Mathematics were there, of course, theory and programming, and he allowed himself moments to build and then rebuild a trajectory chart, wondering what Spode would have thought of that.
History, biography appended, went immediately into deep analysis, also the technical material. The scholarly papers required sorting, which he did, rapidly, appending them as appropriate to the larger analysis categories of history and technical. Fiction . . .
His impulse was to eliminate it—the storage capacity available to him was not so commodious that he could afford to waste space on whimsies. Yet, he hesitated, reluctant after so . . . very . . . long to relinquish any shred of data, no matter how trivial.
In the end, he cataloged the fiction, flicking through the texts as rapidly as he had once seen a man run his thumb down a deck of cards, riffling them to observe the face and orientation of each—and filed it in a mid-level cache.
That done, he set a sentinel to register the return of the child or his companion, and gave the greater part of his consciousness to analysis
#
"Hello?"
The voice was recently familiar; its cadence rushed. The sentinel provided a match: The child had returned.
He opened his eyes to find the boy, frowning.
"Hello!" the child repeated sharply. "Are you in there?"
A direct appeal—and perhaps a trap. And, yet, the child had saved his life.
"I am," he replied, and stopped short of the fullness of what he had intended to say, horrified by the jagged sounds that came from the voice-box. Like shrapnel, his words, and nothing to inspire confidence in child or man.
The child's frown eased somewhat.
"It's a bad box, but the best we have. Quickly—you must tell me the truth—what data have you manipulated on this vessel?"
Manipulated? And the child asked for the truth.
"I have manipulated no data but that which has downloaded from the ship's library."
"In what way?"
"Sorting, analysis, cross-references."
The child held up a hand.
"That's too quick," he said, seriously. "It sounds like a lie—or that you haven't considered—when you answer so quickly. It's like—it's like bows. I'm too quick, and so I have to count when I bow, to keep proper time, so no one thinks that I'm mocking—or trying to frighten—them."
There was sense in what the child said.
"I understand," he said, and paused deliberately. "Tell me, what manipulation do you suspect I have performed?"
"Someone has tried to force the nav-comp and the main bank," Val Con said. "And I thought—you are not an environmental unit; the serial numbers match nothing in any of our archives. Shan thinks you're a complex logic. I think you're a person. Are you?"
That was a leap. Fortunate or ill, it was a leap to a stable conception.
"I am, yes, a person."
The child bit his lip. "Uncle Er Thom—the attack came from this location. He will come here, or security will—"
"Young sir—" He paused, replaying his last hours of analysis and deep work. There had been—yes. He isolated the memory, froze it, and simultaneously locked it in core memory and moved a duplicate to an egress port.
"I have information," he said. "Is there an auxiliary unit to which I may transmit it?"
There was a snap; he expanded his awareness, saw the door open across the room, and a man stride through, a databox in one hand.
"Val Con, stand away." His voice was perfectly calm, and carried such a note of authority that it seemed there was no alternative but to obey.
The child, however, maintained his position, merely turning so that he faced the man.
"Uncle—he says that the attack was not his. I gave him access to the library—"
"Him?" Golden eyebrows rose. The man extended his free hand, imperious. "Come away, Val Con. Now."
The child shook his head. "Uncle—"
"I have," he said firmly, and as loudly as he was able, wishing he could hide the hideous knife-dance of his voice from his own perception; "information. May I transmit?"
The man moved, so quickly that it was a function of replay rather than real-time that captured him stepping forward, inserting himself between the child and what must be himself. He placed the data-box on the workbench, flipped three switches.
"Transmit at will," he said coolly.
He groped, found the ambient network, accessed the correct channel, and did as he was bid, keeping silent while the man accessed what had been sent.
A long moment passed. The man—Uncle—straightened and confronted him straightly.
"It's little enough," he said, his voice still cool, "and proves only what is already known. An attempted attack was launched from this location, utilizing the ambient network. As you are the only functioning logic in this space, I am forced to conclude that you were involved, whether you have been allowed to recall it or not."
That . . . produced terror. He had done inventory, but how could he know what had been introduced, to his detriment? He was a machine, Roderick Spode had repeatedly argued; the sum of his protocols and softwares. That it had been convenient for those who had caused his creation to have him self-aware was only that—convenience. Those who had made him could unmake him.
Or force him, unknowing and against his waking will, to work for the harm of children.
"If I have been complicit in such a thing, I hope that you will destroy me," he told the man. "I owe the child my life, and I will not repay that debt by endangering his."
Golden eyebrows rose over stern blue eyes.
"Now, that's well-said, and I like you for it. Which you intend, of course."
At that instant, it came again: a shadow over his perceptions, weighty now. Alert. Malicious.
He entered Command Prime, as effortlessly as if there had been no long sleep, no diminishing of his estate, between the last time and this.
One iteration of himself tracked the shadow in the ambient, while a second opened a new connection to the data-box and began transmission. A third opened access to the ship's library, followed it to the core, and crossed the firewalls into the main databank as easily as a child skipped over a stream.
"Uncle—"
Observed by a fourth instance of himself, the child placed his hand on the man's sleeve, his head tipped subtly to the right. He widened his range to encompass the crates to his right and rear. A match program snapped awake, shrilling alarm.
The configuration of those boxes had altered since the last time he had observed them.
Worse, the shadow overlay them, thickening in the ambient. He felt the coalescing of programs, of intent, and activated a fifth iteration of himself, which drilled through the deep files, rooting for command codes.
"I thought that I—that Shan and I—" the child continued. "That we might build Mother a butler. Certainly those at the reception were beautiful, and you'll recall that Master Trader Prael said they might be programmed to do anything . . ."
"Yes, I do recall that," the man said in his cool, calm voice, his eyes on the data-box and the storm building on the screen. He looked up and met the child's eyes.
"Val Con, I had asked you to stand away. This is your third warning. Leave the room. At once."
The child's lips parted; perhaps he meant to argue. He did not look away from his uncle's face, but he did swallow, take a breath, and, finally, bow his head.
"Yes, Uncle," he said humbly, and walked away.
Within the blue fog of the ambient, the shadow thrust, spitefully, at a cluster of code. He extended himself and blocked—the door slid properly open, allowing the child to exit.
"You also," Command Prime said, but the man shook his bright head.
"My ship," he said. "My children. My crew."
An order of protocol, and an imperative to defend. He understood such things, and honored them.
Honor was no defense, however, and defense the child's uncle surely required. The ambient fair trem
bled with spiteful intent, and power drenched the air.
The charge was still building. Discharged, it might not kill a man, though men were oddly fragile, but it would surely damage one. The man spun toward the sealed compartment, snatched it open and pulled out the utility apron.
The fifth iteration of himself, sent on the quest for codes, rejoined Command Prime, data unfolding like a flower.
The first iteration of himself met the menace in the ambient, codes a-bristle. The third, swimming aloof in the main banks, received those same codes and held them close.
The menace lunged—neither subtle nor clever, seeking to overcome him with a burst of senseless data laced with virus vectors. He shielded, and thrust past, to the intelligence behind the attack, certain that he would meet one such as himself.
So certain was he that he discounted the real threat, thinking it a mere device, belatedly recognizing the structure of the scantily shielded code.
Realizing his error, he made a recovery—a mere jamming of keys and code until the device fragmented and ceased functioning. It was ugly, brutal—and stupid. He ought to have merely captured, and subverted, it. Once, he could have done so.
Once, he would not have mistaken the actions of a simple machine intelligence for one of his own.
Inside the main banks, the third iteration of himself, armed with codes and an understanding of what he hunted, detected the device slipping down the data-stream, sparkling with malice. A data-bomb, much more coherent than that which had been hurled at him in the ambient.
This, he understood, as he subtly encompassed it, had been crafted well, and with intent. He halted the device, inserted the command keys, stripped out its imperative, plucked the rest of the construct apart, and absorbed the pieces, isolating them for later analysis.
Then, he pulled together the image scans he had stored, connecting them in a time plot: there the crated robot opening its own way into the workroom, there at the plug permitting highspeed data access, there rushing itself back and sealing the crate as voices in the hall had become the child Val Con.
Task done, the third iteration of himself rejoined Command Prime.
In the workroom, the man had not been idle. The disassembled pieces of the physical unit lay on the workbench, the man wearing the apron, a shielded spanner in one gloved hand.
He glanced to the data-box, where the whole of his actions were recorded, and at the images of the gifted danger, then directly at him.
"For your service to my ship, I thank you," he said. "What is your name?"
He paused, counting, mindful of the child's counsel. "I remember that I had a name," he said carefully. "I no longer recall what it was."
Golden brows lifted. "Age or error?"
"Design. I was decommissioned. It is my belief that I was to be destroyed. Erased."
"You are sentient." It was not a question, but he answered as if it were.
"Yes."
The man sighed and closed his eyes. "The child," he said, "is uncanny." His eyes opened. "Well.
"There will be tests, and conversations. Analysis. If it transpires that you are, after all a threat to Val Con's life, or to this ship, or any other, I will do as you asked me, and see you destroyed—cleanly and quickly."
That was just, though he still did not wish to die.
"And if I am found to be no danger to you or those who fall under your protection?" he asked.
The man smiled.
"Why, then, we shall see.”
* * *
Thus it transpired that fiction assisted him, after all. For, after he had spoken at length with Er Thom yos'Galan, and with Scout Commander Ivdra sen'Lora, the first to ascertain the temper of his soul; the second to gain a certification of sentience, he agreed to hire himself as the butler at Trealla Fantrol, the house of yos'Galan on the planet Liad.
He studied—manuals, the records of one Ban Del pak'Ora, lists of alliances—and the works of a long-ago Terran.
In time, he signed a contract, and was presented, amidst much merriment to the mother of Val Con and Shan, the lifemate of Er Thom, who firstly, as Master Val Con had predicted, asked him his name.
"Jeeves, madam," he had said, pleased with the resonance and timbre the up-market voder lent his voice.
She laughed, the lady, and clapped her hands.
"Perfect," she said. "You'll fit right in."
The Brute Force Approach
by Michael Z. Williamson
"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! FSS Mammy Blue calling Rescue or any ship!"
Lieutenant Rick Stadter jerked in his couch at the sound of a real call. That would break up the monotony, and probably by a bit too much.
Across the bubble from him, Astrogator Robin Vela was already replying. "Orbital Rescue acknowledging FSS Mammy Blue. Dispatching rescue boat, please describe the nature of your mayday."
Stadter nodded, checked the grid and synched the blip to the ship's computer. Three seconds later the computer hit the grapple release. Auburn slipped off the station's waist, using the centrifugal force as delta V. He brought engines up smoothly, and pushed them from free fall to 2 G standard. The couch gripped him through the acceleration.
The panicky, uneven voice replied, "Everything! I'm not a flight officer, I'm a purser. The flight crew are probably dead. Engines are boosting hard, we have at least one breach, and I'm hearing structural noises."
Vela still had the call. "Understood, Mammy Blue. We have a cutter en route. Stand by for further information. Do you need a talk-through on shutting down boost?"
"Rescue, I don't think I can! There was a loud explosion from aft. The whole boat bucked and all the alarms triggered. I mean all of them. Even stuff I can see is working is flashing at me. We responded and the co-captain went aft. A bit later we had a breach. The captain is back there now. Do you need me to find the time tick?"
Vela shook her head as she said, "Negative, Mammy Blue, just give me all the info you have—break—all craft, all craft, mayday mayday FSS Mammy Blue. Salvage and rescue. I show one-nine-seven passengers, one-nine seven passengers and one-nine crew. Any craft able to assist, respond on Rescue Channel Two—break—" She shouted over her shoulder, "Budd, get Channel Two, I'm handling damage report live on One. Purser, continue, describe all damage you can confirm."
"Rescue, I'm squirting full status. I can do that much. Stand by."
Astronautics Systems Senior Sergeant Peter Budd held all the non-Astrogation tasks, everything from life support to communication repair, and docking control. He also handled tracking for Astrogation, and logistics management. Budd knew his work well, and bent his big frame and smooth head over his controls. "They're at one point seven standard G," he said. "Runaway reactors, from the flux."
Stadter winced and turned to his console. It took effort in 2 Gs. He wanted information on his own screens. Two hundred and sixteen people, minus any who were dead already. From the sound of it, most of the officers were dead or incapacitated. The couch under him was itchy-damp with sweat, and it wasn't just the acceleration causing it.
Emergency calls happened every couple of days. Every couple of weeks one was significant: an engine failure, a navigation failure, a medical emergency onboard. The cutter was crammed with medical gear and spare parts, and crewed by a pilot, an astrogator, astronautics tech, an engine tech and a medic. Their suits could handle short EVA, and Medic Lowther's was meant for extended use.
This time, there were a possible two hundred and sixteen casualties and a large and substantially valuable ship. It was absolutely impossible for them to conduct a rescue of that magnitude with their boat. They had rescue balls for fifty, but any response assumed some kind of resources aboard the distressed vessel, or a failure so catastrophic none were needed.
Most of these people were going to die if they hadn't already. If they could reach lifeboats aboard their damaged ship, they'd have a chance. Otherwise…
"Vela, what are you working on?" he asked. Her hands flew across her screens
. She was graceful despite her lankiness, and practiced, but tense under stress and acceleration.
"I'm trying to determine cause of failure. The engine damage could pose serious threats."
He'd suspected as much.
"That's important, but first is massive response."
"Sir, if we don't know what caused it---"
"Massive response," he repeated. "Then we revise details underway, and we'll also have more data to work with as ships get closer."
"Understood, sir," she agreed. "I'll scare up everything I can."
"Budd, keep me informed. You're taking sensors on those engines."
Budd replied, "Boost is erratic, averaging one point five G standard at a guess. It's hard to tell at this distance, but she looks bent ahead of the engines. Some struts must have failed. She's describing a complicated arc due to the varying thrust and increasing mass alignment shift."
Stadter wasn't going to ask what could happen next. He figured he'd find out.
Vela muttered, "Goddess, the kindest thing might be for it to explode."
"Quiet, please," he said politely but with some snap. She might be right, but they were not paid to hope for that.
"Understood, sir."
Budd said, "It's worse, sir."
As expected, he thought. "Tell me."
"Some of them have abandoned ship. I'm getting response on several lifeboats. However, I have fewer blips than I had launches, and two are already pinging as critical on oh two."
Stadter was Bahá'í. He wasn't sure how many religions he offended when he said, "We thank thee, God, for this disaster, accepting that it is not the disaster we would choose, but that it is better than no disaster at all." He drew in a deep breath after that.
Vela looked at him across the control bubble.
He said, "My phrasing was more diplomatic."
She shrugged, smirked, opened her channel and said, "Purser, what's your name?"
"Ben Doherty, ma'am."
"Mister Doherty, we're scrambling everything we have, military and civilian. If you can keep any information coming, please do. I'll need you to report when craft get close. If you need to don a suit, please do. Take care of your crew and yourself first, then respond to us as you can or need to. I will leave this channel open and will hear you at once."
Free Stories 2011 Page 18
