by Ginger Booth
“But everyone on MO is an urb, right? These people, their skin looked grey. Aging. Hell, Copeland looked 5 years older. The girl Jules, too.”
Atlas’s warm expression faltered, and he dropped his eyes.
“What’s up with that, Atlas?” Hunter pressed.
“No, Mahina Actual would not be amused if you broadcast those shows,” Atlas murmured. “It’s a penal colony, Hunter. From what I understand, their life expectancy is short. Settlers wouldn’t survive long at all. Their radiation shielding failed. Not enough power.”
“So if I can see that,” Hunter began.
“I don’t know how many others would notice,” Atlas pointed out. “Your powers of observation are quite gifted.”
“Hm.” Hunter dismissed that, and met Atlas in the eye. “So why are they continuing on to Sagamore? Looks like this trip is a death sentence. And they already made this breakthrough. Seems to me they ought to turn and run.”
Atlas shrugged. “Your dad is following a lead on Sagamore. You know Benjy and Copeland. Smart. Vivacious. Can-do. Picture all the settlers around you that strong and alive. That’s what they hope to find. The fate of Mahina Colony seems worth the risk.”
Hunter shook his head. “I don’t like it.”
“Trust them, Hunter. Anyway. On your protein assay. I’m afraid I don’t have those contacts. You want to keep it hidden?”
“I want to keep it boring, I think,” Hunter replied. “Through proper channels, take your time, red tape. Just the settler council following up with due diligence. No. If you pull strings to find other strings, that makes it look important.”
“It is important.”
“Well, eat eggs, drink milk. See if you can get more meat into the diet at Mahina Actual.”
“There is no meat in the urb diet,” Atlas returned. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten meat. We’re vegetarians. Most of us vegans. Just the idea is pretty repulsive.”
Hunter looked at him in disbelief, then laughed. “Well, get over it. Eggs and milk? Really?”
“Maybe if I didn’t think about it,” Atlas allowed. “Or didn’t know. It’s not like I cook my own meals.”
Hunter shook his head. “Well, now you know. Plan accordingly for the creches. And I’ll look elsewhere for help. Thanks, Atlas. Oh, and watch those videos. I’m afraid they’ve made a serious mistake.”
“Hello! Willow? You don’t know me –” Hunter began his next call.
“Of course I do,” the soybean farmer replied. “Hunter Burke, our new envoy to the city!”
Willow clearly answered on her pocket comm from her barn. Cattle lowed behind her under the Saturday artificial lights. Cows didn’t produce much milk if they only got sun on the bright days. From the look of things, he caught her mucking out the livestock grav plates.
Hunter was taken aback that she recognized him. But then, Dad said Willow was sharp. “You follow the news! Great.” He mentally revised his approach. “Um, marshal Clay Rocha gave me your name –”
“Clay Rocha,” Willow echoed, eyes narrowed.
“Yes! He said you worked for him as an informant –”
Her eyes flew wide in panic.
What did I say? Oh. “No, nothing like that. We don’t shoot collaborators or anything.” If we did, Dad would be first against the wall. Hunter didn’t advertise that he was the son of the moon’s most prominent collaborator. “He said you might be able to help me with information. That’s all.”
Willow unfroze and sighed relief. “I’d love to. He retired, you know? I was hoping to work my way up. Maybe even become a marshal like him some day.”
Hunter devoutly hoped to get rid of Mahina Security’s marshals, and replace them with inter-town law enforcement controlled by himself. “Well, maybe this will be your chance. He said you kept tabs on Sass Collier and the Thrive for him.”
Willow grinned. “That was pretty funny. Are they up to no good?”
“They’re up in the rings.”
“Rings?”
Hunter pointed upward. “Rings of Pono. They’re in space. D – Clay Rocha is with them. They’re on an investigative mission.”
Willow’s eyes shone with delight.
“I was interested in your soybean expertise.”
Willow deflated. “What about it?”
“I want samples from every soybean factory. The protein printer stock they output. And I want to know how they do quality control. How they add nutrients, how they measure nutrients. Um, vitamins, proteins, that other thing.”
Willow took notes, looking unimpressed. “Sure. Rocha paid me 100 credits a day.”
“Rocha paid you 50 a day, or 10 an hour.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
“I don’t know how you’re going to get samples from every factory. I need them from star side too. And keep track of which is which.”
“All printer stock passes though the distribution hub in Schuyler or the loading docks at Mahina Actual,” Willow replied. “Each factory does the nutrient assay on samples after processing, before packaging. Or they’re supposed to, at any rate. I know an inspector at the local factory. He can connect me with the quality control guy. Do you want me to hire him to analyze the samples? That’ll cost extra.”
“Ah, wow. Yes, please. But get me twice as much for samples, each labeled for where they came from. I’ll probably want an independent test. And I want to know impurities, too. Like, is it called ‘hard metals’?”
“It sure is,” Willow agreed, making a note of it. “The star-side soy is radioactive sometimes. But they should be able to check that at a local factory. I’m sure they all use the same equipment.”
Impressed, Hunter asked further, “You can also get into the computer systems in the city, right?”
Willow waggled her hand. “That might flag Security. I assume I’m not working for Security on this?”
“You are not,” Hunter confirmed. “Settler Council. Or rather, me specifically, on the quiet.”
“Secret soybean investigation,” Willow breathed. Her tone rivaled Josiah for acidity. “I’m honored. I could use the public terminals inside the city, I guess. Only use my credentials to get inside.”
“It’s important,” Hunter defended. “I just can’t tell you why. Although, by the time you’re done, you’ll probably see why. The thing I want you to investigate in MA. What are the proteins in soybeans, and what happens if any are missing. And the vitamins. And that other thing.”
“The other thing is carbs,” Willow informed him. “Proteins. Fats. Carbs. Carbs is short for something. I don’t know what.”
“But after the Petticreek Massacre,” Hunter said, “the urbs agreed to add some things to our printer stock. Basically, I need to know what those things are. We want to make it look like that’s all we’re concerned about. Whether they’re adding what they said they would.”
“But it’s not?” Willow asked.
Damn, the woman was quick. “No.”
“OK, so there is something to hide.” Willow looked cheered by this.
“Yes, definitely,” Hunter said. “It’s top secret. Of crucial importance to the settlers.”
“Not Guy Fairweather?”
“No. We don’t tell him. Besides, we’re just checking compliance. The Settler Council is launching an exciting new program of boring red tape. Or it will be. I’m carrying out a pilot program.”
“I sure would like a job in the city…”
Hunter scowled at her. “Of course, we could shoot a collaborator. One who isn’t willing to help her own people. Make an example of her.”
“Just saying! Fine, I won’t tell Fairweather.”
They disconnected. Hunter sighed. She’d tell Fairweather in a heartbeat if she thought she could buy into his good graces. Fortunately the man didn’t have any.
Hunter still couldn’t shake the feeling that Dad and Sass were making a mistake. If this protein thing was the breakthrough they needed, visiting Sagamore was too risky. They should have come home to
see how this clue panned out first. He sure hoped they knew what they were doing.
28
For food purposes, a ‘complete’ protein provides all 9 essential amino acids. Most grains are lacking in one, lysine. Soybeans, peas, dairy, eggs, fish, and meat provide the whole suite.
Sass waited in the hold, flanked by Copeland and Clay, to receive Captain Pierre Lavelle. She wished she could have snatched a break and a shower before this meeting. The rock-shooting, rapid-dodging re-entry into the rings was terrifying yet again.
But taking a break before meeting her counterpart was not an option. To shelter under the other ships’ gun defenses, the Thrive needed to slot in between Gossamer and Hell’s Bells. Clay and Sergeant Wilder hated this arrangement. In effect, they voluntarily pinned themselves between two strange ships. Sass wasn’t wild about the plan either.
A clang came from the overhead. Abel and Seitz worked to secure their shuttle to the roof, so that visitors from the Hell’s Bells could latch on. The shuttle slot was their only port airlock, and the newly mated Gossamer blocked their starboard side.
The pressure light above the cargo lock blinked green. Sass blew out softly. The moment of truth – how big a mistake had she made to come visit the ‘space pirates’?
“Hello, hello!” Captain Lavelle called out, holding the door for his wingman to file through behind him. “Sass! Even more lovely in person.” Grinning, he sized up the armed Wilder and Griffith flanking the door, and Cortez above them on the catwalk. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Welcome to our rock! Don’t shoot!”
Sass beamed at him. “Welcome to the Thrive, Pierre. I hope you aren’t too offended by the guards. Until we get to know each other.”
“Not at all! I have 6 behind the door,” her Sagamore counterpart assured her. “My first mate, Clarke.” The second man, burly and expressionless, nodded. They both appeared healthy, compact, and middle-aged, not a common combination on Mahina.
“My engineer, John Copeland,” Sass reciprocated. “And Clay Rocha. Clay is taking point on our discovery mission.” No need to introduce Sergeant Wilder and his guards.
Lavelle nodded respect, and took in the still bubble-wrapped trees and other peculiar objects in the hold. “What is that?”
“A slide,” Sass explained. “Sort of an express route from the catwalk.”
“Slide.” Lavelle raised an eyebrow and pointed again the same way. “And the…”
Sass turned to consider the jumble of storage and ventilation system wreckage past the slide. And the 3-meter-diameter polka-dot dome.
“Ah, the mushroom cap! That’s a farm stand. Our steward sells our fruit and vegetables for side income. Back on Mahina. The criss-crossing guylines are for a game.”
“Huh. So this is your playroom. Recreation.” He eyed the weight bench, bemused. “You grow food?”
“I’d be happy to give you a tour,” Sass offered. Wilder winced behind their guests. “But perhaps first we should discuss the parking arrangements. Is this safe?” Her greatest concern was being hard-locked to strangers. But the simple physical challenge of holding station together also worried her.
Lavelle looked to Clarke, who replied, “Syncing our guns and piloting is a priority.”
Copeland nodded emphatically. “I’ve plugged enough holes today already.”
“Oh, dear,” said Lavelle. “Your trip back into the rings was eventful?”
“Nothing Copeland couldn’t handle,” Sass assured him. “We are eager to upgrade our defenses, though.”
Lavelle laughed. “I bet!”
Copeland asked Clarke, “How long do you think that would take?”
The Gossamer’s first mate shrugged and handed him a black box the size of a deck of cards. “That’s our files from the ‘AI defense history’ folder, plus our latest navigation programs. So far as we know, you just copy them in. Don’t overwrite what you have. Just merge these.”
Lavelle beamed. “A welcome gift! And if you don’t mind my asking…” He continued to study the 3D playground.
A light dawned for Sass. “The dead star drives from Mahina Orbital are latched below. Our return gift and repair project. As soon as my first mate is finished securing the shuttle –” A thump interrupted her from below. “Ah, I think that’s them now. Abel?” she asked on her pocket comm. “Are you moving the drive container? Or just unlocking it?”
“Unlocking. Nobody out here to hand off to yet.”
Clarke’s eyebrows rose. “Excuse me.” He beat a retreat back to his own ship.
“Abel, the Gossamer’s first mate, Clarke, is headed your way. If you can hold out there a few more minutes.”
“Understood. Abel out.”
Sass pocketed her tablet and nodded to Copeland. “You can take the data up to Ben.”
“You are who you said you are,” Lavelle marveled. “How unexpected.”
The comment startled her. “Yes. Aren’t you?”
“But of course,” he purred. He adjusted something on his earlobe and murmured, “Stand down to three.” Letting go his of his ear, he added to Sass, “There. Now we match in paranoia. I would adore a tour!”
As Lavelle wandered ahead of them into the jungle of the engine room, Clay whispered in Sass’s ear. “I don’t trust him. He’s up to something.”
“No,” Sass agreed, heart falling. “Fat lot we can do about it now, though.”
Ben bit deep into his BLT sandwich in relief. The hell-ride into the rings this morning left him famished. Bless Jules for serving him lunch on the bridge.
He only got to chew a single blissful bite before Copeland barged in bearing a small black brick. “What’s that?”
“Guess it’s the data we came here for.” Copeland slid into the pilot’s chair and searched his utility belt for a data cable. Then he searched the pilot console.
Ben pointed to a slot under the keyboard shelf, then daubed off the accidental smear of mayonnaise with his thumb. He had time to finish half his sandwich before Copeland managed to get the brick connected. The Sagamore memory device didn’t follow Mahina standard. But at last the engineer got a listing of its contents displayed on the big screen, inconveniently located on the bulkhead behind the gunner’s seat. The bridge was cramped, to put it mildly.
Ben swiveled onto his knees on his chair, leaning against the seat back and licking lunch off his fingers. “Scroll back up? Sometimes there’s a ‘read me’ file.”
“No read me,” Copeland replied. “Nav apps. Gun data. Guy said we just copy them into our system directories with our stuff.”
Ben considered that. He also considered the supreme unwisdom of leaving a 20-year-old college student in charge of the bridge and an unknown system upgrade. He wasn’t digging this radical escalation in his responsibilities. But Sass and Abel were busy dealing with strangers. How could he make this safer? “Computer, perform system backup.”
“Specify system.”
“Ah, guns and navigation software.”
“Backups are complete,” the computer replied, suspiciously quickly.
“Computer, can you label a backup?” Benjy inquired.
“Please provide a name.”
“Pre Gossamer data. With the date.”
“Confirmed.”
Meanwhile Copeland split the screen and rummaged to find where similar data dwelt in their own system.
Benjy took a gut check. His gut wanted the rest of his lunch. But his head opined that he and Copeland weren’t qualified to do this. “Sass really told you to install the data?”
“She did.” Copeland paused to review. “Well, she told me to bring the data to you, anyway. The Gossamer guy said to just copy them in, don’t overwrite anything. So if it goes wrong, we can just delete them, right? Or restore that backup you just made.”
“Yeah, I guess. Alright, do it.” He turned and dropped back to his seat. He reached across to Copeland’s pilot console to enable the ‘percent trained’ display on the dashboard for the guns AI
– artificial intelligence. Their three crazed rides through the ring rubble to date moved the needle a whopping 1 point, from 30% to 31%. They didn’t usually need the number cluttering the console.
Copeland copied the new files into the ‘AI defense history’ folder, then moved on to copy in the navigation programs. Ben worried his lip, staring at the percent trained value, which remained stubbornly at 31%.
“Computer, recalculate percent trained figure on the guns AI,” Ben tried. He jerked against his seat back as the number suddenly turned to 100%. It blazed bright green three times before subsiding.
“Huh, cool.”
Suddenly each of their thrusters turned on and burned for a couple seconds. “No, no – computer, stop!” Then two thrusters resumed for a brief burp.
“Please specify what you would like stopped,” the computer replied calmly, as each of the Thrive’s guns fired.
“STOP FIRING! No guns, no thrusters!”
“System test complete.”
Panicked, Benjy inspected what the hell they’d just shot at. Four perfect hits on harmless rocks. “Computer, hail Hell’s Bells and Gossamer. This is Thrive. I apologize for firing without warning. We are training our AI and it…did that. Thrive out.” He ignored their caustic acknowledgments.
Copeland’s fingers flew beside him. “Umbilical integrity is fine, no pressure leaks. How? Gossamer matched our thrusters?”
That seemed damned unlikely. “Uh, no,” Benjy guessed. “I think the thrusters canceled each other out to stay in place.”
“Mr. Acosta,” Sass hailed him over the intercom. “Something you want to tell me?”
Being addressed as mister was a bad sign. “Captain, please come to the bridge.”
“Give me a hint, Benjy,” Sass replied.
“I did not initiate the firing of all thrusters and guns, captain. The AI did that.”
“That makes sense,” Sass said after a moment. “Captain Lavelle just informed me that it was probably a calibration test. Carry on.”
Ben and Copeland traded frowns. “Nothing broke,” Copeland pointed out. “No one’s firing back at us.”