by M. D. Cooper
* * * * *
Ten minutes later, Roxy was still staring down at the body at her feet, only dimly aware that air was hissing in through the environmental systems around her.
She bent over and knocked Justin’s lightwand away before picking up the cold body and carrying it off the bridge. The door to the stasis chamber opened as she approached. When she entered, one of the pods was active, its lid lifted welcomingly.
With more care than he deserved in life or in death, she set Justin onto the cushions.
She stared down at him, shaking her head at the waste he had made of his life, sorrow she didn’t expect to feel creeping into her thoughts.
“I’m sorry it came to this,” she whispered, and then closed the lid.
Heaving a heavy sigh, she turned and walked into the corridor, a shriek tearing free from her throat as she nearly collided with—
“Jane?”
“Fuck! Roxy!” Jane took a step back and leveled a rifle at her. “What the hell did you do to me? Why are we on the Damon Silas, and where is everyone?”
Roxy stretched a hand out to Jane, surprised that she still seemed to feel some level of attraction for the woman who had used her like a sex automaton. She briefly wondered if it was a residual pathway acting up, or if somehow Jane really did elicit amorous feelings in her.
“Can you lower that?” Roxy asked. “I can disarm you in a second, but it’ll probably hurt, and I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have.”
She hadn’t expected Jane to comply, but the pilot nodded slowly and lowered her rifle. Though her stance was less hostile, her expression was not.
“Who’s in the stasis chamber?” she asked.
Roxy glanced over her shoulder. “Justin. He’s dead, though.”
“Dead?” Jane’s mouth hung open. “Did you kill him?”
“Yes.”
The pilot began to raise her weapon once more, but Roxy was already upon her, holding the barrel of her gun down with one hand.
“You have to understand, Jane…I had to.”
“Had to?” The woman spat the words. “He was our leader!”
Roxy nodded. “He was more than that.…”
“Yeah?” Jane growled, jerking her rifle, trying to lift it to aim at Roxy. “What was he to you, if you just went off and killed him?”
Roxy met the other woman’s eyes, feeling as though the weight of the world was on her shoulders.
“He was my brother.”
KENT OF HERSCHEL
STELLAR DATE: 09.25.8949 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Intrepid Space Force Academy
REGION: The Palisades, Orbiting Troy, New Canaan System
“Well, I didn’t expect to see you again,” Kent said, as the young blonde woman appeared outside his cell.
He had just finished eating his noon meal and was expecting the servitor to come and collect the remains, only to hear the ever so slightly uneven footsteps of a human visitor instead.
“Why is that?” she asked with a coy smile, one that was not meant to entice him, but rather to be playful and endearing. Or so he suspected.
Kent cocked a brow, giving her a judging look. “Well, prisoners of war don’t often get casual visits from their captors, and given your parentage, I had expected them to put an end to your little excursions once they realized what you were up to.”
He watched as the woman’s eyes widened ever so slightly, then narrowed as she placed a hand on her hip.
“And who are my parents?” she asked.
“Cary, I’m no fool. It’s clear to see that you are the daughter of Tanis Richards and Joseph Evans.”
Kent said the words without emotion, though he certainly felt some at the thought of the two. One had been a target of his assault aboard the Galadrial, an assault that Tanis had handily defeated.
“You’ve a keen eye,” Cary replied. “Most people are used to getting information like that via the Link instead of relying on their wits—granted, people mod their appearance so much, you might not be able to tell even if you paid close attention.”
Kent shrugged as he leant back against the wall of his cell. “In your society, perhaps. Not in mine. Where I come from, people are comfortable enough in their own skin that they don’t need to change it to look like something else.”
It was Cary’s turn to direct a raised eyebrow at Kent. “I may not know as much as you, but I know a fair bit about Orion space. We know from the databases we stripped from your ships that you grew up on Herschel. We know that to be a very agrarian world, as low-tech as they come.”
She paused, seeming to wish a confirmation from Kent.
“Well,” he shrugged. “You got me, Cary. I’m just a farm boy that ran off to join the space force. Not an intel-filled prize like the admirals and ship captains.”
“We have our share of them,” she admitted. “But most aren’t too cooperative. I figured you and I could get to know one another, see if maybe we can’t find some common ground.”
“With you?” It was all Kent could do to hold back a derisive laugh. “You’re the daughter of the devil herself. We have no common ground. You’re an interesting diversion from the guards, that’s all.”
He could see her deflate slightly at his words, and a feeling of guilt swept through him. This girl hadn’t asked to be born into a society such as New Canaan’s. Just as he had not asked to be born somewhere so backward as Herschel.
More than once, he’d considered that his parents would all but disown him for the mods the Orion Guard had made to his body—mods that were still nothing compared to what the young woman outside his cell likely had.
Yet he couldn’t help but admit that neither she, nor any others he’d met since his capture, were monsters. For the most part, they seemed like people he could have met on the more urban worlds of the Orion Freedom Alliance.
“Sorry,” Kent said, as Cary continued to stand in silence, an injured look etched upon her brow. “My mother always said that other people’s behavior is no reason to lose one’s own manners. I’d do well to remember that.”
A small smile formed on Cary’s lips. “You’d be surprised to know that my mother says something similar. ‘Never let your behavior be dictated by the actions of others’.”
“A bit fancier than my dear ol’ mom’s.” Kent inclined his head as he spoke, and Cary shrugged.
“Sometimes Mom forgets that she’s not always on the bridge of a starship.”
“Sounds a bit like my dad. He often treated us kids like we were just his farmhands. Which we kinda were…”
“That why you joined the OG?” Cary asked as she leant against the bulkhead next to the cell.
Kent closed his eyes and recalled his first flight into space, Sam in the seat next to him. “I wanted to travel…to see the stars.”
“You’ve done a good bit of that,” Cary said, nodding slowly as she spoke. “Not lately, mind you.”
Kent barked a laugh. “No, I suppose not. Though they take us for time in the parks. I at least get to see simulated stars from time to time.” He sat forward. “I won’t lie, your people have impressive technology…and they use it better than most. But there’s still the potential for terrible misuse.”
; Cary shrugged. “People have misused everything, from the first sharpened stick they made a million years ago. You can’t put the entire race in a padded room.”
“No.” Kent shook his head. “You’re right about that. But you can limit the destructive scope. That’s what the OFA wants: to give people freedom, but not race-destroying levels of freedom.”
“Which is why you don’t want AIs, picotech, and the like?”
“Precisely.”
“But you use jump gates,” Cary countered.
Kent shrugged. “A means to an end. We can’t counter the Transcend without them.”
“But you realize that jump gates—if they get into the hands of the Inner Stars people—will facilitate even more destruction than AIs or picotech.”
“That’s very subjective,” Kent replied, feeling like Cary was trying to corner him.
“Well, once this is all over, anyone with jump gates could—just as an example—destroy a system like Herschel with ease. All they would have to do is send a few rocks through, and that would be it. Given just a few hundred jump gates, and enough antimatter to power them, they could destroy every habitable system within a year.”
Cary said the words with quiet conviction, and Kent realized that she was speaking out of sincere concern, not a desire to best him in a battle of wits.
He had to admit that she was right.
“Well, I assume Command has a plan for that. If they control all of human space in the galaxy, then they can annihilate the gates and drop everyone back to dark-layer FTL.”
The woman outside his cell nodded her head slowly then asked, “How far do you think humanity has expanded, Kent?”
“Well, from the maps I’ve seen in the Orion Guard, about a five-thousand-light-year radius from Sol. A bit further on the Perseus side, and less on the Sagittarius side. I—” Kent stopped when he saw Cary shaking her head. “What?”
“Kent, humanity has spread much, much further than you know. It’s extragalactic. We’re becoming more and more certain that a variety of groups have also spread far, far beyond the Transcend and Orion space. Stars, you don’t even seem to know how far Orion space goes into Perseus. It’s almost out the other side now.”
“No…” he whispered.
“Yes, Kent. On top of that, there are AIs occupying the core of the galaxy, and we know of at least two colonies in dwarf galaxies in orbit of the Milky Way. Humanity and AIs cannot be ‘managed’ the way Praetor Kirkland wishes. He can’t just have happy supplicant worlds everywhere. ‘Everywhere’ is just too damn big.”
The ramifications of Cary’s words—if they were true—swamped him. He’d heard rumors of AIs that had spread beyond the bounds of human exploration, even tall tales of them living at the core, but Cary seemed convinced of it. That part was easy to swallow. But extragalactic colonies? She’d taken her tale too far.
“OK, daughter of Tanis Richards, I think you’ve had your fun with me for today. I’d like you to leave.”
He saw her face fall, but she straightened and nodded. “You don’t believe me, but it’s true. Perhaps I could take you on a trip to prove it.”
Kent snorted. “If you got permission to take me on an extragalactic trip, I’d eat this blanket.” He clutched his woolen blanket—such a strange incongruity in such a technologically advanced society—as he spoke.
Cary flashed a smile. “Challenge accepted, Colonel Kent.”
A1
STELLAR DATE: 09.19.8949 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: OGS Perilous Dream
REGION: Undisclosed Location, Orion Freedom Alliance
Lisa Wrentham, who tended to think of herself most days as just ‘A1’, surveyed the stasis pods arranged in the chamber running down the Perilous Dream’s central axis. Of the six thousand and fifty pods, over three thousand were currently empty, their occupants deployed on missions throughout Orion Space and beyond.
Garza had delivered mission briefs that would require A1 to deploy several hundred of her Widows to the Inner Stars, where a few were already operating. Most of those missions would fall to those already out of stasis, but two missions would require special teams.
Teams that she wanted to personally prepare.
The briefs Garza had sent for the two missions in question were beyond perilous, and A1 had no doubt in her mind that whomever she sent stood a slim chance of returning. That made the knowledge that she had to send her best operatives all the more troubling.
Though her Widows were all clones, individuals often stood out in various ways. Some were exceptional combatants, others skilled at infiltration, and still more were top network breachers.
The variances in these abilities were small, but when it came to tasks such as the ones ahead, picking individuals that preferred certain aspects of the required work was exceedingly important.
Lisa stopped at a stasis pod the held one of her best. There was no image displayed on the top of the capsule—as was common in standard stasis pods—but it was not necessary, when every Widow looked the same. Instead, only a simple readout was displayed, noting that the occupant was in perfect stasis.
She turned the word ‘widow’ over in her mind for a minute. A1’s original name for her clones was ‘Autonomous Attack and Infiltration Similacra’, but ‘AAIS’ didn’t have the same ring as ‘Widow’. When she first heard that her clones were called that in some regions, she’d adopted the term.
Of course, it wasn’t exactly true. Her former husband was still alive, so neither she nor her clones were technically widows.
Thoughts of Finaeus came to her from time to time. They’d lessened over the years, but had never gone away completely. There seemed to be minimum limit that they hit and then remained at.
The feelings of anger and betrayal had long-ago shifted to a more muted regret. Not in regard to the fact that she had left him, but that he had chosen his brother over her.
Finaeus had agreed that Airtha was a danger and that Jeffrey was a pig-headed fool, but he still chose to side against Kirkland and the true mission of the FGT: to create a future for humanity. Not a gilded cage maintained by AIs.
And that was why she had directed her focus to create her Simulacra. Certainly there were issues with clones, problems that had taken some centuries to overcome, but in the end, Lisa had created a force that possessed all her knowledge and skill—as well as her passion—but were expendable.
Lisa activated the pod’s extraction process, and half a minute later, the cover lifted off to reveal the sleek black form of one of her clones: C139
Its slender body was covered in a specialized material that, when at rest, appeared to be a glossy black shell. When a Simulacra stood still, they could be mistaken for a statue. But when they moved, their coating appeared fluid, like liquid obsidian being poured over their bodies.
Their heads were featureless black ovals, devoid of any humanity. The reason for this was twofold: to remind the Lisas that they were not human, and to drive that same message home to any they may encounter on their missions.
The coating was stealth capable and could also assume a dark matte grey—but all the Lisas seemed to prefer to use the glossy black option whenever possible.
Lisa glanced down at her own body as she watched C139 rise out of its pod, and smiled beneath her own ovoid helmet. Their preference could also mean that they were mimicking their progenitor.
“C139,” she addressed the Simulacra before her. “Gather your Alpha Team and meet me in briefing room D9, I have a new mission for you.”
C139 struck her heels together and ducked her head in a nod. “Understood, A1. We will be assembled in ten minutes.”
In unison, the two Lisas turned and walked in opposite directions.
Lisa Wrentham felt a comfortable joy flow through her as she walked deeper into the chamber. Something about her clones addressing her as ‘A1’ deeply pleased her. Things hadn’t always been that way.
In Lisa’s initial attempts, she had created perfect clon
es with organic skin, faces, and every attribute she had. The result had been disastrous. The clones all believed themselves to be Lisa Wrentham, and when confronted with their progenitor—or one another—they had become wildly self-destructive, believing their lives had no value.
Lisa had terminated that batch and begun again. It took several iterations to arrive at the current model of clone, the Mark VII: a generation who did not view themselves as ‘people’ and knew nothing of their past, yet retained all the skills and abilities of Lisa herself.
Most importantly, they did not believe themselves to be clones.
But even then, there had been setbacks. The initial production run of Mark VIIs had experienced ‘leaks’. Bits of their past would surface, and some had begun to realize they were clones of Lisa.
It had taken some time to make the determination, but Lisa had ultimately arrived at the conclusion that the problem was herself. When the clones saw her, some would begin to remember that the face of their mistress was their own. Eventually they would suffer partial memory recovery.
She had made multiple attempts to separate memory of self from skill and ability, but it was impossible to do perfectly. So much of a given skill came from the experiences in mastering that skill, and those experiences required some level of ‘self’ in the mix.
When the solution came to her, Lisa had both laughed and cried at how simple the rectification was: rather than alter her clones to forget her, it was much simpler to alter herself to become one of them.
It seemed that her inherent rebellious streak had even gone so far as rebelling against herself.
She had taken on the featureless, glossy form—silver, in her case—sheathing her body in the advanced artificial epidermis she had been crafting for her Simulacra, and even going so far as to encase her face in the same ovoid helmet her creations wore.
A helmet she hadn’t removed in centuries.
The change had been near-miraculous in its effects on her brood. The memory leaks ceased, and once the commands and directives came from one who appeared to be of their kind, the Widows had fallen in line perfectly.