The Disk Mirror Solution (Galaxia Mortem Book 1)

by Danielle Ste. Just

  Honor. Once each year, she’d watched Twomanrie disappear on the night of the culling, only to return in the morning flushed and smelling of excitement. Would Twomanrie have been there when Sikayla was culled? Whatever that meant? Some horrible death, that was for certain. Had Twomanrie been the one to torture Sikayla to death with an agony stick?

  Sikayla. The only other person on Variegor besides Twomanrie who had ever shown Armintor any affection. After the alphas stole Sikayla, Twomanrie had replaced her with remote benevolence.

  Anger surged in Armintor’s breast. At that moment, she would have traded this new life opening up before her for one more moment with Sikayla. One last touch from her true friend. She leaned forward. “If it’s so honorable, then why did you get angry with Yarr for suggesting I be culled?”

  Twomanrie lifted one eyebrow, leaned back in studied disdain. “Because as soon as an Alpha chooses a Beta, that Beta is off-limits to any other Alpha. That custom is sacrosanct. And no matter how much I respect the culling, Alphas have always prided individual freedom above even the collective good of the Alphas.” She looked away, narrowed her eyes. “Yarr has no right to anything I’ve laid claim to.”

  Laid claim to. Twomanrie really saw her as a piece of property. Yet that very ownership had saved her life. She could feel the anger in her own expression, so she tucked her chin as she asked her next question. “Why are there Alphas and Betas? Why do I have to be a Beta? Why does anyone?”

  Twomanrie set her fork beside her plate. “Armintor. You’ve been out in the world. It’s chaos. People doing whatever comes into their head. Do you even know what the driving principle of Variegor is?”

  Armintor shook her head.

  “It’s this: everyone must be given the chance to live their most fully actualized life.” Twomanrie sighed and tapped one index finger against the table. “The one thing that ties humanity together is chaos. We take chaos out of the equation. Anyone without sufficient drive and intelligence is sorted into the Beta class. As Alphas, it’s our job to not only give you enough structure to live productive lives, but also to model exemplary behavior. It’s an enormous responsibility.”

  Armintor knew anger suffused her face, but she still dared to glance up. Twomanrie had resumed eating, seemingly unmoved. She twisted her fingers together in her lap. Her stomach roiled. She couldn’t eat. Why would an owned person eat?

  After a week’s travel, they landed at the Las Vega spaceport on Vega-2. Twomanrie led them outside, across two walkways, and straight into a busy restaurant. “This is one of my favorite places to eat in the universe.” She led Armintor to an empty table crammed into a corner. “Sit here and hold the table. I’ll order our food.”

  While Twomanrie disappeared into the scrum at the counter, Armintor looked around. The restaurant was filled with humans of infinite variation. She’d never been on any planet besides Terry’s New Earth and Variegor, but of course she’d heard of Vega-2. Everyone had. The enormous planet was a hub of space travel, and a vacation and shopping mecca. And it also had more kilometers of coastline than any other known habitable planet.

  Armintor’s gaze was caught by the young woman at the table to her right, who had a series of dark plazstik panels covering her skull. A short tube rose out of each panel. Tufts of hair sprouted up between the panels, dyed bright pink.

  The woman saw her staring and smiled. “It’s a Virtuo. I just got it last year.”

  Armintor felt herself blushing.

  “It’s okay. Everyone stares at my hook pack.” The woman touched one of the panels. “These are direct lines into my frontal, parietal and temporal lobes and my prefrontal cortex.” The woman clenched her right hand into a fist. “I also have an eyehook and a prosthetic hand. But I didn’t get the routed voicebox. My medium is visual rather than audial.”

  Armintor felt her jaw drop. After a moment, she asked, “What does it do? The Virtuo?”

  The woman’s flesh eye was a beautiful brown. Her hook eye was a flat black panel. “You mean, what does it allow me to do, right? I’m an artist. The Virtuo lets me download my artwork in hypereality straight into the Underworld for monetization and consumption.”

  Armintor felt gauche, bumpkiny. “I… I’ve never heard of a Virtuo.”

  “Why not? It’s at least three years old. I got mine a year ago, as soon as I turned eighteen.”

  A twang of envy twisted Armintor’s stomach. This woman was only two years older than she was right now. This confident, hooked woman with an apparently lucrative career. “I’ve never been to the Underworld.” As soon as Armintor spoke, she cringed at her own admission.

  The woman gaped. “Never? Why not?”

  “Just, well, I haven’t got a cranial implant. I’m going to get one soon, though.”

  The woman smiled. “It’s never too late.”

  At that, Armintor’s heart blossomed. It wasn’t too late. She could do something important with her life, like this woman had. All she needed was a cranial implant.

  At that moment Twomanrie appeared with a handful of colorful thumbnail-sized squares. She scattered them over the table. “Take one,” she said.

  Armintor tentatively picked one up. It was yellow, and slick. “Do I just eat it?”

  Both Twomanrie and the young artist burst into laughter.

  “No, child.” Twomanrie picked up a blue square. Scraping her fingernail over the edge, she teased out a blue fiber and handed it to Armintor. “Pull on this.”

  Armintor took the fiber between her fingernail and thumbnail and tentatively pulled. The square almost exploded out of her hand, expanding into a giant oblong sandwich at least a third of a meter long. Armintor bobbled the sandwich, barely keeping hold of it. Tomato and onion slices plopped all over the table.

  “How…” she asked.

  The two women looked at each other and laughed again. “She hasn’t traveled much, has she?” the artist asked.

  Twomanrie shook her head as she teased a fiber from another blue square.

  A surge of intense anger cramped Armintor’s belly. Twomanrie was laughing at her because she hadn’t known what the squares were. But it was Alphas like her that prevented Armintor and the other Betas from ever leaving the planet or using tek. How could Twomanrie be so blind to the inequity she herself perpetuated?

  Yet the sandwich smelled so herbaceous and spicy. It was impossible to resist. She took one bite, then another. It was the most delicious meal she’d eaten in years.

  Twomanrie leaned close. “It’s delectable, isn’t it.” She said it as a statement, not a question. Always so full of conviction. Suddenly the bread seemed to swell up in Armintor’s mouth and become inedible. She turned away so Twomanrie wouldn’t see.

  Armintor watched through the window of a hook booth as a woman of about fifty received a storage upgrade on her cranial embed. Just a brief decontamination fog, then the mecha-doctor’s appendages whirred, cutting into the woman’s skull faster than human eyesight could process. All the while, the woman sat slouched in the patient’s chair, seeming utterly unconcerned. Things were much more hitek than in the relatively lotek hook clinic back on Terry’s New Earth. No wash three times with antiseptic soap and shampoo, no scrubbing of fingernails, no sterile gown.

  Four short years ago, she’d desired a cranial embed more than anything else. How naïve her younger self had been to think having one would solve all her problems.

  And she remembered her dad’s words: Someday, perhaps soon, perhaps later, something will happen in your life that will put this in perspective. Then you’ll know that this was just a temporary thing.

  She’d have been dead if she’d gotten a cranial hook that day four years ago. But in the ensuing years, life had passed her by. Though she was almost an adult, she was still almost as helpless as a child.

  Variegor had stolen her childhood. But she couldn’t let it steal her future. She could still do something with her life. She could become an Underworld artist, or maybe even something more hit
ek. All she needed was an implant.

  Twomanrie came up beside her at that moment. Armintor clutched her sleeve. “Can I get a cranial implant?”

  Twomanrie jerked her arm free. “Of course not. You are still of Variegor. And you are perfectly capable of surviving in this world without artificial help.”

  But Armintor knew she needed a cranial hook. Twomanrie was so intelligent that she could function—even thrive—without one. “I’m not smart enough.”

  Twomanrie gripped her shoulders, hard. Her fingers felt as rigid as plazstik. “You are intelligent, Armintor. You’re a kind, good, intelligent, thoughtful person. Don’t ever think you’re not good enough.” She walked on, past three dingy men begging for cred transfers. “How can these people stand living in such conditions?”

  One of the men stepped in front of Armintor and held out his thumb. Her heart squeezed with an odd mixture of pity and fellow-feeling. “I don’t have any credits. I’m sorry.”

  “Piss-warm liar,” he snarled and turned away.

  Armintor bowed her head and hurried to catch up to Twomanrie. She understood the man’s disdain. She had clean clothes—real clothes, not a Beta coverall—and she looked well-fed. Anyone looking like she did should have credits. But in reality she had nothing other than her thumbnail implant inserted at birth, an interrupted education, and no meaningful work experience.

  The crushing weight of servitude slammed back down on Armintor’s shoulders. The servitude she’d fooled herself into thinking she’d escaped. Even though they’d left Variegor behind, she was just as dependent on Twomanrie as ever.

  And if Twomanrie ever deserted her, she’d be out begging for credits herself.

  Chapter 16

  Undefined Ocean, Underworld

  Date: 2422

  Redcholate appeared in an ocean. Underwater. As a dolphin. She tried to scream, and bubbles flew out of her snout.

  In point of fact, her OS said, dolphins do not generally breathe through their mouths. Therefore, bubbles coming out of your mouth is inappropriate.

  I’m a dolphin! she screamed.

  Yes.

  I don’t want to be a dolphin!

  I cannot help you. You are mainlining Tanto’s connection. You will share his experience the entire time you are under.

  Their conversation was over in millis, which was good, because a very angry dolphin had rounded on her and snout-butted her right in the eyecube.

  The proper name for a dolphin’s snout is rostrum.

  Not now! she shouted as the dolphin slammed into her left side.

  “T-tanto,” she tried to say through her dolphin snout… rostrum… but it came out sounding like trnt.

  He must have understood her, because he paused. “Who are you?”

  His rostrum seemed to change shape as he talked. So maybe she could do it too. She inspected the licks constituting her rostrum, rewrote a few to closer resemble her avatar mouth, and tried again.

  “Tanto.” There. That was better. “It’s Redcholate.”

  The dolphin—Tanto—backed away with one slick flick of his tail.

  That is a fluke.

  A fluke? Why?

  That part of a dolphin’s anatomy is called a fluke.

  I don’t need any more intel on dolphins right now.

  “Red?” Tanto swam closer, touched her rostrum briefly with his. “It really is you. What are you doing here? How’d you find… wait. You didn’t.” His voice was full of reproach.

  She winced, wondering how that expression looked on her dolphin face. “I’m sorry, Tanto. I mainlined you. I couldn’t find another way. Something’s morted my socket. And Sylvey’s been mummified. And I’ve got some sort of stupo magical power that makes me yack my lumen every five millis.”

  “Sylvey’s mummified?”

  So Redcholate told him all about her past week and a half. The only thing she left out was that the object of the intel search was the Butcher’s identity, and that, of course, Tanto already knew.

  Tanto listened to it all, slightly waving his tail—fluke—and by all evidence cogiking deeply. “You’re in over your head, Red.”

  Redcholate tried to nod, but it didn’t work with her dolphin physique. “And the Forger’s been pinging me every five millis, but I can’t visit him because my jack is morted.”

  He studied her with his round dolphin eyecube. “Well, I’m not going to take you to him. I want no part of this. You should never’ve taken this job.”

  “I know.” Redcholate winced at her own stuponess. Her magical power wouldn’t like that she’d said she shouldn’t’ve taken the job. She waited for her stomach to twist and her braincase to feel as if it were going to split open, but nothing happened. “Wait, I don’t think my magical power works in the Underworld.”

  Tanto gave a dolphin-sigh. “I don’t have time for this.” He turned and started swimming.

  A dolphin’s head is called a melon, said her OS in a quiet voice.

  That’s… that’s daebak! So my melon doesn’t hurt right now. She laughed, bubbles floating upward. She followed them up with her gaze. Above, the ocean surface glinted. She admired it for a milli, then followed Tanto. It took work to figure out how to swim as a dolphin, and by the time she modified her fluke and other parts back there, whatever they were called—

  Peduncle.

  Peduncle? It’s like dolphin body-part names were made for me.

  By this time she’d caught up with Tanto. “Wait,” she said. “Can’t you send me another forger’s bifile? Then I’ll unjack and you can continue whatever you’re doing.”

  He sighed a dolphiny sigh. “You never mainlined before, did you, Red?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you can’t unjack until I do. And I ain’t gonna. You know how hard I worked to get all the way here?”

  She looked around. “Where are we?”

  Tanto sighed, glanced at her. She wondered if he knew that his cranium was currently known as a melon. “Well, I suppose since you’re here.”

  She tried to narrow her eyecubes, but again, it didn’t work well with dolphin body parts. What are dolphin eyecubes called?

  Eyes.

  She snorted. Unfun. “What do you mean by that?” she asked Tanto. “‘Because I’m here’?”

  They swam through a school of bright purple fish about the size and shape of chostim mugs. The fish swam with side-to-side rocking motions of their bodies, propelled by dinky little side fins. They parted like she and Tanto were in a giant bubble. Each fish had a cute little underbite.

  Instead of answering her question, Tanto said, “Did you ever wonder how forgers become forgers?”

  Redcholate shook her head, which again, didn’t work. No, she tried to shake her melon.

  “A forger becomes a forger when she or he infiltrates another forger’s intel,” said Tanto. “Or in your case, my tie-in jack. How’d you get inside my apartment?”

  Below, the ocean floor began to rise from the murky depths. Though still too far down to see much detail, she saw some wavey things growing out of the floor. Like sea spaghetti.

  She tried unsuccessfully to shrug her shoulders. Dolphins didn’t really have shoulders. “Just an infiltration prog I wrote a long time ago.”

  “It’s a slick lick. It infiltrated my custom defenses. You, Redcholate, are now my apprentice.”

  “Daebak,” she breathed. “So you’ll help me, right? We should go right now and get the intel on the—” she barely stopped herself in time. She couldn’t use the Butcher’s name in the Underworld. “You know, Watson’s intel.”

  “No, you can help me.” He swam forward, fast.

  She struggled to catch up. “What’re we doing?”

  “Do you notice anything about this water, Red?”

  “It’s, ah… no.”

  “Look at it. Don’t use an inspection prog. Use your noggin.”

  “My melon. A dolphin’s braincase is called a melon.”

  “Be serious, Red. We don’t ha
ve time for jokes.”

  She sighed, sending up a few bubbles, and studied the water as they swam. It looked like water. But it had strange currents, now that she noticed. She turned back. The mug-esque fish had lumbered around and were following them, but they were hampered by a strong current, flowing opposite to the rest of the current. Redcholate wiggled all her dolphin items to turn around again. The current seemed to be following her and Tanto. No, enclosing her and Tanto.

  “We’re in a pipz!” she said. A personal protection zone. A forger’s mark.

  Tanto nodded. He seemed to know how to do that, dolphin style. “But a pipz is monkey-play to a forger. This is serious.”

  Redcholate looked around the ocean. “Where are we?”

  “The data protection barrier for Traveler Planetary Financials.”

  Her mouth popped open. Two bubbles lazily escaped her mouth and drifted upward. She was codfishing… as a dolphin.

  “Businesses like Traveler Planetary Financials,” said Tanto, “have to be in the Underworld just like anyone else. They can’t just be off by themselves, or no one could do business with them.”

  “I know.”

  “So they create these elaborate defenses around their data.”

  Redcholate rolled her eyecubes. “I know.”

  “Haven’t you ever wondered how forgers get the deep-level intel?”

  “Of course. I just thought they, you know… used infiltration progs.”

  Tanto shook his dolphin melon. “Not with high-level data, and not on multi-planetary operations like Traveler Planetary Financials. That means we, forgers, using our own avatars, have to penetrate their defenses.”

  Redcholate’s mouth popped open again.

  In a slick move, Tanto spun around, flicked her mouth shut with his fluke, and then raced ahead. “Keep up, Red.”

  “But… but… Traveler Planetary,” she shouted after him. “They’re going to scour us so hard our past’ll disappear.”