Insanity's Children

by Rolf Nelson

  “When dealing with professionals, you have some idea what to expect,” the Ambassador continued. “The amateurs always try to impress you, put on a show of some sort. Rather pathetic, really, but you can never show too much disdain.” He looked around. “See? They are late. They think making us wait is a sign they are in a position of power-”

  One of the armored marines laughed out loud, the soldier’s deep base issuing from a helmet-mounted speaker. “Nah, just seeing if you’re smart enough to ring the damn doorbell.” He shook his head in apparent amusement. With the butt of his rifle he indicated the com pad to one side. “You’re here to talk. May as well start.”

  The Ambassador’s short reply about guards knowing their place died on his lips as he reconsidered. “Who is your employer?” he asked with great feigned solicitude.

  The guard chuckled again and looked across at the other armored figure. “Bureaucrat Intimidation 1A, Lance Private. Imply you will make the underlings life hell by talking to the boss….” He looked down at the ambassador before him. “The contract is private. You gonna knock, or negotiate out here with me?”

  Aide Miles Chelsea stepped toward the armored figure, looking up into the mirrored visor. “Do you know who you are addressing…” he glanced at the chipped and worn stripes painted on the chest, “staff sergeant?”

  “Of course I do, side-kick…. And it’s Staff Sergeant Major.”

  The assistant started to lose his cool, but was politely tut-tutted by the ambassador. “Ah-ah. Never mind, a minor detail.” He smiled indulgently at him, then faced the guard. “Just call them, tell them we have arrived, please.”

  “We’re security, not doormen. You want to talk to them, you push the button.”

  The ambassador shrugged inwardly, smiled his default smile, and waved the nephew toward the door, where he pushed the com pad button. Nothing happened. “You might want to announce yourself,” the guard prompted, receiving a dirty look for his help.

  “Ambassador Roose has arrived.”

  Taj’s brisk military voice issues from the com pad. “You are late. Let yourself in, ignore the tennis match, find the captain upstairs.”

  The assistant made a sour face at the confusing breach of protocol, then pushed the button to open the door. Nothing happened. They waited, then pushed the button again. Still nothing.

  Another chuckle arose from the other armored suit. “Hey, staff sergeant. I hear these hatches have things called handles.” The ambassador and aide looked, and note the manual unlocking mechanism. With annoyance and great effort the assistant unlocked the door and pushed it open, revealing a bare, utilitarian connecting airlock, not the more typical automatic equal pressure system. They entered, then started wobbling as the artificial gravity shifted around under them. After an uneasy crossing to the far door six meters away, they reached the next door, also manually latched. Struggle though they did, the latches didn’t budge.

  “The door is stuck. Can one of you lend a hand, here?” Miles called back to the marines. One of them leaned into the hatchway and looked across at them.

  “No…. But any teenage first week recruit knows you have to close and dog the door behind you before the next one will open. It’s why they call it an… airlock.” His silhouette leaned back out of view.

  The aide breathed deep and straightened his shoulders, straightened his tunic reflexively, and carefully returned to the outer hatch, where he closed and latched it, finally being rewarded by a change in the status light from green “Safe to open” to yellow “Sealed.”

  Outside the hatch, one marine with a single pair of crossed spears painted on his shoulder armor said “You have way too much fun with your surname, Sergeant. It’s going get you in trouble one day.”

  “Yeah, I’m bad. But pop is an officer, and gramps named him Corporal. He always had fun with the protocol guys when he got introduced as Lieutenant Colonel Corporal Major under General Orders. He’s got some pretty good stories. But the First Sergeant is cool with it.”

  “Guess you gotta mess with the egos where you can.”

  “Uh huh….. Think we should have mentioned the A-grav will cut out when they dog the hatch?”

  “…. Nah. They’re all smart and sophisticated. I’m sure they’ll figure that out eventually.”

  A few panicked minutes later, a somewhat less perfectly coiffed ambassador opened the hatch on Tajemnica’s side of the airlock, straightening out his tunic and rapidly returning to an immobile, unruffled-looking expression as he became accustomed to the slightly different gravity and air pressure in the narrow passage leading to the cargo deck ahead. As he and the aide got straightened out and adjusted, he talked in a calming tone to the clearly angry nephew.

  “When dealing with proper nations, protocol is observed assiduously. When dealing with criminals and pirates and savages, it is not uncommon to toss minor indignities at the messenger. Bluster and posturing, nothing more. Do not let it interfere with remembering the mission. Do not give them the pleasure of showing any distress, or too much enjoyment, though I doubt that will be an issue…. There now, all settled? Good. Next hatch, then, please.”

  The aid set about unlatching the outside airlock hatch. Then the middle hatch. Then the inner hatch, having to shove hard against the stiff hinges. The ambassador looked around at the cramped airlock passage, clean but empty and utilitarian, and quietly sniffed his contempt for anyone that would fly such a ship, let alone hold any sort of negotiations for anything more important than scrap metal. At last the inner door was opened, and they looked out into the cargo bay, barren across the middle except for a hard-played tennis match between Sharon and Quiritis, using a net strung across close to the center hatchway. They are evenly matched and playing hard, with the ball whizzing back and forth, and using a local modification of the rules that bounced it off the walls, while risky because of the unevenness of them, was legal. They watched in surprise, and appreciation of the suitably-attired figures. At one end of the cargo bay a squad of men in casual clothes are working on organizing and cleaning stacks of gear, with a handful of them keeping an eye on the tennis match, or at least the players (even if both were married, there wasn’t much other eye-candy around).

  “The brief did say this was some sort of warship, but I’m thinking an old cargo hauler is the more likely heritage.”

  “Yes. But many a poor man makes grandiose claims. The poorer they are, the higher the title. You’d be amazed how many five-man terrorist groups are led by an, ahem, colonel.” After looking around at the open middeck windows and various side-hatches, they avoid interrupting the game and made their way slowly toward the bow. Quinn came running out from a forward stairwell and charged over to them, wearing his (slightly stained) ship uniform, now with one tiny purple medal pinned onto his left breast.

  “Ship said you must have gotten lost, sent me to find you. Not sure how you get lost in an airlock, but follow me! Mess is on A deck.” He spun around and ran back to the forward stairway. He paused, one foot on the stairs, looking back at the motionless and somewhat surprised pair. “Come on!” They shook off their surprise, and strode quickly toward the hatch, following the scampering boy toward the officer’s mess. “They’ll be there in a minute!” Quinn shouted up the stairwell. He disappeared, then darted back into view. “Oh, yeah. I was supposed to ask if you wanted something to drink or anything.”

  The Ambassador smiled politely, and winks knowingly at his aide. “Ah, thank you. I had feared there would be no end of protocol disruptions. Yes, I think I would, thank you. A civilized drink, perhaps a mint julep, if someone could make one properly?” He inclined his head to inquire what his aide wanted.

  “Bourbon, young man, if you have something worthy of the name.” Quinn nodded and disappeared again. “Oh, and if you please…” Quinn leaned back into view once more. “The call to be here was rather hastily delivered. If you happen to have a bite to eat handy, the Ambassador would appreciate it. He’s partial to seafood, though I don�
��t suppose there is any to be found in orbit. Any old thing will do, I’m sure.” Quinn got a big grin on his face and ran away once again.

  The two diplomats climbed the stairwell, then glanced around the passageway they step into the mess. Looking around it, they found it clean and practical with minor hand-painted decorations in places, giving it a homely touch, but it was not very impressive. The screens showed a couple of outside views as if looking out a port, a couple of natural landscapes, and a local news channel. “An inspired choice, Miles,” the Ambassador murmured. “The rotgut they are likely to call bourbon will likely be near toxic, and I’d bet it comes in a plastic zero-grav cup.”

  “And your julep, sans fresh mint, won’t be worthy of the name.” He grinned, wondering what sort of food will show up, mentally betting on something vat-grown, textured, and brown.

  Shortly, Allonia walked in carrying a tray. “Here you go,” she handed over what appeared to be a perfectly made julep, complete with a large sprig of undoubtedly fresh and aromatic mint on top. “We don’t have many drinkers aboard so it was all we had handy. I’m told it’s passable.” She handed the aide a crystal snifter with a perfect amber liquid in it. Surprised, they both took a tentative sniff, then an appreciative sip.

  In spite of his desire to be unimpressed, the Ambassador had to admit (silently, to himself only) it was a flawlessly made julep. Next to him, his aide savored the best bourbon he’d had off Earth. “If this isn’t Bill’s 46, I’m a Martian!” he exclaimed. Realizing his break from the plan, he temporized and finished with a weak, “this is satisfactory, miss.”

  “Glad you like it. The Captain will be along in a minute. He’s helping Quinn harpoon a big one for you.”

  “Excuse me? He’s what?”

  “Calamari, sort of. Squiggly things. Ugly looking critters, but I hate wasting anything. So they thought they’d grab a fresh one for you. Kwon’s work with fresh cephalopod is something to behold, though I think Quinn likes hunting them down a little more than he ought to. Boys,” she said, her disdain for their bloodthirstyness obvious. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

  “You have… on board?” The ambassador looked at his aide, confused. “I thought this was a very small ship.”

  “Oh, it is. Only a bit more than seventy meters, but we are a little unusual. Happen to have a temporary tank full of things, as much for food as it is for education. Quinn thinks he wants to be a marine terraformer… aqua-former this week.” She shrugged dismissively. “But that’s something else. You aren’t here to listen to me talk about teaching youngsters when they are not standing watch…. So, what sort of powers do you have on negotiating treaties? The usual ‘lie and take something home to be ignored’ sort of approved hot air, or something more substantial?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss, as much as I wouldn’t mind sharing a long conversation with you in a more comfortable setting, I are not at liberty to discuss details of what I’m empowered to do with anyone but the principal negotiators for the other side.”

  “Ah, I see. So you haven’t been told about the three people you are talking to? Tajemnica is always here, of course, and the captain will be the third.”

  The Aide looked confused for a moment, but the Ambassador held up his hand to silence his imminent words. “Perhaps the briefing papers we were sent were incomplete or inaccurate. If you’d be so kind as to introduce yourself properly, miss, maybe we can clear things up a little.”

  “Allonia Kaminski, head of hospitality, and designated prohibited boogieman… or would that be boogie-woman? Anyway, I just want people to not be able to kill me on sight just because I exist.” She extended her hand, and they each shook it politely with a small formal bow, expressions not showing the surprise they felt at the firmness of her grip.

  “Delighted to meet you, Miss Kaminski. This is a little bit awkward… I assumed you were, are… Are you the same as the Allonia Strom we were to be speaking with? And why would anybody want to kill you?”

  Allonia regarded them carefully, then scratched her chin. “The Colonel was right.” The ambassador exchanged a knowing glance with Miles. “The left hand doesn’t tell the right hand what it’s doing.” She sighed lightly and smiled. “We’ll sort it all out, I’m sure. I’m not really the political type, too much lying for my tastes, but yes, I’m the same person. Got married and changed my name again. Your data is old. Strom is the Captain, and Taj is… Hey, can you give us an avatar, please?”

  On one of the screens an avatar showed up, looking like a well-dressed pirate, complete with eye patch, sword, and pistols. “I’d say welcome aboard, but ‘lectrical shorts, lawyers and lice are never really welcome. I be th’uther debatable personage, Taj to me friends, Armadillo to historical types, and death incarnate t’ me malefactors.”

  “Protocol dictates face to face meetings, not through video links, of course, and-”

  Allonia burst out laughing as the avatar morphs into a partially armored middle-aged woman with medium skin and a single brilliant green eye and severe tone. “Your briefing was rather too brief. You are inside me as we speak, much more intimate than any face to face meeting. I’m an artificial person, but not a humanoid robot, like the pleasure-bot or protocol droid with a little extra processing power you may have imagined. I am this ship, and this ship is me. The captain resides in meatspace like yourself, and will be along presently.”

  “I, ah, I see, I think. I may not have been fully informed of the nature of the principals.”

  “It’s more than likely you were not told because none of your superiors know or understand the situation.” Taj didn’t say anything about the intercept and modification of the ambassador's directives she and Helton had been involved with. “And here is Captain Strom, now.” Helton walked in neatly dressed, wearing a holstered sidearm and a pleasant smile. Introductions were quickly made and everyone took a seat at the table.

  “Now then,” Helton started off, “I think we best start by assuming your superiors have not empowered you to actually agree to anything, correct?” After some hemming and hawing, the Ambassador agreed that was the case. “Current law on most planets, and in interstellar space, is that this ship, because of its fully self-aware AI, is illegal, and may be destroyed on sight, anywhere, anytime, by any means available. Same for Allonia, here, because her DNA tags her as heavily genetically engineered. I’m wanted because I help them free people from oppressive governments. We want those laws to be changed, and just be left alone to help people who want to leave. Clear enough?”

  “But surely you cannot be serious! Fully self-aware AIs represent an existential threat to humanity, we can’t simply say they are acceptable. And highly engineered humans have already proved themselves to be a huge threat to stability and order, and have far too many unknowns to allow them to run around, unmonitored, breeding and corrupting the gene pool. Such a demand is absurd! And allowing anyone at all to emigrate at any time is obviously foolish, as every deadbeat debtor and criminal fleeing justice would hop the next flight!” The Ambassadors objections were delivered in the clear tones of someone absolutely convinced of his correctness, as if explaining the pull of gravity was down to an eight-year-old.

  “Ironic, isn’t it, that the very same AI that saved all humanity is considered an existential threat, he wants to eliminate the key to shutting down the rogue military moons, and his first official objection to emigration is the fear the least desirable members of their society might leave?”

  Helton smiled at Taj’s pointed summary. “But to be fair, they couldn’t know about meeting the Planet Movers.”

  “You WHAT?” exclaimed the Ambassador. “The brief mentioned you claimed to have found an artifact of some kind, not that you have ever met them!”

  “Yeah, well, there are a lot of things the politicians don’t know. They can be amazingly dense when their jobs depend on them not understanding basic facts. Like Allonia here is illegal under laws aimed at preventing psychotic super-soldiers from threatening the s
tatus quo.”

  “Her, a soldier? But that’s absurd!”

  “Gee, thanks,” came the sharply sarcastic reply.

  “I mean, this isn’t the normal sort of dispute that we deal with in the diplomatic service.”

  “Just another day in paradise for us. So, let’s get down to it, shall we? You can play ball, or we can keep getting all Space Viking on your ass, taking what we want and killing who we must. Not our preferred route, but it’s working pretty well for us so far. First-”

  Quinn walked in carefully balancing a tray piled with finger-food. With a very serious show of professionalism he placed on the table between the Ambassador and his aide. “Mr. Kwon says if they were any fresher you’d have to chase after them yourself. But if you ask me that’s the funnest part.”

  “Most fun, not funnest, Ishmael.” Taj’s schoolmarm avatar corrects. “He really is getting good with that little harpoon.”

  The aide looked at the avatar in confusion. “Who are you, and didn’t they say his name is Quinn?” The avatar morphed back and forth between the several variations commonly used, spreading arms palms up to indicate they were all one and the same.

  “They are getting cold, Sir,” Quinn prompted, taking one for himself. “Much better hot. Ship said it was either this or criminal holiday herring.”

  “Excuse me, holiday what?”

  “You know. Guilty fish and yom kippereds.” Munching his purloined snack while Allonia and Helton groaned, he hopped into a seat in the corner, tucking his knees up under his chin to watch things.