gossiping of the other players, his pile of credits abandoned on the table.

  So much for his grand plan.

  7

  The holding cell was cold and uncomfortable, and Kodiak had been in it for hours. So when a white-clad security officer came to take hi
m to an interview room, the change of scenery—the company—was a blessed relief. Still clad in his scarlet evening suit and feeling a little ridiculous in the expensive, shiny silk, Kodiak followed the officer down a featureless corridor that seemed to stretch halfway across the station. Hands cuffed in front of him, Kodiak could do nothing but follow his guide.

  The fact that the officers hadn’t been flagged by the facial recognition algorithm of his AI glasses—glasses sadly confiscated as evidence—bugged Kodiak. He couldn’t have got it that wrong, could he? Compared to the hack of the casino games computer, the recognition system was a piece of cake.

  Unless …

  The security officer punched a keypad next to a door indistinguishable from the dull gray wall except for a narrow red outline. He stepped to one side, then gestured for Kodiak to enter, as though he were a guest, not a prisoner.

  Kodiak stepped inside.

  Unless, he thought, the security officers weren’t employees of Helprin’s Gambit at all.

  The man sitting at the table in the interview room was wearing a dark gray suit with a dark blue shirt underneath and black tie. The tone of his skin was somewhere in between, his dense, closely cropped hair and chinstrap beard almost mathematically precise. In front of him on the table was a slim datapad.

  Kodiak turned on his heel, but the door had closed. He turned back, and the man gestured for him to take a seat. Before he did, Kodiak couldn’t stop his mouth curling into a lopsided smile.

  “Special Agent Braben. Fancy meeting you here.”

  Braben said nothing, but one eyebrow went up as he looked Kodiak up and down. “Nice suit.”

  Kodiak lowered himself into the chair. “You come all this way to offer me fashion advice, or is there something else I can help with?”

  Braben pressed a finger to the datapad on the table, then turned it around to face his prisoner. Kodiak leaned forward to look.

  The datapad showed a profile, an official identity record. Kodiak recognized it immediately, because it was his. On the left side was his official Fleet ID picture, his shoulders turned three-quarters as he pointed his clean-shaved jawline at the lens. Underneath the picture were his vital statistics, including employment history. Down the right side of the page, most of the text was blacked out. Redacted.

  Kodiak laughed. “What, they didn’t give you clearance to read my whole profile?”

  Agent Braben sighed and thumbed the datapad to display the next page.

  Kodiak’s smile dropped. His photograph was still there, but now there was new text superimposed over the top.

  WANTED

  It was an arrest warrant.

  Kodiak shook his head as he scanned the rest of the page. “Mike, come on, you don’t want to do this,” he said, lifting his cuffed hands from his lap, reaching toward the agent. “I can explain.”

  Braben pulled the datapad back toward him. “Special Agent Von Kodiak, you’re under arrest—”

  “Look, buddy, there’s been a mistake here. You just need to call the chief. Talk to Avalon. She’ll clear it up.”

  Braben sucked on his top lip and held up his hand. “It’s not that easy, Von.”

  “No, seriously, listen—”

  “Kodiak, please,” said Braben. He adjusted himself in the chair, looking around the interview room like he was afraid the walls were about to come crashing down.

  Kodiak banged the table with his cuffs. There’d been a mistake. A big, big mistake. Braben clearly had no clue what was going on. Dammit, he should have been told. Of all people, he should have been told.

  The agent straightened his tie and cleared his throat. “Special Agent Von Kodiak, you are under arrest for treason. You have been found guilty and sentenced in absentia. The penalty is death. I am authorized by Fleet Command to carry out the sentence.”

  Kodiak’s stomach did a somersault. Now here was a mistake. Big time. Theft? Sure, he was guilty. Officially, anyway. But … treason? Death penalty?

  “What the hell is this?” he yelled, leaning across the table, the sound of his blood rushing in his ears nearly drowning out his thoughts. “I stole some money. That counts as treason now?” He could feel the pulse in his neck, the sensation sickening.

  Braben glanced sideways at nothing, then licked his lips. Then his eyes met Kodiak’s, but still he didn’t speak.

  “Talk to me, Mike,” said Kodiak. “What the fuck is going on? What did Avalon tell you, huh? You know I didn’t actually steal those credits, right? You do know why I’m here?”

  Braben opened his jacket and pulled a gun out of his body holster. Kodiak’s eyes widened at the sight of it—it was new, shiny, half a translucent blue plastic, the rest brushed metal. He hadn’t seen this kind of pistol before. Must have been a new Bureau issue.

  “I’m sorry, Von,” said Braben. “I’m just following orders.”

  Then he pointed the gun across the table at Von Kodiak and pulled the trigger.

  8

  Cait—head down against the stiff wind, hood up against the evening rain—headed through the poorly lit night streets of Salt City, grateful to have gotten out of the virtual daylight of New Orem just a few miles behind her. It had taken hours to get out of the Fleet capital, her flight from the Memorial a series of double-backs and dead-ends as marines flooded the city streets, rolling out a lockdown with terrifying speed. That she’d managed to keep ahead of them was a miracle, but once within the bounds of Salt City itself, it had gotten easier. The security forces in the city seemed more intent on locking down the good side of the city, turning the slum into Cait’s haven. Normally there was little surveillance, only the occasional monitor drone soaring high overhead, and few cops bothered to venture very far into its labyrinthine streets. Tonight seemed no different—if anything, with the attention being focused on the streets of New Orem, Salt City felt ever safer somehow. The clouds were low and thick, the rain heavy, and Cait’s dark clothing melted into the shadows admirably. Throw in her stealth training, and she made good progress, putting as many blocks between her and the Fleet capital as possible.

  She pulled into an alley, adjusted her pack, and peeked out from the under the brim of her hood to check her bearings.

  Then a light-headedness came over her. She crouched down against the wall and took a series of deep breaths as the events of the day finally began to catch up with her.

  Because while she had managed to get out of the city, she had no fucking clue what to do next. The Fleet Admiral was dead, but it hadn’t been by her hand. The instructions she’d been given, the plan outlined to her, was out the fucking window.

  So what was going on? What had happened back there? There was another assassin—that much was obvious. Had they sent multiple shooters, without telling any of them that there were others? That didn’t make sense—they’d be as confused and scared as her, and while she’d been lucky in her escape, the more agents they had on the hill overlooking the Wall of Remembrance, the more chance one of them would have been caught, blowing the whole operation wide open.

  Cait’s mind raced. Wasn’t it more likely there was another group who wanted the Fleet Admiral dead and had seen the same opportunity her own employers had? If one such group could plan an attack like that, couldn’t another?

  Cait closed her eyes, focusing on the tingle that sparked across her skin, willing the power to fade, to leave her the fuck alone so she could think.

  What could she do? The plan was to carry out the mission, then rendezvous back in Salt City at a predetermined location, and then they would fulfill their part of the bargain. The thought of seeing her brother again lifted her spirits, but was that even going to happen now?

  A cold feeling grew in her chest. They’d know it wasn’t her, that she hadn’t pulled the trigger. The Fleet Admiral was dead but she wasn’t the killer. What would they do when they found her? Even without thinking about it, she’d been heading toward the rendezvous. But what was she going to walk into?

  What would they do
to her? To her brother?

  “Fuck,” said Cait, then she said it again, and again, standing and kicking the alley wall with her toe until it hurt.

  Then she turned and pressed her back against the wall. She tilted her head up, allowing the rain to patter on her face.

  She needed answers. She needed a plan of her own.

  Cait checked the street from the alley. It was quiet except for the steady hiss of rain. She was pretty close to the rendezvous. She could still make it in time.

  But was that the right thing to do? The safe thing to do? Possibilities, scenarios ran through Cait’s mind. Maybe they had changed their minds. Maybe they didn’t trust her, had sent someone else in to carry out the mission. So, did that make her disposable? She was part of a plot. They hadn’t told her much, but probably enough for her to be a threat to them now, to make her a liability. If she made it to the rendezvous was she just walking into a trap?

  Or had some other group moved in—not just taking out the Admiral, but taking out Cait’s employers? She’d had no contact with them in several days, which was part of the plan … but maybe it wouldn’t be her contacts waiting for her. And chances were they—whoever “they” were—would be just as likely to want to clean house as well.

  Cait’s fingers pulled at her hair under the hood. There was only one thing she was sure of: the Fleet Admiral was dead. That had been the primary mission goal—maybe something she could use to her advantage.

  And … if she was honest with herself, she was relieved. Could she have pulled the trigger? She told herself she could have. She’d been telling herself she could for weeks. She was a warrior, a psi-marine in all but name. But, as she remembered crouching by the tree, it all seemed hazy, like a dream.