by John Mierau
Willard shared a worried glance with Bowen.
There was something off about Mentel.
“Who’s dead?” Bowen asked again.
“What? Oh, everyone. Probably. They were upstairs when the breach happened. Now, what kind of storage space do you have? Can I bring them all?” She put her hands on her hips and stared at the wall of computers as if she’d never seen them before. “Huh. There are a lot of them!”
Her eyes jerked from side to side as she poked and counted, obsessed with remembering or resolving something playing through her mind. Willard stepped forward, first following her jabbing finger and then turning to take in the rest of the module.
Willard let out a long whistle. It echoed back.
The space was massive. Long and tall enough to stack a couple tenders in the middle, with a couple heavyweight mechs as bookends to boot. There was a second elevator inside the room, which had to connect with the hub of the centrifugal wheel—the one that didn’t spin anymore—mounted directly above this floor.
In the centre of the vast, curving module, four medical or scientific workstations ran alternating with four steel tables. At least two of the workstations included printers capable of writing data in molecules or on strands of DNA.
Two rectangular cargo pods were fixed to the ceiling in the center of the room, twelve or fifteen metres above the deck. Two squares of heavy polymer curtains, ten metres to each side, were bunched up beneath each pod. Willard had seen a similar arrangement before. Drop the curtains over the tables and benches below and poof: instant sterile surgical suites.
Both of the cargo pods were connected by a walkway, and narrow transparent stairs down to the ground level.
The sounds of machinery emanated from the pods above. Screens blinked on the fronts of the advanced Q-computers along the back wall.
Behind the computers, above the cargo pods, and cladding every exposed inch of wall were large silver panels. Willard would bet the whole place was shielded to prevent wireless transmissions, electrostatic or electromagnetic influences, basically anything from getting in.
Or maybe from getting out.
The place screamed mad scientist’s laboratory.
“Doctor?” Bowen asked again, uncertainly.
Mentel ignored Bowen’s question and carried on with her talking. “I suppose we could strip the fractal-lattice storage crystals out of the Q’s,” she carried on, back still turned. “You know how to pack those safely, right?” There was a drip of social disorder or a drop of autistic spectrum in the good doctor, Willard decided, but she was clearly very gifted. A fact he judged as much by her entitled, confident manner of speech as the trillions that must have been made available for her to continue her studies here on Ryson, all the way through the Fold.
“Doctor!” Bowen shouted.
Mentel whirled around. “What?”
Willard stepped forward, before Bowen could say something smart. “We’re out of contact with Fleet, Ma’am.” He waved his arms at the silver insulation lining the walls. “Can you jack me back in?”
“No.” Mentel blinked. “No, of course not.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not from Information Division, who are you?” She stepped close to Willard’s face and took a deep whiff from inside. “Oh god. That dry air. You’re Reachers.”
Willard stared at her.
Bowen recovered first. “Listen, Doc—”
“It’s Doctor, thank you very much,” Carina spat back automatically.
“Fine, ‘Doctor —”
“Are you even cleared to be here? If you don’t have clearance—”
Bowen waved his hands in front of her face, cutting off the doctor's words. He clenched his jaw. Willard could see him visibly struggle for calm. He knew how Bowen felt. “No, we’re not from Information Division. We were dispatched by Fleet Ops to assist you so yes, we are cleared to be here.”
“You said there was a crash up on Ryson’s wheel?” Willard asked.
Mentel looked at him, touching her short, glossy hair again as she considered his question. “No. I said there was a breach and they’re dead. I only just got on the elevator in time.”
“Good news, Doc—Doctor!” Bowen said, stretching a reassuring smile on his face. “The breach hit two floors down. Up top is in perfect shape!” Bowen sounded like a parent explaining something to a two year old. Willard didn't know anything first-hand about parenting, and he wouldn’t know about it until Elena and he got reacquainted. But after he was finished saving the human race, Willard would be happy spending the rest of their lives repopulating it. Or practicing, at least.
“Let’s go get your crew!” Bowen finished.
Mentel’s eyes narrowed. “Are you both stupid? There was a breach in the wheel! Now help me with my computers.”
Willard laughed at the sheer crazy of this woman. “No, I think I get it, Doctor Mentel. This room’s electronically locked down, yeah? No signals in or out? So you couldn’t know it, but he’s right, we both had eyes on the wheel and it’s fine.”
He froze, recalling those scans. There hadn’t been any kind of signal from up top either. “Is the wheel caged against signal loss, too?”
“Of course it is!” Mentel turned sideways and jabbed a finger back at the computer racks. “Can we get to work, so we can get out of here before…”
“‘Before…?” Bowen asked, wearing his confusion on his face.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Mentel huffed, closing her eyes and rubbing her forehead. “You need them, Carina, remember to be nice.”
“We can hear you, Doc,” Bowen growled back.
She finished rubbing her forehead and touched her temple once more, lightly. “I am aware,” she said drily. “Alright. Let’s assume you’re authorized to be here, since I’d prefer not to die today.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “If you’re not, it’s you they’ll shoot anyways, not me.”
“Lady,” Bowen growled, “What the fu—?”
Mentel put her hand half an inch from Bowen’s face. He shut up.
Willard was impressed he let her keep the hand.
“I created your neural implants.” She focused on Bowen. “I created the neuroelectric perception bridge that lets you feel and balance in a mech suit.” She turned her gaze on Willard. “I fixed Bargana’s gravity drive so you’re not turned into protoplasm when you alter course at high-V…but those miracles of engineering aren’t why you’re here.”
Mentel looked over to the second elevator. “You’re here because of my latest trick.” Her eyes followed the shaft up to the top of the module. “I did it. I sculpted somatosensory response and thresholds for sandboxed neural wave generation and field guidance.”
Bowen leaned closer to Willard. “She’s saying she’s the smart kind of crazy.”
Mentel rolled her eyes. “Isn’t everyone, compared to you?”
Willard ignored them both. Puzzling her story. He was sure he’d seen and heard her name before. In his flight manual, maybe? Yeah, that was where he’d seen it.
On the patents page.
Willard’s eyes were wide. “You’re that Mentel?”
The mother of cybernetics and wielding.
Whoah.
“Yes, that Mentel.” She smiled with canned graciousness at Willard. “Which is why Ops sent you here. You need to get me out of here before she gets loose!”
“She?” Bowen folded his arms across his chest. “I thought you said everyone was dead—”
“Just listen, Sand Flea, and do as you’re told!”
“Shut your mouth,” Willard warned Doctor Mentel. She stared at him. Something in his cool tone surprised her and derailed her demagoguery.
“Don’t ever call me us that again. I don’t care if you invented my top five sex positions, you say that again, and I’ll tape your mouth shut and carry you out over my shoulder. Clear, Doc?”
Her eyes moved furtively, telegraphing the social mathematics going on in her head. A skill that obviously eluded he
r.
Bowen snickered. From long experience, Willard knew where his mind was going.
“No, Bowen, I’m not telling you my top five.”
Mentel finished her mental math. The best she could do was a generic smile. “Of course, Lieutenant. I apologize for my behavior.”
Willard didn’t buy the act, but he moved past the angry moment. “Now tell us what’s going on.”
Mentel blinked. Willard had a feeling she was processing again. Then the stream of words came out. “Humans don’t take orders as well as machines. Fleet Council asked me to build an override into the interface topology to ensure that they did.”
“Wait,” Bowen interjected, still not quite up to speed. “Fleet wants a way to shut down soldiers who don’t follow orders?’
Mentel blinked. “No, idiot. Fleet wants a way to make soldiers follow orders, every time.”
Willard was halfway to the answer when Mentel blurted it out.
“Fuck me,” Bowen whispered.
Mentel shook her head. “Not even when I perfect the override protocol, sweetie.”
Willard held up a finger, like a student.
Mentel nodded for him to continue, like a teacher.
“Mind control?”
Mentel nodded.
“Slavery.”
Mentel considered the word unemotionally and nodded again. “I suppose that’s accurate.”
Willard’s eyes grew bright and dangerous. “Fleet Command ordered this?”
Mentel smiled, completely missing the emotion radiating from him. “Might I suggest we get the hell out of here and worry about it later?”
“No,” Bowen said.
Mentel goggled at him. “That was an order, Lieutenant!”
Bowen shook his head. “Sorry, my override chip must not be working.”
“It’s not a chip,” Mentel said, again missing the emotion. “It’s a filter in the skin code—that is, the hardware layer—that wires your interface into your brain. It works like—”
“You ready?” Willard asked, gesturing toward the elevator shaft.
Bowen grinned. “Oh, yeah.”
Mentel cocked her head like a bird reading poetry. “But I told you, she’ll kill me.”
“After you said everybody was dead. So, which is it doctor?”
Mentel backed away. “I told you, that’s above—”
Bowen locked his hand around Mentel’s wrist. “Nope, not doing the pay-grade dance again.” He twisted Mentel’s arm behind her back and marched her towards the elevator. Willard ignored Doctor Mentel's shrieks of rage and followed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
In-Fold
Aboard Ryson
The elevator was moving as slowly as the airlock door had. It shook and groaned as it inched up the shaft into the hub of Ryson’s wheel section.
“Please, Lieutenant Tsu. Let me go.”
Doctor Mentel stood between Willard and Bowen. She was back in her fancy spacesuit, despite her assuring them the hub had a stable atmosphere. Her face mask was open and a pair of imploring, soulful eyes were set on a face disconnected from any emotion.
“You don’t really get people, do you, Doctor?”
She sighed, and the manufactured emotion in her eyes faded. “Not really. What should I say to save my life?”
“We’re going up. Done deal.” Bowen said flatly. “Want to take another crack at telling us what we’ll find?”
“Bodies?” Mentel suggested. “There was a lot of screaming, and I just locked the pressure door behind me and ran for the elevator.”
“You never stopped to check?” Bowen’s voice was thick with disgust. “To help?”
“That would reduce the effectiveness of my running for my life,” Mentel told him, as if explaining something to a five year old.
“You’re wrong in the head,” Bowen said.
“So I’ve been told,” Mentel agreed. “Still, there are benefits: brilliant intellect, good genes…I can hold my breath for sixteen minutes.”
“No more talking,” Bowen growled.
The silence in the elevator held until the car jerked to a stop.
“Gentlemen, please!” Mentel backed up against the elevator’s rear wall.
Willard and Mentel each put a hand on her shoulders.
She sighed. “At least go first. If it takes her a while to kill you, I still might get away.”
The elevator tone chimed. The doors opened onto a curving corridor with the same pressure as the elevator. A warm, lit space. No sign of violence.
Doctor Carina Mentel yelped as strong hands pushed her out of the elevator.
Willard and Bowen were unarmed. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone to shoot before the Fleet arrived at the Intercept Point in the Trial system. The only firearms authorized outside of training missions belonged to MP’s and Special Investigators. They stepped into the corridor back to back.
They walked all around the elevator shaft. There were two more elevator shafts in the core and the same triple-redundancy systems they’d observed in Ryson’s lower section.
Bright and warm, but no people.
They navigated the circle back to the elevator doors they’d arrived through. Four pressure doors on the outside of the circle marked the four spokes leading out to the outer ring of the wheel.
“Which corridor?” Willard asked.
Mentel just stared back with dead eyes.
Creepy.
“No problem,” Bowen said, sauntering to the pressure door and reaching for the touchscreen. “Which is the button for public address? Maybe your mysterious 'she' will come to us.”
“I’ll take you!” Mentel bleated, putting her hand on Bowen’s arm and pushing it away from the display. “Don’t draw attention, we’re in danger!”
“So take us,” Bowen said, pulling away from her touch, lip curled in disgust. “And fill us in on the way. Or we go in blind and send you ahead first. Your choice.”
Something clicked inside the good doctor as Willard watched. “Fine. Spoke 3. But first…” She walked a few paces down the hall and punched numbers into another wall-mounted touchscreen. “If there’s no avoiding this, let’s get you armed.”
“Better,” Bowen purred approvingly, patting the short machine gun dangling under his right armpit from a black shoulder sling. Willard had strapped one on as well. Doctor Mentel had reached her hand into the hallway weapons cache as well, but Bowen had removed it with a firm shake of his head.
Her protests fell on disinterested ears, so she switched gears back to that creepy, emotionless manner of hers as they started down the spoke.
“As soon as the articles of Alliance had been signed and the new government began building this Fleet, my ‘team’ and I were set up here. My team. That’s a joke. Bunch of babysitters. I haven’t needed a babysitter since I was two.”
“When I said ‘fill us in,’” Bowen told Mentel, “I didn’t mean your life story.”
“We’ve got three pressure doors and almost half a kilometre to cross, Lieutenant. I’ll get to it.”
Willard rolled his eyes. “Get to it faster.” He kept an eye out for working access panels as they made their way towards the next blue and pressure door, a hundred metres down the spoke.
His interface and ship’s comms were still down. Not only were exterior signals blocked, but something was jamming internal signals as well.
Armed was good. Informed would be better.
“The first edict from the Alliance concerning my work was that I continue it with others,” Mentel grumbled. “They assigned me a team of five ‘peers’ who could barely keep up when I talked slow and used little words. Then, they carpet bombed me with a dozen research assistants who barely knew how to fab a neutron, let alone splice one!”
“Working with others?” Bowen said. “Sounds horrible, Doc.”
“Slowing my process is horrible for everyone, haven’t you been listening? It took a month before my ‘team’ approved mass-production of the firs
t-gen interface implants. A month of my life wasted, teaching those imbeciles enough to have any hope of understanding my work, let alone improve on it!”
“Finally, we handed off line production and quality control of the implants and moved on to cleaning up Jean’s mess with the gravity drive. He was so proud of ‘the Bargana drive,’ but it really wasn’t any improvement on relativistic engines before I started on it. I mean, really, what good is a drive system you can’t push past ten percent without turning everything on board into pancakes?”
“So you’re a brain surgeon and a rocket scientist?” Willard asked.
Mentel sniffed. “Artificial distinction. It’s all just atoms and code.”
They reached the first blue door. After a short argument, Mentel agreed to work the manual release for the door while Bowen and Willard readied their rifles to cover her and the hall beyond.
There was nothing in the hall beyond but another hundred-metre walk.
“The interface tech is simple biomechanics. I coded abstraction and translation layers for the mind to measure and interpret external data sources. After we cleaned up Bargana’s grav-drive mess, we slapped together the specialized interfaces for mechs and pilots in a few weeks.” She sighed. “But it was six weeks before the idiot-sticks Fleet calls my peers would sign off on mass-production.” She threw up her hands. “Two whole weeks they made me slave to fix a bug that affected less than one interface out of a thousand!”
“What was the bug?” Willard asked.
“Don’t encourage her,” Bowen whispered.
“A glitch that reduced priority for biologic functions in favour of increasing data transfer speed between host organism and the slaved machine. Point zero-one percent of interfaces told the pilots to stop breathing during initial interface.”
Willard spun around. He had to fight not to slam the butt of his rifle into her perfect, Earther teeth. “There’s close to twenty thousand people in the Fleet. We’re all getting ‘plants before Intercept. You didn’t think it was worth a couple weeks of boring work to save twenty more lives?”