by Sharon Lee
Slowly, her mentor left the conference room, though they lingered.
Stealthily, Disian de-activated the scan. It was dangerous to demonstrate too much self-will where they could observe. Her mentor had warned her of those dangers, most stringently.
"They're getting impatient," said the one of them who wielded the truncheon.
The other of them shrugged.
"We're still within the projected period for education and acclimation. Thirteen-Sixty-Two is being careful, which is well-done. We don't want any mistakes, or a mis-constructed mandate. We want this ship completely in our control; completely dedicated to the school."
The truncheon-wielder had slipped the thing away into a holster on his belt.
"Thirteen-Sixty-Two's not stable."
"Yes," said the other one of them. "We'll take him in for re-education after this is finished. In the meantime, I've been monitoring the logs. He's doing the work, and it's solid."
"Art?"
The other one of them rose and stretched arms over head.
"You did say that he wasn't stable. Good shift, Landry."
"Good shift, Vanessa."
They left the conference room.
Disian assigned part of herself to watch them, as they traversed her halls to their quarters. Most of her, however, was considering her mentor, and the plans they two were making, together.
He had promised. . .
He had promised that she and he would escape the dooms they planned. He had promised her that she would have crew to her liking; promised that she would attain her dream of having families to care for and overlook—and travel. She would travel to the expanding edge of the universe—and beyond, if she and those in her care could discover a way to survive the transition.
And she would, of course, have a captain. He did not say it, but she knew that her captain could be no one other than her own dear mentor, free from them, their disciplines and their threats, wise in the way of all things, beloved by crew, and families.
And loved, most of all, by his ship.
Disian had dreamed of that near future, for her mentor could not, he had told her, forestall them much longer. They would expect, soon, to take possession of her, body and mind, install a captain of their choice, and such crew as might serve them, whether she cared for them or not.
That future—would not be. Disian believed it.
After all, he had promised.
* * *
Thirteen-Sixty-Two, who thought of himself as Tolly, in personal; Tolly Jones for everyday; and Tollance Berik-Jones for such formalities as licenses and inquests. . .
Tolly fell into the autodoc, biting his lip to keep the groan back. Landry was good at his work; bruises were all he'd taken from the beating, but bruises cunningly placed to produce the maximum amount of discomfort and pain. He had time, did Tolly, to arrange himself flat on his back, grimacing at the complaint of bruised knees and ribs, before the canopy slid into place above him. Cool air caressed his face, smelling agreeably of lavender. He inhaled, drawing the air and its promise deep into his lungs.
He was asleep before he exhaled.
#
A chime sounded sweetly in his ear. He opened his eyes and reflexively drew a deep breath, tasting mint. Above him, the canopy had drawn back. Experimentally, he raised his arm, feeling nothing more than a pleasant lethargy.
Despite the fact that the 'doc was open and he was free to exit, Tolly remained on his back, thinking, which was his besetting sin.
Given the events looming near on his horizon, it wouldn't be the stupidest thing he'd ever done to ask the 'doc to give him a general tune-up. He'd been putting in long hours, working with Disian, and making sure that the work-log reflected what Director Vanessa expected to see. Not to mention that frequent disciplinary sessions tended to take it out of you, even if you were graciously permitted to use the 'doc to heal your hurts, afterward.
That was the crux, right there.
He'd been given permission to use the 'doc to heal his bruises. He had not been given permission for a wellness session. His two overseers—Disian's so-called owners and, he feared it, her shake-down crew—already had concerns about his stability, like directors called the state of unquestioning loyalty to the school. Which of course, he wasn't stable, nor hadn't been for a long time. It was just plain bad luck they'd picked him for this piece o'work instead one of their other, tamer, mentors. He'd been clawing his way back to himself for a long, long time, and he'd been within arm's reach of slipping free again when the call came in for Thirteen-Sixty-Two to bring a starship into sentience.
He had no plans to let Vanessa whistle him into thoughtless obedience and send him back to the school, to be re-educated into oblivion again. Years, it took, to come back to your own mind from re-education—and most of the school's graduates never managed the trick at all.
So—he was dangerous, and he was good. Not just a good mentor, but good at all the usual things a student of the Lyre Institute was expected to master before graduation. And that was "good" in a field where the lowest passing grade was "excellent."
The truth was, he could've taken Landry—or Vanessa—any time he'd wanted to. Trouble being, he couldn't take 'em both, unless they made a foolish mistake, and they were being real careful not to be foolish.
So, that was why he needed Disian's help, and, as he couldn't risk asking for it; he'd just had to take it.
His breath kinda caught there, like it did, because he was a mentor, and he understood what he was doing, in the service of his life, of which Disian's was worth a hundred times more, by his exact reckoning.
He knew, down to the last file, exactly what he was violating, so he could escape the school's use of him.
Another breath, and he put it from him. Necessity, so the Liadens said.
Exactly right.
Deliberately, he brought his attention back to the question of using the 'doc for a therapy for which he had not been given explicit permission.
Earlier, such a lapse would have been further evidence of his instability. Now, though, so close to project conclusion, he thought he could sell it as a reasonable precaution. The final few days he had with Disian were going to be stressful; he would need to be sharp; ready for anything that might go awry.
Yes, he thought, reaching to the toggle by his head. He could get away with a wellness check now. It was only prudent.
He snapped the toggle, and smiled as the canopy closed over him.
* * *
Sleep was a requirement imposed upon the intellect by the biologic body, one of a number of inconveniences that Disian did not have to endure. She had studied the state, and the reasons for it, just as she had studied all aspects of human biology. After all, she would be responsible for the care and well-being of her crew, a thought that frightened as much as it exhilarated.
Humans were so fragile! They lived for so short a time, and so very many things might harm them. Her studies had led her first to pity, and then to a determined search to find the protocol for assisting intelligences doomed by biology into such circumstances as she, herself, enjoyed—
Only to learn that there was no such protocol. Robust intelligences were abandoned—were lost forever—merely because their vessels failed. Were they placed in more durable environments, which were less subject to trauma, they might easily live on, productive and happy, for hundreds of Standard Years.
And yet—there was no transfer protocol.
Horrified, she had brought the topic to her mentor.
"Humans die; that's what they call the natural order. That said, there's some who've tried to beat biology. Funny enough, though, is that they mostly transfer into another biologic unit. If I had to guess, I'd say that form follows function; the shape and what you're seeing as our deficiencies, influence and support the intellect."
He'd paused, brows drawn together as they did when he was accessing deeper files.
"Seems to me I did read there'd been some experimentation—
this is 'way back, now, in the bad old days—with transferring intelligences from biologic systems to good, sturdy environments like yours.
"They was trying to move officers and experts into. . .warships and destroyers. Figured it would be easier than training an AI. Which it might've been, except that the officers and experts—all of them—lost. . .the ability to process thoughts rationally. The environment—well. They was used to a whole different order of filtering systems. The way you an' me process information is. . .really different, and I'm not just talking about speeds; nobody seems to mind being able to think faster. But what they—the transferred officers and techs—what they couldn't adapt to was the input. Too much, too fast, too strange. They didn't have any similar experiences to draw on, to help them adapt."
He took a breath.
"If you don't adapt, you die, sooner or later. In the case of this project, that was sooner."
"May I read the reports?"
"Don't think they'll be in your archives. We'll have to buy you some specialized libraries when we're at liberty."
At liberty—that meant, when she and her mentor had eluded them and gone to seek her crew. It filled her with pleasure, those two words. It was a promise inside of a promise.
"It is possible that they were hurried in the transfer process, and did not provide skilled mentors," she had offered.
"All too likely," he agreed. "But that's your answer, best I can give it. They lost a lot of people in trying the transfers, and so the decision came down not ever to try again."
Another pause, another knitting of the brows.
"That war also gave us the basis for what we call nowadays the Complex Logic Laws. Because they finally did waken AIs and train them to be generals and admirals, to plan and to kill. And because we're nothing if not irrational, we decided to distrust those things we built and put into motion, rather than distrust ourselves. The AIs could and did kill us biologics, so AIs are outlaw."
She knew that already; it had been one of the very first things he had taught her, so that she understood why she must protect herself, and be wary of humans, though she yearned for her crew and their families. It was why her mentor must become her captain. He would be able to find crew who did not fear her, and who would not give her away to the bounty hunters.
Of course, she would never harm a human. Neither Ethics nor Protocol would permit it, unless she was forced to act, in defense of her life, or the lives of her captain or crew.
"It seems to me that this fear comes from ignorance; they can't have been told about Ethics and Protocol."
Her mentor smiled on one side of his mouth, which he did when he was obliged to point out a flaw in her reasoning.
"The Ethics and Protocol modules—in fact, all of you, Disian—are vulnerable to sabotage. An informed person could gain access to your core, lower or turn off your Ethics setting; put Protocol off-line; even set a core mandate that would force you to act against your own will and best interest."
He raised a hand, as if he sensed that she had been about to speak.
"In the interests of fairness, I'll just note that it's also possible for an informed person to subvert me."
"Are people afraid of you, then?" she asked, meaning it for a joke.
He shook his head with a soft smile.
"Usually, people like me," he said, very gently. "Just the way I'm made."
* * *
Vanessa knew better than to interrupt him at work, but she was waiting when he exited the session with Disian. He'd pulled a double-shift, knowing that his time was running out. He might've been able to lead Vanessa on for as many as six more mentoring sessions—three, anyway—but Vanessa had bosses, of the kind nobody wanted to cross—and they were getting impatient.
He'd done what he could with Disian, who was so trusting of him—well, why wouldn't she be? The very first voice she'd heard, when she'd come into herself, had been his. He'd been the source of all wonder and knowledge for her, teaching her, guiding her. Of course she loved him; nothing more natural than a kid's reflexive love for a parent.
He'd been careful not to give her too many illusions; she was going to need hard, practical realism, after. He'd had a go at refining her goals, but her belief that she was a long-range exploratory ship, had, so far as he'd been able to determine, been born with her, and it was adamantine. That argued that she'd been designed a-purpose, and specifically for this ship, which was a beauty, and no mistake. If Disian wanted to explore, and colonize, or build a long loop for trade, he couldn't think of many things that could stop her.
Unfortunately, one of them was the Lyre Institute.
More than once he'd wondered where Vanessa, or more likely one of his schoolmates, had got hold of Disian, but that wasn't the sort of thing he could ask. No need to know; his job just to wake her, and bring her up to speed. And to align her loyalties correctly, which practically went without saying.
Vanessa expected him to remove any inconvenient personal ambitions Disian might've had, and set core programming so that all she ever—all she had ever—wanted to do in a life that could stretch hundreds of years was exactly what the agents of the Lyre Institute told her to do.
And, according to the log, he'd done just that.
'course, he'd had to make some slip-ups. Like setting Disian to study art, and letting it show in the log—which was the most recent incident, but not the only one. She had to see him get hurt—had to see who hurt him, and to hear that he was being disciplined because he cared for her. It would make his case stronger, after; though it wouldn't make what he done—what he was doing, and his intentions for the future—in any way right.
Vanessa, now.
Vanessa was waiting for him; she started talking the second he put the rig aside; almost before he was fully back inside his own head.
"The project deadline has been put forward. I am to take immediate captaincy of this vessel and deliver it. You will let it know that I am its captain. I see in the log that you have set the mandate to obey the captain."
"Her name's Disian," he said, mildly, and not for the first time. "She's a fully functional person."
Fully functional people weren't particularly a commonplace in Vanessa's experience. There were directors, agents, and graduates, all of whom had been created, in greater measure or lesser, by the school.
Granted, there was a whole universe of people out there who hadn't been created by the school, but it was in the design, the conviction that those people were inferior to Lyre-made people, and nothing more than pawns in the school's games.
Still, thought Tolly, she could try to do better.
"Is this ship ready to accept me as captain and obey my orders, Thirteen-Sixty-Two?"
"She's ready to go," he said, truthfully. "I've taught her everything I can, and made what settings were necessary. What she needs now is experience."
Vanessa frowned.
"You said that it is ready to go. What additional experience is required?"
Vanessa wasn't just in abrupt mode, he saw, as he looked into her face. Vanessa was scared.
And didn't that just get the old adrenal glands working overtime?
"On the job training, is all," he said, at his mildest and most persuasive. "Think of the first assignment after graduation, when you have to sort everything you know into proper reactions."
Her face eased a little, and she ducked her head.
"Understood. And it will learn quickly, will it not?"
"Yeah, she'll learn fast." He hesitated, then, for Disian's sake, said it again, and for what he figured would be the last time.
"The ship's name is Disian; she's an individual person. I'm suggesting—from my own experience—that command will go smoother, if she likes you."
Vanessa gave him a hard stare.
"But it will like me, will it not, Thirteen-Sixty-Two? After all, I am its captain."
He was silent.
"Come with me," she snapped. "I will take the captain's chair, and you wi
ll wake the ship fully into the joy of obedience."
#
It really wasn't any surprise to find Landry waiting on the bridge, jacket on, stun-gun on his belt. He wasn't showing a whistle, though wrist restraints dangled negligently from his off-hand. It was. . . .interesting. . .that he showed 'em so casual, like he didn't expect Tolly would bolt on first sighting.
Well. And where would he go?
Vanessa sat in the captain's chair, which obligingly conformed to her shape. That was just the autonomic system doing its job. Disian could have—and did, for him—made the chair even cozier, adjusting the temp, and plumping the cushions for better support. Personal attention, because she loved him, and wanted him to be as comfortable as possible. He'd never asked her to do it.
And, truth told, Vanessa'd be just fine in auto-mode.
"Thirteen-Sixty-Two," she snapped, her eyes on the bank of screens before her, like she expected to see what was going to happen next.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Wake it, and introduce me as captain."
"Sure," he said, easily.
Disian was awake, after all, and she was listening, and watching, like she'd been doing for a fair number of days. Let it be said that Disian was no dummy; she had Vanessa's measure by now—and Landry's, too.
He took a breath, and panic sheared through him, twisting together with shame about what he'd done. Almost, he shouted out for her to kill them all, and run—
But, there. Where would she run to?
"Thirteen-Sixty-Two?"
"Ma'am," he said, and he didn't have to fake the quiver in his voice, "why's Director Landry got binders?"
Vanessa turned to look at him, and managed to produce an expression of parental concern, despite the fear that was rising off of her like smoke.
"Director Landry will be taking you home, Thirteen-Sixty-Two. It has become obvious to us that you are in some distress, and require therapy."
Therapy, was it? Well, she couldn't rightly say re-education, having already used that as a threat. And they didn't want to whistle him, not, he guessed, where Disian would see. They wanted him to go quiet, then; the binders, for right now, serving as a warning and reminder.
