Jimson floated in beautiful weightlessness. After the pounding by the UCX ship’s brutal acceleration, all he wanted to do was drift. Drift and not think. Because thinking was too hard. Something to do with blood loss to the brain, he thought. Hopefully the fog would clear. But for the moment he didn’t care. Drifting, weightless, was just fine by him.
Jimson watched as the fast courier ship maneuvered to put the little Westinghouse craft between it and the great shimmering white bulk of the Holy Saleschannel. Hiding. As much as it could. All the maneuvering done by careful prods of its gyro, rather than anything that would be noticed on thermal scan.
Much of the Holy Saleschannel’s tent flickered uncertainly between deep gray and blue-and-white stripes, but it still looked threatening if for no reason other than size. Farther off, the deep gray of the Pluto was visible only as an outline against occluded stars.
In the side viewing-window, where an ancient license plate reading “1QWKDOG” decorated the bulkhead, Jimson saw the datatags for both the Shrill and Lazrus Turnbull hovering over the wreck of the 04-011. Pointers showed the datastreams to be heavily intertwined through a laggy route that piggybacked both the Holy Saleschannel’s connectivity and a low-bandwidth route through the Pluto.
Adrenaline shot through his body, clearing away some of the fog. “They’re still inside,” he said.
“Good,” Raj said, peering back from his gelbed. “Let’s hurry get them.”
“Should we be worried that Pluto’s still flowing data?”
Raj frowned. “That’s bad.”
“How bad?”
“Don’t know. Appears to be down. But talk brings friends. We don’t want to meet friends.”
“I can agree to that,” Jimson said.
“Hurry too. Consumeristians see us eventually. Cheap consumer ship not large enough to cover bulk.”
“They’re hulled,” Dian said, hanging casually down from the netting of her acceleration couch. She pointed at a neat hole through the aft end of the ship.
“Yeah. Ship killed,” Raj said.
“Won’t that hurt the Shrill?”
“They’re made – or evolved – or whatever – to live in space,” Jimson said. “It won’t hurt them.”
“Goodness,” Raj said. “No worries about companion human.”
Jimson frowned, looking at the data tags for both the Shrill and Lazrus Turnbull. Both still very active. “Uh, the human’s still alive.”
“No suits in a consumer ship,” Raj said.
“He’s still consuming data.”
“Hmm,” Raj said, and went back to the front of the ship to strap on a datover. “It’s deeped. And chillin. But data’s not random.”
“A persona-model, maybe, still running?” Jimson said.
“Doubtful,” Raj said.
Jimson shook his head. They needed to get out there and collect them. Echoing data didn’t matter. Even if he was alive, it was only one man.
Who might be a Winfinity deep-sec spook, he thought. With who knows what technology.
“Wait a minute,” Jimson said. With Tiphani’s level of access, he should be able to surf their datastreams. See who it was. Before they ever left the ship.
“What you doing?” Raj said.
“Surfing,” Jimson said. He reached out to the tags, requested a waiver, got it, broke into the channels. Most of it appeared to be subtextuals or encrypted images, because it didn’t fall into place. He tried to pull text from it, came up with garble.
Then, a voice, loud and close in his auditory nerves:
You are previous contact (keeper), the voice said, sexless and anonymous.
ARE YOU THE SHRILL? Jimson eyetyped, with a slow jittering gaze. It shouldn’t know he was surfing. That was the point of surfing. It was anonymous.
I am Shrill ambassador, the voice said.
I COME TO RESCUE YOU.
You no longer part (component) of ones-overseeing? Have disintegrated reintegrated become separate (unthinkable)?
I AM WORKING FOR MYSELF NOW, Jimson typed.
And new friends, a new voice said.
WHO ARE YOU?
You know me as Lazarus Turnbull.
YOU SHOULD BE DEAD. And you shouldn’t be able to tell we’re surfing, either.
Should accept offer from non-dominant component? the Shrill said.
We may not have much choice, Lazrus said.
What is new (component) wanting? the Shrill said.
TO RESCUE YOU.
Something like a laugh. What do you really want? Lazarus said.
Jimson sighed. THE SAME AS EVERYONE ELSE.
Silence for a moment. Tell us why we should accept, Lazrus said.
WE’LL TAKE YOU TO MARS. FAST. HIDE WITH FREEMARS THERE.
Silence. Jimson caught more of the subtextual/image data, and frowned. Was it possible Lazarus was communicating with the Shrill directly, on its own datachannel? No, that didn’t make sense.
Jimson felt a chill work its way up his spine. He shivered, even though it was warm in the little craft.
“What’s taking long?” Raj said.
Jimson held up a hand. Wait, he mouthed.
Come get us, Lazrus said.
Yes complete tour (mission), said the Shrill.
Jimson pulled himself back to reality. The mutterings of the Shrill and Lazarus died away. “I got some cross-connect,” he said. “Started talking with them. I think I just got them to agree to come peacefully.”
Raj’s frown deepened. “You talked to them? Without protocols?”
“Yes. They seemed to sense I was surfing.”
Raj muttered to himself and shot off towards the front of the cabin. When he came back, he held two cheap flexsuits and two guns. He held out one of each to Jimson and Dian. “You go,” he said. “This smells bad.”
“But they said they’d come with us,” Jimson said.
“Take them.”
“We can’t, uh, dock?”
Raj shook his head. “Not luxury liner.”
“You’re not coming with us?”
“You take gamble we not noticed by consumeristians, or what talks on Pluto, or if really is peaceful surrender. I take chance on no subsequent treachery.”
“You sure think positive, don’t you?” Jimson said.
Raj shrugged. “I’m a courier.”
“But if we get the Shrill’s secret, we all win.”
Raj shrugged. “Some invest more than others.”
Dian reached out and took the suit and gun. “Come on,” she said to Jimson. “Let’s get this done.”
“Aren’t you worried?” Jimson said.
“About Lazrus? No.”
“Who is he?” Jimson said.
Dian just frowned and started slithering into her suit.
“You were with him. Do you know what we’re walking into?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
Dian shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.”
But she said no more.
#
Tiphani sat in the form-fitting seat to the right and front of their tiny pilot. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that he was staring at her ass. The murmur of Honored Yin’s prayers came from behind her and to the left. In the echoing darkness of the shortrange Spindle ship, the sound was almost comforting. Tiphani almost regretted baiting Yin earlier. And not just for the fact that she was sure the comments had already been added to her file, to be scrutinized and analyzed at a later date to weigh on her overall record.
If we survive, that is, she thought.
The pilot whispered something, just below Tiphani’s threshold of hearing. She had a moment to wonder what he was saying.
Then he said, loud enough for both of them to hear: “Hang on, girls.”
Honored Yin gave a little yelp, and Tiphani felt that familiar sense of dislocation that came when a ship Spindled up.
Oh shit this is . . .
The dislocation stretched, pulled. Tiphani felt as if she had been wrapped around the inside wall of the little ship. She imagined looking at herself in the chair. Her terrified expression. Her thin white knuckles, gripping tight to the arms.
. . . it.
Bang. Back into her. Just her. Nothing more.
Tiphani’s guts did a slow roll.
Honored Yin sobbed louder. Tiphani looked down at herself, expecting to see arms and legs a jumble, expecting to see blood.
Just her. Nothing else.
She held up her hands, looked at them.
Honored Yin, still crying.
“Knock it off,” the pilot said. “We’re there.”
A loud metallic rapping outside the ship made Tiphani jump.
“What the fuck?” the pilot said. She looked back to see him studying the scroll of data in his datover.
“Oh, you motherfuckers,” he said. “Fucking showoff cocksuckers.”
The banging came, louder, from the direction of the door.
“Worthless little shits! Betting on my ass! Wait till I get back, you fucking fuckheads, I’ll show you some funnies.”
“What’s the matter?” Tiphani said.
Honored Yin stopped sniffling.
The pilot looked at Tiphani, set his jaw, seemed to consider a reply, then just thumbed a manual control on his screen and gestured towards the door.
“This,” he said.
The hatch slid open.
Revealing the hard wood acceleration pews of a tent revival ship, where several dozen parishioners were strapped down, looking up at the hatch with expressions of religious awe. Farther away, near the nave, choirboys peeked from behind the hand-rubbed mahogany and made the fingers-spread sign of the Holy Franchise. An enterprising youth floated into the steel frame of the hatch, still gripping the aluminum staff he had presumably used to knock on the side of the ship. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.
“Holy shit,” Honored Yin said.
Tiphani broke into loud laughter.
The pilot unstrapped and launched himself out of his seat towards the hatch. “Fucking assholes testing their goddamned algorithms on me,” he said. He pushed past the boy with the staff and disappeared from view.
Tiphani unbelted herself and pushed off through the hatch. She sailed out into the heights of the Holy Saleschannel’s tent, thankful for the zero-G maneuvering classes she’d taken a couple of decades ago. She twisted in mid-air and caught the back of a pew, bringing herself down to a rather ungracious landing.
Inertia still works, she thought.
Tiphani brought herself up to look back at the shortrange Spindle ship. It hung, almost motionless, about ten feet above the pews, a scuffed stainless-steel marble that reflected the still-confused faces of the parishioners below.
As she watched, Honored Yin poked her head out of the hatch, gripping the edges as if she might fall.
“Push down towards the ground,” Tiphani said. “Be ready to stop your rebound.”
“I don’t like this,” Honored Yin said.
The scratching of Velcro soles on the fleur-de-lis carpet made Tiphani turn. A short, thickset, dark-complexioned man bowed low before her.
“Holy Franchise, thank you for delivering us this miracle,” he said.
“Who are you?” Tiphani said.
The man looked up at her. “Alan Rodriguez. Minister of Conversion. Welcome, angels of commerce.”
Tiphani tried to keep a straight face, imagining what a shock it must be to have a ship appear out of thin air in a consumeristian ship.
“We’re not angels,” she said. “This is a shortrange Spindle ship . . .”
Honored Yin let out a yelp and leapt down, badly misjudging her speed and bowling Alan to the ground. When they got untangled, Alan had to hold Yin down to keep her from flying off into the heights of the tent.
“Honored one . . .” Alan began.
Honored Yin kissed Alan full and long on the lips. Alan’s expression morphed from pleasant surprise to horror. He pushed her away.
“I’m alive!” Honored Yin said. “Alive! I’m alive!”
“Thank the Holy Franchise,” Alan said.
“Yes, thank the Holy Franchise for all the fruits of commerce and sublime revenue multiplication. Thank Madonna for guiding this uncertain traveler. Thank Marilyn for protecting her!”
The parishioners’ terrified expressions melted away in the face of a familiar display. “Thank the Holy Franchise, Madonna, and Marilyn,” several of them said.
“Are we first?” Honored Yin said. “Have you made a deal? Tell me we’re first. Or that you haven’t made a deal with the Four Hands nonbelievers.”
“You’re the first,” Alan said, resetting his velcroed feet on the carpet and helping Yin reconnect with the floor.
“You hear that, Tiphani?” Honored Yin said. “We’re the first! And we’re alive! Thank the Holy Franchise!”
“Hurrah,” their pilot said, gripping a pew not far away. Yin shot him a furrowed-brow glare, and he shrugged.
“There was one other ship, but it didn’t make it,” Alan said. “We thought it was Four Hands, but the Pluto fired on it.”
Honored Yin’s expression went from one of disgust to full-fledged anger in the space of a moment. “Another ship? The Pluto?” she spat.
“The Pluto destroyed it.”
“The Pluto’s supposed to be disabled!” Honored Yin screamed.
“It appeared to be, uh, Honored Yin.”
“And it hasn’t fired on you?” Tiphani asked.
“No,” Alan said.
“Oh, shit,” Tiphani said.
“Yes, shit,” Honored Yin said. “Don’t you ever think? When did this ship get destroyed? Supposedly?”
“It was destroyed, Honored Yin.”
“Did you see it with your own eyes?”
“No. Just instruments.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago.”
Honored Yin looked at Tiphani, her eyes bright and cold. She turned back to Alan. “Get us out there. Now.”
“Where?”
“To the Shrill ship. Now!”
“But we haven’t even negotiated,” Alan said, his voice rising in a whine. “We have other ships coming to negotiate in good faith. And you haven’t even spoken to Preacher Dave.”
Honored Yin reached out and grabbed Alan by the lapels, twisting the fabric and threatening to rip him off the carpet. “If the Shrill is still there, we’ll give you whatever you want. An entire fleet of ships to go and convert the Independents with. A world of your own on the edge. True Perpetual status. Whatever Winfinity won’t give, my family will. If the Shrill is still there.”
“Why wouldn’t it be there?” Alan asked.
“The other ship was a fast courier, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but I . . .”
“You didn’t think! Not at all. Of course it disappeared. That’s what it’s supposed to do.”
“I . . . I’m sorry, Honored Yin.”
“Get us out there right now.”
“Yes, honored Yin.” Alan pulled himself away from her and virtually ran down the aisle.
“You think it’ll still be there?” Honored Yin asked Tiphani.
“I doubt it.”
Honored Yin sighed. “Of course not.”
Minutes later, Alan came back, trailing a stretcher that carried Preacher Dave. Preacher Dave’s head bore a bloodstained bandage. Tiphani didn’t think she’d ever seen a worse job of fake injuries, but she said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” Alan said.
“So sorry,” Preacher Dave said.
“What?” Honored Yin said.
“A drive flare. From beside the Westinghouse ship. They’re accelerating along our vector to Mars.”
“Follow them!” Honored Yin said.
“We don’t have the acceleration of a fast courier. Plus, we have that,” Alan said, pointing at the shiny ball of the Spindle ship.
Tiphani pictured the untethered ship tearing through the fabric of the Holy Saleschannel, trailing glittering shards of frozen air.
“Shit,” Honored Yin said. “Shit shit shit!”
“What can we do to help?” Preacher Dave said.
“Get us out to the Westinghouse ship. We might be lucky.”
But they weren’t.
#
“Fucking asshole,” Dian muttered, as the fast courier’s acceleration stretched her back into the acceleration-hammock.
“I told you, I’m sorry,” Lazrus’ voice came from behind her.
Dian wriggled over to the edge of her gel mattress, slowly and painfully, even though they were only accelerating at 3Gs this time. She peeked over the edge at Lazrus. Lazrus’ skin layer had cracked and died in the cold of space, showing deep red channels through a gray crust. On his cheek was an open red wound where she’d struck him with the butt of her own gun. Right after he handed it back to her. She could see shiny metal at the bottom of the channels in the thing’s flesh.
“You left me back there to die!” Dian said.
“Continue this later, praps?” Raz said.
“You said you were going to leave on Mars anyway,” Lazrus said.
“Thought AI had common sense not argue w’women,” Raz said.
“Shut up!” Dian and Lazrus said, in unison. Jimson, hanging below her, sighed and looked away.
“Sara was supposed to take care of you,” Lazrus said.
“She didn’t!” Dian said.
“She didn’t help you get to the jumpport?”
“No! Win-Sec got me! Right away! Like you told them.”
Lazrus frowned. “Sara says she is sorry,” he said. “She was preoccupied with, um, getting us to freedom, and had limited ability to influence events in Winfinity City . . .”
“Where is this Sara? She should apologize to me!”
“She could talk to you via datover.”
“Not at 3G!” There was no way she’d put that weight on her face in the crush of acceleration.
Lazrus shook his head. “Raz, can you display incoming packets from Winfinity network, 102.32.43.123.18.2?
“Surely,” Raz said.
“I’m sorry,” came a female voice from the front of the ship. “Dian, I should have helped you, but I underestimated my capability.”
Dian levered herself to look forward again. On the ship’s screen, there was the image of a pale girl with dirty blonde hair, wearing a loose-cut business suit in light gray.
“You’re Sara?”
“Yes. Please don’t blame Lazrus for this.”
That expression. That tight-lipped, I-don’t-want-to-be-doing-this expression. Like an apology, cajoled out of a seven-year-old. She knew Lazrus could be making this all up, creating Sara with the near-infinite power of his networked mind, but she doubted if he’d show it like this. If he was spoofing it, she would be contrite, groveling . . . and probably quite a bit less good-looking.
“You were jealous,” Dian said.
Sara’s expression went closed and tight. For several moments, she said nothing. Then, through tight lips: “Yes.”
“So you’d leave me down there with Winfinity as a perpetual indenture, or worse?”
More silence. “I didn’t intend you to be harmed.”
“Sara,” Lazrus said, his voice soft, betrayed.
“I’m sorry, Lazrus.”
Rage made Dian see everything in slow motion, through a scrim of red. For a moment she could have stood up on the gelbed, if only to rip the screen off the ship’s bulkhead.
“I don’t want your fucking machine!” Dian screamed. “He’s yours! Understand? All I want is to go back to Mars and forget all this! Fuck you goddamn arties, and fuck you goddamn Winfinity assholes, and fuck you all. I just want my life back!”
Sara nodded and disappeared from the screen.
“I’ll do everything I can to help,” Lazrus said.
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear you,” Dian said.
“Where are we landing?” Jimson said.
“Rockport, where else?” Raz said.
“We’re not going deep into Free Mars?”
A laugh. “Not less we want shot down.”
“If we’re landing in Rockport, how are we going to get it past Win-Sec?” Jimson said.
“It?” Raz said.
“The artie.”
“My skin and clothes will grow back by then,” Lazrus said.
“It still looks fake,” Jimson said. “Best to dump it.”
Dian nodded. Jimson had taken an almost irrational dislike to Lazrus almost immediately. Probably the standard Winfinity conditioning against arties, she thought. Bt would almost be worth it to see Lazrus’ body tumble into space.
“Could,” Raz said. “Didn’t expect more company than Shrill. Would improve drive efficiency.”
“No,” the Shrill said. The powercart had been secured below the acceleration hammocks, and everyone struggled to look. It lay pinned and sluggish in the middle of its cage.
“No what?” Jimson said. “Clarify.”
“Human-created network intelligence not permitted (desired) leaving.”
“Why not? It abducted you. We rescued you.”
“Cognizant interests congruent understanding,” the Shrill said.
“What mean?” Raz said.
“Poor translation algorithms,” Jimson said. “We never got the upgrades, as far as I know.”
Raz snorted. “Typical corporate.”
“We shouldn’t argue amongst ourselves,” Jimson told Raz, nodding at the Shrill.
“The Shrill has already made its decisions about humanity,” Lazrus said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means talk all you want.”
“Does that mean it won’t give us the secret to eternal life?” Jimson asked.
“I’m sure it would. If there is one.”
“There isn’t?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t concern me,” Lazrus said.
From the front, Raj’s laughter drifted back.
“What do we do now?” Dian said.
“What else?” Jimson said. “We keep going.”
“Why?”
“What else can we do?”
From the front, more laughter.
September 26th, 2009 / 1,062 Comments »
Tiphani arrived only two minutes before the scheduled meeting time at the limo-stop outside Winfinity Corporate Headquarters. She held her mussed bangs out of her face and panted. Honored Yin and Honored Maplethorpe were already there, standing tensely on the marble-inlaid platform, watching the sleek black Cadillac limos and bright yellow Checker cabs that streamed by.
Honored Yin looked up at her, offering only a grim frown and a hand-brush at her own hair. Honored Maplethorpe glanced at her, glanced back at the road.
“You could have given me a little more notice, Honored Yin,” Tiphani said, trying to push her bangs back into place. “And some more detail.”
“I didn’t call this meeting,” Honored Yin said.
“Honored Maplethorpe?” Tiphani asked.
A brief head-shake, nothing more.
Tiphani frowned. After the latest games with the Holy Saleschannel, she wasn’t in any mood to play.
“Whoever called it should have given me more notice,” she said.
Honored Yin came up close to Tiphani, looking closely at her face. Yin reached out and tried to push Tiphani’s hair back into place.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t embarrass us,” Honored Yin said.
“Who called the meeting?”
Silence. A huge silver Fleetwood, paint shining as flawless and perfect as a chrome ghost, sailed into the limo pickup area and slid to a stop only a foot away from Honored Maplethorpe. He looked back at the others, his face grim.
The door to the limo popped open, revealing softly crushed smoke-gray leather and wood embalmed in polish so deeply it shined with an inner light. Martini glasses and a polished stainless shaker nestled in the shadows on the far side of the limo, throwing back reflected sparks of the daylight.
“Come on,” Honored Yin said.
“Who called this meeting?” Tiphani said.
“I did.” A deep voice, disturbingly familiar, resonated from within the limo.
“Bertrand,” Honored Yin said, pushing Tiphani forward. “The CEO.”
Sudden thoughts ricocheted through her head. Bertrand Peter Chambers? The CEO of Winfinity? The CEO? The one that people whispered about: he lives in a space station orbiting the moon. Orbiting Mars. Nobody has seen him for years. He’s nothing but a brain living in a Wallerstein body. He’s growing his seventeenth clone, hoping for a whole-body transplant this time. He’s dead. He’s broken the three-hundred-year-limit on rejuvenation, the only one who’s done it. He’s an artificial intelligence. He’s found the Door Through and uploaded.
“The CEO?” Tiphani asked.
“Yes,” Honored Yin said, pushing Tiphani ahead of her.
Tiphani shuffled forward, numb, imagining what she would see inside the limo. A horrible thing, all life-support bags and shiny metal skeleton-bracing? A brain floating in dirty gray fluid? A polished brass robot?
She bent down to get in the car. Almost closed her eyes. Turned to look towards the front of the cabin, because she couldn’t help herself, because she couldn’t stop . . .
A man. Maybe a little shorter than the standard hundred and eighty centimeters. Maybe a little stockier than the perfect athlete would be. Salt-and-pepper hair, happy crows-feet nesting his bright amber eyes. Forgettable features, a skillful sketch by a mediocre artist. Wearing a conservative blue pinstripe suit that bunched around his shoulders, framing a standard yellow power-tie. She could have passed him on the street, and never remembered him.
“Please sit,” Highest Chambers said, gesturing at the long bench of soft gray leather that led back towards him.
Tiphani just looked at him, realizing immediately what he was. The gesture was too forced and mechanical, the expression on his face too fixed and rigid to be anything else.
“Yes, I’m presently attending via waldo,” Highest Chambers said. “Please don’t let that influence your perception of the importance of this meeting, Tiphani.”
Tiphani nodded and slid down the smooth leather seat, making room for Honored Yin and Honored Maplethorpe in turn.
“Good afternoon, all,” Highest Chambers said, as the car glided away from the curb and merged with traffic in a smooth flow of power. Tiphani noticed, almost without surprise, that the other cars parted for them as if sensing the supremacy housed inside the limo.
Or as if they were under remote control, she thought. Which was possible. She felt a chill creep into her guts. Where were they going?
“All will be revealed in time,” Highest Chambers said. “Please bear with me, dear Tiphani.”
Predictive stuff again, she thought ruefully, and tried to put a cap on her rebellious thoughts.
A mechanical smile from the CEO told her how well she was doing.
“I’m willing to bet that every one of you knows why you’re here,” Highest Chambers said.
“The Shrill,” Honored Maplethorpe said.
“Specifically, the current Shrill situation, backscaled to beginnings of negotiation.”
Silence.
“I suppose I should have engaged in the negotiation myself, but that isn’t what the Shrill requested, was it?”
“No special treatment,” Tiphani said. “Viewing of vanquished competitors. Those were its specific instructions.”
“As we understood them, anyway,” Highest Chambers said. “Looking back with hindsight 20-20, I am not so sure that we understood their true intent. However, in any case, we are where we are.”
“Highest Chambers–” Honored Maplethorpe began.
“I do admire each of your careers,” Highest Chambers said. “Your individual achievements have been impressive, which reflects positively on you as individuals. I particularly admire . . .”
Silence.
“Okay,” Highest Chambers said. “I’ll drop the bullshit. You clearly aren’t believing it. You think I’m here to chop off your heads and appoint a new team. Maybe I should. But I believe in seeing things through. More honor accrues from polishing a turd into a pearl than from cutting a Koh-I-Noor diamond into individual brilliancies. Your individual records are shit. Two second-raters, only Perpetualed because of grandiose achievements or blackmail photos dating back two centuries, who have done as little as possible in their careers, and who now see this as their chance to live forever. Pathetic, except that you’re probably no different than ninety-nine out of a hundred Perpetuals, nothing more than a burden on the rest of society, people who I have to convince to vote for my agenda every once in a while so you can think you’re doing something important. And an Earth-native who seems to have lost faith in the very system she used to create her success. Don’t worry, Tiphani, I understand how you feel, but I don’t know of a better system. If you could experience firsthand the excesses of government in the Oversight era, you would understand. I wish I could do more.”
“Highest Chambers,” Honored Maplethorpe said.
“Shut up!” Highest Chambers said. “Because of your collective dalliances, the Shrill is floating in space, maybe radiation-fried, while the goddamn Consumeristians shake us down for all we’re worth.”
“The Shrill should be relatively impervious to radiation,” Tiphani said.
“Shut your mouth, Tiphani.”
Tiphani clicked her mouth closed so fast that her teeth hurt.
“And, as I was saying, Winfinity’s in a major Chinese fingercuff with Four Hands, with an almost-tracable path to our offer that has precipitated the breaking of the Gentleman’s agreement. Have I forgotten anything?”
Head-shakes and hopeful looks all around.
A mechanical smile. “Actually, I have. Has anyone checked on the location of our friend Han Fleming from Four Hands in the past day?”
Tiphani swore and subvocalized, bringing up airscreen data. She imagined Honored Yin and Honored Maplethorpe’s eyes glassing over in sympathy.
“Too late now,” Highest Chambers said. “He’s on a fast courier to meet with our newly-enterprising Consumeristian friends. Which means, even if I take you down to the closest CorpEx depot and bribe them with every credit I have, you’ll arrive after he does. Which means there’ll probably be a freshly-inked contract between Four Hands and the Consumeristians by the time you arrive. They like that physical presence and ink-on-real-paper shit. And Four Hands will do anything they can to rip the Shrill from us now. They’re pissed. As in, you don’t want to know the size of the armada that’s Spindling in. They’re thinking fuck it, the Gentlemens’ Agreement is broken, it’s time to smash and grab what they can. They’d like nothing more than to see Winfinity fall, and fall hard.”
“Our fleet is bigger than theirs, surely,” Honored Maplethorpe said.
“Surely. Now ask me about the logistics of it Spindling in to meet them in time.”
Honored Maplethorpe said nothing.
“It’s shit,” Highest Chambers said. “We have STL stuff coming in from the Jovians and FTL coming in from Shrill space, but the Spindling is typically more complex. By the time we have an armada assembled, they’ll control the Shrill – and most of the Earth-Mars routes by then, as well.”
“I . . .” Honored Maplethorpe said.
“What?”
“I just . . . “
“What?”
“I just wanted to compliment you on your grasp of early-21st idiom, Highest Chambers,” Honored Maplethorpe said. “It is truly impressive.”
“That’s because it’s when I grew up, you fuckhead!”
“Yeah. Like that.”
Highest Chambers slapped the leather seat with a mechanical hand. “Please tell me you aren’t all idiots of this caliber.”
Tiphani shook her head reflexively. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“An intelligent question. You might just make it out of this situation without a second indenture, pretty Tiphani.”
“A . . . second indenture?” Honored Yin said. “But we’ve already reprimanded the Manager Jimson and re-indentured him. He was largely responsible for the Shrill abduction.”
“As was Tiphani’s dalliances with him, and your knowledge of said dalliances.”
“We were not indirectly involved.”
“You allowed it to continue!” Highest Chambers said. “Let me know again why you should not share Jimson’s penalty?”
Silence.
“And so, I ask myself, to forge this base metal into finest stainless, to polish this steaming turd that lays in front of me, I ask myself, ‘What redemption shall I ask?’”
“Anything, Highest Chambers,” Honored Yin said.
“Shut up.”
“I was just saying that I’d do anything you want.”
“You have nothing I want.”
Eyes down. “I’m sorry, Highest Chambers.”
“I can’t send you on fast courier, and I doubt if offers given virtually will be enough for the Consumeristians.”
“I could chance assembling a team off the Moon, which might make it there in time, or might not, but it wouldn’t be the same team, and the only thing more infested with Independent anti-corporate anti-government anti-everything assholes is Free Mars, and I don’t need to take a chance that my new team might make a great deal – then disappear with the Shrill. So I need to stick with you.”
“Thank you, Highest Chambers.”
“Shut up. The only problem is that I need another way of getting you out there. A faster way.”
“But there isn’t,” Honored Maplethorpe said, then fell silent, a haunted look on his face.
Honored Yin gasped. “You’re not going to . . .”
“Why not?” Highest Chambers said. “We have it working eighty-six percent of the time. Ninety-seven, if you don’t count minor personality changes that might just be caused by stress. It’s enough to use for troops when we begin the Jovian Conversion. And you are, after all, troops. Just of a slightly higher caliber.”
“What are you talking about?” Tiphani said.
“Oh, I’m sorry, pretty Tiphani,” Highest Chambers said. “You don’t have Perpetual-level access to the Winfinity Advanced Research division, so you wouldn’t know about our recent successes with the short-range Spindle Drive.”
“Short-range? Spindle?” Tiphani’s mind struggled to integrate the information. It was like trying to put together two random pieces from two very different jigsaw puzzles.
A window opened in her optilink. Images and data poured forth. A squat little ship, like a shiny steel ball surrounded by scaffolding, set in a large gray-painted anonymous warehouse, windowless. GPS tags showed it being somewhere in Winfinity City. Split-screen of matching scaffolding with no steel ball in it, under the pale blue sky of Mars. A flash and a pop and the ball disappeared from the warehouse and reappeared on the Martian landscape, raising a small cloud of dust. A door opened on the side of the ball and something like a man stumbled out to twitch and heave on the cold red sand. Two others followed him, more cautiously, their heads covered by glassy headers. One looked around and ran quickly out of the frame.
“Early test,” Highest Chambers said. “Sorry. Most of them came out much better than this. We don’t need the scaffolding anymore. We’ve added maneuvering capability to the early capsule, and the scientists tell me they can put it within a few yards of the Holy Saleschannel. Inside it, if they wanted to.”
“And you’re going to . . . use that . . . to send us out there?” Honored Maplethorpe said.
“Not you,” Highest Chambers said. “You’re too stupid.”
“Us, then?” Tiphani said, gesturing at Honored Yin and herself.
“Yes. I expect the highest level of commitment from you two.”
Silence for a time.
Yin broke it. “It’s quite an honor. Highest Chambers.”
A quick smile, as warm as a machined gear. “Isn’t it though?”
#
Jimson Ogilvy was dying.
Slung deep in the UCX transport hammock, he felt as if a car was parked on top of him. Every breath hurt his already-strained abdominal muscles. He could almost imagine his diaphragm twisting and contorting as it tried to push his leaden guts out of the way. His optilink gave him nothing but the barest data: still accelerating at just a little under 5G. Estimated travel time. Elapsed time. Universal coordinates. He tried to subtract elapsed time from estimated travel time, but his G-fogged brain wouldn’t cooperate.
Through the netting of the travel hammock, he could see Dian’s form hanging to one side and slightly above him. Her flesh was stretched taut over her face, pooling on the soft gel-filled mattress. Her eyes seemed to be open, but unseeing. Probably pulled open by the gravity. Was it possible, Jimson wondered, to sleep with your eyes open?
He might have slept, he thought. The trip was hazy and indistinct in his mind. Maybe he’d slept for a time. Or passed out.
Ahead of him, the back of the courier’s own gelbed. Brushed metal, cold. He could see a sliver of viewport over the top of the bed. The stars, fixed in the heavens, seemed to mock him. How could they be accelerating at such a rate, and the stars not move? He imagined fantasies of hundreds of years before, great starships cruising at FTL speeds, stars streaming past their bow. So much more romantic than the reality of Spindle Drive transport, here one second, there another, stars flickering into new constellations that he still couldn’t name.
“Are we close to turnover?” Jimson croaked.
“Won’t be any better when we flip,” the pilot said, in a deep and strangely calm voice. What was his name? Jimson fumbled deep in his brain and retrieved something that seemed familiar. Raj. Raj something. Raj like Smith. Raj Patel. Yeah. That was it.
“When, Raj?” Jimson croaked.
“S’pronounced Raz, but that’s OK. About seventeen minutes, ‘short flight.”
“Raz . . .”
“Relax. Your vitals are in orbit compared to the skirt, and she’s from Mars. No excuses for you.”
“I’m not a skirt,” Dian said. Softly.
“Sorry,” Raj said. “S’it not popular on Mars these days? No means to offend. Anyhow, doing better than companion. Could up boost a bit.”
“No,” Dian said.
“I’m worried about detection,” Jimson said.
A brief laugh. “We’re spoofing them pretty good. They think we’re a faction from Westinghouse, broken off Four Hands. One thing about Consumeristians, they take a lot on faith. Course there probably are factions doing this forreals, coming out like we are.”
“Should we be worried?”
“Should always be worried. Never know when thread is destined to be cut.”
“Couriering must be tough.”
“Nah. Like it. Gets me away. Time to think.”
“You can think right now?” Jimson said.
“A bit slow, but OK.”
“You’re almost independents,” Dian said.
Jimson smiled. He’d thought the same thing. The black-painted, radar-absorbing ship. The software they’d used to miss the ex-earth tolls. And before. The United Corporate Express office had known exactly who they were and why they were there. They knew the stakes immediately. And they knew both Jimson and Dian’s history, as if they had moles deep in the Winfinity network. They refused Jimson’s offer of Tiphani’s money, telling him it would probably disappear any time. All they wanted was a cut of the big prize: the immortality secret of the Shrill.
Did they have access to their own artie? Jimson wondered. Maybe a nomadic one they worked with?
That would explain a lot. He’d never thought of the fast couriers as being anything more than the lapdogs of the big corporates.
Brief laughter from up front. “We only put ‘corporate’ in the name because that’s what gets us the business. We can outrun anything they have, so we do what we want.”
“Have any openings?” Jimson asked.
More laughter. “Wondering why you corporates go through what you do. Slavery. For to get fired!”
“Indenture is a natural price to pay for the reward of lifetime employment . . .” Jimson said, then trailed off. Not anymore. No corporate would take him again.
And your indenture didn’t exactly pay, did it?
More laughter from up front, long and hard. “Course, if this works, not like you have to worry about money ever again. None of us worrying.”
“That’s what I keep hoping,” Jimson croaked.
“Hope is good,” Raz said.
“Do you think we’ll be able to pull it off?” Dian said.
Silence for a time. Then: “Stopped guessing. No percentage in it.”
Silence.
Then, Raj again: “If Shrill is still in Westinghouse ship and not actually in with the consumeristians, if it can take some rads, if we slip under the Holy Saleschannel’s detection, if they’re pretty much out of ammunition, if nobody gets there before us, if we can convince the Shrill that it is a good idea to come with us, then we might have a chance. Does that cover?”
Jimson tried to nod. “That covers,” he said. “When are we going to flip?”
Spoken through a smile from up front:
“Soon.”
#
Grey-suited Win-Sec guards marched Tiphani Mirate and Honored Yin past dirty glass windows that looked out over ancient warehouse. Buzzing mercury-vapor lamps cast bright light on the grimy concrete floor, where scaffolding grew shiny ball-bearing pods of various sizes. White-coated Scientists and blue-coated Technicians made their way leisurely from pod to pod. A group of techs busily assembled a new scaffold. Another group clustered around a well-used pod that sprouted ugly maneuvering jets.
In the waiting room, there were anonymous fake-wood tables and vinyl couches, as well as the requisite water cooler and coffee urn, fashionably scuffed and worn. Or actually scuffed and worn, Tiphani thought. Winfinity had a reputation for being cheap with research.
Honored Yin sat on the edge of one of the couches, mumbling prayers:
“ . . . and please Holy Marilyn, help us in our time of need, from the place where you look out over people in peril. Protect Tiphani Mirate and myself from early loss of our spark. Hear our plea, and help us as you have helped others to avoid your fate.”
Tiphani looked away. There was something almost touching about Honored Yin including her in the prayers, but she didn’t know if she should be praying as well.
And Tiphani was still having trouble believing that Honored Yin actually believed. Hell, she couldn’t really even tell how she felt. Numb, more than anything. As if the entire day was a dream. Not real. Couldn’t hurt her.
Eighty-six percent chance, Tiphani thought. Maybe higher. Something to cling to.
Which was a fourteen percent chance of failure.
She tried to imagine it. But she felt nothing.
If they put you in that can, you might die.
Nothing. She felt nothing.
You don’t deserve this!
Still nothing.
And what was she going to do? Rush the guards, who were surely standing outside the waiting room? For her protection, of course. She almost laughed.
Yin moved on to another consumeristian saint:
“. . . and please, Holy Madonna, guide us on this improbable mission as you were guided in your impossible rise to fame and fortune. We implore . . .”
“I thought entertainers were made back then,” Tiphani said, not wanting to say it, powerless not to.
Yin looked up, eyes wide. Her hands wrenched in her lap like two live animals fighting. “What?”
“The church says how improbable Madonna’s rise to fame was, but I thought entertainers were made by the record companies back then.”
Honored Yin just looked at her. For several moments Tiphani thought she simply wasn’t going to respond, her mental antibodies rejecting any heretical speech.
But if the antibodies struggled, they failed. Honored Yin colored a terrible beet-purple color and said, in a low and grinding voice, “Given her education and the relatively jejune quality of her talent, I’d say the church is justified in viewing her achievements as improbable.”
“Funny that Britney isn’t a saint, then.”
“Holy Madonna’s achievements far surpassed the upstart, for a much longer period of time.”
“I thought Madonna was supposed to still be alive, living in a cloned body somewhere.”
Honored Yin clenched her hands into fists and made as if to rise from the couch. She closed her eyes, sighed, and forced herself to sit back. “I have no interest in what heretics think.”
“What if they’re right? She can’t possibly be a saint if she’s alive, can she?”
Silence. Honored Yin looked at her with eyes like lead. “I’m sorry to hear your lack of faith.”
Tiphani sighed. She probably shouldn’t have spoken at all. But, saying it, she felt good. Better. Suddenly alive. As if she had been living under a heavy weight all her life, and the weight had just been lifted.
“Repent, and accept the Holy Franchise, and you might increase our chance of making it through this trip.”
“Without looking like a Picasso, you mean?”
“Salvation isn’t a joking matter!”
Tiphani allowed herself to break into a wide smile. “But it is! It’s funny, because if it isn’t funny, I’d have to take it serious. And if I took it serious, I’d be pissed at being used like a pawn by our CEO, who didn’t even have the courtesy to come in flesh!”
“Highest Chambers probably was nowhere near Earth–”
“I don’t care!” Tiphani said.
Honored Yin looked down at her hands, allowing them to open. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this mission,” she said.
“I know I’m not.”
“Then why the taunts? Don’t you want your team to be as solid as it can be?”
Because I can’t believe that you believe, Tiphani thought. Not really. Not in anything truly transcendental. In the Consumeristian Church being a convenient lapdog for you, something that helps you achieve your goals, sure, I can see that. But it looks to me like you really believe, and that really bothers me.
And maybe she did, Tiphani thought. One of the more amazing things she’d noticed about people were their infinite capacity for self-deception. So the Chief who was skimming off the top of his departments’ receipts was really looking out for the best interests of the company. And believed it. So the ones who went out and claimed Edge planets for Winfinity by taking them from Disney and Westinghouse and Microcon were liberating them from an oppressive regime, rather than killing and maiming innocent families.
So that those who rise to the top of their profession thanks to the influence of their grandfather actually believe they deserve it, so they think they’re somehow different than every other Chief in Winfinity.
Tiphani’s laughter died. Her smile disappeared. She looked down at her own hands, white-knuckled, bloodless.
A sharp rap on the door made her jump. A blue-coated Technician poked his head in. He wore a big Tech 1st pin, dirty and dull with age. Thirties. Sandy hair, gray-blue eyes. One of them partially obscured by a datover. He twitched a smile at them and said, “You girls ready?”
Honored Yin let out a sound something between a sob and a wail. “I’m scared!” she cried.
Tiphani turned to see fresh tears cascading down Yin’s face. I’m not seeing this, she thought. A Perpetual is not sitting in front of me, crying. This isn’t happening.
Tiphani fought down an urge to laugh.
The technician came into the room and squatted down in front of them. He reached out and took one of Honored Yin’s hands. It grabbed onto his as if it was a life-preserver. Tiphani saw him wince.
“Hey, hey, it’s all right,” he said. “I’m George LeSieur. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”
“Let us go!” Honored Yin said.
“I’m sorry,” George said. “You’re supposed to walk with me now, actually.”
“I can’t! I won’t!”
“Honored Yin, you’ll get me in a lot of trouble if you don’t come with me.”
“I don’t care!”
George pursed his lips and looked at Tiphani, as if afraid of a similar outburst. Tiphani gave him a shrug. George quirked a smile at her and turned back to Yin.
“It’s really not dangerous,” he said. “We use the shortrange Spindle to send troops all the time.”
“Troops!”
“And before that, there was lots of testing on convicts. You know, perpetual indentures. But we have it working really well now.”
“I don’t want to go!”
George watched flickering data crawl on his datover. “Do you know where the name comes from, Honored Yin?”
“Of what?” Honored Yin looked up, eyes bright with tears.
“The Spindle Drive.”
“No.”
George spread a broad smile across his face. Yin’s face gave a distant echo.
“Guess.”
“I thought . . . it was because they used a spindle.”
George shook his head. Tiphani watched, rapt. Nobody had told her where the Spindle Drive name came from, either. She supposed she could look it up on her optilink, but she wanted to wait and see what George had to say. She liked Technicians and Scientists; so honest, so direct, so tactless. Endearing in its way.
“Have you ever seen some of the old movies where they say they’re going to ‘fold space?’”
“No,” Honored Yin said, sniffling.
“That’s OK.”
“Or I don’t remember.”
“That’s OK, too. Have you ever heard of the expression, ‘don’t fold, spindle, or mutilate?’”
“No.” Honored Yin squeezed her eyes shut.
“No reason you should have,” George said. “I think it was a postal thing. Maybe even pre-twentieth. You’re not that old, are you?”
“I heard the expression, ‘gone postal.’”
“Good. Anyway, they used to talk about how one way to travel faster than light would be to fold space. As in, space is a fabric, take two pieces of it, bring them together, step across. Neat idea. But when Portman’s arties stumbled across the Spindle phenomenon, that wasn’t really the way it worked. From what I hear, one of his scientists had taped a handwritten sign over their first experimental drive, and it said, ‘Don’t fold, spindle, or mutilate.’ Since the drive didn’t really fold space, and they didn’t want to talk about it mutilating anything, it became the Spindle drive.”
Honored Yin looked at him with wide eyes. “I don’t get it,” she said.
George shook his head. “They took it from the old expression, don’t fold, spindle, or mutilate. Like a joke.”
“Oh.”
George gripped Yin’s hands tighter. “Look. It really is safe. You’ll be fine.”
“You’re coming with us?” Honored Yin said.
“We have a pilot for you.”
“Come with us!”
“I think you’d much rather have a real pilot. I can’t even drive a car.”
“Please!”
George watched more datover data. “Walk with me, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Okay.”
George managed to get Honored Yin up and out into the hall. She didn’t seem to notice the Win-Sec agents that fell in beside them.
“I got it,” Tiphani told George, as Honored Yin walked ahead.
“I’m glad.”
“What are our real chances?”
“Pretty good,” George said.
“Good enough that you’ll go with us?”
George darted an uneasy smile and looked away.
That’s what I thought, Tiphani said.
George and the Win-Sec guards led them down onto the warehouse floor. The buzz of arc-welding and flashes of light came from one corner where a new scaffolding was being erected. The place smelled of steel and concrete and grease and burned plastic. Technicians and scientists turned to watch them pass, silently tracking their progress.
At their well-used capsule, George introduced Honored Yin and Tiphani to their pilot, a short mousy brown-haired guy who looked them up and down as if assessing whores in a house of ill-repute. His mouth appeared to be fixed in a permanent sneer. Tiphani wondered what riches they’d offered him to pilot them to the Holy Saleschannel.
Or if they offered riches at all. Maybe he was one of the permanent indentured, or one of the troops.
No. She didn’t want to think about that. That was a thought that almost broke through her gray wall of uncaring.
They shook hands and exchanged names. Their pilot’s palm was damp and soft, his grip loose. His name passed from Tiphani’s mind as soon as it had been uttered.
The hatch opened in their ship, revealing darkness.
“You’re not coming with us?” Honored Yin said.
“No, I’m sorry. The CEO wants me to stay here and make sure you’re safe.”
Honored Yin said nothing. Her lips hung slightly open.
Tiphani expected her to launch into a screaming tirade, but she just looked down at the floor.
“I’d really like it if you came,” Honored Yin said.
“I’m sorry. The CEO.”
“Okay,” Honored Yin said, and stepped into the craft. From inside, the sound of mumbled prayers came again.
“Will you be watching?” Tiphani said, before she ducked into the dark space.
“I’m the one who’s setting endpoints and optimizing your shear.”
“Whatever that means.”
“It means that I’m the one who makes sure you don’t end up inside one of the Holy Saleschannel’s bulkheads.”
“You’re not going to put us in the ship, are you?”
“It would be interesting to try,” George said.
“Please don’t.”
George smiled. “It would be interesting to see what an intersection between a Spindle event and a bulkhead would do, too. Theoretically, it would displace the bulkhead and nothing bad would happen. But we’ve never really tried it.”
“George?”
“Yes.”
“Please don’t think too much,” Tiphani said.
George’s smile cracked wider. “I like your sense of humor.”
“Is that what you call it?” Tiphani asked.
She ducked into the darkness.
September 22nd, 2009 / 720 Comments »
Hey all, just a break from the monotony (?) of Eternal Franchise: my short story “TFT” is out in Andromeda Spaceways In-Flight Magazine #40 (ASIM 40). As you’d expect from Andromeda Spaceways, this is a lot more tongue-in-cheek than my usual story.
For those of you not familiar with Andromeda Spaceways, it’s an Australian pub with a slant towards the humorous (though that’s not all they publish.) After many rejections, it’s fun to see one of my own show up there!
Check it out and let me know what you think!
Oh, and, of course, subscribe! Andromeda Spaceways offers both conventional print and electronic PDF subscription options.
September 18th, 2009 / 1,168 Comments »
Understanding of humans (aliens) much improved, First Mind said, allowing its thoughts to be transferred through its ambassadorial component.
Demonstration of actual (negotiations) diplomacy extremely illuminating.
Terrifying to contemplate (we) can begin understanding of human (alien) motivation, Second Mind thought.
Can infer extreme efficiencies, First Mind sent, keeping the thought from the component.
Until strategy well-distributed on all sides of conflict, Second Mind thought.
Still efficiencies. You see how readily they recombine when convenient, First Mind thought.
To have (choice), Second Mind thought.
Choice of many good meals, Old Mind thought.
From the human glink, a response that First Mind recognized as being from Second-Human-Generated-Network-Intelligence. Second-HGNI was easy to understand. Second-HGNI wanted into the Shrill mind. Second-HGNI had done nothing to warrant that yet. Second-HGNI had displayed only some irreconcilable activity with Third-HGNI.
Appearance indicates irreconcilable activity intended to create new mind, Second Mind thought.
First Mind’s thoughts flew in disarray. To willingly create new minds seemed the utmost in foolishness and danger.
Indications that humans create new minds, Second Mind thought.
First Mind did not reply to Second Mind. Instead, it parsed the message from Second-HGNI:
Immobilized due to (nonsequitur) ship war-action. Considering abandoning body (component) as will be bound (assimilated) if captured by humans.
Stakes of abandonment? First Mind sent.
Loss of straightforward contact with (you). Possible additional encroachment by (nonsequitur) First-HGNI. Inability to breed (bring new life) (create new minds) with Third-HGNI.
Suggest retaining body, First Mind sent. We (find enjoyment in) conversation with your mind.
Retaining body implies binding to humans, lessened efficiency of mind, possible wholesale change, Second-HGNI said. Would become like (nonsequitur) Third-HGNI. Also threat from (nonsequitur) First-HGNI as recovery is possible.
Third-HGNI thoughts much less efficient (pleasurable), Second Mind said.
None to eat, Old Mind said.
First-HGNI not excellent companion, First Mind thought, keeping it private from the human’s component.
First-HGNI not compatible with larger minds, Second Mind thought. Too infected by human (thoughts) (minds) aggressive and wild. Suggest assistance in rendering its components.
(You) have become mild in the course of these conversations (negotiations), First Mind thought.
Counsel of human destruction stands, but assessment of our effectiveness in carrying through pogrom less sure. Humans (aliens) have displayed (unaware) surprising resourcefulness.
Not desiring leave body (abandonment), Second-HGNI said.
Detail options, First Mind said, through the component.
Option leave body, undesirable for reasons stated. Option remain in body, undesirable for reasons stated.
Human presence imminent? First Mind said.
Factually human presence should have occurred prior. Delay in human presence not integrable (no explanation). Speculation that humans continue own negotiations as to provenance (control) of (you).
Current control by humans-dealt-with-prior? First Mind said.
Current control by (nonsequitur) agents of humans-dealt-with-prior speculated. Humans-dealt-with-prior (nonsequitur) operating through (nonsequitur indicating delusion) agents blocked action by current-human-competitor-now-ally. Believed agents of humans-dealt-with-prior renegotiating (changing terms of) contract with humans-dealt-with-prior. When concordance (agreement) reached, humans-dealt-with-prior will retake control of (you) and bind (nonsequitur) Second-HGNI. Unless current-human-competitors offers more (resources) to agents of humans-dealt-with-prior. Then current-human-competitor will take control of (you) and bind (nonsequitur) Second-HGNI.
What is your input (desire)? First Mind said.
Desire to continue conversation (knock on network wall).
You are not allowed in network of mind! First Mind said.
It is very attractive.
However not allowed, First Mind said.
Appears that control of our component may cede to different human group, Second Mind thought. Although cannot indicate reasons for distress, this development profoundly disturbs. Suggest consideration of pullout from component.
To embark on pogrom? First Mind thought.
Pogrom to ensure continuance of (we) is highest possible goal. Even if unsuccessful, task should be undertaken. Not expecting understanding from mind with (extreme) human contact, Second Mind said.
Suggest First Mind contaminated by human thought? First Mind thought.
Suggest all (we) contaminated by human thought, Second Mind thought.
It is possible, First Mind thought.
Through the component, First Mind said, Counsel (suggest) retaining body. Wish to continue conversation. Will consider request (demand) for mind-network access.
I will retain body, Second-HGNI said. At least until the humans come.
September 11th, 2009 / 1,147 Comments »
Hours passed in the dull gray room. Dian began to hope that they would come and put her in with whatever other scourges of society they had in captivity, just so she’d have a place to lay down. The two chairs, hardbacked, weren’t good for sitting more than a few minutes at a time. Pacing had lost any novelty it once might have had. And the floor was too cold to make a comfortable bed.
No food, no contact. The gray walls and floor blended into a seamless, almost hallucinogenic, whole in the shadowless light cast by the softly glowing ceiling.
They’ve forgotten me, she thought.
The top of the hard steel desk began to look like an inviting bed.
Someone didn’t fill in the right form, she thought. There’s no database record of me. I’ll die of thirst in this featureless little gray room. By the time they open the door, they’ll see nothing but a decomposing corpse . . .
. . . laying on the top of the table.
The door opened.
At first she just blinked, thinking, I’m really hallucinating now.
“Dian Winning?” A man stepped into the room, holding the door open behind him. Tense. As if he was afraid the door would click shut and lock.
Dian goggled at him. Nice thick black hair and friendly blue eyes. No gray. No crows-feet. A face maybe a little to chiseled and perfect to be truly natural. No pin decorated his chest, but the suit he wore was a fashionable dark-gray number, slung casually over a purple formfitting shirt. Even Dian recognized it as a Manager fashion.
“Who are you?” she said.
“I’m . . . it’s not important. Come with me!”
Dian started to get up, then stopped herself. “Why?”
“Because I’m rescuing you!”
Dian laughed. She was hallucinating.
Anger passed across the man’s face, leaving a frown. “What’s funny?”
“Who are you?”
A sigh. “Jimson Ogilvy.”
Wait. A. Minute. Memory reassembled. She remembered his face. “You were in the town. With the Shrill.”
“Yes.” Frantic hand-motions. “Come on!”
“Why?”
“Why what, damnit!”
“Why should you help me?” It made no sense. Her mind, food-deprived and sluggish, refused to integrate.
“I’ll take you to Mars.”
“So I can show you where the Shrill is?”
“Look, miss, I know where the Shrill is. I don’t need you for that. But I do need you to get us deep into Free Mars.”
“I don’t get it. You’re a . . .”
“I’m striking out on my own. Winfinity screwed me over pretty good a few minutes ago. I know where the Shrill is. I can get to it before they can. If you get up off your butt and come with me, that is!”
“You’re . . . how?”
“Fast courier. Come on, we’re booked in thirty-seven minutes from the nearest jumpoint. We have to hustle.”
“You’re going to take on Winfinity?”
“Yes! Damn it, make up your mind. I’d like your help. But I’ll try it on my own if I have to.”
Go against Winfinity. Try to steal the Shrill Ambassador from them. With this crazy guy who should be wearing a manager’s pin, but wore nothing. Whose eyes darted from side to side as if he was already running from a nightmare-thing that swiped at him from only a few feet back. Maybe caught, brought back to Winfinity, charged.
But it might just be a way to get to Mars and disappear, forever. And how could it be worse? She was already caught, charged.
Tiphani’s words were soft, but she wasn’t Win-Sec. Most likely she was looking at perpetual indenture, and whatever horrors went along with it.
She sprinted to the door. As she passed by Jimson, she paused a moment and kissed him, briefly, on the cheek. Because she didn’t have much to lose.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Because you’re my knight in shining armor.”
“What?”
“You’re rescuing me, dummy.” They let the door slam shut and sprinted down the deserted hall.
“You can really get us off earth?” she said.
“As long as she doesn’t look at her account anytime soon,” Jimson said.
“She?”
“Tiphani. The Chief whose access codes I’m stealing.”
Dian let out a brief barking laugh. Not so much like a knight in shining armor, she thought, as a bandit in rusted chain-mail, using a stolen car to whisk her away.
Jimson looked at her quizzically, and she laughed again.
Whatever he is, she thought, I’ll take it.
#
Tiphani jumped when Han Fleming burst through the door of Honored Maplethorpe’s office, high in the Winfinity corporate tower. She was still trying to wrap her mind around the latest dispatch from the Holy Saleschannel.
Nukes, she thought. We’ve used nukes.
“You unspeakable monsters!” Han Fleming said, his eyes bulging and darty, his hands clenching as if in need of something to tear and rend.
“It is well-known that the Consumeristian Church is a neutral entity. I don’t see how their independent actions can reflect negatively on Winfinity,” Honored Yin said, not rising from an olive fabric couch, done in the rectilinear Danish Modern style.
Something like a growl escaped Han’s throat. He whipped around, fixing on a painstakingly restored console stereo from the 1950’s. He flipped the top open, grabbed the heavy cast-metal record player, lifted it out of the case, and dashed it to the floor. It rebounded from the thin carpet, shedding Bakelite knobs and fragments of other small plastic parts. The stack of records that were on the changer shattered into licorice shards. Han turned to the console and kicked in the speaker grilles, tearing ancient fabric and shattering brittle plywood.
Han whipped back towards Honored Maplethorpe and lunged over his desk, putting his face only inches away from the other man.
He pointed at the wreckage of the stereo and said, “This is what you’ve done to the Gentlemans’ Agreement today!”
Honored Maplethorpe didn’t flinch. “Did you ever consider that the Consumeristian vessel might have been responding to the Pluto firing on it?”
“That isn’t what our records show!”
A thin smile from Maplethorpe. “It is interesting you are getting data within the Winfinity corporate network. It appears our mole problem isn’t entirely clear.”
“Working on it,” Yin said.
“Do you think we should ask the Four Hands emissary to assist us in our investigation?” Honored Maplethorpe said.
“In a more personal capacity? As in an in-depth examination of his embedded networks?” Honored Yin said.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Han pushed himself back from the desk, glaring at each of them in turn. “You dance around the issues. But the facts are clear. I can feel your own nets buzzing with the news. You talked to the Holy Saleschannel shortly before the attack. It can be inferred that an offer was made . . .”
“Winfinity’s piety is well-known,” Honored Yin said. “Disney and the other Four Hands members, less so. It is not surprising that we would contact a Church vessel. At any time.”
“That’s not what your own nets are saying. They’re connecting you to the use of the nukes.”
In Tiphani’s optilink, a message came in through the artie-encrypted channel: Is this true?
A quick query and summary charts had her subvocalizing back to the same channel: In essence, yes.
From Yin again: What’s the estimated cost of a media spin campaign to deflect this?
Tiphani shook her head and subvocalized, Can’t provide a budget. Not even arties have enough data. Given extreme aversion to use of nuclear weapons, though, and the general surprise of their use in the home system, I’d guess thirty to a hundred million credits. Skewing higher if there are many deaths on the Pluto. Skewing impossibly high if the radiation affects the Shrill as well.
From Yin: What’s your gut on plausibility of pluto-attacks-saleschannel excuse?
High, especially if Saleschannel corroborates.
Thank you, Tiphani.
You’re welcome, Honored Yin.
“I believe you owe us an apology,” Honored Maplethorpe said.
“For what?” Han said.
“Breaking my stereo.”
“This could be war, and you worry about trinkets.”
“It was a very valuable piece.”
Han rolled his eyes. “Our alliance was a very valuable piece, and you betray it the first chance you get!”
“We were not the organization that sent a warship.”
“It was the closest ship in the area!”
“Not true,” Honored Yin said. “The Holy Saleschannel was closer. You could have contacted them. It might have been a more neutral way to capture the Shrill. We’re fortunate they acted on their own.”
“You destroy the very fabric of our relationship.”
“You overestimate our need to have one,” Honored Yin said.
Han sighed. “Since the early days of the corporate age, the Gentleman’s Agreement has kept us from war within our home system.
You’d sweep that away and never look back?”
“We didn’t sweep it away, the Consumeristians did.”
“Everyone knows they’re the lapdogs of Winfinity! You’re the ones who financed them after you toppled America. They take their direction from you, don’t deny it!”
“Winfinity never toppled any governments.”
“Oh no? At Disney, we didn’t stand by and let them build the Space Elevator when we could have written a check to pay for the entire thing in cash!”
“Your corporate poverty doesn’t concern us.”
“We didn’t have an office betting pool on how far the government would go overbudget!” Han said.
Honored Maplethorpe gave him an ironic smile. “My grandfather lost quite a bit of money on that one.”
“That’s not important!”
“You brought it up, Han.”
“Winfinity is the most rapacious corporation there is! Everybody knows it! If you think you’ll get out of this clean, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Honored Yin sighed. “Funny. If Disney was so magnanimous, you’d think they would have done away with indentures.”
“Stop changing the subject! You know that indentures are the only way to finance the pensions and disability.”
“Among other things,” Yin said, smirking.
Han drew himself up to his full height, a deep frown carving his features. “You’re playing with me. You won’t laugh so much when the full Four Hands fleet arrives from Spindle, not so long from now.”
Honored Maplethorpe’s smile flickered. “We can just as easily Spindle in from the Shrill system, as well.”
“Can you?”
“Yes,” Honored Maplethorpe said.
“Then that is perhaps best,” Han said. “No more of these political machinations. Let’s get everything out in the open, and see whose fleet is the strongest.”
Maplethorpe’s expression went carefully neutral.
“Or are you already calculating the outcome?” Han said.
#
Preacher Dave Thomas watched from the dark-lacquered wood confessional off the bridge as Alan Rodriguez delivered the message. It went broadband on all protocols, to Winfinity and Four Hands and the Consumeristian Church and anyone else who happened to be listening. Because that was their only chance of getting out of this clean.
He tried not to laugh. Laughing would be bad. Some detail-fanatic would analyze the background noise of the ship, hear someone laughing, match it to his voiceprint, and they’d all be screwed. Even though the recorded moans blasted at ear-splitting volume from the nave, even though it was mixed with the real moans of many of the choir, now feeling the first effects of radiation sickness.
“We plead to the Holy Franchise and all who hear to heed our cry for help,” Alan said. Fake blood stained his tunic and his head was wrapped with stained bandages. “We came unknowing on an operation we knew nothing about. Unwittingly targeted, we were forced to use a small nuclear device to protect the integrity of our ship, and preserve our greater mission to spread the Holy Franchise. We are now occupying a small cubic volume of space with a disabled Disney cruiser, the Pluto, and a non-operational Westinghouse pleasure craft. Although we are mobile, we hesitate to move from the scene before appropriate representatives from the involved corporations contact us and discuss proposed courses of action.”
Growls from the communications channel. Alan cast his eyes down at the ground and feigned grief. “I regret to inform you that Preacher Dave Thomas has been grievously injured. Head trauma and radiation exposure. He is currently with our nurses, who are doing what they can for him with our limited supplies.”
“Our overall condition is as follows: drive, operational, shortrange weapons, operational, hull scorched by fire from the Pluto, but currently intact. If we lose hull integrity, we will attempt to save as many of the choir and parishioners as possible, but the capacity of our bridge is relatively limited. We require antiradiation treatments and general first aid. Again, we invite discussion of appropriate action by authorized corporate representatives.”
“Status of the Disney vessel, from our preliminary observations: all non-radhardened systems nonoperational. Life support appears to be operational. All drive systems nonoperational. Even with their metal hull, they have likely undergone radiation exposure four to ten times our own. They have not communicated with us, either through inability or protocol.”
“Status of the Westinghouse ship is as follows: life support nonoperational. Drive nonoperational. Ship was in this state when we approached. Ship is being maintained in position until we discuss appropriate actions with corporate representatives.”
More squawking from the communications channel.
“I’m sorry, we had no choice but to violate the Gentlemens’ Agreement. We believe the direct fault for this lies with the Disney ship for firing on us, and the indirect fault to the corporation Disney has its current quarrel with. We don’t presume to know the mind of the Holy Franchise; it is our doctrine to act. Preservation of our mission is our highest goal.”
More squawking.
“Transmitting current coordinates. Not currently near any major gravity wells. At present rate of drift, we will pass Mars orbit in approximately three weeks. We have supplies for this period of time. We are unsure about the status of the Disney ship.”
Some more satisfied-sounding noises from the communications channel.
“Thank you,” Alan said, and flicked it off.
“It’s OK,” Alan said, turning to Preacher Dave. “You can come out now.”
“They bought it?”
“They’re not happy.”
“What does that mean?”
“They’re really, really not thrilled about us using a nuclear weapon. They were talking corporate charges before I told them we were just waiting for them to make their offers.”
“What do you think they’ll give us?” Preacher Dave said.
“More than a single Spindle ship, that’s certain,” Alan said.
Visions of an entire armada of Spindle ships driving deep into Independent territory flashed through Preacher Dave’s mind. He would go down in myth and legend, a heroic figure leading the charge for the Consumeristian Church. Like St. Norville Wathen and the Revered and Perfect Tami Beauregard, the ones who rose out of the burning ashes of the United States to begin their new Unification under the banner of the Holy Franchise. Like every Marstyr ever made, times a thousand, a million.
“I’d like to captain one of the ships,” Alan said, softly.
A quick flicker of anger spiked through Preacher Dave’s mind. The little grasper! Alan was a great Minister of Conversion, but he wasn’t ready for command!
He kept his face carefully neutral. Should’ve thought to ask that before your little speech, Preacher Dave thought.
“I’m sure something can be arranged for my most valued Minister of Conversion,” Preacher Dave said.
“Thank you, Preacher Dave.”
“No, thank you,” Preacher Dave said.
The communications channel chimed, signaling an incoming transmission. Preacher Dave smiled and ducked back into the confessional.
They’re playing our tune, he thought.
September 6th, 2009 / 1,182 Comments »