Blasters in hand, Max and Carl froze against the tunnel wall. Their suits—and possibly whatever the cyborg was augmented with—scanned for threats. They crept forward and the data started streaming in. Directly in front of them was an empty float trolley. Autopilot on the majority of spaceships failed to maneuver safely in tight spaces. The systems simply weren’t designed for that purpose. Pilots were generally an even worse option. Their slight twitches on the steering could gouge a spaceship against the rock walls. So a float trolley, such as asteroid miners used, made sense. It would collect a ship at the surface, bring it down for unloading, then convey it back to the surface.
And spaceships had visited here and unloaded a lot.
On their shared map, Carl flagged the trampship on their far right as the biggest threat and their target. It was powered up. “Living quarters.”
Max assessed the trampship, judging its hatch locations. If he and Carl were going to be detected the old-fashioned way, via eyeballs, then owners of those eyeballs would come from the trampship, and they’d have to put the lights on in the cavern—or possess dark vision helmets like Max and Carl’s combat suits.
Apart from the clear zone in the center that extended to the back wall, the rest of the chamber was filled with mechs, arranged in ranks, tallest at the far wall, smallest nearest the tunnel. Someone had assembled a troop of mechs. Closer inspection to determine the various types might provide an indication as to their ultimate purpose, but the real information would be with the people inside the trampship.
Carl spoke briskly. “Infiltration. They’re not taking security precautions. Let’s see how far that goes. If they’ve left the floater control open and slaved to the trampship, we have a way in. First, the mech-mods.”
True horror shook Max. “They’re mods?”
“I recognize the Fey mod.” Carl went left, toward the ranks of mech-mods furthest from the trampship. He didn’t touch any of them. The risk of triggering a self-defense protocol by attempting to download data from any of them was substantial.
This part of the mission was observation only. Carl observed the mods, Max observed their surroundings. He trusted that his suit was also capturing information about the mech-mods for analysis later.
“Hwicce.” Carl barely breathed the name.
Max glanced at him.
The agent was crouched under the body of a multi-limbed mech-mod.
Max resumed scanning the environment. Speculation during a mission got people killed, especially appalled speculation.
Carl scooted out from beneath the mech-mod and moved two ranks down. Another mech-mod, another assessment, and a search for its control plate. “I want what’s in the trampship. Trying for the floater.”
“Go.” Max backed up toward the entrance. He’d be happier with the tunnel wall, rather than deactivated mech-mods, at his back.
Carl looked damn exposed out at the floater control. “The connection’s open.” Good news. “Too weak to tap from outside the tunnel. We have to wait for the data transfer. I have a virus stealing secrets. Forty minutes. Stay on watch.” He headed for the nearest mech-mod, crouching in its metaphorical shadow.
They stayed silent.
Thelma’s silence from above was reassuring. She’d only make contact if they had trouble inbound.
Max had his combat suit set to transmit a data package of its observations if he pressed the trigger of his blaster. If the mission went to heck, the news that there were mech-mods here had to get out.
Forty minutes of unchanging darkness. Stay too long in that state of heightened vigilance and you’d start to believe the mech-mods were moving.
Carl slipped back to the floater control. “Transfer complete.” A minute and a half passed with him doing something.
Max waited with the patience of a Star Marine. Hacking the connection was Carl’s job. Max’s was to guard him, not question or complain.
“Done.” Carl ran toward him. They kept on running along the wall of the tunnel. They slowed as they neared the entrance. Then they were through it and running for the shuttle.
Max triggered the shuttle hatch to open. If there’d been anyone lurking to ambush them, Thelma would have warned him. He and Carl locked their combat suits, and he gave the autopilot the order to return them to the Lonesome. He sent the data from his suit ahead of them.
On overwatch on the Lonesome, Thelma finally leaned back in the captain’s chair on the bridge. She continued to track the shuttle’s return onscreen, but the horrible tension of not knowing what was happening to Max underground was past.
Until Harry, standing comfortingly close by, said. “That’s not good.” At her panicked glance, he added. “Max is fine, but the data he sent Lon…they found a troop of mech-mods.”
Mech-mods were illegal in the Federation for a very good reason. The people who mutilated themselves—or allowed themselves to be mutilated—to interface with the technology went crazy.
Cyborgs were augmented. The technology that replaced organic body parts was designed to interface seamlessly with the user’s brain and nervous system. The person’s body image was not violated even if their sense of self, their capabilities, changed.
A person who linked with a mech-mod acquired a mechanical body and abilities their mind wasn’t equipped to manage. The software from the mech-mod could support the technology’s functionality in the short term, but in the longer term, the organic sentient went insane, and in trial, destroyed themselves one hundred percent of the time.
Mech-monsters, the entertainment industry called them. They featured as villains and villains’ lackeys in horror movies.
Lon added to Thelma’s shock. “Carl studied the control plates on the mech-mods while Max stood guard. Max believes that Carl saw ‘Hwicce’ on the plates.”
“Has…” She had to stop and fumble for the water bottle in its secure holder away from the controls and screens. She wet her dry mouth. “Has Carl confirmed Max’s suspicions?”
“They’re still in their combat suits and the suits aren’t transmitting,” Lon reported.
Thelma flinched from imagining the stifling shock and suspicion between the two men. “Once the shuttle is in, we should change our location just in case the base somehow traces the shuttle’s path.”
The possibility was outrageously remote to the point of paranoia. Lon agreed instantly. The discovery of mech-mods had alarmed them all. Harry vanished while Thelma watched the screens.
As soon as the shuttle reached the Lonesome and the hatch closed behind it, Thelma was freed from overwatch. She ran for the shuttle and Max. Or rather, she ran for the ladder down to the public deck before forcing herself to slow.
Max walked toward her, opening his helmet. His emotionless expression matched Carl’s; the cyborg one step behind him.
“Mech-mods,” Thelma said.
Carl halted.
Max kept going five more steps to where a housekeeping robot was docked. Then he unsuited.
Halfway through the process, Carl began his own suit removal. Perhaps he’d waited for Max to order him back into the public lounge and his imprisonment. “The data from the base is too much for me to analyze. Max?” Carl tossed a chip to him. “If you know an AI, now’s the time to ask a favor.”
Max caught the chip.
But Lon answered. “I am here, Carl Jafarov. As you suspected. I am Lon. Why give us this data? Why trust us?”
“The Hwicce logo was on the control plates of the mech-mods lined up in the base. Two hundred and thirty two mech-mods. Two hundred and thirty two people will suffer physical pain and mental anguish when they’re fused with the mods. We will stop them, but I need to know who is responsible, truly responsible even if their hands aren’t dirty, for this cruelty. Those are weapons. Who made them? Who bought them? Where do they intend to use them?”
“It could be Hwicce.” Max ground the words out.
“They wouldn’t stamp their responsibility on the plates. But suspicion cast on Hwic
ce is cast on the President.”
The robot took both combat suits away, trundling around a corner of the cell block.
Standing in his undershirt, shorts and socks, Max appeared every bit as dangerous as when suited up. Fury burned in him. His right hand curled tight around the chip.
“Some Hwicce employees are arrogant enough to mark their work,” Thelma said, thinking of those she’d encountered during the Space Rodeo. “But I agree that the far higher probability is someone aiming to shovel blame onto the corporation and those connected to it.”
“We will find out who,” Lon said. “Gerhard Hwicce, who founded the corporation, was my friend. I will not allow someone to use his legacy to maim and kill.”
Hwicce Corporation designed and manufactured warships, but Thelma understood what Lon meant. The AI took this plot, that they’d caught the threads of, personally.
The housekeeping robot returned sans combat suits.
“Max, the chip?” Lon requested. Max put the chip on a small tray that retracted into the body of the robot. It trundled away again.
“Debrief in ten,” Max said. “Main deck,” he added to Carl. “Take the ladder up and turn left for the lounge.”
It was after three in the morning. Max’s hand at her waist urged Thelma to the ladder. She went up first. He followed and headed for their cabin.
Thelma turned to what had been her old cabin. All that remained in there were a few clothes. “Lon, you need to concentrate on the mech-mods. Could Reynard and I handle ordinary duties? We wouldn’t be as efficient as Max and you. I’m not even sure if Reynard would agree or that you want to share your predictive algorithms—”
“It’s a good idea,” Lon interrupted her. “What are you doing?”
She was filling her arms with clothes, the bright, daringly fashionable clothes she’d designed months ago to grab attention. “I’m not using the cabin. This is about options. I know if we let Carl move freely on the main deck, then Harry can’t move as freely.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
She jumped, spinning to find Harry leaning in the doorway.
“Reynard will help. If Max permits.”
Max emerged from their cabin after a quick shower, his hair still wet. He pulled a t-shirt on over sweatpants. His feet were bare. “I’d appreciate the help.”
Neither of the humans asked for or expected Harry’s assistance. He would step in instantly if either of them were in danger, but his responsibilities were not those of an Interstellar Sheriff. Harry’s duty was to protect the cache of raphus geodes, and there were a lot of extra vessels roaming the region at the moment.
After witnessing Reynard’s perspective on Harry, Thelma suspected that Harry, far from being distant and removed on the frontier, was also in close communication with the Federation’s AIs, providing both counselling and guidance. She felt silly that she hadn’t guessed it earlier. Harry was like a kindly uncle to her, pushing her to grow, and giving her the sense of safety in which to do so. Those sort of skills didn’t exist in a vacuum. He gave the other AIs that same support.
However, whereas he could just be “uncle” to Thelma and Max, with the other AIs Harry’s interactions with Reynard indicated an additional element to his role; that of an authority figure. He served as the AIs’ magistrate, and that was a lonely role.
“Reynard has agreed to help,” Lon said. “He will familiarize himself with the data map and my procedures, and begin working with Thelma at seven.”
Thelma grimaced. “It’ll be seven on the dot.” And it was already after three a.m.. She ducked next door and dropped her clothes in a corner of her office. If they’d have fit in the cabin she shared with Max, they would have already been there. She’d deal with them, later.
Harry disappeared past her door, down the passage to his quarters. The hatch closed behind him.
As Thelma walked back to join Max in the kitchen, Carl entered from the ladder from the public deck.
“Left?” He half-smiled at her as he confirmed Max’s earlier directions.
“Kitchen thataway.”
He fell into step with her.
Max looked up from filling a mug with hot chocolate. “Coffee, chocolate or tea?”
Thelma accepted the mug of hot chocolate, while Carl requested tea.
Max had the same.
They sat at the kitchen table: Thelma opposite Max, with Carl in Harry’s seat nearest the passage. It was odd to have the cyborg there in the AI’s place.
Lon was omnipresent and broke the silence. “Thelma and I detected no change in Xlokk space or planetside during the mission or since.”
His report kick-started the debrief.
Max stared at Carl. “Lon, in the morning, if you can provide a diagrammatic of the base, we won’t go over it now. I’m after your impressions. Anything you think now. Because sleep on it and we might lose it. You don’t have to justify it. Just put it out there. Starting with the obvious. The base is minimally resourced. I’d guess it’s recent. Security nonexistent on the ground. They don’t expect to be found.”
Carl nodded.
A team debrief wasn’t merely for intelligence gathering. It supported the mental and emotional health of the team, individually and together. Max was including Carl in the team.
How Carl would use his new status on the Lonesome would be monitored.
“The mech-mods would fit in the trampship, along with their drivers.” Max grimaced at the word. “But I doubt they’d be able to move around. I think the trampship is serving the purpose of a survival pod for the base rather than as a transport. Speculation.”
“Also speculation,” Carl began. “The rows of mech-mods nearest the trampship each had a gap between the ship and them that would fit another mech-mod. Fusing the sentient and the mod may have already begun…or proof of concept.”
Max drained his mug of tea. “Lon’s analysis of the data should move us from speculation to an idea of what—and who—we’re dealing with. Then we decide who to take this to.”
Carl frowned. “You’re going to hand this off?”
“It’s beyond a sheriff level problem and the evidence, even if fabricated, of Hwicce involvement means I don’t have a choice. I’m not the person to handle this. However, I will make damn sure we don’t give this to anyone involved in it. I’ll trust your judgement on that. In fact…” Max stretched. “Meet me here at seven o’clock. Breakfast and I’ll bring you up to date on what’s happening in the sector. Background for when Lon provides his analysis.”
“A preliminary report at eleven,” Lon promised.
“Okay.” Max headed for the kitchen, putting away his mug and Thelma’s for cleaning.
She stayed at the table, watchful.
Carl carried his mug over to Max. “Night, boss.”
The men locked gazes. Not friends. Possibly allies.
Carl turned. He nodded to Thelma. “Good night.”
“Good night.” She didn’t raise the idea of him staying in her old cabin. Once he left, she went to Max. Finally, she could have the hug they both needed. “Mech-mods.”
He sighed, arms tightening around her. “Yeah.”
Some nightmares were real.
Chapter 8
Reynard was not accustomed to collaborating.
“Mister, if you were in the room with me, I would punch you,” Thelma said.
“Violence is not acceptable between colleagues,” Reynard responded.
Thelma refused to feel guilty that she hadn’t muted the comms line. “A colleague doesn’t call another colleague ‘mush brain’.”
“You refused to message the asteroid mining colony at—”
She interrupted ruthlessly. “We are not having this argument for a third time. Harry clearly defined our respective areas of responsibility. You identify the prospective problems, ranking them by likelihood and severity of consequence, according to Lon’s algorithms—which you are not to mess with!” She took a deep breath. “But I decide whi
ch of the options we take from the list Lon’s program provides and I run that option.” Which usually meant her messaging someone to take a particular action.
The Navy reservists were the easiest to deal with. When the Space Rodeo concluded, Thelma was going to send Captain Regina Peric the largest fruit basket possible, and given Lon’s garden deck, that would require a trolley to transport it. In current operating conditions, Regina regarded a request from the sheriff, or his deputy Thelma, as an order.
If only Reynard felt the same.
But he was managing the inflow of data really well. When Thelma had complimented him on it, he’d grumbled that data management was one of his primary skillsets, although usually it was more interesting, and he was missing out on live consumption of the Space Rodeo data and it was enough to make an AI regret initiating the comet helices.
Thelma had almost bitten her tongue off to stop the comment that she hoped he’d learned his lesson. They were all dealing with the consequences, via the Space Rodeo and its fallout, of his comet helices.
She sighed and looked wistfully at her empty coffee mug. Reynard was helping, but his Harry-ordered punishment was also meant to help Reynard with his social awkwardness. Thelma had to model the behavior they wanted their sulky teen-type AI to adopt. Threatening violence wasn’t on that list.
“Reynard, I wouldn’t punch you. But even if I did, it wouldn’t hurt you.”
“It might.”
She grimaced her disbelief while studying the screen for her next task. She’d assigned a couple of the required comm chats to Max.
His sheriff authority and personal legend would help ensure compliance. In other words, hopefully he’d scare away the two miners circling another miner’s asteroid claim. The miner they looked to be planning to claim jump was the quiet sort, but Lon had flagged some suspicious ship disappearances around his previous claim. It had never been brought to court, but it was probable that the miner defended his claims with lethal force.
Max was currently running Carl through the process for supervising his territory. The swiftest method of getting the cyborg deputy up to speed was via Lon’s data map.
Space Rodeo Page 10