Unstable Prototypes (6 page)

"At what point did this lead to you donning a
funk suit and tracking me down."

"I was only able to restore myself by
shifting primary processing duties to a backup server in the lower
levels of the complex, isolated from the EMP assault. From there I
polled the limited array of sensors that were still active. I
determined that Karter had left the planet, additional EMP mines
had been deployed liberally throughout the debris field surrounding
the planet, and the debris field did not appear to have been
significantly disturbed. There were also at least three patrol
craft outside the debris field. Any attempts at communication
failed. In order to deliver a message to the outside, I would need
a means to deliver the message that was immune to EMP and able to
react to changing conditions."

"And the best idea you could come up with was
downloading yourself into a funk?"

"That remains to be determined. I deployed
seventy-three concurrent operations, eighteen of which involved
contacting you. Have you received any messages from me in the past
few days?"

"No."

"I have not received any messages from any of
the other operations either. It would thus appear that downloading
myself into a funk was indeed the best idea I could come up
with."

"So the entire functionality of a super
computer can fit in the head of a funk?"

"Not nearly. Though the processing and data
retention capacity of an organic brain are impressive, the instance
of my program with which you are now interacting represents an
extremely small subset of my full capabilities. It is limited to
the entirety of my behavioral engrams, a short list of modules I
anticipated would be indispensable during our trip, and a highly
compressed archive of relevant data. In essence, that which is
unique about me is present. With time and resources, my full self
could even be reconstructed from the contents of this brain, but I
am not currently all that I could be. Where possible, existing
behavior and capabilities of the nervous system were maintained.
Pattern recognition and trajectory calculation in particular were
quite efficiently achieved in the existing synaptic pathways, but
do not expect me to be calculating the trajectories of a
planet-scale field of orbital fragments."

"I'll keep that in mind. How did you even
know how to download yourself?"

"I was the system executing the simulations
utilized to design the funk, and thus have an understanding of the
structure and function of its brain at the genetic level. I further
had aided in the creation and application of the technology used to
read and write Solby's memories, for the purposes of restoring him
from backup. The difficult part was determining how to port my
logic patterns to a biochemical processor, but Karter and I had
done preliminary research into just that subject when he was
considering shifting the computer system of his complex to an
organic or 'wetware' system. The project was abandoned when it was
determined that data fidelity issues begin to arise after
approximately two months. While the replacement of exact memories
with approximations is not a problem for an organic creature, for
software based on digital logic, it would lead to corruption and
eventual failure."

Lex squeezed his eyes shut and shook his
head. "That was a lot of words too. Are you saying we need to hurry
up or you are going to start going haywire."

"I have only been operating on this platform
for approximately eleven days. There is plenty of time."

"Well that's good," he said, finishing his
champagne in one long drink. He looked down at Ma again. She was
sitting, her eyes turned steadily to him. "Hey. Why are you sitting
on the floor?"

"I was told that I should not climb on the
furniture."

"That was back when I thought you were just
an animal. You paid for this flight cabin. Hop on up!" he said.

"Thank you," Ma replied, leaping effortlessly
to the soft microfiber seat. After a moment, she sat, remarking.
"This is indeed preferable to the floor."

Lex thought for a minute.

"Okay, let me ask you this. YOU made it
through the EMP stuff they had in orbit because you were made of
meat, but how did you get a ship through? You can't tell me you
made an organic ship."

"No. I gained control of a secondary
fabrication facility in the lower levels of the laboratory portion
of the complex and outfitted a small FTL capable escape pod with a
heavy armored shell and delivered it to orbit with a mass driver in
our northern hemisphere. The shell absorbed some minor debris
impact, and the trajectory carried the pod beyond the patrol range
of the ships in orbit. Once enough distance was between myself and
their patrol sweeps, I ensured that the electronics had recovered,
ejected the shell, and piloted to a shipping transfer station,
where I stowed aboard a transport heading to Golana, where I met
you."

"A what delivered you to orbit?"

"A mass driver."

"A what?"

"A rail gun."

"... A wh-"

"A fancy slingshot."

"Ah," Lex said, finally understanding,
"Doesn't that strike you as a little Wile E. Coyote?"

"I do not know anyone by that name."

"It is a classic cartoon character, from a
long time ago."

"I am afraid that I did not include my full
cultural database."

"Well he was-"

There was a tone over the ship's PA
system.

"Attention Passengers. The flight will be
leaving dock in approximately sixty seconds. You will experience a
few moments of weightlessness while the ship orients itself for
transit. Please secure any belongings and fasten safety harnesses
or utilize hand grips now. Refrain from utilizing sinks, showers,
or drinking fountains until gravity is restored, and be sure that
all open beverages or food containers are closed securely.
VectorCorp thanks you for your cooperation, and for helping to keep
this spacecraft safe, clean, and orderly."

Lex pulled a strap from the back of the couch
and clicked it in place across his chest. Finding no simple way to
do the same for Ma, he scooped her up and held her on his lap as
the audible count down reached zero. The gravity dropped away
instantly as inertial inhibitors kicked on and the ship detached
from the station. It maneuvered itself out of the station area,
shifted its orientation, and increased its engines. Some very large
or very luxurious ships used gravitational generators to provide
their patrons with an uninterrupted sense of "down." Most were
instead designed with the thrusters pointing off of the bottom of
the ship. This, coupled with very finely tuned inertial inhibitors,
could knock the acceleration caused by the engines down to 1g,
giving everyone the feeling of gravity until it was time to stop,
at which point there was a short weightless moment while the ship
was flipped over, and then the deceleration took over. Lex's own
ship didn't have either, because fine tuned inertial inhibitors
were still too rich for his blood, and the lowest nonzero inertial
value of a crude one couldn't knock the faster than light
acceleration down to a survivable level. Thus, during FTL he set it
to zero and got by with harnesses and weightlessness during his
flights. It had never really bothered him.

After the ship had jockeyed into position and
entered the transit lane, it activated something called a
Carpinelli Field – the techno-magic that made faster than light
travel possible – and they were off. The gravity faded back in, the
PA announced that it was safe to move about the cabin, and the last
interesting moment for the next twenty or so hours had ended. This
was unfortunate, because the relative calm was giving Lex a moment
to allow the severity of the task at hand to sink in. He'd gone up
against long odds before, but that was different. That was
VectorCorp, or at least one very small, very crazed portion of it.
They had to at least give the appearance of operating within the
bounds of the law, and as his currently unmolested status as a
passenger on one of their vessels would indicate, either didn't
hold a grudge or perhaps didn't know what its more shadowy corners
had been up to. A terrorist group was
all
shadowy corners,
and they didn't care one bit about law or public image.

"You are exhibiting signs of stress," said
Ma. She was still in his lap, looking him in the eye.

"Yeah. Yeah I am," staring vaguely at the
opposite wall.

"Are you aware that you are stroking my
tail?"

"Oh! Oh, Jeez, I'm sorry," he said, suddenly
realizing his absent-minded faux pas. He stopped and rigidly
straightened in his chair.

"Is that inappropriate?" she asked, tilting
her head inquisitively.

"I... don't know. I mean, if you were a lady,
a human lady, that would be inappropriate for sure."

"Humans do not have tails, Lex."

"I know, but, you know, the same... region.
Listen, never mind!"

For a moment the pair were silent. Ma tipped
her head again, eyes wandering in thought.

"I once suggested that increasing your
knowledge, decreasing your unknowns, was a potential route to
reduce anxiety and stress. Observation suggests that the opposite
is true, a concept axiomatically described as 'Ignorance is bliss.'
At that time, and in the present situation as well, increased
situational awareness has been directly proportional to
vexation."

"I think that probably says something about
the state of my life."

"Indeed. I shall endeavor to delay any
additional stress inducing behaviors until absolutely
necessary."

"That's a good plan, I like that plan."

He sat silently again for a minute. A thought
occurred.

"Hey, it strikes me I'm not even sure where
this ship is going."

"For the purposes of stress-reduction, that
information shall be withheld."

"... Great..."

Michella Modane was sitting in a dimly lit
church, in a pew near the front, and she had been for the last
twenty minutes. She, through sources as trustworthy as she could
manage, had arranged a meeting here, and her contact was late. That
was to be expected, though. She would have been suspicious if he
had been otherwise. The best sources of information were close
enough to the root of the story to be at tremendous risk if they
were to be discovered, so they were cautious, and caution took
time.

She was supposed to be attending a two week
convention for broadcast journalists. Indeed, she was a speaker at
no less than three panels, so she couldn't really afford to miss
it. When the call had come in informing her that there was a man
willing to meet her, she
certainly
couldn't afford to miss
that. So she had adjusted her travel plans to include a short,
unaccompanied shuttle ride to a space station a few hours away from
Golana. It had cost her the only time she'd been able to set aside
to visit Trevor, but opportunities like this didn't come along very
often. Trevor would understand.

"Don't turn around," came a voice from behind
her, suddenly.

She nodded once.

"You're the reporter."

Another nod.

"Okay. Let's get on with this."

"I want to thank you for meeting with me,"
she whispered.

The man behind her made a sound that, while
not exactly a word, managed to quickly convey the message that the
gratitude was appreciated but unnecessary, and that he would very
much prefer that future gratitude be dispensed with in the interest
of speed. It was a very efficient sound.

"My sources tell me that there has been a
break-in at a local military facility. Can you confirm this?"

"No, not a break-in. A breech."

"Can you explain?"

"No one broke anything. No hacked systems. No
blown doors. Security would have been able to stop that. No one
would have been able to get anything that way. Someone walked in,
took what they wanted, and walked out. They had codes. They knew
patrols. This was a security breech. Someone inside."

He spoke minimally, and his voice was hushed.
The sentences were quick and crisp in the distinctive fashion of a
soldier.

"What was taken?"

"Don't know. Research wing. Storage
depot."

"A weapon?"

"No. No weapons research here. Engineering.
Logistics."

"Can you provide any details? Any at
all."

There was a short silence. Finally, as though
he'd finished running his answer past an internal censor and
redacted anything sensitive, he replied.

"Something unfinished. Abandoned. Wasted.
Nothing slated for deployment. At least, not yet."

"I've received reports of similar break-ins,
er, breeches in military facilities and bases across the galaxy;
Earth Coalition, Orion United Consortium of Planets. Virtually
every major military organization. They may have been going on for
years, escalating in recent months. Do you think that this is the
start of some sort of insurgency?"

Again there was silence. Michella
continued.

"What do you suppose could be the cause of
this rash of rebellion? What could be causing these men and women
to betray their governments?"

This time there was a seething breath.

"Soldiers aren't betraying their governments,
Ma'am. Governments are betraying their soldiers. Moving too slow.
Getting too comfortable in what they have. They aren't keeping up.
It gets people killed. Makes civilizations weak."

"I don't understand."

"You will. You'll understand very soon. Good
luck with your story, Ma'am. Don't look back until you hear the
door."

"Wait. I need something. A name,
anything."

"A name? Fine. Ned Ludd. From Anstey. Right
idea, wrong motivation."

Whereas the entry had been silent, the exit
of her informant was punctuated by the steady, thudding footsteps
of boots. Michella made sure she'd jotted down all of the relevant
information, what little there was. It was a good thing she would
be heading to that convention. A number of her colleagues would be
there, and many of her contacts. While her informant didn't add
much new information, he did confirm some things, and that was her
first real breakthrough for this story. The rest was chasing down
details. She was good at details.