UNDER ATTACK
The door slid open just as Ariane felt her slate vibrate. She pulled it out of her coveralls pocket, seeing a message from Muse 3. This was a bad time, but before her thumb started to set the hold, she noticed the priority. An emergency?
“I’ve got a message from the agent on my ship,” she said, frowning and pausing in the open doorway.
“The comm center can take it.” Sewick whipped out his own slate. “Funny, the center’s not responding. Perhaps they’re doing some maintenance.”
Ariane thumbed open the message, feeling uneasy. How could her slate be getting a message if the moon’s comm center was down? The text message said nothing but “CAW SEP 12.35.15.” CAW Space Emergency Procedure twelve-dot-thirty-five, number fifteen? What the hell did that @ean? The thirty-five series covered interruption of command, control, or communications, but number fifteen was rather obscure. Her scalp wasn’t simply prickling; it tingled with the sense of danger.
“I’d better check the comm center,” she said, turning around and walking quickly back down the corridor toward the pillared hall. She brushed past the other contractors and Major Dokos. Suddenly the title for 12.35.15 popped into her mind: Hostile Takeover of Command and Control Centers.
She turned the corner and started running.
ALSO BY LAURA E. REEVE
Peacekeeper
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First Printing, October 2009
Copyright © Laura E. Reeve, 2009
eISBN : 978-1-101-14543-2
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To my husband, Michael
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When Roger Penrose, Professor of Mathematics, University of Oxford, wrote Shadows of the Mind, I’m sure he had no idea of the wild and bizarre ideas that book could put into a science fiction writer’s head. In appreciation, I named the Penrose Fold for him, since there must be other brilliant Roger Penroses in alternate timelines. I’m grateful for my husband, Michael, who originally loaned me the book, and who provided clarification, encouragement, and advice for technological details in this story. I also thank my friends and family for their patience and for pretending to listen while I focused on this book. Once again, I’m indebted to my critique partner Robin, as well as first readers Summer and Scott, for their reviews and editorial comments. Finally, credit must go to my agent, Jennifer Jackson, my editor, Jessica Wade, and the staff at Penguin Group for their work on this series.
CHAPTER 1
Under our spotlight: The Senatorial Advisement Council on Stellar Matters issued their report on the light-speed data from Ura-Guinn. The solar system’s sun survived the detonation of a temporal-distortion (TD) warhead in 2090, contrary to simulations and scaled-down tests. However, the Epsilon Eridani antenna can’t resolve planetary surfaces or orbital habitats, so casualties from coronal mass emissions and flares have yet to be . . .
—InterStellarSystem (ISS) Events Feed, 2105.320.17.02
UT, indexed by Democritus 11 under
Cause and Effect Imperative
Ariane reluctantly put on her v-play equipment, signed in for her virtual session, and sat down. Her chair hadn’t finished adjusting when Major Tafani started in on her. She hoped there was a special room in hell just for therapists.
“Major Kedros, you shouldn’t abandon these sessions so soon.” Tafani’s voice was heavy. He folded his hands together on top of the desk that she suspected had no purpose other than to distance him from his patients.
Today, however, not even Tafani could puncture her composure. Today, the light-speed data proved that Ura-Guinn’s sun still existed. Every cell in her body had exploded in relief when she’d heard the news. She’d waited fifteen years, with the rest of the civilized worlds, to learn the outcome of her last mission during the war. Hope still flowed with every breath: If the solar system still had its sun, then some of the inhabitants might have survived.
“I have to get my boss and his ship to G-145.” Ariane tried to put regret into her voice, but couldn’t. “It’s temporary. Don’t worry, Major; I’ll be back in four months.”
Major Tafani’s lips thinned in disapproval. He was already on the edge of being unattractive, and his grimace made him look more like her grandmother than an officer in the Armed Forces for the Consortium of Autonomous Worlds. She reminded herself that Tafani had a doctorate in some sort of brain biochemical fidgetry, as well as a regular commission in AFCAW.
“Can’t your employer use another pilot for this mission?” he asked.
“Aether Exploration doesn’t have another N-space pilot. Besides, how else am I going to pay for these sessions?”
“Please don’t be flippant, Major Kedros. We both know these sessions are part of your military compensation, even though it’s unusual to extend my services to a reservist such as yourself.” Tafani’s fingers started drumming the desktop.
His services? Well, I asked for this, didn’t I? She’d almost begged Colonel Owen Edones for addiction therapy, but she hadn’t gotten what she expected. For one thing, she didn’t understand the lingo these people used, even though everyone seemed to be speaking common Greek. When Tafani told her to put together a list of inner needs, she’d stared at him blankly. After she had come back with goals such as extending her pilot rating or improving her physical conditioni
ng, he seemed frustrated.
“Don’t you need emotional nourishment?” he had asked.
Her problems weren’t about emotional nourishment, for Gaia’s sake. She might have wiped out several billion souls during the war with a temporal-distortion weapon. She was going to have to wait more years for news of survivors, and meanwhile, the nightmares never left her. Besides disrupting her sleep, the ghosts were ever present during her days, rustling and whispering in the back of her mind. It took a lot of alcohol and smooth to drown them out, and she was seeing Major Tafani because she was tired of puking her guts up as a result.
The military had classified and rewritten her past for her protection. They had changed her appearance, effective age, and biochemical processes, and given her a new identity. She was Ariane Kedros now, and Ariane couldn’t talk to Major Tafani about TD weapons, or being tortured by Terrans for revenge, or how Cipher, her own crewmate, had gone over the edge and had become an avenging angel of death.
If she did, Tafani’s head would probably explode. He didn’t have combat experience and he wasn’t old enough to have been in the war. All he knew was Pax Minoica, a relatively peaceful time between CAW and the Terran League, brokered by the powerful and alien Minoans.
“New space is dangerous for you.” Tafani’s hand still drummed the desk. “I hear there’s a cavalier, frontierlike attitude toward drinking and drugging.”
“I’ve seen a work-hard and play-hard ethic.” She nodded reluctantly. “But they deserve it, don’t they, for the risks they take?”
“What about you?”
“What?” The sound of his fingers drumming on the desk irritated her.
“Will you deserve rewards for your work and the risks you’ll take? Since you continue to drink, how will you control yourself?” It was his old argument for abstinence.
“I’ve done pretty well in the last four months.” She was proud of her ability to sip socially. At this point, she saw no need to fully forgo alcohol or smooth.
“You have, but you use your civilian job and employer for support and distraction. You can’t maintain restraint for anyone else but yourself, Ariane, or you’ll end up checked into an addict commons again, helpless to perform your duties.”
Her jaw tightened. He was trying to use the only fact he knew about her recent mission as leverage. She couldn’t protest that Terrans had checked her into the commons after torturing her, coercing her to sign over Matt’s leases in exchange for Brandon’s safety, and then pumping her full of alcohol and smooth. She hadn’t voluntarily taken anything, but she couldn’t protest her innocence.
“Since you haven’t read the mission record, you shouldn’t presume I was unsuccessful.” Her voice was biting and cold.
“That’s another point. How can I properly treat you when I’m not allowed access to your records or medical history? I can’t even perform genetic tests.”
“You can take those concerns to the Directorate of Intelligence.”
From his look, she knew he’d already tried. She added, “Otherwise, you’ll have to work with me, as you see me. Surely that’s possible for your medical discipline.”
Tafani’s eyes narrowed and a sour expression formed on his face, settling naturally into the lines about his mouth and eyes. “My discipline is hampered by the restricted bio-sampling imposed by the Directorate. Thus, I must resort to behavior modeling, counseling, noninvasive therapy, et cetera.” He paused. “So we come back, full circle, to my strong recommendation: You shouldn’t sojourn in G-145. New space is not conducive to your recovery.”
“It’s too late to change my plans.” A wave of her finger brought up the Universal Time display. “Aether’s Touch has been given a departure slot. We disconnect from Athens Point in three hours.”
“Regular sessions are necessary for your recovery. Can you continue them from G-145?”
Ariane shrugged. “I doubt it. Bandwidth is a precious commodity at this point in G-145’s development.”
“I’m going to note in your records that you disregarded my recommendation.” His frown deepened.
“Go ahead and ‘note’ all you want, Major.”
She cut off the session before Tafani could answer. Childish, but so rewarding. Tafani would probably appeal to Owen or Owen’s superiors in the Directorate, but he wouldn’t find any support. The Directorate would love to see her stop these therapy sessions. In the past, her missions for the Directorate had been short, successful, often dangerous, and had never impinged upon her civilian life—until six months ago.
She smiled as she removed the v-play face shield and gloves. After stowing them, she double-checked her tiny quarters for any loose items. A quiet hum of relief started in her chest and she took a deep breath. She felt free. Soon she’d be moving Aether’s Touch away from Athens Point and positioning it for the N-space drop. It was wonderful to deal only with her civilian job. She had an exemplary pilot safety record. She’d been Matt’s pilot slightly less than six years, and he’d made her a minor partner in Aether Exploration two years ago.
She cancelled her privacy shield. She always paid for one whenever she used the Common Communications Network, or ComNet, through a commercial habitat. Privacy law was vital support for her false identity.
On her way to the control deck, she passed through the ship’s small galley and caught a whiff of Matt’s packaged lunch. Having grown up on a generational ship, Matt easily experienced sensory overload and avoided planetary food sources, because of his deeply rooted suspicions of microbes and uncontrolled bacteria. The one-hundred-percent-hydroponic-source noodle dishes that he loved, however, were too bland for Ariane’s taste, although the scent was enough to make her stomach rumble.
She tapped the code to retrieve her favorite, cabbage and emu rolls. Having been on enough prospecting missions with Matt, she had to order her own food stores or go crazy eating his tasteless food. This close to departure, however, she decided not to heat the pack and permeate the ship with its wonderfully rich odor. There’d be plenty of time during the next few months to torment her employer with the “dirt-grown stench.”
She moved lightly, holding the open pack of rolls in one hand and almost skipping through the passageway. In a little while, there would be only herself, Matt, and Aether’s Touch—and she couldn’t forget Muse 3. She paused at the open hatch to the control deck and listened to Muse 3 pose questions to Matt.
That little gnat of a problem was growing rapidly, in its own way. Neither she nor Matt knew much about training AIs, and the how-to literature, if it existed at all, was tightly controlled. Calling upon one of the few existing experts was problematic because Muse 3 might contain illegal rulesets. Muse 3, however, had been created by Matt’s longtime friend Nestor just before his death, and she understood why Matt was reluctant to deactivate it.
“Will I be allowed to pilot Aether’s Touch?” Muse 3 used stilted, formal language, but in its creator’s voice, which sounded incongruous for anyone who had known Nestor.
“We have an autopilot if Ari doesn’t want to manually control the ship,” Matt said absently, checking off provisions on his slate. His free hand ruffled his blond hair, causing it to stand straight up off his scalp. Ariane wanted to reach forward and run her own fingers through it, but Matt was the civilian equivalent of her commander; they wouldn’t be able to crew together if she gave these stray urges any space or time in her head.
“There is no autopilot function for N-space,” Muse 3 countered.
The sly but childlike, wheedling tone made Ariane smile. Now that sounded like Nestor. The corners of Matt’s eyes crinkled with amusement, but Ariane didn’t miss his painful flinch. He was probably reminded of his friend’s murder, perhaps again seeing Nestor’s body, strung up for him to discover.
“You can’t pilot in N-space,” Matt said.
“He’s right, Muse Three.” Ariane decided to step onto the control deck and stop this exploration of boundaries. “Look at all the experiments where someone s
ent automated equipment into N-space, never to return. A human must be at the controls.”
“What hypotheses exist for this requirement?”
“Yes, Ari?” Matt turned toward her and rolled his eyes. He focused on the cabbage rolls in her hand and sniffed suspiciously.
She ignored Matt’s silent warning and picked up a tightly packed green roll with her fingers, looking at it while she considered how to answer Muse 3’s question. She’d studied the physics, managed the checklists, put in her simulator hours, and passed her flight reviews, but she wasn’t an authority on N-space.
“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s due to our neurons being quantum detection devices.” She said this in a rush because it related to a theory about consciousness, and that was the last topic she wanted to discuss with an AI. Sure, AIs could attain the right to vote, but no one attributed them with anything more than self-awareness.
“Perhaps this relates to the navigation equations—” Muse 3 went silent.
She exchanged worried glances with Matt. After a few moments, Muse 3 came back online. It stated its origin as it reinitialized. “Muse Three, constructed by Nestor Agamemnon Expedition, born of the Expedition Seven.”
“Muse Three, don’t attempt to evaluate the navigation equations,” she said. “Only Minoan time buoys can do that, and we don’t even know whether they’re Neumann devices. Besides, AI isn’t supposed to run ships—ever. It’s illegal.”
“Yes, Ari.”
When had Muse 3 started using her nickname? At least it was being obedient. She exchanged a grin with Matt. Unexpectedly, Muse 3 displayed the view from the external cam-eyes and announced, “Master Sergeant Alexander Joyce is approaching slip thirty-three.”
Sure enough, a nondescript man with tightly clipped hair and a mustache had separated from the dock traffic and was approaching their ramp. When he set his foot on the ramp, the security systems on Aether’s Touch came alive with a notification alarm. As Ariane watched, she wolfed down her two cabbage rolls and threw the packaging into the recycler.
Vigilante Page 1
