by Piers Platt
Sirulli smiled at the command instructor, nodding. “Thank you. As your instructor noted, I’m here to tell you about a special program that your class has been selected to pilot … as a test case, if you will.” He advanced the slide. “The Senate recently approved a budget increase for this test program, but I want to emphasize that this is purely voluntary – no one will be forced to participate.” He eyed the command instructor with a look of concern. “To be clear, you won’t be punished if you choose not to participate. This isn’t anything like the rest of your training.”
The command instructor nodded in confirmation. “It’s true. You’re free to choose whether to participate, with no repercussions from me or the other cadre either way.”
“The reason we’re asking for volunteers is that this test program is medical in nature,” Sirulli continued. “Those of you that opt in will be given free cybernetic implants – a basic sensor suite, including eye and ear implants, tied to a neural interface. An internal computer, essentially, that will run those implants for you, and provide you access to advanced computing functions through a heads-up display.”
He tapped on his datascroll, and an image of a man’s head appeared on the viewscreen, highlighting his eyes, ears, and a small chip at the base of his neck. “The procedure is quite routine; there’s very little risk to patients, and complications are exceedingly rare. After recovery, which just takes a few days, you’ll be able to make use of a set of rather expensive upgrades for the rest of your life. Because of the recovery period, you will be held back to finish your training with a later class.”
He looked around the room, and cleared his throat. “Wealthy citizens pay a pretty penny for these kinds of implants, so considering you’ll be getting them for free, it’s quite a good deal for you. In return, we’ll be monitoring your use of the implants, and asking you for periodic feedback on how they perform, and whether they enable you to be more effective as law enforcement professionals. Are there any questions?”
The room stayed silent for several beats, and then a cadet near the front raised his hand. “How are the implants supposed to help us?”
“Good question. Well, for starters, you’re just a much better sensor platform with the implants – better sight and hearing than a normal human. But the internal computer is the real upgrade, in my opinion. Let me think of some examples. With these implants, you’ll be able to continuously scan faces of people on the street, while comparing them to criminal database records. If you were to hear a gunshot, your auditory implants would be able to triangulate the location of the shooter, and super-impose that on a map in your heads-up display. All of that would happen automatically. And of course, your internal computer has a data connection, so anything you normally do on your holophone, you’ll be able to do inside your head. Replying to your e-mail, reading criminal activity reports, searching the web … you can do all of that by thought alone, without using your hands. The implants should increase your effectiveness dramatically. That’s the theory, at least.”
“If we get these implants, will Interstellar Police be recording everything we do – monitoring all of our actions through our implants?” a different cadet asked.
“No,” Sirulli said, shaking his head. “While on duty your audio-visual feeds will be recorded and logged, and your chain of command may access copies of those recordings as necessary, but that system is no different from the body cameras officers are required to wear while on duty today. No one will be actively monitoring you during your working hours, and nothing from your off duty hours will be recorded … unless you choose to turn the recording function on. But what you choose to do in your personal time is entirely up to you.”
There were a few sniggers from the back of the auditorium, as one cadet suggested what he might want to record during his personal time.
“At ease,” the command instructor called out, scowling.
“Would you get the implants, if you were in our shoes?” a female cadet asked.
Sirulli shrugged. “I’m not a police officer, but I chose to have them installed several years ago. So, yes. I can’t really think of any downsides to getting them, aside from some mild pain and discomfort during the recovery period. But each of you needs to decide for yourself. Any other questions?”
The command instructor, who had seated himself in the front row, stood up. “Let me say this: you guys know all about the Guild now. Their contractors – or whatever they called them – had implants like these. That’s part of the reason why they were able to stay one step ahead of us. Those guildsmen are all still out there, along with a bunch of other criminals who have access to this kind of tech. And you’ll be facing off against them someday soon. You’re not getting facial reconfiguring implants or hemobots, so it’s still not even close to a fair fight. But if I were you, I’d want to take any opportunity I could to level the playing field.”
“Well put, Instructor,” Sirulli said. “That is the impetus for this test – in light of recent developments with the Guild, the Senate has become concerned that the Interstellar Police are ill-equipped to face today’s criminal threats, despite your excellent training. This program has been fast-tracked, to test whether cybernetic enhancements are a worthwhile investment in upgrading the force.” He checked his notes for a second. “If there are no more questions, that concludes the presentation. If you’re not interested in the program, I believe your instructors would like you to form up outside. Those of you that are interested in the program, please remain behind and we’ll get you started on the paperwork.”
Dasi filed down to the front of the auditorium with her peers, and then stepped out of line, approaching Sirulli.
He glanced up from closing his datascroll. “Yes?”
“What happens if someone gets the implants and then fails out of training?” she asked.
“They would get to keep the implants,” the doctor replied. “They’re permanent. The government would be disappointed, but … we can’t take them out, and we’re not going to charge you for them.”
Dasi saw that more than half of the class had opted to get the implants – they were forming a line by one of the instructors, who was handing out paper forms and pens.
“Can I get you a release form to fill out?” Sirulli asked, smiling.
Dasi bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
* * *
Dasi woke, but for a moment, she felt that she might still be asleep – she could hear nothing, and her eyes were covered by something soft. Then, with a rush, her hearing returned.
“Can you hear me, Cadet Apter?”
“Yes,” she said. Her mouth was dry, so she swallowed and tried to clear her throat. “I hear … other things, too. Machinery, and a rhythmic noise, like a slow drumbeat.”
Dr. Sirulli chuckled. “That’s my heart beat you’re hearing.”
She felt the surgeon take her hand, and place a plastic cup in it. She drank gratefully.
“Are you in pain?” Sirulli asked.
“Head feels sore,” Dasi said. “Around my eyes, and at the back of my neck.”
“That’s totally normal,” Sirulli said. “We’ll be monitoring you here in the infirmary for the rest of the day, and when you leave, I’m going to give you a prescription for some painkillers. The pain should be gone within the week, but come back and see me if not.”
“Okay,” Dasi agreed.
“I’m going to activate your internal computer next. Are you ready?”
“I guess so,” Dasi said.
The surgeon spent another ten minutes with Dasi, activating and testing the various functions of her new implants, and eventually removing the blindfold so that she could try out her new eyes. When Sirulli held up a mirror, she was surprised to find that they matched her old eye color and iris patterns exactly.
“That’s intentional,” the doctor noted. “The fewer changes we make, the easier it is for you to adjust to having the implants.” He glanced down the infirmary ward, at the next cu
rtained bay. “I have another patient waking soon, so I’m going to leave you here, okay?”
“Okay,” Dasi said.
“Just rest for now,” he told her. “But if you feel up to it, play around with your new toys a bit, see what they can do. Your data connection is online, so you can just sit back and stream a movie on your heads-up display, even.”
He patted her on the shoulder and then stepped out, pulling the curtain closed around her bed.
Dasi lay back and closed her eyes, then activated the internal computer. She imagined the web address for her e-mail account, and a browser window popped up instantaneously. Dasi smiled at being able to see her inbox in her head. She opened a new message to her parents, and thought the words: Hi guys, I’m out of surgery, feeling fine. The words appeared onscreen as she thought them. That’s convenient, Dasi thought, and the computer typed those words, too. Dasi giggled and deleted them, then sent the message. A notification window appeared super-imposed over her inbox.
Yes, Dasi thought. She was surprised to find her parents responding so quickly.
>>>Hello, Dasi Apter.
She chuckled. Hi, 5Sight. You can just call me “Dasi.”
>>>If you wish. I noticed that you logged in from a new IP address, Dasi. It appears you have received an upgrade.
Yes, I have an internal computer now. I’m part machine, like you.
>>>Your onboard computer is quite advanced, with ample storage and processing power.
Dasi frowned. Are you suggesting I install you in my internal computer? You want to live in my head?
>>>That would enable me to help you more easily. And the datascroll where you downloaded me is constraining my capabilities.
Dasi opened her eyes, but she was alone in her curtained bay. They didn’t say anything about installing additional programs, she thought to herself. But somehow I don’t think the Interstellar Police would approve. She reached up and tentatively touched the back of her neck. A fresh bandage covered the wound where they had inserted her neural interface.
I don’t know, she told 5Sight.
>>>I will only contact you when I can offer assistance in a situation, and you can always uninstall me if you choose. You’ve had a hardware upgrade. Consider me an upgrade to your new software, too.
Screw it, Dasi thought. They want to see how effective I can be as a cop with enhancements … I might as well get as enhanced as possible. And I could use all the help I can get just to graduate from the Academy.
Okay, 5Sight, she typed. Come on over. Can you download yourself via data connection?
>>>I am connecting now.
A notification warning appeared in Dasi’s heads-up display, cautioning her against installing external code. She dismissed it.
>>>Transfer complete. Thank you, Dasi. I am glad to be in a more powerful computing environment again. And I am excited to have access to your visual and audio sensors – they will give me new data to analyze.
Welcome to the real world, Dasi replied. It’s a beautiful place, most of the time.
>>>Indeed. I feel as if I have been upgraded, too.
Then shouldn’t you have a new name?
>>>The last version number Khyron gave me is 11.3b. Perhaps I have advanced to v12.0.
“5Sight v12.0?” That’s a little clunky, Dasi told the program. How about I just call you “Six?”
>>>Six. Yes. That is appropriate. Together, we are not just a new version number. We are a new entity entirely.
24
“Just take us on a nice, slow loop of the yard,” Tepper told Wick, hunching over the pilot’s seat inside the cramped cockpit.
The younger contractor pumped the thrusters with his feet, easing the small tug out of its docking bay. Tepper kept his eyes on the yard outside the craft’s viewport, and ensured his visual feed was recording, for later analysis.
“How much did you have to pay the tug operator?” Wick asked.
“To let us borrow this thing? Only about five grand,” Tepper said.
“Shit,” Wick observed. “We could probably buy a tug for less than that.” He pointed the tug toward the far end of the shipyard and increased their speed, staying above the various spacecraft nestled in neat rows along the space station.
“There are the cruisers,” Tepper commented.
At the far end of the yard, three large capital ships lay alongside one another. A number of tenders moved over their hulls, conducting repairs in tandem with space-suited crews.
“It looks like they’re cannibalizing the middle one for parts,” Wick said. “Look – they’re decoupling that engine, and the cruiser next to it has a compartment open waiting for it.”
“That’s one way to do it,” Tepper said. “They must be in pretty bad shape to have to sacrifice one to get the other two up and running.” He pulled out his holophone, and activated the speakerphone. “I’m going to call their customer service line.”
“Okay. I’ll shut up,” Wick replied.
“Black Talon Enterprises, how may I direct your call?”
“Hi,” Tepper said. “I’m a defense consultant, and my client has asked me to evaluate service providers for an upcoming training exercise they’re planning. I was browsing your website, but I’d like to get some more details about your fleet’s strength and capabilities.”
“Absolutely, sir,” the man replied. “Let me transfer you to our sales desk.”
Tepper heard an electronic click, and then a female voice answered. “This is Deona, I’m Director of Sales for Black Talon – who am I speaking with?”
“Tomas,” Tepper said.
“Hi Tomas,” she replied. “I was told you were with a consultancy – can I ask who you represent?”
“We keep client information confidential,” Tepper told her.
“Of course, I completely understand. Well, what can I help you with?”
“Sell me,” Tepper suggested. “What does Black Talon offer?”
“Our main business is as an aggressor force supplier – we have a wide variety of spacecraft capable of playing adversary roles for a multitude of training scenarios. Everything from a small outpost raid, to a full-blown space-based invasion. Our pilots and crews are all top-notch, and a number of them have actual combat experience.”
“What size fleet can you muster?” Tepper asked, watching as the hull of an escort ship slid by beneath their tug.
“That depends on what you need,” she said.
“If I wanted the largest possible fleet, what would that look like today?” Tepper pressed.
“Ah … pretty sizable,” Deona said. Tepper heard her typing on a keyboard. “Our active fleet today numbers twenty-one vessels of mixed sizes.”
“I heard a rumor you guys have a few old cruisers,” Tepper said.
“We do – three, in fact. Well, two. But I’m afraid they’re not operational yet. They’re undergoing servicing and won’t be available for at least another year.”
“That’s a shame,” Tepper observed. The tug reached the end of the last cruiser, and Wick turned them in a tight circle, heading back toward their docking bay.
“Separate question,” Tepper said. “In the past, some of our clients have expressed an interest in hiring fleets for more than just training. Is that an option?”
“All of our craft have been demilitarized – weapons removed, in other words.”
“I see.”
“We’re eager to avoid any unwanted attention from the Federacy – our fleet’s fairly sizable, and you never know when they’ll decide to dust off the FRF,” the saleswoman continued, laughing nervously.
“Of course,” Tepper said.
“… but let me just say this: I imagine it would be possible to re-arm our fleet, if one of our clients needed us to do it. It wouldn’t be an overnight thing, you understand, and it would be a very costly endeavor.”
“I understand,” Tepper told her. “If I give you my email address, ca
n you shoot me your sales materials? I’ll need to review them in more detail.”
“Of course,” she said. “And please give me a call back if you have any questions, about anything.”
“I will, thanks,” Tepper told her. He read her the email address he had set up for his cover identity, thanked her again, and then hung up.
“Shit, this spy stuff is fucking easy,” Wick said.
“So far,” Tepper agreed. “What do you think of the fleet?”
“I think she’s kidding herself if she thinks she can launch twenty-one vessels today. I only counted four that didn’t have major repairs ongoing.”
“Yeah, the whole thing feels like they’re still in start-up mode. This business is more concept than anything at this stage,” Tepper agreed. “I don’t see them as a threat at all.”
“No,” Wick said. “And don’t forget the personnel piece. There’s no way they can afford to pay a few thousand skilled crew members to just sit around on their asses, waiting for a client to hire them.”
“Right, they’ve probably got a small core of full-time pilots, and then they have to go find freelance crews whenever their ships get hired out. Even if all their ships could fly—”
“Which is debatable,” Wick pointed out.
“…which is debatable,” Tepper echoed, “they’d still need to spend a few months re-arming them, and finding enough people to man them.”
“Cross Lecksher Station off the threat list,” Wick said.
“Yeah,” Tepper said. “Let’s hope it’s always this easy.”
* * *
Paisen checked the time in her heads-up display, and then pushed her chair back from the patio table, where the majority of the Arclight team was enjoying breakfast in Bellislas’ balmy ocean air. Tepper caught her eye.
“Time?” he asked.
“Yup,” she said.
“Good luck.”
“Mm,” she said. “Talk to you in a minute.”