Michella opened her mouth, but Lex and Jon quickly interjected with "Yes!"
"You will be released. Any legal ramifications of breaking the police cordon will be waived. You will pay for the damage done to your vehicle and to any public property. Any traffic fines or citations will be waved, but a probational lock will be placed on all piloting privileges within city limits for the next eighteen months. That means fully autonomous control of any vehicle of which you are even a passenger. You will share any additional information you have regarding the attack, and you will be sent on your way. Understood?"
"I speak for everyone when I say, that's more than fair," Lex said.
"You most certainly do not-" Michella began to object.
"More than fair," Lex repeated loudly.
"The Rackton Police department thanks you for your cooperation," the policeman said flatly, tapping out the door code.
Over the next few hours, the debriefing that Franco had attempted initially finally took place. Jon eagerly restated himself, Lex made what few additions he could, and then Michella had her turn. After a few spitefully silent minutes, her inner newscaster finally broke through, and she neatly summarized all of the relevant information to a level of detail most police officers would drool over. When she was through, they were led to the evidence locker to retrieve their personal effects. Jon was carefully checking over the camera, and Michella replacing the individually bagged contents of her purse, the carton marked Trevor Alexander was placed down on the counter and the overweight, agitated evidence officer who had never quite been able to grow the standard issue police officer mustache was reading through the list.
"... Seventy-three thousand credits in assorted gambling tokens. And finally this stupid slidepad. I swear to you, if this damn thing went off one more time, I was going to toss it in the incinerator."
"Well who was it?"
"Your mother, apparently. I'll tell you what, though. You've got to let me know who made your security suite. We couldn't crack that thing enough to even answer the calls."
"Thanks. It's a custom job," he said, pocketing the last of his items and snatching the slidepad. "Thanks for keeping such good care of it. So long."
Lex held the slidepad tightly in his hand and tried his best to walk away quickly without appearing to be in a hurry. Michella, who presumably had a good deal more practice at honing her poker face for situations like this, pulled it off much more convincingly. Jon didn't even try, practically sprinting out of the police station like the roof was about to collapse, then behaving as though he had simply been extremely eager about holding the door for the others.
"I'll get GolanaNews to foot the bill for the damage and fines. The ad revenue and distribution fees for our footage has already tripled that, and it hasn't even hit prime browsing time with most of the larger audiences," Michella said.
"It's been a while since I had someone willing to subsidize my misbehavior," Lex remarked, though the flatness of his tone suggested he had more pressing matters on his mind.
He and Michella approached the door, all the while becoming more acutely aware of a dense crowd that had formed outside. When they emerged onto the street, it was to a roar of approval, as though a rock band had just taken the stage. It is a peculiar thing about the human mind, but in times of great tragedy or disaster, the public has an almost pathological need to put a face of courage and heroism on the event. Sure, you'll hear stories about looting and robberies after an earthquake, but not before you've heard about the noble dog who led rescue workers to its trapped master, or about the group of boy scouts who managed to get a building evacuated before it collapsed. Rackton was a city that had never seen a war. It had never known hardship, or even poverty. The 150 people who lost their lives in orbit, and dozens more who emergency crews would not be able to save on the ground, represented the greatest disaster to strike the city since it was founded, but already it was agreed that that number would have more than doubled if the tanker's engine had been allowed to explode. If the explosion set off the terrorist weapons or frightened them into setting them off themselves, the death count would be in the millions. Lex, Michella, and Jon weren't just the ones who managed to get a news report out when no one else could, they were the silver-lining to a very dark cloud.
Lex carefully slipped the slidepad into a reasonably secure pocket and set about shaking hands and posing for pictures. Fate, with its infinite capacity for irony, had managed to restore his long lost fame at the precise moment that he most needed just a few minutes to himself.
"No, no, that's okay. … It... No I didn't have any special training, it was... That's a common engine problem," Lex tried to explain as a flood of questions flew his way. He turned aside to whisper in Michella's ear. "The crowds are a lot more inquisitive when there's a journalism convention in town."
"You think it's bad now, just wait until we get back to the Pavilion," she replied before turning back to the crowd. "All of the details are available on GolanaNet! Check back for exclusive interviews!"
"Then maybe we shouldn't head back there just yet."
Jon, as the only member of the group who had never been the target of such aggressive public interest before, was simultaneously the most lost and the most excited.
"That was me right next to him during the engine thing! … I don't know, I just did what he told me to do! It was an emergency! I didn't think, I just acted!" He proclaimed, wide and enthusiastic eyes turning to his friends, "Is this normal? Does this happen every time you do something like that? Because if it is, I'm starting to understand why you do it!"
"It gets old fast, Jon," Michella said.
"Maybe, but it isn't old yet! That's Jon, J-O-N, Nichols, from Golana! Comment on my profile!" he cried out as Lex tried desperately to hail a cab.
It took more than ten minutes, but finally an auto-cab managed to edge its way through the crowd. The trio piled in and shut the doors. Since personally driving your car for any measurable distance was strictly prohibited, public transportation in Rackton had been designed without a driver in mind. Thus, rather than the typical "all seats facing front" design that had been the norm since the invention of the automobile, the auto-cabs had two sets of wide, luxurious seats facing each other. Lex hated to admit it, but it was a much more pleasant ride, allowing conversation between all occupants without the person riding shotgun getting a crick in his neck. The reason he hated to admit it, though, was because his bread and butter was piloting vehicles, and if word got out that automated cabs were vastly superior, no doubt his limo service wouldn't be far behind.
"Please state destination," stated the cab's system, in a voice near enough to one of Ma's borrowed voices to make Lex do a double take.
"Where are we going?" Jon said.
"Uh... Let's just do a scenic tour for now," Lex said.
"Please select one of the preset tours from the display to your right."
He tapped the first on the list, something labeled, "Historical Rackton."
"I'm sorry, due to police activity, some points of interest will not be accessible."
"That's fine."
"Revising travel itinerary. Transit time is approximately. Twenty-four minutes. Would you like audio commentary for points of interest?"
"No."
"Enjoy your ride."
The auto-cab lifted up and into a narrow skyway, no doubt set aside specifically for leisurely sightseers, and went on its way. Lex pulled out his slidepad.
"Seventy-six missed messages," Lex said, "Text only. All from Ma. The first one says, 'Lex. We have received your message. We wish to question you on certain important matters. I will attempt to contact you at thirty second intervals whenever I am within range of a communication pylon. This is attempt 1.' It looks like all of the rest say the same thing, but with a different number."
"Well call back. We need to compare notes," Michella said.
"Hang on a minute. Before I try getting in contact with her, I want to make sure we
know what we are doing," Lex said.
"I vote we don't contact the computer lady," Jon said, raising his hand. The brief intermission in his terror had ended once they were separated from his adoring public. "I mean it. I'm already in this deeper than I want to be. Those people killed a whole heck of a lot of people today, and not a single one of the people they killed had actually done anything to them. We got them on camera! For all we know, they are going to be coming after us! I don't want to make it look like I was collaborating against them."
"They are terrorists, Jon. They want to be on camera. If they'd spotted us, they probably would have given us a speech about the evils of technological stagnation, like in that old recording you showed me," Michella said. "If you're worried about safety, you'd be better off hoping that the military or the AI actually manages to stop them before this Karter character gives them something really dangerous."
"Something really dangerous? What exactly was it that they detonated in the sky? Something harmless?"
"Compared to some of the stuff I've seen him do? Yeah, that was fairly tame," Lex explained.
"Tell that to the people in that facility they hit," Jon replied. "Tell me again how this computer lady is going to help find him, anyway."
"She's assembled a group of operatives. One at least. By now, probably two. Once they know where he is, they'll probably mount a rescue."
"... How does a computer assemble a group of operatives?"
"With my help, apparently."
"But there are people out there who would just put their lives on the line because some computer lady told them to?"
"Well, they used to work with Karter, and besides, they owe her for busting them out of prison."
"... They're criminals?"
"War criminals, actually. But the one I met seems like an okay guy, more or less."
Jon turned to Michella. "And you knew about this?"
"He told me right before the attack," she said.
"Well wouldn't we just be helping one group of dangerous people steal a very dangerous person away from another group of dangerous people?"
Michella considered his words. "Jon has a point, Trev."
"Of course I have point! Apparently I'm the only completely sane person in this car!" Jon raved. "And considering I'm screaming like a lunatic, what does that say about you two!?"
"Look, I'll admit it is kind of a moral gray zone," he replied.
"I'd say it is a pretty blatant moral black zone," Jon countered.
"I... Well... Well maybe, but what's done is done. She clearly already got the transmission from the pad. She probably already traced it. If we get her as much info as possible, she'll have a better chance at getting him away from the Luddites. Even if the criminals who end up with him have evil plans for him, Ma trusts them enough to get them involved in this mission. That makes them easily the lesser of two evils."
"But why are we even going to choose an evil?! There is the army and the marines! We could get the trace from her and give it to the good guys!"
"No, we can't. They've got people in the military. If we give them any information, we have no way of knowing that it won't find its way to one of their moles, and then we would be back where we started."
"Okay... Okay so I'm back to my first vote. Don't tell computer lady anything."
"Jon, listen. You need to look at the big picture," Michella said. "If we contact the AI, she can give us information, and we can give her information. The more information we have, the better story we can write. We can dig deeper, expose more, and do it faster. We can drag these terrorists completely out into the light, reveal their moles. We can end the Neo-Luddites, and we can secure ourselves a position as journalistic legends at the same time. And if these criminals working with the AI do have dark intentions, Trevor knows things about them, too. We can expose them, too. My God, Jon, escaped war criminals, a rogue mad scientist, terrorists, advanced artificial intelligences? We aren't just sitting on the story of the century, we're sitting on five of them!"
"Mitch, if we're going to do this, you can't expose Karter and Ma and G... and their allies," Lex said, quietly reminding himself not to refer to people of interest by name while Michella is around. "You've got to trust me when I say that Ma's crew has got the best chance of pulling this off, and it needs to get pulled off."
"You don't need to tell me to be discrete, Trev," she snapped. "Today's story is the Neo-Luddites. I can do what I need to do without revealing anything that is dangerous for your friends. You of all people should know that I take the safety and anonymity of my sources very seriously."
Lex and Michella turned to Jon. He looked back and forth between them.
"Well what are you looking at me for? If this is a democratic process, I've been outvoted," he said in exasperation. "This is why democracy doesn't work. The crazy people always outnumber the sane people."
"Okay, so I'm contacting her, then," Lex said.
"Right," Michella said tensely, leaning forward to glance at the screen. Even Jon scooted up in his seat to peer at the slidepad.
Lex swallowed, licked his lips, and carefully stated, "Open Com Ma."
The screen scrolled various indicators of maximum encryption, multi-path routing, and a handful of other terms Lex didn't understand, all while the words Recording For Transmission and Establishing Secure Connection pulsed slowly. Finally, a recording was triggered, read aloud in the synthetic voice Ma had been forced to adopt since the electrical mishap.
"I am sorry. Due to current circumstances, it has been deemed unwise to accept incoming connections at this time. When I am able to do so safely and effectively, I will contact you. Thank you."
Jon looked up. "Well that was anti-climactic."
"Let's hurry up and get back to the Pavilion. As long as I've got some time to prepare, I'd like to do this right. Hopefully we can get through to our rooms and get some privacy before she contacts us."
"Yeah, sounds good. I should have figured we wouldn't get through. If she was available, we'd have been getting calls every thirty seconds. They are probably in the middle of something extremely important," Lex said.
#
"There, see? Adorable!" Silo said, holding Ma up to the mirror on the far side of the sanitation booth in the Armistice.
After becoming bored waiting for Garotte to return, Ma had suggested that Silo prepare a burrito for her. As she did so, she decided to dig through the odd assortment of other goods that Ma had requested that Lex buy. When she had found the blue bandanas, she instantly decided that Ma's black and white form could benefit from some color. Thus, one of the bandanas was tied into a fluffy bow around her neck. Ma studied her reflection critically, then glanced at Silo in the mirror, unimpressed.
"Well, maybe blue isn't your color," Silo said with a shrug, putting Ma down. "But just wait until you see what Uncle Garotte is bringing for you."
Ma made her way to the slidepad and tapped out a message. "You requested that Garotte secure an item or items on my behalf?"
"Sure. That inventory had a few things I thought would look cute on you."
"That is very kind. I appreciate the gesture."
"No problem, sweetheart," Silo said, picking up the self-warmed burrito and tearing it open. "Are you sure this is what you eat?"
"Yes."
"Won't it give you, you know..." Silo began, lowering her voice to a whisper. "... Gas?"
Ma, apparently anticipating this line of questioning, selected a lengthy reply. "The process used to generate the genetic makeup of the funk resulted in a slightly nonstandard biochemistry. One notable quirk is the presence of an anti-oligosaccharide enzyme, allowing the complete and proper digestion of legumes. We have found that so long as it is coupled with a suitable grain, as a source of Methionine, a diet composed chiefly of legumes and fortified with selected vitamins is sufficient to maintain optimal health levels."
"Mmmhmm," she said, tearing off a piece of the burrito, feeding it to Ma, and giving very l
ittle indication that she'd even heard her speak. "All I know is that whenever Brewski got a hold of anything with beans in it, no one wanted to be near him for days."
"Most digestive processes are ill suited to properly process-"
"Of course, Brewski wasn't nearly as cute as you."
"- the complex sugars contained within-"
"Koosh on the other hand. She could have given you a run for your money."
"-most legumes. I apologize, but due to-"
"She used to do tricks."
"-the nature of my current means of communication, I am unable to-"
"Of course. She'd do anything you wanted her to if it meant she'd be getting a treat. Usually bacon."
"-interrupt a statement once it has started."
Ma hesitated for a moment, accepting her meal piece by piece and waiting to see if Silo was through with her interruptions. When the flow of words didn't continue, she tapped a message she had prepared earlier that now seemed particularly relevant.
"It is a point of continuing confusion to me that observers routinely mistake the funk for, and compare it to, domesticated canines. It was an intended effect of selecting this form factor, but the consistency with which it is mistaken for canine, even after close examination, defies expectation. Though the physiology shares certain clear similarities, there are multiple very notable and distinctive features that are clearly and obviously vulpine or musteline."
"Say again?"
Ma swiped out a shorter sentence.
"Why do people think I am a dog instead of a fox or skunk?"
"Well, I guess if it walks like a dog, and barks like a dog, and it is wandering around at the end of a leash, you just sort of fill in the blanks, you know? I mean, what's more likely, fancy breed of dog, or weird science experiment?"
"That appears to be a valid assessment. Thank you for your insight."
A tone sounded from the ship's control panel.
"Ooh! Garotte is back!" Silo said, clapping hands in excitement.
She tapped the door control, revealing her associate. He was weighed down with a shopping spree's worth of packages, and had a vicious scowl on his face.
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