Crystal Conquest

by Doug J. Cooper

  Lenny turned forward and began an unsatisfactory conversation with the car nav.

  “Why did you drive here?”

  “This is our destination, sir. Davenport city center.”

  “No, it’s not. I asked to be driven to the Crystal Research complex off Route 29.”

  “Thank you, sir. Would you like to go there now?”

  “Yeah. And take the fastest route you can.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Lenny glanced back for a final look at the window displays as the car pulled onto the street. Then he checked his com and started rubbing circles on his temples. From what he remembered before drifting off to sleep, he’d been cruising fast on the expressway and was forty minutes out from Crystal Research. Now he was three hours south of the complex in a densely populated downtown area. Twenty minutes of busy roads stood between him and the nearest expressway.

  He traced the route the car had followed to get to this place on the far side of a city he’d never heard of. As he studied his com display, his car slowed and then stopped. He looked up to see traffic congestion blocking his forward progress.

  “Something’s not working,” he said to the nav. “The central routing system should guide vehicles to avoid these situations.” He leaned to the right, pressed the side of his head against the window, and strained to see past the cars in front. As he swooped across the seat to repeat the process from the left side, he asked, “What’s the hold-up?”

  “Traffic, sir.”

  The road ahead was jammed as far as he could see. “Turn around and take another route,” he said, the exasperation clear in his voice.

  The car looped back in front of the Luscious Lingerie boutique, giving Lenny a bonus opportunity to enjoy the wonders in the windows. They drove in the new direction for less than a minute before the car stopped. City traffic blocked this path as well.

  They made no discernable progress for ten minutes, and Lenny sat and fumed. His stomach rumbled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything since the pizza slice.

  “Keep moving with traffic,” he said to the nav. “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes. If traffic clears, pull over and wait for me.”

  He hopped out of the car and approached a walkway vendor tending a shiny food service unit. He picked it because he liked the large colorful umbrella providing shade for the customers.

  Lenny waited while an actual person made him a turkey and cheese sandwich on thick wheat bread. In a practiced motion, the vendor rolled it up in a sheet of paper that matched the color pattern of the umbrella. Lenny added a pouch of water to his order and strolled up the street, taking small bites as he walked.

  He wandered two blocks, searching for a reason for the holdup. As he scanned ahead, all he saw were more cars, vans, and trucks jamming the roadway. Dozens of people had climbed from their vehicles and were gathering in small groups.

  * * *

  Sid rubbed the back of his neck as he considered his next actions. They were in the midst of a leadership meeting in his quarters at Lunar Base. Cheryl sat to his right. To his left was an image of Juice relaxing in her office chair at the Crystal Research complex.

  While Sid knew her presence was a projected illusion—one he could pass his hand through if he leaned over and swung his arm in her direction—her three-dimensional appearance was perfect in its realism. This told Sid that Criss was devoting extra resources to this meeting, and that confirmed the high importance he placed on the discussion and its outcome.

  Criss himself, still dressed in military-style fatigues, sat across from Sid. He always projected himself with detailed realism and included common human mannerisms in his behavior, making it easy to forget he was a simulation created by an artificial intelligence. Criss looked at Sid as he ran through a summary of Lenny Barton and the threat he presented.

  Sid paid careful attention to Criss and this issue because, like Juice and Cheryl, he too ran a business. His didn’t have a name or central office, or appear to have employees, yet his small outfit of ex-government operatives spent long hours on covert activities. Sid worked with Criss to set priorities, and those often centered on safeguarding Juice, Cheryl, and the projects they led.

  Sid had left his job as a clandestine warrior with the Union of Nations Defense Specialists Agency—the DSA—at the same time Cheryl had agreed to lead the defense array project and Juice had taken the reins at Crystal Research. Criss had convinced Sid that by protecting and facilitating the success of the leadership team, his work would benefit the safety and well-being of billions of people.

  That level of impact resonated with Sid, and he used it to rationalize his move to a private shop. He left unsaid that this new arrangement permitted him ample quality time with the woman he loved—the talented and beautiful Cheryl Wallace.

  Wrapping up his summary, Criss requested that Sid return to Earth immediately. “Lenny will reach the research complex within the day. There’s a service transport prepping for departure from Lunar Base as we speak. It has an open jump seat and will get you here before he arrives.”

  “Criss,” said Sid, frustration showing in his voice. “Cheryl was attacked just hours ago, and it caught you by surprise. How can I leave her unprotected in such a dangerous environment?”

  Cheryl moved to speak but stopped when Criss responded.

  “I admit my failure and apologize.” He looked down at his hands folded in his lap. His act of contrition was convincing. “I shifted much of my attention to Lenny for a brief period when I recognized the threat he presented. A portion of those resources came from what I was using to track the two of you and the activities here at Lunar Base.” He looked up and caught Sid’s eye. “At the time, I estimated the odds of a mishap during those moments to be vanishingly small.”

  Sid studied Criss for a few moments and chose to accept the explanation. “Maybe we should slow Lenny down by creating some physical challenges.” Both Cheryl and Juice glared at Sid, their frowns communicating their displeasure. They knew this meant hurting the young man. Criss flashed a half smile at Sid and resumed his solemn demeanor.

  Sid, immune to judgment when it came to his tradecraft, pondered the situation. It wasn’t clear to him why this Lenny—a twenty-year-old college kid—caused Criss such concern. Other interlopers had been a bother in the past, and Criss had flicked them away like a speck of lint on a coat sleeve. Then again, in the two years they’d known each other and worked together, Criss had never led Sid astray. And he certainly never cried wolf.

  Sid glanced at his com. His men had arrived and, since they were here posing as Fleet crew, were sitting through an orientation program all new arrivals must endure. He looked at Cheryl and communicated silently that she had a say in his decision.

  “The service transport leaves in two hours,” said Sid. “Let me touch base with Hop, Jefe, and Dent. If I’m on board, you can count on me being there to greet Lenny.”

  Sid stood up, signaling an end to the meeting. The images of Criss and Juice blinked away. He stepped over, stood in front of Cheryl, and held out his hands. She grasped them and he pulled her up from her seat. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck below her right ear. “I don’t want to leave you,” he whispered.

  “Let’s go meet your men,” Cheryl whispered back, pressing her body against his.

  “Let them wait. Help me pack and stuff.”

  “And stuff?”

  He kissed her beneath her left ear.

  * * *

  Sid loaded his few possessions into his duffel while Cheryl, stretched languidly on his bunk, watched. He’d packed on short notice so many times in the last decade that he could complete the task in just over a minute. As he went through the familiar motions, he considered how his current job was similar to when he had been a covert agent for the DSA and how it was decidedly different.

  The biggest difference was from an operational perspective. He no longer needed teams for research and analysis, reconnaissance and survei
llance, logistics and resourcing, and similar mission support services. Criss provides me whatever I need, pretty much as soon as I ask.

  And similar to his DSA life, he still had a partner for backup and collaboration. But now that individual was Criss, a sentient AI crystal housed in an underground bunker.

  So far, having a partner who lacked a corporeal presence hadn’t presented any disadvantages during an assignment. Quite the opposite; society used image projection for routine interactions, and Criss was masterful at impersonating a family member, trusted confidant, or business associate of a target. People will respond to most any request if asked by the right person.

  On occasion Sid’s outfit had a job that required someone to remove something from a particular location, or perhaps have an item placed there. Most of these were outsourced to contractors experienced enough never to ask questions.

  And there were the sensitive tasks that were best not delegated. A classic example was the need to look someone in the eye when closing a deal with a friendly handshake, while at the same time using the other hand to give an intimidating grip on the shoulder. Sid was the only option in the partnership for these assignments. I don’t mind. I’m good at it.

  As he fastened his duffel, he reassured himself that there was one unique attribute he brought to the business, and that was the gift of insight. It was an instinctual attribute; there was no magic.

  The DSA had recruited him years earlier in part because of his uncanny ability to find pathways to success in the midst of rapidly devolving chaos. They tasked him as an agent-improviser and helped him hone the improbable skill. Over time he proved himself often enough that Criss now asked him to lead in particularly challenging situations.

  He sat down to put on his shoes. “It’s time to meet the men.” Smiling at Cheryl, he teased her. “You may want to fix your clothes.”

  * * *

  Cheryl followed Sid on a short jaunt down the hall. They took a left followed by a quick right, and stepped inside a billet that looked like a cookie-cutter duplicate of Sid and Cheryl’s own quarters, down to the same panoramic view pics on the wall.

  Three men stood together and, as Sid greeted them, he introduced each one to Cheryl.

  Cheryl saw similar qualities in all three. Like Sid, they were tall, lean, and fit. They all conveyed a palpable air of confidence that left no doubt they could handle themselves in most any situation. And like Sid, they all projected a disarmingly modest persona.

  “This is Hop Cassidy,” said Sid, shaking hands with one. In his early forties, Hop was the oldest of the group. “He’ll be taking Geitz’s place in the defense array command center. He’s embedded here as a lieutenant, but two years ago he was a major in Fleet’s strategic tech center.” Hop met Cheryl’s eyes as Sid continued. “He’s fluent in the jargon, understands the technology, and should mesh well with Grace in running the center.”

  “Hello, Hop,” said Cheryl, shaking his hand and smiling. She knew Sid preferred that members of his outfit use pseudonyms during a mission. It was a common practice during his time with the DSA, and she suspected that carrying on the tradition was, for him, a rare display of nostalgia.

  “This is Jefe Diablo,” said Sid, shaking the next fellow’s hand. “Jefe’s replacing that tech sergeant who attacked us in the canteen.”

  Jefe had started shaking hands with Cheryl and stopped to flash a quizzical look at Sid. It was clear the attack was news to him. His eyebrows scrunched slightly, and Cheryl imagined this information driving a fresh assessment of how he might approach the mission.

  Cheryl turned to Dent as Sid introduced him. Though too polite to ask, she concluded this was a nickname rather than a pseudonym. He had a crease in his skull on the left side of his forehead just at the hairline. It was as long as her little finger, though not nearly as deep, and it showed no sign of scar tissue.

  She tried to picture an incident, perhaps in the tumult of childhood, that might have led to such an injury, but could conjure only bizarre scenarios. When she clasped his outstretched hand, she concentrated on meeting his eyes. He returned a friendly smile and gave her a wink.

  “Dent is here as an ops specialist,” said Sid. “So he’ll be out and about. You probably won’t see much of him. But it’s not unusual to find ops specialists anywhere on a base, working on just about anything. This gives you freedom to use him as a utility player if the need arises.”

  With the introductions complete, Sid looked at his men. “Gents, can you give us the room?” They departed without a word. The door hissed shut behind them.

  Sid pulled Cheryl close and brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “I’ll see you in a day or two,” he said, reminding her of their conversation in the canteen.

  “Give or take.” She knew he was trying to lock her into a promise and sought to avoid cornering herself with a commitment she might not be able to keep. He’d often told her she was bullheaded and that it frustrated him to no end. He’d given up trying to change her, though. She liked that about him.

  Chapter 9

  Juice took a moment to reorient herself from the sensation of being at a meeting on the moon to the reality of sitting in her office at Crystal Research. Criss sat across from her in a worn overstuffed chair, watching and waiting.

  “Do you think he’ll come?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Criss. “He’s packing now and he’s told the pilot of the service transport ship to expect him.”

  “Will he get here on time?”

  “Sid should be with us in about seven hours. Lenny will be here in eight.”

  “You can’t slow the guy down more than that?” Juice hesitated. “Without hurting him?”

  “The young man is clever and determined,” said Criss. “He’s already concluded he’s being toyed with, and he has some interesting tools he’s using to overcome my obstacles.”

  Criss stood up and beckoned to Juice. “I have a surprise for you. It may prove useful if Sid gets delayed.” He started walking toward the door. “Will you meet me in my workshop?” His image disappeared before she could respond. The comfy chair he’d been sitting in, also a projected image, vanished as well.

  Juice filled her favorite mug with chilled water as she mulled his request. The phrasing of the invitation followed by his disappearing act left her little choice. Perplexed by his behavior, she considered commanding that he return and ask politely.

  The feeling passed quickly, though. This wasn’t typical behavior for him, and she found the air of mystery he created quite compelling. She stepped into the corridor and sipped from her mug as she walked the length of the building to the rear wing that Criss called his workshop.

  As she zigged and zagged through the hallways, she reflected back to when they’d first moved into the research complex two years earlier. Criss had asked for a private place where he could tinker.

  The request had seemed odd to Juice because a projected image, though remarkably life-like in appearance, is nothing more than a sophisticated light display. And light can’t lift, move, assemble, or do much else normally associated with tinkering.

  Even though she couldn’t visualize what he might do in his workshop, she’d acceded to his request. Beyond the fact that the rear wing was open expansion space that would otherwise sit empty for the foreseeable future, she knew he could do whatever it was he had in mind anywhere in the world. She was thrilled to have him “tinkering” nearby.

  In the first months, she’d kept her distance and given him privacy. In time, she’d all but forgotten about his shop. The wing was attached to the far corner of the building and had its own entry and road access, so she never saw people or equipment go in or out. And he never made reference to any activities or accomplishments that would cause her to think about what might be going on inside.

  As she turned the last corner and saw the door at the end of the hall, she reminded herself that Criss never slept, giving him many hours every night to pursue his tinkering. Then it clicked wi
th her that he had the ability to divide his enormous intellectual capacity and be in multiple places at once. I’ll bet he’s been working day and night for the past two years. She slowed her pace as she considered what he could achieve in that amount of time.

  She reached his workshop door, and it hissed open. The immediacy of the sound triggered a flood of emotions. She was happy he was taking her into his confidence and excited by what she might see. But the timing of this invitation, given the looming concern called Lenny, was curious.

  A wave of anxiety washed over her. What if he’s been developing his own crystal, she thought. And what if it uses the alien Kardish designs? Even though Criss himself had been manipulated by the Kardish, she knew his allegiances. She didn’t think she would trust unfamiliar crystals harboring alien influences.

  She stepped inside a space that was larger than she remembered, and the door hissed shut behind her. Her eyes darted in a random pattern as she absorbed the various sights, and the scientist in her began collating her observations.

  The space was full of lab equipment—big and small items, clear vessels, tanks with a metallic sheen, electronic devices with sophisticated displays, tubing and wires connecting one piece to the next—all clean and neatly organized so someone could navigate the room.

  The sweep of her gaze ended with Criss. He sat in a chair in the center of the workshop, perhaps twenty steps in front of her, still dressed in his fatigues. Her eyes moved to what was behind him. “What the hell?” she said out loud.

  Behind Criss, occupying prime real estate in the center of the space, was an exercise area. She stepped to the side to get a better view and saw weights, a treadmill, climbing bars connected in triangles to form a dome, tall climbing ropes—a whole panoply of physical training and gymnastic apparatus.

  Juice struggled to resolve the incongruous display of high-tech lab equipment arranged neatly around a mini gym. “I forgot my workout clothes,” she said, immediately feeling foolish for saying something so inane at this moment of sharing.