Chapter Eight
Neith
The lighting in the floor casts weird shadows as Father and I walk to the laboratory. They spread up the drab, moss-green walls, following us as our shoes click against the stone floor.
Even though we argued yesterday, I can’t wait to tell Bel about these underground passageways. She’s always wondered why there were none on the property. Unbeknownst to me, they existed. Sadly, Father wants us to keep the underground hallways a secret only known by himself, Sohr, and myself. I hope he’ll change his mind someday.
Aspects of our confrontation filter into my mind no matter how much I try to set them aside. I wish I hadn’t visited her. I also wish I hadn’t told her about what I did to Adela. The look she gave me once she figured it out is one I’ll never erase from memory.
Still, today is another day. An opportunity for a fresh start. As such, I invited her to join me on a spa date and luckily for me, she commed back to say yes. Hopefully, this will give us an opportunity to have a calm conversation where she can understand I had little choice but to take the actions I did after Mehrdad’s attack.
While my relationship with Bel isn’t at its best, for the first time in my life, I feel as if my Father is proud of me and respects me. It’s a new experience and one I relish. Together, we’ve joined heads on how to best convince the Council to legalize our Phalanx soldiers. While I was upset that Father would create them given the lack of clarity under the Pact, we are family and what’s good for him and our nome is good for me. The same goes for his role in the death of certain participants in my Pursual. I’ll do anything to keep that information secret.
“We need to put Nome Ategun in their place,” Father grumbles. “They are working with that stupid boy to discourage a vote on the Phalanx.”
The ‘stupid boy’ is Titan Dren Kriel. According to Father, he’s upset because I’m the youngest Arbiter ever. While I can’t confirm this, I do know he’s working with the Ateguns to derail our plans for the Phalanx by actively trying to sway undecided Titans and Titanes to their side.
“Most of the council has agreed to vote in favor of the Phalanx, Father. Neither Dren nor the Ateguns will convince a majority to vote against it,” I say, struggling to match his long stride.
The last twenty-four hours have been a delicate dance of power politics, with Father and myself slowly bringing certain holdouts to our side. It's been a tricky process especially as many nomes are unwilling to do anything without the promise of a reward.
A door slides open as we approach and we step into the laboratory. There’s no welcome from Dr. Evander, who’s hunched over at a desk, rustling through a drawer. Numbers and equations spin on her table but she only focuses on her search. Having only met her yesterday, I’m still not used to her pale complexion.
I shiver as I go deeper into the gray room. Dr. Evander said she keeps the temperature low to maintain the integrity of the chemicals and gasses she uses down here. I think she just wants to keep everyone else out.
There’s a large metal contraption at the room’s center. She mentioned the name yesterday, but my mind was in a tailspin and I have no idea what it’s called. She had an AI unit in it and was examining its cranial cavity. It was a messy production of mercury-like goo.
To my left is an observation room holding a Phalanx unit. It stands immobile behind a tinted glass. The glass’s opaque shield is on so the unit shouldn’t be able to see us, though we can see it clearly.
I instructed Dr. Evander to make some changes to the soldiers. They are no longer to share the same facial features but should look like individuals. She said it will take some time but I’m fine with that. I also did away with the most disturbing aspect of the units. Their swimming liquid eyes. If we are ever to convince the nomes how beneficial the Phalanx are, we must make them visually appetizing.
“Perfect,” Dr. Evander mutters to herself as she straightens at the desk. In her hand is a tuning fork, which she taps on the metal contraption. Immediately, the soldier in the other room cowers with hands over his ears.
“Very good.” She pulls her shoulder-length auburn hair into a scraggly ponytail, but most of it escapes the noose of her hairband and stays against her neck.
Father looks from the soldier to the doctor. His lips turned downward. “I know you didn't bring me here just to show me the tin box can hear, did you?”
“Actually, no,” she says, her tone equally surly, “but the test did indicate that this expensive tin box of yours hears sound waves the three of us cannot. You should be glad.”
Unlike most people, Dr. Evander speaks to Father as if he’s a child in need of understanding something too advanced to understand. By the way he clenches his jaw, I can tell he’s angry and by the way she looks at him directly in the eye, I can tell she either doesn’t realize it or doesn’t care.
“Do I look like I have time for a lecture on sound waves?” Father says.
She strolls over to the glass dividing us from the soldier. As she nears, the unit blinks. The action is much slower and less regular than a human. Something else for her to work on. At least she got rid of the liquid eyes and now, only the iris is silver. It will make it easy to distinguish Phalanx units.
“You should make time for what I’m about to show you,” she mumbles, placing her forehead against the glass. Her breath blows clouds that don't linger before they vanish from the surface.
Something in her tone and manner makes Father straighten with attention.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is no longer fraught with impatience.
“This is Unit 342016. Preliminary tests revealed some corruption in its code and I removed it from its squadron.” She sticks her hands into the pockets of her pristine white lab coat and continues, “We've all seen it can pick up sound but it seems its response time to commands is a few microseconds slower than it should be.”
“You called me all the way over here for microseconds?” Father's disbelief is palpable as his voice rises. “You do know I run a business?”
He heads for the door.
I stretch my arm as he walks past me. It slows his step and I guide him back to the glass.
“Show us what’s wrong,” I say to the doctor.
She says, “Glass. Clear.” The tint in the glass disappears and she asks, “Unit Number?”
“342016,” the soldier replies, without hesitation.
“Today's date?”
It blinks. “April 29, 2302.”
“Tell me the top current news item on the net.”
Blink. “Singer Enterprises, run by Titan Oben Singer, reported an 8.3 percent increase in osmite production from its newest mine on Planet Xenos. This increase occurred over the last three months and the company is set to have even more production once it's facility on Mital comes online in 2303. Investors—”
“Enough,” Father says. “Hurry this up.”
She shoots Father a dark glare and turns back to the soldier. “Produce your primary weapon.”
A compartment in its left thigh pops open and the soldier withdraws a steel handgun.
“Place it on the table behind you.”
As instructed, the soldier completes the task and returns to its original position.
“Remove your left arm from its socket.”
Seconds pass and nothing happens. The soldier does not react to the command. She repeats it and still, no response.
Father rubs his cheek and I’m about to ask Dr. Evander for an explanation when she crosses over to her desk. She lifts a slate screen and taps at it.
“Unit 342016, remove your left arm.” This time there's bass to the doctor's words but it makes no difference as the soldier merely blinks its slow blink. Oblivious to the order.
The noise from Dr. Evander’s tapping on her slate screen swells in the silence.
The unit should follow whatever directives it is given by anyone with authority. The doctor has such authority. Yet, it doesn’t do as told. If it can't obey such a simple order, what other malfunctions might it have? News of this can't get out or it’ll be even harder to get the other nomes to sign on to using Phalanx Units as their main source of security.
“Glass. Opaque.” I say and the tint spreads across the window’s surface. Still staring at the soldier, I ask, “Why won’t it comply?”
“That, Scioness, is the question I must answer.” She looks up from her slate screen and glowers at the soldier. “The only instruction it should disobey are those which will cause harm to yourself or him.” She jerks her head at Father. “I'll get to the bottom of this mystery.”
“And it better be soon, Dr. Evander.” Father frowns at the soldier with its blank gaze. “You told me you were the best when I hired you. So, fix this.”
Her eyes narrow. “I am the best and this will be fixed.”
Father goes to the door not giving her another glance.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Evander,” I say. “Do keep us informed.” At least one of us should be polite to the doctor.
I have to speed to catch up with Father in the hallway. He’s reading something on his slate screen.
“Is everything okay?” I ask and he turns to me.
The vein in his forehead throbs. Whatever it is, it can’t be good.
“It’s the situation in Tangor.” He runs his umber fingers through his hair.
While we were dealing with the aftermath of Mehrdad’s attack, a quarter of the staff at our family’s manufacturing facility in Tangor refused to work. They called it a peaceful protest and demanded to speak with Father.
Initially, Father wanted a show of force to quell this uprising and any future ones. Although I understand the need to show strength, I convinced him to give the situation a day before reacting. I also suggested lower-level staff hear the grievances of the striking employees. Last night, we were informed they want an increase in their wages, better education, and medical facilities for their immediate families. Father agreed to both demands when I pointed out we wouldn’t take a significant loss in profits by compromising. Only one issue remains—whether Father will meet with them.
“The strike continues?” I ask, holding my hand out for the screen. He gives it to me and I scan the last message from the facility’s Executive Manager. One line is bolded—the facility stands to lose thirty percent of its profits if this strike goes into a third day.
“Yes. Despite giving in to most of their demands. Those ungrateful—”
“I’ll go to Tangor.”
“Absolutely not.”
“If the rebels are behind this, a willingness to cooperate could build goodwill and peel away the rebel’s support.”
“It could also suggest we’re weak and willing to put up with such behavior.” He shuts his eyes in a grimace. “I don't feel comfortable sending you to deal with this.”
“Yes, I understand. But, remember our agreement?”
He squeezes his lips as if trying not to speak the words he is bound to say.
“You are playing a bigger role in running the company and get to call the shots too.” The words leave his lips reluctantly and he clenches his fists. “If anything happens to you …” His tortured voice fails.
“What could possibly happen, Father?” I chuckle at his protectiveness. Finally, after seventeen years, I am experiencing the sort of relationship I always expected a father and daughter to have. “Bel and I have a spa date, so we’ll swing by Tangor first. Don’t worry.” I place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I'll be back before you know it.”