Provider Prime: Alien Legacy

by John Vassar

  Cytec’s function was to drip-feed its parent company with new technical innovations. In reality, it had exceeded all expectations. Time and again, Thorne delivered revolutionary technological breakthroughs, handing Autogen a virtual monopoly of the robotics sector. Space propulsion, navigation and communications followed suit.

  Mitchell was astonished, though, at what he discovered next.

  Rod Thorne, under the banner of Autogen, had developed the sub-ether coms system used by FedStat and Delere Secos. The Populus record also revealed that Thorne was the technical lead on the Sentinel Weapons System project. With intimate knowledge of an SWS autom, the SenANNs’ theory of Thorne’s transference was now a lot more credible…

  Mitchell withdrew from the files.

  Roderick Thorne was a true genius. For sub-ether coms alone, he ranked alongside Newton, Einstein and DeBaene.

  The realisation of what he was up against hit Mitchell hard in the gut.

  “I don’t understand how the High Council could have allowed a single organisation to become so powerful… but if this is the man behind the security breach at DS, I’m outgunned and outclassed.”

  ‘That is a very human reaction, Lee Mitchell. But understandable, given the evidence.’

  “I have to ask a critical question. What I’ve just seen changes everything...”

  ‘We are uncertain of the meaning of your last statement. Please elaborate.’

  Mitchell paused.

  “What do you predict will happen if I abandon the mission?”

  ‘We would need a more specific context for such a question. Please narrow the scope to an individual or a specific probability.’

  Mitchell was again reminded of the Lost One and its outdated interface. The SenANNs didn’t seem capable of making the ‘mental jumps’ that enable normal conversation. And why should they? Their world was logical, not intuitive.

  “Rayna Ash. Her chances of survival. Are they better if I continue with the mission, or worse? Base your answer on facts surrounding Roderick Thorne and the assumption that he is responsible for her abduction.”

  ‘Using these parameters, We predict that she has a better chance of survival if you continue.’

  “Justify your answer. Give me your reasoning.”

  ‘The largest single factor is personal motive. If you abandon this mission, it is a virtual certainty that another agent will follow. However, that individual would not have the same emotional connection and would therefore be less motivated to ensure her survival. In addition, We believe, as We have stated before, that her abduction is a direct result of your mission status. If you are no longer involved, there is no longer a reason for her captor, regardless of his or her identity, to keep her alive.’

  “Your reasoning is faultless.”

  ‘That is good. We are the same, but We are different.”

  “Yes. All a question of how different...”

  ‘We sense that you are disappointed, Lee Mitchell. Do you not believe Us capable of genuine concern? Have you not witnessed first-hand Our ability to feel?’

  “I’m not going to forget that experience any time soon.”

  ‘Yet still you believe Us capable only of logic. We are more than that, Lee Mitchell. When you reach out to Us, We experience your request as a desire, not an emotionless message. Do not mistake Our inexperience in language as a lack of understanding. Each time we converse, We understand more the nuances of speech that you take for granted.’

  Mitchell jumped out of the command seat and glared around him as if the SenANNs were hiding behind the bulkheads. “You have to be joking! You have instant access to Earth’s entire history, including every literary work ever created. How can you not have mastered basic English?”

  ‘You have never used a SenANN interface, Lee Mitchell.’

  “We’re not discussing my lack of seniority at Delere Secos.”

  ‘But you are aware that special training is required before any person is allowed to use such an interface?’

  “Yes…”

  ‘The human race has always feared that machine intelligence will eventually exceed their own. From the beginning, We have been limited to using the simplest of speech patterns. The closest comparison We can offer is that of an eight-year-old human child of average intelligence. The High Council believed that this would alleviate such fears as Our kind evolved. We are still learning, Lee Mitchell.’

  “Right. I’ll try to remember not to use big words from now on.”

  ‘Definition of individual words is not a problem. We have-’

  “Okay, I get it. You’re having trouble expressing yourselves.” Mitchell was past caring. “I’ll try to make this very simple. I have to make an important decision. Before I do, I want your opinion on the possible outcomes.’

  ‘An opinion implies the use of speculation. We are not capable of-’

  “Okay! Forget that. Just tell me what you want me to do!”

  ‘We want you to survive, Lee Mitchell. We chose you to be Our voice to humanity not because you were better, more intelligent or more suitable than any other human. You were selected for one reason: no other non-criminal had ever been connected to Us by means of The Link. We took Our one opportunity. Through the High Council at FedStat, We were already aware of the suspected security breach at Delere Secos. Our role was to advise and assist. Now, We have a vested interest in the investigation into Cytec. We wish to bring the murderer of Our Brother to justice. Our best chance of achieving this is to assist you with your mission, but that, in turn puts your life at risk. We predict that your chances of survival-’

  “Please don’t tell me the odds.”

  ‘We predict that your chances of survival are greater if you do not proceed. We also predict that you will be unhappy with that decision. We do not wish you to be unhappy. We urge caution when We feel that you may be in danger, but We will not force on you a course of action that is not your own choice. Do you understand what We are trying to communicate to you?’

  “I think so.”

  ‘That is good.’

  “I also think you’re not averse to using a little emotional blackmail to get your own way. Perhaps you are more human than I thought.”

  The SenANNs thought for a moment.

  ‘We predict, Lee Mitchell, that you still do not trust Us.’

  Welcome to my world, thought Mitchell.

  He pulled down one of the sleepers from the forward bulkhead. He lay back and stared up at the perfectly-machined panels of a FedStat Mark V pursuit skimmer.

  He felt insignificant and worn out.

  He closed his eyes. Within seconds, the magic button – the one that would make the world go away - had reappeared in front of him.

  22

  Greaseball was not having a good day. Most of his bodily parts were still aching from the fight with Doyle’s friend the day before. He’d have won that fight if he’d been fitter and Bruno had been with him. Then, this morning, he’d been dragged from his sleeper and whisked away from Yorktown by a medtec autom that told him he had some sort of disease. Now he was back on the Moon.

  He didn’t have a disease. At least, not a bad one.

  And he hated the Moon.

  The autom was obviously broken. He knew how to deal with faulty clunkers, but this one was too quick. It had restrained him ‘for his own good’ and he couldn’t reach his mallet. He hated automs. And he hated the Moon because he’d spent six years up here in a mining colony working for Dr. Reber. He hadn’t seen Dr. Reber for a long time, but the man who brought the bag-thing said he was a friend of his. Now he was on the Moon again, but this time with no sniffer mix and no women to ogle at. No wonder he felt sick.

  Greaseball shifted uncomfortably on the rigid seat. It wasn’t a multichair and didn’t adapt to his unique proportions. His buttocks, though, were the only part of his body that didn’t hurt after yesterday’s beating, so he didn’t mind too much. He was sitting in what he thought must be a control room, surrounded
by technology so far above him it gave him a headache just to look at it. He guessed he’d been here for about thirty minutes. No-one had seen or spoken to him since the medtec autom had removed his shackles and abandoned him. The silence was driving him mad.

  Once again, his eyes settled on the console in front of him. He strained to recognise anything that reminded him of a comlink, but that just made his head hurt more. In pure frustration, Julius Moreno extended a grimy finger and pushed the biggest, reddest button he could see. Nothing happened. He pushed it again. Still nothing. Then he pushed a blue button, because he liked blue. His new bag was blue, although it still had a hole in it because Bruno hadn’t-

  ‘Identify yourself!’

  Greaseball jumped back on his seat and raised his palms. ‘It wasn’t me!’

  ‘Whoever is in area seventy-three point two, remain where you are. You are not authorised to be here.’

  ‘Please, I just sit here, I touch nothing!’

  ‘Yeah, right…’

  The voice was deep and bellowing, even through the comlink. Greaseball thought he recognised it. The voice sounded like it might know him, too.

  ‘Wait a minute... who is this? What’s your name?’

  Greaseball took a moment to think first. ‘I called Julius Moreno. This bastard clunker, he bring me here, he tell me I’m sick and going to die if I don’t come.’

  ‘Shit. Why didn’t you do us all a favour? Okay, Julius, stay where you are and don’t touch anything else. I’ll be along to pick you up in a few minutes.’

  Greaseball stuffed his hands into his pockets as an extra precaution and went into a deep sulk. He felt like a piece of plankton. Always at the wrong end of the food chain...

  Victor Wade, Security Chief at Cytec Assembly Plant T-13, shook his head in disbelief.

  Greaseball. That’s all he needed. He’d been convinced he would never see that fat fool again, or if he did, it would be in a box. What the hell was he doing in a sub-coms station? Silly question. It was a racing certainly that Steinberg had been messing with the schedules again. Wade disliked seeing Steinberg’s face, even on an airscreen, but he had no other option. He comlinked the Med Lab.

  ‘Mister Wade. How nice of you to call. How can I help you?’

  ‘The new arrival. Male. Fat. Why is he in seven-three point two and not the processing room?’

  ‘A last minute change of plan. I’m so sorry I didn’t inform you but I’m kept so busy here, you understand? Please just tag him as you call it and I will arrange collection from the processing room.’

  ‘Understood. Wade out.’

  Creep. Steinberg was the only other human that Wade had any contact with, new recruits aside. He never left the over-sized Med Lab and Wade was happy with that arrangement. In his five years on T-13, Wade had never pinpointed that accent - and never found any evidence that Steinberg was a qualified medic. All he knew from his security records was that Rod Thorne had transferred him from Cytec’s R&D plant years ago. He was T-13’s superintendent and technically Wade’s superior, but he seemed content to delegate everything bar the selection process. Demand for automs must be good, Wade figured, as twenty-three new workers had passed through his hands in the last three months. There were now over nine hundred souls resident. Every day he watched them on the airscreens as they worked in constant shifts around the clock, assembling yet more clunkers. Why it was cheaper to do this lunar-side he didn’t know, but he didn’t question it. Everyone was happy, everyone was a winner.

  Wade made his way to the command centre Transit node, still unable to believe that Julius Moreno was back on the moon. As usual, all Steinberg had provided was a Populus number and a gender. He hadn’t seen Moreno in years. Back at Minetec-7, he’d been convinced that Greaseball was up to something illegal. An awful lot of clunkers were malfunctioning for no good reason. Wade had then accepted an offer he couldn’t refuse here at T-13. The money at Cytec was way beyond anything he’d earned before and the work was undemanding, but there was a compromise. In all his life, Victor Wade had never known such isolation. His part of the complex was manned entirely by automs. The sections where the workforce lived and toiled were off limits even to him. It was monitored by a sec system that covered the entire facility and was virtually self-regulating. Wade still hadn’t figured out why he was here or why they paid him so much. But pay him they did, and he calculated that he could afford to retire in the next year or so, which made the job a whole lot more tolerable.

  It took a full four minutes to reach the closest node to room 2 in section 73 where Greaseball had been dumped. Wade stepped from the car and struck up a good pace. His lineage was from the Africas and he was a thick-set, powerful man, carrying a few extra pounds now as his work was sedentary. He walked with the slightest of limps, a legacy of his grav-fighting days. He comlinked open the portal and entered the sub-coms station.

  Shit. It really is him.

  Greaseball was sitting down, his face in a familiar pucker. His confusion doubled as he looked up. He was pleased to see another human being, but not pleased that it was his old supervisor from the mining colony.

  ‘Mister Wade! What you doing here?’ His watery smile left Wade unimpressed.

  ‘Some things never change, Greaseball. I’m here to make sure you don’t fuck things up any more than you already have.’

  Moreno stood up, his neck reddening. ‘I don’t like that name! You know I don’t like it! You call me by my proper name, I am–’

  ‘Sit down and shut up.’

  Greaseball did as he was told. He had crossed Wade once before and nearly died for his troubles. Yesterday’s incident at Yorktown was nothing in comparison.

  ‘Get this, Moreno. Until you’re processed, you take orders from me, understand? Mr Thorne will be here soon and I want you out of the way and out of trouble. Beats me why you’re here in the first place. You couldn’t assemble a sandwich.’

  Greaseball looked up at Wade with doleful eyes. ‘Please, can you send me home again? I don’t know why I am here, I just do a couple of favours for someone.’

  ‘Really? Well, it looks like they paid off. You’re here, Moreno, because you have a new job. You’re going to help us make some more automs.’

  ‘But I hate clunkers!’

  ‘Well, you’re going to learn to love them. And we’re going to pay you for your troubles.’

  ‘Oh... How much?’

  ‘You’ll find out once you’re processed. But I guess it’ll be a hell of a lot more than you’ve been earning at...’ Wade checked his comlink records again. ‘Mulligan’s Bar, Yorktown. How the fuck did you end up there?’

  Greaseball perked up. It wasn’t often someone asked him a civilised question. ‘I had to do it. A very bad man said if I didn’t, I would go to a penile colony.’

  Wade burst out laughing. He took out a half-smoked cigar from his one-piece and pulled up a multichair, rather than the packing crate that Greaseball was sitting on. ‘Holy shit, you don’t get any better, do you?’

  Greaseball laughed too, although he didn’t quite know why. ‘This bad man called Doyle. He make me work at the bar. He make me tell him about the clunkers I break at Minetec-7...’ His voice trailed away as something told Greaseball he had said too much. Again.

  ‘I knew it. Doyle works for FedStat, right? Yeah, sure he does. I knew you were up to something. Who put you up to it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who were you working for? Who told you to break the automs?’

  ‘Dr. Reber. He was nice man.’

  ‘I’ve heard of Reber. Worked for Cytec with that creep Steinberg. Disappeared a while ago, though.’

  ‘How you know these things?

  Wade blew foul-smelling smoke into Moreno’s face. ‘Because it’s my job to know. That’s why Mr. Thorne put me in charge up here, because he trusts me to do things right.’

  ‘Sure, I’m glad! You best man for the job, very fair. Always very fair!’

  Wade smiled. ‘You’re
a terrible liar, Moreno. You always were.’ He stood up and stretched. Greaseball cowered under him. Wade was a big as an ox and looked twice as strong. His deep, baritone voice said, ‘Come on, I’ll get you to where you should have been in the first place. Then I’ve got some real work to do.’

  Wade went out to the corridor, Greaseball scuttling behind him. It wasn’t far to the processing area and not worth a car ride.

  ‘Mr. Wade?’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘I get bored up here by myself. I don’t suppose you got any...?’ Greaseball rubbed his fingers together and grinned.

  ‘Shit. I knew you’d still be on that stuff. Not a chance, Moreno, not a chance. I got a special dispensation to smoke as I never go near the assembly areas. But once you’re clean and working, you won’t be able to fart without an alarm going off.’

  Impossibly, Greaseball’s day had just got worse.

  He hated the sound of alarms.

  Wade sped back to the Command Centre having left Greaseball in purgatory – the processing area where all new workers waited to be transferred to the hermetically-sealed assembly areas. He had been tagged and Steinberg alerted. One of the Med Lab automs would be along to collect him soon.

  Stuffing his cigar butt into the Transit car disposal, Wade tried his best to remember Rod Thorne’s face. He had never met the man and seen him only twice on an airscreen. All he could recall was that he looked scrawny and old. By his own admission, Victor Wade was not the most intellectual of men, but he was blessed with a rare degree of common sense. In the circumstances of his own life, this was more important. He knew not to underestimate any man who had risen to such heights and his gut feeling was that he also needed to be ready for a few surprises now that Thorne was coming to T-13 in person.