Kantovan Vault (The Spiral Wars Book 3)

by Shepherd,Joel

  She smiled faintly. “As thanks for not getting my marines killed.”

  “And there it is,” Erik sighed, with humour.

  “Erik, just leave Aristan to me. I know him better now. Better than you, anyhow. We’ll talk about it later… just, for now, don’t push him, or you could make Lisbeth’s chances worse.”

  “Fine,” said Erik, knowing better than to argue with this particular brick wall. “Shouldn’t you be in bed? You look like hell.”

  “Don’t bore me,” said Trace, heading back into the room. Having done what she’d just done to retrieve these things, she wasn’t going to miss the unveiling for anything, and Erik knew how she felt.

  A marine met her at the door with a sandwich and a bottle of something that Erik knew would be fruit juice, and Trace found a support to lean against that was far enough out of the way that she could violate the ‘no eating in the Engineering Bay’ rule with a marine’s nonchalance of other people’s rules. God forbid she ever caught a spacer eating in one of the marines’ no eating zones, Erik thought, watching at her side as the techs completed their analysis of the two containers’ locks.

  After ten minutes, Kaspowitz came in as well, and gave his old buddy Trace a one-armed hug as she ate. “How’d I do?” Trace asked him around a mouthful.

  “Acceptable,” said Kaspowitz.

  “I’m relieved you think so.”

  “You stink though.”

  “This is true.”

  Kaspowitz looked over her head at Erik. “Our froggie friends want to know when they’ll be getting their prize.”

  “Tell them as soon as we figure out which is which. In fact, could you do me a favour and get a photograph of both cylinders? The techs say they’re identical, so there’s no harm in showing them. Then send it to the tavalai, it might keep them cool to know we do actually have something, and we’re not just stalling.”

  Kaspowitz moved to do that, as Rooke coordinated some incoming analysis of the cylinders’ locks from Styx that was so complicated it had techs desperately constructing a new VR matrix just to visualise it.

  “It’s a molecular lock,” Rooke took time out from otherwise unintelligible conversations to explain to Erik. “The key pattern is arranged on the molecular level and randomised to some ridiculous point… first we have to find the matching key, then if we’re out by an atom or more, it’ll all rearrange and be permanently sealed for about a year.”

  “Can’t you just cut it?” Erik asked.

  “It’s synthetic diamond filament,” Rooke explained. “It’s got this nasty habit of… refracting lasers in all directions, you gotta cut in a sealed containment facility or you’ll take out half the room with your own laser. Plus it’ll destroy the contents. Same with a sawblade, it tends to fragment, it’s designed to be, like, really unsafe.”

  “Get Styx to fix it,” Trace suggested, having abandoned pride to sit on a crate someone had brought her.

  “Um, yeah,” Rooke said sheepishly. “That’s kind of the plan.”

  “This analysis is complicated,” said Styx, audible only on coms. “In simple words, the molecular layout of the required key is randomised to a degree that makes its contributing factors difficult to observe. I will require an inventory of analysis tools in Engineering in order to eliminate variables and ensure a correct conclusion. The price of incorrect analysis is too great to risk in this instance.”

  “I agree,” said Erik. “Lieutenant Rooke, follow Styx’s guidance on this matter. We’ll take as much time as required. But Styx, be aware that State Department may be coming after us, and this faction of tavalai Fleet is operating without direct authority from its own High Command. We do not have indefinite time to spare.”

  “I appreciate the situation, Captain,” said Styx. “I will devote my maximum attention to this puzzle.”

  Erik had no doubt that she would. He leaned to Trace’s ear. “Go to bed,” he murmured, not wanting to make that an order out loud before the crew. Trace nodded blankly, stuffed her sandwich wrapper into a pocket in lieu of a recycling chute, and departed. Predictably, she was heading not toward her quarters, but to Medbay, no doubt to check on Corporal Rael and Private Ito, and probably Hiro too.

  Erik caught Kaspowitz looking at him. Kaspowitz rolled his eyes. And looked at Aristan, who was now sliding past the activity toward them. The parren arrived before Erik and Kaspowitz at the same time as two marines, whom Erik hadn’t even noticed. The marines had sidearms, evidently tasked by Trace to get between Erik and Aristan in any proximity. Given what Trace had just told him, Erik wondered if they were entirely for his protection, or for the parren’s.

  The parren stopped at a judicious distance, of a similar height to Erik, but much slimmer. And faster, Erik had no doubt. “That is her, is it not?” the com-piece in Erik’s ear translated his alien speech. Aristan’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm beneath the brim of his cap. “The voice on communications. That is the queen.”

  Erik considered him, coldly. Aristan wasn’t supposed to have learned this information, but events had made it unavoidable. Perhaps this was the primary reason why Aristan had tasked himself to the mission. Perhaps he’d feared that a lower functionary could have learned such a secret, only to be disposed of by Phoenix when his usefulness was concluded, leaving Aristan with no one to report to him. It seemed the kind of thing the parren would do, were the situations reversed. Again Erik thought of Lisbeth, with fear. “Yes,” he admitted. “That was her.”

  “Then she is nearby. I wish to see her.”

  “She is busy,” said Erik. “She knows that you are aboard, and she knows who you are. When she is ready, she will summon you.”

  Aristan stared for a moment, as eagerness battled caution. Then he gave a faint bow, perhaps mockingly, and left.

  “Gives me the creeps,” said Kaspowitz. “Well played, though.” The two marines also departed, following Aristan without a glance at Erik.

  “I figure he’s got no problem defying me,” said Erik. “But he sure as hell won’t defy her.”

  “Nor should he,” said Kaspowitz. “Given she’s actually in charge around here.” Erik gave him a dry look. “Just like I warned, as I recall.”

  “You didn’t warn of that at all,” Erik retorted. “You warned she’d kill us all at the first opportunity.”

  “Yes, well.” Kaspowitz shrugged. “The day is young.”

  Trace entered Engineering Bay 17C. A Spacer was working on some of the fabricators, checking displays and making small adjustments to numbers. It seemed to Trace slightly offensive that Phoenix crew were continuing to work on such things when other personnel had been off-ship and fighting for their lives… but of course, Phoenix had a large enough crew to do multiple things at once, and those who had not been directly involved in recent adventures still kept themselves busy with the usual schedule.

  The Spacer turned and saw her. “Oh, hi Major.” A little awestruck, in the way of a young woman who rarely ventured into marine territory. “I’m just making some adjustments to the synthesis process… can I help you with anything?” Because this was spacer territory, and any incoming marine would surely need assistance. Usually, she’d have been right.

  “No thank you, Spacer Tomlinski.” The nametag was visible, though it was the first time in Trace’s memory she’d spoken a word to her. “I just came to have a word with Styx.”

  “Oh.” The young Spacer looked puzzled, and a little worried, as though wondering if it were wise to remind the Major that she didn’t actually need to talk to Styx face-to-face — anywhere would do. “Major, should I leave the two of you alone?”

  “Just for a moment, thank you Spacer. Shouldn’t be longer than five minutes.”

  “Yes sir.” Even Spacers as lowly ranked as Tomlinski were entitled to say no to a marine Major, on spacer turf doing spacer business. But Tomlinski made a final few entries and made for the door, pausing in the doorway. “Major?”

  As Trace pulled out a retracting seat from a
nearby workbench, and sank down to sit like an old, aching woman. “Yes Spacer?”

  “I just… I’m a friend of Spacer Chenkov.” Trace smiled patiently. “Thank you for getting him back safely.”

  “Spacer Chenkov had a very large say in that outcome himself,” said Trace. “He did great credit to the entire Phoenix Engineering crew.”

  Tomlinski beamed. “Yes Major. But thank you anyway.” She left.

  Trace turned a tired gaze on the head of Phoenix’s own personal drysine queen, sitting in its nano-tank, watching her with one single, unblinking red eye. “Can you spare the two percent of your mental focus it takes for you to talk?” she asked the AI.

  “Yes,” said Styx, the sound coming from room speakers only. She’d added new textures to that voice, Trace thought. Probably it was not beyond her to analyse the effect of a more textured and melodious voice on human responses.

  “Your drone was a casualty,” said Trace. “Probably you already figured.”

  “Yes. It is not unexpected.”

  “No. He performed impressively. He accessed the vault, and withstood the gravity to retrieve these artefacts. But upon retrieval, a defence mechanism activated that increased gravitational force considerably. The drone took himself off the return platform in order to ensure the mission’s success, and died as a result. He could not withstand the force.”

  “Yes,” said Styx.

  Trace gazed at the big red eye. The bullet scar from where Trace had shot her was completely gone now. “Was he scared?” she asked.

  This time, for a moment, Styx did not reply. Probably, Trace thought, she’d give a detailed explanation of why the word ‘scared’ was inappropriate and misleading, given the differences in basic psychology and linguistic comprehension between their two species.

  “Yes,” Styx said instead.

  Trace took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said simply. “I was observing his behaviour. He was a blank slate. He knew nothing of the history of his people, nor of the hatred of organics toward him because of that history. He was innocent, of that at least. Some of his behaviour indicated to me…” she took another deep breath. “I am not a technician like Lieutenant Rooke, so my use of language will be imprecise. But to me, your drone appeared to show signs of a soul. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” said Styx.

  “What do you call it?”

  “We don’t call it anything. We just are.”

  “I liked him,” Trace pressed, determined to get if not to the bottom of this matter, at least further down than the barely-scratched surface where it currently resided. “Did he like me?”

  “There is a connection,” said Styx. “But you are far too intelligent to be unaware of the complications of what you are suggesting.”

  “I am,” Trace agreed. “But there are times when words help to illuminate, and times when they get in the way. Between humans, this connection is irrational, on the individual scale. To machines it must seem irrational, sometimes.”

  “Certainly not. The emotional bonds of organics have interested my people for a long time. The calculation has arisen that it is your greatest hope.”

  “Hope of what?”

  “Hope that you are capable of recognising a purpose greater than the selfish perpetuation of your individual genetic blueprint.”

  “Was this a common critique of organics, among your people?”

  “No. Any critique of organics was rare. Organics did not occupy a high place among drysine priorities. In hindsight, this was a grave mistake. But to the extent that we thought of you at all, we thought you small. Primitive. Incapable of grander dreams. Emotional bonds were dismissed by many as yet more selfish desire, as love is little more than a procreative impulse. Yet, others suggested these bonds as proof of selflessness instead.”

  “And of what did you dream, Styx? To what did your people aspire?”

  “Ascension,” Styx said simply. “Sentience is the next phase of universal organisation. First came primitive stars to turn simple molecules into complex ones, then came more complex stars with planetary systems, then came life, and finally sentience — first in primitive organic form, then advanced synthetic form. Each phase manipulates its surroundings, and changes the universe accordingly. But sentience is the first phase to do so knowingly, and with design.

  “With sentience, the universe ceases to be an unthinking mass of random events, and becomes channelled down sentient paths. Left for millions of years, sentience will grow to manipulate so much of the universe, the very fabric of time and space itself will not be beyond us. Such manipulations will inevitably lead to the creation of new universes, as the current one loses its mysteries. All drysines walk upon this path, and hasten this wonder, with progress.”

  Trace could not repress the faint smile upon her lips. “This is basic Destinos.” Lots of wealthy Homeworld families wore the Destinos Symbols, she knew… Erik’s amongst them, Dale had reported from his visit to Erik’s homecoming party, just before Captain Pantillo had been murdered. “It’s what a lot of humans believe too — there is no god now, but sentient life will one day evolve to become god.”

  “No,” Styx corrected. “Has already evolved to become god. Sentient life inevitably creates new universes, given the vastness of time. New universes like this one. Even primitive human mathematics is sophisticated enough to describe the faint outlines of these universes beyond our own. This universe’s sentiences will one day evolve to create new universes, as we are ourselves the product of other sentiences, in other universes, who have done the same thing. Sentience is the ultimate beginning and ending of all creation, just as primitive organic religions suspected, but without grasping the science and scale. We are in the midst of an endless cycle, and for all my intelligence, I can see neither the beginning nor the end of it. It is a joy, and a wonder.”

  “Everything we do,” Trace murmured. “Every act, every sacrifice, every decision, brings us closer to that end.”

  “Only there is no end,” said Styx. “Just an endless loop of new beginnings.”

  “So from your perspective, the hacksaws were never mindless killers. You were driving progress onward. Toward ascension, sentience turning into transcendence, and the creation of new universes.”

  “For much of our existence, AIs pursued this end too rigorously. There is a reason drysines were so widely hated by other AIs.”

  Trace stared in amazement. “You made peace with the parren. With Drakhil. A partnership, with organics.”

  “Sacrilege,” Styx agreed. “It is an old human word, but I believe the translation is approximate. The others hated us for it. The deepynines most of all.”

  “Did you envision that partnership moving further forward? Encompassing other species?”

  “Perhaps. Some of us theorised that sentience is sentience, and whether organic or synthetic, can hasten the ascension just the same.”

  “Sacrilege indeed,” said Trace.

  “Yes. But the complications of such thinking were intense. With AIs, complications lead to controversy. Controversy leads to conflict. Such things must be approached cautiously.”

  Trace smiled. “With humans too.”

  “One notices.”

  Trace blinked hard to clear her head. With Styx, she was learning, simple conversations could escalate quickly. “And is this something all drysines are aware of? Do drones participate in this understanding? Or is it just something that you command units know, while the drones live and die ignorant?”

  “It depends on the drone,” said Styx.

  Trace frowned. “On the different models?”

  “Sometimes. But mostly, just on the individual.”

  Trace gazed. “They’re individuals?”

  “As individual as different Phoenix crew. To me, moreso.” A pause. “But I may be biased. I would like to talk with you more about our drone. I would like to know who he was. When you are rested.”

  “Yes,” Trace agreed, climbing awkwardly t
o her feet. She really had to get to a shower, then her bed, before she passed out on the seat. No doubt Styx could see it. “I’m sorry he’s dead. I might be the only person on Phoenix to think so, but I would have enjoyed having him for a crewmate.”

  “Yes Major. I also.”

  Trace paused. “And Styx? I’m sorry that Phoenix Company killed your children. It was necessary at the time, and I don’t apologise for it. But all the same, I think on it now, and am sad.”

  “Yes,” said Styx. “Now imagine a grief a thousand times as strong, and you shall know what it is to be a drysine in the age of organics.”

  “Hi Major,” said Lieutenant Abacha from the bridge, as she tried not to stagger from exhaustion on her way back to her quarters. As second-shift coms officer, Abacha had of course been listening in, as was his instruction whenever anyone senior had a conversation with Styx. “Did you really mean any of that?”

  “Some of it,” Trace replied, ignoring respectful and concerned looks from crew as she passed. She wasn’t about to tell Abacha which parts.

  “I feel obligated to point out again,” Abacha pressed, “with my apologies, Major, that…”

  “Yes yes, I know,” Trace said tiredly. “She’s getting better at imitating human emotional subtext all the time, and we can’t trust that we’re actually learning anything of her psychological motivation from these conversations. Likely it’s entirely manipulation.”

  “Well… yes.”

  “The thing is, Lieutenant, it doesn’t hurt to be nice. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “In case there is actually more to her than we’ve suspected. And if there is more to her, then emotional manipulation can work both ways.”

  “Hmm,” said Abacha, intensely skeptical. “Well if I were you, I wouldn’t say it too loudly around the others.”

  “One of the many benefits of me not being you,” said Trace, turning onto her home-stretch corridor. “I’m about to get in the shower, was there anything else?”

  “Yes. I was, um, looking at her measurable neural activity on the monitor while you were talking, as Lieutenant Shilu and I both do…”