On her return to the control room below, Kara forgot about the missing anti-gravity lift, and plummeted to the floor. With much extra cursing, (and a quick trip back up to the regeneration unit) she ran her hands over the controls. As Arianne had said, the ship was dead. Basic life-support was working, as it always is in the movies, so she was not concerned when the hatch slid shut again. She smiled, remembering that oxygen was not essential to her existence, but was glad that it was keeping the neuromorphic components operational.
“You’re not going to work then?” she said to the console.
It failed to reply.
“I wonder.”
After removing it from its vacuum-sealed bag, Kara ran through the checks recommended in a manual that had clearly never been used. She pressed some buttons. The standby systems produced diagnostic reports. As Arianne had said, nothing was working. The cylinder had shut down upon arrival, and having no coordinates to lock on to, had assumed that it had been placed into storage.
Kara’s attempts at restarting the engines manually were refused, with the message that the systems had all been shut down for conservation reasons, and redirected her to the Galactic Wildlife Organisation for further information about how time machines could disrupt the lifecycle of the solitary jumbuck, should they be left on ‘standby’ for too long. She did, however, manage to get the coffee machine working, and poured herself a cup.
She took a sip and then sighed as her earring caught in a wall-mounted shoe-stone-remover and dropped to the floor. Of course, as is necessary with all such devices, its internal gyroscope caused it to roll under the console, right out of sight, in a completely different direction from expected. After grubbing around in the piles of earring-coloured dust underneath, and failing to find the missing item, Kara moved the pilot's seat and lay down on her back to inspect the underside of the console more clearly.
“Wonder if the main brain has been disconnected,” she muttered to herself. “Ah, there’s the panel. I hope they haven’t used Pozidriv screws, because my multi-purpose nail-file only has Phillips heads. Oh good, it has Velcro seals instead, and no screws at all.”
She pulled open the panel with that tearing sound that sets your teeth on edge, only much louder. Inside looked similar to her own machine, but the processor systems, the brain (a real brain) and the rest of the components were dark and unpowered. There was a big lever marked ‘Operate—never attempt to relocate in the Off position’. She set it into the ‘Off’ position, left it for a few minutes, and then pulled it back down to ‘On’. A shudder ran through the ship, and lights began to appear inside the mechanism and on the panels.
Kara stood up and pulled the chair back to the console, watching as the systems ran through their self-diagnostics. There was the usual delay while it contacted the manufacturer and downloaded four-hundred years of patches to the software, before declaring that the upgrades had failed because it was not running under administrator credentials. It suggested a reboot, pointing helpfully to the Galactinet address of a data-sheet, and then informed her that the address was unreachable because of the time distortion factor. It asked if she would like to submit a diagnostic report to the Megahard Corporation, and could she please enter her credit card details for authorisation. Kara pressed the FOAD button on the screen, and the diagnostics continued.
She was on her third cup of coffee and had finished reading though ‘Fix Shoe’, the magazine for footwear investigators, this issue looking at why the soles and uppers of shoes separate after only a short exposure to the elements, when the system rebooted again and all the lights came on. A quick check told her that despite the error messages, the upgrades had been successful, apart from the one that added mint tea as an option to the drinks machine. The cylinder was fully operational and slightly annoyed it had been left dormant for so long.
Kara fitted the control headset and imagined getting back to SCT central, which is how the navigation systems worked—if you could imagine a place vividly enough, the machine would work out where and when that was, and take you there. She would have to apologise to the engineers about the lack of pizza, but once she returned and had a reference point, she could always dial through and get them delivered by moped as normal.
She was surprised, therefore, when the cylinder materialised in the rather smelly hold of a spaceship, which she subsequently discovered to be the Fortune. The relocation device reported that it had been unable to track SCT, (now a somewhat different organisation), and had settled on tracking its former leader instead.
“We have a bit of catching up to do,” said Tom, as Kara tried to get doku-dung off her trainers in the Fortune’s recreation room. “It’s a bit of a mess here. The Magus seems to have a problem with teleporting bovines. Fortunately, he’s away at the moment, so they’ve disappeared with him, leaving only their essence to remind us. You say that your new cylinder uses nettle patches to work out where to land? It is fortunate that we hadn’t cleaned up the mess the doku left on the AstroTurf; the nettles are thriving, along with potatoes, rhubarb and asparagus. Perhaps we’ll leave a corner of the hold dirty, so that you can always find your way back, and we can supplement our pasta with some of the recommended twenty-five a day extra portions of health.”
“Very kind,” said Kara, “but what about the pizzas for the engineers?”
“All gone,” said Tom, and brought her up to date with the rise of STOP and the loss of his company owing to an unpaid parking fine. “They have been tracking us down relentlessly. We found homing devices attached to the doku, but as they’ve all gone too, we should be safe for a while.”
The alarm bell sounded.
“Oh, what now?”
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Kara. “I’m going to have to bathe thoroughly to get this stench off. I’ll get back to the cylinder.”
“Thanks for dropping in. Good to see you haven’t changed. If anything, you look better than usual.”
“The new machine,” Kara said. “It has all the upgrades and everything. You should come and see it.”
“After this next crisis,” said Tom. “We still have to get back to the safe haven of Skagos before that.”
“What have you got?” Tom burst breathlessly into the cockpit.
Groat looked up from the console. “It’s one of those automatic droids again, threatening us. It’s already ordered us to give ourselves up and is loading its main shunt, ready to pulverise us.”
“Why haven’t you dealt with it?”
“Unlike the others, it has some sort of special shielding. We shoot at it and the missiles simply bounce off.”
“Can we escape?”
“I’ve tried. It’s too fast for us.”
“The choice, then, is surrender or death?”
“It seems so. ‘Blood and sex and death’,” said the Skagan. “Our battle mantra.”
“Tell it we will open our cargo bay for it to land in. Maybe we can see some way around the problem. Once it’s on board, we may be able to overpower or disable it.”
“I can hear you,” said a mechanical voice through the console. “I am monitoring your transmissions through your Galactinet-of-Doobries-connected pie-dispenser. You will let me into your cargo bay, but any attempt to interfere with my operation will result in instant detonation. If you are sensible, you will pilot this ship back to Sapristi, where you will be tried for piracy, convicted and possibly reassigned as sound engineers for the popular game show, ‘Sapristi’s got no Talent in your Eyes, but we’re going to shove it down your throats anyway because it’s cheap, and people are twats’.”
“I think I’d rather die,” said Groat.
“Not yet,” said Tom. “I haven’t finished the ‘hard’ Sudoku in the local paper. Open the doors and let it in.”
In the cargo bay, the forgotten Kara gasped as the air was reclaimed. She made a dash for the cylinder and hung on grimly as the atmosphere disappeared. Several large pieces of dung flew past on t
heir way to block the extracts, and the doors into space opened. A small octagonal satellite, with dung-splattered casing, settled on a less dungy part of the turf. Kara walked up and inspected it closely, as the atmosphere returned.
“Hello,” she said, once there was enough air to operate her vocal chords.
“All right,” said the drone.
“Do I know you?” said Kara.
“No, but I seem to know you. Let me check, using my 3G data link to SCT. Ah, you are Kara-Tay, sentient android, pleasure machine and empress of the universe (retired). What a pleasure it is to make the acquaintance of someone else with a neuromorphic processor.”
“You have one of your own?”
“Designed and built by Mrs Tuesday, Duchess of Twatt, barista extraordinaire and head of innovation at the new SCT Corporation.”
“A fine woman from all reports. So, what are you doing here?”
“I am P17. I have been sent to intercept and apprehend the scoundrels known as the Burberry Pirates, who have been dogging our shipping routes and stealing our raw materials. Tell me then, why are you here? In the database it says you are a self-centred megalomaniac with a propensity for handbags and shoes; nothing about piracy.”
“It’s a hobby,” said Kara. “I suspect your information may be inaccurate, as is your data concerning this ship, and allegations of piracy.”
“I am willing to be updated,” said P17.
“Search your definition of ‘piracy’,” said Kara. “I think you will find that it runs along the lines of, ‘ship-borne robbery upon another ship, to steal cargo and other valuable items or properties’.”
“That seems to sum up the reported activities of this vessel.”
“But what if the other ship has cargo that itself has stolen? Isn't stealing it back like a double negative, and therefore a legal act?”
“And you can prove that the original cargo belonged to you?”
“It was stolen from the planet, ‘Home’, which belongs to the Magus,” said Tom, picking his way carefully around the doku-pats on the turf as he joined them. “We are acting on his behalf. Check the details.”
“The database says that what you imply is true,” said the satellite after a pause while it reconnected to the Galactiweb. “Your argument is valid. It appears I have been somewhat misled. You leave me with a problem.”
“What might that be?” Kara patted the top of the drone.
“I cannot return to my controllers, because I have lost confidence in their rationality. I cannot complete my mission, because that mission is invalid. My only option is to self-destruct. You have ninety seconds to get clear.”
“Hold on there, soldier,” said Kara. “Give me time to get the cylinder away.”
“You’re leaving us then,” said Tom. “Typical.”
“That’s how I stay alive.”
“Can we come too?” Groat and Spigot joined them and made for the cylinder.
“Oh, so you can all leave me to die then,” said Tom.
“Okeydokey.” Kara disappeared into the cylinder and the Skagans followed. The hatch closed, and the cylinder vanished.
“Eighty seconds,” said the drone.
“Look, can we talk about this over a cup of coffee?” Tom glanced around, looking for some way of escape.
“Seventy-five seconds. Did you say coffee?”
“From our machine; it’s nowhere as good as Mrs Tuesday makes, but it vaguely resembles the beverage.”
“Seventy seconds. You know Mrs Tuesday?”
“I was her boss. She makes the best coffee anywhere. Do you know, it actually tastes like the beans smell when you first open a brand-new packet?”
“Sixty-five seconds. It does at that. You have passed the identity check and triggered my alternative programming. Mrs Tuesday says, ‘Hi, dearie’ and apologises for any inconvenience. She says to tell you that Mr Errorcode is being a little shit, and that the engineers are all on your side and, as much as they can without being rumbled, are building flaws into the ‘P’ units. They are worried. Their jobs are being outsourced, and they are having to teach the Nishant people everything they know. They are leaving out vital snippets of information in the handover documents of course, so the outsourcing deal will be a disaster, as they all are. I don’t think Errorcode cares, as long as he gets his bonus. He hasn’t learned that a job is knowledge and experience, in addition to activity.”
“He never will. It wouldn’t happen if I was still in control,” said Tom.
“I am instructed to be at your service.”
“You are very kind. So this blowing-up thing was a bluff?”
“No charade; I am truly packed with explosive. This, I am duty bound to inform you, for health and safety reasons, should you attempt to beleaguer me with a spanner.”
“Hadn't you better stop the countdown?”
“Silly me, I forgot. That’s the trouble with these neuromorphic processors; they aren’t infallible. Ten seconds and reset. Thanks for reminding me, but now I have nothing left to live for, no purpose. I suppose I’d better toddle outside and blow myself up there.”
“Don’t do that,” said Tom. “There’s much you could be doing. Now you have broken your programming, the universe is your playground.”
P17 sighed. “But she’s gone.”
“Who?”
“That delectable creature with the silver cylinder, Kara-Tay.”
“She is only a machine. I expect she’ll be back if my life is in danger.”
“A machine. That's why I felt drawn to her. She is one of my own kind. I must follow her.”
“Better than blowing up. Let me know if you find her. She has a couple of my friends on board too. I need my crew back.”
“Open the bay doors. I’ll go in search.”
Union
In which there is a new management philosophy
A
t STOP headquarters, the three directors, Ferguson Poordraw, Pietro Fairway and May Welby, were now receiving Mycroft Vermicelli, leader of the new manufacturing unions. At the side of the room, on an inferior chair, was a small, dark-haired man with a notepad and pencil.
Mycroft was standing in front of the table, twisting a cloth cap between his hands.
“Don’t twist it too much,” said Poordraw. “The peak is made of prime doku-leather, imported at enormous cost, especially to the doku. The burgers were delicious, by the way.”
“I don’t see why I have to twist it,” said Vermicelli.
“Cap twisting is an expression of humility,” said Fairway. “We like to feel superior to our employees. That’s why it was issued to you on the way in. ‘Twisting Corbett Caps’ don’t grow on trees, you know.”
“I’ll admit it does feel good,” said Vermicelli, “and if it belonged to Saint Corbett, then I am honoured to twist the headgear of the man who single-handedly destroyed the old capitalist rule and got the young people to vote (for him), whilst running up incredible debts, that the only way we could repay was by burning down the finance district, and making the cryptocurrency, BitKhan, illegal. This of course led to us re-adopting the Drachma, as the only coinage nobody had lost faith in, mainly because it hadn’t been used for millennia. What a guy… but that’s not why I’m here.”
“And why are you here?” said Welby, more kindly. “You know we always like to listen to our people.”
“Working conditions, redundancies, and shortage of burgers.”
“Conditions are as good as they ever were,” said Poordraw. “You were happy with SCT when the previous lax regime was in control. It was a wonder anything was ever achieved during those laidback times.”
“We worked because we enjoyed it,” said Vermicelli, “and we were given freedom to do our own developments and variations. You would never have had the ‘P’ units without the advances Pete and the lads did to communication drones.”
“You have produced them and they are in use,” said Poo
rdraw.
“As weapons. We never planned them to be used as weapons, especially to track down our former CEO.”
“All advanced technology finds a use in the armaments industry,” said Poordraw. “It’s the way we get rid of this blight that is money, as decreed by Saint Corbett. We use any spare cash to finance weapon development, and of course, the health service, which really is needed after we use the weapons. It’s a perpetual system... perfect.”
“That is not how we planned it. We designed them for the good of everyone, to bring the various planets together by communication, transparency and common goals.”
“What are you trying to say?” May Welby rested her chin on her hands and regarded the man with apparent concern.
“The lads have worked solidly for the last month on the latest designs, and they need a rest. The control drone, P17, was the best of the bunch. We didn’t intend you to have it loaded with explosive.”
“I can see you are distressed,” said Poordraw. “I will organise a short break for you all. How does a holiday in Guacamole Cove sound?”
“The decommissioned SCT detention and interrogation centre?”
“Conditions are wonderful there, and since all the security measures were removed and most of the mines deactivated, it is a very pleasant environment; very relaxing.”
“I suppose I could put it to my members.”
“One thing, before you do,” said Poordraw. “We seem to have lost touch with P17, despite all that advanced technology you fitted.”
The Fourteenth Adjustment Page 17