The display of the current portion of the simulation flashed into view on the outside of the stasis chamber. The woman within was painting an empty room a bright shade of green and listening to music on a radio propped in the open window. She looked to be a little taller than Electra and a great deal curvier. Her dark skin glistened with sweat in some places and displayed splatters of paint in others. Her ebony hair was held in dreadlocks, a common hairstyle among Embarkers. She swayed and hummed along to the music while dipping a paint roller in the pan then sloppily swiping it up and down the wall.
“She’s beautiful,” Electra said, her heart racing a little at the sight of the free-spirited, voluptuous woman. “What’s her name?”
“Currently, she’s Trish Miller, a Canadian graduate student of architecture at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver,” Paul said. “She’s had many names over the past three centuries, although they always started with a T. It helps ground organic subjects when transitioning from one simulation to another if they have an anchor in their name. This is her final simulation of fifteen, spanning different historic periods of human civilization. She’s about to experience the great millennium scare of 2000. I’m most interested to see how she behaves when months of paranoia and fearmongering results in nothing significant happening.”
“Wait! This isn’t a hologram? She’s real and she’s three hundred years old?” Electra asked, enraptured by the video feed of the stunning woman caught alone in a mundane moment. She was seeing who Trish was when she wasn’t being someone else for society. She was silly and haphazard, singing along to the radio, using the dripping paint roller as a microphone while she did a woefully inept job of painting the wall.
“Yes, but she thinks she’s twenty-four,” Paul said. “Physically, she’s about right, at least for now. She was created centuries ago during the brief window when cloning of sentient life forms was allowed by the Chamber, at a monumental cost as well. My tentacles still ache from writing the grants required to secure that funding.”
“What happens at the end of this simulation?” Letterman asked.
“It should complete in the next ten or so years, at which point all my subjects will be euthanized humanely and donated to the biosciences department for dissection,” Paul said. “I made a deal with a friend in the mammalian division to donate any physical samples in exchange for being written onto a grant. I swear, that Amphio could summon funding from the depths with less than a quartet of flashes. Ahem, I’m sorry if that idiom doesn’t translate particularly well.”
“I got the gist.” Electra’s jaw clenched. The squid would kill a woman to get onto a research grant. The fact that Trish Miller was also worth fifty billion units only occurred to Electra in the moment after. Neither piece of information would sway Paul. Amphios were highly determined, not particularly interested in money beyond what it could accomplish and cared only for the scientific knowledge gained by study of lesser species, which they assumed was almost everything else. “The Earth data you promised Baarqua?”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Paul waved a dozen or so of his tentacles toward a slot in the wall. A small disc of light on the floor guided a crystalline wafer and floated it to Electra’s hand. She accepted the data and handed it off to Letterman, who immediately stored it within the armored cell of his body.
“Is it interesting stuff?” Electra asked. If Letterman hadn’t stored it away so quickly, she might have liked to watch more of Trish Miller’s life…except it wasn’t her life. She hadn’t actually had a life. Trish had been born in a jar, lived in a simulation and had probably never taken a real step. In a decade, she’d be chopped up for science without ever knowing what had been done to her. Electra hoped her façade didn’t show how increasingly furious she had become.
“If you’re fascinated by human trivialities the way Baarqua is, I suppose it could be,” Paul said. “Truthfully, she’s a disappointment for my research. In every simulation, she’s resisted my prompts at betrayal. A combination of cunning, loyalty and self-sacrifice always thwarted my collection of useful data for my study. She’ll be an outlier for my main dataset and thus not included in any final analysis beyond desperately trying to explain why she wouldn’t cooperate.”
“You’re not even going to use her data?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Then you’re going to kill her?”
“Euthanize, yes.”
“So she can be dissected by a colleague to satisfy a promise made centuries ago in order to receive part of a grant?” That tore it. Trish Miller’s greatest sin was being a profoundly good and decent person, which Electra certainly couldn’t say of herself. The fact that she represented a third of the human population seemed only secondarily important to her scientifically supported nobility of spirit that would be snuffed out and forgotten for the sake of data continuity.
“You are a remarkable listener,” Paul said. “Dr. Baarqua said you were completely inattentive.”
“I have good news and bad news for you.” Electra removed a globauncher ball from her jacket pocket and flicked it into the sphere of liquid argon surrounding Paul. Immediately the glob encased the globe in an orange rectangle. “The bad news… You’re going to have to break your promise to the bioscience department. The good news? You have a useable datum for a human using betrayal for the greater good, because I’m human and I’m betraying you. I’m rescuing her because what you just described is messed-up behavior, even for an octopus sociologist.”
“I am sure he is more than smart enough to have deduced all of that without your explanation,” Letterman said. “However, I am impressed you used the word ‘datum’ correctly.”
“Yeah, well, he wasn’t smart enough to see that coming, so I didn’t want to assume. Now shut up and get her out of there,” Electra sniped.
“I wonder, is your rescue actually for the greater good or more likely the fifty-billion-unit reward?” Letterman’s metallic tentacles dipped into the suspension gel, encircled Trish around every limb and waist, and pulled her free. The large front hatch on his body cavity opened and gently tucked her into the space that was more than large enough to hold the Bort Pod.
“She’s… I’m… I haven’t decided yet,” Electra said. “Regardless of what I do with her after this, she deserves better than what was going to happen here, so this is a rescue either way. Any nuances beyond that are subjects best left to philosophers and will only matter if we escape, so let’s get out of here.”
“Your involvement in Bi-MARP cannot be altruistic if you hope to clear your debt,” Letterman argued as he rolled swiftly to keep up.
“I know that—or maybe I don’t believe it has to be. Whatever. You’re not here to be my moral compass.” Before they’d even made it halfway down the corridor back to the landing pad, the soft white lighting turned to a harsh, flashing green. “I’m guessing that’s bad,” Electra said, trying not to think about Letterman’s definitive statement.
“I believe it is a security breach signal,” Letterman said.
“That was fast,” Electra said. “The goop holding the naked lady must have been rigged with an alarm.”
“Letterman is correct, Miss Electra,” Ivy said through Electra’s com. “However, it is not lab security. It is a planetary level warning.”
Electra ran, suspecting, but not knowing for sure, who’d caused the breach and what they were after. She raced up the gangplank with Letterman close on her heels. The flashing green lights in the chamber were becoming increasingly frantic.
“Make her comfortable in case she wakes up,” Electra said when they parted ways in the main dining room. She bounded up the stairs two at a time to get to the cockpit.
“Incoming message, Miss Electra,” Ivy said.
“Someone angry at me, I’d imagine,” Electra said. “Patch it through.”
“I’ve been working on my negotiation techniques,” Sempa said over the com.
“Always good to expand your horizons
,” Electra said. “I can’t really talk right now. I’m in the middle of a getaway.”
“Getting away isn’t going to be an option,” Sempa said. “What you can do is give me your ship, your money and all the humans you have on board.”
“I thought you said you were getting better at negotiating, and what makes you think I have humans on my ship?”
“Call it an ultimatum. The Bi-MARP news feed said you found a human in a derelict ship and said you were going to find more,” Sempa said. “We followed you out of the Sol system and now you’re making a pickup. I’m betting it is more of those hidden humans. I’ll be taking any of those other frozen apes you’ve got tucked away too.”
“I am a human,” Electra said. “Do you even know what we look like?” There were pictures on the galactic net of humans, including several of Electra. The fact that Sempa hadn’t bothered to look at any of them spoke of a pretty serious lack of skill or attention to detail on the pirate’s part.
“I do now,” Sempa said. “I guess I’ve got to decide if the units are worth turning you over or keeping you around for some payback.”
“Give it some thought and get back to me.” She hit the disconnect button on the primary console. “Ivy, how high can the repulse engines be turned up before they break the crystals or smash the ship on the rebound?” Electra started the ship, roared the engines to life with a stomp on the pedal and turned it in a quick arc to shoot up the tunnel they’d entered through.
“One hundred fifty-eight percent to sustain only minor damage to our hull, Miss Electra,” Ivy said.
“How high to sustain none?”
“One hundred twenty percent, Miss Electra.”
Electra turned them up to one hundred nineteen and a half then dialed it back again to one hundred eighteen percent. Repulse engine reverb couldn’t be good for the paint, or the chrome, or… She dialed it back again to one hundred seventeen percent.
The ship was nearly to the end of the tunnel and the intense flashing green lights when a series of red flashes came zipping down the tube, exactly as Electra had suspected they would. Glott raider skiffs. Nice try, but they were too late and they weren’t going to stop her. She slammed the pedal to the floor and shot up toward the much smaller skiffs. The mass and power of the Cadillux and its cranked-up repulse engines bounced the skiffs off the reverb before they could get their weapons targeted. In the rearview display, Electra caught the show of several of the skiffs colliding with one another and shattering while the others broke against the walls of the tunnel. Glotts were tough and immune to all but absolute zero temperatures. If she were a betting woman and had any money to wager with, she’d give long odds that any of them actually died in the crashes, although they probably weren’t happy.
“Should have turned up your repulse engines, boys,” Electra whispered triumphantly. She wanted to take full credit for a second ditching of the pirates, but she knew her success only lay partially in her skill and cunning. She had a much better ship than their clunky Glott vessels, and they’d massively underestimated her both times. Her luck might not stretch to a third time.
She broke free of the tunnel over the planet’s turbulent surface. Sempa’s larger ships were undoubtedly in high orbit, waiting for the skiffs to emerge with the cargo. Instead of climbing immediately, which would put her directly in the raider fleet’s scopes, she zipped the Cadillux along the planet’s surface, a mere hundred feet above the turbulent purple oceans and powdery white landmasses. It took every bit of her focus and an ample amount of assistance from Ivy to avoid the electrical storms until they crossed the equator and soared into open space from an entirely different hemisphere.
“Full scan on max range, Ivy,” Electra said.
“No vessels on any scope, Miss Electra.”
Electra let out a long, ragged sigh. “All in a day’s work, eh, Ivy?”
“Our new guest is awake and battering Letterman with a shower curtain rod in the guest quarters, Miss Electra.”
“I believe I’ll have a coffee before dealing with that particular crisis,” Electra said. “Lock in a course for Station 51.” She’d already witnessed one human torn out of the time and space they understood and the resulting impotent rage. It was more awkward than interesting and she wasn’t overly eager to see another case so soon.
* * * *
Electra made her way down to the guest quarters and followed the sound of Trish yelling at Letterman. The noise was muffled somewhat and she soon discovered why. A metal shower curtain rod lay in pieces on the floor around Letterman and the bathroom door was closed. Apparently, the curtain rod hadn’t survived the duration of Electra’s coffee break. She’d given it long odds anyway.
“I can’t say I haven’t thought about smacking you,” Electra said.
“No damage was sustained,” Letterman reported.
“Good for you,” Electra said. “Get out of here before you make things worse.”
Letterman pivoted and rolled out of the room. Electra closed the door behind him before tiptoeing to the bathroom door. She gently knocked.
“It’s okay. The evil bot is gone,” Electra said.
The door opened a crack. Electra tilted her head to make eye contact with Trish when she peered out. In the next second the door was opened wider, Trish grabbed her by the arm and dragged her in, then slammed the door once they were both safe inside.
“It tried to shove things into my brain.” Trish pulled back her hair to show a tiny pin-prick hole in the bone behind her right ear.
“It’s an implant,” Electra said. “It translates most languages visually and audibly to the primary tongue spoken by the wearer so you can read and hear different languages. Still, he should have told you he was doing it. It’s actually against the law not to have one.”
“Against the law? But you’re speaking English,” Trish said. “So was the evil robot! Is this a government facility?”
“I’m speaking Embarker and he speaks bot-matrix,” Electra said. “English is a dead language. A few Appdurpin historians might speak some, but who would even know if they were doing it right… I’m sorry. This is probably a lot to take in. Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay,” Trish said. “I woke up naked with an octopus-refrigerator trying to bore into my skull. The last thing I remember was painting my new apartment. Now my hair is wrong, my feet feel weird and you’re telling me English is a dead language.”
“Yeah, that’s probably all deeply confusing.” Electra recognized the green silk robe Trish had found to don. It was a slinky number Weisella had worn. It looked much better on Trish. Truly, Electra didn’t know women could look like Trish. Embarkers were the only humans she’d ever seen, and all the women were wiry, toughened boot leather. Trish was positively sumptuous by comparison, and Electra adored sumptuous things.
“You can’t just comb out dreadlocks, so they must have grown out,” Trish continued. “How long have I been asleep?”
“That’s actually a more complex question than you might think.” Electra gently stroked the dark, frizzy mass of Trish’s hair. It was so soft and light, supporting almost all of its own weight in a fluffy, dark cloud around her head. “It’s beautiful, by the way,” she said. “As for the rest, I can get you clothes if you’d like more than a robe and make your hair look however you want it to.”
“You’re not supposed to touch a Black woman’s hair without asking,” Trish said, although she didn’t pull away.
“Sorry.” Electra yanked back her hand and wondered what ancient, noble society she’d inadvertently insulted.
“Are you one of them?”
“One of who?”
“Whoever sent that robot.”
“No, I’m definitely not with the Lien Enforcement Agency or Letterman,” Electra said. “He’s an asshole and I would love to get him off my ship and never see him again.”
“Lien Enforcement… He’s like a loan shark?”
“I don’t know what that is, so, ma
ybe?”
“Wait! We’re on a ship?”
“A spaceship, yes,” Electra said.
“Then why is there gravity?”
“It’s artificial—something to do with magnets and a bunch of nickel somewhere in the core or something. I really don’t understand the science behind it,” Electra said. “I can turn it off for a while if you want. It makes a huge mess, but it’s a lot of fun.”
“No, I’m okay for now,” Trish said. “Maybe just some clothes.”
Electra took Trish’s hand and guided her out of the bathroom. In the hallway, Trish whipped her head around, clearly trying to find Letterman, who had blessedly gone far enough away not to be seen. Electra ushered Trish over to the fabricator console on the wall.
“Tap the options you want,” Electra said, “and they’ll come out of the slot here when they’re done printing.”
Trish stood in front of the console and furrowed her brow at the display screen. “It’s in English.”
“It’s actually in Panaese,” Electra said. “Your implant lets you see it in English.”
“I’ve never heard of Panaese,” Trish said. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“I could yank your implant out with a huge magnet and let you try to read it,” Electra said. When Trish took a precautionary step back, Electra tried to smile to sell her joke. “I’m kidding. They don’t come out.” From the horrified look on Trish’s face, Electra could tell her attempt at humor hadn’t helped, and she vowed internally not to touch hair or make jokes until she knew where the social lines were.
Trish shook her head and returned to the terminal. She tapped the icon for pants with her index finger, resulting in nearly forty-four million options returned. She tapped the color option of black. The number ticked down a few, but remained well above forty million.
“It can make almost any pants in almost any color, so that’s not going to narrow your options much.” Electra reached past Trish to hit the biped icon. “You’re going to want bipedal, unless you’ve got legs I don’t know about.”
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