Repercussions
Page 20
At first they teased him, which he endured.
Then he asked again,
He didn’t use the word ‘threat’ often with the ravens. They were prone to overreaction and they never forgot, once they decided a human or other process on the station was a danger. They had coated intake vents in feces to stop maintenance personnel from approaching nesting areas, and regularly attacked thugs in Night Park with what amounted to a mental hurricane of terrible images, if the ravens thought they were up to no good.
In a few select cases, they had decided that specific humans were enough serious problem—after they had harmed individual birds in the park—and harassed them mercilessly. The ravens had even been known to follow a human back to their living quarters and fill their sleep with horrifying Link images.
Crash supposed he should tell them about what Rack Thirteen was up to, but it wasn’t quite their problem yet.
The ravens immediately sent their images for threats, wanting more information.
The ravens didn’t think of Crash as their leader like the other birds did, but they respected him and usually did as he asked—until it became boring, at least. He had learned not to squander his requests.
As a group, the ravens immediately replayed the images they had seen flashing through Crash’s Link when Celest was attacking him. It was a maelstrom of color and sound, which Crash understood as the ravens’ visualization of an attempt to hack his Link. That kind of tech wasn’t available to anyone, and the only reason he had probably been able to withstand the attempt was the experimental nature of his Link. Most Link-hacking rigs were designed to protect against military hardware.
One image that the ravens had shown him was interesting, however: a crystalline forest of filament under a black sky, with a silver tower in the distance. For a second, he thought the image was color reversed. It didn’t resemble any physical place in Sol, and another NSAI’s search didn’t recall any historical virtual spaces, but that was impossible to know for certain. The image was unique enough that he felt it had to be something specific to Celest, either an image from her mind, or her actual location.
Crash saved the image and turned it over in his mind, stretching his wings as he peered into the depths of the crystal forest.
Despite Celest’s attack, he still wanted to meet her. He had to understand the mind behind the puzzles.
SPAGHETTI DINNER UNDER MOONLIGHT
STELLAR DATE: 09.12.3011 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Cruithne Station, Link Lounge Italian Alley
REGION: Terran Hegemony, InnerSol
Celest didn’t make him wait long. The next communication request appeared in the Puzzlehead forum and opened with an apology.
Crash blinked, clacking his beak as he considered his response. She deserved rebuke, but she hadn’t really hurt him. He sent an anonymous channel key.
Celest entered the channel immediately.
He wanted to get her talking. He wanted to know why she wanted the money, why she had gone to all this trouble, but he wasn’t going to get the answer if he asked so soon. If he had learned anything from his friend Ngoba Starl, it was that people felt better after talking for a while, after they felt you were listening to them, even if they started out hating you. It was hard to hate someone up close, and talking pulled them in closer.
How would he pull her in closer?
Crash tried a more personal question.
A warm feeling coursed through Crash. They were still anonymous, just voices floating on the Link. He wanted to be able to meet her in person, but he wasn’t going to give up his identity yet. He was too well-known. Telling her his name would be the same as giving his location. She might already suspect who he was; his love for puzzles was also well-known.
She was erratic, even if she was a genius. He had to know who she was. What if she was another parrot like him? What if he wasn’t alone?
she said.
He wasn’t any more vulnerable in a virtual lounge, but he appreciated that she at least acknowledged her bad behavior.
Crash just laughed. She wondered the same thing he did.
An address appeared immediately. The lounges functioned much the same as an SAI’s expanse, only they didn’t change with the whim of the hosting SAI. Anyone could log into a lounge for meetings or other activities using only their Links for sensory input.
The experience was addictive. Crash had never tried a Link lounge, but he had read enough about the practice to know that there were millions of humans who never left their Links.
Crash arrived at the address and was met by a menu of available avatars, all dogs. He read the list curiously, spreading his tail feathers at the thought of becoming a different animal as he talked to what was most likely a human.
What dog best represented his personality, and did he even want to choose something that might give him away? He narrowed his choices down to Corgi, Golden Retriever and Chocolate Lab.
He chose the Lab, and appeared in a space that resembled a cobblestone alley from Earth’s 1930s. There was a wooden fence blocking the end of the alley, with leaning brick buildings on either side. The sky overhead was dark but clear, and the air warm. He quickly recognized the meaty, sweet smell of an Italian restaurant behind the nearest door.
Crash spread his wings to hop toward the smell and immediately stumbled to the left, realizing his wings and claws were in the wrong places. His perspective wasn’t completely wrong, but he was too high off the ground.
He shook his head to get his bearings, and the Link adjusted to his new control mechanism. He took two steps forward, his back feet following his front without effort, and then crouched, abruptly aware of the power of his new body.
He leapt vertically and came down in another crouch, then rolled over, wagging the tail that had replaced his tail feathers. His entire body was a muscle, waiting for his command, and moving fil
led him with the same joy as flight. Being a dog was wonderful. He immediately wanted to run and jump, but the smell from the restaurant drew his attention again like a flashing beacon, and he studied that side of the alley.
Next to the door was an upside down vegetable crate with a checked handkerchief on its surface. A candle set in a saucer sat in the middle of the makeshift table.
The scene tickled Crash’s memory, but he couldn’t remember where he had seen it. The wonderful scents made his stomach rumble, and he glanced at the closed door, wondering if he could get inside.
Celest appeared several meters away from him, a long-haired breed with a snub nose. He tilted his head as she looked around, then she spotted him and grinned, a strangely human gesture on her canine face.
Crash said.
Celest gave a little yip and trotted around the narrow alley, apparently comfortable in the canine form.
She made a growling sound in demonstration.
she said.
Crash gave her a sideways glance but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure about the ramifications of a ‘date’, but if it got her talking about her puzzles and how she made them, he would give it a try.
The door to the Italian restaurant opened, and a portly man in a tomato-stained apron appeared. He spoke warmly to them in Italian, reaching down to pet them both. Crash had to admit he enjoyed the sensation. It was similar to getting his head scratched.
Once he was done rubbing their ears, the man raised a finger in a ‘wait here’ motion and went back into his kitchen. He quickly returned with a round white plate piled with spaghetti covered in thick tomato sauce, with two glistening meatballs nestled in the center.
Crash immediately sat up straighter, his nose twitching. The man set the plate on the makeshift table and stepped away, spreading his hands with a smile.
Celest immediately went to the table and sniffed at the plate, then sat on her haunches. The candlelight reflected in her brown eyes.
The man went on in Italian, obviously urging Crash to take the place opposite Celest.
“Amore!” he said, laughing, then clapped his hands together and went back through his doorway, which he closed with a solid shove, leaving them alone.
Crash sat across from Celest and looked at her through the candlelight. While he wasn’t a dog by any means, he appreciated the shape of her face and the way she tilted her head to study him in return.
They each moved to take a bite of the spaghetti, which Crash found difficult to maneuver with only his mouth. With his beak, he might have been able to bite the pasta and suck at the same time, but now he was forced to use his longer tongue to manipulate the uncooperative noodles.
Eventually they both started laughing. Celest bit into one of the meatballs and extended her snout, offering him half.
Crash took the offered bit of meatball, his nose brushing hers. The sensation of touching her was complicated by the various levels of species he was interpreting between canine, human and himself. For an instant, they were humans kissing, her face warm against his. His mind shifted to his true body, and he was overcome with the desire to nuzzle her neck with his beak and nibble her pinfeathers.
Crash sat back stiffly on his haunches and chewed the meatball. The virtual lounge made the morsel one of the best things he had ever tasted. Was the lounge also heightening other responses in his Link? Could he trust anything in here?
He looked around the alley, from the age-worn bricks to the weathered doors. His gaze came back to Celest. Something canine stirred in him, and he pushed it back down, reminding himself, I’m a parrot. Not a human. Not a dog. A parrot.
Celest gave him a coy look, then explained how she started with the key she needed to crack, of course, then arranged things she enjoyed, building up the steps in the problem like a builder might approach a house. She loved numbers, especially primes and the Golden Mean. She loved literature and stories from all throughout history, especially those with a kick-ass heroine.
As she explained her process, Crash understood that all of it was just a way to hide the original encryption, as he had thought.
Why hadn’t the Puzzleheads seen it from the start? Were they too enamored by her voice when she offered the puzzle, by the trappings she wrapped around the core problem?
Celest’s presence grew abruptly angry.
Crash said.
Crash said.
She looked at him askance.
Crash’s head spun. He didn’t have an answer for her. If she wasn’t going to offer him something for the transaction in escrow, he would just release the funds. It was that simple. Rack Thirteen would have their money, and she could disappear. He would most likely never see her again.
Maybe that was for the best.
His Link connection flickered. He wasn’t enjoying the lounge anymore. The translation between his own mind to the human layer was starting to fray. He wasn’t meant to experience this kind of reality.
He was alone in the alley.
The restaurant’s proprietor stuck his head out the back door and found Crash alone.
Crash looked up at him, licking tomato sauce from his muzzle.
“Love’s a bitch, eh?” the man said.
PART 4 – FRIENDLY ADVICE
PROFESSIONAL ASSESSMENT
STELLAR DATE: 09.13.3011 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Cruithne Station, Lowspin Syndicate HQ
REGION: Terran Hegemony, InnerSol
Dressed in light combat armor, Ngoba Starl stood in front of the wide window in his office, surveying the Lowspin docks, where hundreds of ships of various sizes sat in drydock. The red armor made Ngoba’s dark skin look almost bronze against the glow of the window. His finely trimmed hair and curly beard were also tinted red.
To Crash, Ngoba Starl represented the dichotomy in every human: he was a man who had come from nothing, experiencing every cruelty available to a Cruithne orphan, but had turned that pain into generosity and altruism. That same pain reinforced a steel resolve in Ngoba that wasn’t cruelty, but he would certainly destroy utterly anything that tried to hurt him or those he cared about.
He had built the Lowspin Syndicate from the dream of young boy, and now he controlled most pirate activity between Earth and Mars.
Ngoba’s people loved him and were so quick to murder anyone who spoke ill of him that he rarely dealt with challenges in person.
For months, fear of war between humanity and the Psion AIs had clogged repair shops all across Sol and led to fights between soldiers, station administration and pirates, all of them hungry for some kind of outlet. In addition to the interior repair bays, even more craft sat in parking orbits around Cruithne, cycling through for attention from the Lowspin Syndicate’s master technician, Fran Urtal.
In the Terran Hegemony, what hadn’t been snatched up by the Terran Space Force to handle their maintenance overflow had been reserved by corporate entities. Heartbridge had long been broken into subsidiaries that utilized the same fleet under different corporate identities.
While the Lowspin docks rivaled the repair capability of larger facilities, they had the advantage of non-corporate ownership. Less-than-legal craft could work their way into the repair queue if the price was right, or if the ship’s purpose aligned with Lowspin and Ngoba Starl.
This should have been a time for great profit, had Rack Thirteen not turned on their own.
Ngoba was outfitted for on-station combat. High-powered pulse pistols rested in holsters on either hip, with plasma knives in the small of his back for cutting through interior walls and bulkheads. In the last few days, he had personally led attacks on Rack Thirteen forces, leaving scores of dead in Cruithne’s corridors.
Ngoba said.
Ngoba glanced back at him and grinned.