Dunn grinned. “I told you it was going to be difficult.”
“The Mira, sir? That has to be a mistake.”
“No, James. It’s not,” Dunn said. “She’s back. And she’s tumbling toward some rather dangerous parts of the belt. One of the AIs suggests Mira could be on a collision course with Pluto or Charon, if, of course, it doesn’t get shattered by all the rock and ice out there first.”
“Does she have power, sir?” Cartwright asked.
“Good question, Gunny,” Dunn said. “According to the Pluto observations, Mira’s engines appear dead. There aren’t any lights on the ship’s exterior, so it’s impossible to tell what kind of shape she’s in.”
“Communications?” Taulbee asked.
“Unresponsive,” Dunn said. “She’s not acknowledging hails and apart from the distress beacon, there are no other transmissions.” He scrolled through the text and brought up another visual. The pixelated shape they’d seen before returned. This time, however, a red blob of barely discernible fuzz colored one end. “But look at this.”
Taulbee checked the legend at the bottom. “Radiation plume, sir?”
“Perhaps,” Dunn said. “The AIs have several possible explanations. Reactor leak, radioactive contaminants from a collision with an exo-object, and a host of other bizarre theories.”
Cartwright grunted. “So much for superior intelligence.”
“But they’re sure it’s the Mira, sir?”
“Yes, they are.” Dunn collapsed the display and turned. The two men stepped away to give the Captain room and put their hands behind their backs. Dunn looked at each of them. “SF Gov wants us to retrieve the Mira and bring her back to Trident.”
“Sir,” Cartwright said, “we have no proof of survivors or that there’s much left of her.”
“Correct, Gunny.”
“What’s your point?” Taulbee asked.
“Just thinking, sir, that we should take a full complement of weapons and supplies. We’ve no idea what we’re walking into.”
Dunn grinned. “You see, Gunny? That’s why I keep you around.”
Cartwright smiled, but only for a second. “My pleasure, sir.”
The Captain turned his gaze to Taulbee. “James? You know what to do?”
“Aye, sir. Work with Gunny to get the troops ready. Make sure Logistics stuffs us to the gills, and study like a madman.”
“Correct,” Dunn said. “But there’s a catch.”
“What’s that, sir?” Taulbee asked.
Dunn put his hands on his hips. “The Colonel has made it very clear that no word of this find or our mission gets out there. As far as Logistics knows, we’re going on a training mission. And that goes for the team too.”
“Why all the secrecy, sir?” Taulbee asked.
Dunn considered the question for a moment, his eyes focusing on the ship behind them. “This is conjecture and not to be repeated ever again. Understood?” The two subordinates nodded. Dunn glanced at each man in turn. “Seventy years ago, the Mira Project was the biggest news of the Federation. It was a bright hope that humankind would finally explore the deep depths in person. An entire generation sent nano-probes to the far reaches, receiving data streams that told us a vast wealth of resources lay beyond Sol. The ones we needed to keep from killing each other. Another generation worked on creating the Mira and the technology necessary for its success. When it launched, all of humankind celebrated.”
Cartwright nodded but said nothing. Taulbee remembered the history holos of Mira leaving Neptune for the deep Kuiper Belt before it engaged its ion thrusters, and slowly rocketed away from the solar system. Every day, new holos of the ship’s journey appeared until the crew finally went into stasis for the long journey to Proxima Centauri b. After that, the reports dwindled. The AI didn’t have anything to show apart from the grav couches with the crew in suspended animation and the occasional object flying through space.
“And then it disappeared,” Taulbee said.
“Right.” The Captain said. “And once it did, the resource grab only increased in ferocity. There are still entire swaths of humanity that believe Mira will return with the answer to all our questions. Hell, some of them built a religion around it. But if we let the rest of Sol Federation know that it’s back, it could possibly usher us into another war.”
Taulbee considered that for a moment. “Because it’s the last gasp of hope we had.” The Captain said nothing. “Fair enough, sir. Gunny and I will say nothing. I’ll make sure we encode all the briefing material for our eyes only. I’ll create a training mission scenario for the squads to study.”
“Good thinking,” Dunn said.
“Sir,” Gunny said, “what if they’re all dead? What if she’s just a burned-out hulk?”
“Our orders are to tow her back, regardless. Anything else is the SF Gov’s problem.”
“Aye, sir.”
Dunn smiled. “Come on, guys. This will be fun.”
“Better than getting shot at,” Taulbee said.
“That’s the spirit. Now, get to work. I’ve already sent block commands to you. They’ll authorize you to study the intel we have and any new information we receive from Pluto. It’ll take us ten days to reach Mira. Once we’re in the outer belt, we can come clean with the team. Dismissed.”
Cartwright and Taulbee saluted their Captain, turned on their heels, and headed out of the hangar. Once they reached the precipice, Taulbee regarded S&R Black. “We were bored, Gunny. Guess we’re not going to be bored for a while.”
“Praise Yahweh, Allah, Vishnu, and Christ for that, sir,” Cartwright said. “Too much leisure time is bad for the soul.” They passed a group of marines running through the halls, their drill sergeant screaming at them to hurry the fuck up. Cartwright smiled.
“What are you grinning about, Gunny?”
“Old days, sir. Old days. Doesn’t seem like it was that long ago. Does it?”
Taulbee couldn’t help but chuckle. Gunny Cartwright had fought alongside both he and Captain Dunn on Mars at the battle of Schiaparelli and during the satellite battle. All three of them shared scars from the two incidents. Taulbee was pretty sure all three of them shared nightmares from them as well.
“No, Gunny. It doesn’t seem like yesterday to me. Seems like a thousand years ago.”
The grin faded. Cartwright’s lips slowly melted back into an expressionless line. “Aye, sir. I guess it does.”
For a moment, they walked in silence, the hum of the grav-plates their sole companion. SFMC Trident Station at Neptune Ship Yards wasn’t the most populated base in Sol space, but it was the largest. It had room for the entire Marine Corps should it be necessary. But it always felt empty, soulless. New Paris Island on Mars was still home to the SF Marine Corps. You couldn’t throw a pebble without hitting someone at that base. The mess hall was so loud you could barely hear yourself think. But here, at Trident, you were lucky if two companies ate together in the vast expanse of the common areas.
“Sir?” Cartwright asked.
“Yes, Gunny?”
“How do you want to handle the troops?”
“Like mushrooms,” Taulbee said. “In the dark and full of shit.”
“Aye, sir. Was hoping you’d say that.”
Chapter Five
Two days. He had two goddamned days to prep a ship that hadn’t seen real action in over four months. Four months of sitting in dry-dock without serious maintenance. He was ready to kill Logistics for what they’d done to his baby.
Bad enough they hadn’t allowed him to run his own diagnostic and maintenance routines, but then they’d fucked up everything he had so carefully put together on the ship. “Upgraded” his AI and reset his protocol instructions? All because some asshole at a desk decided modernity beat out tried and tested methodologies? Fucking. Bullshit.
Nobel growled at the holo. Gunny and Taulbee were gone leaving him alone. The Captain had already told him they were heading to the Kuiper Belt, but not why. An
d when were they heading there? In two days. TWO DAYS!
The words continued rattling around his skull. It was a mantra, something for him to focus his anger on. That mantra would also keep him from pulling a vibro-blade and shivving the asshole running the hangar.
He glared at the display after he saw the onboard computer CPUs were near 70% of available utilization. What have you morons done now? Nobel was about to call down to the Naval engineers to ask them just what the fuck they thought they were doing when he noticed a connection had been made to the hangar AI.
“Portunes?” he said to the holo-display.
“Yes, Lieutenant?” a male falsetto said through the holo console’s speakers.
“What the hell are you doing to my ship?”
The voice was silent for a moment. “Attempting to undo part of what they did.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And how are you going to do that, exactly?”
When the AI spoke again, the voice contained the barest hint of smugness. “I am merging the updated blocks with backups from your stash. I will then run stress tests to ensure there are no incompatibilities. If there are, may I alert you to them so you can help advise me?”
The tide of rage that had threatened to spill over subsided. “Who gave you permission to do that?”
“Captain Dunn, of course.”
He blinked at the holo. “When did he tell you to do that?”
“About the time you started cursing about monkeys with code blocks,” the AI said matter-of-factly.
Nobel couldn’t help but grin. He wanted to look over his shoulder at Dunn, but he didn’t dare interrupt the Captain while he was mission planning. Which brought up another question—why the hell was he out here in the hangar when he’d have privacy in his office?
“I’ll have to thank him for that. And thank you, Portunes.”
“My pleasure,” the AI said. “Sometimes human beings have bad ideas that sound like good ones,” it said. “And sometimes AIs have good ideas that sound like bad ones.”
“Whose idea was it to completely fuck up my ship?”
“The Colonel’s,” Portunes said. “Although in his defense, the order for new blocks was made higher up the chain of command. I’m afraid I can’t reveal more than that.”
Funny. Even AIs had to cover their asses. “Understood. And thank you again.”
“I have reserved enough computing power to focus specifically on preparing Black for your mission, Lieutenant. I will be monitoring every facet of her for as long as I can, but once you leave Neptune space, I won’t be able to assist.”
“I know,” Nobel said. “And that sucks.”
“Black will be able to help you,” it said. “Although it’s inferior to me, the last upgrades did increase the system’s overall intelligence.”
Nobel shook his head. He tried to respond to the statement, but could only laugh instead. “Portunes,” he said as soon as he stopped, “you are one of a kind.”
The AI paused for a moment before speaking. “I’m sorry. Did I say something amusing and not realize it?”
“Forget it,” Nobel managed to say without breaking into another gale of laughter. “Did they give Black some new datasets to mull over?”
“You’ll have to ask Black about that. Once you finish your stat checks against what the ‘monkeys with code blocks’ have done, you should have a chat with Black. You might be impressed. I’m not, but you might be.”
Nobel rolled his eyes. Portunes was the most sarcastic AI he’d ever come across, but that didn’t mean it was an exception. When he had significant downtime, as he’d had lately, he spent time on the holo boards with other engineers, comparing notes about new starship technology, as well as engaging with the rumor mill in the developmental AIs.
The overall state of the tech was moving in a different direction from quantum computing. The next hurdle was one humanity had attempted before, but failed to bring to fruition—wet-wired AIs. Creating them meant actually building a facsimile of a human brain. There had been successes hundreds of years ago, but the technology was abandoned after experiencing significant issues with tissue decay. While the AIs lived only a short time, they demonstrated superior analytical skills. AI rights groups finally managed to scuttle the research altogether using a combination of religious arguments and human rights protests.
But the tech was back with a vengeance. Four new companies were working as fast as they could to bring about a new generation. Rumor held that the next great starships sent into deep space, should that ever happen, would use wet-wired AIs. Nobel didn’t have any opinion on the subject, but the forums buzzed with pro and counter arguments to artificial life servitude. Nobel didn’t give a shit so long as the AIs didn’t go crazy and decide to play god with their human charges.
“Somehow,” Nobel said as he quickly scanned another diagnostic, “I doubt you’ll ever be impressed with another AI.”
Portunes was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice dripped with remorse. “My apologies, Lieutenant Nobel. I didn’t mean to sound arrogant. I was simply stating the obvious.”
“Obviously,” Nobel said dryly.
“Black has one-thirtieth of my computing power and a personality profile that is much older. She is adequate for your missions, for helping you maintain the ship, as well as Lieutenant Oakes in piloting her. But surely you realize the difference in complexity between one of the three sentient AIs on this station and a barely sentient personality of a craft such as yours.” Portunes took the space of a breath before resuming. “That is simple arithmetic, sir.”
Nobel smiled at the screen. He knew Portunes was monitoring his heart-rate, studying every expression of his face, the way his eyes moved, everything to determine whether or not he was about to lie. “I understand, Portunes. Your logic is as impeccable as always.” He tapped a holo icon and the display changed to a series of views of the engine bay. Several jumpsuit-wearing Ship Yard nerds knelt at open panels, their instruments connecting to different ship components. “However, if you did not intend to sound arrogant, I suggest you analyze some holos and listen to the speech patterns.”
“Hmm,” the falsetto buzzed. “I will take that advice, Lieutenant.”
“Good.” He stepped back from the image, his eyes quickly flicking from one view to the other. “What are those squiddies doing?”
Portunes waited a beat before replying. “I told them to run manual panel checks and not trust Black. Until I finish my diagnostic runs on her sensors and the merged code, I don’t want to run the risk of her getting an incorrect report.”
“Well,” he said, “what is my job again?”
“Sir?” Portunes said. It thought for a moment. “I believe your job is to study Kuiper Belt stresses with me and to advise on anomalies I find in the ship’s systems.”
Nobel held up a finger. “Right. Now, let’s talk about Kuiper.”
Chapter Six
The hangar was his favorite place in the shipyards. It wasn’t his office. It wasn’t the mess or rec areas. Hell, it wasn’t even the domes where he practiced z-g combat against holo targets in the silence of a vacuum. It was here with the smell of Atmo-steel alternately cooling and heating, the scent of oil and nano-circuitry, underlying seven decades of sweat, blood, and effort. The hangar always felt alive and purposeful, even when deserted.
It wasn’t ever deserted, of course. Portunes watched over every ship, every nook and cranny, and every human being that walked into the bays. Portunes was a deity that saw all and knew all, and, unlike any of the gods, had no problem with answering questions. The AI made a comfortable companion when there were no others to be found.
With Lieutenant Nobel talking with Portunes at the front of the deck, Dunn was free to use a secure holo-display to study and analyze. Portunes, a personality powered by hundreds of miles of wiring and millions of nano-processors, had enough computing power to handle conversations with the entire shipyard at the same time. The scary part was that he wasn’
t the most powerful of the three AIs that inhabited Trident Station. He was, in fact, the least powerful.
Once Taulbee and Cartwright left the hangar, Dunn established a secure link between his implant block and Portunes. The connection was a little more awkward than speaking via voice to the AI, but it was nearly impossible to snoop on. The block picked up his thoughts and transmitted them to Portunes, just as it picked up basic commands and forwarded them to holo displays. The problem wasn’t Portunes—it was him.
Thoughts are amorphous, incomplete, and pile atop one another into mounds of jumbled images, remembered sounds, and sensations. Thoughts had no concrete meaning, especially if a person was confused or not concentrating. That meant a secure block to AI interface required focus. Dunn had spent years perfecting the merest facsimile of efficiency through the interface, and he still felt like a toddler trying to perform calculus.
Tomorrow morning, he’d be briefing the team with whatever madness Taulbee and Cartwright dreamed up. Not that it mattered. Details for training missions were often held back in order to more closely resemble real missions where intel was sparse or non-existent. In Dunn’s experience, intel was always wrong, at least in some crucial detail. The trick was to absorb what you could, treat it all as possible bullshit, and figure out the different directions you could go based on certain reasonable assumptions. Years spent in combat, hazardous rescue operations, and working in an environment where a simple suit tear could kill you had taught him to trust nothing, but consider everything. In other words, Dunn went with his gut.
Colonel Heyes had looked gleeful as he explained the barest of the mission parameters. The moment he’d asked the Colonel when his team would be departing for the Kuiper Belt, Heyes’ smile looked like a predator’s.
“Eric,” Heyes had said, his hands once again tented in front of him on the ancient wood desk, “do you have any idea what the Mira means? To SF Gov?” Dunn had said nothing, feeling as though Heyes wasn’t done. He had been right. “Do you know what it means to me?”
Derelict: Marines (Derelict Saga Book 1) Page 4
