Crystal Escape

by Doug J. Cooper

  “Swing by and get me on your way back out,” Sid commanded for the third time.

  “You’re in the wrong direction and I’m already concerned about time. You’re safe where you are.”

  Then Criss changed subjects. “The mystery of the Elite Sevens has been solved.” He projected an image for Sid to see. In it, Vivo had caught up with the ring of rogue spaceships as they hurtled through space. The domed world moved to the center of the grouping, and as it did, the sleek tankers shifted in and attached themselves around the perimeter of the main platform like suckerfish on a whale.

  “Even I could pick off those Sevens,” said Sid. “Why are you waiting?”

  “They carry the air, water, nutrients, and everything else the passengers need until we rescue them. I want that transfer to complete.”

  As he spoke, he prepared to dress, or, more specifically, move out of his four-gen console and into his personal synbod body. It had been more than a year since he’d been out of his underground bunker experiencing the world as a humanoid. He avoided it because he felt so vulnerable riding around in such a small, exposed container.

  But the advantages of being mobile sometimes outweighed the risks, as in this case. And being prudent, he’d long ago made the necessary preparations to dress on a moment’s notice.

  In his subterranean console room stood two synbods. One was a nondescript three-gen, designed and trained specifically for the task of moving Criss’s crystal self out of his console and into his synbod body. Criss had spent weeks with Juice thinking through every problem and eventuality and then trained the three-gen AI how to react should one occur.

  The other synbod was the opposite of the three-gen. Matching Criss’s projected image, Criss’s body was tall, fit, in his mid-forties, and lifelike, all the way down to the sun-bleached hair and pleasantly weathered face of an outdoorsman. He stood with his back to the three-gen, the top of his blue jumpsuit opened and down, exposing his bare back.

  Animating the three-gen, Criss wasted no time in starting the transfer. He directed the synbod to face the console, open the lid, and remove Criss’s crystal housing. With all external connections severed, everything went dark and Criss’s world collapsed to the walls of a small receptacle. He counted, knowing how long it would take to be placed in his humanoid body, and tingled with relief when his world came alive on schedule.

  After flexing his fingers and toes to validate a successful move, Criss reconnected to his vast network of links and feeds. At the same time, he stepped from the console room, turned right in the underground passageway, and started to run.

  He sprinted to the door at the end of the corridor. As he ran, he updated Sid on his problem-free transfer, tried unsuccessfully to connect with Cheryl and Juice, and initiated the power-up sequence for his escape capsule.

  The passageway door opened as he approached. Without slowing, he dashed into the dimly lit room, raced up a set of steps, turned, and plopped his butt into the single seat. As safety straps latched around him, he grasped the hatch door and pulled it closed, shutting himself inside the cramped cylinder. After a quick scan of the capsule systems, he initiated launch.

  With his seat pressed against the back wall and his knees just shy of the front, he sat inside a small, high-performance missile. Built specifically for him, the escape capsule had no buttons to press or displays to view because everything connected straight to his matrix.

  He’d designed the vessel as a last-ditch escape option should aggressors ever invade his lair. To make it a suitable getaway vehicle, he’d added a cloak so it was invisible during flight, and he’d readied a “normal” reality to project across the landscape during liftoff to hide that disruption from observers.

  As a further precaution, he’d rigged the capsule without any connectivity to the outside world, figuring that if he was being chased, a very capable AI would be among his pursuers. Fearing it might reach out and take control of the capsule while he was inside, he concluded his best protection was electronic isolation.

  But isolation was a two-way street. They couldn’t get to him, but he couldn’t reach out and connect to any links or feeds himself. So, for the few minutes the capsule was in flight, he would be out of contact with his leadership.

  To his chagrin, after all that preparation, he now used the capsule not to evade capture but as a means to get into space as quickly as possible. The alternative—wait for the scout to descend through the atmosphere, pick him up, and then climb back to space—would take time he did not have.

  And to make this bad day even worse, when he launched the capsule, he’d be compromising his bunker. While the launch would be cloaked, camouflaged, and electronically isolated, some telltale signs of the missile’s flight would find its way into the record. A hobbyist, a satellite, something, probably several somethings, would capture evidence through simple coincidence.

  On a normal day, he’d take the time to search the record and purge any evidence. But normal meant he still resided in his console and his leadership was safe. It could be days or weeks before things were that way again. By then, evidence of his launch would be duplicated and stored billions of different ways. He’d never be able to sanitize the record at that point, not with confidence.

  With his worry focused on Cheryl and Juice, he didn’t dwell on the impending loss. But when this was over, he’d have no choice but to move his bunker.

  His hands gripped the armrests as the engine rumbled beneath him, and like a bullet leaving a barrel, the capsule shot from its silo and into the sky. Everything functioned as designed during the brief ride despite the high winds in the upper atmosphere that made the last part rougher than he’d anticipated. When he heard silence outside, he knew he’d made it into orbit.

  Automatic systems on the scout took control of the capsule at that point. He waited patiently as the scout guided the tiny craft to the single bay door beneath it. The moment it was in position, the bay door opened and a mechanical arm reached out, cradled the capsule, and pulled it inside.

  When the bay door closed, Criss unlocked the capsule hatch and pushed. But instead of swinging wide, the hatch opened a crack and stopped moving.

  He closed the hatch and opened it again, this time using more force. It stopped in the same spot as before, producing a metallic rattle when it did. Wiggling the hatch back and forth made the rattle noise repeat, but it didn’t get the door to open more. Unstrapping himself from the chair, he pressed his shoulder against the hatch and leaned into it. Still it wouldn’t budge.

  With the capsule’s isolated electronics, Criss had no way to link out to the scout and its feeds to see what was causing the problem. Nor could he signal to the scout’s tech bot to come free him.

  Calming his frustration, he scanned the inside of the capsule for resources he could use. While his eyes moved through the tiny space in a methodical fashion, he reviewed the capsule design specifications stored in his memory. He visually spied the tiny monitoring suite with its embedded camera just as his review suggested the idea.

  Using his fingernails as tools, he cut away material and pried the small device from its mount in the wall. Once free, he held it between thumb and finger and pointed it around the tiny cabin, verifying that he could see through it. Then, slipping the camera through the narrow door crack, he looked into the scout.

  The view wasn’t encouraging.

  The problem was a toolbox resting crossways on a support beam near the hatch door. Sid or Cheryl must have set it there at some point. In a freak situation, the kind he had not planned for, a lip on the hatch of his escape capsule caught against the edge of the toolbox when it opened, preventing it from further movement.

  He could see that more jiggling wouldn’t help, but lacking options, he tried anyway. After five minutes of fruitless shaking, he sat back in the chair and took stock of his situation.

  He was trapped in an escape capsule in the belly of the scout, itself traveling through space hidden by the most sophisticated
cloaking device ever conceived. Meanwhile, two of his leadership were in mortal danger, the kind where every moment mattered.

  Forecasting scenarios at a furious pace, he searched for a way out of the capsule. As he did, he fought a growing sense of dread.

  Chapter 10

  “Those sound like ship drives.” Cheryl found herself in one of those weird mental moments where something familiar to her—the sound of spaceship drive pods firing to life—was far enough out of context, she being on vacation on an island in the Pacific, that it confused her.

  But it all came together when the floor started to shake and MacMac yelled, “This is insane, Aubrey. Where did you get the fuel?”

  Lazura. Cheryl knew it in her bones. As vibrations shook her and a thunderous roar filled her ears, she flashed with anger, first at the situation and then at herself.

  This is my fault.

  Criss and Sid had voiced concern that Lazura might be involved with Vivo. But it had been speculation on their part, and she’d expressed her position under no uncertain terms. “You’re seeing her everywhere and have been for years. Stop crying wolf and let us enjoy our vacation. If you’re going to ruin our fun, do it with hard evidence.”

  Her stone-faced delivery had added weight to her words, and she’d acted pissy for the rest of the day, wearing her displeasure for both of them to see. Soon after, Sid and Criss had become absorbed with plans to lure Lazura to Sisyphus and trap her there, so Cheryl had let the incident drift from her mind. Until now.

  Moving past her self-recriminations, she grabbed Juice’s chair with both hands so they stayed together as the deck shook. “Do you have this?” she called to Criss.

  “I will,” said Criss, who briefed them on their situation—that Vivo was in flight, and to avoid risk of a crash he must wait to intervene until they were beyond the pull of Earth’s gravity. His connection broke after that, and he didn’t respond when she called to him.

  After several tense minutes, the violent shaking transitioned into a background thrum, signaling that Vivo had left the atmosphere and was now in space.

  Standing, Cheryl pulled Juice to her feet and drew on the leadership skills that years earlier had earned her a commission as a Fleet spaceship captain. “I’m going to talk with MacMac. Would you please go flip Chase and Justin?”

  “But he’ll see.” Juice’s eyes flicked to MacMac. “Shouldn’t we go to our room or something?”

  “We’re way past charades.” Cheryl pushed on the small of Juice’s back, scooting her in the direction of the synbods and using a phrase she’d learned from her commander at Fleet Academy. “Time is our enemy, and the sooner we start helping ourselves the better our chances of turning this around.”

  Juice walked over to the synbods, who stood as she approached. “Three-gens, verify me.” She waited a moment so they could confirm her identity using a rigorous combination of sight, sound, smell, and situation. “Command redirect to secondary source. Execute.”

  With that, Juice launched a preset feature Criss had built into the crystals. Her command caused them to disconnect from Vivo’s systems and reorient their reporting structure to center on Cheryl and her. Lazura would know she’d lost control of two synbods, but Criss had included protections in his design so that she couldn’t do anything about it.

  While Juice worked with Chase and Justin, Cheryl confronted MacMac. “Where are you taking us?” She wished she had a weapon. While this man was older, he was taller and twice her weight.

  MacMac ignored her, looking into the distance at something she couldn’t see, tapping and swiping the air in front of him, and swearing a blue streak with Aubrey the center of his wrath.

  “Hey!” she barked, hefting a chair to assess its value as a club. “Stop this now or there will be consequences.”

  He flicked his eyes in her direction. “I’m trying but I can’t. Not from here, anyway.”

  “Wait. You’re trying to stop it?” It didn’t seem plausible. He was the only human employee she’d met so far. How could he not be involved? His wide eyes and ashen face lent credence to his claim, however.

  Still, she exercised caution by calling to the synbods. “Chase. Justin. Guard him.” She pointed at MacMac.

  The two moved to either side of the man and faced his direction in a most intimidating fashion. Then Cheryl continued their conversation. “Tell me what’s happening.”

  “This is no hop to Los Angeles or other publicity stunt. We’re heading into deep space.”

  Criss chimed in again, his voice fading in and out. “Lazura is using you to shield her escape.”

  The conversation became confusing after that, with Cheryl and Juice talking aloud to Criss, and MacMac, who wasn’t aware of the four-gen’s presence, thinking they were talking to him. During the exchange, Criss weighed in on MacMac. “He’s not in league with Lazura and is a likely ally with useful skills.”

  Cheryl stood in front of MacMac and caught his gaze. “Where could you get control of this?”

  “There’s a makeshift ops panel in the cellar, but I can tell from here that I’ve been locked out. I might be able to backdoor in from my office.”

  She studied his face, seeking to judge him during the exchange. “Where is that? Your office?”

  “Fifth floor of the tower.”

  Nodding in agreement with Criss’s opinion, she gave MacMac the benefit of the doubt for now. “Let’s go there.”

  Starting for the door, she organized them into formation. “Justin, you’re on point. Chase, you have the rear.” She leaned close to MacMac as they stepped into the hall. “Tell me what you’re doing as we go. Don’t surprise me.”

  “This way,” said MacMac, pointing left.

  As Justin led the formation down the hall, Cheryl gave Juice’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Glancing behind, she confirmed that no one followed them.

  The hallway, like the room they’d just left, was now simple and unadorned, the ambiance that had been on display disappearing with the loss of the image projection system. At the end of the hall, the door led to a big, mostly empty warehouse, notable because she’d seen it before as a market square and as a patio lounge.

  A cluster of a dozen guests stood at the far end of the warehouse building, some quiet, others gesticulating as they spoke. They watched but didn’t call out as Cheryl and the group traversed the floor.

  “How many people are on the island?” she asked MacMac as they exited onto the open deck.

  “Thirty-four guests, plus Aubrey and me,” said MacMac.

  “Aubrey’s here?” asked Juice.

  “Of course. She’s too controlling to be anywhere else.”

  The dome enveloped them like a huge dish cover. Cheryl could see light and shadow flashing through it, but the dome wasn’t transparent like glass, at least not in its current state.

  And the deck they were on was simple and stark, with broad open space, off-white rectangular buildings, and an office tower in the center, maybe ten minutes away by foot.

  “Over here,” said MacMac, pointing to a forest-green crew cart parked to the side. “We can’t all fit, so we ride and they run.” He tilted his head at Chase and Justin as he said the last part.

  Cheryl looked to Juice, deferring to her knowledge of synbods, and Juice responded by climbing into the back seat. Cheryl sat next to MacMac in front, and the three whirred toward the tower, the whap-whap of synbod feet padding on the deck from behind.

  Criss’s connection strengthened again, and Cheryl and Juice listened through their private link as he briefed them on their circumstances and his plans. Halfway to the tower, they passed near a family—two adults, a teenager, and a younger child—clutching each other in a daze.

  “Everything will be okay,” Juice called out. “Stay near your room for now.” Then she told Criss, “You need to save all the guests.”

  As they neared the office tower, Cheryl noted that her perspective changed. “The tower looks big from far away, but it’s pretty mode
st when you get up close.”

  “Good observation,” said MacMac. “Each floor holds a single office suite, but it’s designed to trick you into seeing it as a bigger structure from across the deck. I have the whole fifth floor, and Aubrey is above me in the penthouse.”

  As the cart whirred to a stop at the front door of the tower, Criss said, “I’ve loaded some tasks into Chase and Justin. Do what you can but don’t take any risks. I have this.” Criss turned the scout back to Earth at that point, and their connection dissolved.

  “So there are thirty-six people on Vivo.” Cheryl said to MacMac as they climbed out of the cart and entered the building. “And about the same number of synbods?”

  “It’s close. We have thirty of what I call the regulars. That’s five Admins, ten Techs, and fifteen Attendants. That’s including these two.” MacMac pointed to indicate Chase and Justin. “And there are two Supers, Hejmo and Mondo.”

  “Plus the other Aubrey,” said Juice.

  “Say again?” asked MacMac.

  “Aubrey the person and her doppelgänger double.”

  MacMac’s brow creased, but he remained silent. When the lift door opened on the fifth floor, they stepped into a small lobby area, with windows overlooking the Vivo landscape behind them and a curved wall with three doors spaced across it in front.

  “Where do these doors go?” asked Cheryl.

  “Bathroom, office, project room,” replied MacMac, pointing from one door to the next.

  She walked to the project room and glanced inside at a large, mostly empty space, then crossed the lobby and looked into the bathroom. “Okay,” she announced, motioning all of them—Juice, MacMac, Justin, and Chase—forward to the middle door.

  “Wow,” said Juice as they entered the office. It was a huge room with tall ceilings and filled with things not normally associated with a workspace: a basketball and hoop, a ping-pong table, an immersion couch, a wet bar with a food service unit, a bed. The place was clean enough, but a scatter of clothes, dishes, and other detritus gave it a well-lived-in look.