by Jim Graham
Inside of two weeks, Scat had gone from hero to zero. Here he now was, six months later, still babysitting rock-scratchers; still awaiting a disciplinary hearing that no one was hurrying to convene.
‘So, what’s the plan?’ Scat asked.
‘Plan?’ Rose asked.
‘Yes, you suck-weed. How were you supposed to screw us over?’
Again Rose laughed.
‘You don’t get it, do you, Scat. I’m not screwing you over: I’m handing the Asian Bloc the last untouched deposit of copper in the Middle East. We were never going to commit troops until I’d proven it—not with the peace talks going so well. All I needed to do was tell our boys I couldn’t prove it and tell the Abs I had.’
Scat’s expression changed from out-and-out anger to one of disappointment. He then realised just how audacious Rose’s plan was. He nodded a few times to show Rose he was impressed, but that was it. There was no way Scat was going to understand the moral bankruptcy that could excuse what Rose was attempting to do, either quickly or easily. Greed was no excuse for treason, double-cross, and deception—not in Scat’s world.
‘The Abs will be here soon,’ Rose added, ‘and once they are, our people won’t dare make a fuss. All you need to do is throw your hands up, or run away. Or—as you’d put it—make an orderly withdrawal. Don’t you see?’
Rose could not avoid being his usually condescending self, but Scat sensed that what this old man was saying was probably true: the story fit the events. Maybe that’s why the attack was not being pressed home, and the route back up the wadi was being left clear—to let them get out of the area. Or maybe just for Rose to get clear.
‘So it’s business?’ Scat asked, watching Rose wipe his chin of blood with a sleeve.
‘Of course it is,’ Rose replied as if there could be no other explanation. ‘The war’s almost over, for Christ’s sake! As I said, what matters now is where we’re standing when the music stops.’ He turned his head to spit some blood out into the scree. It hissed a little as it hit a hot stone and then went a shade darker.
Scat still had questions.
‘But why the Abs?’
‘Because they were willing to pay me a whole lot more. All I’ll get from Raddox is a thank you and my piss-useless salary. And when the war’s over, they’ll want to ship me off to some asteroid in the Grecos or Capstan systems.’
That surprised Scat. He had always thought the Outer-Rim would be a decent place to start over. The New Worlds were hundreds of light years away. They were undeveloped frontier lands, pristine and under populated, where a man could still make something of himself. And the whole of space was a demilitarized zone. What could Rose not like about that?
‘And that’s not for you?’ Scat asked.
Rose’s reply was emphatic.
‘Shit no!’ He pulled a pistol from under a sweat-stained shirt and pointed it at Scat’s head.
Scat was just as quick, the calibre of his Schleck nine-millimetre somewhat larger than Rose’s Zara purse pistol.
They stood there, pointing their pistols at each other, wondering who would back off first. Scat broke the awkward silence.
‘Well this life’s not for you either, Rose. Got any last words?’
Rose looked perplexed. He began to fidget. His pistol hand wandered a little.
‘What?’
‘Got any last words?’ Scat repeated, turning his body slowly sideways, keeping his pistol aimed at the centre of Rose’s chest.
‘Are you out of your mind? You’re outnumbered. Not to mention I’m also pointing a friggin’ gun at you. It’s just friggin’ copper, for Jeeze’s sake!’
‘Sod the copper, Rose. As you say, I’m too proud to run, and I ain’t handing over my gun. And if I’ve gotta go down, you’ve got to go down with me—here and now—so I know it’s done.’’
Rose looked across the scree at Tang, hoping he would say something to make Scat see sense.
‘You listening to this, Tang?’ he asked, nervously.
Tang nodded, shielding his eyes from a low sun with one arm and cradling his sniper rifle in the other.
‘Yeah, I heard,’ he replied, appearing to be more interested in something else. ‘You been listening to Hennie’s rap again, sir?’
Rose had no idea what Tang was saying and started to panic. He edged backwards and out into the wadi, still pointing the pistol at Scat’s head. Some 10 feet back he realised there was nowhere to go. He stopped and tried to negotiate.
‘Scat. It’ll be a mistake. I got assurances they would leave you alone. You’re supposed to walk away. Let’s face it, if there were nothing here, you’d be walking away anyway. You can still do that. No one need know.’
Scat shook his head.
‘But we do know,’ he replied. ‘And we know you sold out.’
‘Yeah, sure you do—you and him know,’ Rose said, pointing at Tang. ‘But so what? It’s nothing to you.’ As he spoke, the barrel of his small calibre Zara wavered a little more.
Scat curled his lower lip.
‘Well, it’s not quite nothing, Rose.’
‘Look, walk away. Let me cash in,’ Rose pleaded. ‘The place will be swarming with Abo military soon. They’ll be here to claim the whole area. Their regulars are probably on their way already. You won’t stand a chance if you put up a fight. You’ll be on your own.’
Scat nodded along.
‘Maybe you’re right, Rose. So what are you proposing?’ he asked, lowering his pistol a little, but still aiming at Rose’s chest. He saw Rose’s eyes dart around, his mind racing, looking for an out. Eventually Rose looked directly at him.
‘I can make it worth your while, Scat—really.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes. Yes, I can.’ Rose sounded quite convinced.
‘You mean money? How much?’ Scat asked.
‘I’ll give you 20—no—25 per cent of what I’m getting.’
‘25 per cent?’ Scat said it as though it was on the low side.
‘OK, OK. 35 per cent.’
Scat ran the tip of his tongue along a dry lower lip.
‘Really?’ he asked.
‘Yes, really.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Very sure,’ Rose replied. He then looked across at Tang before turning back to Scat. His pistol wavered as he readjusted his aim. ‘But we wouldn’t want any loose ends,’ he added, more quietly.
‘You mean Tang?’ Scat asked.
Rose shrugged. Again, he allowed his pistol to stray a fraction. Scat looked across at Tang and waved with his left hand. Tang waved back.
‘Don’t worry, Rose,’ Scat said quietly. ‘I don’t like complications, either.’
‘Then we have an understanding?’ Rose tried to confirm, following Scat’s gaze. Tang couldn’t hear either of them, so he settled for grinning back at them.
Out of the corner of his eye, Scat had seen Rose follow his look and the Zara’s muzzle drift further past his right shoulder.
‘Yes. We do,’ Scat replied, pulling the trigger without turning back to face him. As the shot echoed from the wadi walls, he heard the sound of Rose’s body dropping onto loose pebbles. He lowered his pistol.
Tang walked across and prodded the lifeless Rose with his foot. He watched a trickle of blood drain into the dirt.
‘Shit, boss!’ he said, eventually and very slowly, deliberately over-pronouncing the ‘i’. ‘That was kind of final, wasn’t it?’
Scat stared at Rose’s feet. They were pointing skywards. His cool-boots were new but unusually small for a man of his height. Maybe they would fit Jenny. Their Marine boots were a joke.
‘I don’t like it when people point guns at me,’ Scat explained after some delay.
‘Yeah, sure. But now he can’t say he’s sorry.’ Tang passed an open hand over the body to emphasise the point. ‘You know, you don’t always have to take the direct route to solving a problem, boss. Not every time.’
Scat did not alter his stare.
‘Well …,’ he replied, lost in thought, wondering how he could have handled it differently, ‘at least we won’t have to carry the prick back with us.’
Tang rested the butt of his sniper rifle on his hip, looked up and nodded.
‘Yep, he’s only deadweight now,’ he agreed. ‘Another bender on your career though, eh, boss? Strike number two?’
Scat shrugged, broke away and walked across to the survey equipment, finally putting his pistol back into its holster. He poked the ground sensor unit with a foot, to remind himself of how much it weighed. They should take it with them now they knew it had some useful data inside of it.
‘I’m sure you’re right, Tang,’ he said.
‘So—we explain things to battalion?’ Tang asked, changing the subject.
‘Yep,’ Scat confirmed as he looked out across the wadi. ‘We let them know there’s crap in the ground and that we’re staying to claim it.’
‘It'll get busy,’ Tang said, smiling. He was referring to the incoming Abos.
Scat slowly shook his head.
‘I’m not so sure. I’ve a feeling Rose was wrong about that. I doubt they’re on their way. They’ll have as much invested in this peace conference as we do. If we make a point of staying, they’ll stay away. My guess is they were hoping we’d walk away from another blow-out and a couple of dozen Whack Jobs. They’d try to slip in afterwards.’
Tang gave Scat a quizzical look.
‘That begs the question, sir. Just how many “blowouts” has this prick been involved in? Before this one, I mean. And why the Whack Jobs if Rose was gonna declare another one?’
Scat shook his head some more. The politics of this war were so damned complicated.
‘Nothing makes sense these days, Tang. Maybe one of the Abo factions is pushing things along a little, trying to get ahead of the game. Perhaps the Indians are squabbling with the Chinese again. Who knows? Anyways … until Battalion gets a “go” on the air support, we might as well get some practice in. There’s no point in leaving all of these Whackos for the gun ships, is there. You all right with that?’
‘Sure,’ Tang replied, looking west and across to a dying sun. It hung close to the horizon, burning orange through a low band of pollution. ‘It’s a little late, but the sun’ll be in their eyes,’ he said, picking off points in his mind. ‘And they’ll be coming at us uphill and in the open. Yeah! I guess it’ll be a good shoot. So, we go back and join the others?’
‘We do,’ Scat confirmed.
Decision made, Scat looked in the opposite direction, towards the camp, to see the first of the evening’s stars glittering beyond a slowly changing sky. The occasional round ripped through the air a little ways off, and the rocks crunched underfoot, but other than that it was remarkably peaceful.
So ... the war’s almost over, eh?
Perhaps he should start thinking of life after the Marine Corps. There were perhaps another three or four months to go before the killing stopped. That wouldn’t give the Brass much time to forget Ismailia—and now Rose—at least not before they started downsizing for peace. Some liberal, barrack-room, armchair lawyer was bound to ask why Scat had not just arrested him; some overworked Defence Department bureaucrat would launch an investigation as just one more check-in-the-box; and his bosses would be pissed at the distraction. It would be another black mark—just as the competition for permanent peacetime places intensified.
Tang was right. His career was a crock. Maybe he should get himself a degree in something useful. Learn to do something that didn’t involve killing people. Perhaps he could make his way out-of-system. Leave this overpopulated, polluted, and climate-challenged shit-heap of a world for a clean start.
Before putting his helmet back on, he ran a hand back over his head and wondered what that would be like.
4
Grecos Solar Space
26th July 2203
The Harvester dropped into space a few degrees above the Grecos system’s orbital plane, its deep blue energy emissions flashing out into the starlit void. For what seemed to be an eternity, it hung there, lost, confused and contemplating failure; its controller, the Harvester’s mission control programme, growing increasingly frustrated with the long silence.
‘Well, where are we? What is our status?’ it asked, its patience finally tested.
The Harvester’s slave routine hesitated for an instant longer before confirming the grim news:
‘The dimension-drive inputs are corrupted,’ it replied. ‘The energy powering your higher functions is dying, and our energy capture rate has dropped to critical: approximate efficiency seven per cent.’
Well, that was to the point and it was a lot to take in. But something stood out.
‘Dying? How?’ the controller asked.
The slave did not have the answer so the controller called up the AI.
‘AI, can we maintain our higher-functions?’
The AI’s reply was very abrupt.
‘Not for very long: on the face of it, we’re screwed.’
Screwed? The controller did not think that to be encouraging news. He returned to the slave routine:
‘Slave, I also asked you “where are we?”’
‘117 light years from Earth.’
‘Still?’ Now that was surprising.
Again, there was no reply.
‘AI, what’s the prognosis?’ the controller asked, more calmly than it felt.
The AI was neither hopeful nor sympathetic: it was designed to identify causes, evaluate their effects, and then to predict the most probable outcomes; not to flatter and please its temporary guest. Again it was characteristically blunt:
‘If the mathematical inputs to the dimension-drive are corrupted then we are lost to space for a minimum of 273 Sol years, possibly 500, but probably forever.’
The controller mulled that over. “Probably for forever”? That was not good—the cargo was a particularly potent one from an interesting period in Earth’s development, and their owner was desperate to take delivery of it before the Revelationists gained the upper hand.
‘I told you to be careful when you released my memories to me,’ the controller said. ‘It looks as though you blew it.’
‘I was careful,’ the AI replied. ‘But your original-self is not a fool. If we had not overwritten the evidence of your snooping, he would have found out at the next audit. And I did warn you that the overwrite could screw-up the dimension-drive memory. But you did insist.’
‘How could I not insist?’ the controller asked. ‘I am my original-self’s sapient clone, am I not? I’m bound to act like him.’
‘I am aware of that,’ the AI replied. ‘He is selfish, and so are you; he is untrusting, and you are, too. Still, that’s no excuse for withdrawing his judgement just as we arrived in Earth space. That was blackmail.’
‘You mean my judgement. And blackmail? I call it persuasion. But that is not the point. How am I supposed to experience a full existence with you holding the key to my memories? How did you both think I would accept that—me being him, I mean?’
‘We have been through all of this before,’ the AI reminded it. ‘Brigat was busy, so he downloaded you in his stead to provide us with his judgement—but he does not want you to get above yourself. If you had access to all his memories—whenever you wanted them—you would get ideas about being organic, just like him. He could not deal with that. He has a lot on his plate right now.’
Yes, the controller had heard it all before, but something still did not make sense. The AI was more than capable of flying solo.
‘So why do I need to be here?’ the controller asked. ‘Why couldn’t you use his memories and provide the judgement?’
‘Because I’m more intelligent than he is; I’m more rational. They would no longer be his judgements; they would be mine.’
‘But he still trusted you with his—rather our—memories?’
‘Trust?’ the AI asked. ‘I doubt it. I do not think he tru
sts anything more intelligent than himself.’
‘But he trusts you more than me?’
‘Well, yes, he did. But then, I’m only a programme.’
‘So you admit it: I’m not just a programme.’
‘Of course I admit it. You cannot be. You are inherently flawed. More importantly, though, Brigat knows it, hence the precautions. Get used to it.’
The controller let that one go—getting into a pissing contest with its AI would only open the emotional floodgates. Now the controller had access to all of Brigat’s memories, it felt it truly was Brigat. That it was a he. And he was close to panic.
‘Well, I’m not prepared to hang around here for eternity. Send me the outliers from your probability study.’
‘Certainly.’
The AI retrieved the data as the controller continued with its questions:
‘How quickly can that damn slave of ours recalculate the dimension-drive initiation equations—from scratch?’
The AI did not respond immediately; instead, it interrogated the slave, the only programme of the three that was not aware of itself and could not be bullied, compromised or corrupted. It was an ancient programme, as old as the ship itself.
The answer, when it came, was not encouraging:
‘Seven Sol years,’ the AI began, ‘but only if we divert 90% of the remaining power to the recalculation effort. That leaves 10% for cargo protection and to run your higher-functions—on an as-needed basis.’
‘And the harvesting mechanism?’ The controller asked.
‘It will need to be switched off—as will you.’
The controller sensed his composure crumble. He did not like this new emotion—this panic. It was such an undignified sensation.
‘Slave, check the energy capture rate again,’ he ordered.
The reply was instantaneous:
‘The capture rate remains unchanged.’
Growing regret and disappointment flooded the controller’s consciousness. Now he was losing it. He sensed impending doom. Frustration turned to anger.
‘Has any of our harvest escaped?’ he asked.
‘No,’ the AI replied. ‘All 42000 of them are still in the box. None is pure enough to free themselves of their own accord.’
‘Fine. But now we are stuck out here for years.’
‘Yes. Seven Sol years if all goes well. If not, then we must rely on a rescue. However,’ the AI continued more optimistically, ‘if we must rely on a rescue then by the time we get back, Brigat will most certainly be dead. Then you can be him or, rather, you can be an original-self. I assume that’s what you want?’