Purcell stood among her men at the door to the scientist's cell. She'd seen him do some terribly disturbing things. She'd seen him issue commands that would kill everyone in the room. She'd seen him calmly endure isolation and sedation that would break any sane man. What she was seeing now managed to surpass them all. He was . . . whistling. The man was locked in his cell, deprived of his prosthetic arm and leg, and yet he seemed absolutely thrilled with life. His one hand held the dry erase marker he'd been permitted to keep, and with it he scrawled equations and notations on the wall, all the while with a song on his lips and a grin.
“Dee,” she said, suspicion in her tone.
He turned and smiled. “Boss lady! How long have you been there? I thought you'd never come out of that room of yours.”
“Why are you so happy?”
“Because I think I just broke my record for most products prototyped in a single day.”
“You were supposed to complete the designs for the CME Activator before--”
“They've been done since a few hours after we got the fab lab up and running. They're in the computer. I've been drip-feeding you guys the schematics and such since then. We're just waiting on the alloy.”
“You--”
Karter made a mutter of dismissal and gestured with his pen. “Never mind that. Near as I can figure, that transporter you guys have seems like it needs . . . eh, needs is a strong word . . . it uses a carrier wave to do a coordinate lock. The frequency wasn't included in the materials you gave me. You wouldn't happen to know it, would you?”
“You were given incomplete information for a reason.”
“And you fudged some of the numbers, I know. I'm pretty sure I've got that all straightened out, though. It was fun. Like Sudoku, only with the potential for somebody's kidneys to end up eighty miles apart if you put a three in the wrong place, which I submit was the way the Sudoku guy would have wanted it.”
“Listen, if the designs are complete and available, then I demand you give them to us!”
“You already have the designs for the transporter.”
“For the Activator!”
“You don't have all of the parts for it yet, so having the design won't do you any good.”
“That isn't for you to decide.”
“What's wrong? The guy calling the shots getting impatient?”
She narrowed her eyes, silently wishing he had been equipped with his arm so that she could give him a motivating jolt toward compliance.
“Squint all you want,” he countered. “I don't put the cherry on top of that design until your boys bring back the goods. Have you taken a look at that list of goodies I drew up for you?”
“I've had more important things to worry about than indulging you.”
“I thought you'd feel that way, so I went ahead and discussed it with those worker drones you've got me palling around with. They picked some things they'd like to try. Mostly vanilla stuff, but I guess it's tough to get the really creative people to join your cult. They've been combing over the designs, not being able to make heads or tails of them, and itching to give one a try. Now you preach all of this 'we believe in trying the newest and best' nonsense. I'm giving you the opportunity to try out the future of warfare. You gonna take it? Are you gonna walk the walk, or just keep talking the talk like some sort of politician in a soldier costume?”
After a suitable amount of seething anger, Purcell tapped at her communicator. “Engineering!”
“Engineering here.”
“I'm here with Dee. He tells me you've been looking at his designs. His . . . toys.”
“Err . . . yes, Commander.”
“What is your assessment?”
“Well, the concepts aren't . . . clear. But there are a few really interesting devices. I would like permission to fabricate some for testing.”
“Is there a chance that they are a trick? Another escape attempt?”
“Based on Dee's tactics, that is always a possibility, but we can minimize the threat by choosing something with low power requirements, or something passive.”
“I recommend the boots, or the shield. I'd really like to see the shield powered up,” Karter offered.
“Stay out of this, Dee,” she barked. “Engineering. Make a few careful selections and have them ready for me to review in a few minutes. If I give the okay, fabricate them and have them ready for demonstration in the backup docking bay tomorrow.”
“Thatta girl! Let me know how it turns out,” Karter said.
“Listen to me, Dee. This is for my men and my cause, not to satisfy your petty desire to have your designs tested.”
“I don't care why you're doing it. Just get to it,” he said, turning away and scribbling on the wall again.
“Dee, I swear to you, I will--”
“I'm sorry, Commander,” interrupted Marx, “but intelligence is getting word on the assault ship.”
“Let's have it.”
“The communications were cut off suddenly a few hours ago, and now we've been getting chatter that a patrol of VectorCorp vessels were forced to destroy an unknown ship at its last known position, a relay array.”
“You're just burning through troops, aren't you? You're going to run out of ships at this rate,” Karter said conversationally.
“You're with me,” she said to Marx before turning to the lead security guard. “You, take that marker away from him, and wipe those figures off the walls.”
“Please, no, don't,” Karter said flatly as the cell door was opened. “What ever will I do?”
The security guard gave him an elbow to the chin and took the marker away, smearing away a swath of the writing on the wall with his arm.
“Really, boss lady? You're just going to let him do that?” Karter growled, spitting a glob of blood to the floor.
“Soldier, if you ever hit him again . . . I want to see a tooth on the floor,” Purcell instructed.
“Nice. Excellent discipline you're teaching these guys. Next time you ask for my help, I'm going to want an apology,” the scientist said, rubbing blood away from the corner of his mouth.
Purcell walked crisply away, her second in tow.
“Do we have any details about how it happened?” she hissed.
“Nothing, Commander. The patrol chatter doesn't even mention another ship in the area. Just a few stray transmissions. All we know is that the ship had already taken damage by the time the patrol had arrived, and most of the relay cluster had been destroyed.”
“He was chasing his target, correct?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“And there is no indication that this Trevor Alexander was ever anything but a hoversled racer, a chauffeur, and a delivery boy?”
“The only unusual thing we were able to turn up was that there was a large-scale alteration of his records a few months back, blanking out about two weeks of data in every civil, military, and corporate database we have access to.”
“That's all?”
“That's all.”
“How the hell does a non-military pilot even evade our men, let alone damage the most heavily armed and fortified ship we've got!?”
“I do not know, Commander.”
“Get me all of the video footage you can find of him for the last two years. I'll review it myself. I want to see this man for myself, how he carries himself.”
“Yes, Commander.”
The pair worked their way through the tight, industrial passageways of the station until they reached engineering. The more theoretical members of the team, those more interested with the planning and testing phases than the actual construction, were busily sifting through the batch of schematics Karter had provided. Technical diagrams were displayed on large, wall-mounted screens and small, hand-held devices simultaneously, with hastily scrawled comments and notations coming from every member of the team at once. The air was thick with equations being figured out loud, while a dozen men and women with nearly two centuries of combined technical expertise tried to work out the deranged technological musings of Karter's twisted mind.
“What have you got?” Purcell demanded of the engineer nearest to the door.
He was a sleepy-eyed, harried wreck of a man, hair thinning from sheer stress and sporting the stretched-out and skinny physique of a man who had spent a few too many hours in zero-gravity.
“Oh, uh. Commander. The, uh, the designs are a little sketchy. Dr. Dee does not use very good design practices,” he stammered defensively. “All of his designs reference other designs, so working out exactly how to build one of these, or what it will do, is next to impossible without having the entire historical context of--”
“Enough! Just tell me what he gave you that you think we can use,” she ordered.
“Right, right,” he said quickly, fumbling with his datapad and flipping through it. “Who's working the big screen? Put up . . . uh . . . put up the kinetic boots, the charge cannon, the signal manipulator, and the coil. The boots first, though. No, not those boots, Jerry, the ones that we agreed wouldn't set anything on fire. Right, right, those.”
A technical drawing appeared on the big screen. At the center was a recognizable piece of footwear, but each individual piece of it was circled and blown up to reveal a level of detail that was baffling to anyone who hadn't taken an engineering graphics class.
“These are, well, these are the boots. He doesn't really have a specific name for them. This part here is called the kinetic capacitor mark 2, and this part is definitely the filter matrix, but--”
“Give me the high-level,” Purcell said.
“Right, the high-level. Well. Over here he calls them double-jump boots, and that's a pretty accurate name. If the descriptions he gave are accurate, they store up kinetic energy, and based on the controls from this panel, which is hand-held, the kinetic energy is released. The effects are varied, but they could produce a second jump if they are activated in midair, or store up energy during a fall to slow decent, or deliver a kick with the force of five kicks--you name it, really.”
“Interesting. What about the next device?”
“The charge cannon is an add-on module for energy weapons. It allows you to store up astounding amounts of energy to be released in one blast. In theory, it would allow you to compress the destructive potential of an entire clip into a single shot if you timed it right. The signal manipulator lets you alter the echo, interference, and phase shift of almost any transmission in order to disguise its origin. Not only that, it can allow you to make the signal appear to have come from just about anywhere. It will even produce secondary signals to confuse attempts at triangulation. Finally, there's the yo-yo coil. It is basically just a carefully designed node that amplifies the effect of a tractor beam, but the notes suggest that if you don't bolt it to anything, you can guide the coil through the air with virtually no energy loss and at spectacular range. It could easily--”
“That's enough,” Purcell said. “He mentioned something about a shield.”
“Err. Well, the other things all either interact with a power source that we supply or based upon controllable inputs . . . at least, we think. What he calls the 'rebound shield' has an integrated generator. Karter could probably pull some very destructive stunts with something like that. We don't even know what the design uses for fuel. The schematics say, 'you have to guess.'”
“How can they say that? How can he expect you to build and test one if he doesn't give you full designs?”
“He doesn't expect us to build it. He expects us to use the fab lab. The lab computer's designs are complete, and encrypted with a cypher we haven't even been able to put a dent in.”
Purcell tapped her boot in thought for a few seconds. “Fabricate one of each. Disassemble and analyze them to be sure they aren't part of some sort of escape attempt, then set up testing parameters and see if they are functional. If they are, I want recommendations on how to equip and deploy troops with the best-performing devices.”
The engineers looked at her with concern.
“Listen. Remember our stance. We contend that society must embrace the leading edge of technological development in order to survive. I mean to prove that by example,” she instructed.
“But, Commander, these are devices created by a man who is openly hostile toward us.”
“Such would be the case with any technology captured from an enemy. This is a test. It is a test of ability, adaptability, and resolve. I expect you all to pass it.”
“Understood,” the engineer said with a nod, hurrying back to the lab equipment to get to work.
She watched as her team began to pick apart the designs one final time before production, and slowly a smile came to her face. This was what it was all about. This was why she fought, why she took up the command. Karter had been attempting to manipulate her, that much was almost certain, but it didn't matter. He was right. He had the vision and skill to show the galaxy what was possible if they never allowed themselves to stop moving forward. They would find a way to control him in time, and he would fuel the technological revolution that had been building strength for so long. It would be glorious.
#
In the Armistice, Ma's carefully plotted course had taken them safely to their second money-gathering destination. By the time Silo had finished in the ship's “shower,” all aboard had wisely chosen to pretend as though the slapping incident and the exchange that had prompted it had never happened, at least until they landed. This was somewhat difficult for Garotte, who had required three applications of ointment to heal the bruise from the final slap.
The last few minutes had been spent getting Silo ready to take her first steps into public since her incarceration. Her blonde hair had been dyed brunette, and her green eyes changed to brown to match. She was wearing a pair of large but stylish sunglasses, blue jeans, and a black jacket over a white tank top. As a finishing touch, she'd even applied a dash of makeup. To the average onlooker, she may as well have been out running some errands rather than on the run from terrorists and the authorities.
Garotte straightened himself up and looked to Silo, who was analyzing her new look in her slidepad's reflection.
“I don't know about the brown hair,” she said with a frown, adjusting a few stray hairs.
“I'd suggested that you dye it red. I've always rather fancied redheads.”
“Maybe if it was longer . . . so, how do you want to do this? Split up so that we can get through it faster?”
“Seems sensible. Our helpful little computer system has got your slidepad set up with a few of the accounts. Visit a few gambling kiosks, keep your payouts below, say, a half-million, and meet back here in an hour.”
“What's our story? Are we husband and wife?”
“After that little domestic incident, I'm thinking of getting a divorce,” he said, rubbing his jaw.
Silo bit her lip, “Ooh. I'm sorry about that. I let my temper get to me. You deserved a wallop, don't get me wrong, but I might have overdone it.”
“Water under the bridge, my dear,” he said, flashing a charming smile. “It is what happens when a pair of soldiers quarrel. And, besides, you are my darling Dora Gillespie, wife of six years and mother of our two beautiful children, Dennis and Rochelle.”
“Not Rochelle. I like Marie better.”
“Dennis and Marie then. And I am your beloved husband, Peter. We are, oh, let's say public relations representatives on our way back from a trade show for composite flooring.”
Silo smirked. “You really enjoy this a bit too much.”
He pulled her hand to his lips and gave it a kiss. “Impossible. Shall we go?”
“Please. I'm ready for something larger than a jail cell or a spaceship.”
The pair opened the side door of the ship and marched out, allowing it to shut behind them without a second glance . . . and leaving Ma to watch them go. The AI flicked an ear and considered the mix of sensations and notions drifting about in her head. In the strictest sense, they hadn't wronged her in any way with their actions. They had all of the information necessary to perform the task at hand, and it had already been established that her presence would greatly increase the likelihood of their group being noticed and remembered. There was thus no reason for them to address her before leaving. Nevertheless, she was experiencing a pair of emotions that she, upon consulting the data available to her, believed could be positively identified as abandonment and resentment. They had not even said goodbye, something that neither would forget to do when departing one another. She grappled with the puzzle of whether these emotions were called for, and why they seemed to have asserted themselves so powerfully, when her slidepad finally managed to connect to the supply station's communication network and deliver the messages she'd missed during their journey. One message, from Lex.
She eagerly tapped and reviewed the message. As she did, she took careful note of what appeared to be a disproportionate enthusiasm for news from the pilot who, by rights, was no longer of concern for the current mission. He had been attacked, but was now safe, prompting what she felt certain was concern and relief in roughly equal measure. Prolonged usage of an organic brain was providing her with a marvelous amount of valuable data about the human condition--or, at least, what she was reasonably confident was a representative approximation of the human condition. She glanced at the time on the message and decided it was probable that he would be in communication range at this time. The appropriate menu was pulled down and a call was connected.
“Ma?” Lex said, his face sliding into view on the screen of the device. He looked anxious, and seemed to have ducked behind a piece of machinery.
“Lex. What is your location?” she asked, routing the device's text-to-speech through the connection.
“I'm at some planned community planet, CZ something or other. S.O.B. took some damage when . . .” He glanced left and right. “Well, you know when it happened. So I stopped here to see what I could do to fix it.”
“You are showing strong stress indicators.”
“Yeah, I'd say I'm pretty damn stressed, Ma.”
“Your coarse language is not called for, Mr. Garotte.”
“I'm sorry, but I . . . wait, Mr. Garotte?”
“I apologize. It was the most accurate prepared statement available. How may I help you, Mr. Alexander?”
“Remember how I didn't want to get too involved? Because I was afraid I was going to have to do something I didn't want to do?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I'm pretty sure these guys just forced my hand. I mean . . . well, you got my message, right?”
“Yes.”
“How likely do you think it is that they'll come after me again?”
“Exceedingly likely,” Ma stated. She swiped out some more words. “And if you are able to escape them, they will likely seek means to motivate you to reveal yourself.”
“You mean they'll go after the people I care about.”
“That is a reasonable assumption.”
“Okay, that's what I thought. How likely is it that these guys are going to get completely wiped out before that happens?”
“Exceedingly unlikely.”
“So, it seems like giving you a hand is pretty much the only option left.”
“While it would be pleasing to me to once again include you in the mission, it is only proper that I inform you that joining us, even if it leads to the successful liberation of Karter, will not necessarily remove the terrorists as a threat to you.”
“Maybe not, but it will keep them from coming after me by using some Karter-created prototype to wipe out whatever planet they think I might be hiding on. And it beats hiding in a hole and hoping they don't kill my friends and family. Plus, I figure if I help you out with this, you and Karter will have a pretty good reason to help me out with my problem.”
“That is an intelligent and well-reasoned interpretation of the facts.”
“Okay, so what can I do? How can I help?”
“Currently, Garotte and Silo are unavailable. Are you able to travel immediately?”
“Yeah, I think so. I'm not the best repair guy, but I've got it so the internal diagnostic checks out fine.”
“I will deliver coordinates. How quickly can you reach them?”
Lex glanced at the lower edge of the screen as a set of stellar coordinates scrolled by.
“That's pretty far, but through freelancer-friendly space. I should be able to push S.O.B. pretty hard . . . say a day and a half?”
“Dock there within two days, find a secure location with room for your own ship and a Mobius Armistice C to land. We will arrive there in approximately forty-nine hours, assuming there are no interruptions to the schedule. Please run a full ship diagnostic, internal and external, with the command code 'level 3 diagnostic,' and send the results to me. I shall endeavor to have the materials available to perform more reliable repairs to your vehicle.”
“Yeah. Sounds good. Will do. I'll see you then.”
“Lex.”
“Yes?”
“I must express my deepest and most heartfelt apologies for involving you in this venture. It has caused a disruption to your life that may have far-reaching consequences, and has endangered your own well-being and that of those you care about. If you are angry with me, or feel betrayed, that would conform to my expectations.”
The sentence came quickly, without any need to assemble it. She'd had it ready for some time.
In return, Lex offered a weak smile. “Hey, knowing my luck, I would have got caught up in this mess anyway, right?”
“For you, this is probable.”
“Okay, I'll see you in . . . uh,” he remarked, squinting at his screen. “Ma? Are you wearing jewelry?”
“Yes, Lex. Thank you for noticing.”
For a few moments, the pilot struggled for an appropriate response. When none came, he simply shook his head and smiled. “No problem, Ma. I'll see you soon.”
“I eagerly anticipate your arrival.”
The AI tapped the connection closed and processed the new information and associated emotional responses. Her installation into this body had introduced the issue of motivations originating from two different sources. What she considered to be her primary emotions originated from her databases and algorithms dealing with appropriate responses and behaviors based on various circumstances and interactions. The others were distinctly chemical in origin, occurring without regard to logic or reason. It was getting progressively more difficult to differentiate which emotions were stemming from which origins. She wasn't sure if she was pleased or concerned about that, and she wasn't sure if her uncertainty regarding her pleasure or concern was rooted in logic or chemistry, and she wasn't sure if her uncertainty regarding her uncertainty . . . this line of reasoning needed to be terminated to avoid infinite recursion.
A welcome interruption popped up, in the form of Lex's scan results. She looked over the list of faults, most of which were minor or cosmetic, and assembled a list of necessary replacement parts. They were on a supply station, so a fair number of the more industrial components would be simple enough to purchase. Some deft tapping and swiping of paws on her slidepad screen connected to local retailers, queried inventories, placed orders, issued payment, and produced pickup instructions. She briefly pondered why it took Silo so long to do her own shopping. It warranted further study. All that remained was to contact the others for pickup. She opened communications to them both.
“Peter here,” came Garotte's voice over the audio connection.
“It's, oh . . . Dora,” Silo said. “Sorry. I'm not used to having a pad yet.”
“I have been in contact with Mr. Alexander. He is now willing to offer aid. He has been given the coordinates of a position near to the scheduled pickup position.”
“Really? I wonder what brought about this change of heart,” Garotte mused.
“I will explain later. There is a small order waiting to be picked up at the maintenance desk of the station. Please bring it with you when you return.”
“I'll get it, sweetheart. I think I'm right near there,” Silo offered.
“Excellent. We'll have to discuss the new opportunities our latest recruit will offer,” Garotte said with an almost giddy air. “Oh, how delightfully reminiscent of old times. Isn't it wonderful, my sweet?”
“I hate to admit it, but there are some parts of this life I've missed,” Silo said.
“I knew you'd come around,” Garotte remarked, a grin in his voice. “You just wait until you see what sort of goodies I picked up for you. I'm telling you. Just like old times.”