by RS McCoy
But Michael didn’t do his job because it interested him. He did it because it needed to get done.
Robotics had nothing more than page after page of data report from their fleet of probes. Since the Scholar Committee put an end to their ambitions of creating a social robot fifty years ago, they had little left.
Michael felt kind of bad for them. Then again, they were all committed to their positions. No Scholar would ever complain. That was a quick path to losing funding.
Either way, it didn’t make for a fun meeting. The three robotics technicians—or robotechs as they called themselves—along with the Robotics Lead, Abigail, and Michael himself sat at the large table with a holoprojector in the middle. Charts and graphs rolled by, updates on their work with robotic probes on inter-system planets, planetary research probes, and a whole host of other projects he couldn’t get excited about.
He worked to keep his eyes open and focused on the display, if only to avoid looking at his own tablet and checking his ecomms. He refused to look at the exposed bit of Abigail’s leg mere inches to his right.
Michael squinted at the projection intent to let it keep his attention. His eyes wide, straining, he saw it.
“What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the hovering line in the spreadsheet.
Dr. Fobbs answered. “Starla 5. She was redirected after a change in coordinates from Planetary Systems.”
Michael had never heard such a thing. “Why was there a change in coordinates?”
The robotech flipped through the files on his tablet to find his notes before looking up again. “Oh, a woman from Planetary Systems came to my office to request the change. She mentioned there had been a technical error on their end. We sent Astra 3 to the new coordinates. The data should start streaming in the next eighteen hours.”
“What kind of cost is associated with sending out the probe?” Abigail put together the financial reports, but ultimately, he was responsible for maintaining the budget of the 200 trillion vale facility.
“Mistakes happen,” Abigail said quietly, so only he could hear.
“Approximately 4.5 million vales, Director. We’ve left her in that sector so if there’s a need to revisit the original destination, the cost can be recouped.”
How the Robotics team could continue to speak about machines as if they were people would never sit right with him.
Michael sat through the rest of the dismal presentation, though the probe stuck to his thoughts like a germ.
Once finished, Michael and Abigail retreated the corridor when he said, “Let’s go talk to Planetary Systems. I want to know what happened with that probe. Did you get me access to the autopsy files yet?” His patience was wearing thin.
Abigail’s mouth turned down as she said, “No, not yet.”
Michael figured as much. He started toward Planetary Systems.
“I’m sure it was just an error. Not everyone is as perfect as you.” He felt the warmth of her hand creep down his back and settle on his cheek before squeezing it playfully.
“Not here.” As a member of the upper echelons of the class, Michael was awarded certain liberties. He was free of the body suit requirements. He could make a recommendation as to his future wife and mother to his children. Most of all, he could live an alternative lifestyle without the ostracizing of the Scholar Committee. He only had to keep it private.
Outside his apartment, he and Abigail had a purely professional relationship. Part of his job was to instill confidence in his subordinates. If they thought him distracted, he would quickly lose their support. It would be chaos.
Abigail knew that.
Intent to leave her behind, Michael continued on. Dozens of Craftsmen filled the halls, their steps quick as they worked to keep the LRF running smoothly. Most thought such a facility operated on the advancements of the Scholars, but Michael understood the importance of the support staff. Without them, LRF would fall into ruin almost instantly.
As he passed each one, he nodded, offered a brief smile, but he was in no mood to get into conversations today.
At the door to the Planetary Systems wing, Michael held his hand to the scanner. As he waited for the chip to register and allow him entry, he felt Abigail’s hand on his shoulder.
“I don’t need you for this,” he said without looking at her.
“It’s my job,” she replied plainly, always so quick to throw it in his face.
The door spun away to reveal the same branching hallway as every other wing in the LRF, two offices to the right, two on the left, and the central conference area straight ahead. Michael stepped into the wing, unsure of where to go or who he wanted to see.
Then Dr. Hill stepped out his office, his feet quick until he saw them and stopped short.
“Director Filmore, Ms. Perch. I hadn’t expected you for another six weeks.” Dr. Hill smiled warmly at them both.
“We had a few questions about a probe. Can you gather your team in the conference room?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, Director. Dr. Niemeyer is quite busy at the moment, but I believe Dr. Perkins and I can answer your questions. Her office is right this way.” Dr. Hill continued on in the direction he’d been headed in the first place.
“Aida? Director Filmore is here to ask after the probe.” Michael heard Dr. Hill’s voice ahead of him as they walked into a cramped office. It was a perfectly adequate work space for a single Scholar, but barely fit the four of them. Dr. Hill moved around the desk to stand beside Dr. Perkins and Abigail was relegated to remain in the doorway.
Dr. Perkins, a bronze-skinned beauty with black hair in a tight bun stared up at him with a tense jaw. She was not pleased to see him.
“I would prefer to speak to the director in private,” she said with her eyes on Abigail.
“Ms. Perch won’t be a problem,” Dr. Hill replied.
It made Michael’s blood boil. Why was this new Scholar sticking up for her? Did he know her? Had they been speaking, getting close when he wasn’t looking?
All manner of jealous thoughts burst to the surface before he could quiet them.
Dr. Perkins sighed and looked at her hands for a moment.
“There was an error with the coordinates that were sent to Robotics,” she explained without being asked. “By the time we realized, a probe had been sent to the original destination. Dr. Fobbs sent out an additional probe to the correct location.” Dr. Perkins held her hand out to show the spinning scarlet planet and mile-long list of data that accompanied it.
“This is your most recent find?” Michael asked. With their last meeting cancelled, he knew little about the current state of research in Planetary Systems.
Dr. Hill was the one to answer. “This is Perkins-196, one of the most promising exoplanets we’ve had in quite a while. We expect the probe data to arrive midday tomorrow. It’s been quite an exciting time for us.”
“If this planet is such a find for you, how were the wrong coordinates sent to Robotics? This department has never made such an error before. If you are struggling without Dr. Parr, we can push forward the search for his replacement.” Dr. Jackson Parr had been one of their best. He wasn’t all that surprised to find they weren’t doing well without him.
“I don’t think there will be a need for that. We’ve selected Dr. Perkins as our Lead until such a time as you see fit to replace her.”
Abigail piped up from the doorway, her arms crossed elegantly across her chest. “Sounds like you have it handled then.” She stood straight and gave him an expectant look, waiting for him to leave with her.
But Michael wasn’t done yet. “If errors like these continue, then I won’t have much choice.” He didn’t relish the idea of demoting a Scholar, but he wasn’t about to stand by while inferior quality work continued. At some point, he had to trim the fat.
The Dr.’s Perkins and Hill, exchanged a long look before Dr. Hill answered, “The error lies with Dr. Parr. Aida was simply responsible for correcting that error.”
; Michael was tired of hearing him speak. “I’m sure it is easy to place blame with the dead, but I assure you, no one will believe Dr. Parr to be capable of such a mistake. He produced two decades of impeccable data.”
At last, Dr. Hill let Dr. Perkins explain. “This time, he made a mistake. It was the last thing he did before he died, so we can’t hope to understand why.” Her eyes misted over at the memory.
“We have a meeting with Life Support Systems in ten. We need to be going,” Abigail said from the doorway.
“He was working on this planet when he died?” Michael asked, the pieces starting to fit.
“I gave him the report—” Dr. Perkins started.
“Aida delivered her report to Dr. Parr. He congratulated her on a job well done and sent the specs to Robotics. We assume his error was due to whatever it was that resulted in his death. Were they able to determine cause of death?”
Michael didn’t miss the exchange between Abigail and Dr. Hill, her eyes filled with piercing hate, and his innocent, curious. He had no idea what was going on.
“No, not that I’m aware of. Thank you for your time. I’ll see you both at our next bimonthly.” Abigail let him pass through the doorway before following him down the hallway and into the main corridor.
“See? Errors happen sometimes.” She rubbed the palm of her hand across his shoulder. “Let’s go home for a few minutes.”
“What about Life Support?” he asked, hoping there was a way out of it. He wasn’t in the mood.
“I’ll reschedule it. Come on.” Her smile lit up the corridor.
His heart sped up at the thought of having some time alone in his apartment. Behind closed doors, they could be open with each other again. They could stop pretending this was just business.
They walked down the corridor in silence, anticipating the much-needed company of the other. There was one thing still bothering him. “I need you get me access to the digital autopsy files.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
DASIA
CPI-RQ2-06, NEW YORK
AUGUST 11, 2232
She knocked on the door, the third down on the left, not expecting anyone to answer. No one had answered the last four times.
But this time she did answer.
Mable opened the door, the smug, angry look absent from her face. Instead she almost looked nice. “You’re Dasia?”
“Yeah, I, uh, I saw you left your tablet this morning.” Dasia held out the device at arm’s length.
“Oh, thanks. I forgot all about it.” Mable smiled. “Do you want to come in?”
“Sure,” she said, though she wondered if that was safe. Not only was Mable formerly unresponsive, she had done a complete one-eighty in only twelve hours. Dasia had serious concerns about her mental stability.
Still, if Mable was going to try to be nice, then so was Dasia. It was the least she could do after Jane disappeared.
“Did they take you upstairs yet?” she asked, unsure of where to begin.
“To see the bugs? Yeah, Arrenstein showed me.” Mable didn’t seem fazed in the least as she sat in the slim metal desk chair.
Dasia sat on the bed and pulled up her legs to cross beneath her. “Pretty freaky. The way they touch your brain and all that. It sounds like a horrible way to die.” Dasia still got shivers thinking about them.
“It’s not the way I would pick, that’s for sure.” Dasia couldn’t believe the sly smile on Mable face, as if death was a familiar subject, a long-lost friend she enjoyed remembering.
“Did you ever know anyone that died?” It was a rude question, she knew as soon as it left her mouth.
“A few. My brother, some friends.”
“Does it ever get easier?” Dasia had to know. Would she one day be like Mable, a casual acquaintance to grief rather than its slave?
“No, not really.” Mable looked at her, a stone-solid gaze so that Dasia had no doubt she meant it with every fiber. It must have been a look she made that caused Mable to ask, “Who was it?”
Already the tears filled her eyes so she had to blink them away. A quiver shook her lip and she struggled to answer. “A friend. Cole.” At the sound of his name, even in her own voice, the held-back tears slipped down her cheek.
“More than a friend?” Dasia didn’t see Mable get up, but only felt her arm across her shoulders, the first comfort since that horrible day.
“Is that how you got here?” Mable’s voice was low and quiet.
Dasia nodded and pressed her ear against Mable’s shoulder. Then she sobbed in earnest. Mable was good enough to let her cry, to hold her in arms wrapped tight.
Until she said, “That’s five minutes. That’s all you get.”
Dasia’s head shot up and she stared at the girl, the cruel, hateful girl she had tried to befriend.
First Jane, then Mable.
Dasia was doomed to a life of loneliness, the only life she deserved.
“What do you know about combat?” Mable asked, like it was a perfectly normal question.
“Nothing.” With shame, Dasia wiped the tears from her cheeks and started toward the door. It had been a mistake to come here.
“I can teach you. If you want.”
Dasia spun. “Really?”
“Yeah, come on.” Mable fetched a handful of black fabric strips and left the room.
Dasia could only follow behind and wonder what the hell was going on, who the hell was this girl.
“Where are we going?” she asked at last.
“Outside.”
“Won’t we get in trouble?”
“Does it matter?”
Mable found a series of unlocked doors that led to the pod garage and eventually opened into the open grounds that surrounded the complex. They walked between the stone pathway lined in little shrubs and the occasional flower until they reached a wide open grassy area.
“Give me your hands.”
Dasia held her hands out as Mable rotated them palms down.
“Spread your fingers, like this,” and Mable showed her. With her hands splayed open before her, Dasia watched as Mable wrapped the strips of black fabric around her hands, mostly on the knuckles. “It’ll keep it from hurting so bad. And it’s going to hurt.”
Given the choice between the ache in her chest and a few sore knuckles, Dasia would gladly choose the latter.
Mable must have noticed her determination, the way her shoulders stood a little straighter. “Good girl.” She smiled as she tied off the last of the strips. “When you punch, you want to strike with this part of your hand.” She pointed to the first two fingers on her own fist. “If you don’t, you could break your wrist. Then you won’t be hitting anyone. You only hit with these, got it?”
Dasia nodded.
“Good. Now hit me.”
“What?” Dasia let her wrapped-up hands fall to her side. “I’m not going to hit you.”
Mable smiled. “Try. I bet you can’t.”
Those words were all it took to get her fired up. There was nothing Dasia hated more than someone telling her she couldn’t do something. She would do it to prove them wrong.
So she let her fist fly. Like a baby bird from the nest, it moved but didn’t go anywhere meaningful. Mable stepped to the side and dodged.
“Remember, these two fingers. Hit me with those,” she taunted.
In her mind, Dasia pictured the flat area on her hand, the one Mable said wouldn’t break her wrist. She pictured it moving forward, striking the girl, and then let her fist fly out, but missed again. On and on it went, Dasia moving her arms toward Mable, striking nothing but air.
She was tired, her breath ragged and her forehead coated with beads of sweat. Her muscles were warm and she knew she’d be sore in the morning.
But it was the best thing she’d done since Cole’s death. It was exactly what she needed.
“Ready to go back in?” Mable’s hair stuck to her face where it had fallen from her ponytail.
“No,�
�� Dasia said with another failed strike.
“We can come back out tomorrow. We can come every day if that’s what you want.”
When Dasia’s next punch flew, Mable caught it in her hand. “That’s enough for today,” she said, her voice quiet.
Dasia conceded. She took in several lungfuls to steady her breathing. She nodded her head in defeat.
“You’ll get better. You’ll get stronger. We’ll keep working.” Mable rubbed a hand over Dasia’s back, not unlike her mother would do when she was ill as a child. Dasia knew her shirt must be soaked with sweat, but Mable didn’t shy away.
Instead, Mable stared hard for a moment. She pulled Dasia in close to her. Time stopped as she leaned in and kissed her lips, soft and slow at first, then faster. Harder. It happened all at once, a blur of heartbeats and eagerness. She felt Mable’s hand on her back, pulling her in. Mable’s kiss was strong and warm until, without warning, she let go.
Dasia froze in place. She’d never touched a girl. She’d never touched anyone besides Cole. She so enjoyed being close to someone but she wasn’t ready to open her heart again. It was still mortally wounded.
But Mable didn’t press her. She slid her fingers between Dasia’s and walked back inside as if it were something they did all the time.
Dasia’s thoughts raced, trying to piece it together but failing in spectacular fashion.
“You think they’ll like that we’re doing this?” Dasia asked.
“Does it matter?” Mable replied for the second time.
“No, I guess not.” With every word, Dasia liked her more. Mable was strong and confident, but not like Jane was. Hers was a quiet confidence, a surety in herself that didn’t come from those around her. She was exactly the kind of person Dasia wanted to be.
THEO
CPI-RW2-05, NEW YORK
AUGUST 11, 2232
Theo sat at the small desk in his room with this tablet pulled apart into dozens of small pieces before him. To the left, his wristlet sat with the small panel open.