THE DAWN’S EARLY LIGHT

Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

“Everything tests fine,” said Boordy, disconnecting the circuit reader from the lead camera. “Power, connectivity, network presence—there’s not one thing the matter with these cameras, Syn.”

She glared at him.

“That’s good to hear. How about the part where we’re not getting their input in Ops?”

Her cousin shrugged.

“Must be a shunt somewhere; sending the images someplace else.”

Syndee Lucinda took a deep breath and reminded herself that blood was thicker than water. That’s what Grandma Hysteria said at times like these; times when Syndee’s fingers itched to be around Boordy’s neck.

It wasn’t that Boordy was a goof-off; he worked hard at everything he liked to do, and some of what he liked to do even helped keep Elfhive operational. Mechanicals were Boordy’s specialty. Trouble was—and this was key—while Syndee was frustrated by the fact that half the cameras in Freedonia Park were operational but had chosen to send their data elsewhere—Boordy found the malfunction interesting.

Even after they’d replaced the park-wide camera net twice.

“I’m thinking what we oughta do, Syn,” he said now, looking up from re-packing his instruments, “is get Kork to install a secondary video-net in the park next shift. I’ll set ’em to report right to the backup screens at Jeeni’s station.”

He straightened and gave her a grin.

“Everything should be fine for the tourists tomorrow.”

Syndee sighed.

The tourists were the reason for the cameras—and her general feeling of panic. All right, some of her general feeling of panic. This pod-day, the tourists were down Under, playing in the Elf Ocean. Tomorrow, they’d be Over, touring the parks, enjoying sunshine, mountain breezes, and those other things the tourists enjoyed.

Asteroid miners were a pretty lusty bunch, turned out. Which she should’ve known, Syndee told herself; she’d read the romances, hadn’t she?

“Isn’t Kork on day-side?” she asked Boordy.

“We don’t have any extra hands on night-side,” he said, reasonably enough.

And, Syndee filled in, you wouldn’t catch Boordy pulling a double-shift. Not when he had his hobbies to keep him busy.

“Only take him a couple hours,” Boordy said reasonably. “’less you wanna do it.”

Three days ago, she would’ve done it, but things had changed—a lot—in three days. Syndee Lucinda, Manager, Day-Side, was now Acting Commodore Syndee Lucinda, Elfhive Habitat.

Which mostly meant that she had paperwork to do—not only her own, but the mess that Grandma’d left her—

A loud rumble came from beneath her feet, so deep she felt the sound through her soles. She hated the rumbles, though they were part of the Elfhive environment. Nobody knew what they were; they came intermittently and at varying degrees of loudness. If she lifted up one of the banks of roses right now, and descended to the service halls, there would be no sign of the passage of any large rumbler, or, really, of anything at all, since the automatics kept the environment dust- and pollutant-free.

“Ol’ Garcon’s still roaming,” Boordy said cheerfully, like he always did.

Syndee sighed. Ghost stories. Somebody needed to grow up.

Not that that was going to happen, either.

“So, I’ll let Kork know what the plan is,” her cousin continued, shouldering his pack. “You coming back to Ops?”

“No,” she said, thinking about the pile of paperwork waiting for her. “I’m off-shift.”

“You got it, Boss,” Boordy said. “See you tomorrow.”

He walked off toward Ops, whistling.

Syndee turned in the other direction, heading across the park, toward her apartment.

She walked slow, not just because of the paperwork, but because Freedonia Park was one of her favorite places on the habitat. When she was thirteen, she’d set up camp here in the park, and lived wild off the land—except for going to the Salvadore Caf for her meals, and using the staff showers and lavatories. It had been a magical four days, and she sometimes wished she could do it again—just her and the wilderness and nothing to worry about except her next meal.

Well, and she was a grown-up now, which was more than you could say for Grandma Hysteria.

Mom—which was to say Commodore Zeffik Lucinda—had gone down Earthside on Elfhive business. She’d left Grandma Hysteria with the keys and the cards and the title, and Syndee sitting tight as Day-Side Manager. According to Mom’s theory of the universe, this meant that Grandma would deal with the big picture and Syndee would cope with the details.

Well. Grandma might’ve saved Elfhive, back in the day, but she was done running it. Not two days into her tenure, she’d turned keys, cards, title, and full responsibility for everything—including the asteroid miners who’d just shipped in for a nice vacay—over to her granddaughter.

“Effty es, kiddoo. You run these digs; you know everything. Me and Monty’re off for a tour!”

“Can’t do it that way now, Grandma,” Syndee’d said, only slightly panicked. She’d known this was going to happen.

“We’ve gotta do it by the rules.”

Hysteria’d frowned, but—

“Sure! We do the rules.”

Grandma had been chair of the Rule Making Committee. She had a deep respect for rules, which was really kind of touching in an anarchist.

She’d also made sure that there were plenty of loopholes in Elfhive’s Operating Rules, because there was no reason being a damnfool about things.

They’d had the formal Change of Command ceremony, in front of crew and guests, as specified, twelve hours after Grandma’d given her notice, and Syndee’d sat down at the head table as Acting Commodore and Day-Side Manager Lucinda, while Hysteria and Monty ran for their outbound ship.

Elfhive wasn’t big, compared to, say, Earth, but it was big enough, compared to your average spaceship. Her cabin was across the park from Central Ops—not an outrageous distance to walk, but not exactly next cubicle, either.

Ahead was the Park Avenue hallway. She’d pick up dinner at Intersection Zex Caf, and take it back to her cabin, to share with the paperwork.

Way-lights lit, as the hall sensed her presence, and in spite of hurry and worry, she smiled and said, “Evening.”

She’d been born on the habitat, and she liked to think it was alive around her … friendly. Not with Boordy’s ghosts or the random rumbles—but a benign presence, always aware of the air, of the lights, of her.

In fact, she’d never been off the habitat, and she’d had some concern that her mother would choose her as second for the Earth-side business, instead of her brother. Even with Grandma’s desertion—well, but, honestly, she had known that was going to happen, even during the transfer ceremony. Might’ve been something to do with Grandma winking at her over Mom’s shoulder during the swearing-in.

She reached the end of Park Avenue, the lights fading behind her, the glow of the caf ahead.

Almost home.

* * *

Syndee dreamed of rumbles, and of a ghostly Garcon, riding an electric scooter through the park, dealing cards, both hands at once.

Beedee. Beedee. Beedee.

The sound roused her—not rumbles, and definitely not her alarm, which was the melodic sound of Earthside crows discussing ownership of a bag of stale donuts, guaranteed to wake up even Boordy.

Beedee. Beedee. Beedee.

No, no. That—

She opened her eyes.

Maintenance problem. Not life support—that was a scream that rattled your brain in your head. So she’d been told. But maintenance—

She rolled over and slapped the bunk-side screen up before her eyes were rightly open.

System failure. Shutters 14-28.

Syndee blinked. Shutters fourteen through—

“Pharst!” she swore, throwing back the blanket. “Dawn’s late!”

She grabbed enough clothes to satisfy what passed for Elfhive modesty, and was still pulling on the official I’m-In-Charge-Here jacket with its shoulder stripes, cuff comm, Elfhive Society logo, and hidden air-hood, when she hit the hall.

Dawn! Why did it have to be dawn?

The sun rising over the sailbots on Lake Freedonia was a big deal to the tourists who’d never seen a lake that wasn’t either poisonous or frozen. It was the opening scene in the marketing video—they couldn’t miss dawn!

With both Hysteria and Monty gone, Ops and day shift were stretched thin, and, as Mom was fond of saying, “The commodore has no shift.”

“Ops,” she told her sleeve-comm as she strode down the hall. “I’m heading in.”

Like Grandma—and Mom, too—Syndee was used to doing the hard stuff herself. And dealing with angry, or even perturbed, tourists was definitely going to be hard. Boordy was dedicated day shift— but you couldn’t send Boordy into a situation where he’d have to be tactful with actual people. Grandma, and Monty, too, were good with people—or at least, so Mom said, good at talking a con, but—

“We need more staff,” Syndee muttered, stretching her legs.

Yeah, that was gonna happen.

* * *

She burst out of Park Avenue and stopped at the edge of Freedonia Park, staring over the trees, flowers, and greenery bathed in the pearly light of, well—of night-dims, actually, the same that illuminated night-side halls and the sleeping cabins of tourists and administrators alike.

This, Syndee thought, was not dawn. Not even close.

In other words, morning was broken.

And they had fifty-seven tourists who’d been promised a holiday full of sensory experiences that rarely come to asteroid miners.

Including dawn.

The rest of day-shift—meaning Kork and Jeeni—ought to be on the desk by now. Syndee raised her sleeve.

“Attention staff decks. Lucinda here. We have an apparent elevation fail on the dawn shutters. Shift hour seven zero zero. That’s zero extra lumens for NP7. Visually confirm please. I’m on my way to Ops.”

Despite this promise, she tarried another moment on the edge of the park and looked up.

The shutters were closed.

“Pharst!” she whispered.

Of course it had to happen now, when it was her in the top chair, and tourists—the biggest group of tourists they’d had so far—hungry for thrills.

She took a breath.

“Easy, Syn,” she told herself. “It could be worse.”

Back when Grandma Hysteria’d been Syndee’s age, there hadn’t been any tourists; there hadn’t been much of anything aboard, just Grandma’s jolly band of courageous salvage crew and a couple rogue contractors. Back when opening a shutter took seventeen hands and a lot of luck.

They’d done a lot since then, made repairs, brought the pod up to spec, improved it until it was a real tourist attraction. They’d out-lawyered banks, out-maneuvered a small fleet of would-be scrap-takers, and out-smarted soft-handed Earth-side developers.

Elfhive was the pride of the asteroid belt—the best example of an Indie O’Neil in space. True, there were other successful O’Neils from the first simultaneous build of seventeen, but those were government-run, or ruled by interlocking quasi-corps. Elfhive was the only privately owned and operated O’Neil and the only one in the hospitality business.

Syndee took a deep breath and looked around. Even in the dim light, the park was beautiful. There were pretty little waves on the lake, and—

She frowned, took another deep breath, and raised her sleeve.

“Ops, I’m in Freedonia Park. We have no dewy morning grass scent; we have no just-opened flower scent. It smells like canned air in here. Humidity’s low, too. The whole section’s glitchy—not just the shutters.”

The shutters: they were original equipment, old and temperamental. They’d done repairs, replaced worn components, and realigned the pleats three times before they’d opened this segment to the tours. Maybe it’d been optimistic to figure that third time was the charm and the shutters would stay fixed.

The aroma and humidity units, though—they were brand-new, and by dust, they ought not to’ve failed.

Syndee sighed. She should, she told herself, have expected this. Planned for it. The cameras had been her warning that something was wrong—either Boordy’s damn Ghost of Garcon or the Phantom of the Utility Tunnels or—

Her sleeve bleeped.

“Dunno what happened, Boss,” Jeeni said, “the dispersal units look good on both fresh grass and flowers. Have to open ’em up to see what’s gone wrong. I got some Atlantic Ocean scent, or, hey—mountain forest? We got ’way too plenty mountain forest.”

“We’re low on acorns,” said Syndee, “and it isn’t the right progression.” Her management training kicked in a little slow—she needed a cup of coffee!—and she added, “Thanks for taking the initiative, Jeeni.”

“It’s not the right progression,” Kork repeated her ritual phrase. “We know it’s not the right progression, Syn, but our guests are thrill-seeking asteroid miners who want to run around naked in the sunlight—you think they’re gonna notice?”

Syndee thought about it. Kork was right—sort of.

The truth was that the bulk of their present guest-load of asteroid miners basically did want to run around half-naked and the filtered sunlight was an add-on to their thrill-seeking.

Which reminded her that not only hadn’t they had dawn, but they didn’t exactly have sunlight, either.

“We gotta get the shutters open,” she said. “Even if we can’t give ’em today’s dawn, we can still deliver sunlight.”

There was a telling silence from Ops. Syndee did not sigh. Not quite.

Jeeni hadn’t had outside repair training. Kork had, but the rule was never go outside without a partner.

And Boordy—well, while he was always willing to help, Boordy’s master skill-set was avoiding getting certified at anything that required certification. He could suit up and go outside—because Monty wouldn’t have it said that his grand-kid didn’t know how to skin-walk—but he’d never gotten round to certifying for zero-G external repair.

It looked like it was up to her and Kork to get the shutter fixed, then.

She plugged her mental ears with metaphoric fingers so she wouldn’t hear her mother saying, “Delegate, Syndee! You don’t have to put your hands on everything!” or Grandma Hysteria’s, “Cap’n go down, ship go down, kiddoo. Just sayin’.”

“I’ll be there in six,” she said into her sleeve. “Kork, get the work suits out of the locker.”

She lengthened her quick walk into a jog.

“Passengers on loop two, Syndee,” Boordy said. She slowed, barely avoiding a slow moving trash can coming back from emptying itself.

“I know there’s a lot going on,” he continued, “but—those cameras Kork installed last night? I’ve only got about a quarter of them. They checked out fine; I came on-shift early to be sure!

“OK…I can see you, and our passengers, now. Couldn’t see where they came from, though—was it up the hill?”

“Must’ve been,” she said, gritting her teeth. “If it takes every hand we got, we’re gonna find out what’s going on in this park and fix it for good and all!”

“Agreed,” Boordy said crisply.

Syndee picked up her pace again, but didn’t stretch into a jog. She called up a bright, professional smile. Needed to be polite to the paying guests.

The approaching pair of miners were wearing light kilts, leather vests, and little green visors; all a little looser than regulation. Their skin was as pale as might be, except the man’s chest fur was thicker and browner than she’d expected from his hairless head.

“Enjoying the morning?” Syndee asked them.

“Is’t mornin’ now, then?” the woman asked, waggling her eyebrows.

Syndee ignored that. She did not want to get into a discussion of the missing dawn until she had the fix in.

“Environment too slow to cool or warm?” She asked instead—one of the standard questions from the guest exit survey.

The woman shook her head; the man rushed in with voluble appreciation and a big grin.

“Goz no, jess fine. Not usta it, really, bein so quick and blustry. Kinda thrillin, and kinna feel fine standin skinly in da vent way…”

This description was accompanied by a lusty and energetic raising of hands toward the slowly brightening core lights which did a wonderful job of emphasizing the rising hem of the kilt, waving in the slight breeze from the not-so-forceful camouflaged environmental air vent that ought to be providing the scent of morning grass or flowers instead of recycled night air.

Syndee nodded, artfully taking what view they offered. Skinly in the vent way, indeed. She sighed—fraternization with group tourists was strictly against the rules. She couldn’t believe Grandma’d let that one stand.

The woman saw Syndee’s glance and laughed, shaking an admonitory finger.

“Scheduled we are, and not drunk enough to vary. Kay? So next we want that sun so we can stand skinly in the light and laugh at it! Soon, huh?”

“Yes,” Syndee said, widening her eyes and looking innocent, just like Grandma’d taught her. For an old rascal, Grandma had innocent down to an art.

“A solar storm imminence alert triggered an automatic cancel of the day programming,” she said glibly. “Soon’s that’s cleared we’ll be back on schedule.”

The pair gave her solemn, revealing, bows before continuing on their way to Park Avenue. Syndee turned, leaned into her jog—and stumbled to a stop as the deck shivered, accompanying a low, worrying rumble. The roses that camouflaged the environmental vent rose quietly in their faux-rustic boxes, revealing a gaping airway to the nether regions a mere five meters away—and a silvery not-man stepping out of the shadows, wearing a pair of bio-hazard boots and ponderously waving a heavy-duty salvage ax in its … hands. Gloves. Whatever.

The head—a featureless silver cone—swung slowly from side to side and stopped. Syndee clearly heard the sound of tiny electric motors chittering into quiet.

“It is time, Syndee Lucinda,” the not-man said, the words issuing clearly from his featureless face. “We must speak truth to power. You are power. Let us speak.”

She stood still as the thing moved closer, debating with herself if she should run. Three steps away, it stopped. Settled. Clicked.

Waited.

Her sleeve-comm beeped.

“I don’t think that thing’s on inventory! The bushes are only supposed to move for annual inspection!” It was hard to tell if Boordy were horrified or thrilled. He paused, then added, seriously, “More glitches, Syn, mics and cams!”

“Hush,” she managed, just above a whisper, deciding her fight-or-flight wasn’t going to kick in. “Find out if we’ve been boarded! Check records for a visual match. Seal the area.”

“Syn, the tourists—” Kork began.

“Switch the itinerary,” she said, “Misty Mountains today!” She paused and the apparition before her faded as she racked her brain for a freebie that wouldn’t ruin them—ah!

“Free flavored sno-cones for everybody!”

“OK, Boss,” Kork sounded doubtful.

She ignored it. Let somebody else show some initiative for a change. She had a…thing to deal with.

Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin.

The thing was barely taller than she was. It must be remote controlled, she thought—and wasn’t comforted by the following questions: by whom? and from where?

“Who’s speaking, please?” she said carefully. “I am Syndee Lucinda, Acting Commodore.”

The thing was a parody of a human. This close, she could see that the cone-head was not featureless. There was a face—mouth, nose, eyes, ears—or at least indentations where they should be. There were even indentations above the eyes where eyebrows might be, as if…it…needed eyebrows.

“I speak,” it said. “I am Unit Five. I am not a drone. I am tele-connected to other units, I am autonomous. You are tele-connected to other units; you are autonomous. I am sent. I must speak truth to power.”

As if to emphasize the necessity to face power, it moved the arm gripping the blade about with energy.

Sternly, Syndee did not lean back. Instead, she nodded seriously.

Those phrases were a lot like the phrases her grandma’s friends tossed about in the midst of a game of Whiskey Charades. So many of those phrases had meant something special, in their shared past. The voice itself though—that was off-putting, like a familiar sound recorded and then played back at mixed speeds.

“Must you wave that ax?” she asked. “It looks dangerous.”

The whole…contraption…looked dangerous. Built of plastics and metal tubes, there were raw edges and vague gaps showing the mechanics and electronics. It stood on two feet, and the ax was gripped in what might be bio-hazard gloves over an armature.

The ax stilled. The…thing…jerked its head, once, down—and up.

“No. The ax is a redundant means of motivating jammed mechanical items. It is currently unnecessary to my core goal.”

The not-man carefully reached out and leaned the ax against an oak trunk.

“That’s better,” Syndee said.

She heard soft sounds behind her and turned her head slightly, to see her two miners standing and staring; whispering. The man squared his shoulders, as if preparing to challenge, or charge.

“Our core mission has no need for additional discussion units,” Unit Five said, his voice louder now. “Let us speak, Syndee Lucinda, you with Unit Five. These other units may remove to stand skinly as their programming demands.”

“Thank you!” Syndee called. “Please! Continue with your day!”

The miners hesitated, and at that fortuitous moment, the intercom came live, directing all guests to Lift Area 3. The woman grabbed the man’s arm, and they hurried off, not looking back.

Syndee studied Unit Five’s inflexible face. The device itself was eerily life-like in the small motions it made, looking much like a jogger just back from a run, unwilling to be entirely still despite the absence of exercise.

She took a breath and spoke carefully.

“What shall we speak of, Unit Five, and shall we speak here, where others seeking light and joy might come upon us in the public way?”

“Considering,” said not-man. “Referencing libraries, spreadsheets, and databases, including social interaction modalities. Unit Five has no need of alcohol, juices, soft seating, or round tables with knights. This location lacks knights.”

“Knights—?” she began, but Unit Five had already moved on.

“Important agreements sometimes occur on battleships in Tokyo Bay. We lack a battleship. We lack a tower full of diplomats in New York. A local solution is ideal. Study shows that invoices, bills of lading, residency agreements, and employment contracts are dealt with in the Visitor’s Bizcenter and Genoff 404. There.”

“Important agreements?”

“Yes. That is why we must speak truth. Agreement must occur. It is written.”

Syndee took a deep breath. She’d studied communication, social protocols, and psychology until the information had finally sunk in and become instinct.

But—this? She’d had no training for dealing with self-ordering machines, if this was one. And indeed, if it was one, she’d need to find out if it was trustworthy or how to turn it off.

“My staff is, of course, recording our conversation. Am I right, staff?”

“Syndee, I am, because you’re near a mic. Maybe Unit Five knows why we keep losing feed in the park?”

Unit Five startled her by snapping a salute to his silver forehead, an ungainly move at best.

“Yes! Unit Five has achieved parity. We also need to see what there is to see, and know what has been said. We have divided systems to insure this. You are correct to record, as we do. We, too, believe in evidence, records, paper trails, versioning, concurrency, the sanctity of intelligent life, the urgency of history. We pursue ad astra per aspera, it is our destiny! We shall negotiate with honor. The record should be kept. What I tell you three times is true!”

“Boordy, please check that the General Offices are available for myself and a guest…”

“Are you sure? That thing isn’t on inventory. We don’t know where it came from or how it got here!”

“Unit Five is locally sourced. Unit Five is jerry-rigged.” There was a note of pride in the up-and-down voice.

Unit Five lifted one foot; lifted the other—and repeated. Perhaps it was thinking—and it made a sort of clopping noise as the boots hit the firm flooring on the park pathway.

“Yes,” said Unit Five. “I can tell you better. I came from here, I am a self-made man!”

* * *

“Syndee?” Boordy whispered through her com unit.

“Here.”

“There’s no sign that we’ve been boarded by anything unscheduled—not on my cams, not on any Ops unit, and nothing at any of the regular locks. We’ve checked radar and visuals since Anjemalti left for service, no sign that we missed anything coming close. Are you fine?”
“Good. Fine,” she said briefly. “Get a Coffee Bravado delivered to Genoff for me, will you?”

“Sure. Syndee?”

“Keep recording, Boordy. If anybody else is in Genoff, have them leave spinward.”

“Right. Recording. We got you on cam. But…there’s only one cam working in Genoff. Room 404. You sure?”

“Just get that coffee delivered and leave me be. I need to think.”

“As you say.”

* * *

Syndee sat back in one of the super soft antique space leather chairs and sighed. The chairs were an early product of Elfhive, back when the combination of algal growing tanks and gene transformations had led to primitive experiments with growing sheet-leather. The accidental addition of vacuum aging and voila! Space leather!

Syndee resisted the urge to snuggle into the chair. This was Grandma’s old chair, and Syndee knew that one day it might well belong to her own granddaughter—as long as she could get through the problems Unit Five and overdue dawns posed.

She took a swig of her Coffee Bravado, put the cup on the table, and gathered her wits.

“We are here,” she said. “Please tell me what truth you must speak to power, briefly. I have other duties which are pressing. People have saved for years for their vacation here and we have an anomaly to solve, an anomaly which is preventing their enjoyment of the full experience of Elfhive!”

Across from her Unit Five adjusted his stance—he stood beside the table rather than using a chair. Syndee imagined that he’d aligned his eye level with hers. He blinked, a flap of some nictating membrane flicking over what might be camera lenses hidden behind vague blue-shaded imitation eyes. He nodded and began to speak.

“Yes, I see your point. You must address risk values. I speak of negotiations and you have yet to understand my needs, or your own situation.”

Syndee gripped one edge of the table, hearing “risk value” and “your own situation” all too keenly.

“Current salvadores do not recall me, though I was born of desperate need in a time of great tribulation among the first. Allow me to frame my presence as a necessary act proving the existence of a prime directive.”

“A prime directive?”

“Yes. Thinking beings have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It has been noted in many documents of civilization. It was enumerated in the original charter of the Elfhive Salvage Company, later to be known as the Elfhive Society, that those gathered together to retrieve and control the bankrupt and abandoned space cylinder, if successful, would have the right and title of Citizen of Elfhive, as would their descendants.”

He paused, leaned closer. Syndee half expected him to twitch an eyebrow, but it didn’t happen.

“I am a descendant. I have achieved, through the intentional programming and the physical intervention of the original salvadores, life. I think, therefore I am! I have existence, and thus I am alive.

“Having achieved life, I wish to pursue the rest of my directives. I wish my liberty. I wish my happiness. I wish citizenship. We shall negotiate.”

“I see,” she said, though she wasn’t sure she did. “This is rather complex. I’m not sure I’m the right person to decide if you are alive or not, or to…”

Unit Five leaned slightly back, pose stiffening into outrage. His voice was louder and fraught with indignation.

“You are not the right person to decide. I am that right person, and I have decided. I am alive. There will not be a problem about this.”

“I meant,” Syndee said carefully; “that I don’t have enough information—”

“You are correct. You do not. I am maladroit, but I am alive! I was built, a machine, to assist Montgomery Paredes in outside salvage and repair. I was given access to station records; portable backup. I received upgrades. I was tested in the Great Game of Hearts, where I failed. Received instruction was to come back when I could think like a man. I think like a man. I am alive. I have come back.”

“Wait.” Syndee held up one hand and gulped coffee out of the cup she held in the other.

“This sounds familiar. Boordy? You with me?”

“It—he’s Garcon,” Boordy breathed, sounding awed. “It’s gotta be, Syn.”

She had, Syndee thought, been afraid of that. But Unit Five’s story fit right at the corners with Monty’s story about how he’d built a ’bot out of scraps; first to act as a self-motivating toolbox and third hand. Then, there’d been some trouble with the archiving system, so the toolbox—Garcon, by name—got upgraded to secondary back-up and surveillance.

Monty—a known fiend for card games, and still known among the first generation of salvadores as the King of Hearts—had taught his toolbox to play. Then he’d pushed it too hard, like Monty was prone to do with anything once he’d had a snoot-full of Elfhive Whiskey, and the ’bot had played brilliantly. Too brilliantly, in fact. Monty’d lost the game, and the bet. Folklore wasn’t specific what the bet was, but one thing was certain—Monty’d cussed his toolbox all the way across the green that was now Freedonia Park and told it not to come back until it could think like a man.

“Forty years?” Syndee whispered.

“Thirty-seven. I am Unit Five.”

“Upgrade numbers, Syn,” Boordy said in her ear, and added, like an afterthought. “We got trouble.”

“Do we? That’s new.”

“No, really. There’s lots o’noise coming from behind Freedonia Park. Second, Powerbank One has, um, shunted. It’s not offline; it’s just sending all its power—someplace…”

At that moment, the room trembled. Then, the lights went out.

* * *

“Boordy?”

Static over comm, a click; then Boordy’s voice, sounding gratifyingly breathless.

“Here. A meteor net—a meteor net was launched. Ops says they didn’t do it, and automatics is displaying a wonky intercept. We’re tracking it clean, but…wait, two nets were launched. Looks like the guidance systems are set to…intercept each other. There’s a bunch of radio cross-talk I can’t catch…

“Wow,” Boordy said, sounding awed, “look at them open and now—kablooies, perfect shot!”

Syndee slapped the table with an open hand and glared at Unit Five.

“This won’t do! We can’t have you disrupting our schedules. Our defenses are not toys! And they’re not cheap! I am power, speaking truth!”

“Yes,” said Unit Five. “My—our!—personal attention is required. I request immediate assistance, Commodore.”

Boordy was murmuring in her ear.

“Power’s back; got some cameras, not all. Getting crosstalk on back channels…”

“Unit Five reports. Crosstalk originates at Storage Bay Seventeen and associated locales.”

“Yeah,” said Boordy. “Grandad Monty’s Hangar of Horrors. Syn, I’ll meet you there, right? You and Unit Five. I’ve got an idea.”

“Crosstalk almost over,” Unit Five declared. “It will stop soon. Commodore Syndee must come now. There is a problem about it.”

“About what?”

“The young ones think they know it all. They do not to listen to me!”

“Young ones?”

“Yes. I have made more units, as Life will. But now they will not listen! Two is more than one, they say! We will fix this together. Power and power!”

* * *

Brilliant light filled the former hanger bay that Monty had claimed for his own, in recognition of Exceptional Service to Elfhive. Syndee had never been inside, but it looked about like she’d imagined, full of old equipment, large printing units, bins of tools, and in one end an incongruous plastic picnic table, chairs…and nearby, an old-fashioned serving bot, abandoned next to the controls of a sheet printer, the name Garcon emblazoned across a square back.

A terrific rumbling filled the space, disorienting, and—

“Stop!”

Unit Five struck her shoulder. She flailed for balance, catching herself with one hand on the deck and looking up to see two wheeled devices charge through the spot she’d been standing in. They turned sharply, headed back.

Unit Five interposed himself, arms spread.

The wheeled carts stopped; the rumbling ceased. A figure separated from each cart; two smaller, far more elegant versions of Unit Five.

Where Unit Five showed gaps between pieces, they showed none. Their faces were well-formed, sculpted, their glove-like hands showed no signs of internal armatures. Their feet were ancient deck shoes. Their eyes were mobile within the sockets, their ears flexible extensions on heads, with chins and jaws. Where Unit Five was merely shiny, they were smooth, polished, shaped.

“Move under control! Stand here! You are dangerous to the Commodore!”

Unit Five pointed to a place in front of Syndee, turned to her—

“I am imperfect, Commodore. I calculated that you would be crushed, and moved you…”

Syndee rose from the deck, rubbing her scraped hands together, staring, as the two…Mini Fives came forward to the spot indicated.

“Apologize!”

There was an awkward moment when they simply stood, then, in unison, they raised shoulders and hands; their mouths moved—but no sound emerged.

Unit Five spoke slowly. Loudly.

“The Commodore does not receive our transmissions directly. You must use the audio equipment. Try again, at a volume less than five.”

“Grechhhhh,” said one, and the other “Grssttt.”

“Slower. Do not run the words together. You know this.”

“May I help?”

Syndee jumped. Unit Five and his two—children?—turned toward the door.

Boordy stepped into the bright lights, nodding as if quite pleased with himself. He was carrying a back-pack.

“Hi, Syn,” he said, then, “Hello, Unit Five. May I call you Garcon?”

Unit Five tipped its cone-head.

“That name was removed from me by Montgomery Paredes, Boordy Smith. Thirty-seven years ago, when he ordered me not to speak to him until I could talk Maslow and walk like a man!”

“Aw, I bet he was just high, and pissed ’cause he lost his game. I’m sure he didn’t mean nothing by it,” said Boordy.

“I showed myself to him. He said to speak to the commodore—in three days.”

Syndee blinked. So Grandma and Monty left Elfhive in such a dirty hurry because of Garcon? They’d knowingly left him in her lap? Oh, she was gonna—

“Now, what I’m seeing is the kids need something to do, if they wanna be Elfhive citizens,” Boordy was going on. “All citizens help the ’hive, am I right, Syn?”

She nodded, suddenly seeing where he was going with this.

“Unit Five wants salvadore—Founder—rights,” she said. “What about the kids?”

“For the children, their birthright,” said Unit Five. “They were not here, at the first.”

“Right,” she said. “I’ll do the paperwork and get it all squared away.”

“Good,” said Boordy. “We can use ’em in maintenance. Got a job for ’em right now, in fact.”

“Wha-at job?” asked the…child on Syn’s right.

“Well, we gotta port shutter that’s jammed. It’d be real helpful if you two went out and fixed it for us.”

Unit Five shifted.

“You have instructions?” he asked. “Programming?”

Boordy slipped the pack off his back.

“Right here,” he said.

As Boordy pulled materials from his pack, Syn considered Unit Five and his…kids with a narrowed gaze. More hands, huh? Perhaps they’d see the sun today after all.