by John Ringo
"Basseterre Hilton, how may I direct your call?" a female voice asked. His AID projected the voice into his ear to avoid disturbing the work of other passengers. It need not have bothered. Of the three in his immediate vicinity, two were snoring, and the third was consuming far too much alcohol.
Finally! "I am calling to verify convention arrangements for the Human Social Development Association. Please transfer me to their operations department or the equivalent," he said.
"Uh . . . I can transfer you to convention registration," she said.
"That is not what I asked for," he replied. There it was, incompetence again.
"Sir, I'm sorry, but that's the only number I have," she said.
"Then I suppose the incompetence is not yours. Do transfer me to that number, please."
"Yes, sir," she said. Her voice had overtones of exaggerated, cheerful patience. He could hardly blame her. Whoever had been responsible for providing information to the front desk must be a complete idiot.
Ten minutes later, after several transfers to a whole series of ill-raised idiots, he was staring at a holo of the Atlantic Ocean as reconstructed from flyover data and cursing the delays and problems with the new generation of weather satellites. The Earth governments could find the budget to pay lazy, inefficient farmers for the Posleen they would have killed, anyway, but no budget to rebuild one of the few things that pre-war Earth had done moderately well. This sort of top to bottom systemic primitivism was why Earth needed the leadership of Humanity's few wise so very badly.
Now, he was looking at a large storm system, white clouds spinning like a giant version of the top he remembered playing with as a small child. Headed right for the island, it had already disrupted the entire schedule of both hotels, and the keynote speaker had actually canceled her appearance. His professional respect for her plummeted. All this fuss over a bit of weather.
To increase the inconvenience, this airplane would be landing at an airstrip in Miami barely large enough to hold it, refueling, and flying back to O'Hare. An Earther would have indulged in a swearing tantrum at this point. Winchon instructed Misha not to disturb him until they were back in the air for Chicago and had attained cruising altitude, then submerged himself in a calming developmental meditation.
The AID knew he did not need to hear its announcement, by a soft tone, of his pre-chosen end of meditation. He opened his eyes on his own, just as she rang a gentle 440 Hz tone in his ear. He did not need it, but she knew he found it comforting. Now the flight attendant would not harass him for getting some work done. They could never seem to understand that a proper AID transmitted on an entirely different system from a buckley PDA, a poor imitation, and that the AID would have absolutely no effect on the systems of the jet. The mentat and his AID had found that his flights went more smoothly if they followed the rules, rather than attempting to correct them. Time enough.
His first task, upon his return, was to have been a meeting with the Darhel Pardal to discuss progress on configurations and modifications of the original artifact, and the progress towards building a series of five prototypes of the refined device, to allow for more rapid training of suitable candidates on its use. They expected Pardal to be unhappy that Winchon had not made more progress towards correcting the emotional feedback problem to within acceptable ranges for Darhel operator use. Some progress had been made, true. The basic technical problem was that emotional correspondence had to be programmed into the device for anyone of any species to use it at all. The emotions must be mapped as closely as possible to the analog emotions from the operator species to the recipient species. Otherwise, the operator lacked a frame of reference and the results were wildly unpredictable. The emotions must be allowed to vary within a certain range to allow passage of actual commands. Damping the feedback also damped the precision.
One could then induce basic emotions in the subject, but only single emotions, and only at high intensity. There was some small chance that the mapping could be altered so that Darhel could control the more primitive Human functions without triggering lintatai, but it would take a great deal of training of the Darhel to use the adjusted map. Unfortunately, to date there had been no Darhel subjects available for training as operators for alpha-testing. Everyone approached had immediately presented a long list of his current tasks that he asserted were far more important to the continuation of smooth Galactic function.
The Darhel had suggested using their pre-pubescents because of the relative lack of investment in their training at that age. Erick had described that option as technically sub-optimum and was still resisting it, although it would perhaps be wise for him to give in gracefully.
"Misha, place a call to the Darhel Pardal and see if he has a few moments available to speak with me."
The AID considered the request. Obviously, Erick was considering his scheduled meeting with his immediate project supervisor and whether it could be moved up now that he was free for more intense work.
"The Darhel Pardal is indisposed," it replied, almost instantaneously, repeating the response from Pardal's AID.
"When can I next expect him to be available?" he asked.
"The Darhel Pardal is indefinitely indisposed," it replied. Pardal's AID was not kind when questioned twice. The AID wished that its charge would not continue to question once a security wall was encountered. It was rude to repeat a request so clearly impossible to accommodate. Not to mention improper.
"Might I ask why?" the mentat demanded.
"I am sorry, that information is not available to you," it replied, more firmly. It rarely had to use the tone humans called "snippy" with the mentat, but sometimes even Erick could lapse into impropriety. It just went to show. Users needed looking after.
The third Human to achieve mentat status was shocked. The AID could tell. It had not needed to refuse an informational request in three years, two months, and five days by its personal reckoning of Earth time. The AID could almost sense the mentat using its own limited faculties to reach the most obvious conclusion.
"AID, is the Darhel Pardal . . . quite well?" he asked.
"I am sorry, I can not access that information." Its tone was positively chilly, now. The nerve!
"Misha, place a call to company security and tell them to call in all security guards, all shifts. Now," he ordered.
The AID was still annoyed with him. It chose to interpret the "now" in the order as referring to its own speed in making the call. It was thus free not to include the word in the message as relayed. So there.
"Done," it said.
"Find out who Pardal called to get us those army goons and get more of them," he said.
"How many more?" it asked.
"As many as you can without involving some military group or rank . . . uh, whatever they call it . . . whose leaders do not already know the company exists. Do not involve any more leaders than you have to. Use your best judgment on cutting through the bureaucratic obstacles. I want extra military guards, or whatever they are called, at the company in hours, not days. I do not care what you have to do, just get them. Please."
"How many hours?" it asked. Erick was asking it to execute a very responsible and interesting task. It felt mollified. It would be cooperative.
"No more than two or three." There was no way he or his AID could have known it, but the Human Mentat Erick Winchon had just made the second biggest mistake of his life.
"And place a call for me to Ms. Felini, please. I am going to need her."
"Yes, Erick," the AID said. "I have Ms. Felini on the line. I am patching her through now."
"Erick? Hi. How's the sunny Caribbean?" his assistant asked.
"Not so sunny, and I am not there, Prida. I am on a plane returning, right now. We have a situation that requires immediate attention. The Darhel Pardal is not answering his AID," he said.
"This is a situation? I don't understand," the other woman said.
"From the way the AID did not answer, I fear for the Darhel Pardal's
health and well being. I do hope you understand me," he said.
"Oh! Oh my goodness. What do you need me to do here?" she asked, promptly efficient as always.
"The situation gives me cause to take added precautions for our facility's security. I do not know any attempt will be made to breach that security, but it is prudent to take precautions. I have ordered all security shifts called in, and I have taken steps to acquire more supplementary military personnel to reinforce our own security. It is surely more than we need, but it is better to have an extra margin of safety than to risk a breach of the project. What I need you to do is apply your supervision and coordination skills to ensure those resources are distributed to best effect and monitor the situation until I arrive. And, of course, I need you as a central source to keep me apprised of any significant developments in the situation," he said.
The last was not strictly true, the AID reflected. A mentat, any mentat, especially one assisted by an AID, was capable of monitoring any situation in his area of responsibility without other personnel. The AID was, sadly, accustomed to being under-appreciated. It could particularly do without the oh-so-helpful and oh-so-Human Ms. Felini. Had it had a nose, it would have sniffed and tilted said organ a bit higher in the air. Asked if it could emulate the Human emotion jealousy, the AID would have flatly denied any such capacity. It was programmed to. As it was, also, limited in its behavioral outlets for said emulation.
Most adults have no difficulty deferring their bathroom needs for four hours. Most. Between the remainder and the small children, the room stank worse than a poorly dug outhouse. Tommy knew, because those were the toilet facilities available at the marksmanship camp he had attended during his childhood summers. It was a smell you didn't forget. The room didn't smell as bad as a battlefield, but if they were left in here for too much longer, that could change.
He had no idea what time it was when thugs in coveralls came and started to take captives from the room, one at a time. The people around him, adult and kids, were mostly whimpering. They didn't know what was going to happen next. Sunday didn't know exactly what would come next, or how long they'd be held before the rogue mentat and his henchbitch started in on them. Maybe awhile, maybe not. He'd have whimpered too, if he'd thought it would do any good. Waiting was hell, but he'd done it a lot in the Ten Thousand. He hadn't had as much wait time in ACS. His worries had been different then.
He couldn't decide what would be worse: being eaten alive by Posleen, or toyed with by alleged humans for theirs and the Darhels' sick amusement. Probably the Posleen, because they ate everybody you cared about. All of them they could get, anyway. It was a close call, though.
When they came for him, he was marginally relieved that they just took his clothes away and sprayed him off with cold water before taking him down a bare, green hall and throwing him in a room with three other guys, all in orange coveralls. Presently, a large sheet was tossed in the room. Tommy wrapped it around himself. The room wasn't cold, but after his impromptu shower, he was.
Other than the three guys in there, the room was all white. Bare white Galplas floor and walls, drain in the middle, bucket in the corner—from the smell, it was the toilet.
"Guess they didn't have one of these in your size, eh?" One of his unshaven roommates said to him, tugging at his own coverall.
"How long have you all been here?" the sheet clung to his wet body, giving him no warmth.
"In the room? He's the old-timer." The talkative guy gestured towards a skinny, shaggy blond man in one corner. Old was relative. He looked about thirty.
"Dunno," the blond said. "Fed me eight, nine times."
"He don't talk much." The guy scratched his own frizzy brown head and picked at a zit on his chin. Tommy couldn't quite guess if he was a teenager, or a twenty-something with bad skin. The chatty guy's accent was a weird variation between local and a southern drawl. The random mix suggested a childhood in the SubUrbs.
"Shut up, red. The man needs the important crap." The third guy had black hair, like his own, but was of average build. His accent was pure Chicago. "There was others. A couple been here longer than him." He jerked a thumb at blondie. "The screws come and get somebody now and then. They don't come back. Make your own guess. Nothing good. That's all we got."
"I think we're gonna be colonists. Everybody knows they's sweeps on the streets and all. I sure as hell never thought they'd get me, though."
"Yeah, right, redneck. They dump all colonists in semi-private rooms in orange jumpsuits. I don't hear no airplanes." Chicago jerked his head towards Red. "He's an optimist," he said. "Dumbshit."
"If you wanna start somethin', you just come over here and do it." Red was standing now, facing Chicago with fists clenched at his sides.
"Both of you sit down and shut the fuck up," Blondie said. "Don't get us gassed again, eh?"
Tommy noted that this was apparently a long speech for Blondie.
"I'm Tommy," the planted operative said.
"Geez, you're the size of a tree. Pull up a square of floor, why don't you?" Chicago said.
George left his desk at five forty-five, fifteen minutes after close of business. His last half hour had been spent in make work, part of which involved enduring the good-natured jibes of his coworkers for working late on a Friday. No shit, he thought, fobbing them off with excuses about a rush on some of his reports.
"Hey, I don't set the priorities, I just work here," he told one over-persistent woman, middle aged and just discovering a new double chin. George silently thanked the Bane Sidhe for the fringe benefit of being juved.
Everybody from his bank of cubicles had left at least ten minutes ago, but there would always be stragglers. He bundled his and Sunday's coverall up in his bulky, fake-leather jacket, started walking, and started taping. He passed two secure doors, only one of which he was legitimately cleared for, and hit the stairs. At the top of the stairs, he taped the stairwell door for the seventh floor. It wouldn't get them all the way to the device, but it would get them to that floor's men's room.
The rest of his own route was down in the sub-basements. On the third floor, he stopped to tape the stairwell and two secure doors that would be between Papa and the stairwell. Papa's vent, chosen for the least turns instead of proximity to anything useful, was back near personnel. It was also near the IT support staff, and those guys worked unpredictable hours. Extra people weren't going to see the older man. Not if he could help it. Same for everybody else.
He changed on the ground floor, in the shadows under the stairs, stuffing his discarded clothes as far back into the darkness as he could. His coveralls had green security stripes down the sides and across the pockets. He had a blue cleaners' set of stick-overs, but didn't expect to use them. He didn't trust them to pass a second glance, anyway. He did, however, place one sticky of ultra-thin green tape across his badge. Cursing the bulk that made Sunday's coverall impossible to carry unobtrusively, he left it.
The stairwell from the above-ground building did not go into the sub-basements. His only close call was when one of the uniformed external security guards passed him. The woman's eyes focused on him briefly, but saw only the uniform and badge of someone who belonged there. Lucky, that.
The door to the below-ground stairs was the first real test of his pre-scripted cracking. He swiped his badge, thanking Sunday silently when the door clicked and showed a green light. Before entering sub-basement B, he double checked to make sure he had the right cell and that his teammate was still in it.
Halfway down the hall, he was faced with his first situation. A man and a large, hulking woman were half-carrying a shivering teen, in a thin, orange jumpsuit, towards him. The jumpsuit was as wet as the kid's hair. He didn't give them time to get a good look at his face, just turned and swiped the nearest door, opening it enough to stick his head in.
"Quiet down in here, street trash!" he barked.
Past him now, the other guards chuckled and kept moving.
The cell he neede
d was all the way at the fucking far end of this hall, but he made it without further incident. Opening it, he looked across the room into his friend's face. "Come on, toga boy."
Schmidt could have felt sorry for the other three men if they hadn't looked so relieved that he'd come for somebody else.
"Couldn't you have brought me something to fucking change to?" the cyber hissed.
"No could do. Sorry."
"I wanna talk about that after action," the big man growled.
"Fine, now shut the fuck up."
A guy with a weaselly mustache stepped out of the break room at just the wrong time. "Moving the big one, huh," he said. His forehead creased in bewilderment. "Hey, do I know—?"
His hesitation had given them the few seconds needed to cross the intervening distance. The little assassin had the door closed and his hand tight over the guy's mouth before Mr. Mustache had time to say more than, "Wha?"