The Deftly Paradox

by Matthew D. White

  Another floor down and occupying the space of a moderately-size hangar was arranged a massive network of server racks, miles of spanning cables, and no additional workstations of which to speak. In a way, Mercer was surprised, as their orders stopped short of defining what it was they were sent to destroy.

  “Sir, this is really it?” his staff sergeant asked from the side after following the lieutenant to the glass.

  “Absolutely; set the charges, take down the arrays, and let’s get gone.”

  He watched as the cadre of soldiers scattered among the processing systems, piecing together the explosive devices which would render the facility nothing more than a memory. Back at the surface, their ride was waiting on the pad. The small shuttle now being able to land on top of the target for extraction, instead of BFE, forcing them to march forty miles over land to avoid detection. As they filed out of the bunkers, Mercer accounted for each member of his team before slumping onto his seat at the end by the rear hatch. He secured his equipment and allowed himself a moment to relax, content in the knowledge of a properly executed mission in service to the OSIRIS. They lifted off without another word passing between the crew. Below, the charges detonated in an expertly-timed symphony of destruction, collapsing the bunker and taking with it all knowledge of its existence.

  “Status?” the navigator inquired from the hatch to the flight deck.

  “Mission complete,” Mercer said, barely looking up as his eyes grew heavy. “Conditions as expected, target secure.”

  “Understood. Alerting MOC.”

  Forty lightyears farther down the galactic arm, the report arrived alongside a thousand others for the day. Collated and compared against the expected outcomes, the calculation was confirmed and all was as expected. From there, the log was updated appropriately according to the mission report and added to the archive. Burton’s Clutch was long known as nothing more than an isolated aid station which had been savagely destroyed by a random pack of rebels who were intent on shrugging off Dominion control. The report as it was received would have caused a tinge of remorse in the soul of a human, but the times for such frailties had long since been left in graves and in the dust. The OSIRIS followed the report with a new order to increase local patrols to find the criminals responsible for the act.

  And thus began a new day.

  3

  Midnight meant the dawning of a new day, as per the understanding of the all-seeing OSIRIS, or as it was formally referenced, the Omniscient Stellar Intelligence for Retaining Individual Security. It was the final product of Senator Leary’s proposed galaxy-governing machine and a lasting testament to humanity’s common purpose. Below the service floor, a sprawling landscape of racks and cables sent an untold volume of data around the planet and across the galaxy, collecting, processing and distributing what combined to make a civilized world. While few considered the site or the planet itself to be the center of the universe, the system’s importance could not be understated. In its own way, it was the center of their civilization.

  Decades of design and fabrication had resulted in a modular form of artificial life, a self-retrospective being which dispensed with its governance from beyond the haunting limitations afforded by time, entropy, and death. It ruled with a just, collective calmness that diffused the emotional outbursts of humanity and served them with decisions which defended their interests and ensured their mutual prosperity.

  Feeding this leviathan was an army of sensors, collectors, and relays spread across the stars, riding on every ship and installation, for only through this manner could the OSIRIS comprehend the needs of the masses. Details on every activity, transaction, ship status, and criminal citation found their way across the network, processed in the manner of every other for the glorious will of humanity.

  That’s not to say the occasional action could not be tyrannical; programming and experience had made the OSIRIS adept at sighting rancor and disaster before it spread and often before it was even kindled. For those facing the OSIRIS’s wrath, regress was possible through the ceremonial congressional body of the Dominion, still referred to nostalgically as a senate, although such actions were rarely necessary. A rarer event still was the council taking up a task of such magnitude of their own volition.

  In the dark of night in the Machine Operations Center, or MOC, a large scrolling marquee at the head of the room ticked ahead to 524.232.00:00.01.

  And thus began a new day. The same dark metal supports arched above their heads as they had for centuries, acting as an expertly-constructed contrast to the polished and carved stone walls to each side. It was a colloquial rumor that the OSIRIS had designed the inscriptions itself, even though the installation predated its awakening by more than a decade.

  “That’s it?” Mark Sullivan asked, turning around from his workstation to face the handful of his fellow shift workers.

  “Yeah. It just ticks over. What were you expecting?”

  Sullivan shrugged. “I don’t know, something more than that. It just seems so anticlimactic,” he replied with a sigh, leaning back in his seat and smoothing his hair to the side.

  “I believe I told you exactly what happened the other week,” his subject, an engineer by the name of Erikson, replied from the panel a row back and to the right, “but no, you didn’t want to believe me. You insisted we were holding out,” he added with a laugh.

  Their ten-member crew had an average time on station of barely five years, most lured from the academy by the prospect of having a direct hand in the OSIRIS’s functioning. However, as with most such prospects, the glamor of the unknown failed upon contact with the coming of the morning. It was only after being exposed to the daily grind did they understand the truth: that the OSIRIS really did run the world, and collectively their crews were little more than babysitters.

  The OSIRIS wrote most of its service tickets at the behest of its own recommendations, and even those were handled by dedicated maintenance teams away from the floor. With such precautions already taken and compartmentalized, MOC duty was only as prestigious and bearable as they made it for themselves. Between the jovial exchanges, the other engineers on the floor chuckled at Sullivan’s dismay.

  He reclined back and stared off at the wall of monitors across the room. Endless feeds of commands, plain text and encrypted, scrolled down the panels to their designated action officers. On the side walls, additional terminals marked the results of completed tasks and routed them for closing. “Seriously,” Sullivan muttered, “I can’t believe I stayed up here an extra four hours for that.”

  “You requested overtime for this stunt, right?” Overseer Bannerman asked as his engineer gathered his belongings to leave for the night. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say the OSIRIS granted it to you just to get your reaction right now.” The low gurgle of suppressed laughter continued along with Sullivan’s expression of disappointment. “Maybe our leader does have a sense of humor. We’ll see you tomorrow,” he added, watching Sullivan shuffle out through the security doors behind them.

  Bannerman scanned across the control center one more time. As the most senior member of the shift, he had seen most every variation of command pass through at least twice over his fifteen-year stint on the floor. The codes that scrolled across the screens might have been plaintext, for as well as he could read them. Sullivan would learn to appreciate their work, Bannerman assured himself. It would just take time to understand the magnitude of their decisions. Their outwardly mundane work was critical for every world in the Dominion. Each line on the monitors affected millions of lives across multiple systems, and it was by their expertise that the OSIRIS stayed in check. It was a righteous calling indeed.

  He smiled, pleased to see another dawn arrive with the galaxy at peace. “Half time!” he announced. “Pull and consolidate reports.”

  4

  The morning revealed itself as overcast, an endless expanse of steely gray clouds that perfectly reflected the monochromatic stone buildings which contained the
OSIRIS’s primary installation. Comprising the square footage of a small city, the entire base stood as a testament to the dreams and vision of a united, determined civilization.

  The complex rested on the border between Orellius, a sprawling civilian metropolis which controlled a vast swath of the system’s power and influence, and Heddings Field, an equally impressive spaceport that served as the command headquarters for all interstellar fleet operations. While to both the north and south few developments had taken root, the city and its companion together created an imposing skyline that welcomed home all those who would travel in over the barren lands or from the darkness above.

  Traversing the stone ramp to the front door of the MOC, Maddie Cooper quickened her steps to beat the incoming storm, pausing only to briefly admire the statue of Senator Leary positioned on a stone pillar in the courtyard. The static display was easy enough to pass by for most of the personnel who saw it daily, but Maddie found something both comforting and chilling in the expression carved into the elderly figure’s ever-watchful visage.

  Recreating his final address to the senate, he stood with steadfast determination, balanced between one raised fist and a tablet covered with notes. She hadn’t yet been allowed down to the OSIRIS’s floor, but according to local legend, the paper speech itself was stored in a secured archive, hidden away from the prying eyes of time. The bronze plaque at his feet included the final pronouncement of his fateful address.

  The Coming Cataclysm

  “Today I stand before you, as I did twenty-four years ago, and make the same request. Will you give up this chamber to the greater will of the Dominion, give up the power you have spent generations to amass, and forestall the next colossal blunder and save a quarter-billion lives? Our homes deserve nothing less than this, not only for their futures, but as penance for what we have allowed to transpire.”

  For what it was worth, the senator had been absolutely correct about his crusade. The petty arguments of the old world died off and had been swept away in pursuit of OSIRIS, as had the wars, conflicts, and animosity which had left an indelible stain on humanity’s shared past. She was thankful for the vision he had provided their ancestors and for giving them the opportunity to correct the wrongs.

  And for allowing her to play a part in its evolution.

  The wind grew cold and shrill, raking a light mist down the stone façade, and Maddie cinched the coat of her uniform tighter as she continued through the MOC’s glass doors and into the regal reception hall. Her footsteps echoed off the high stone and metallic ceilings as she crossed the tile floor, the same path trod by generations of the operators before her. Should OSIRIS will it so, they’d continue for centuries yet to come.

  A strange amalgamation of the modern and the neoclassical, heavy stonework was gracefully intermixed with metallic supports, as if an ancient cathedral had taken root inside of a Dominion skyscraper. In many ways, the metaphor was more accurate than it should have been.

  More images of Senator Leary decorated the walls, along with printed timelines of construction and historically significant artifacts from the entire process. Assembled together, the entire hall perfectly reflected both the modernity of the task along with the centuries of ceremonial service. More interestingly, it was widely rumored OSIRIS itself had taken a hand in the hall’s design and layout.

  Maddie continued to reflect on the magnitude of the effort as she rounded the first turn and made her way deeper into the complex. She didn’t even see the hand reach from the shadows, grab her shoulder, and pull her into the adjoining meeting room.

  She nearly screamed before identifying the offending personality as Telfer, one of the day shift MOC operators.

  “Jesus, Telfer, you scared the hell out of me!” she snapped before noticing his wide eyes and exhausted face, traced with deepening lines of stress.

  Telfer was shaking, a layer of sweat coating his brow. “What’s wrong?” Maddie asked, her tone quickly softening.

  “I… I think we’ve got a problem...” Telfer mumbled. “With OSIRIS.”

  “So?” Maddie pulled away, “that’s nothing new. Log it with your shift supervisor and get the technicians to investigate rolling in a patch.”

  Telfer shook his head, “No, no. It’s not that simple. Not this time. I already tried to staff it this afternoon through Overseer Griffin, but no one wants to hear what I’m talking about. I need you to bring it up to Bannerman tonight. Maybe he’ll listen,” he stammered, his voice steadily growing higher and faster.

  “What the hell are you talking about? You still haven’t told me what the problem is,” she replied and stepped closer as Telfer’s voice began to trail. Dropping her shoulders, she spoke slowly and methodically. “Calm down. What. Happened?”

  The engineer focused on his breathing, paused and looked Maddie in the eye. “An order came through this afternoon for Defense, straight to the First Fleet. End-to-end encryption was only partially successful and I captured a screenshot.” He stopped and fished a folded sheet of paper from his left pocket. “Read it.”

  Maddie accepted the page, unfolded it, and read through the lines of typewritten text.

  By Order of OSIRIS

  524.232.15.51.0034

  Directive for: First Fleet and subordinate Commands.

  Action: Deftly prepare for deployment upon receipt. Disembark at 524.232.21.00 for target specified below. Apply codes 152, 198, 210, and 256. Return to port upon completion.

  Maggie mumbled through the numerical coordinates of a point obviously located off in space before looking back up. “So? I’m seeing a fleet operation; OSIRIS moves them about all the time. It’s probably just collecting more information.”

  “What’s code one-fifty-two?” Telfer asked.

  Maddie thought for a moment, mentally scanning through the list of system commands she and the rest of the staff had committed to memory. “Planetary blockade,” she finally replied.

  “What’s one-ninety-eight?”

  The question was not unexpected, but for the life of her, Maddie could not remember. “It’s not a common one, I’ll grant you that. I give up,” she admitted, “enlighten me.”

  “One-ninety-eight is planetary bombardment,” Telfer said, his voice growing stronger. “Planetary bombardment. And two-ten is ground deployment to eliminate survivors.”

  Shaking her head, Maddie tried to interpre.t what she was hearing. “It wants us to take out a planet? That’s insane. What’s two-fifty-six?”

  “Yes, a bombardment and an invasion, and not just any planet. Two-fifty-six is a Defense-specific code that we don’t have access to.” Telfer pressed the sheet of paper into Maddie’s hands. “You look up the coordinates,” he said, nervously glancing about. “I need to get out of here before Griffin comes looking for me,” he added, and went for the door, pausing only to add over his shoulder, “You have to stop them.”

  5

  Telfer’s distress continued to rattle through Maddie’s mind as she continued down to the MOC floor but it quickly subsided as her immediate responsibilities took hold of her concentration. She badged in through the final security checkpoint, passed the cleaning station, and opened the inner seal to her second home.

  “Mad Dog, you’re early.”

  She heard a familiar voice call over from a facing workstation. Maddie looked up to see her fellow shift member and former academy classmate, John Shriver, come to his feet.

  “But not as early as me.”

  “You know I hate that name,” Maddie grumbled as she rolled her eyes, paying no further attention to her antagonist. Their group tended to be lively, but there was a thin line of what they were willing to tolerate. She shook her head while logging into her terminal and began the shift’s standard data migration procedures, thinking nothing more about the transpiration of events on the surface. Through rain and snow, they’d continue their duties.

  The night drifted into its third hour before Maddie’s mind finally caught up and began to drift to Telfe
r’s scrap of paper. She pulled it back out of her pocket, studied the order in detail and in silence once more, and typed the string of navigation points into the atlas. Churning through the numbers, the system considered the request before zooming deep into the map of the galaxy on her display.

  Their location was clearly marked, along with Old Earth, both of which were quickly whisked away as the map scanned away and farther down the Orion Arm, nearly to the Perseus Transit. It found its mark, a rocky planet well known among humanity’s lexicon.

  Target: New Loeria. Colonial world. Gravity: 0.94 percent Earth normal. Atmosphere: 75.1 percent terraformed. Population: one hundred and five million.

  Maddie froze, staring at the impossibly large number. It glowed back at her without flinching. There was no misreading the characters. Going between the screen and the paper, she pulled a query for the order. As expected, it returned with a blank screen, scrubbed and sealed away from any prying eyes.

  “John, we might have a problem,” she mumbled, half lost in thought.

  “Did you say something?” Shriver asked.

  “Yes.” Maddie spun around to face her classmate. “Did we have a launch of the First Fleet this afternoon?”

  “Of course. It was a couple hours ago.”

  “Get over here. You need to see this.”

  Shriver hopped up from his seat and dashed to her side, immediately glancing down Telfer’s order. “It’s… It’s really calling for a bombardment of New Loeria?”

  “That’s what I’m saying; if you’re the expert, you tell me.” Maddie’s attention turned from Shriver to the page and back to the screen, still displaying the database entry for the target. “Something must be wrong.”