The Dyson File, page 6
Self-replicators were also one of the few things Isaac knew Susan feared, so much so that she’d almost ripped her own uniform off when its smart fabric became contaminated. She’d mistaken a harmless gangster virus for something far more sinister, but fortunately, he’d been able to talk her down before she stripped in front of the SSP squad.
“Technically, Atlas does use self-replicators,” Isaac said, “but those machines—their constructors—are significantly larger than your average microbot.”
“How much larger?”
“It varies. Sometimes they’re hundreds of meters across.”
“Good enough for me. It’s when they’re microscopic that those things give me the creeps.”
“Atlas was actually in the news today,” Isaac said. “They won the Dyson contract, which was a heavily contested competition between them and rival company SourceCode. That’s a massive coup for Atlas, since the Dyson Project stands to be the largest macrotech endeavor in SysGov history.”
“What’s Atlas been up to recently? Besides shooting for the Dyson contract?”
“Not sure. Cephalie?”
His IC popped into existence, seated precariously atop one of the virtual screens.
“The Atlas mobile headquarters is currently down near Janus.” Cephalie stood up and paced across the top of the screen. “They’re busy executing a contract for an expansion to Janus’ power and propulsion systems, as well as building up the basic framework for what will become the Fourth Engine Block city, situated around the reactors and thrusters. The main engine assemblies are going in along the trailing edge of the Shark Fin, beneath the Third Engine Block, which is itself situated below the Second Engine Block.” She shrugged. “I think you get the idea.
“Setting the Dyson contract aside, Atlas used to be a much bigger deal than they are now. They’re Saturn-based, which by itself is unusual for a major player in the megastructure scene; most of those companies are headquartered around Earth or Jupiter. Atlas dates back to the founding of Janus-Epimetheus. That’s where they made a name for themselves and built their initial fortune. The company expanded from there, though they’ve hit something of a slump recently, focusing on smaller projects while losing numerous bids to their competitors.”
“Which would make the Dyson contract even more important for them,” Susan said.
“It goes a bit beyond that.” Cephalie floated down to Isaac’s shoulder. “The scale of the Dyson swarm’s construction will keep them busy—and guarantee their income—for centuries. They’ve just become the envy of the entire macrotech industry.”
“And Velasco was one of their top engineers,” Susan said. “Who, all of a sudden, decides to ventilate his own head. How should we approach this?”
“Simple,” Isaac said. “All suicides are treated as homicides until either we or the state police declare otherwise. And even if the SSP do declare it a suicide, we have the authority to overrule them.”
“Do you think there’s a chance this could be a homicide?”
“Not at the moment, but there are the occasional outliers that surprise us. If so, the autopsy will tell us more.”
“Would that be enough reason for SSP to call us? Wanting us to perform the autopsy?”
“Not usually. Our forensic equipment is better than theirs, but they’d typically handle a body like this on their own.”
“Which makes me wonder why we were called down there in the first place.”
“We’ll have to talk to Trooper Parks once we’re on site,” Isaac said. “And that brings up the question of transportation. There aren’t any regular flights that connect to the mobile headquarters, so I say we take a V-wing down.”
“Armed?”
“Uhh.” Isaac frowned at her.
“It did come in handy last time.”
“Susan, all we’re looking at is a trip down to Saturn and back. We’re not going to be shot at.” He paused, then added, “Again.”
“You never know.”
“But I’d say probability is in our favor.”
“You thought taking weapons last time was a bad idea, too.”
“I— Yes, you’ve got me there.”
“Those weapons saved our lives.”
“Technically, you saved our lives.”
“Right. Because I was armed to the teeth.”
“Susan—” He stopped and let out a resigned sigh. “Fine. I’ll ask for some guns on it.”
“Thank you.”
He opened a comm window. “Dispatch.”
“Dispatch here. What can I help you with, Detective?”
“I need to requisition a V-wing to take down to Janus, preferably one that’s ready to go. The case number is attached.” He glanced over at Susan. “Also, I’d like the V-wing to be armed, if possible.”
“Expecting some action, Detective?”
“I hope not.”
“Let me see what’s ready to deploy. Yes, here we are. One V-wing powered and loaded with a standard defensive package. It’s ready to go in Hangar Three-Twenty-Two. Shall I reserve it for you?”
“Yes, please.”
“Very good. There. The V-wing is yours. I’ve added the keycodes to your case log. Anything else I can do for you? Will you need any accommodations while on Janus?”
“I don’t think so. We hope to be back on Kronos tonight. Thanks, Dispatch.”
“My pleasure.”
The comm window closed.
“Head out next?” Susan asked.
“Almost. I’m going to grab my overnight bag just in case this takes longer than we expect. Also, it wouldn’t hurt for us to head down with a forensics specialist. That way we can knock out any weird possibilities with the body or crime scene while we’re at it.”
“Don’t you normally request that through Dispatch?”
“True, but I have an alternative in mind.” He opened another comm window and waited for the response.
“Radiant Blaze Adventuring Services,” Nina answered. “You pay, we slay. Now accepting murder hobo applicants. Please click the link to apply for membership.”
“We are not murder hobos,” Isaac protested.
“Don’t judge. Radiant’s desperate now that all her partners have abandoned her.”
“You sound bored.”
“Wow! How astute! Are you a detective?”
“This is a serious call.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. What do you need?”
“How would you like a date with a corpse?”
“Depends. Work related?”
“Yes.”
“Will it get me off this station?”
“At least for a little bit.”
“Good enough for me.”
* * *
The variable-wing aircraft descended through the Saturn atmosphere as light from the distant sun caressed the cloud tops. Thunderheads of ammonia ice glowed almost golden in the new light, casting long, dark shadows behind them.
The V-wing braked through the atmosphere, its hull passing through wispy vapors above the storm clouds. The craft’s delta wing morphed outward, reforming into a narrow straight wing more appropriate for low speeds and higher maneuverability.
Isaac pressed his forehead against the canopy and glanced down at Janus-Epimetheus. He could see the megastructure’s upper crown, an oval expanse over two hundred kilometers long and covered from end to end in teardrop-shaped towers, one side of their glass and metal structures shining in the new day. The triangular body of the Shark Fin dipped down from that upper megacity, cutting through the Saturn clouds like the bow of a great white ship.
The fortieth northern parallel was a zone of relative calm on Saturn. Travel too far north or south, and it wasn’t uncommon to experience regular windspeeds above four hundred kilometers per hour. But along Janus’ path, nestled between two great storm bands, the weather was far more manageable. Air pressure was one atmosphere at the top of Janus, though the megastructure was so tall the pressure climbed to ten atmospheres near the bottom, where reddish clouds of ammonium hydrosulfide replaced the surface weather of ammonia ice.
Lightning flashed from cloud to cloud and the V-wing lurched upward. Restraints bit into Isaac’s shoulders, and he grunted out a short exhale.
The V-wing flew across Janus’s long axis, just above the local traffic patterns. Aircraft and spaceships took off and landed in a constant ballet along the crown’s rim.
The V-wing glided past it all, then began a descending corkscrew behind the megastructure’s trailing edge. A trio of Janus’ huge thruster ports glowed blue, casting cool light over dark clouds too deep for the rising sun to have reached them at this hour.
A silvery object glinted below them, like a metal top following Janus through the clouds.
“Is that Atlas?” Susan asked.
“That’s it,” Isaac said. “The Atlas mobile headquarters. Cephalie?”
His IC appeared on the dash.
“Have you spoken with Atlas traffic control?”
“I have. We’re cleared for landing.”
“Thank you. Take us in.”
The V-wing dipped down, closing with the mobile headquarters. The structure’s upper surface was segmented into large hexagonal plates. Some of the hexagons were missing, revealing recessed machinery pits. One hexagon detached from headquarters and lifted upward on graviton thrusters. Two of its sides were open, exposing a cavern of intricate mechanisms. The hexagonal plate leaned in the direction of Janus and accelerated toward a gaping hole in the trailing edge, situated below the Third Engine Block’s massive thruster nozzles.
“Macrotech constructors?” Susan asked.
“That’s right,” Nina said. “Working on the Fourth Engine Block.”
“Pretty big for something that can self-replicate.”
“And they can get bigger,” Isaac said. “As I understand it, they can merge when they need to work on larger projects.”
The V-wing banked inward. A hangar near the facility’s midsection yawned open, and the V-wing glided inside. The outer door sealed shut behind them, and the air cycled.
* * *
Isaac checked in with an Atlas representative, transmitted his badge to verify his identity, and then followed her directions to the hangar with the SSP quadcopter. Susan, Nina, and one drone trailed him.
The drone was his LENS, which stood for Lawful Enforcement and Neutralization System. It was a standard-issue Themis device that Cephalie controlled for him when in the field. The spherical drone resembled a floating metallic eye slightly larger than his head and could perform a wide variety of functions by manipulating its fast-reacting prog-steel exterior. It also contained a number of internal systems in addition to its small graviton thruster, allowing it to perform support tasks such as light forensics work or infostructure hacking.
The hangar was the next one over, so they didn’t have far to walk.
The SSP quadcopter was a low, roughly oval vehicle surrounded by four outboard propellers encased in cylindrical shields. The front and back were dark green around a black-and-white checkered midsection with the copter and precinct numbers on the hood, sides, and, Isaac assumed, the belly. This was quadcopter thirty-seven from the Third Engine Block’s 103rd Precinct.
Two members of the state police waited for them, a physical sergeant and an abstract trooper. Sergeant Chatelain leaned with his back against the copter side door, arms crossed. He did not look happy to be there.
In contrast, Isaac thought he saw a hint of shy eagerness in Trooper Parks’ dark green eyes. A shade of green, he noted, that matched the individual’s uniform. He doubted that was a coincidence.
The AC’s avatar began to approach them but stopped when Susan entered the hangar. His expression soured, eagerness coming into conflict with trepidation. Isaac and the others stopped next to the copter.
“Sergeant. Trooper.” Isaac greeted them each with a curt nod. “I’m Detective Cho. This is my deputy, Agent Cantrell, and behind us is Specialist Cho, who’ll handle any forensics work while we’re here.”
“Cho and Cho?” Chatelain’s mouth twisted as if he were chewing on the inside of his cheek. “You two related?”
“That’s right.”
“How quaint.”
“Sergeant, we’re here in response to an SSP support request. Shall we get down to business?”
“Look, I know why you’re here. However, there’s a slight problem.”
“Which is?”
“I seem to recall canceling the request. Were you aware of that?”
“Yes. I read the call transcript.”
“Then you should know I don’t believe there’s any point in you being here.”
“Your opinion seems clear in the matter.”
“So why are you here?”
“Sergeant, you’re free to complain about the situation all you want. Our work will proceed with or without your help, but that work will go more smoothly—and you’ll be free to leave sooner—if you stow that attitude of yours for the time being.”
“Yeah, yeah. No need to get pushy about it. I know how you Themis types enjoy throwing your weight around.”
“Then shall we get on with it?”
“Sure.” He put on a smile devoid of warmth. “Whatever you want, name it. It’s not like we have any other places we need to be.”
“Let’s start with the initial call. Trooper Parks?”
The abstract trooper didn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on Susan and a worried grimace on his face.
“Trooper?” Isaac prompted once more.
“Yeah?” He continued to watch Susan.
“I’d like to discuss your call to SysPol, if that’s all right.”
“Okay . . . ”
“Is there a problem, Trooper?”
He finally tore his gaze away from Susan. “I guess not.”
“Then, if you don’t mind, let’s start with the reasoning behind your call.”
“The suicide felt wrong to me.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“It doesn’t make sense. Velasco killed himself right after news came in that Atlas had won the Dyson contract. Why would he do that?”
“A good question. Which means part of our task will be to establish a plausible motive for the suicide. What else?”
“I . . . ” Parks seemed to struggle with his own thoughts for a moment, then shrugged. “No, that was it.”
“I see. We’ll need access to the body and the crime scene.”
Chatelain slapped the copter door, and it slid open. He made an exaggerated welcoming gesture toward the interior.
“The body’s all yours.”
“I’ll call one of my drones over and get to work.” Nina opened an abstract interface and began inputting commands.
“Thank you.” Isaac turned to the troopers. “Would one of you care to show us to the crime scene?”
“Parks will.” Chatelain slapped the AC on the back. His hand may have moved through empty air, but his wetware interfaced with Parks’ AC to create the illusion of a connection, and the trooper’s avatar stumbled forward.
He turned back to the sergeant with a worried expression.
“Go on.” Chatelain shooed him away. “This is what you wanted.”
“I guess you’re right.” He gave Susan one more wary glance, then shook his head and made a beckoning gesture at the copter. A conveyor drone detached from the copter’s roof and hovered down to him. “Come on. It’s this way.”
* * *
Isaac passed through the police cordon and rounded the desk in Velasco’s office. The chair was the first object to draw his eye with a chunk missing from the headrest, followed by the shallow divots in the floor and back wall where evidence samples had been collected by SSP. Susan and two drones followed him in, and Parks materialized beside the desk.
“Let’s see it, Trooper,” Isaac said, watching the empty chair.
Velasco’s body and the scattered contents of his head took form in their shared virtual vision, superimposed upon the reality of the room. Isaac drew in a breath, then let out a slow exhale as he gazed down at the dead man’s face, its mouth agape, eyes open and rolled back into the skull.
He was no stranger when it came to death; his time with Raviv as a deputy detective had exposed him to a wide variety of dead bodies, and that experience had imparted a certain degree of callousness when it came to working around corpses.
But that exposure didn’t make him ignorant to reality. He was staring at the end of a life, the end of someone’s story, and he could almost feel death’s cold fingers glide along his spine. Hours ago, this shape had been a living, breathing human being, but violence had robbed it of vitality, reducing it to an inert sack of water, proteins, fats, and minerals.
He found organic bodies the worst. In contrast, there was something sterile about a synthoid body. No blood. No flesh. No bones. Just broken machinery, sometimes wrapped in a facsimile of organic life. Abstract deaths were even more intangible. Not even a body to recover for those, just the absence of data in an infostructure.
He supposed the permanence of organic death contributed to his feelings as well. Synthoid and AC deaths weren’t always permanent. Some citizens elected to save copies of their connectomes in mindbanks as protection against unexpected death, but modern science provided no such options to organic citizens because the transition from organic to synthetic was a one-way trip.
Organic bodies still bothered him, still elicited a primal, emotional response in him, a sense of sadness and loss and regret, even if his experience and professionalism provided a buffer against those feelings.
Desensitized but not immune, he concluded for himself.
He glanced over at Susan. She’d elected to transition at the tender age of twenty-three when most people took the leap sometime after their first century. She hadn’t even been an adult by SysGov reckoning when her connectome had been read by the Admin. She’d willingly thrown away decades of her natural life to be transformed into a living weapon, a decision she could never reverse.
He wondered if she ever regretted the choice.
She crouched next to the blood splatter, a forearm on her knee as she took the pattern in.
“That’s a significant amount of spray,” she said. “What’d he hit himself with?”
