by Hugh Howey
She left her doubts in the air and went back to work, her head disappearing below the decking.
Cole felt relieved to hear some of his cynicism rubbing off on Molly. Prior to recent and unfortunate events, she used to think him pessimistic and paranoid. Conspiratorial, even. He moved closer to the access hatch. “Have you ever heard of the Turing Test?” he asked.
“I’ve heard of the Turing star system,” Molly said after a pause.
“Yeah, same guy. It was named after him. He was an old twenty first century math dude, or maybe it was the twentieth, I get those periods confused—”
“What in the world does this have to do with anything?”
“I’ll get to that if you stop interrupting. You see, Turing was one of the first guys to start thinking about artificial intelligence—”
“Is that what you think my mom is?”
“Gods, Molly, gimme a chance. And I can barely make out what you’re saying, anyway. Where was I? Oh, Turing devised what he called the Turing Test as a check for artificial intelligence. What you do is put your program in a room and talk to it through a door, or some other way, the important bit is this—if you can’t tell the thing on the other side is human or machine, it passes the test.”
Cole inched deeper into the mechanical space to make sure his voice was dropping down the hole in the floor. “Did you hear me?”
“I’m not interrupting you.”
“Well, that was it. That’s the story.”
Molly pulled her head out of the hole again. “What’s the point?”
“The point is, whatever we’re talking with passes the Turing Test, but that doesn’t tell us if it’s human or not. In fact, there’s this other guy, Surrel I think his name was, who came up with another scenario called the Chinese Room.
“You know, your mom speaking Drenard must have made me remember Turing. Anyway, Surrel said that you could have something stupid in a room, a simple program or a book that would look intelligent, but it wouldn’t be. It goes something like this: you have a man in another room that doesn’t speak Drenard. But he has a book of rules. Someone slides a piece of paper under the door with some Drenard on it. The guy looks in the book, follows the rules, and writes out a reply.
“The person on the other side will think they’re communicating with a real Drenard. The Turing Test will be passed. But the guy inside the room, or the program, is just following simple rules. And that’s all a computer does, really. Follow rules. It can look smart without being smart.”
Molly shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m listening to this instead of fixing the pressure problem with the thruster.”
“Hey, this stuff’s important. You need to keep it in mind when you’re talking to your mom.”
Molly grabbed a clump of hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. She rolled her eyes at Cole. “That Surrel guy was an idiot, just so you know.”
“I think I have his name wrong,” Cole said, “but trust me: the guy was a genius.”
“Well, I must be a Glemot, then. The guy following the rules might be dumb, but the woman who wrote the rules for him to follow speaks Drenard fluently and is quite intelligent. Which means there is a smart person in the room that’s passing the Turing Test, not just some algorithm. It doesn’t matter if she wrote her smartness down or was sitting beside the guy whispering the answers; if the result’s the same, the delivery method shouldn’t matter.”
Molly bit her lower lip and glanced past Cole. “Whether it’s a brain or a computer holding her memories–either way–I think that’s my mom out there.”
She ducked down below the decking, then popped back up. “And this is what I hate about these philosophy debates you drag me into. The questions are only baffling if you have the IQ of a Venusian sea slug—”
“Wait,” Cole interrupted, lifting a hand. “Did you hear that?”
They both fell silent. “That’s the SADAR alarm,” Molly said.
Cole scrambled backwards, out of the cramped space. Molly followed after, her hands leaving greasy prints on the decking. They both rose and sprinted toward the cockpit, forty meters away, the pounding of their feet on the metal decking waking the rest of the crew.
••••
“Contacts! At least two dozen ships!” Cole looked from the SADAR screen to the porthole on his side of the ship. A small fleet had appeared off their starboard side. Anlyn backed out of the cockpit, her eyes still on the nav screen, which remained full of bizarre symbols.
“Everyone in flight suits!” Molly called out, which broke Anlyn’s spell and sent her scurrying back toward the crew quarters.
“That includes you,” said Cole.
Molly looked down at her dirty work shirt and greasy hands as if confirming his suggestion. “Okay,” she said, “turn on the radio and find out who they are. And tell Mom what’s going on. I’ll be right back.” She left him alone in the cockpit and raced back to her room.
Cole plugged his own suit into the console between the seats. He put the radio on channel 2812, the galaxy-wide standard for hailing and ship-to-ship communications.
Someone was already transmitting.
“—yourself. Repeat. This is Naval Task Force Delta KPR76 calling the vessel point two AU’s off our bow, velocity zero knots absolute, identify yourself.”
Cole’s nav screen was covered in gibberish. He typed in a quick line to whoever was on the other side of Turing’s door.
TROUBLE. GOTTA RUN_
He hit the enter key and switched over to the Bel Tra nav charts. Comparing Parsona’s location to the position of the Navy fleet made his stomach drop. He heard someone run up behind him.
“Troublesss?”
Walter. His hissing voice scraped across Cole’s nerves even more than usual. “Go strap in,” he told him, “and stay out of the way.” He didn’t look back to see the expression on the boy’s face, which was just as well.
The next set of approaching feet left no doubt as to their owner. The vibrations came up through Cole’s nav chair as Edison stomped his way to the crew seats. Cole flipped on the cargo bay cam and made sure everyone had their helmets on and their harnesses secure. This would be the first time Anlyn wore one of Walter’s flight suits; he hoped his alterations would keep her smaller frame protected.
The radio demanded identification again just as Molly arrived in a dead run. She vaulted into her chair, landed on her feet in a crouch, and then let them shoot out from under herself into the pocket below the dash. She fastened her harness and plugged in her flightsuit, all with the coordinated swiftness of an emergency drill.
“Navy?” she asked.
“Yeah, and we’re in a spot here.” Cole pointed to the SADAR. “My anniversary gift is the hard place and that fleet is the rock.”
••••
Molly looked out her porthole. The “gift” Cole referred to loomed off the port side of the ship. It was a binary pair—a black hole and a large star locked in each other’s orbits. A wide trail of plasma leaked off the star and swirled into the black hole, the rotation of the system creating a pinwheel of light millions of kilometers across.
The display had been Cole’s one-month anniversary gift. Beautiful and touching ten minutes ago, now it created a gigantic wall of gravitational mass that prevented their escape into hyperspace.
“This is Naval Task Force Delta KPR76 to the stationary vessel off our bow, please identify yourself.” The voice had become more insistent—and the SADAR unit flashed a warning that they were being scanned. Molly admired the way the fleet spread out before closing in. Without a zero-gravity chunk of the cosmos to jump from, Parsona was trapped.
She grabbed the flight stick and pushed Parsona’s nose toward the nearby star. With one of her three thrusters on the mend, she was able to give the ship full throttle without worrying about the forces on her and the crew; the anti-grav fluid in their flightsuits could handle anything Parsona dished out in a straight line. Which was unfortunate, reall
y. She would need more if they were going to outrun these guys.
“GN-290 ship identification Parsona, do not flee. Cease thruster burn immediately. We will fire. I repeat, this is Naval Task Force Delta KPR76, and we will fire to kill. You are in a hostile no-fly zone. Cease thruster burn immediately. Over.”
Cole tagged each Navy ship with hostile indicators. Parsona had received a few upgrades over the past two weeks: two laser cannons recessed in the leading wings, a missile pod hidden in one of the large rear wings, and some basic defenses to boot. It wasn’t enough to take on a few Firehawks, much less an entire fleet, but the routine tasks seemed to give him something to do.
“What’d you tell my mom?” Molly asked.
“Are you serious? I told her we’d get back to her. Now what’s your plan, ’cause I don’t see any way out besides a brig and a court-martial.”
“I’m thinking—”
The radio cut her off. “GN-290 Parsona, this is Naval Task Force Delta KPR76. There’s a seizure notice out on your ship. You will be considered hostile. Cease thruster burn or we will begin firing missiles. Over.”
“Think faster, babe. We’ve got two chaff pods, and I’m just guessing here, but they probably have more than two missiles.”
“The first thing we’re gonna do is not call me ‘babe.’ Ever.” Molly shot Cole a menacing look and leaned forward to study the nav charts and SADAR display. She had the ship in a straight-line burn away from the fleet and toward the black hole and star. She did some quick and dirty math in her head. Even if the Navy fleet came after them at full speed, Parsona would still get to the two-body system first.
“Okay, I’ve got an idea. I need you use that charming mouth of yours and talk the Navy out of firing their missiles. I’m gonna make a full burn right at the star and get there before they do.”
Cole reached to the controls that patched his helmet mic through to the radio. “I’d like to veto hiding inside the star. Can you give me a few other ideas to choose from?”
“I’m not going to hide in the star, wise guy, I’m gonna use it to catapult us into clear space on the other side, just like we slingshot cargo from one orbit to another back home.”
“Not bad,” Cole said. “I’ll buy you some time.” He keyed the radio mic. “Naval Task Force Delta KPR76, this is Parsona KML32. We’re having a thruster malfunction. Requesting assistance. Over.”
Molly shot Cole a look of disappointment.
He shrugged. “What?”
The nearest Firehawk spat out a missile in reply.
3
“Gods, Cole, I wanted you to buy us some time, not instigate them.”
“It was the first thing I thought of,” Cole said. “I figured the grain of truth would help. Can’t they see we’re running with a limp?” He keyed the radio again. “KPR76, Parsona here. We’re having thruster problems, I repeat, we are having thruster problems. Cease fire. Over.”
Molly watched the SADAR to see if another missile would punctuate Cole’s lie. This was the first time she’d seen his charms fail so spectacularly; she’d always thought it’d be an enjoyable experience if it ever happened—but she was wrong. Without doing the math, she could see the missile would reach them well before they got a boost from the star’s gravity.
“Less comms, more chaff,” she said.
Cole keyed up their new chaff modules. “You want me to release early so we have time to arm the second pod?”
Good question, Molly thought. If they waited too long, they were giving themselves only one chance to fool the missile. On the other hand, if they showed their cards too soon, the Navy would see they were dealing with an armed vessel and ramp up the attack.
As a team, Molly and Cole had hundreds of hours in Navy simulators together, facing these exact tactical quandaries. They always tried to pretend the situations were actually occurring—to truly feel the specter of death hovering over them, pressuring them to make mistakes. It was the only proper way to train their minds as well as their reflexes.
Now they were in actual danger. A blinking red light crept across the SADAR screen, making its way to the center of the concentric range circles like a bullet homing in on a bull’s-eye. Only, this time, it wasn’t for keeping score; they wouldn’t get yelled at if they made the wrong decision. That red dot was not part of a game or training exercise—it represented their deaths.
Molly considered all this in a flash and marveled at how calm she felt. Her brain seemed clearer than it had ever been in the simulator. Despite the reversal of roles—her piloting from the left while Cole asked her advice—she felt like this was what they’d trained for. And it was more than just the thousands of hours in the simulator. In many ways, the fear of dying could not match the anxiety of humiliation. Not for her, at least. She considered the approaching missile and the timing on the chaff pods, performing some quick and dirty math.
“Wait for it,” she told Cole. She keyed the shortwave radio and tried a bit of old-fashioned honesty.
“This is KML32 Parsona, Captain Molly Fyde speaking. I’m a former Naval cadet. There are children onboard this ship, I repeat, there’s a crew of five youth aboard this ship. Cease firing. Over.”
A second missile spat out of a neighboring Firehawk.
Cole fired a curse at his SADAR screen. Molly started to protest, but the radio chimed in before she could. “Parsona, Naval Task Force Delta. If you cease thruster burn, we will de-arm both missiles prior to impact. This is your final warning. Cease thruster burn and prepare to be boarded. The missiles will be de-armed. Over.”
Molly pulled her hand away from the mic and rested it on the accelerator controls, contemplating pulling back. “What are our chances here?” she asked.
Cole surveyed the situation on SADAR, watching the second missile speed after its companion. “If both chaff work, we could stop these two and probably get to your slingshot gambit in time. But only if they don’t fire any more in the next few minutes.” He looked over at Molly and raised his visor; she could see the worry on his face, clear as carboglass. “I don’t think it’ll go well for you and me if they pick us up, but we gotta consider the rest of the crew.”
“Trust me, I am thinking about them. They’re the reason I haven’t pulled back on the throttle yet.”
“I don’t follow. And we have about two minutes before we need to decide.”
“You think they’re gonna to be harsh on you and me for Lucin’s death? And Palan? Think about Walter being sent back to his uncle after breaking us out and stealing Parsona from them. Think about what they’ll do to Anlyn, Cole. Or how kindly the Navy will take to Edison after they were run out of the Glemot system. I would poll them if we had the time, but I have a feeling they’d rather take their chances with the missiles.”
“We need to decide,” Cole said.
Molly tried. If it were just her and Cole, she probably would never have run in the first place. She would’ve taken their chances in a Navy courtroom, explaining the sequence of events that had led them to their current predicament, trusting their status as minors, anything to guarantee Cole would live another day. But they all were running from something, her crew especially. Each of the crewmembers had taken a massive risk to get away, placing his or her trust in them. They had to do anything they could to escape.
The radio crackled: “Parsona, Naval Task Force Delta. Advise, you have one minute before impact. Cease thruster burn immediately. Over.”
Molly turned to look at Cole. They were pushing over sixteen Gs, and she could really feel it through her flightsuit and in her neck. Cole’s visor remained up, those hazel eyes of his wide with trust, awaiting an answer.
“Release chaff pod number one,” she commanded.
••••
Cole thumbed the defense controls. The new and untested chaff module in the rear of their ship popped open and ejected the decoy. It showed up on SADAR as a second ship with the same signature and mass as Parsona. Molly altered course slightly to see if t
he missile would follow.
It stayed on its original vector, homing in on the chaff pod.
“How long before the second impact?” Molly asked.
Cole was already working on it. “Under two minutes—damn! Contact. Three more missiles incoming.”
Molly saw them on her SADAR screen. Things were getting ugly.
“They’re gonna reach us after we slingshot,” Cole said, confirmed what her mental calculations already suggested. “If they vector around the star after us, they’re gonna get the same boost we will. They’ll track us down before we get to clear space for a jump.”
Molly looked up from the nav screen and had to lower her visor. Her new course had them heading right for the star. The automatic filters in the carboglass handled most of the direct light and all the harmful radiation; the visor in her helmet took care of the rest, allowing her to gaze upon its surface. For a brief moment, she became lost in the sight of the fiery orb, transfixed by the hundreds of black spots on its surface, the “cooler” areas where magnetic disturbances prevented the plasma from mixing properly.
She followed the wide trail of fire that streamed out from the star to the black hole. They were approaching from above, but getting so close that the overall shape and beauty of the spiral had become lost.
Now it was just the massive, deadly, intoxicating details.
“Release chaff pod number two,” she said.
Cole thumbed the controls while she altered course, heading toward one edge of the star. The missile behind them jogged slightly, following Parsona rather than the pod.
“We’ve got a problem,” Cole said.
“I see it.” That was their last chaff pod, and the missile wasn’t fooled. Molly started composing their surrender in her head, losing herself in the beauty of the star and the long, curving river of plasma coursing off the surface. A solar flare had erupted recently, its smaller stream of hot matter jetting out tens of thousands of kilometers, curving close to their current heading.