Yngve, AR - The Argus Project

by The Argus Project (lit)

  He untied his now spent jetpack bundle, and saw it plunge into the clouds, drawn away on the ever-present winds. That could have been me, he thought.

  For a very brief moment just before his success, Argus considered putting his own hand into the airship's emergency socket to bridge the last small distance, and let the power cable feed through him into the ship.

  Had he done so, the ensuing overload might have killed him - and afterwards he asked himself, if he had truly been ready for that ultimate sacrifice to save four men. Thinking of Venix being left alone, he wasn't sure he would have done it.

  ***

  A few minutes later, when they had flown close enough to the floating city and been towed in by other ships, Argus let go of the railings.

  He hauled himself into an airlock, which shut itself around him. Then he curled up on the deck and groaned; his massive body began to shake, or rather vibrate and shake.

  His teeth rattled in his jaw, and he rolled around like some stiff toy. He wondered if it was just the mental shock that made him shake so badly, or the artificial muscles loosening up from the cold Jupiter atmosphere plus the intense strain.

  Later, he understood it was all three things combined.

  He let the fit come and go, and after a minute he managed to stand up again.

  "That does it," he groaned, "this is my last visit to Jupiter."

  He became aware of the many Jovians watching him from various transparent sections of the floating city, from the passing airships, and the crew of four that were being helped out of the landing-dock one section away.

  Someone shone a spotlight at him. Rogan Din's voice over the city's loudspeaker system warned that the section Argus stood in was dangerously overloaded with people, and commanded people to evacuate the section before it collapsed.

  Reluctantly, and in remarkable silence, the workers obeyed. The gravity prevented them from looking over their shoulders as they walked away, so they moved backwards...

  Argus retreated into the section, away from the spotlight, and told Rogan over the com-link: "I'll be heading back to my shuttle right away. Just give me a minute to recharge."

  "Yes, yes, no problem. An amazing rescue action. You'll get a medal for this, the workers are in -"

  Argus shut off the intercom link and found a wall niche where workers used to expose themselves to a small sunlamp, for health reasons. He turned it on and let his receptor membrane soak up the ultraviolet rays. Next best thing to a shower, thought the cyborg... and carefully turned around. Nearby footsteps, felt through the thin floor, alerted his attention.

  On the other side of the corridor stood a sole Jovian worker.

  "You Argus-A?" the man asked.

  25: Heroes

  "You Argus-A?" the man quickly repeated in a sterner tone, as if to reassure himself - or as though Argus had not heard him.

  He was a pale, sturdy adult midget with a large, thick black beard and a serious face. The little man's eyes seemed distracted, as if some thought kept interfering with what he saw before him.

  In infrared vision, Argus could only sense fragments of the fluctuating tensions in the miner's compact frame - beneath thick clothing, pressure-suit and transparent face-mask. The Jovian apparently was in mental turmoil, but Argus also sensed two conflicting impulses.

  The cyborg pretended to be calm and still, while carefully watching the miner's every movement.

  "That's me. And you are?"

  " Proxi . Lode Proxi, Mining Engineer Class A." The man's infrared color shift clearly showed that this was a lie. "My second shift Kun'Lun. You... saved our men." That wasn't a lie. Argus nodded lightly - yet, the miner's question felt like a vague accusation. "Why?"

  "Why not?"

  "A Jovian saying: 'For three good reasons, do it. For two good reasons, big mistake. For one good reason, you're genius or idiot.'"

  Argus laughed at (thought he) the clever joke; then he stopped, a little too abruptly (but his cyborg construction sometimes did that) and realized that Lode Proxi wasn't joking at all.

  "Okay, Lode Proxi... Reason one: Only I could save them right then. Reason two: Doing nothing would not have improved Terran-Jovian relations, and I want this war to end just as badly as you do. Third reason: It seemed the right thing to do. I could think up more reasons, but they basically amount to the same thing: I did what was right."

  "Then tell me, Terran cyborg: is the war right?"

  "It has to end soon." He spoke faster, adapting his speech. "Looks like only Inner Planets will win, but in the end better for everyone. When war over, trade can go normal, and all back to way it was -"

  "But it won't , Argus-A! It all changes! The war can end now! We tell the Inner Planets every day: Stop attacks and we resume normal relations. We can even take back our claims for unlimited independence."

  It seemed the Jovian felt insulted by Argus's attempt to "talk the talk." So much for trying to be nice, Argus thought. He spoke faster still, but switched vocabulary back to the Terran idiom.

  "Why do your representatives persist in demanding independence? I don't see the point, because all planets depend on each other. We can produce the goods and food that you can't, you can produce the deuterium we can't. Whether you call yourselves 'independent' or 'colony' makes no difference out here."

  "You wrong , Terran! Liar, or fool! The Terran Fleet dictates terms of peace for Outer Planets. Every negotiation failed. For one reason: Fleet always refuses to change one term."

  "Which term?"

  The miner punched up a quote from the computer on his sleeve, and read it: "'Clause Twelve. The Chancellor of the Outer Defense Ring Charter is appointed Executive Protector of the Jupiter Sector. The title grants him the power to veto any administrative decision, to make governing decrees, plus a ten-year concession to maintain law and order in the sector.'"

  Argus turned the quote around in his mind, wrestled the true meaning from its dense prose. No, it couldn't be that simple. Nobody could have intended that... the people back on Earth would have stopped it. And it was just words, open to interpretation.

  Argus replied - and the miner seemed a little surprised at this response - almost before "Lode Proxi" had finished speaking.

  "I just can't believe it means what you think. Not to the Inner Planets. It's not our intention to make the Kansler a... I don't know the word for it..."

  "You poor Terrans forget how Earth was in Century Two-One. People elected ambitious men to control them. Called it 'government' - it's gone now. Planets too big, too free, too rich, too AI to govern. Quantum computers made better bureaucrats, replaced human government. But ambitious men still here. We Jovians have councils, when necessary. But no elections. Council duty involuntary. Picked by the computers for competence. Men who enjoy control not allowed. Council duty is unpleasant. But is... the right thing to do."

  "The Kansler isn't a..." It was like trying to name something there wasn't a word for anymore. "You know what I mean. He was appointed to defend, to protect."

  "Then why does he not? Why maintain terms of peace that make him a... controller of Jupiter with ten years total power? Is no other power to equal the Fleet here. When he's in control, can anyone control Kansler? Ask him. Ask why the war began."

  "I know why the war began!" Argus retorted, but even as the words flowed from between his artificial lips, he doubted them; Caver Pi heard it in Argus's voice. "The sabotage attacks by Jovian separatists started it all. And they haven't stopped. Like when Colonel Clarke was..."

  A terrible idea occurred to Argus, so bizarre he might finally be going over the edge. But it fit the chain of events perfectly.

  Haruman Clarke, who just happened to be of identical height, age and appearance, just happened to crash-land at exactly the same place where Gus worked his nightshift... and just happened to get killed while Gus just happened to survive. He had to dig deep into the records of what had happened, although the accident still frightened him so much he'd rather repress the memory..
.

  "Honestly, Terran: I don't know if any sabotage attacks were by my people. I know only Jovians are still sending deuterium to your planets. If we stopped export - right now - Inner Planets start starving in about eighteen months. But so do we."

  Outside, another huge balloon load of deuterium shot up from the clouds beneath their feet, and floated upward to be collected by the shuttles up at the stratospheric rim. It would take that load about seventeen months to reach Earth on the slow cargo routes.

  Caver Pi felt awkward for talking more than was proper among Jovian colonists. He wanted to look up into the cyborg's face to judge his expression, but the gravity and the thick collar of his suit made it too exhausting.

  Argus looked about himself, and motioned to leave. He leaned down, focused on the miner who stood in his corner - and, as if he had read his mind, gave him a few parting words.

  "Tell them, your people back home, that I may be the last man standing between Jupiter and Earth. Think about it."

  With that, Argus moved out of the room so fast that the floating quarters quivered. Caver Pi made a sigh of relief, and punched in the code that disarmed his hidden bomb. He opened a small vent in the transparent wall and slipped the bomb into it. As he shut the inside lid, the outer lid opened, and the bomb dropped into the clouds.

  Caver thought about it, and no matter how much he tried to reason against it, that enemy cyborg was right. But Caver would live another day to see his wife and child. Then it struck him what Argus had tried to say.

  "Hot Io," he muttered, "...he is human."

  26: Sumo Space Surfers Go to Mars

  On screens across the Solar System, from the domes of Mercury to the outposts of Neptune, broadcasts from the Skysurfing Grand Prix Tryouts were on-screen everywhere.

  In 3-D, in small eye-screens, in video implants, on clothes covered with printed displays.

  The running commentary on the races sounded through millions of tiny earpieces - for those whose eyes were exhausted from the visual overload of the 22nd century - or for those who lived in the poorest colonial settlements - or those who were too busy to watch.

  More popular even than the traveling pygmy-chimp circuses, more loved than the weekly Mutilation Fighting bouts, skysurfing had become the ultimate sport of the age, because the danger was 100% authentic.

  One false move, and the surfer was burned to a crisp; if fatigue got to him as he flew down in the thin, windy Martian air, he might fall to his death.

  Unlike their predecessors of previous centuries, 22nd-century skysurfers were all obese; this was a necessity. The heavy rider created a stable center in the otherwise very light kevlar board, when the jetstreams of the stratosphere tried to twist and turn it during hours of downward glide-flying from space to ground.

  Those few elite surfers who had survived several championships resembled seasoned sumo-wrestlers - with their own codes of conduct, their own communities, and entourages of devoted groupies.

  Shortly before the new Grand Prix, ruling two-time champion Ronnie "Big" Mack Hansen died of a stroke, after attempting to bed a record sixteen mistresses in one night (his weight at time of death: 401 kg). Hansen was mourned by an entire Solar System.

  Kolya Keaton had mourned too - while inwardly hoping "Big" Mack's untimely demise would improve his own feeble odds for glory.

  A skysurfing champion normally wasn't made in one day - which did not deter scores of lesser talents from participating in the big yearly tryouts. There was always space to spare for another hopeful surfer.

  Most of them were Terrans, sponsored by Terran wealth, while the smaller planets produced a handful of contenders.

  Truth was, every skysurfing champion but one was born on Earth... a source of never-ending resentment among colonists.

  ***

  Guided by the MTCA (Martian Traffic Control Authority), Foss let his aging shuttle slide into a designated orbital slot. There was only a mile between him and other waiting ships on parallel course.

  Two thousand tiny beacon satellites formed a ring of lights around Mars, marking out the official tryouts orbit. For the MTCA, stationed on the moon Deimos, the traffic chaos of the Tryouts was only matched by that of the Grand Prix one week later.

  When suddenly a new directive was sent from the MTCA, Foss and his crew grew more nervous than usual:

  ALL SGP TRYOUT CONTESTANTS ARE TO BE INSPECTED, CONTROLLED AND IDENTIFIED BY THE MSF AUTHORITY UPON LANDING IN THE DESIGNATED GOAL AREAS.

  REFUSAL TO ACCEPT INSPECTION UPON LANDING WARRANTS USE OF DEADLY FORCE FROM THE MSF.

  SIGNED, GEN. VLADIMIR ZODONG-PETAIN, MSF COMMANDER, TFC, MTCA ADVISOR

  "Fark!" Moravia and Keaton spat as one, reading the message repeatedly on their sleeve displays, as they prepared for the race.

  Keaton had mounted his board inside the shuttle's cargo bay. Both his board and racing space-suit were garishly painted with the logo of his sponsors. "TIME TO WIN! GOLAN-NORRIS DELTA BOARDS," read the green-and-blue lettering.

  Keaton's surf-suit was thicker and better insulated than the training-suits of the previous weeks; Venix's infrared vision couldn't penetrate it.

  Venix stood in the airlock just outside the cargo bay, ready to hide in case the shuttle would be boarded, and watched Keaton prepare - alternately through a wall monitor, and through the airlock's porthole window.

  Foss watched over his crew from the cockpit. On his orders, Sugar kept Venix with company, so that he could concentrate during the stressful flight.

  "My," said Sugar, "there are many of those shuttles in orbit. I hope there isn't a collision, 'cause it would make an awful mess."

  "Sugar," Venix asked the wide-eyed leisure droid, less in anger than in curiosity, "I have a... difficult relationship with androids and robots. I get angry with them, especially if they touch me. Relax, I won't hurt you. It's just that... no, how could you understand? You don't have a real brain."

  Sugar, whose electronic brain's intelligence was almost on a par with a Bonobo's - only faster and much more articulate - leaned her head to one side and pouted at Venix. Sugar usually said something when she pouted, something cute and vacuous.

  This leisure droid, for the occasion dressed in old spaceman coveralls, had curves considerably more voluptuous than those of Venix, and Sugar's showed quite well through her rough clothing.

  But, Venix thought, I guess we both have the same type of foam stuffing in our curves, so that we feel more like flesh-and-blood women to the touch. Maybe I could borrow some of hers. Venix quietly steeled herself to endure the dumb-blonde lines that she had come to expect from the android.

  "I feel sorry for you, Venix," came the innocent-sounding line. "I can see you're unhappy. I can see in infrared like you, so I can tell how people feel. It's what I was made for, to understand people's needs so I can please them. It took some time for me to adjust my sensors to your cyborg construction, but now I can read you."

  "It took you several weeks to figure that out? I feel sorry for you ."

  "You feel alone, unloved, and you miss someone... very much. You have a hard time connecting with other people who are not cyborgs, and so you turn against intelligent machines... I think it's called compensation, but I'm not very good with those long words."

  Sugar kept a respectful distance in the narrow, oblong airlock, and she must have detected the rising tension in Venix, for she held herself close to the exit-hatch.

  For a few seconds Venix stared at the monitor and the race preparations, until she couldn't contain herself any longer. She pivoted around and glowered at Sugar. Her voice, though synthetic and well modulated, almost broke.

  "Does it make me more human, Sugar? That I hate? How can I know it's a real emotion and not a program? Or am I just playacting emotions, to prove that I'm not a plastic doll made to please? And even if I know I'm a real person and not a machine, how can others know?" Without letting Sugar answer, she added: "Only one person really knows me. Only one man can know."

 
"Oh... who's that?"

  "Please don't ask."

  "Well, you should count yourself lucky for that person, Venix. Not many people ever find someone who understands them. I can read you, but I can't say I understand you."

  Venix held a finger to her lips, and the android fell silent. The wall screen was showing the many contestants' shuttles, all finally lined up for the race to start.

  "This is getting to be a record turnout," Foss told the crew over the internal com-link. "Over fifty contestants are in the clear for takeoff! I can even spot one from planet Mercury. Ready, Keaton? Got the goal point? I'm opening the cargo bay now."

  "All clear, Cap! The jetstream readouts are looking good." He wore goggles that enabled him to see the winds in false colors. "I can cut them like a laser through cheese!"

  "Surf's up!" Moravia shouted, and the large cargo bay doors began to open. He began to lift Keaton and his board on the shuttle's robotic arm... and stopped it.

  "Cap!" he cried over the radio. "Keaton's got a cramp in his left arm. He can't move it. Fark! I told him not to take those shots! I told him they were bad for his heart! Keaton, get off the board right now!"

  "I was afraid something like this would happen," Venix said urgently. "Sugar, help me get Keaton inside and take off his suit."

  ***

  Three minutes later, the delayed starting-signal came over the radio.

  The string of lights from two thousand orbiting beacon satellites began to blink in unison, creating the illusion of lights running around the planet in a westward direction.

  From fifty-one shuttles of varying size from several planets, the surfboards were unhooked from robotic towing-arms. The boards fell forward, carried by their momentum.

  Mars' gravity dragged them inevitably down toward the thin, thin upper atmosphere; in just seconds, the boards would get hot from the friction created by their high velocity.

  The surfer wearing the Golan-Norris emblem, seemingly as bloated as the other contestants in their garishly painted spacesuits, showed off a little just as the first atoms of atmosphere hit.