Acts of Conscience

by William Barton

  My heart started leaping again.

  o0o

  Home again now, the appliances awake to my wants, glass of gin and tonic in one hand, lovely juniper smell in my nose, rising into my head, reminding me of the Manhattan wilderness, gin and fizzy sugar water sharp, bitter on my tongue...

  The news was full of this business of the Berens-Vataro Interstellar Drive, media hounds in full-throated pursuit, the Big Story, you see, broken, exploded, splashed to every corner of the net, while I’d been wandering around in the woods, rubbing my pecker on poor, downcast Rua Mater, hoping it’d wake up and... hell. It was awake enough right now, making me want to dump the newsnet crap and run for the nearest pornode.

  When I checked the stock ticker, nothing much had changed. The Regents lock was still on B-VEI trading, zero-value flag still flapping away. A couple of stickynotes had appeared, one from the stock exchange operating system, an annotation to the effect that all common stock owners tracking B-VEI had been threaded together, for the convenience of...

  A soft prickle of alarm. There’s not supposed to be any Big Brother watching what private citizens do with their money. Local goverments levy point-of-sale taxes. The Regency levies an infinitesimal VAT. But...

  A second note was tagged to a general broadcast from AusGyp, protesting this egregious violation of private citizens’ rights, not just all the nameless peons playing penny-ante stocks like B-VEI, but the indicted corporate officers a well. In fact...

  I looked at the AI’s scrolling tables. Still doing its job. Um. Even though there’s no job for it to do? What then? I looked down rows and columns, back into the 3D subtables beyond. How odd. My stock manager had continued to place buy/sell orders on B-VEI and some related stocks, manufacturers of components that, apparently, went into the making of those little starships. Including ERSIE.

  There was a long list of futures options here. We’ll buy this with proceeds, should B-VEI stock come unfrozen. Sell here. Buy more B-VEI on thus and such a day, when it’s anticipated value equals...

  And then a very, very hard pang of alarm.

  This God-damned thing is preparing a lawsuit. Totting up a bill of how much money we could have made, had the Board of Trade Regents not voted to close down B-VEI stock. If it stayed closed, if ERSIE won and the officers of B-VEI went to jail... well. Nothing lost but a little processor time.

  And if the Regents’ vote went with B-VEI? If the stocks came unglued? Who did the AI think was going to pay me for my hypothetical losses? Where did it think I was going to send the bill? This file here...

  Jesus Christ. The form for making a private petition before the Inducements Committee of the Board of Trade Regents. ERSIE, of course, held a full seat on the Board, but, by inducing the Regents to suspend trading in B-VEI stock, it had acted as a private lobbyist in its own behalf. Chapter and verse on that. And over here was a citation on a legal precedent dating back more than three hundred years, suggesting that political lobbyists could be held liable for monetary losses incurred by their actions, provided that the Board of Trade Regents ultimately reversed some earlier decision induced by said lobbyist.

  Various pangs and prickles were merging in my head, dissolving into the gin. And the next file in the stack? The proper formulas for filing a class-action suit in the name of every other ab initio holder of original-issue B-VEI stock, each holding amounting to no more than 0.1 percent of said issue. Here were several hundred pro-forma date stamps, representing the interests of other people’s AI trade managers.

  So what the fuck does it think it’s going to achieve, other than maybe getting me in a lot of hot water? Christ, I’ll have to pay point of sale taxes on every fucking transaction, complete with late filing fees and... A gentle touch in the back of my mind, like being brushed all over by infinitely soft feathers, then the household composite whispered, You have a visitor Mr. du Cheyne.

  Visitor. Not a familiar word, I... The apartment said, Mr. Hoseah Rothman, representing the L1(SE) legal offices for the Eighth Ray Scientific-Industrial Enterprise. He wishes to discuss a personal matter with you.

  Personal. Oh, fuck. There are no really secure channel locks on the vidnet. Not for the likes of me and thee, dear stock trading algorithm. I finished my drink and ordered up another, listing to the icemaker tinkle. Took a sip from my fresh, cold glass, and croaked, “Show him in.”

  The door slid open, admitting a moment of corridor bustle. Slid closed again. Waiting right outside, for Christ’s sake! Rothman stood there, a quiet thing in a pale gray jumpsuit, very handsome, black of skin, black of eyes, with a tight skullcap of curly black hair and an expression on his face like he was in the presence of a bad smell.

  He said, “How do you do, Mr. du Cheyne.”

  I think I managed some kind of fatuous grin or another. “Want a drink?” Rattling my glass of ice and fizz up at him.

  Rothman’s stinkface twisted a little tighter. “No thank you.”

  “Sit down then.”

  A long, snotty look around at my apartment. Neat as a pin, the household saw to that. Nothing wrong but my shoes in the middle of the floor, half buried in vidnet imagery...

  When did the AI start channel surfing? Did it shut off my stock options when this little shit came through the door? What’s playing now? An old episode of Planets for Man. The one about the terraforming project on Mimir’s Well, Eta Cassiopiae A4ii, some nineteen-point...

  He said, “I’ll get right to the point, Mr. du Cheyne.”

  I felt a hard moment of freezing dread, imagining God knows what, but I smirked and said, “Please do.”

  A quirk of distaste on his lips. “Mr. du Cheyne, I am empowered to offer you a par trade in ERSIE Prime stock for your static options on Berens-Vataro Enterprises.”

  Par. A little stab of annoyance now, fueled, I suppose, by the gin, as I put down the fourth empty glass. “A hundred-twenty shares? Man, you can just take a flying...”

  Voice very sharp: “Static at closure.”

  Twelve thousand. I popped open a little window and checked. Felt a slight shock. ERSIE stock was being steadily traded up by the current furor and... “Eight hundred thousand livres?” My voice sounded a lot higher than normal.

  “Correct.”

  Blink. “Is this because of my...” a wave at the little window.

  A chopped look of contempt. “Your little suit hasn’t got the proverbial snowball’s chance, du Cheyne. In fact, if you lodge it, you run the risk of being slapped with a frivolous legal action fine.”

  “Then why...”

  Look of contempt deepening. “If you can’t figure that out...” A slow headshake. “Just take the offer, boy.”

  I sat staring at him, looking at that arrogant little asshole lawclerk face of his, face sneering at me, face full of superiority, feeling my anger sizzle. Because I can figure it out, you see. Shithead. Sooner or later, the Trade Regents will vote. If ERSIE wins, it owns B-VEI. If B-VEI wins... ERSIE will want to hold a big enough chunk of stock options to claim a seat on the B-VEI board of directors and...

  I said, “I don’t know, Mr. Rothman. I... I’d like to think it over.”

  He smiled. “Go ahead. Take as long as you want. Just remember: The Board vote will not be announced beforehand. They’ll just vote and that will be that.”

  And, if the vote goes against B-VEI, I’ve got nothing.

  He said, “I’ve left my mailtag with the apartment datastore. You just post me your authorization and I’ll make the transaction.” He turned, the door opened and closed, and he was gone.

  I sat and stared. Ordered another drink and felt my sweat start up afresh. Glanced in the little window and saw with a start that the value of ERSIE stock had gone up another six mills while we’d been talking.

  Three: By mid-morning

  By mid-morning of the next day, Jimmy Haas and I had the D-1 prime mover buttoned up and ready to go. He’d been working on it in my absence, working mostly under Rossignol’s direction, though with a bi
t of help from Todd Sanchez, and seemed a little nonplused when I came back and more or less took over the final stage of operations. Watched me. Did what I said as I ran systems checks on the work that’d been done in my absence, made little changes here and there.

  I didn’t say anything when I discovered someone had failed to set the throat diameter on the plasma exhaust. Didn’t comment on the fact that the work record was unsigned, in clear defiance of regs.

  But I did open the comparison table to the section on plasma channels and ran the simulator to see what would’ve happened if the ship’s engines had been started with the settings as is. No explosions. Nothing flashy. Just a major overheat, components fusing, safeties running a too-late shutdown.

  The exhaust system on a relatively small field modulus device like this one isn’t too expensive, maybe in the range of 14,000 livres. I didn’t say anything. But I knew he’d be seeing. “OK, Jimmy. Let’s go up front and see if it works.”

  He started silently disconnecting the monitor system while I reeled in my tools and stood down the engine’s internal operating system. Finally, he said, “Gaetan, I was the one who was responsible for seeing to the throat settings.”

  So. I was wondering if he’d just let it slide. Maybe be pissed at me for seeing it, even though... “Jimmy, did Rossignol tell you you were responsible?”

  Silence. Then, “Um, no. He just took a quick peek before Todd and I shut the casing.”

  Well. Todd Sanchez knew I’d be coming back to finish her up. And he knew I’d be the one to sign off on the whole job. Have to have a nice chat with Ross, maybe during afternoon break. I said, “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for telling me.”

  With our appendages pulled in, we backed out of the exhaust bay and started moving up the outside of the ship’s hull, toward the forward airlock pressure curtain, where the others would be waiting. I wouldn’t be surprised if asshole Sanchez was trying to slip one by me. Rossignol? Damned sloppy is all. He knew I’d be coming back to the job. Knew God damned well I’d be thorough, would catch any mistakes.

  So he just fucking let it slide.

  I could imagine what he’d say when I brought it up: I’m sorry, Gaetan. Jesus, we’ve just been so damn busy... Sometimes. Yeah. Right.

  o0o

  Going home already, the end-of-work conversation with Rossignol already fading. No more than shadowed memories of taking him by the shirtfront as we floated in a dark, empty, private corner of the locker room, bracing myself with feet and free hand, swinging him around my center of gravity, hauling his face close.

  I think he was pretty surprised. I’m bigger and stronger than most of the mechanics at ERSIE-5, I guess, but it never matters. I haven’t gotten in a brawl the whole time I’ve worked here. Haven’t hit another person in anger since... well. Kids. You know.

  Rossignol’s eyes popping with astonishment as I held him close and told him what a lazy fucking shit I thought he’d become. Pitching my voice probably lower than I ought to have, I told him he’d have to have a chat with Todd Sanchez if he wanted to keep the peace on his crew and... I’d let him go, told him to fuck it, kicked off from the front of a nearby locker bank, making the flexible plastic boom, sailing away from him, toward the door, going on home.

  How many times have I come here like this, come in and slumped in my chair, staring at an empty wall, waiting... Not waiting for anything. The appliances know what I want, listen to my thoughts, anticipate my needs... like servants in some old movie, some movie from before the days of vidnet, before the days of... anything at all. Image of silent men and women dressed in black and white, silent men and women standing in the shadows, reaching out silent hands for rich man’s coat and velvet top hat...

  Slim silent woman in black dress and white apron, polishing silver and wood and... Rich man’s eyes on her slim, starved back, eying a curve of hip, the hidden length of thigh and...

  Somewhere now, the icemaker tinkled, making me whatever the bartender software thought I wanted, knew I might be needing just now, while the vidnet display swirled, turning the far wall to a wilderness of mist and color. What would I see next? A cooked up script about those far gone days? I can just imagine. Now I’ll see some skinny, famished maid, some charwoman bending over her silver-polishing job, bending over, back of her too-short black dress rising up...

  Here and now, a pulsing yellow light of warning, superimposed over the landscape of my stock exchange access node. Somewhere in my head, a soft whisper, whisper from the apartment sentience: Important message from the trade controller AI, Mr. du Cheyne. Important message...

  Go ahead.

  Jesus, I can’t make these decisions. Call up the ERSIE lawyers and tell them I’ll take the eight hundred thousand? Or sit tight and wait for the resumption of trade you think is coming? Another whisper, in a subtly different inner voice: Cusp of decision axis may come with insufficient lead time for you to participate effectively in procedural processes, Mr. du Cheyne. Rule sieves suggest you grant this software per diem power of attorney. Meaning it thought it was going to have to jump fast when the time came.

  Uh. “Granted.” Said aloud, seeming to echo eerily in the empty apartment, though the walls were as acoustically perfect as cheap consumer technology permitted. A quick look. OK. So nothing’s really happened since last night. B-VEI still flagged and frozen. Board of Trade Regents now in closed session. At the stock ticker... the transitional value of twelve thousand shares of ERSIE stock was valued at 817,468 livres. OK. So it’s gone up a little bit.

  What does it mean? Does it mean the bidders believe ERSIE will win the legal battle going on in Kiev just now? Does it mean I should sell? Eight-hundred-seventeen-thousand livres, for Christ’s sake...

  But what if they’re wrong? What if my software knows what it’s doing? How much is that B-VEI stock going to be worth tomorrow if... if... Then that familiar soft touch from the apartment: You have a visitor, Mr. du Cheyne. That wretched Mr. Rothman, come to sneer at my things and offer me more money? Or brandish ever scarier threats?

  The AI said, A Miss Tallentyre, representing client services for Berens-Vataro Enterprises. A small, hard clenching inside, filling me up with nameless dread. Next act.

  o0o

  Much later, I sat in the darkness, staring at an empty wall. The household kept trying to read my thoughts, trying to bring up the vidnet link and do what it was supposed to do... a faint blush of dawn forming on the far wall, hesitating, then going dark again.

  Miss Tallentyre’s visit wasn’t so different from the previous night’s meeting with the ERSIE lawyer. A round of meaningless chatter, then getting down to business, telling me historical bullshit I already new, her company’s opinion of what might happen, again, just a rehash of news reports. Asked me how much the lawyer offered me for the stock options and didn’t seem surprised at the answer. Asked if she could look at my stock ticker.

  I’m not sure why I let her do it. A slim, pretty, blonde woman, quiet and serious, with pale blue eyes that didn’t seem to be seeing anything when they looked at me. A typical modern woman’s slim, trim figure outlined under a tan linen suit. Not as sturdy looking as a working girl, I guess.

  I was wondering what it might be like to be... involved with such a woman, wondering as well how much B-VEI was paying her... two, three, maybe four times my mechanic’s salary... she’d surfaced suddenly from the AI’s composition tables and, without preamble, offered to buy back all my options at the program’s estimated parity value.

  Cool, empty blue eyes, pale blue eyes, staring into mine.

  Well, Mr. du Cheyne?

  What I said then was the same thing I’d told the ERSIE guy. And got the same little speech in reply. Is this realistic? Is it? I don’t know. I’m not the only one holding a chunk of B-VEI stock, after all. There are dozens of Miss Tallentyres out tonight, visiting little shnooks around the solar system, making similar offers to... Why the hell would they do it, if they thought ERSIE was going to win?

&nb
sp; Because ERSIE’s made them a very nice offer for their stock holdings? Sure. If ERSIE wins, it gets everything. If it loses, maybe it will have bought up B-VEI at a steep discount. Just like that. And if the B-VEI people think ERSIE has a good chance of winning, it’s certainly to their advantage to sell.

  Shit. No matter what happens, somebody is going to have to continue working the B-VEI technology. If ERSIE wins its case before the board of Trade Regents, Doctors Berens and Vataro will probably be offered vice presidencies with ERSIE, maybe directoral seats, maybe...

  On the wall, the AIs had finally managed to overrule my will that the net link stay dark. Light and motion and a swirling depth of detail... A moment of confusion, followed by a moment of recognition. This was an old drama, made in the middle of the twenty-second century, just a generation or so after the first interstellar crossing, in the days when starships were new and wonderful and strange. Into the Stardust. About the development of the first faster-than-light vessel, about it’s voyage to the galactic core...

  They thought it would happen soon, didn’t they? Space travel begun in the middle of the twentieth century. Space colonization in the middle of the twenty-first. Interstellar expeditions opening up the twenty-second. All this wonderful new science, medicine, physics and engineering, starships, for God’s sake!

  All right, so it took five hundred years, but...

  Cold chill of realization.

  It’s happening now.

  o0o

  At lunch the next day, I sat with all my usual friends, Garstang and Phil sitting together, diagonal from me. Millie Ai-chang and Zell Benson with their heads pressed together, bent low over a placard display of travel brochures, bright pictures throwing moving blue shadows on their faces, travelogue an animated whisper I couldn’t quite make out. Rua Mater down the other end of the table, node clip hanging in her hair, eating with her eyes closed.