Unstable Prototypes (15 page)

"Oh man... They fried your transmitter," Lex
said gravely.

Ma looked slowly up to him again. In the
past, it had been implied that Ma didn't
quite
have real
emotions. Instead, she got by on what Karter called "algorithmic
approximations" of emotions. Judging by the wide-eyed expression
she wore, complete with ears pulled completely back and a twitching
lower eyelid, either those algorithms were damn good, or she'd
picked up a few tricks on her own. The look of terrible realization
was unmistakable, and the little creature's face was surprisingly
well equipped to convey it. In short, Wile E. Coyote had just
noticed that the cliff ended three steps ago.

On planet Tessera, the end of a long day had
come. The convention was a large one, fully occupying three full
buildings of a convention center and playing host to most of the
major names in journalism. One of the side effects of this was that
there were bigger celebrities of her field in attendance. Right
now, she was walking the show floor, a massive hangar of a
conference hall crowded with flashy multimedia displays for the
different news outfits. Even after having been open for eight
hours, one could hardly take ten steps without catching sight of
someone who had been at it for longer than her, or who had had a
more recent story than her, and the tide would shift toward them.
For Michella, this was a mixed blessing. On one hand, though she
would never admit it, she had rather enjoyed the level of fame
she'd achieved thanks to her work since the Bypass Gemini Incident.
Suddenly finding that the small crowd clustered around her had the
tendency to peel off and fawn over the larger fish in the pond was
a bit of a let down. On the other hand, without the usual level of
enthusiasm surrounding her, she was having an easier time excusing
herself to take calls, make calls, and generally work her sources.
It was her favorite part of the job, and she was having difficulty
tearing herself away from it.

The informant she had spoken to a few days
ago had confirmed some things that she had suspected, and building
upon that confirmation, she had started to uncover more. The tiny
morsels of information didn't seem to be leading anywhere meaty,
though, much to her frustration. As tended to be the case, the
harder the ball of twine was to unravel, the more she fixated on
tugging at the threads. As a result, the normally enjoyable
interaction with aspiring news writers and bloggers (many of whom
were a number of years older than her, she proudly observed) was
difficult to focus on, and left her with no choice but to send Jon
chasing down time-sensitive contacts. Now the exhibition hall hours
were finally coming to an end, the crowds thinning. As a
silver-haired editor drew away the last of her flock, she noticed
Jon approaching from one of the entrances.

"I need to hear some good news, Mr. Nichols,"
she said, hurrying out into the cool night air.

"Some," he said, stepping close and lowering
his voice to 'discussing potential scoop' levels.

The convention center was in the center of a
vast, green, park-like setting. Sprawling stretches of manicured
lawns and picturesque trees were scattered with footpaths lit by
faux paper lanterns. They turned down the path that would lead them
to their hotel. Here and there, convention attendees that had
lingered longer than most milled about in the idyllic setting, but
none seemed near enough to take an interest in the pair.

"Well? Out with it!" she whispered
harshly.

"I finally got through contacting all of the
local newsfeeds from the robberies-"

"Breaches," she corrected.

"Whatever. All of the
incidents
that
you thought were related. You were right. This has been going on a
lot longer than anyone realized. Some of those bases were hit more
than once."

"And the fact that we didn't know that means
that there is probably a cover-up going on. I knew this was going
to be a good one. Is that all you got?"

"Nope. It turns out this is one of those
groups that wants people to know what they're up to, or at least it
used to be. One of the small news outfits was given a video taking
credit for one of the earlier incidents, but the military put the
kibosh on broadcasting it."

"Since when has someone trying to squelch
info ever actually succeeded?" she said with a grin, "Putting a
cease-and-desist on something is just code for 'This is guaranteed
to go viral.' Everyone knows that."

"Either these guys didn't realize that or the
army is better at intimidating people than studios and music
labels. Regardless, I've got the file right here. Two years old,
and in a wacky codec, but I got it to play."

"You're a pro, Jon. Keep this up and I'll be
working for
you
someday," she said, glancing around casually
to make sure no one was near enough to listen in.

"I look for more than a pretty face in my
interns," Jon said.

"Alright, alright. Less 'sassy sidekick' and
more 'research assistant.' Did it have anything good?"

"If these are the same people, I think we've
got a name for the group responsible."

"Miss Modane!" called out someone at the door
of the convention center.

She turned to see a young man and woman
hurrying toward her. They had the unmistakable look of eagerness
and enthusiasm that first year college students all seemed to
share, and one of them was brandishing an expensive, full-sized
camera.

"These two look like talkers," Michella
muttered under her breath, "Head back to the hotel room and get the
video ready. I'll be in as soon as I'm done with the cub
reporters."

"You know, they can't be more than a few
years younger than you. How is it that you've already managed to
become world weary?" Jon asked.

Michella shot him a sizzling look.

"I know, I know. I'll get to it. Enjoy the
adulation."

Jon hurried off toward the glitzy hotel that
the news department had selected for them. As he did, Michella
tried to forget that she had a hot lead waiting for her and
remember that these two were exactly where she was not so long ago.
It was hell getting good advice and your name on the right lists
back then. The least she could do is give the next generation the
attention she wished she'd gotten.

#

Meanwhile, on deGrasse, Lex had spent the
last few minutes applying his knowledge of electronics repair to
the glass bead on Ma's neck. For the most part, this had been
limited to tapping it periodically and asking her to try it
again.

"I beg your pardon, but what precisely is
happening here?" asked Garotte.

"Ma has this thing built into her neck here.
She uses it to interface with computers and stuff. She's basically
crippled and mute without it."

"Fascinating," Garotte said flatly, "Did you
arrange to spring me from my incarceration in order to fret over
the fate of an absurd mash-up of genetics and electronics, or were
we going to look into the malevolent organization that may be using
a mad scientist of our acquaintance to plot nefarious deeds?"

Lex looked to Ma, who had once again turned
her gaze to the ground, a look of borderline panic and furious
contemplation on her face. She glanced up, then gestured with her
head toward the screen with the intelligence Garotte had
gathered.

"You sure?" Lex asked.

When she replied with a nod, he reluctantly
shuffled along the cluttered floor to the screen. A sequence of
still frames from videos had been arranged. Specific areas were
enlarged, highlighted, and enhanced.

"Right. I've been looking over the video," he
said, tapping one of the frames. It swelled to fill the screen and
began to play.

The shot seemed to be from the point of view
of a stationary camera and showed a bundled up Karter along with
three oddly dressed men, similarly bundled and sporting goggles.
The three strangers were standing with their backs to the camera
while Karter gestured and waved at a strange rig in front of him.
There was no audio.

"There's our boy. Looks just as worn out and
cobbled together as the last time I saw him," Garotte remarked,
pointing out Karter. "These fellows here, I would presume, are the
prospective customers. Military, the three of them."

"How can you tell? Those aren't any uniforms
that I've ever seen," Lex said, squinting at the low quality
video.

"No, but look at how they are standing. Look
where these gents stand in relation to this one. Practically
walking in formation, these three. Very, very military. He's the
leader, those are his subordinates. I'd wager they've all seen
action, too."

"How can you tell that?"

Garotte tracked the video forward until he
reached a point where the three men were all walking toward the
camera. He paused it when they were near enough to make out some
details.

"This looks like a plasma splash here in this
one's face," he said, pointing to a cluster of red speckles on the
exposed portion of one man's face, "We used to call them lucky
freckles. You get them when a plasma charge hits something nearby,
such as a fellow soldier, and you're kissed by the splash."

"How does that make them lucky?"

"Because the plasma hit something nearby
rather than, say,
you.
Where was I? Ah, yes. That one's got
a limp. This one's holding his arm wrong, like he's had some work
done on it. Probably has an artificial joint. Yes, these boys have
been on the wrong end of a weapon or two."

"So you're telling me that some military is
trying to buy a CME whatever from Karter?"

"I don't think so. If this was official
military business, these boys would be in full uniform. There would
be indication of rank. Definitely not standard military
business."

"Maybe it was undercover?"

"If it was black ops I wouldn't have had
nearly as easy a time sussing out their military pedigree. If it
was commandos, they wouldn't be talking to him. No, I'm thinking
general infantry, marines, crewmen, something like that. Either
retired, discharged, or defected. No current loyalties. Which
brings us to the ship."

He switched to a high resolution still of the
ship in flight.

"That looks like a Delta, without a doubt.
The front end, anyway. The propulsion looks off," Lex said
appreciatively. He was the sort of person who consumed spaceship
magazines with the enthusiasm that others might devote to
periodicals of an entirely more mature variety.

"Well spotted. I was thinking it might be a
dollar, but the exhaust vent is wrong, and the body is a bit too
long?"

"Dollar?" Lex said with a raised eyebrow.

"Delta Astro Long Range Recon. DA-LRR."

"Oh, right. No, that rear end doesn't belong
on a DAL-double-R. Modification, maybe?"

"Doesn't look like it. Lines are too smooth.
You don't do cosmetic stuff like that to a modified spacecraft. No
reason."

"I know a few guys who get body work done on
their customs," Lex countered.

"Do they spend any time doing illegal arms
deals?"

"I doubt it."

"The rebellious set are disinclined to make
cosmetic touches when they make modifications. Equipment used by
terrorists and extremists tends to have the general appearance of
something held together with rubber bands and paperclips. More
likely this is some sort of a short run."

A tumbling noise drew their attention to the
ground, where Ma had attempted to dismount her crate with limited
success. Before Lex could lend a hand, she'd managed to get upright
again and made her way to her slidepad on the floor. Her movements
favored the leg that had taken the shock. When she reached it, she
plopped down on her haunches and began tapping and swiping at the
screen with her front paws. A text window came up, followed by a
slow sequence of letters and numbers: NXLRR-0025c.

"I've never heard of NX. Are they a military
contractor?" Lex said.

"No. Military designation. NX is naval
experimental. That narrows it down a bit. Not a lot of outfits that
could afford to commission a custom from one of the big
manufacturers like Delta."

Ma worked at the slidepad some more,
conjuring up "EC, OUCP, TKUR."

"Earth Coalition, Orion United Consortium of
Planets, and the Trans-Kuiper Union of Republics. Yes, that about
covers it," Garotte said with a nod.

As Earth started to spread out across the
galaxy, the human race entered something of a second colonial era.
About a third of the nations on the planet had active space
programs, and at least two major corporations did as well. Even
before terraforming was mature enough to make the nearby planets
anything more than glorified space stations, everyone with an FTL
drive and a budget was staking claims. Settlements were
established, cities formed, trade routes mapped out. Those days,
Faster Than Light travel barely deserved the name, so even the
closest of the settlements were weeks or months away. These remote
colonies followed the standard colonial life-cycle, developing into
their own unique, isolated cultures and eventually growing
resentful of the motherland. Over the hundreds of years since then,
the vast majority of them either withered and died, were absorbed
by stronger efforts, or joined forces. The result was the current
political landscape, which had a hundred or so independent planets
or star systems, a few dozen minor alliances, and five or six major
ones. The three biggest were EC, OUCP, and TKUR. Useful though it
would be to consider them the galactic equivalent of nations and or
perhaps leagues of nations, it wasn't a very accurate analogy. Most
of them were so scattered and thin that there was never any
reasonable hope to rule them under a centralized government. A
better analogy would be a massive, sprawling trade union; useful
for collective bargaining and defending interests, but with plenty
of infighting, rivalry, and animosity possible between individual
members. Wars between members of the same coalition weren't
uncommon, and things became particularly complex when individual
planets contained nations loyal to different coalitions. This was
more common than one might think, as getting an entire planet's
worth of people to agree on something was just as difficult these
days as it was back when Earth was the only game in town.