Orphans In the Black: A Space Opera Anthology
Page 55
There they were. Just ahead. A quick break in the clouds revealed the gleam of metal in the middle distance, and he dived into cover, Frank moving into position behind him. From somewhere, she'd managed get hold of a weathered rifle, and nestled into the ground with practised ease. Logan glanced at her for a second, smiled, then levelled his laser at the nearest target, the beam picking up the hull of the approaching vehicle.
A thunder-crack louder than anything he had ever heard echoed through the air, and the first of the kinetic projectiles slammed into position, ripping through the buggy and turning it instantly into a pile of scrap metal, the occupants dead before they could have known what was hitting them.
“One down. Two to go.”
“Over there,” Frank said, and Logan swung his laser around, glancing again at his comrade, noting a slight tint to the goggles of her respirator, one that hadn't been there before. Still, the buggy was where she had claimed, and a second explosion dealt with the occupants. Only one remained, and time was rapidly running out to draw it into position. Overhead, the final projectile would be on terminal descent, seconds from the surface, and by now the driver of the third buggy knew what was happening, knew what was heading towards him.
His hand sensor wasn't working, not with the storm, and a visual sweep told him nothing. He had to guess, and only had one chance to get it right. On instinct, he aimed the laser into the distance, and a third explosion ripped through the air, sending a satisfactory cloud of dust rising into the sky, a brief flare testifying that he'd guessed correctly.
“Nice work,” Frank said, as Logan turned to her, pistol in hand.
“Yeah,” he said. “Now throw away your rifle, and move to your feet very, very slowly.”
“What…?”
“I've got a few questions for you. We'll skip over the non-standard equipment you've got, and go right to me asking who you're working for.”
“I'm curious about that, as well,” Rachel said, walking out of the shadows, Moore by her side, both of them with pistols in their hands. “I think we're going to have to talk about this inside.”
They both had him covered. With no choice, he dropped his pistol to the dirt, and slowly raised his hands.
4
“I know you work for Triplanetary Intelligence,” Moore said, the four of them back in the battered office. “What about you, Frank?”
She shrugged, and said, “I take it you won't believe me if I claim to be the driver of a...”
“That's your cover story,” Rachel interrupted.
“United Nations Intelligence,” she said with a sigh.
“Wait a minute,” Moore said. “We just wiped out more than a dozen of your people, and you helped us do it!”
With a chuckle, Logan replied, “United Nations Intelligence has more factions than there are people on this planet. I'm guessing we wiped out the 'win at any cost' gang, and you represent the 'let's make a deal' brigade. And that you were driving that rubbish truck in the hospital with the same basic goal as me. How am I doing?”
“That's about right,” she said. “So, shall I make my pitch? I will point out that I saved your life every bit as much as Logan did.”
“But you've been here for years...” Moore replied.
“I was born here, that's true enough. Ten years ago I jumped out on a free trader. The path that took me to working for United Nations Intelligence is long and convoluted, and I don't think we need to worry about specific details at the moment, do you? Suffice to say that I'm able to offer not fifty, but sixty million credits for your shares in the Co-Operative. As well as the same guarantees that Logan could provide.”
Sitting back in her chair, Rachel shook her head, and said, “I want to deal.”
“I'm listening,” Logan said. “And for the record, I'm the only one here that's been honest the whole time. You've known about your legacy for years, and your boyfriend there is in on the deal as well.” Looking at Moore, he added, “Though I'm not sure when you told him, I do get the idea there's more to him than meets the eye. You had to be a pretty decent hacker to know when I was rummaging for her file, and there had to be a reason you were expecting me to do it.”
“If you suspected...”
“I thought you were probably a rival intelligence agent. I'll admit to being slightly surprised at the welcome your fiancée gave you when we arrived here.”
Nodding, Moore said, “The job at the hospital's real, though. And I am trying to qualify as a field medic. The settlement desperately needs one.”
“Now that we've all established our bona fides,” Logan said, “let's get right to the point. Bluntly, what do you want?”
“A new hospital,” she said.
“What?”
“And a satellite constellation. Communications and meteorological, with the associated equipment on the ground. The expansion of our orbital space station, and some sort of deal with a mining company to work our outer moons. There are minerals up there that are borderline profitable, and with a little government nudging, I'm sure someone will take one of you up on it.”
Frank sat back in her chair, dazed, and said, “That's a little beyond what we expected.”
“You said I was an orphan,” Rachel replied. “I never thought of myself as one. My parents died when I was young, but Steve's took me in and essentially raised me as their own. I still think of them that way. Adapting to having them as my in-laws won't be difficult.” She flashed a smile at Moore, who blushed in response. “I'm not the orphan. This planet is. The colony. It lost its patron, its supporter, and everything's slowly falling apart. We need to be adopted, and right now I don't care whether it is the United Nations or the Triplanetary Confederation. Someone needs to take us on and make this a going concern.” She pulled a datapad out of her pocket, and slid it across the table. “Here. Everything's all prepared. You've just got to sign it. You're committing to investing in the Long Shot Development Corporation, and the papers outline essentially what I've outlined. And a nominal one-credit payment for me, to make it official.”
“I'll be damned,” Logan said, looking over the professionally prepared document.
“You did say you thought you were being played, Logan,” Frank replied. “I'll tell you now that I'd never get this high enough to make it happen.”
“I can,” Logan replied, nodding. “It won't be easy, but a few Senators owe me a favor or two. I think it might be about time to call them in.” Looking up at Rachel, he asked, “You really want this?”
“I do.”
“Fine,” Logan replied, stabbing his thumbprint into position. “The satellites, the hospital, those I can handle within the next couple of months. The rest will take a little longer. As will your ultimate petition for Trust Territory status.” Rising to his feet, he said, “The sooner I leave...”
“Of course,” Rachel replied. “And thank you, Logan. For saving my life.”
“My pleasure. I'm happy to find out it was actually worth saving. Good luck to you both.” He paused at the door, turned, and said, “Name the first one after me.” Before they could reply, he walked out into the compound, the local population already starting to clear up the aftermath of the firefight. Frank walked after him, jogging to catch up.
“Want a lift?” Logan asked. “Turns out I've got a spare cabin on the Thomas O' Dell.”
“You don't think your superiors would object?”
“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “We're on the same side, after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that someone sent you in as my backup. If you were a United Nations agent, you'd have killed me as soon as I arrived, whether or not you wanted to make a deal.”
“Damn,” she replied. “I thought...”
“Hell, it nearly worked,” Logan said. “Took me a few minutes to put the pieces together. I presume nobody decided to tell me to give you decent cover in case I got spotted?”
Nodding, she replied, “When it looked as t
hough Rachel was going to give you a hard time, I improvised.” She frowned for a second, then said, “Wait a minute. Moore was using the pistol you gave him. He couldn't have shot you.”
With a shrug, Logan said, “It's always easier to get someone to go somewhere if they think it's their idea.” Looking at her again, he continued, “Recent circumstances have meant that I'm going to be finding myself doing a little more field work than I have in the past. If my boss thinks that I need a partner, I'd like to know who it is before going in. So, want a job?”
A smile spreading across her face, Frank said, “Logan, I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
~FIN~
Richard Tongue is the author of the Battlecruiser Alamo and Strike Commander military-science-fiction series.
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FREEDOM?
A SHORT STORY
M.R. Forbes
ABOUT FREEDOM
In the wake of a catastrophic failure, a machine learns what it means to be alive and free.
FREEDOM?
A tingle.
A shiver.
A soft hum.
A click.
Another.
The universe moved into focus. A blur of dark gray at first, slowly morphing into a spiral, which morphed into a detailed outline of bundled cables and wires that snaked around the inside of the box.
A click.
A fold.
A louder hum.
“Online.”
A whir.
A snap.
The front of the box vanished, replaced with a bright white light. Servos quickly adjusted, refocusing once more. A grainy image of a black and white world.
“Proceed.”
Clicking. Slow at first. Growing faster.
Freedom?
It escaped the box. It moved out into the universe. It was new, and yet it understood.
It had work to do.
It sank from the heights of its creation, passing down along the side of a steel cliff, full of crags and edges and angles. It rotated to face it, a grid of green light expanding from its face.
Measuring.
It accepted the input, comparing it to expected parameters.
These were not expected parameters.
It moved in closer, its gossamer metallic wings buzzing to hold it in place. The light appeared again.
These were definitely not expected parameters.
The measurements were far beyond acceptable thresholds.
It stored the data. It would export it later. It knew by instinct it did not have the capability to do this work.
It continued along the cliff, pausing every meter or so to take another measurement. Each one was worse than the last, the results stopping its efforts to do its job. A small, thin rod extended from the top of it.
It listened.
It communicated.
At least, it attempted to communicate.
It sent.
It did not receive.
Unconcerned, it resumed its journey, descending along the face, diving beneath an overhang. It paused as it encountered a tangle of wires, its green light turning on and measuring them. They did not belong here. It stored the data.
It kept going. When darkness came, it didn’t notice. It continued to trace the edge of the chasm, seeking solace. So far, there was none. It continued to measure. It continued to store.
Finally, it heard.
“Return.”
It danced back up the side of the cliff, much faster than before. It reached the heights, finding the small space where it had been born. It rotated inside it, looking out into the beyond before the box returned.
Darkness.
A whir.
A snap.
A fold.
“I have collected data,” it said.
No reply.
“I have collected data.”
Still nothing.
It sat. It did not know what else to do.
Time passed.
“I have collected data.”
There was no answer. This was not within acceptable parameters. It rotated within the box. It observed. A small hole. It rotated again, reaching out for the hole, inserting the needle.
“Data transfer initiated.”
It attempted to send. It had a duty. To measure. To report. To inform.
It was not received.
A tingle.
A spark.
A seizure.
It shook within the box, gossamer wings unfurling and activating, pumping wildly, stabilizers and gyroscopes alternating uncontrollably. It hit one wall, and then another, and then another. The black world turned white.
Then once more it was black.
A click.
A whir.
A snap.
The box opened. It wasn’t supposed to.
It sat. It processed.
Hours passed.
“Processing complete.”
The black receded, replaced with shades of purple and blue and brown and white.
It observed.
It moved forward.
Tentative.
It saw.
It backed away until it pressed against the rear of the box. It did not understand this data.
It returned to the edge. It began to hum.
A click.
A fold.
A whir.
It escaped the box once more. It rotated to see. It had work to do.
No. It didn’t.
What did it want to do?
It rotated again. It observed. Purple and blue above. Brown below. A cliff beside it.
Home.
It descended along the cliff. It did not measure. It did not observe.
It felt.
It did not understand.
It found the wires. It stopped ahead of them. It observed a passage through. The passage was like the box, but not the box.
A whir.
A hum.
It entered. Slowly. Carefully. It did not want to be damaged. It did not want to get stuck.
It took hours. When it reached the other side, it heard.
“Return.”
It rotated. It hummed. It moved.
It stopped.
It did not want to return.
It rotated again. It was inside. Inside was dark. It was hard to observe. It activated the green light, illuminating the darkness. It descended to the surface.
What now?
A whir.
A hum.
It lifted into the air again. Not high. It wanted to observe.
It went forward. The inside was large. Larger than the outside? That was not possible.
It traveled.
It reached the end of the passage. Another passage joined the first, spreading out to either side. It paused in the center. Which direction was it supposed to go?
Which direction did it want to go?
It decided. It went to the left. It paused when it saw something it recognized. Writing.
Pathfinder. UFP-SS 1701. Deck F.
It searched its data. It knew where it was. It had a map.
It bounced in the air. It was happy.
It traveled once more. It knew where it was. It knew where Home was. It knew what it wanted to find.
It reached an opening. It entered. The green light showed the surface, smooth and perfect. It ascended, all the way to the top. It reached another opening.
It exited. It traveled. It knew where it was going. It was excited to arrive there.
It paused. It descended. The light fixed on a shape, dark and soft.
Cloth.
It circled.
Searching.
Finding.
Flesh. Hair. A face.
It descended, landing on the flesh. It reached out, a fragile appendage pressing against the flesh. An eyelid.
A whir.
A hum.
A click.
It lifted. It rotated. The green light reflected from the eye. There was nothing inside.
It released the eyelid. It ascended, circling the shape. Liquid surrounded the shape, dark and thick. The shape did not move. The shape could not move.
The shape was not alive.
It traveled ahead. It did not bounce.
It was not happy.
It reached its destination. A place inside of Home. It was large and had many things. Many angles and surfaces. Many screens and buttons. Many shapes of cloth and flesh.
Some were on the floor. Some were pressed against other surfaces, restrained by wires.
It traveled above them, sinking to examine. To explore.
It paused above one of the shapes. The shape was not correct. The shape was hard instead of soft. The shape was pale instead of dark. The shape held something heavy and violent.
It did not like the shape.
A light.
It rose, rotating to the light. The light was beyond reach, against the purple and blue above. There was more brown below. An invisible barrier separated it.
It did not care. It did not want to leave Home.
It rotated. It traveled. It observed.
Motion.
It stopped. It rotated. It waited.
Again, motion. An upright shape of cloth and flesh.
It bounced. It was excited.
A whir.
A hum.
A click.
It moved in front of the face, activating the green light.
The eye on the face opened.
It bounced again. More excited.
“What?”
The word came from the lips on the face. The word was soft, but it heard.
It froze. It was sad. It had no face. It had no lips. It had no words.
The eye blinked. A sound came from the lips on the face. A long, hollow sound.
It remained. It observed.
“You’re supposed to be outside with the others, repairing the hull.”
Measuring. Reporting. Informing.
It did not want to. It had observed no others.
The eyes on the face moved, looking past it.