CHAPTER 7
When you realize what the crèche-get face on their
ships, you’ll understand. When something goes wrong
on a mission, they have no one to call upon for help.
Their need for self-reliance is reflected in the Genera tional Line ship designs. If you read the chilling logs from
the Expedition I, where they had to blow away key mod
ules, reconnect, and rebuild under thrust . . .
—Senator Stephanos IV, 2098.022.10.31 UT, indexed by Democritus 9 under Cause and Effect Imperative
“The control deck cut all our connections to ComNet,” David Ray said. “Some sort of buoy problems.”
“Never heard of that.” Matt tried to sound experienced; in reality, he’d experienced only one solar system opening on the Journey IV. Everyone joked the Minoan time buoys had one ON button, they could take any sort of abuse, and they couldn’t be turned off or destroyed—except with a temporal-distortion wave.
“I’ve got the AI applications and permit requests ready to sign, once we’ve got ComNet back.” David Ray motioned at the display of legalese that gave Matt a headache whenever he looked at it.
Matt was surprised at how heavy his heart felt, all for a set of algorithms and rules. Muse 3 might have to be destroyed, depending upon how Nestor built it. However, after David Ray went through the laws regarding the licensing of AI rulesets, proof of originality, and rights of individuality, he decided he had no choice but to initiate the long process. He wasn’t going to risk his company, essentially both his and Ari’s livelihood, for Muse 3.
“Anything else?” David Ray asked.
“Nothing—other than your fees, I guess.”
David Ray tapped the desk to bring up a matrix on the wall. “Here are my hourly rates. This is the rate schedule for non-Pilgrimage work, given that you’re an Autonomist citizen.”
Matt gulped. This destroyed the windfall he made from ferrying Joyce to this system, and any more work would make a serious dent in his operating expenses, provided he could even call this a business expense. He couldn’t get on the visiting generational schedule, because he’d opted off the Journey IV. However, there were incentives listed at the bottom of the matrix.
“I can lower the rates through donations?” Unlike grav-huggers, Matt didn’t have any qualms about the ownership of his sperm. Besides, this was about saving money. Strictly speaking, these weren’t donations in the charitable sense.
“Are you already in our pool?” asked David Ray.
“No.” There hadn’t been time to consider donations the first time he came to G-145 and there’d been no driving need for Pilgrimage credit.
“If you’re willing to sign up for a four-sample regimen, then we can make you a deal.” David Ray displayed a different matrix of rates.
Matt nodded in relief. “Let’s do it.”
The decision itself turned out to be orders of magnitude faster than “doing it.” David Ray loaded another flurry of forms onto Matt’s slate to sign with thumbprint and voiceprint. The Consortium of Autonomist Worlds had intricate and thorny procedures regarding individual privacy, and one’s genetic material qualified as private personal property.
“Our labs will want to look over your medical records.” David Ray frowned. “Unfortunately, comm systems are down, even between ship sections. It might be easier if I walk you over to the labs, which will give me a chance to stretch my legs.”
The genetic labs and birth center were in another spire of the ship-turned-habitat, on the same level as the legal offices. David Ray escorted him around the connection wheel that held the spires together, while they chatted about the differences between the Pilgrimage III and the Journey IV. The traffic in the wheel’s semicircular-shaped corridors was light. They saw fewer than thirty pedestrians and only two equipment carts, which surprised Matt.
“Third shift is downtime. That’s why they’re doing maintenance on the comm.” David Ray motioned Matt to follow him as he turned off the wheel. “I’ll have to warn you about Dr. Lee. She’s our oldest geneticist.”
“Warn me?”
“She may seem grouchy, but don’t be fooled. She hides a generous spirit under her vicious wit.” David Ray smiled. He obviously had a soft spot for Dr. Lee.
They stopped at a door labeled S6 LEVEL 19—BIRTHING CENTER TWO.
“She’s always running her music. That’s how I bribe her, by finding obscure selections.” David Ray waved his hand over the switch and opened the door.
Contrary to what he just said, the stark glass and metal laboratory was silent. A tall woman stood at a lab equipment station with her back to them. Her hair was white and loosely piled up on her head, topping off a ramrod-straight back. Her crew coveralls and white lab coat didn’t hide her lean hips and long legs. When she turned, the wrinkles about her lively eyes and the papery skin covering her thin aristocratic features revealed her age.
“David Ray!” She stalked toward them, scowling. “What’s happened to my music feeds?”
Matt was amused to see panic cross David Ray’s face. “We don’t have ComNet access, Lee. Maintenance, you know.”
“I don’t like depriving the children, and I can’t even access my local library. What are they doing up front? They won’t answer my calls.” She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down her nose at the general counsel. “Up front” was shipspeak for the control deck.
“Let me try, Lee,” David Ray said.
Matt watched David Ray scuttle past counters to the end of the lab. The attorney started tapping commands and muttering codes into the panel next to a vertical airlock. When Matt turned back to Dr. Lee, she was looking him over with narrowed eyes.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped.
“Getting cleared to make donations.” He handed her his slate. “Matt Journey, at your service, ma’am.”
She smiled and her face transformed, looking much younger.
“It’s all an act, you know.” She jerked her head toward David Ray. “He’s at least two hundred years and not a day younger. He does his ‘respect the elderly’ routine to irritate me. We grew up together, but I fell behind doing a tour at headquarters.”
“The control deck isn’t answering and they’ve locked down the central data store,” David Ray called.
“I could have told you that, you young twit!” Dr. Lee looked up from the forms on the slate and winked at Matt. “I’ve got to keep stroking that male ego, particularly when it’s sitting in such a well-formed rack. Oh, is that too much information?”
“Only if you want to be obvious.” Matt hid his awkward flush by turning away to examine the birth chambers.
There were ten chambers along the wall, with shining fronts and small circular doors. The occupied ones were labeled with dates, name, lineage, and a few other indicators. Each maturing baby represented a feat in human engineering; yet this process caused fear and loathing in the grav-huggers, who called them “crèche-get,” as if there were something subhuman about them. Matt had matured in one of these chambers, as had anyone conceived under real-space conditions.
When humans had first considered long trips in real-space, they had never anticipated the problems of bearing children in low or changing gravity. With less gravity, there should be advantages for the mother. No more swelling, fewer problems with pregnancy-induced hypertension and preeclampsia. However, no one foresaw how finicky placental interchange could be when exposed to gravity different from Terra.
“Good. You’re birthed from a well-recorded generational line. We won’t need to do testing for recessive genetic nastiness such as cystic fibrosis, sickle cell, or thalassemia,” Dr. Lee said. “But I need to look at your records.”
Matt extended his hand and she pointed toward a hand outline on the lab counter. He used near-field data exchange to download parts of his medical records in his implant to local lab memory.
Dr. Lee scrolled the results on the wall. “You’re nega
tive for five types of human immunodeficiency viruses, as well as any sexually transmitted diseases. All your health indicators are well in the green.”
“Aw shucks, ma’am.” Matt pretended embarrassment.
Dr. Lee rolled her eyes and pushed him toward the vertical airlock where David Ray still tapped and frowned. “Go up one level and start working on a sample,” she said.
Above the lab, Matt found a quiet little lounge with a small bar, several private cubicles, and a closed hatch that read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. He had the donation center to himself. Unbidden, his imagination started wandering toward Ari—no. He couldn’t allow his conscious mind to explore that possibility; it would lead to complications. After all, Ari was crew. Then Diana Oleander floated into his mind. Deep down, he wondered whether Diana was merely a stand-in for Ari.
Better get on with this and catch my ride to Beta Priamos. Before the comm maintenance, he’d checked the incoming ship schedules. His ticket to Priamos had arrived early. He started scrolling through the v-play titles listed at the bar.
Ariane dreamed she was at the Naga pilot controls again, listening to Cipher and Brandon argue about whether they should stay to collect data from the probe.
But it’s not a probe.
“The mission brief was wrong. It’s not an intelligence payload.” Cipher’s eyes were large, her short orange hair plastered to her head with sweat.
Why would they lie? Didn’t the civilian authorities trust us to do our mission?
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ari. The maintenance crew that removed it from storage and prepped it—they had to know.”
Suddenly, she was standing next to Cipher, watching Brandon throw himself toward the director of operations.
“The DO had to know, regardless of what he said when we returned.”
Did Brandon know? Ariane looked at Cipher. The orange hair turned to deep burgundy. The face lightened; then the skin melted and cracked away, leaving bone.
“You know we all deserve to die,” said the grinning skull. “More than four billion souls are gone, Ari.”
She was back on the Naga ship, which bucked and stretched. Console lights faded and recovered. Multiple alarms went off, one of them pinging over and over.
It was her wake-up alarm.
“Quiet. I’m awake!” She rolled over, and her breath caught at the sharp pain. Rolling over a stim-healed, recently cracked rib was torture.
When the alarm was finally quiet, she lay still and assessed her injuries. After a couple hours of sleep, she couldn’t believe how bad she felt. If there was any option that avoided getting out of bed, she’d take it. She groaned in frustration and pain. She had to get to Priamos: The contractors needed the reporting matrix and they’d have questions. Matt was depending on her, and there was no one else to back her up.
Before they’d left Athens Point, he’d familiarized her with all the contractors, what they did, and the streamlined reporting. You’re a full partner now, he’d said, and you never know when you might have to represent Aether Exploration . At the time, she’d doubted she’d need the background. How wrong she’d been.
Carefully, so very carefully, she pushed herself upright and got out of bed. If there was any time for analgesics, it was now. She took a triple dose, knowing her metabolism could handle it. Then she stuffed the entire remaining inventory of pain medication into the pockets of her business coveralls, adorned with the Aether Exploration logo, clean and ready from the steamer. She looked at them specula tively; how was she going to get into them?
Walking gingerly about in her underwear, she entered the galley and made her morning Kaffi. She and Matt made sure to stock the real stuff, ground from roasted beans grown on Hellas Prime. For some reason, drinks made from coffee beans, tea, or dried herbs were processed enough to pass Matt’s crèche-get sensibilities.
The Kaffi and analgesics loosened up her body enough to use the hygiene closet and get into her coveralls and safety jacket. She checked her implant, where she carried copies of the new reporting matrix that the CAW SEEECB had approved for Aether Exploration. She also had copies on the slate she slipped into her coverall pocket.
She was ready to go and miraculously on time, but she hesitated at the airlock. Muse 3 had been uncharacteristi cally quiet.
“No arguments, Muse Three? No chiding or fussing about bed rest?”
“None, Ari. Analysis of past discussions has proven that Matt will reconsider his decisions as a result of reasoned questions and answers, but you will not.”
She raised her eyebrows. Did Muse 3 just call her pigheaded? The tone sounded smug, but Muse 3 used Nestor’s voice and that little pervert always spoke with a superior tone. Did Muse 3 know it was delivering an insult? This begged the question regarding Muse 3’s interaction training, or lack thereof, while she was gone.
“Muse Three, try my request again for a ComNet search. Once you get it, find visual records of all past and present wives of Terran State Prince Isrid Sun Parmet.”
“I have periodically attempted to get bandwidth from the Pilgrimage Three, since you didn’t cancel your original request. All have been denied, with no estimate given for when there may be bandwidth available.”
This was yet another troubling coincidence. When she added it to other oddities, such as Joyce being here, her scalp began to prickle. To quell her unease, she grabbed one of the few weapons in the locker. It was a nonlethal ministunner and small enough to go unnoticed inside her jacket.
This jacket was for safety: It could light up with various messages, had a shrink-to-fit safety vest, tons of straps and pockets to carry items, and was fitted with internal webbing that she could hook to all sorts of tie-downs. She checked her emergency accessories: a small knife with an extending blade, airless light source and flares, and a folding emergency mask. Another alarm beeped; she had barely enough time to get down to the surface.
“Continue the bandwidth requests, Muse Three. When you get ComNet access, do the search and send the results to my slate. Remember that all your comm to the surface has to go through the Beta Priamos Command Post.” She paused, considering her next words. “I’m giving you control of any sensors that can be used while the ship is docked. In addition, you’re allowed to reveal your presence under circumstances that fit within CAW Space Emergency Procedures, series number twelve. Better read up on them.”
“I already have. Thank you, Ari.”
Matt was going to have a fit about the energy bill if Muse 3 abused the sensors, but she didn’t worry about it as she locked up the ship and scurried to the space elevator as fast as her bruised body would allow. Again, the station seemed deserted. The curt, scowling young man who handed her an emergency mask for the elevator was the only person she saw as she took her leave of Beta Priamos and rode the elevator to the moon’s surface alone.
“You done yet?”
Matt jumped at David Ray’s voice, turning away from the list of v-plays. The counselor’s head was sticking up into the vertical airlock.
“I’m trying to find something to watch. I don’t understand all these titles about engines.”
“Euphemisms, my boy,” David Ray said. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll make an appointment for you tomorrow—”
They both frowned when they heard a man’s harshly accented voice say something below in the lab. Dr. Lee’s voice protested, another male voice mixed into the mélange, yet Matt couldn’t distinguish words. David Ray headed down the ladder. Matt moved to the door, stepped through into the airlock tube, wide enough for several people to stand about the inner port, and looked down.
Perhaps it was a freakish coincidence, or perhaps St. Darius himself decided to help out a shipmate in distress, but when Matt shuffled a bit clockwise around the port, he could see David Ray’s figure outlined against the back of the airlock tube due to the brighter light in the lab. David Ray had his arms up in that universal signal of surrender.
Matt heard Dr. Lee say something in a tense, shrill vo
ice, but he still couldn’t understand her words. David Ray was closer and his voice was deep and clear.
“We’ll cooperate—don’t do anything to the children,” David Ray said.
Matt reached for the autohoist webbing and cable. He worked quietly. The autohoist was set up for cargo and he readied it for carrying a human.
There was a sharp question, to which David Ray answered, “I’m alone.”
Matt set the autohoist to sense the weight of an adult, with an override on the safety so it would move fast. The autohoist could be used to move bulky or heavy items through the airlock. It could also move an unconscious person or, Gaia forbid, a body. He held his breath as he lowered the autohoist webbing at the end of the cable. Slowly, slowly. He saw a sliver of the autohoist’s shadow appear against the back of the airlock tube, and he brought it back up a smidgen. He didn’t know where the “bad guys” stood and what they could see.
“I’m the general counsel.” David Ray’s voice was puzzled.
Another sharp question.
“Essentially, yes, I’m a lawyer.”
A male voice, the one that had been asking the questions, rose slightly in pitch and gave a command.
Dr. Lee screamed, “No!”
Matt heard her clearly. What followed were the sounds of a soft thud and a screeching, ringing sound, as if a million pins scraped along the airlock tube and tried to drill into the metal. David Ray grunted and fell backward into the airlock in an awkward, spread-eagled position. The fabric on his left thigh was shredded and bloody. Matt dropped the harness onto David.
Many considered self-tightening webbing to be a miracle; Matt certainly did as he watched the harness webbing tighten about David Ray’s shoulders and torso. Most of the harness tightened to specifications in a fraction of a second. David Ray had the presence of mind to lift one hand to a loop on the cable, allowing the webbing to connect under his arm. By the time Matt reached over and tapped the command button, the harness had stopped wiggling.
Vigilante Page 9
