by Alex Lamb
Jim looked up at him with puppy-dog eyes, begging Mark not to hate him. Mark tried to figure out what to say as he oscillated between anger and despair.
‘You don’t have to decide anything now,’ said Jim. ‘Just think about it, okay?’
Mark wanted to utter some witty comeback. Instead, he just glared out at the dying sky. In the quiet that followed, the room pinged them.
‘Incoming message, Alpha Zero priority,’ said the room’s hoarse, hissing voice. Its speakers were as sick as its walls. ‘Recipient-only content for Mark Ruiz. Immediate receipt required.’
‘Take the call,’ said Jim, sounding relieved by the excuse to leave. ‘You can’t say no to an Alpha Zero. Use my office.’ He briefly met Mark’s gaze. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and patted Mark timidly on the shoulder before letting himself out of the room.
A kind of hot, helpless fury boiled up inside Mark. There was only one person in his life who called him up using IPSO top-security overrides: Will Monet.
His mind jumbled over a dozen different cruel things he could say as he stormed into Jim’s tiny office and manually slammed the door behind him, scaring the room’s SAP into a string of bleating apologies. A badly balanced stack of crystal cores slid off the closest shelf and clattered onto the floor as the wall wobbled.
Mark reached mentally into the room’s controls and punched the privacy icon. Then he dropped out of his body and into his home node. He grabbed the link and dived up into the virtual meeting space that had been prepped for the call.
‘What?’ he demanded, before noticing that the person across the virtual table wasn’t Will after all. It was Nelson Aquino.
Nelson was seated in a velvet armchair in a well-appointed study somewhere – an orbital, probably, given the curving view of immaculate forest beyond the window. Dressed in a pinstripe Nehru suit and old-fashioned data shades, the look was classic Nelson: understated and under control. The expression on his regal, hawk-like face was grave.
‘Good morning, Mark,’ he said. ‘Did I call at a bad time?’
Mark folded his arms. He looked down at his virtual self to see that he was still wearing his crumpled FiveClan one-piece. It wasn’t a great look, but who cared? He wasn’t here to impress anyone.
‘Let me guess,’ he growled. ‘Message from Will fucking Monet.’
Nelson nodded. ‘Got it in one.’
Nelson had been popping up ever more frequently in Mark’s dealings with Will over the last few years. He’d been promoted to Will’s subcaptain – his closest aide and the man responsible for looking after the Ariel Two while Will was doing everything but flying. He was the kindly therapist type everyone was supposed to like. Mark disliked him anyway.
‘For a man I’m not supposed to know, he calls a lot. You know that? Does he want to try saying sorry again? Because quite frankly he can stick it.’
Mark had suffered badly the first time he became estranged from Will. For the first eight years of his life, Will had been closer than Mark’s parents, as only a teacher with an interface could be. Then, without warning, the classified roboteer programme Will had created for the Fleet was disbanded. For Mark and the other kids, Will practically disappeared. Mark and his family had been sent offworld with barely a word of explanation.
Years later, their relationship had changed again when Will became a secret mentor – a magnetic figure tantalisingly unavailable most of the time. For a while, Mark had felt that his interface was something special again rather than a burden. Then, after the tribunal and the unpleasant truths it revealed, Mark had given up trying with Will. The Fleet had made it clear they considered Mark’s mind their property, and him an embarrassment to boot.
Will’s excuse for trashing Mark’s life had always been the same: security. He’d done it all to keep Mark and the others safe, apparently. It was funny how those security problems appeared to make everyone suffer except Will.
‘This time it’s something rather more pertinent than an apology, I’m afraid,’ said Nelson. ‘We both thought it would be better if I spoke to you.’
‘So what are you now,’ said Mark, ‘his handler or his errand boy?’
Nelson ignored the jibe. ‘I see that you’re angry,’ he said. ‘Clearly the timing of this call is imperfect for you. Unfortunately, what I have to say will not wait.’ Nelson interlaced his long pianist’s fingers. ‘Four weeks ago, local-frame-time, two IPSO ships and a variety of Earther sect vessels were destroyed in what appeared to be an extraterrestrial conflict. We lack enough data to know whether non-humans were genuinely responsible, but in the unlikely case that they were, this is the single most important event since humanity encountered the Transcended. It might mean anything from interspecies war to outright annihilation for the human race.’
He said it all with a breezy coolness that suggested he wasn’t fussed either way.
Mark peered at him. ‘You’re shitting me.’
‘Sadly not. I have a memory file for you, if you’d like to see for yourself.’
Nelson waved a hand and an icon appeared in front of Mark, floating in the air. Mark snapped it up and swallowed it. Full situational awareness of the Tiwanaku Event blossomed in his mind. He blinked in awe, his anger dissolved.
‘Okay, heavy times,’ he said. ‘Why call me? I’m not Fleet any more, remember?’
‘Your status is actually listed as voluntary indefinite sabbatical. But in any case, your erstwhile guardian Will Monet is assembling the mission being sent to investigate. He has asked me to let you know that there is a position available to you as captain of the attached diplomatic vessel if you want it. A service to IPSO such as this would give Will ample political material to force the Admiralty Court to grant you sole ownership of your interface. It is, in short, a ticket to your independence. You would become the only non-Fleet-aligned Omega roboteer in human space, free to pick whatever job you choose, in whatever star system you like – presuming you could find a ship able to match your talents, of course. You wouldn’t have to interact with Will Monet ever again, if that’s what you desire.’
A part of Mark quivered at the promise that offer held. But he had too much emotional scar-tissue around failed Fleet promises to accept it at face value. He looked at Nelson askance.
‘So come back and do one last job, is that it?’
‘Will has asked me to point out that you and he would be on different ships throughout the mission,’ said Nelson. ‘Because this … alien event is most likely some kind of scam, once you arrive at Tiwanaku there will probably be little for you to do but look after your high-profile passengers. You would be at liberty to fly home while we resolved the situation militarily. Needless to say, if whoever is responsible tries to stop the diplomatic team from leaving, your specialist skills would prove extremely useful.’
Mark laughed. ‘So one minute I’m the Fleet’s dirty little secret and the next I’m playing cruise-captain to a bunch of celebrity stiffnecks? Doesn’t that strike you as ridiculous?’
For the first time, a glimmer of frustration showed through Nelson’s calm veneer.
‘Unsurprisingly, it’s not proving an easy sell with the senate, but that’s the only role available. Will has made it clear he wants to give you a full captaincy, and as the other two ships are military, they must be captained by currently active Fleet personnel.’
Mark realised Nelson was hating this. He guffawed and shook his head.
‘This is bullshit. It’s just another attempt to suck me back in, and even more cack-handed than the rest.’
‘Hard though it may be for you to imagine,’ said Nelson with a little acid in his tone, ‘Will has only ever wanted the best for you. He feels responsible for the trajectory of your life and career and is now burning significant political capital in an attempt to give you what you want. Namely, your freedom. Will has most definitely made mistakes, particularly regarding hi
s relationship with you, but can you not find some room in your heart to see what he’s trying to do here?’
Mark didn’t reply. He stared out at the sloping bank of pine trees beyond Nelson’s shoulder. It was ages since he’d been on an orbital. There were no forests left to visit on Earth. He’d spent the last year and a half telling himself he didn’t care, and that his cause made his presence on the Old World worth it. He’d insisted that doing his part for Earth was a far better thing than breezing about with a bunch of Colonials who didn’t understand their own heritage.
In truth, though, his options really had been heavily constrained by the Fleet’s claim on his interface. They were terrified of letting someone with his skills out of their grasp. But without it, he was nothing. Beyond roboteering, what did he have? Were they to take away the artificial section of his mind that had shaped him since birth, he knew he’d go crazy in under a week. He’d feel less confined if they snapped his spine.
The fact that the Fleet owned the circuitry in his skull had given his anger something to feed off for a long time. Normal roboteers couldn’t be bound by that kind of contract. It wasn’t legal. But Mark had never been normal. They’d tried to take his interface from him once already by claiming he was unfit for duty. Mark had to admit that Will had blocked that attempt, but nothing could stop the Fleet from trying again at any time.
Nelson tapped an impatient finger on the arm of his chair. ‘I knew it was a mistake to call,’ he said. ‘I anticipated your response, and frankly, I don’t blame you for it. The position would involve ingratiating yourself with a group of stiffnecks, as you put it, after all. As captain, you’d be the lowest-ranked person on the ship, barring your subcaptain, of course – little more than a pilot, really. Hardly the sort of position you’d relish. Still, it was my responsibility to let you know the offer had been made. I shall tell Will that you declined and no more will be said about the matter.’
‘I’ll take it,’ said Mark.
Nelson raised an eyebrow. ‘Pardon?’
‘I said I’ll take the job.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I said yes, I’ll take the fucking job.’
Nelson looked peeved. ‘Splendid,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘Will is sure to be pleased.’
‘No doubt,’ said Mark. ‘Are we done?’
Nelson nodded. ‘I will follow up with travel arrangements via a secure channel.’
‘Fine,’ said Mark, then dropped out of the meeting and back into the blotchy yellow cupboard that was Jim’s office.
Accepting this olive branch scared him. He knew full well that Will would use it to try to drag him back into the Fleet and his old life. The prospect of returning to that existence of tedious charter flights, combat drills and existential despair made him shiver. But pissing Nelson off helped Mark feel more comfortable with the deal. And there was a secondary bonus: he could tell Jim to stick his church meeting where the sun didn’t shine.
2.3: YUNUS
Yunus Chesterford reclined on the enormous gel-filled couch beside the other panellists and waited for the recording icon to appear in his contacts. Bradley Yao, the host of the interactive, lolled beside him in azure pantaloons and a bronze shirt open to the waist.
As the icon appeared, Bradley leaned in towards the closest camera-drone, his Angeleno-perfect features locked in a suave smile.
‘Hi. I’m Bradley Yao, and this is Greater Matters, the feed that brings you the deepest discussions on today’s thorniest topics.’
They sat together in an opulent passive-broadcast lounge near the top of Bandung Tower Five, complete with hookah, diamond jars of spiced tea and this year’s most fashionable type of intelligent rug. The windows commanded striking views over the ruins of the old city, where another supercyclone was approaching. That one lamentable feature of their setting, though, would of course be edited out of the final broadcast to give the impression that it had been shot somewhere fashionably offworld.
‘This show is the latest in our series on the role of alien influences in human development,’ Bradley told the drone. ‘And, as usual, once we’ve met our guests and got the ball rolling, everyone will be welcome to ping in and participate in the discussion. We have Avatoids by Physipresence waiting live for you here in the studio. With me today I have Yunus Chesterford, founder of the Chesterford Exocultural Initiative and author of Human Destiny: Our Role in the Universe.’
Yunus nodded towards the drone hovering closest.
‘For those of you who don’t already know,’ Bradley continued, ‘Professor Chesterford is the man who cracked the Fecund navigational code and single-handedly founded the field of Exocultural Studies. He’s a proud Reconsiderist and has accolades from Saleh, Baxter and Lowell Universities. Professor Chesterford, welcome.’
‘Hi, Bradley,’ said Yunus with a warm smile. ‘It’s great to be here.’
‘On his left is Venetia Sharp, one of humanity’s leading specialists on Fecund psychology and social behaviour. A native of Esalen Colony, she is senior exo-psych consultant to IPSO’s Exploratory Division. She also holds an endowed chair at Bryant University on New Panama.’
As usual, Venetia had come to the interview dressed in a T-shirt and slacks that looked about three days out of the printer. The bob of black hair that framed her face hung loose and uncovered. He could only imagine what Citra would say. Still, the editing SAP would be live-tweaking the image to give Venetia the modest skirts and head-sleeve their Earth audience preferred. Her sharp features were not unattractive, to Yunus’s mind. However, she had a kind of cynicism and intensity he found unbecoming in a middle-aged woman. That kind of fiery attitude was for little girls who hadn’t found husbands and settled down yet.
‘Venetia, thank you for coming,’ said Bradley.
Venetia nodded. ‘Hi.’
‘And beside her is Professor Harare Tam, a senior partner at the Vartian Institute, the most highly regarded exodefence think tank in human space.’
Yunus smiled to himself. The Vartian Institute was the only such think tank. Nobody else bothered. Tam looked as stuffy and professorial as ever in his purple Institute hoodie, which he always wore fully zipped. The patches on his sleeves were peeling. They always wheeled Tam out when they needed a good crackpot, and Tam never disappointed. His wild eyebrows alone were enough to boost the feed’s hit-rate.
‘Thank you very much for inviting me, Bradley,’ said Tam. ‘I am glad to be here. Really very grateful.’
Yunus thought of Tam rather fondly, ridiculous figure though he was. He and the other top names in social exoscience didn’t really get along that well, but they’d all known each other for years and developed an inevitable camaraderie. Often, he and his fellow pundits found themselves competing for the same patches of limelight and the same scant government grants. Except Tam, of course, whose insular organisation never appeared to want for cash.
Yunus knew that most outsiders regarded his field as something of a joke. The healthy doses of speculation required, along with the backing from politically biased sources, tended to make it look less than rigorous. He didn’t care. It had worked very nicely for him.
This show was a perfect example. Yunus’s allies in government arranged things like this to keep him in the public eye. It was high-class propaganda, really, but for the best possible reasons. Two pro-balance pundits with differing philosophies had been brought in to fight it out, leaving him to be the voice of moderation. The Colonials didn’t get a voice, let alone bigots like the FPP. Yunus knew he’d come off in a good light; the event had been set up that way.
‘Today’s topic,’ said Bradley, waving expansively, ‘is this: in our modern age, do we still believe in benign alien mentorship? Doctor Sharp, how about we start with you?’
‘Sure, Brad. First, I feel I should clarify that when we’re talking about alien mentors, I presume we mean the Transcended. As fa
r as I’m aware, humanity hasn’t encountered any other galaxy-dominating civilisations. So the question you’re asking really is: do we still trust them given that we haven’t heard anything from them since Monet’s first encounter?
‘The answer is yes, absolutely. And now more than ever. The reason is simply that, despite all the speculation to the contrary, nothing bad has happened to the human race since we started using the suntap technology the Transcended gave us. We’re still here running our own affairs. I’d say that leaves little room for paranoid speculation. On top of that, we have to add all the advances that access to Fecund space has given us – advances that would never have been possible without their intervention. There are the nestship technologies, all the new methods for building orbital habitats, and the unexpected bioscience benefits of having Fecund bacteria to play with, life-extension being the most obvious among them.
‘Then you have to factor in the suntap’s effect on energy prices. The ability to quantum-channel energy straight out of a star’s corona is an incredible boon for humanity. Everyone focuses on the threat of using suntaps to power weapons but that’s not their only application. Suntap power stations have made antimatter cheaper and more plentiful than at any other time in human history. If that’s not benign mentorship, I don’t know what is.’
By this time, Tam was practically vibrating in his chair.
‘Professor Tam,’ said Bradley. ‘It looks like you’ve got something to add. You disagree?’
Tam sat up straight and fiddled with the zipper on his hoodie. ‘Well, yes, with all greatest possible respect to Ms Sharp, she is wrong. I know that the line she’s taking has been the popular norm for some years now, but it remains a dangerous and reckless one.’
Bradley struck a thoughtful pose. ‘How do you square that, Professor? It’s hard to argue with the Transcended silence, or the benefits we’ve gained from the Far Frontier.’
‘Neither point is strictly relevant,’ said Tam. ‘For a society such as the Transcended, thirty years is the blink of an eye. In that time, we’ve done exactly what they wanted, which is spill out into a region of the galaxy over which we already know they exercise tight control. In the meantime, we’ve learned nothing about their intentions. They’re as opaque to us as they were when they first announced their presence via the lure star. The simple fact that they haven’t once told us how we’re supposed to improve as a species or “constructively self-edit”, as they so colourfully put it, should serve as a warning.’