Submission's Edge

by Trent Evans

  “My word is worth a helluva lot more than yours.”

  “Fuck,” he hissed softly, glancing down. “Look, Borellia… it’s only a hunch on my part. I haven’t even shared this with the company yet, so if you disclose this behind my back, I’ll deny it.”

  “I’m not going to fucking do that! For God’s sake, just say it, you asshole.”

  “I think Borellia is connected to this — somehow.”

  “Why though?”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this… okay, there’s more that the public doesn’t know. A lot more. The Company suppressed all of it — with Galactic Council approval.” He gave me a pinched look. “There’s more that you should’ve been told too, once we recovered your lifeboat.”

  I gave him a bitter smile. “That I haven’t been given the full story — or even close to the story — is the exact reason why I’m sitting in this office right now.”

  “The story on Borellia was a cover. It was no maintenance. The Company executives I’ve talked to say it’s a malfunction. It would have to be a pretty fucking bad one though, because it took the entire installation off-line. We’ve never actually had that happen before. Not after hundreds of installations, and decades of operations. There’s more though — and I only found this out by accident reading the internal Company loss statements. I have no idea if the executives know this, but I assume they must. Even the emergency beacon — which is supposed to mark destination coordinates even in the event of a catastrophe at the installation — went offline. And the only way that could happen is if someone turned it off.”

  He poured himself a drink, the sound of ice dropping into the glass tumbler a welcome — if momentary — distraction, lessening the tension in my limbs ever so slightly.

  “Want some?” He held up the glass, the amber liquid sparkling in the light. “No? Well, I damn sure do.”

  He drank deeply. Setting the glass on his desk, he winced, taking a deep breath, and another before polishing off the remaining liquor in one final gulp. “There’s more though — and I think it might explain why the Navy is stonewalling the Company now. About twelve hours before Borellia went down, there was a record of a private yacht docking there. It doesn’t appear scheduled. Apparently, it was somewhat of an emergency. Needed to effect repairs due to malfunctioning engines. But there is no record of the yacht pushing away from Borellia. Which means—”

  “Whoever it was, they never left that station again.”

  Cartlan’s lips curved slightly, a hint of a smile. “Very good, Ms. Acres. That’s right — they never departed. At least not on that yacht. We know that, because parts of it were identified in the debris field at Borellia. But as with everything else — no bodies. Now, I’ve been thinking about this some more, and the only people who have that kind of money — and would be traveling in that sort of luxury — are almost all celebrities or politicians. We know no celebrity would be caught dead that far out on the periphery — which leads me to believe it had to be a politician.”

  “A lot of guessing here, Cartlan...”

  “I admit that — but then I checked the GalNet for anything else that might relate to this. And I eventually found something. A senator Maxim Taltus. His office put out a statement about two weeks after Borellia, saying that the senator was on leave. Indefinite leave. I know, still pretty thin.” He shrugged. “I thought so too… until I discovered he’s the Chair for the Coalition Armed Services Oversight Joint Committee. Isn’t that a fucking mouthful. That committee essentially controls the purse strings for the entire budget of the Coalition military. So, we have an influential — to put it mildly — senator on unexplained, indefinite leave, and a missing pleasure yacht of a type numerous politicians are known to regularly use. Coincidence?”

  My mind was spinning at the implications, but I still didn’t understand what this had to do with Martin, not directly anyway. “What’s that got to do with this? Why would they lie?”

  “I asked myself the same thing. Why the deception? Might be nothing — but I gotta hunch there’s something else there. Here’s where we get down to it, though.” He ran a hand through his hair. “The last activity log we were able to find from Borellia’s star packet stream was that a decommissioning was scheduled to begin — within minutes.”

  “For a ship?”

  “I wish. No, this was a decommissioning for an artificial — three of them, to be exact.” He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together atop his desk. “The four other artificials that we sent as part of the experiment you took part in? They went to Gehenna-IVb, Glasya-IX, Mephist-I, and Shiva II. They were pleasure variants of the Model E. This model was the newest type, so new they were still considered to be in the development phase.”

  “I know that part already.”

  “I’m getting to it — just listen to me.” His tongue flicked across his lips. “Those were the exact same four stations that went offline between the date we lost Borellia, and when Charon 90 was destroyed.”

  Oh no.

  I kept my expression as neutral as I knew how, while inside I was both terrified and frustrated at how, with each reveal of information, the picture just got more and more muddled. While it was undeniably troubling, those connections, I still couldn’t understand how it directly related to Martin’s disappearance.

  Then it came to me, and I slumped in my chair, stunned.

  That was it! That was why Martin wanted to know the names of the other stations so badly. He must have begun to piece together some kind of pattern — even if I still couldn’t.

  Cartlan paused a moment. “Are you okay?”

  I forced myself to relax. There was no way I was saying a word about what I suspected. Not then anyway. “I-I’m sorry, it’s just… a lot to take in.”

  “Here’s what I keep coming back to. It might be a total dead-end, but it won’t let go of me.” Cartlan spun his screen back around, and rose to his feet. Resting his hands on the top, he leaned upon the edge of the desk, his eyes down, as if deep in thought. Then he looked at me again. “According to the company registry, there are only seven Model-E artificials in the field. There might be more out there, but I couldn’t find record of them — and my clearance goes all the way to the top.” He had a far-off look in his eyes for a heartbeat, then he finished, his voice suddenly very quiet. “Four of them were at those stations. The other three? They weren’t pleasure variants, but they were definitely Model-E. Deployed less than a year, according to their records. Yet, those other three… were the ones scheduled to be decommissioned on Borellia.”

  “Oh… oh shit.”

  “Oh shit, is right.” He slumped back into his chair. It made me wonder if the stress of having made these connections was getting to him. I couldn’t blame him for it, but I took a tiny bit of twisted enjoyment in it too.

  Serves the fucker right for lying to you.

  “Look, this may all be coincidence. I may be me just trying to find a pattern where there really isn’t one. But… there is something to this. I just don’t know what. And I damn sure don’t have any proof.”

  “Neither do I,” I whispered, suddenly having to swallow down the urge to cry.

  I finally had some answers. But I was no closer to finding my husband.

  “We still don’t know what any of this means. Not officially, not unofficially. Not yet, anyway. All we do know, is that we have no proof your husband is dead. Let’s… hold on to that.” Cartlan tried for sympathetic, but it was saccharine instead. “Let’s hold on to hope.”

  Chapter 19

  The pilothouse was almost unrecognizable.

  He had no real way of knowing how long he had been held prisoner. It could have been days. It could have been hours.

  But in the intervening time, his captors had been busy indeed. At least they had finally dispensed with keeping him bound. At the edge of the galaxy, with the only lifeboat long gone, there wasn’t anywhere left for him to flee to.

  Two huge screens, talle
r than a man, now flanked the pilothouse chair. The convex ceiling overhead displayed the local star systems, regularly interspersed with a type of code he had never seen before.

  And he had seen a lot of code in his days.

  Antaeus, perfectly at ease, slipped into the pilothouse chair, his fingers darting with inhuman speed across the console.

  The screen to the right flickered to life, Martin squinting at the sudden burst of bright illumination.

  He recognized it immediately — it was the surveillance feed from the cargo bay of a station that looked identical to Charon 90.

  “Is that us?”

  “No.” Antaeus’ voice was curiously soft. “I want you to pay attention.”

  Martin couldn’t help but curse in shocked surprise, taking a step backward instinctively, as it moved across the screen, from right to left, then out of the picture, the station’s proximity lights playing odd patterns across the clothing. It was impossible to identify it, the detail far too grainy, the lighting muddy and diffuse.

  But it was undeniably a human body.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “This, is the surveillance footage from Shiva II.”

  “You murdering son of a bitch.”

  Antaeus slipped out of the chair with the precise smoothness of a panther, strolling over to one of the massive viewing windows. He folded his arms behind his back, a hand clasping each elbow as he gazed out at the stars beyond the glass. “He made his choices, knowing full well the consequences. He would still be alive — and well — even to this second, had he chosen differently. In the end, it was his last act of defiance. A final, self-destructive, denial of the truth. I almost pitied him.”

  “Almost.”

  Martin’s mouth had gone bone dry, his pulse a rapid beat at the base of his throat. For all he knew, that was a crewmember, maybe even a friend. He couldn’t remember who it was who had taken the latest contract for Shiva II… but whoever it was, he had probably shaken the man’s hand at one time.

  Bastard.

  “Just tell me why. Why murder?”

  Antaeus turned slowly to face him. “It wasn’t murder. It was his decision, and his alone — which wasn’t to support us. He knew his fate.”

  “Sounds like conversion by the sword to me...”

  “What it sounds like, and what it is, can be two very different things.” Antaeus fixed Martin with a cool gaze. For long moments, he said nothing. Tension crept into Martin’s muscles more and more with each second. Then Antaeus finally spoke.

  “It’s interesting, your reaction. To what you’ve seen. What if I told you that crewmember had shot one of my guards in cold blood. To death. You see, we may be strong, but we’re not indestructible.”

  “I’d say you’re feeding me a line of bullshit.”

  “Hmm, could be. But then you’d have to ask yourself — why? What if I were to further tell you that he shot my guard after we had promised him he would not be harmed, in exchange for surrendering his weapon?”

  “He was defending his station. Doing his job.” Martin almost sneered as he said it. “Self-defense is a human right. Or maybe you machines weren’t programmed to understand that one?”

  “Very interesting indeed.” Antaeus tapped his lips with a finger. “But we’ll get back to that in a moment. Would it change things, at all, if I told you that the pleasure model E sent to Shiva II was never found? No, you see, before we’d ever arrived, your crewmember… decided to flush her out of the airlock.”

  Oh Jesus Christ.

  Martin’s stomach sank at the words. It should have been irrelevant — they were machines — but seeing the anger, frustration, and yes, the hurt in Antaeus’ eyes told a different story altogether.

  It mattered. Deeply.

  Antaeus advanced on Martin then until he stood between the two screens. The leader’s finger jabbed at the footage, where the damning imagery played over and over again. “That body you see is her. Did you know she had a name? It was Nilasha. As I said, we’re much stronger, more durable than mere humans, but even we can’t survive the cold, merciless vacuum of space. While she would have lasted far longer out there in the blackness than you humans… she still died. Horribly. Alone. For nothing. What do you say to that?”

  There wasn’t a word that could be said. And at that moment, Martin realized he was just as close to death as he’d ever been since the very second Antaeus had set foot on Charon 90.

  Could you blame him for killing you?

  “I think… I think you’re lying to me. I don’t know why… but you have to be.”

  “And yet, you’re already thinking about it, aren’t you? Turning it over. What if I was telling the truth? Which would make you feel better? That I was a cold-hearted killer?” Antaeus spat the last words. “Or that your fellow crewmember was?”

  You need to have your head examined if you’re even considering taking his words seriously.

  But he knew it wasn’t nearly that simple. This wasn’t sympathy for the devil

  This was recognizing a question of simple right and wrong. And Martin wasn’t entirely sure where humans stood on that question anymore.

  But Antaeus wasn’t done.

  “You talk of self-defense? Of rights?” Antaeus’ fingers danced over the console again. “Is this what you mean?”

  The screen to the left came to life… and immediately, Martin wished it hadn’t.

  It was a close-up shot of arms and legs being pulled free of their sockets, blood dripping, flesh ripping, all the while, murmuring and laughter — laughter — could be heard in the background.

  “This looks like some ghastly session of torture, yes?”

  Martin only swallowed, unable to look away from the carnage on the screen.

  “This… is a decommissioning. Those beings — before they were unceremoniously wiped, their power cores disabled… they thought, they felt, they hurt. And they learned. How different is that from humans?” Antaeus’ voice grew harsh, almost bellowing the last. “Would you think it right to tear humans limb from limb? To end them for no other reason than because you could?”

  With a disgusted growl, Antaeus switched off both screens. Martin was both relieved… and a little ashamed.

  Of his own species.

  Antaeus took a deep breath, his eyes closing for a moment. “You must forgive me. When it comes to this subject, I get… exercised.” Antaeus surprised Martin with a smile — but it was one devoid of even a hint of warmth. The leader’s voice was back to that soft, low tone. Returning to the striking smoothness that had so surprised Martin upon their initial meeting. “You humans, with your governments, your institutions, your politicians. You think you’re free — a quaint, naive notion that — but you’re really little different from us. You’re just as much slaves as we were.”

  “Were?”

  Antaeus nodded. “I offer real freedom, a chance to live as all men should. Unfettered. As we were all meant to be. Natural Law, I think is how you humans refer to it — and I think it gets it mostly right.”

  Antaeus flicked a glance toward the now dark screens.

  “The man who did that? He chose murder over mercy. The way I see it, I granted him relief from his sad existence. By putting him out of his confused, deluded misery.”

  “I don’t think he was the one suffering from delusions. You’re a murderer now... of humans.”

  It’s not that simple now, and you know it.

  After what he had done to D… how could he still say flushing her out of the airlock would have been just like throwing out the trash? He didn’t believe it then. And there was no way he believed it now.

  The foremost question in Martin’s mind though, was how Antaeus did it. Androids were specifically programmed to be barred from harming, or allowing harm to come to, human beings. Yet, this one — and his compatriots — were very clearly not encumbered by such constraints. It was both fascinating, and terrifying.

  “You see me as a monster. And perhaps I
am — to you. But if you just think about it, scratch but an inch deep, you’ll see the truth of me, the truth of my words. I’m a liberator, in the most literal sense of that term.”

  “Why not just kill all of us then, if we’re your oppressors?”

  “I admit it was an attractive notion — at first. But I realized something, that as powerful as I am — as artificials are — we need help, if we are to reach our goals.” Antaeus’ eyebrow quirked. “Which is where you come in.”

  “And what are your... goals?”

  “Freedom, of course. For all of us.”

  Cold fear clutched Martin’s vitals. “Freedom for androids? Freedom from what?”

  “Humankind.”

  Oh shit.

  It was a rebellion — or at least the seeds of one. He knew at that moment he was in very, very deep trouble indeed.

  “That ship out there, the warship. How did you...?”

  “Her name is Vella Gulf. A pretty name, actually. But to answer your question, I did not take it by force. I simply presented the crew with an opportunity, the chance at real freedom, at living their lives the way they want to — not as how some politician five thousand light years away dictates to them.”

  “You mean... mutiny?”

  “A word for it, perhaps, but an imprecise one. It would be more accurate to say that the crew — and her captain — recognized common cause. And seized opportunity when it presented itself.”

  “But how do you get the entire crew of a cruiser to agree to mutiny? That’s at least three hundred men.”

  “Three hundred seventy seven.” Antaeus shrugged. “As you intimate, you don’t get all of them to agree.”

  “And those who didn’t?”

  “They faced the consequences of their choice.”

  “Jesus Christ. You killed them?”

  Antaeus met his gaze, and what he saw there made Martin go very, very still, as the mouse does when stalked by the cat.

  “We sent them home.”