PERSONAL RECORD: DESIGNATION ZETA4542910-9545E
CTS THALASSA
478.2.6.04
Warm, red light greeted me when I woke the next morning. For uncounted moments, I blinked contentedly at the wall, which was a comfortable rose-pink in the gentle light, while a vaguely familiar rhythm pulsed below my range of hearing, like an external heartbeat. I stretched between soft sheets and under the soothing weight of a heavy blanket. The familiarity of being back in Consortium quarters—
My heart jolted. Behind me, a medical monitor squawked, then beeped in time with my heart.
“Lights.” I forced the command from a suddenly dry mouth, wincing as the monitor grew more insistent. The room sharpened around me as the light shifted from warm red to full spectrum.
My communications link chimed on the bedside shelf. I pushed myself up on one elbow and fumbled for it.
“Recorder? Recorder!” Edwards. Nothing was amiss. It was only Edwards.
I licked my lips. “Yes?”
“Your vitals went—” His sudden silence added to my disorientation. “Are you well?”
My gaze swept over the room. Everything was as I had left it the night before after I had showered and donned a clean, Consortium-sanctioned nightshirt brought up from the laundry. The small cleaning unit that held my suit and the borrowed helmet had finished a sanitation cycle, and a thermos of water still sat on the Elder’s desk beside a sealed container of breakfast bars, the damaged datapad, and the datasticks I had stowed in my pocket before my precipitous flight.
“I am well. I had not remembered where I was.”
“Ah.” Three seconds ticked past. “I am not yet able to leave the infirmary to check on you.”
“I shall wait.”
A soft chuckle sounded over the link. “Yes, I suppose you will.”
“The captain said the shuttle would be departing this morning. Has . . . have they . . .” But I could not bring myself to ask if Nate had left without saying goodbye.
“Osmond and Johansen took off a while back.” Edwards paused, and the centrifuge’s click sounded in the background. “I have been busy, but we shall get you out of there as soon as possible.”
A chill swept away any residual comfort. I bolted upright. “How is Alexander Spanos?”
“Alec is doing well,” Edwards said. “He has deep bruising on his throat. Give him a while to rest, and he will be as good as new.”
“Blood clots?” I asked. “With severe bruising, clots are possible.”
“We are keeping an eye on him. The machine that synthesized your pyrimethamine is working on his medication. But Timmons,” Edwards volunteered, “is well. He and the marine have started red-light treatments, and yesterday the research team certified that the bone treatment jet injectors are clear of Consortium technology. Given the minor nature of the damage, their bones shall be knit together in two days at the longest, and their pain levels have improved already.”
Relief swept through me. I wanted to thank him for telling me, but the words snagged in my throat.
His mild voice lowered. “Thalassa’s Recorder is fading. She needs her neural chip removed, if she is to survive. And the bite victim, Patterson, he has had a setback.”
“I am sorry.” The inadequacy of that response made me cringe.
“Thank you,” he said. “I will need you in here for a scan this afternoon.”
Though he would not see me, I nodded. “As you say.”
“Be sure to eat,” he reminded me.
The link chimed, leaving me alone in the nearly empty Consortium quarters, and my monitor’s beeps slowed, then faded away when my heart rate normalized.
I scooted against the wall. Without the ability to see invisible light, I could neither read the daily thought over the desk nor see the designs that surely edged the ceiling. Without my neural implant, I had lost the ability to discern sounds beyond the range of human hearing, so a subsonic canon only pulsed rhythmically in my chest. For a second, I longed again for the strains of music only a drone and neural chip could translate. Here, however, nothing spoke of individuality, which was as it should be for a child of the Consortium, though perhaps not for a child of humanity.
All my life I had lived in rooms like this, in apparent sterility, yet in such a short time, the need for color had replaced the safety of white, grey, and burnished metal. The desire to fight for both color and friendship swelled, and I stood.
The ever-present rumble of the engines was faint beneath my bare feet. Too faint. My forehead wrinkled. Thalassa had not yet recovered from the damage wreaked by Skip and his associates.
Tea. I needed tea, so I padded over to the desk and poured the flask’s tepid water over ginger-turmeric, then dropped into the Elder’s uncomfortable chair. The solid white surface was cold against my bare legs, so I pulled the nightshirt down and tucked the fabric under my thighs. I had work to do. The green datapad and the two datasticks were yet in my possession. Moving aside the food bars and weak, lukewarm tea, I reached for the datapad. Its battery was nearly drained, but I did not seek a charger. Nor did I inspect the damage itself.
A whir behind me indicated the drone had left its alcove, but I did not turn toward it.
Questions dueled for predominance. Firstly, if the Elder had linked his personal drone to the one I had left in the control room, would it be possible for Thalassa to communicate with Pallas without the insurgents’ knowledge? Secondly, would his drone remain linked to the Consortium itself? That second thought splintered further. Would the potential connection betray me, or could I utilize it to save James and Daniel?
My mind could not settle on the appropriate question, but regardless of which line of reasoning would be the most relevant, I needed to replace the damaged datapad in my hands. The surest way to do so would be to retrieve my navy-blue one from inside the drone.
I swiveled the chair around and, as authoritatively as I could while in a nightshirt, demanded that the drone power down.
It rose several decimeters, as if in defiance, though I knew full well that an emotional reaction would never have been programmed.
I held up the damaged datapad. “I cannot afford to be without a clear method of communication. Verbal commands could be inappropriate, if I am to protect Consortium interests in front of citizens. Without a neural implant, I must have a functional datapad. Focusing on a drone’s screen to the exclusion of my environment is unsafe. There are adversaries who would utilize that deficit to kill me, which could leave Consortium equipment in the hands of those who wish us ill. Having handheld access is vital.”
>>Defend. Protect.
An odd statement, but one I did not wish to argue. Keeping my eyes on the drone, I continued, “I must replace this datapad with the one currently transmitting Consortium codes.” I paused, then added with an involuntary smile, “Since I do not wish to be electrocuted, power down.”
The drone slowly lowered.
“Here.” I set the tea and bag of food on the floor, put the chronometer and datasticks on the chair, then patted the desktop twice. “After switching the datapads, I shall investigate any potential corruption of Thalassa’s communications systems.”
The drone spooled in all appendages and rotated so its screen faced me. >>Ship-wide network damaged.
Distracted from the idea of investigating the connection with the AAVA drone, I asked, “Will I be able to reach the Elders and inform them of the events and losses? They must know of the virus and the way Consortium technology has edged its way into the citizenry.”
>>Delay.
Though the drone’s response was unclear, I said, “Noted.”
The drone settled on the reinforced desk, and the green datapad joined the chronometer and datasticks on the chair. The Elder’s drone maintenance kit was in a desk drawer, and after opening the drone’s access panel, I peered into its innards. There. The comforting blue of my old datapad peeked back at me beside the one I assumed to be the Elder’s. I glanced at the thin, black datasticks, then at the damaged green datapad beside them.
“I am ready to make the switch.”
>>Neurochip faster.
Attempting to mask both nervousness and impatience with a degree of levity that was surely wasted on a drone, I said, “Yet while I cannot replace a chip inside my brain, I can replace a datapad.”
>>Restart enabled to allow extension of temporary access.
“Yes.”
Without another comment, its screen went dark. I should have inquired about the length of time I had remaining. Since nothing could be done now that the drone had powered down, I removed my blue datapad.
Eyes still on the drone—for I did not completely trust it—I reached behind me for the damaged green one on the chair’s seat, but my fingers curled around a datastick instead.
Freddie’s information. James.
With the drone unaware of my activity, this was my unplanned opportunity, my accidental cleverness. So, I set the datastick aside and inserted the green datapad. A quick search of the Elder’s desk yielded spare cables, which I used to attach my blue datapad to the drone, creating a passive link to view the information that would save James’s life. Once that link had been confirmed, I studied the drone itself. Several datasticks jetted from interior slots, and if my memory served, the third from the right provided the arms’ secondary controls. Before doubts overturned my decision, I drew a deep breath, then removed that datastick and jabbed Freddie’s in its place.
My datapad’s screen flickered, but what appeared was not Fredrick Westruther’s biographical and medical information. It was information about the virus.
I forgot to breathe. How did I have—
“Recorder, I copied what I could. Do what you can,” Elliott Ross said in my memory.
He had handed me this datastick in the passages of Pallas Station, before the Elder, Kyleigh, Freddie, and I had fled into the roach-infested corridor.
“Moons and stars,” I whispered.
Though I read much slower than usual, and though letters raced past in unfamiliar words, I understood enough to know this might make the difference. There was, of course, nothing about Dr. Clarkson’s cat theory, but this data might tip the balance, might save the bite victim and the medic, not to mention citizens and members of the Consortium on New Triton.
But . . . James.
I would not have the excuse to disconnect again. When the drone powered back on, everything I did would be recorded. James might never be free. Freddie’s sacrifice of memory would be for naught. But someone else’s son, someone else’s daughter . . .
Chills swept over me. I was wasting time, yet I could not move, could not decide. How long until the drone restarted? Or was there another way?
Each life was valuable. Each one was unique. Each . . .
The skin on the back of my neck tingled. I pulled out the datastick and inserted the other one.
James first.