“Chairman, I realize in all probability you will be the Prime Minister-elect in three days. But you are not the Prime Minister today, and you have no authority to issue orders to me.”
The woman’s lips drew in and thinned. “In that case, we will reconvene in three days. A word of warning, though, Admiral. Expect that conversation to be considerably less civil.”
“I can hardly contain my enthusiasm. Good day, Chairman.”
As soon as the comm dropped, she reconnected to Vice-Admiral Jirkar at NA Headquarters and spent some time ensuring he was up to speed, then granted him full authority to act according to her directives.
When the conference was done, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
So be it.
Yet more grateful than she’d been a mere few minutes ago that Rychen was ahead of schedule, she reactivated the encryption shield and prepared to contact several people. Richard was first.
19
SAGAN
Earth Alliance Colony
Druyan Institute
* * *
Abigail Canivon gazed at the sailships floating on the tranquil bay outside. No trace remained of the damage the Metigens had inflicted on Sagan.
The Druyan Institute’s Cybernetic Research Center had been rebuilt, better than before. She enjoyed a plethora of new, state-of-the-art tools at her disposal.
And why shouldn’t she? These were heady days for the industry. Advances in not merely core cybernetics but other biosynth materials and all quantum computing applications had been the order of the day for months.
Now all that progress was at risk of being halted—if not destroyed and a regression begun—by two opposing but inexorably related forces: OTS and Olivia Montegreu.
Montegreu brought validation to all OTS’ most extravagant claims; she was its doomsday warnings made flesh. Artificials were too dangerous to be set free or even to use, because they lacked a conscience or any true moral compass. Adding humans to the equation didn’t make them safer as many had hoped, but rather more of a menace. Given the keys to the final domain, flesh and blood, Artificials now threatened to dominate and subjugate humanity.
The woman was a better recruiting tool than anything OTS could have dreamed up. And it was Abigail’s fault.
For all her considerable intelligence and ingenuity—no one had ever accused Abigail of being modest—she’d been unable to outsmart an Artificial. She could not find a way to subvert its processes in a manner that would prevent the melding of human and synthetic from reaching its full potential.
But maybe she could do something now.
She pivoted from the window and headed back into the lab. She’d convinced Montegreu that in order to ensure the Prevo procedure was successful, she needed the details on the woman’s cybernetics and eVi architecture. Which, to be completely safe, she had needed.
What she hadn’t needed to do was take advantage of the woman being sedated during the procedure to acquire additional details on the many routines they ran, then save a copy of said routines to her own internal storage.
She’d neglected to hand the information over to Alliance authorities after her rescue. It would not have done them any good. Even before becoming a Prevo, Montegreu sported some of the most advanced biosynth enhancements Abigail had ever seen. They would not be easily countered, as Colonel Jenner had discovered when he’d attempted to execute Montegreu while she lay unconscious and seemingly helpless.
But they could be countered. She and Vii were working on possible avenues of attack in their spare hours, more so of late as the threat Montegreu posed became perilously obvious. And they were getting close to a workable solution. The key was the manner in which the shield—
The incoming holocomm request was encrypted and displayed no traceable sender. The subject line simply read:
On the strenuous nature of not hindering
She massaged her temples before accepting the request. “Admiral Solovy, what do you need?”
The woman gave her what passed in some circles for an actual smile. She looked to be on a transport.
“You know, Dr. Canivon, by all rights we should be friends, if only because we both despise false pleasantries. I’d like you to consult on a…let’s call it a side project I’m working on.”
“Side projects are typically idle, leisurely hobbies of little import.”
“This one is not.”
“I suspected as much. Can I assume you’re not able to give me any details on the nature of the work?”
“I regret to say you can. It isn’t prudent to discuss the matter over any comms, however secure we presume them to be.”
“I’ve hardly settled into my work here at the Center. Does this consulting need to be conducted onsite somewhere?”
“It does.”
She thought of the dozens of ongoing research proposals and planned work to be done. But she did owe Solovy a fairly significant debt for having seen to it she was rescued off New Babel, especially when she’d immediately thereafter walked out on the woman and on her job.
“Will it harm Devon or the other Noetica participants in any way, directly or indirectly?”
“Quite the contrary, I hope.”
An obtuse answer, per usual. But Abigail had to admit she’d been mildly curious about what Solovy was up to ever since their similarly cryptic conversation at Special Projects.
She cleared her throat. “Fine, then. Where do you need me?”
“Messium, as soon as you are able. I’ll send more details once you’re underway, and you’ll receive all the information you need when you arrive. Thank you, Doctor.”
The comm ended, and Abigail sighed. No matter how often or how vigorously she tried, she never could manage to escape galactic politics for long.
KRYSK
Senecan Federation Colony
Krysk was as sweltering as on her last visit, but Olivia noticed it only as part of a detached recognition of her environment. The Artificial regulated her body temperature to perfection, cooling her skin to counter the humidity. A thin, porous, long-sleeved shirt and loose pants did their job of, regrettably, covering the web of streaming gold pulses along her skin.
She had no qualms about walking the streets unguarded and in full view of everyone, but causing a scene by frightening the locals would be counterproductive to her purposes, as well as horribly inefficient.
This area of downtown had suffered damage from General O’Connell’s attack, though it had been patched over until it was nearly invisible. But she could see the miniscule cracks and the shifts in hue where new material met old.
Such a foolish, base man. He’d served as a useful pawn in Marcus Aguirre’s scheme, easily manipulated by the unchecked emotions he wore for all to see. But the fact a man like O’Connell had risen to the apex of a military comprised of tens of millions of soldiers said everything there was to say about the organization.
Ferre group’s distribution of chimerals and illegal ware dropped 27.3% in the first two months following the end of the Metigen War and 14-17% every month thereafter.
It now measures 26.4% of its pre-war level.
She glanced at the name in the building’s directory in amused dismay. Fotilas Services. Laure hadn’t so much as bothered to change the name of the shell corporation or its location. He wasn’t a stupid man, at least not in comparison to most of his fellow humans, which left conceit as the explanation.
It didn’t matter. He’d lived this long at her pleasure, and he’d die at it as well.
Laure Ferre leapt up from his desk with enough force to topple the chair behind him. He slammed his fist on a control panel—an act that was presumably intended to summon security—then tripped over the chair as he backed against the wall.
Olivia tilted her head to regard him with detached curiosity. “They won’t be coming to help you.”
“You killed my security guards?”
She offered him the most trivial of shrugs.
“W
hy didn’t the alarms go off?”
Another lift of her shoulders. “I bypassed them.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Oh, Laure, Laure dear. I can do anything.”
He lurched for his desk and retrieved a Daemon from an alcove beneath it; she indulged him. He fired at her chest again and again to no effect, as her shield absorbed the pitiful energy without strain.
Finally, his arm fell to his side and the gun dropped from his fingers to clatter across the floor. “What are you going to do to me?”
“You’ve been such a very bad boy. I tolerated it beyond the point where I should have, because I admire your tenacity, I do. I'd hoped in time you might come around to my view of the world and we could have had a more…positive relationship.”
He’d never be Aiden Trieneri; still, he did have a rough, gritty masculinity about him she’d considered enjoying at one point. She didn’t miss Aiden—much—but she did miss some of his finer skills.
“You should not have tipped the authorities to my acquisition of Dr. Canivon. Now you’ve tried my patience beyond its end and become quite a bit more trouble than you are worth.”
She lifted her wrist to eject the aSTX-laced blade from her bracelet and into his neck. The toxin would paralyze his respiratory muscles, suffocating him even before he bled out. She possessed the capabilities to kill him in a number of ways, and many of them would create rather less of a mess.
But having seen this attack in the past and watched its victims bleed out from it, he’d have a minute or two in which to comprehend his fate. It was fitting.
She gave him a last, disdainful sneer as he slid down the wall to the floor. “Say hello to your cousin and aunt for me.”
Then she turned and left the office and the trail of bodies therein. She had a few additional things to take care of on Krysk before heading to Dolos Station.
Her vulnerabilities were rapidly approaching zero, but a few yet remained. The next step to eradicating them? A renewable supply of adiamene.
20
PANDORA
Independent Colony
* * *
Devon reread the message a third time.
It wasn’t that it was difficult to understand; it was in fact exceptionally straightforward. He simply had no idea what to make of it.
Mr. Reynolds,
First, let us get one issue out of the way: I am not coming for you. You may be safe from very little right now, but you are safe from me. Your answers to my questions below will not change this fact.
Whatever it is you possess of Annie—I’m operating under the assumption you do have her, in some manner I won’t attempt to fathom—are there any circumstances under which she can be returned to hardware, and if there are, can I have her back?
Regards,
—M.S.
On balance, he liked Miriam. He liked her because Richard liked her and because Alex liked her…well, in a screwed up family way. But mostly he liked her because, though he’d been in no condition to appreciate it at the time, she’d taken care of him after the attack in Annie’s lab. She was abrupt, often cold and a harsh taskmaster—yet when it mattered, she’d protected him as best as she could.
But the notion of giving back Annie? While it had been only weeks since they’d taken the final step of joining consciousnesses…no. Regardless of whether such a thing was theoretically possible—neither of them was inclined to waste cycles analyzing whether it could be done—it was never going to happen.
She was part of him now, etched into his soul.
He opened up a response.
M.S.,
Thanks for the all-clear. For real. I’ll keep the locks on the door, but not to keep your people out.
I’m sorry, but no. To the second question, that is, which makes the first question irrelevant. As you told me and the others when you asked us to be a part of Noetica, there’s no going back. There never was.
—D.R.
P.S.: I’m trying to take good care of her. She’s definitely taking good care of me.
P.P.S.: Any chance you can see to having Pamela Winslow killed, maimed or permanently imprisoned? It would make my life so much easier. Thanks in advance.
Devon watched the news feed in growing disgust and concern. Three OTS attacks in the last week on Alliance worlds and one on Seneca. Twenty-three Prevos had died in the San Francisco attack, plus fifty-two ordinary people caught in the crossfire.
You’re not responsible.
For OTS being a bunch of psychopaths? No. But I am responsible for the new Prevos.
They each chose to become what they are.
I know, but I feel protective of them. I need to look out for them.
By definition, they are among the most powerful, capable people in the galaxy. They can look out for themselves.
Okay, fine. How about the people trapped in the middle, then? The hackers and warenuts who haven’t become Prevos but are still in danger, since OTS can’t be bothered to tell the difference? No. I need to do something.
I understand.
He changed into better clothes and ran a comb through his hair, then left the apartment.
Morgan, Mia, heads up. I’m working on a plan to counter OTS. I’ll have more in a few hours.
Thali’s Lounge hosted all sorts of patrons. Confrontations were frequent, and just as frequently brief thanks to the vigorous bouncer presence. In this respect, it was generally recognized as neutral ground, suitable for meetings by individuals and interests who might have conflicting alignments.
He’d made several acquaintances who were heavy into the local warenut scene, two of which had Prevo’d themselves in the last several days.
He chuckled to himself at the realization the term had already become verbified.
One of those acquaintances—not Prevo’d quite yet—knew everyone and everything that happened in The Avenue sector. Devon was hopeful he had an ear to the ground of, if not OTS activities on Pandora, groups that would.
He found Pablo Espino at a tall table on the edge of the dance floor and slid onto the stool opposite him.
“How’s it hanging, Prevo-dude?”
“Hanging.” His eyes surveyed the room.
In a far, shadowy corner, a couple was having a vicious argument. The redness at the base of the male’s neck signaled an elevated heart rate and overabundance of adrenaline; he was on the verge of losing his temper in a physical manner. Devon piggybacked onto the bouncers’ comm channel and drew their attention to the altercation.
On the dance floor, a stunningly gorgeous woman’s dance of provocation had drawn the rapture of half the men and several of the women in the club. Her form-fitting scarlet silk dress minimally covered perfect skin the color of cappuccino.
He was close enough to sense her heart rate with some degree of precision, and it was a steady 76-81 bpm. Her moves were deliberate. Calculated. She was in complete control of her actions, as well as the actions of many of those present.
At the end of the long bar to his right, another woman was in far less control of her faculties. Sweaty skin, dilated pupils. She stumbled off the bar stool and was barely rescued from the floor by a bouncer, who proceeded to hand her off to the guy accompanying her and escort them to the door.
Three men and a woman sat at a table across the dance floor. Drinks waited untouched in front of them as they huddled in intense conversation.
He jerked his head in their direction. “Who are they?”
“Damn, Devon. You don’t miss a thing, do you? I don’t know the guy in the thousand-credit shirt, but the girl’s head of OTS here. The other two are some of her cohorts.”
He cracked his neck. “What’s her name?”
“Uh…Faith, I think. Not sure on the last name, but maybe it starts with a ‘P’ or a ‘Q.’ ”
Quillen. Faith Quillen. The name had been in Annie’s databases. Before he got kicked out of the Alliance—another reason Devon wasn’t sad to have given them the finger—Richa
rd Navick had identified her as a possible OTS cell leader. And here she was, sitting a few meters away from him in a sketchy club on Pandora.
Devon studied her. The barely noticeable tapping of her feet suggested impatience and perhaps a lack of discipline, but quick, sharp eyes suggested intelligence as well. Mostly, however, she diligently watched her companion in the expensive shirt. The one Pablo didn’t recognize.
He is in charge.
He is.
The young man’s clothes indicated wealth, and a lot of it, which fit Navick’s profile of the OTS leaders. His external demeanor was contrived and abrupt. Not a guy you wanted to kick back and party with.
Devon concentrated until he detected the carotid artery running down the man’s neck. The pulse raced much faster than Faith’s did. The man was either very agitated or very passionate about the cause. The cause being destroying Artificials and killing Prevos.
Faith leaned in closer across the table, and the man turned his head and scanned the room until his gaze froze on Devon.
Devon didn’t flinch, instead meeting his stare calmly.
What are you doing?
Picking a fight.
I strengthened your muscular structure so you could properly defend yourself from attacks, not so you could start them.
I didn’t start it. He did, when his little clique started killing Prevos.
The man pushed his chair out and stood. His focus did not leave Devon as he wound through the dance floor, not even when he passed centimeters from the woman in the scarlet dress. Behind him, his pals followed more hesitantly.
He stopped two meters away from Devon’s table. “You’re an abomination. You haven’t the right to flaunt your depravity in public.”
Devon took a slow sip of his drink. Set it down.
The man’s mode of speech was crisp, overly accentuated and carried a slight Earth European accent; his features bore the perfection of expensive genetic enhancement. All indicators of excessive wealth. The room was dark and strobing dance floor lights played hell with the optics, but he took the best image he could of the man’s face using his ocular implant before responding.
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