I AM a passenger.
Kelly often calls me a control fanatic. She’s not wrong. Probably something to do with that trust issue she also complains about. Because of it, I don’t use illegal substances, don’t drink to excess unless the memory flashes have me really fucked-up or I’m in the company of my team or Officer Sanderson back on Girard Base. It’s rare enough that I can count the instances in the past year on one hand. Well, maybe two.
Therefore, when I have to relinquish control to the artificial intelligence I share headspace with, it’s a desperate, heavily calculated act, an act I wouldn’t perform if there was any way I could pull off the stunt I’m planning on my own. I’m aware of everything around me, like watching a vid of my own life in real time, but without permission from VC1, I can’t effect change upon it. Not to mention the ever-present fear that the AI might decide she likes being in charge….
In short, I hate it. But sometimes, like now, it’s a necessity. With minimal shielding and no weapons, we need to lose the Sunfires, because if they get their hands on me….
You think what maneuvers you would like to execute. I will manipulate your limbs at the proper speeds, she tells me, firming my grip on the primary control lever.
Right. That was exactly my issue. I could conceive what needed to be done, but my human body couldn’t translate my thoughts into action fast enough to carry them out.
A computer, however, can transmit my desires to my muscles much faster while removing excess input such as distracting sights, sounds, and smells, along with pesky little things like fears, worries, and concern for my own life as well as Kelly’s, all of which slow my actions down. The difference might be infinitesimal, but when dealing with frequent and often delicate evasive maneuvers, every nanosecond counts.
My left hand darts over the touchpads and switches while my right guides the steering lever in a variety of jerks and arcs, a nudge, then a yank, then a gradual turn. The yacht rolls, dives, and flips, darting between other ships at impossible angles, slipping through spaces that should be too tight, clearing the gaps with inches separating our shield perimeters and avoiding any further visible flare-ups.
The engine’s still whining, the alarms whooping, and every panel light still active flashes red. In my peripheral vision, I’m aware of Kelly bending over her armrest, gagging, and my stomach churns in brief sympathy before VC1 quells my nausea by cutting off my perception of my own innards.
Okay, this does have some major advantages.
After a couple more rolls, I backward-loop us to settle in between a pair of inbound passenger liners, the required side-to-side distance more than great enough for us to fit into. It’s a blind spot, a location where sensors shouldn’t detect us while dark. We should only be spotted if someone literally looks out a porthole and happens to notice a darker blob against the already dark expanse of space or the shadow we might make on the opposite liner. I reduce the crying engines to match the liners’ speed, leave the exterior and interior lights down, and watch for any sign the Sunfires somehow followed all that.
Anything? I ask several minutes later.
I have located the engine signature of the pursuing ship. Currently, it is outbound, behind one of the seventeen other vessels bearing the Tranquility’s emergency beacon.
I chuckle inside my head. Seventeen?
Those are all I could reach without a signal boost.
I laugh harder. It’s more than enough. They’ll be chasing false trails for weeks. Another thought occurs. What if they turn around? Head for the surface instead?
A moment, please. She closes my eyes.
Um, why did you do that?
External input is distracting.
Oh.
I shiver. Waiting inside my own skull is like being stuck in a gravlift between floors, alone, with the emergency comm dead and no access to the outside world. It’s a lot like the airlock. My breathing picks up pace, along with my pulse rate.
Calm. Something cool and soothing floods my veins. VC1 has upped my serotonin output. Involuntary functions return to normal. You need better control.
You need to open my fucking eyes.
An image of two eyeballs entwined by their dangling nerves appears in my inner view. I’d roll mine if I had the ability. Wondering if she’ll receive it, I attempt to send her an image of me bashing my head against a wall the next time I get the chance, then broken bits of metal and circuitry falling out of my ear.
My eyes open.
I am humoring you. We are programmed against self-harm, she chides. You would not be able to act upon that threat.
There are loopholes for everything.
A second later I’m thrown into full control, my senses hyperreactive to every external source of stimuli. Goose bumps rise on my exposed skin as the onboard climate system blows ice picks from above. I fumble to shut down the now deafening alarms and shield my eyes from the blinding stars and flashing warning lights with my other hand. It’s not always this bad when VC1 returns me to myself, but the last few days have taxed me, so it’s worse than usual.
Kelly helps, covering my eyes with a cool palm and wrapping one arm around me until I cease shivering. “Thanks,” I mutter.
“Welcome back. You were gone awhile. I was getting worried.”
I cover her hand with my own. “You’re always worried.”
“Not without reason.”
I can’t argue with that. I tug her fingers away and take stock of the cockpit. No sign of vomit, so neither of us puked. Every readout is redlined, with the exception of life support. Small but important favors. I’ll take what I can get.
“Have we lost them?” Kelly asks, staring at the now flickering viewscreen.
I don’t think I’m getting our deposit back.
“Yes. Not sure for how long.”
“Indefinitely,” VC1 chimes in from overhead, the speakers popping and crackling with her speech.
Kelly and I both jump. “Little warning next time, okay?” I say.
“You will adjust. On a more relevant note, I have created false bookings in over a hundred different establishments on Infinity Bay under the LaSalle name, each with a different length of stay. Any outside source searching for such a reservation will see them, but the resorts themselves will not, nor will Kelly’s family be charged. I have also erased all exterior traces to the real reservation made by her parents some time ago.”
I swear a bit of smugness has entered her usual monotone. “That’s… amazing,” I tell her, figuring even an AI would appreciate a compliment.
“Yes, it is,” VC1 agrees.
Kelly laughs. “I’m really glad you’re on our side.”
“You should be.”
WE FLY in both liners’ blind spot until we enter Infinity Bay’s gravity well. Then I ease us out and hope I don’t spook either pilot when I flip our running lights back on.
There’s a flare of emergency channel chatter that suggests I’ve done exactly that, but I ignore the angry accusations and threats of legal repercussions and head us toward the mostly fluid surface of the planet.
“Erase any record of our little hide-and-seek game the liners might have recorded,” I tell VC1.
“Already done.”
“She does a lot of thinking for herself,” Kelly comments from her place back in the copilot’s chair.
“I am a fully self-aware, sentient being,” VC1 says. Definitely smug. No doubt about it.
“My apologies,” Kelly says with a smile. She turns to me. “Are you sure we should go ahead with this? We could fly somewhere else, lie low for a day or two. There’s at least one other inhabitable planet in this system.”
I shake my head. “That’s Elektra4. I checked it out the other night while I looked at the rest of our route. Nothing there but scattered scientific research stations studying the extreme electrical storms that the planet’s crazy atmosphere produces. You can’t even go down there without a specially shielded ship or the lightning will fry all the onboard systems. Those shields are really expensive. Most modern escape pods have them, since they’re smaller, and you never know where you’ll have to crash-land, but I think the Storm owns exactly one actual ship capable of the descent.”
“Huh.” She brings the planet up on a smaller screen embedded in the lower right corner of our larger one and stares at the purple-and-green world and the multiple light flashes coming from its atmosphere. “Pretty, though.”
“Besides, we’re here to see your friends and family and celebrate your birthday. Wouldn’t do for you not to show up. Don’t worry. We’re covered. It’s fine.”
Kelly input our destination into the navigational computer shortly after we first boarded the Tranquility, so I steer us in the direction of the aptly named Celebration Isle, one of the smaller islands making up the near-infinite chains of them dotting their way across Infinity Bay’s single, massive ocean. From what I can tell on our approach, the only structures include a two-story main building and a couple dozen or so wood-frame pastel cottages in varying sizes. All are painted in pinks, greens, yellows, and blues with shutters in complementary colors. They line the beach—a rainbow of welcome.
On the far side of the island, I can make out landing platforms designed to accept a variety of air transports, both atmospheric craft and interstellar. Careful of aesthetics, the resort designers have hidden them among the trees so guests on the ground won’t notice them and be reminded that sooner or later they must return to their working lives.
The nearer we get the more details I can discern. One section of beach has boat docks protecting everything from small sailboats to a few classic yachts, water-racers, and fishing craft. My gaze lingers on the racers, and a pang of longing and nostalgia tightens my chest.
“What is it?” Kelly asks, reading me with ease.
I shake my head. “Nothing. I think I used to enjoy water sports. That’s all. Can’t remember specifics.”
She rests a hand on my arm. “Well, then, you’ll just have to introduce me to some. I’ve always been too scared to do much on open water, so I’ve never water-skied or parasailed or any of that. But with you I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
That earns her a laugh. “I’m the one who leads you into trouble, remember?”
“Not on purpose. And you always get me out of it. That’s what matters.”
I’m trying to decide how to respond to that when a Banshee-like screech rips its way from the yacht’s engine section, echoing in both audible and physical shudders through the transport’s frame. I flip the switch to shut down the alarms almost before they start—I’m still suffering from the headache our earlier chase induced—but there’s nothing I can do about the flashing lights all across the control panel and even climbing up the walls and crossing the ceiling, every one of them red.
I don’t need VC1 to tell me. Every system is shutting down: engines, shields, life support, the works. I run my fingers over the touchpads. Yep, even the landing gear refuses to deploy. For the moment, I still have guidance operating. I can use the steering lever to direct where we’ll crash.
But we are going to crash.
“Kelly,” I say, keeping my tone as calm as possible under the circumstances, “strap back in. We’re doing this the hard way.”