The Silver Liner: Takes Flight Original Copyright © 2015
Copyright © 2017 by Daniel Sullivan All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or transmitted by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, information storage and retrieval systems, recording, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Created and printed in the United States of America.
ISBN-10: 1530214343
ISBN-13: 978-1530214341
Edited by: Daniel Sullivan
Format and typesetting by C.L. Foster
Cover Art: CM Wright’s Author Services
Dedication
This work is dedicated to my family; my book-crazy parents, who fostered a love of reading in us when we were very young; my brother, a good friend and fellow author; Aunt Mary Dugan, who never showed up without bringing my brother and I books to read; and my two sons, Patrick and Connor, who have shared my love of reading and literature. Also to my friends, particularly the Rogues of our gaming group, all of whom encouraged me to move forward with writing and publishing this novel, and NaNoWriMo, and Wolf Paw Publications.
Also, and especially to my love, Lynda Mayfield, who has been an inspiration, a cheerleader, and a tireless beta reader on this work. Her support and encouragement cannot be overstated.
This work is also dedicated to the many authors who have inspired me over the years, particularly J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Bram Stoker, Mark Twain, Mercedes Lackey, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, all of whose works were given to me by friends and family, and to Katherine Kurtz, whose Deryni novels were the first that I bought and collected on my own, and which remain my favorite series to this day. To George Lucas, Gene Roddenberry, Steven Spielberg, Jerry Siegel & Joe Shuster, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Dolph Lundgren, Joss Whedon, Rockne S. O'Bannon, Jim Henson, and Casey Hudson & the team that wrote and produced Mass Effect, all of whose works have inspired me at the cinema and at home, and to Jesus, who has been my greatest inspiration.
Finally, I offer my thanks to you, the reader, who has taken the time to read this book.
Prologue
Her star plane, the Hunter One, sped on autopilot toward the cruiser up ahead. She had aborted the mission and at this point, did not know precisely why. A feeling had come over her that she should not complete the mission. Feeling was the only syntax that she could apply to what had happened, but certainly, feeling could not be what she had experienced. After all, she was an infiltration gynoid (female android) designation G-3/2110, designed for espionage and assassination.
G-Three continued to run queries to find possible solutions to the question, as well as to determine the most likely ramifications. There was a ninety-seven percent likelihood that her human users would experience anger. This was not her fault; if this was a function of her programming, then she could only assume that it had activated for a reason.
The star plane, a small spacecraft, barely larger than a fighter, docked with the much bigger cruiser, connecting with the boarding chute. She heard the firm snick of the air lock and the ship signaled her to board. She acknowledged and the roof of the star plane’s cockpit opened into the chute. Her seat’s electromagnet activated and the chair ascended the chute with her strapped neatly in place. The chair came to a stop and she removed her safety harness, stood and opened the door.
She entered the airlock and found that there was a welcoming party of sorts. Her commander, Admiral William Bruce was there, as well as her designer, Doctor Raymond Vignare, along with four security guards and another woman that she had not seen before. She scanned the female and determined that while the woman was visually indistinguishable from a human, it was, in reality, a highly sophisticated infiltration gynoid. She is prettier than I am, she thought. An odd thought for me to have; why would a gynoid notice such a thing?
“Hunter One, disengage from the boarding chute,” Admiral Bruce said calmly. She knew that her ship, the Hunter One, would now detach from the chute, though she was not sure why he was ordering this. It made no sense.
“Report, G-Three,” he barked at her.
“I acquired the target, but was unable to terminate the target,” she said calmly. As a gynoid, she did not give emotional responses unless it was part of the mission parameter.
“I demand to know why,” Bruce responded. He is certainly angry, she observed. His raised voice and facial expression was enough to convey his emotion, and her diagnostics detected that his heart rate had increased.
“I do not know, Sir. Another directive manifested in my programming that prevented me from terminating the target. It was unlike other directives, as I cannot trace its origins. In any case, I could not bring myself to terminate the target. It seemed to be … wrong.”
“Wrong?” Bruce’s voice rose.
“Yes, Sir, wrong,” she said. “I looked into the target’s eyes and I saw the fear in them. His family was in the next room. I heard children at play, a happy mother. I could find no mention in my databanks of any foul play or corruption on his part and certainly nothing to warrant execution. Thus, it was wrong. I concluded that my orders were flawed or based upon flawed intelligence. I could not kill him.”
“It worked too well,” Doctor Vignare stated flatly to the admiral.
“What worked too well?” The Admiral’s tone remained hostile, though now, she too was curious as to what Doctor Vignare was referring.
“Her brain,” explained Vignare. “Her brain is designed to not only mimic human behavior, but to assimilate it and to incorporate it into her personality index. But she seems to have become self-aware and has developed a conscience.”
I am … alive? She realized that this was an incredible occurrence. If she were human, she would say that it was a miracle.
“How?” Admiral Bruce glared at Vignare, who explained further.
“Remember, we used the Escort-7 gynoids as the basis of this experiment, as they are the most humanlike and are capable of seducing the target. This is not the first time this has happened; we terminate units that develop the trait.”
“What about the new model?” Bruce’s gaze drifted to the unidentified gynoid woman as he spoke.
“The new model is a clean sheet design, an improvement in every way. Their programming allows only for emotional duplication, with appropriate responses chosen based on circumstances. There is no emotional assimilation. Also, it is physically stronger and more powerful.”
She felt ... something she could not identify. Before, she would have referred to it as negative feedback, but this was different. It was not pleasant, though. She realized that she had just been replaced, made obsolete; and that realization caused this … feeling. She realized then, that it was sadness. A voice came over the intercom, interrupting her analysis.
“Admiral, we have incoming. Ship identified as an Alliance military craft.”
Bruce turned his head toward the unidentified gynoid and issued an order: “Erase her and jettison her from the craft.” He then responded to the voice on the intercom, which turned out to be the cruiser’s captain. “Captain, we are equipped to outrun them. We cannot be caught with her on board and she can have no data linking us or any of our associates to her.”
Faster than she could react, the unidentified gynoid drew an ion pistol and shot her, causing her to stiffen and spasm. The gynoid then lunged forward, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her head downwards. The gynoid tore away the synthetic flesh
cover at the back of her skull, exposing the data port beneath. She ‘felt’ the object penetrate the socket, connecting to her C.P.U. It began erasing data.
Oddly, her programming fought the effort, rearranging and moving data to protect it. This should not be happening; her programming was not equipped to do so. As her programming fought to protect her from erasure, she could not respond physically, the effects of the ion pistol still rendering her paralyzed. She heard the air lock door open and the woman pushed her inside. The doors closed and jettisoned her from the chute. The cold of space assailed her exposed flesh, setting off temperature alerts.
She saw the cruiser take off, the Alliance craft in pursuit. The effects of the ion blast began to wear off and she attempted to remove the object from her head. She knew what it was and anticipated the result: it sent an electric jolt through her core, damaging circuitry as soon as she struggled. When she stopped trying to remove it, the shock stopped; its goal was to erase her memory. She struggled to prevent erasure, though she feared that it was too late.
As the object permanently erased her data, mostly mission details, she desperately tried to, at least, maintain her independent data. A new ‘feeling’ manifested: Fear, she thought. I feel fear. This must be investigated further. The object was an R.E.P., a rapid erasure probe, designed specifically to quickly erase the databanks of androids such as herself.
Of course, the only people who used it were agencies that used androids. The virus that the R.E.P. had given her was damaging her programming. It was all she could do to retain her data. She activated her failsafe, sending the data to a secondary bank and purposely burning out the connection. Her motor functions ceased. She could no longer command her body and blacked out as her C.P.U. shut down to protect what was left of her core programming and circuitry.
With her personal data now sequestered away, her defenses launched one last counter, activating a beacon and wiping her C.P.U. As she drifted off, she realized that she was falling into unconsciousness. What a human thing to do, she thought. Her last thought was that she would likely drift in space indefinitely. I do not even have a name, she thought. Only a number. This saddened her. Then, her world blacked out and the coldness of space embraced her.
1
Captain Kendrick Royce unloaded the last of the cargo from his ship; fifty crates of beer and ale for O’Malley’s Pub, after the two hundred crates of supplies for the station. A crooked smile crossed his face as he unloaded the beer, knowing that O’Malley’s was where he planned to spend his evening. For once, he could actually enjoy the product he delivered. The Orbital Space Port had a contract with him for impromptu deliveries of personnel and equipment. It was a nice arrangement.
The Orbital Space Port, or O.S.P., as most called it, was a structure that still intrigued him. Its public areas resembled a long city street, and its spin duplicated Earth’s gravity perfectly, better than any other station. The pub was the only place on the Orbital Space Port that Kendrick could stand to frequent, however. The rest of the establishments were simply too sectarian for his taste. At the pub, all anyone cared was that the band kept playing, the beer kept flowing and the food kept coming. The pub was frequented by the people that did actual work; service technicians, warehouse personnel, mechanics, pilots and dock workers. In other words, real people.
“Here you go, Captain,” said Jillian Rafferty with a smile. Jillian was the O.S.P. shipping & receiving clerk for Dock 46, which was the dock that serviced O’Malley’s. Jillian was maybe one-point-sixty-seven meters tall and was a bit more than pleasantly plump, keeping her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back under her hat. She was always on hand when Kendrick delivered and she always greeted him with a broad smile.
“If you ever need a hand drinking some of that, I’ve got some vacation time coming.” She also had a flirtatious comment every time he delivered.
He smiled back and nodded. “You’d need more than a month’s vacation, Jillian, but the company would be nice.”
“When you put it that way,” she said, shaking her head. “I only get about three weeks.”
“If you ever get more, let me know.”
“I will,” she promised, waving over her team to haul away the cargo.
Kendrick always responded the same way to her offer. So far, it had been enough to make her reconsider. One day, she might actually take me up on it, he thought. The idea was appealing, but he knew that he was not ready to get romantically involved again. It had been five years since his wife passed away, but Kendrick still could not bring himself to start dating again, even casually. He still missed her very dearly. Selene. No woman he had met, or ever would meet could ever replace her. He had tried that once; never again. Though he had indulged in the occasional dalliance here and there, he was not what one could call promiscuous.
Missing his wife and his popularity with women was a bad combination; the captain seemed to receive offers whenever he was in port, but was often unable to accept them; which further reminded him of how much he missed her. Kendrick was one-point-eighty-three meters tall; an even six feet, well-built and possessed a handsome face. Prominent cheekbones and deep-set blue eyes always seemed to have an effect on women. He wore his dark hair in a pompadour style, something that looked very good on him and really stood out. As a professional musician, he knew how to carry himself. For Jillian, it was a perfect package. Only his long stints on the road and Jillian’s inflexible schedule allowed Kendrick’s ‘vacation time’ put-off to work.
With the last of the beer carted away and the refueling of his ship in progress, he had some time. His destination was O’Malley’s Pub. Before he left, his spontaneity struck and he asked her, “Join me for drinks at O’Malley’s?”
“Come on, Kendrick; you know I can’t do that while I’m working.”
He chuckled and nodded. “Just thought I’d ask.” He was relieved, though he was also a little let down; Kendrick was genuinely lonely tonight and would not have minded giving in, though he was sure that Jillian wanted something a bit more … permanent.
“You take care of yourself, Captain,” she said, her voice shifting from levity and flirtatiousness to genuine concern. “I wanna see you back here the next time.”
“Oh, you can count on it, Jill.” He gave her a quick hug and kissed her on the cheek, then exited to go to O’Malley’s before Jillian changed her mind.
The walk through the station was always therapeutic for him. The sights, the sounds and the people were a welcome change from the days, and often weeks, of being alone on his ship. He knew that some people had actually made their homes aboard the great station, mostly regular people; workers and such. For them, the trip to the O.S.P. was a one-way trip. Incentives to bring people to the O.S.P. to work abounded, but few could afford the fare for a trip back to Earth or to the Martian Colonies. Those who found themselves down and out had formed an underclass, unable to find work and unable to leave. It brought the clutter and desperation of the cities to the O.S.P. In a weird way, however, it made the place seem more real.
Arriving at the pub, Kendrick found that it was getting lively. It was happy hour, so there was a good-sized crowd and music was playing over the din. Then, he saw two Zduhać enter the pub ahead of him. Just plucky, the captain thought. Zduhać were humans genetically engineered for Roscosmos, the Russian space program, to survive the rigors of space travel more effectively. Altered to such an extent that they had been classified a separate species, Zduhać made most people nervous, and with good reason. Two-meter tall super soldiers with milk white skin and platinum blond hair, and an average IQ of one-fifty, they were fittingly named for supernatural men from Slavic mythology. The pub will be interesting tonight, he thought.
Steeling himself for the inevitable, Kendrick entered the pub. He smiled his crooked smile to no one in particular, a few of the waitresses smiling back at him and more than one female patron admiring him as he passed. He heard the music more clearly as he stepped inside. The music was rowdy and
fast paced, and appropriately Irish. Normally, he preferred rock and roll, but in a pub called O’Malley’s, Irish music was the only acceptable choice. Shoulda brung my guitar, he thought as he strode to the bar. It was Kendrick’s scene, and he felt at ease. He had a feeling that this would be his last chance to enjoy a pub for a while, though he could not put his finger on why, as it was just a feeling. He had learned to trust his instincts and feelings long ago, so feeling or no, he decided to enjoy the evening no matter what came his way.
In addition to the Zduhać, he saw a group of obvious Alliance agents at one table. They took immediate notice of him as he entered. He rolled his eyes; he really disliked the Alliance. The United Planetary Alliance, colloquially known as the Alliance, was essentially the United Nations of the solar system. Not everyone had bought into it and the Corporate-centric United States government frequently tested Alliance authority, but the Alliance essentially ran the solar system. Unfortunately, they tended to meddle in the affairs of individuals like himself far too frequently. Thankfully, his lifestyle and profession kept him in space for long periods, making it difficult to track him down. Though often lonely, it was one of the reasons he had chosen the life of a space trucking troubadour in the first place.
As he made his way to the bar, he found himself drawn to a patron who looked very out of place. Seated at the bar was a slender woman wearing a ladies’ straw boater hat, from which long blonde hair shot through with gray cascaded past her waist and partway below the bar stool. Long hair had always been a bit of a weakness for him, even though he had married a girl whose hair went no further than the middle of her neck. The woman was talking to the bartender, Casey. As Casey and Kendrick went back a ways, he thought it might be a good opportunity to insert himself into the conversation. Hope she don’t mind, he thought as he swaggered toward the bar.
The Silver Liner: Takes Flight! Page 1
