“Only relays and very small payloads. It’s a small artificial wormhole. Rather like an old nautical speaking tube, in a way.”
“Sorry, I’m being ungrateful. It’s an astonishing feat of engineering and we’re grateful for it.” What did she really want to ask? Doesn’t matter. “I imagine someone’s waiting to talk to us, then.”
“Yes, Alex Gorko, the Nomad mission manager. He’s going to bring you up to speed. It might be easier to wait until everyone’s revived so that they all hear the same details and you don’t have to worry about arranging cascade briefings.”
That sounded sensible to Ingram, but it also sounded like she was being stalled — and bypassed.
I brief my own crew, thanks.
“How about Mr Gorko briefs me and my senior officers, and we record the briefing to show the rest of the ship’s company?” she said. “That’s more manageable. We have the opportunity to ask questions, and the crew have the chance to digest information and come back to me with any queries. And there are bound to be a lot.”
“Certainly,” Solomon said. “I’d brief you myself, but he insists it’s his task. We’ll be able to discuss more in person when you land.”
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”
“I have a physical presence on Opis.”
Ingram didn’t get that at all. “How?”
“My apologies, Captain. I’m an AI.”
“Oh.” He didn’t sound like an AI at all, except perhaps for that measured, smooth voice. She realised there were none of the clicks, breaths, and hesitations of human conversation. It was like listening to a very polished actor.
“But you’re not the one we embarked with.”
“No, the ship’s AI is very different. I’m a fully autonomous moral AI. I was designed to oversee the mission, not to be an interface for the ship’s systems. I’m a one-off.”
Oversee was an odd term to use. Ingram had left a world with extensive restrictions on autonomous AIs. The smarter they got, the more often they seemed to do what humans didn’t want. They crashed economies and sometimes they even killed people, and it wasn’t always an identifiable malfunction. They had to have an off switch.
She picked her words carefully. “Do you have control of this ship, Solomon?”
“If necessary, Captain, yes.”
“If there’s a malfunction, can I override you?”
“If you’re asking if you have a way of switching me off, then no, you don’t. Mr Bednarz didn’t want anyone sabotaging Nomad by compromising me.”
Terrific. Just bloody terrific. “You’re not legal, then.”
“I’m afraid not, Captain. But you have nothing to fear. I’ve been part of Nomad for a hundred years. My purpose is to ensure it succeeds, and that means the well-being of you and your crew is my priority.”
“Since the beginning?” Nobody had ever told Ingram about Solomon. She wasn’t sure how to take that. “It would have been nice to know.”
“I can only apologise.” Solomon seemed to change gear. “When you land, I’d be delighted to show you around the area personally. I can transfer myself to any suitable host device, so I’ve been exploring using a quadrubot platform.”
So he set foot on Opis first. But that’s okay.
And it’s not what I should be worrying about right now.
“So we can shake hands,” Ingram said. “On Opis. In Nomad camp.”
“Indeed.”
“Good.” She still half-expected to be told that this was some training simulation, they weren’t years from home at all, and that the real mission was still ahead of them. “I think an instant link to Earth will boost morale enormously.”
“I’m glad. You know what they say — an efficient ship is a happy one, and if her crew’s not happy then they won’t be efficient. Wise words.”
“How do I communicate with you in the future?”
“Just call me by name as if I’m in the same room. I’ll detect it and transfer active attention to you. In the meantime, I’m monitoring all your systems, so you needn’t worry about the ship. And I’ve sent you the latest video tours of the habitat, so you can familiarise yourself with the layout. It’s changed a little since you saw the plans.”
“Thank you, Solomon. We’ll talk later.” Yes, Ingram could see how much of a one-off he was now. “Cabot out.”
She sat back in the chair and stared at the screen with her arms folded. Damn, now she remembered the question she should have asked: why had they been revived early? But it was academic now. She made her way back to the wardroom, replaying the conversation.
Haine raised an eyebrow. “Good news, was it? Won the lottery twenty years ago and can’t claim now?”
Ingram poured another coffee and stirred in the creamer. She’d keep this one down if it killed her. “Actually, I’ve been talking to Ainatio HQ. In real time, as in live. As in technology’s moved on a lot since we left, and they’ve established a superluminal relay. So we can talk to them like they’re on the radio.”
“Holy shit,” Searle said. “That changes everything.”
“Doesn’t it.”
“Does that mean ships with superluminal drives? Are we going to get there and find we’re the last to the party?”
“I did ask, and no, they can only manage small payloads.”
“Never mind, it still bodes well for the future.”
Everyone was suddenly in a celebratory mood. The more Ingram thought about it, the better it got. She was probably worrying too much about rogue AIs with no off switch.
“I was actually talking to an AI,” she said. “His name’s Solomon. I’ve never come across one like him. He runs the mission and he’s got access to the ship’s diagnostics. So we didn’t really need to bring you along, Searle.”
“But I’ve got the toolkit and fingers, and he hasn’t, ma’am.”
“Apparently he can do that, too. He uploads himself to devices like bots.”
“Why does that not reassure me?”
“Ah, yes. He hasn’t got an override. And he’s been on the mission for a century. And we weren’t told. But apart from that, everything’s fine. And we’re going to get a briefing from an actual human being, the mission manager. So have your questions ready.”
They sat discussing how instant comms would change the mission. Having AIs that could physically transfer to the Nomad site and provide engineering support would be a massive boost. They wouldn’t have to worry about winging it if something really serious went wrong.
As long as nothing goes wrong with Solomon, of course.
“Kind of takes the pioneering edge off it, though, ma’am,” Bissey said.
“Too easy for you, Peter?”
“Less exciting.”
“More survivable.” Ingram wondered if she’d understood Solomon correctly when he said he could be summoned just by calling him. It sounded a little supernatural. On second thoughts, it sounded like eavesdropping. “I suppose we’ll be getting media interest in a few weeks, then. Live interviews beat history any day.”
“You’d think they’d give us a news feed and a web portal, wouldn’t you?” Searle said. “That’s a briefing in itself. We could save the guy the trouble.”
Ingram realised there were even more questions she should have asked Solomon. She could understand Ainatio wanting to control what the crew said publicly, but that didn’t explain why the company hadn’t given them an outgoing connection to something harmless like a TV channel. Or maybe they had. She hadn’t tried yet.
“Let me check,” she said.
She tried the wardroom terminal. There was the link to Ainatio that she’d just used, but nothing else. For a moment she thought that was just a symptom of a ship built when there was no chance of receiving streamed services in any practical time frame, but then the obvious smacked her around
the head again. Ainatio was able to transmit a feed from Solomon. If they could do that, they could have added any other access they wanted.
“Okay, it looks like they don’t want us to know what’s happening at home,” she said. “And yes, I do realise how paranoid that sounds.”
“What’s the first thing you do if you haven’t been in touch with home for a long time?” Haine asked. “You check on your family and friends. Perhaps that’s what they don’t want.”
“The only reason we’re here is that we’re single status. That was a condition of selection.”
“Nobody’s that disconnected from society,” Bissey said. “Most of us have distant relatives. Then there are people we served with. Not everyone’s going to be dead. But maybe some crew members have been bereaved in the meantime and the company doesn’t want them to find out online.”
“Simple solution. I’ll just ask.” Ingram decided to try summoning the AI. “Solomon, this is Captain Ingram. Can I talk to you, please?”
There was a brief pause before his voice emerged from the ship’s broadcast system. “Yes, Captain. What can I do for you?”
“Is there a reason we don’t have a newsfeed or a net connection? We could catch up on events and not waste the mission manager’s time asking about non-mission topics.”
“Yes, there is a reason,” Solomon said. “Mr Gorko’s insistent that he briefs you personally. He’s asked me not to. This is also why you don’t have news access. He wants to do it himself because of the complex nature of the information.”
“You mean complex like who won the World Cup for the last nine or ten tournaments?”
“I’m sure that’s an emotionally-charged topic for many crew members, but I gave Mr Gorko my word that I wouldn’t pre-empt his briefing.” Solomon seemed to have no trouble understanding sarcasm. “I won’t lie to you, either. But I’ve been asked to leave it to him.”
“I understand. You can’t disobey an order.”
“Oh, I can disobey.” Was that indignation? “But I don’t break my word. I have to work with him. Trust is a fragile thing, and while I have a great many abilities, being able to leave Ainatio and find another meaningful existence isn’t one of them right now. I will, of course, answer all your questions fully once you’ve spoken with him. That I can promise you.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to Gorko.” Solomon was becoming more one-off with every answer. “Cabot out.”
She turned. Searle was watching, eyebrows raised.
“That’s an AI? Wow. I’d love to see those algorithms. I didn’t think that level of autonomy was possible, to be honest. Or legal.”
“It isn’t, but there’s a lot of things that aren’t legal and still get done. Like this ship being armed.” Ingram reheated her lukewarm coffee, trying to work out what Solomon was actually telling her. He certainly wasn’t literal. If anything, he was almost political, picking his words with careful precision. “But whatever Alex bloody Gorko doesn’t want us to know before he speaks to us doesn’t sound like good news.”
She finally managed a few mouthfuls of coffee without feeling sick. And then she thought again about how she’d summoned Solomon out of thin air, just a few words picked up by the ship’s audio monitoring system, and that she was relying on him to only pay attention to the conversations when his name was mentioned. Her stomach churned again.
Something had happened on Earth that was serious enough to keep from Ingram and her crew. The ease of FTL comms now made her feel like Ainatio was rubbing it in, almost making a point that they could have told her everything but chose not to. She’d make sure Alex Gorko was fully aware of her displeasure.
Forty light years away, though. Not much we can do about it now except roll with the punches.
Gorko was probably thinking the same thing.
08
But I’m not here to save humanity. What does that even mean? Any dipshit can say they care about humanity. It’s a few easy words they don’t understand and never have to prove. I’m just here to protect the folks I know and care about. People who talk about ideals always lose to guys with someone to fight for.
Chris Montello, passing the time with Solomon
Infirmary, Ainatio Park Research Centre :
five Days After the Kingston Ambush
I don’t need crutches.
I don’t need crutches.
I don’t need crutches.
Chris let go of the parallel handrails and put his weight on his shattered leg. It still hurt like a bitch, but he held his breath and took a step forward, determined not to give the doctors an excuse for keeping him in here any longer. Then he took two more. He was still standing.
“Yeah. This is impressive.” It was pointless putting on a brave face. The two doctors and the physio were the only people around. “So no more surgery, then. I can go home and just do a few exercises every day?”
Mendoza watched his movements, looking pleased. “Yes, but knowing the facilities you’ve got at the camp, I’d rather you hung around for a few days. Then come back for check-ups.”
“How long before I feel normal? I know it’s repaired, but I don’t want to be out of my skull on painkillers.”
“Given your age and fitness, maybe a month. What have you got to rush back to work for?”
“People depend on me. And we’re one man down now. Maybe I’d have made a faster recovery with an amputation.”
“I knew you’d be this type of patient.”
“Pushing ourselves to the limit is how we all survived.” That came out all wrong. Chris didn’t care if Mendoza liked him, but he did care if the doc thought he was an ungrateful scrounger who took the free treatment for granted. “I really appreciate all you’ve done for me. Now tell me what I can do to compensate you for this.”
“On the house. We got lots of useful data. And experience. We don’t see gunshot wounds here, let alone complex ones.”
“Lab rat, huh?”
“If I could persuade you to come back regularly, we’d get even more useful data.”
“So you’re still doing medical research here.”
“We developed what you’ve just been treated with. Among other things.”
Chris was starting to feel caged even with visits from Jared and the others, but he also felt obligated. And one thing had never gone away, not even after all the turmoil and trauma of the last week: he still wanted to know what was going on inside Ainatio. He needed to know what Dr Kim’s deal was, and the significance of Pascoe’s Star. He was also curious about the facility itself, because things weren’t adding up.
“Okay,” he said. “I will.”
“Daily, until you stabilise?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Besides, Solomon enjoys a chat.”
Chris didn’t think the AI was short of human company or things to do, and he wasn’t aware that they’d spent that much time talking. But Solomon did seem to take a shine to some people. “Yeah. He’ll keep an eye on me.”
Chris decided honour would be satisfied if he stayed two more days and humoured Mendoza about the check-ups. This whole thing was just a temporary inconvenience. He’d be fine in four weeks, but what he’d done — or hadn’t done — had changed the world for everyone around him. He’d fucked up twice, all for a half-assed mission they wouldn’t have needed to undertake if he’d just asked Trinder for help, or even accepted what was offered. And he shouldn’t have retraced the route to leave Kingston. Jamie had paid the price. Erin and the others would go on paying it.
No, he had no right to ask when he’d be back to normal, none at all. He deserved this frigging pain for the rest of his life.
He walked down the corridor with some assistance from the wall, picked up the forearm crutches from his room, and went for a long walk around the passages. He couldn’t get lost. Solomon would always know where he
was and would respond instantly. That had felt creepy at first, but now it was kind of reassuring.
So where was everybody?
Chris didn’t expect corridors full of casualties on trolleys and a chaotic ER like the last hospital he’d walked into, a nightmare he’d never forgotten. The Ainatio site was safe. There was no traffic, no epidemics, and no roaming gangs. But he’d thought there’d be enough folks in here who’d need routine care for activity to be visible. He carried on, expecting to see people around the next corner, and the next, but he was still on his own.
At every corridor intersection, he walked over slightly raised transverse strips about a foot wide that extended up the walls on both sides and across the ceiling. They didn’t look like the bot orientation strips set in every floor around the place. When he examined the continuation up the walls, he realised that the strips were sunk deep into the surface, and seemed to be the edges of sliding doors or bulkheads of some kind. He took a guess at fire or biohaz precautions, and once he started noticing them, he saw them everywhere. The whole building could be sealed off section by section. Well, Ainatio did all kinds of weird shit, so they had to be able to contain a spill or an outbreak. It didn’t fill him with confidence, though.
An elevator panel in the next corridor showed at least five floors below ground level. Chris passed a passage signposted to laboratories with only number identifications, no department titles. He was tempted to take a look and find out what they were, but twenty yards further on he spotted something more interesting, a glimpse of the outside world down a short corridor that opened onto a square like a parade ground.
Chris had never seen Ainatio from the air. Any drones he’d tried to fly over the site had been jammed, and he certainly hadn’t been rubbernecking when the Lammergeier casevacked him. But there was obviously a lot more here than he’d realised.
Screw it, he’d go check this out. Nobody could accuse him of snooping. Solomon was ever-present, and if the AI thought he was heading somewhere he shouldn’t, he’d step in.
The outer doors opened automatically. Chris didn’t have a pass, but he knew from watching the nurses that staff were chipped to open security doors. Solomon must have done it for him.
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