by StarAndrea
The AI didn’t verbally warn him of impact, and he didn’t feel it outside of the jarring halt to his display’s visual input. Channel chatter was still muted, but he could move and he could breathe. He drew in another breath and suppressed the urge to release the seals on his helmet.
“RAV 4,” he said. His voice sounded overly loud in his ears, but nothing else was silent. He could hear his breathing, the chatter of the Rangers and the fighters and the imagined sound of the lights still flashing on his display. “Status.”
“Recommend immediate evacuation of interior RAV environment,” the AI replied. “And possibly exterior; there’s an uncalculated probability of explosion. I’ll have numbers for you by the time you’re outside.”
He’d released his harness before the AI finished speaking, trusting it to tell him if there was anything else he needed to know. He scanned the forward monitors as he turned, and he felt the information embed itself in his helmet display. That was useful.
“Up,” the AI said succinctly. “Do not descend, Saryn; there’s an escape hatch--”
The information flashed across his helmet display as well. It overrode all communication in an effort to keep him as far from the compromised engine as possible. “RAV 4,” Saryn said, accepting the visual prompts and following the instructions that appeared in front of him. “I appreciate your dedication to my survival.”
“You’re welcome,” the AI replied. Its voice in his ear was steady and unchanged, and it didn’t prepare him for the view on the other side of the hatch. He forced himself out and for the first time he stumbled, uncertain footing on the side of a vessel he shouldn’t know well enough to board, let alone fly.
“Further danger from the port engine is minimal,” the voice in his ear reported as he hit the ground. “Fifteen percent probability of explosive reactivity, mitigated by non-interference and completely shielded by keeping intact hull between you and it.”
Saryn had never been good at reading AI intent, but he did appreciate their willingness to answer questions. “Does that mean I should stay where I am?” he wanted to know.
“It means don’t touch it,” the AI replied, “and stay on the starboard side of the vehicle.”
“Thank you,” Saryn said. He pushed himself to his feet and stared up at the vehicle before turning to the horizon. The RAV monitors were still feeding to his helmet, and he could see direction and identifying features overlaid on the desert landscape.
He didn’t know what made him look up, but as soon as he did he found that the information wasn’t limited to his immediate environment. “I can see into space,” he said aloud. The rush of fighter vectors and RAV locations was dizzying, and with it came the overwhelming awareness of channel chatter.
“RAV 4,” Lyris’ voice said, and when Saryn turned his head he could see Lyris’ ship on approach. The bright “3” was a steady and reassuring blue light, somehow easy to distinguish even when he was staring at the sky. “I’m on a flyby; how are you doing? Injuries, critical damage?”
“RAV 3,” Saryn replied, wondering how much of his conversation with his own RAV had been broadcast to the others. “No injuries. My AI told me not to touch anything, so I assume the RAV damage is irreparable given current resources.”
“Where you are the resource,” the AI interrupted, “that assumption is correct.”
“My AI confirms,” Saryn added, “with the implication that I am the reason it can’t be fixed.”
“I didn’t imply that,” the AI told him. “I stated that outright.”
“Saryn, we’re running cleanup right now,” Lyris said. “Chances of anyone getting through the atmosphere to take a shot at you are pretty small, but if someone did, do you have defensive capability?”
“Yes,” his AI said.
“My AI says yes,” Saryn repeated. He could see Lyris’ RAV with his eyes now, a glittering speck that expanded rapidly and roared by overhead, slowing further as it arced around for another pass.
“Defensive plating is currently able to repel multiple targeted attacks,” the AI added, “and in-flight self-repair will be able to restore sufficient structural integrity that the vessel can return to base unassisted.”
“Can he hear you?” Saryn asked, watching the other RAV descend, rolling as it went with a flashy kind of ease that had to be deliberate. On impulse, he lifted his hand and waved.
“Lyris didn’t ask me,” the AI replied.
That might mean more than he understood, but he saw RAV 3 rock from side to side as it soared away and he knew Lyris was waving back. “Lyris, my AI says we’re fine,” Saryn said. “Thanks for the flyby.”
“Saryn, anytime,” Lyris’ voice replied. “Yell if you need help; we’re listening.”
“Saryn, are you arguing with your AI?” Jenna asked.
“Jenna,” Saryn replied with a smile, “are you diverting your attention from cleanup duties Lyris tells me everyone is on in order to entertain me?”
“Saryn, no,” Jenna replied. “I’m doing it to entertain myself, thanks very much. And be nice to shipboard AIs; they’re the ones that bring us home.”
“Incoming channel request from Emergency Ground Rescue,” the voice of the AI told him. It didn’t wait for him to confirm, but it gave the message priority over the other channels for its duration.
“RAV 4,” a new voice said. “This is Emergency Ground Rescue; do you need assistance?”
“Jenna,” Saryn said. “Standby. RAV 4, do we require assistance?”
There was an audible pause, and he wondered at it. Surely the RAV could carry on multiple exchanges simultaneously, and an external processing delay so drastic could indicate more damage than he’d previously been aware of. But the AI replied, “Your physical condition is stable, and the vessel is not in danger. I see no cause to divert ground rescue crews.”
“Emergency Ground Rescue,” Saryn said. “Assistance is not required; thank you.”
“RAV 4,” the voice replied immediately. “EGR acknowledges. Thank you for your service.”
He was caught off guard, not expecting the gratitude to be reciprocated. He couldn’t remember any standard Ranger reply. He hoped saying nothing was the lesser offense in this scenario. Kris would no doubt explain his error later.
“RAV 4,” he said instead. At least he didn’t have to worry about offending the AI. “You hesitated. What does that mean?”
“It means I didn’t expect you to ask that,” the AI replied immediately, “and I wanted you to know.”
“RAV 4,” Saryn said, because this conversation might not make sense to anyone else and he didn’t want to find out. “Did you deliberately modify your pattern of speech to convey organic confusion?”
“You say that like organic beings are the only ones who can be confused,” the AI replied. “Yes, I’m altering the way I talk to you to convey additional information based on your apparent attention and receptivity.”
“Saryn,” Lyris’ voice cut in. “You have cameras on you. If you don’t want them to know who you are, keep your helmet on.”
He looked up instinctively, and his visor responded to his focus the same way the RAV monitors seemed to. It scrolled through civilian ground stop orders, sorting and appropriately flagging non-military aircraft and satellites, until the source of attention froze in front of his eyes: a relay station with non-comm scanning capability.
He shouldn’t wave. He knew it even as he did it, and he did it anyway.
“Saryn,” Lyris said, and he was delighted. He was on the verge of laughter, and Saryn wasn’t hearing that in his voice. “You and Kris are like the same person.”
“Lyris,” Saryn said. He couldn’t keep from smiling with the feeling. “Are you watching the news from a Ranger Assault Vehicle engaged in active combat?”
“Saryn, do you doubt my ability to do two things at once?” Lyris countered. “You might want to tell your RAV to clear the--yeah,” he said, presumably in response to something he was seeing. “Never min
d.”
“Tell him I know how not to broadcast technical vulnerabilities to the enemy,” the voice of his AI said. “Unlike civilian monitoring agencies with more curiosity than common sense.”
“Lyris, my AI says it knows what it’s doing,” Saryn said. Deliberately he added, “Did you also want me to convey your disparaging comment about civilian cameras, or was that just for me?”
The AI clearly recognized a rhetorical question, and it sounded remarkably pleased when it replied, “I think I’m going to like working with you, Saryn.”
“RAV 4, I think that’s very optimistic,” Saryn said, “considering Kris’ current opinion of me.”
“I don’t think it’s Kris you have to worry about,” the AI said unexpectedly. “Ask Timmin to help you with repairs. You can tell him I told you to if you can’t think up any other reason.”
“Timmin?” Saryn repeated.
He realized what he’d done when Timmin’s voice replied, “Saryn, you all right?”
“Timmin, yes,” Saryn answered. “My AI was just telling me I should seek your advice when it comes to RAV repairs.”
“Saryn,” Timmin’s voice replied. “That’s flattering, I guess. Happy to help.”
“Timmin, thank you,” Saryn said, because that was the appropriate response to agreement, even if he didn’t know why he was asking for it in the first place. “RAV 4, why am I engaging with Timmin, who is so far the only person on the team I haven’t managed to offend simply by existing?”
“Your reaction indicates a potentially causal relationship with my suggestion,” the AI replied. “Structural integrity is now sufficient for lift and atmospheric thrust.”
“RAV 4, why did you suggest it,” Saryn replied. He didn’t know why it was playing games; the AI clearly understood the distinction between a literal question and the speaker’s intent.
“Social interaction isn’t an area where I have much practical experience,” the AI said. “But lengthy observation indicates Lyris is more comfortable in the company of Timmin than Kris. Your difficulty integrating with this team seems to be due to conflict with Lyris. Timmin’s good opinion might weigh in your favor, given that he is, as you say, the only one you haven’t offended.”
“Rangers,” Kris’ voice announced. “System clear. Thank you, Calijyt.”
“Elisia,” the voice from Calijyt replied. “Your defense is our defense. We’re here when you need us.”
“Calijyt, your defense is our defense,” Kris echoed. “Safe travel. Wing 3, you’re with RAV 3 on system patrol. All other E-wings, stand down.”
The AI in his ear repeated, “This vessel is capable of returning to base.”
“RAV 4, I heard you,” Saryn said. “Why is Lyris assigned to system patrol?”
“Because he was on duty,” the AI replied. “Timmin’s RAV requires ground repair and his wing is severely compromised. Lyris’ RAV status is stronger and his wing is largely intact. With you grounded and Jenna’s assigned wing unfamiliar with her leadership, Lyris is the logical choice when Kris must be publicly available.”
Saryn turned back toward the RAV. “RAV 4,” he said, “you are exceptionally helpful. Do you advise re-entering through the ventral escape hatch, or is the port entry stable?”
“Ventral hatch,” the AI said. “Port airlock is almost inaccessible, and using it will set back emergency repairs.”
“Understood,” Saryn said. He could only hope the climb, if it was captured on relay cameras, looked more graceful than his initial clumsy descent. He supposed he would know by tomorrow.
He noticed his helmet visor clear somehow as he re-entered the cockpit. The moment he turned to cast an eye over the monitors, they lit up with stats and signals that he could feel disappearing from his internal suit display. It was an interesting technical symbiosis, especially given that the flight suit had been assigned to him independent of the RAV. The RAV’s AI must coordinate the data transfer.
“Saryn,” Jenna said, her voice overriding the background chatter of Lyris’ wing. It was only when she spoke that he realized he was hearing it at all, and it disappeared as she continued, “We’re on our way back. Need a ride?”
“Jenna, I appreciate the offer,” he replied. The thrusters powered up without his conscious direction, and a pre-approved vector appeared on his display. “My AI assures me we’ll make the trip without additional damage.”
“Saryn, see you there,” Jenna answered.
The RAV lifted steadily from what he could see on the screens, and the thrusters compensated for uneven drag without complaint. The most disconcerting part of the journey turned out to be the transition from day to night as he crossed back into darkness on the way to Ranger Operations. It was as though a piece of space reached down into the atmosphere to welcome the RAV home.
The deep sense of fondness he felt at that thought was as unexpected as it was inexplicable. He had no connection to the RAVs beyond his very recent firsthand appreciation for their capabilities, and he certainly had no reason to think of Ranger Operations as home. When he followed the track with his eyes again, all he saw was a familiar surface settlement and a nighttime reminder that he’d been called out of bed for a job he still hadn’t admitted to taking.
“Saryn, it’s me,” Lyris’ voice said. Nothing else followed, and Saryn looked around as his RAV limped into the waiting bay. He was the first one back, his prior landing giving him a proximate advantage despite the damage.
“Lyris,” he said, identifying RAV 3 on the system display. “I hear you.”
Lyris’ voice sounded amused when it returned. “Saryn, I mean, it’s me thinking that the base is welcoming you back.”
He considered that while none of his instrumentation seemed to power down. He couldn’t tell if it was because he was still paying attention to it, so it continued to supply him with information, or because emergency repairs were ongoing even inside the security of the RAV bay. The doors were still open. He could see Jenna on approach even as he watched Wing 3 fan out into escort formation on either side of Lyris.
“Lyris,” he said at last, “it’s possible that if you have to tell me that, we’re not as closely connected as you think.”
It was a deliberately antagonistic remark, delivered with the intent to amuse. If all Lyris was hearing was his words, he would likely consider it a rebuff. If he was aware of Saryn’s curiosity, even at so great a distance, he might laugh.
“Saryn,” Lyris replied immediately. He didn’t laugh, but neither did he sound offended. “Believe me when I say I wish that was the truth.”
“Lyris,” Saryn said. “I don’t doubt you. There is nothing you’ve said that I question.”
He meant it exactly the way it sounded, and he was painfully aware that Lyris knew it too. Lyris understood the concession he was making with that statement. He must also know how reluctant Saryn was to be more explicit.
Lyris didn’t answer, watching his wing and trying to ignore anything Saryn might think. Or anything he might think about Saryn. It was just as likely to be his own thoughts he was trying to keep separate.
A whistle startled him out of Lyris’ mind, and for a moment Saryn thought there was someone else in the cockpit with him. Jenna’s voice followed, though, and he placed her outside the hull as soon as she spoke. “You really did a number on this RAV,” she said. “No pun intended.”
“My AI tells me it can be fixed,” Saryn said, releasing the harness and patting the arm of his chair as he stood. “I’m not allowed to use the airlock in the meantime.”
“Don’t know why you’d need to,” Jenna’s voice replied. “There’s no way this holds an atmosphere. I can literally see through the hull, Saryn.”
“Apparently structural integrity is compromised when the engine explodes,” Saryn said, pulling himself out through the ventral hatch and pausing there to look for her.
She lifted her head just as he looked down, and he couldn’t see her expression through her helmet but he knew sh
e smiled. “Now we know,” she said.
“RAVs 1 and 2 are incoming,” the voice of the AI warned him, and Saryn looked back the way they’d come in time to see Kris’ RAV clear the bay doors. Timmin was right behind her, but the displacement of air as they glided past and settled to the deck was minimal.
Saryn had no desire to be chastised for personal chatter on the Ranger channel again, but he also didn’t want to climb off of his RAV carrying his helmet. He left it on until his feet hit the deck. Jenna had come around to meet him, but she must have removed her helmet on the way and he was very ready to breathe fresh air again.
“RAV 4,” he said, after he cracked the seal but before he removed the helmet entirely. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“Saryn,” the voice of the AI replied, “it was my pleasure.”
He pulled the helmet off with no small amount of relief, and he smiled at Jenna’s critical once-over. “You look mostly alive,” she said, catching his eye again. “Congratulations on surviving whatever you did to your RAV.”
“Pilot error, I’m sure,” he said. “You also look alive, and I’m equally pleased.”
She smiled back at him. “I didn’t say I was pleased.”
“I inferred it,” he told her.
“Well,” she said, stepping close enough that she could put her hand on his chest and pat his flight suit. “Keep it up.”
He lifted his hand to cover hers before she could pull it away. “You too,” he told her.
Part 4: Ambassador
The ready room was brightly lit even in the middle of the night, illumination mimicking the flood of desert sun through surface vents and mirrors. The holographic matrix showed the second ambush, while Lyris’ system patrol had been relegated to one of the upper monitors. Kris had two independent EPD channels muted and a lit camera she told Saryn to stay away from.
“Do you have any medical experience?” she was asking Jenna.
“Field Medic Level 2,” Jenna said. “Surface survival and fighter first aid.”