Space Rodeo

by Jenny Schwartz

  Thelma tilted her chair so that she frowned at the ceiling. “Entropy. Everything falls apart.”

  “The universal tendency to disorder,” Reynard said. “I hadn’t considered it.”

  Lon had, possibly belatedly. Or maybe he hadn’t mentioned the potential entropic snapback for fear of affecting Thelma and Reynard’s actions. “The timing of the handover of responsibility for the data map and actions derived from it was unfortunate in that it may have masked the natural point at which chaos kicked against the tight management of activity in Max’s territory.”

  Reynard had learned to make a humming thoughtful noise during the course of his communications with Thelma.

  She’d told him that it was polite and helpful to social cohesion and acceptance to signal occasionally that one wasn’t a hundred percent certain of one’s conclusions. “Because no one likes a smug smarty-pants.”

  “Ah-hmm. So the resurgence of trouble spots in the territory may be a natural correction rather than purely a result of Thelma and me being less competent than you and Max.”

  And I bet Reynard considers me the less competent partner in our efforts, Thelma thought. She smiled, amused.

  “I haven’t proven the hypothesis,” Lon said. “However, I believe it is sufficiently credible that, in combination with the other demands on you both, you should relax your attempts to respond to all suppression alerts.” These were the points at which the algorithms predicted that certain interventions would prevent insurance claim level trouble.

  “What do you consider the appropriate percentage to ignore, and do we do so randomly?” Reynard asked.

  “Twenty percent,” Lon said.

  Thelma whistled. “That’s a significant number.”

  “Yes. I will discuss the matter with Max. My advice is to dismiss ten percent of suppression alerts randomly. The other ten percent by the degree of difficulty. The latter ten percent will have a distortive effect, but surely not in the short timeframe before I can assist you again.”

  “Not long enough for the bad guys to identify the trend and revise their plans, accordingly,” Thelma interpreted.

  “Very well,” Reynard said. “Thelma, we will need to discuss how you define difficulty.”

  She groaned. “Tomorrow.”

  “It is after midnight.”

  She checked the time.

  Lon beat her to a response, one tailored to Reynard’s captiousness. “For today, randomly select the complete twenty percent to ignore.”

  “Thanks, Lon,” she said gratefully. “I didn’t realize it was so late. Still nothing from the Navy?” Unlike Max and Carl’s 3 a.m. raid, the Navy’s mission had been scheduled to take advantage of post-dinner, full stomach sluggishness.

  “Not yet.”

  “I guess I should catch some Zzz’s then. Sleep,” she added before Reynard could question her.

  “Good night, Thelma,” he said.

  “Sleep well,” Lon said. “I will wake you if there is need.”

  Apparently, there was no need since Thelma woke naturally at twelve minutes before six o’clock. “Naturally” in that she woke when Max got out of bed.

  “’Morning,” she mumbled. “News?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again and began her day.

  The Navy reported in at 0700 hours.

  Thelma was with Max in his office, both of them working through the data map with Lon and Reynard. Thelma didn’t know if the AIs were distracted, but she could see Max’s forced focus in his bouncing knee. The commander’s comms was a relief.

  The transmission was audio-only. It was good news, with qualifications.

  “Three Star Marines injured, but no fatalities on our side. One base guard dead, four injured, including medical technicians. I refuse to call them doctors.”

  “The bunyaphi volunteers and drivers of the mech-mods?” Max asked, pinpointing the probable cause of the commander’s harsh tone.

  “The bunyaphi attempted resistance. Those fused with mech-mods.” The commander’s indrawn breath was loud. He began again. “The Star Marines used targeted electro-magnetic pulses to disable the mech-mods. The organic sentients fused to the hardware experienced neurodislocation.”

  “Separation of their sense of self from their bodies,” Lon clarified. “How severe, commander?”

  A clipped response. “Catastrophic. They are sedated.” He cleared his throat. “We will not be releasing footage of the mission, but technicians have copied the software for the mech-mods if you are interested?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Lon replied.

  “It goes no further than the Lonesome.”

  “Understood.”

  The commander sighed. “If there is some means of undoing the damage…we captured nine of the second batch of bunyaphi volunteers before they underwent the first stage of fusion. The other three are mutilated. I now understand why such a loaded term is used. I intend to push for the medical technicians involved to be charged with torture.”

  Max walked around his desk and gripped Thelma’s shoulder. “Thank you. Please pass on my thanks to all involved.”

  “I will.”

  They’d likely have nightmares.

  The commander advanced to a less distressing topic. “Lon, our techs have implemented your imitation program. Successfully. The Ripping Claw comm’d the base to ask about a fractal realignment filter to navigate delta magma. When the Xlokk base responded to ‘bleep it, avoid the bleeped hazard’, my techs added a virus to the message. It has infiltrated the Ripping Claw’s systems. We are capable of gaining control of the bunyaphi heavy cruiser in seconds.”

  There was a reason that a commander was briefing Max. Partly it was that a sheriff didn’t rate any higher rank. However, the Navy was also being careful; as careful as the commander’s tiptoeing into the next issue.

  “We have confirmed the Hwicce identifier on the control plates of all captured mech-mods.”

  Max leaned against his desk beside Thelma’s chair, facing her. He wasn’t hiding from her or from anyone else. “Hwicce Corporation will need to be investigated. I have not communicated with them by any means since the discovery of the Xlokk base.”

  “Less a base than a staging post.” The commander cleared his throat, dismissing his own side commentary. “Auditing a corporation is beyond the Navy’s remit. We have secured what physical and digital assets we can. Admiral Jai will report the situation at 0730 hours.”

  In nine minutes.

  “Galactic Justice will take over the case. The admiral—we all—respect your concerns as to a possible conspiracy involving Covert Ops. The admiral’s report and request will be submitted in the Reclamation Sector, the nearest headquarters for Galactic Justice. But also on Serenity. Copies are being sent to Navy HQ and to the Presidential Office.”

  Max’s mouth twisted. “I haven’t had contact with Dad, either.”

  The commander coughed.

  “I maintained complete secrecy until now,” Max said. “The Lonesome stands by to provide whatever assistance we can.” He added a warning. “Galactic Justice agent Carl Jafarov will report events to his superior following this meeting.”

  “Understood.” By his uninflected tone, the commander truly did. The captain of the Anubis would be spitting mad at being kept in the dark. His anger wouldn’t end with Carl or Max. He’d have plenty of temper to spread around. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  “Thank you.” Max ended the transmission.

  “He’s sent the data,” Lon said.

  Max rolled his shoulders, accepting the phantom weight that had settled there. The Navy had never been a long term solution to investigating the mech-mods conspiracy, but at least an independent actor now possessed the physical evidence involved. “I’ll give Carl the good news that he’s free to brief his boss.”

  “Lucky him.” Thelma hugged Max briefly before moving aside.

  He strode out.

 
; She went in search of Harry.

  Forty minutes after Max finished briefing Carl, the Covert Ops agent sent him a copy of the report he’d transmitted to his handler aboard the Anubis. It was a gesture of openness not required of him. Technically, Carl was Max’s deputy. The reality was far more complicated.

  Seventeen minutes after Max skimmed the report, the captain of the Anubis demanded an audio-visual comms with Max and Carl, and this time the captain provided his name.

  Wesley Sargus appeared to be in his early thirties, but given regeneration treatments, could be well into his sixties. The impatience and entitlement in his attitude conveyed more than his appearance which was of a lean build, close cropped dark hair, and wide nose set in a narrow face. He had a core worlds accent, the sort media stars cultivated; one that said he belonged to privilege, but didn’t link him to any specific planet. His attitude conveyed his expectation that he was both ringmaster and spymaster, and that he’d neither forget nor forgive Max for blocking him from both roles.

  Max recognized the antagonism, had been braced for it, but regretted that he’d made an enemy. That could cost him. More troublingly, it could cost those close to him.

  He’d decided to take the comms call on the bridge.

  Carl sat in the chair Thelma usually occupied.

  “You imprisoned a Galactic Justice agent, Sheriff Smith.”

  “Yes.”

  Sargus didn’t care for his unrepentant confession. “Jafarov’s imprisonment—which he should have challenged—allowed you time to hide your secrets and adjust your schemes. It is suspicious that you just ‘happened’ to discover the Xlokk base.”

  If Sargus thought he could annoy Max into losing his temper and answering impulsively he’d have to do more than insinuate wrongdoing. Max showed the captain of the Anubis an even more expressionless face than Carl managed.

  “Your family connections will not protect you, sheriff.” Sargus scowled. “Nor can you protect them. Now that we finally have the Lonesome’s location, you will submit to a search—”

  “No.”

  “I will get a warrant.”

  “You can try.”

  Sargus revealed very white teeth. “I will succeed.”

  He wouldn’t. Max, or Lon, could afford legal teams who would tie up the warrant request for longer than Sargus’s lifetime. There were very few reasons that would allow the internal investigation of an AI, and Lon was the Lonesome. Now that he’d revealed his presence to the Navy, protecting himself as the Lonesome would hide the next layer of secrets, which was Harry’s presence onboard.

  The slightest shift of Carl’s weight suggested that he knew the emptiness of Wesley Sargus’s threat. Knew and despised the man for issuing it.

  Sargus’s attention snapped to the agent. “Useless. A cyborg ought to be able to—”

  Max spoke over the beginning of the rant. “It was your failure to declare Carl’s status that led to me confining him to the public deck. I didn’t know what he was capable of.” Still didn’t. “Nor his orders from Covert Ops. I have a duty of care to Lon, and I will fulfill it.”

  “Fine words to cover your treachery,” Sargus sneered.

  Max stared at the onscreen image. “Is your antagonism real or fabricated for effect? We’re both recording this transmission. Likely Carl is as well. What do you expect to get from this approach? Are you linked to Elliot Keele?”

  A revolted curl of Sargus’s upper lip suggested that the answer to the last question was an emphatic no.

  “I will cooperate with Covert Ops,” Max said. “As I have already promised to work with the Navy.”

  “You should have contacted us first!”

  Carl intervened. “My report explained why that wasn’t wise.”

  Sargus ended the transmission, leaving Max and Carl staring at a blank viewscreen.

  “Is Captain Sargus normally this volatile?” Lon asked.

  “I hadn’t met him before I stepped aboard the Anubis. He struck me as typical of a senior agent accustomed to dark running.” Carl rubbed his right shoulder. “At his best he is capable, adaptable, and resilient. Imperturbable.”

  Max’s frown deepened to a scowl. “He’s rattled now. Why?”

  “Blazing hells, Max! What have you gotten caught up in?” The angry, worried question came from his older brother, Hugo. The distance from the core worlds to the frontier put significant lag time in their transmission, but Hugo had comm’d Max as soon as news of the mech-mod conspiracy reached him—presumably via the Navy.

  There’d been another delay after that. Max had dealt with the Navy first, then Captain Sargus, and only then did he consider himself justified in responding to family concerns.

  Hugo had chosen to follow their father into the political arena, but whereas John Smith had always been a public figure, Hugo was a power behind the scenes. “A backroom brawler” a journalist had written once, but Max, who’d fought for his life and those of his fellow Star Marines, couldn’t see it.

  Hugo had manicured fingernails and a weak stomach. Hugo didn’t brawl. He was an assassin. Unseen, meticulous, inescapable. Hugo’s ruthlessness in pursuit of his goals was balanced by love for his family—Max would never question his brother’s loyalty—and by a moral code he adhered to stringently. Too stringently for some of the political operatives Hugo had eviscerated, metaphorically, over the years.

  So Max dealt patiently with his brother’s questions and concerns, and the annoyance of the lag time exacerbated by Hugo insisting on full audio-visual comms rather than audio only or text.

  Although absolute in his refusal to be a public figure, Hugo wasn’t an introvert. He processed information in interaction with others. The prolonged conversation with Max helped him sort out his thinking, and reach a decision.

  “You’ll have to come in. Covert Ops put that agent with you. Carl Jafarov.” Hugo was good at remembering names. “He can fill in as Interstellar Sheriff until a permanent replacement is found. I know you value your independence, but the family needs you. Even if the investigation is settled fast and disproves Hwicce Corporation involvement, some smears will stick. We need to get ahead of the narrative. Cynny needs you to. The corporation is her life. Thousands of people are employed by it directly, far more indirectly. It’s a major influencer for good corporate behavior. A standard bearer thanks to Cynny’s efforts.”

  Max glared at the screen.

  Hugo was a first class manipulator. He knew that Max would resist reshaping his life for his father’s presidential position, and that Hugo couldn’t directly ask him to given that he, himself, managed to live how he wanted to in the shadows. However, by bringing in their sister and Max’s own sense of social and corporate responsibility Hugo hoped to get his way.

  “Cynny has Paul,” Max said. His sister had a life, a purpose and identity, beyond maintaining high social justice standards for the Hwicce Corporation.

  Paul Owiti, Cynny’s fiancé, came from a family every bit as wealthy as the Hwicce clan and for far longer. He was an exo-archaeologist, discovering and exploring space wrecks. Cynny was planning a big wedding for after their father’s final presidential term ended in two and a half years.

  “Why do you want me to come in, Hugo? I have a life out here.”

  “You have Thelma, just as Cynny has Paul.” He didn’t mention his own wife, Vivian Conteh, a composer whose work Lon had once described as “memorable”. The kind AI hadn’t meant it admiringly. Vivian was a difficult personality, but her and Hugo’s relationship seemed to work for them and their children. “Thelma is an excellent match for you. I’ve seen her Galactic Justice academy record. Outstanding, and when you add in her Rock Sector background, she has to be supportive of Dad’s equal opportunities stance.”

  Hugo didn’t pause, taking full advantage of the lag time to keep talking, keep laying out his argument to bend Max to his will. “You should consult with Thelma about coming in. Dad has over two years to go in his term, but the Vici are growing their suppo
rt base. They’re beginning to actively counter his policies. You could be the fresh boost Dad and the party needs.”

  Max frowned. One person couldn’t matter that much. Even their father, as President of the Federation, was severely limited. By some measures, behind the scenes, Hugo probably effected more change. Max was one of the tools he’d use.

  “Stories change minds,” Hugo said. “The most powerful stories are personal. Your story, Max, is about power in service. First as a Star Marine, then as an Interstellar Sheriff. You can change the narrative. Talk to Thelma. I have to go. Love from the family.” The transmission ended.

  “Clever, bro,” Max said to the blank screen. “Lon?”

  “I was listening as you asked. I hadn’t anticipated that Hugo would focus on you in this discussion.”

  “Me, either.” He yawned, a release of tension, and stretched. “Thelma. Also, Lon, can you ask Harry if he’s free to join us in the lounge?”

  “He is.”

  Max collected Thelma from her office next door to his.

  She took one look at his face and grinned sympathetically. “Brothers.” She spoke from experience.

  “You have no idea.” Max had served in the Star Marines with her brother Joe. “Hugo can be the devil. He gets into my head.”

  She joined him in the lounge, curling up beside him on the sofa.

  Harry sat in his recliner.

  Along with Lon, omnipresent in the Lonesome, they were Max’s family as truly as those of his blood. They listened as he recounted his conversation with Hugo.

  “There were Vici at the academy,” Thelma said. “Not the extremists. The dean expelled the student who raised the hell flag. Although the student probably did it because she was already failing out.”

  The Vici were self-professed conquerors, taking the name for their loosely connected movement (more ideology than organization) from the Latin quotation attributed to Julius Caesar. “I came, I saw, I conquered.” Veni, vedi, vici.