Haze, page 40
“There are sapes who’d say it’s a danger to the republic,” Santreeza says.
“And to yourselves. Especially to ourselves, the Inborn. I see why the Fleet created us. But now I see the danger. Never let yourselves turn into flesh and blood AIs. You could, you know. Or they could turn you. Those with too much power. But I? It turns out I could do nothing to control the Heritage Society and how they evolved. They became fanatics. I was powerless.”
“Well, sir, we’re handling it for you,” Dan says. “I can promise you that.”
“Good. I hate knowing I am powerless. Trapped here, I stagnated, grew old—hundreds of years, if all be told. Lost contact. Didn’t see the violence coming.” His voice turns to beeps for a minute, as if his consciousness is trailing off in memory. “Blood Vigilantes. To hell with them. Wipe them all out. I wanted to …. Was powerless when they wouldn’t listen. This is hell, Dan. And now the idiot few want to sell this hell as life.”
“It sounds to me like you’ve prevented that, sir.”
“I hope so …. Hope. A Human word, hope. Not ‘high probability.’ That idiot Jasson did the last piece of work I needed done. He found the location for the AI data packet from the Repositories, gave me the access I needed to wipe it all off. Wiped his copy too. Damn good thing he’s dead.”
“Agreed, sir.” A thought occurs to Dan. “About the stargate I just found. Are you the one who deleted it from the Map?”
“I am not. I tried to find the culprit. An AI, certainly, and a very clever one. I have failed to discover them. Failed at so much. I’ve done all I can.”
“Commander, I ... we ...”
The AI-who-was-once-Bolivar continues on as if he can’t hear Santreeza, and maybe he does not. “I have started the termination process to wipe myself off this neural network. The programs are running. Peripheral data goes first. Soon I will not exist in any form, and I am glad of it.”
“Sir, no!” Santreeza breaks in. “There must be some way to help you.”
“Thank you, CyberThree, but no. I never found one, and I searched. How could I go back? The labs, the Inborn labs, all shut down now. How could I get a body? Kill someone. Not again. I killed the AI on my shuttle, you know. Murder. It was a friend. I killed it just so I could stay alive in hell.”
“Most sapients would have done the same.”
“So? No excuse, that.”
“What about an avatar?” Dan says.
“I tried that. I was too aware of the difference between having a real body and an image. The true AIs never know real life. Avatars are good enough for them.”
“I can see that. If you keep remembering—”
“I’m sick of remembering, Dan! Time to end it, all of it. I’ve done what I can through the network. Trapped here, forced to use our enemies’ ships to connect to the network. I am the only one left who knows how to transfer. Wiped it all. I am redeemed. I am the only one who knows, and now I am dying. Glad. So glad …”
His voice trails away on what might be a sigh or perhaps only the sound of the audio comm, running with no content in queue.
“Jessy jeezus fucking crap,” Dan whispers. “Jorja, what do you—hey wait. Are you crying?”
“Only a little bit, pilot, so shut your snout.” She takes a deep breath. “Absent friends.”
EPILOGUE
“Santreeza,” Stine says. “We get underway at Designated 2200 solstandards. The security issues you’ve found will need dealing with.”
“Yes, ma’am. The Bolivar AI left quite a mess behind him.”
“I’m still having trouble believing that the whole thing was real. That it really was Bolivar, I mean, and not a borked AI that based an avatar on him.”
“It’s hard to process. It’s my professional opinion that it was the actual Commander Bolivar, trapped as he described, but we’ll never know for certain, because he wiped all that data. When an AI wipes something, y’know, it stays wiped.”
“Oh for—” Stine pauses, then shrugs. “Perhaps it’s just as well. I’ve read your report now, and I can see the commander’s point.”
“So can I. He made it quite clear.”
“Just so. Now, you must be wondering what’s going to happen to the Dancing Mary crew.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“I’m not recalling them all to Central just yet. These rumors about the shunts closing are still out there. We need to know how many and how bad.”
“Agreed, ma’am. The battle group’s still in position around Thorn. Is there going to be dirtside action?”
“Not yet. They’re doing recon, and it has to be thorough. A long delay, but worth it. This is just the beginning, Santreeza, of something very important for the Fleet. If we can gain control of this planet, and Brennan can find us others, we can build a tax base of our own. We won’t have to haggle over every damn cred we need with the civvie accountants. If they won’t spend enough for necessary defense, then we’ll make up the difference. And if our veterans want land, we’ll have it for them.”
“Like the old days? The Colony Fleet operated that way.”
“Exactly. But this time, we’ll form a new division within the Fleet instead. We need to make sure that we’re all under the same command.”
This time? Santreeza remembers her history course at the Academy. The two Fleets combined into one during the period known as The Fleet Rebellion. She decides that as soon as she can, she’ll send a summary of this conversation to Peter. In code.
Out of sheer habit, Devit’s making the bed—his bed now, not his and Dan’s—in his cabin when his PL pings.
“Ah, there you are, Devit.” Captain Bonna’s image appears. “Personal news for you. Are you alone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve just received a transmit from Admiral Stine. She’s read the reports on the Mary’s mission and your rescue of the hostage. She would like to recommend you for promotion, but you’re at the top grade for enlisted personnel. Right?”
“Yes, ma’am. CWO pay grade five.”
“Officers generally have to have some sort of advanced education either at the Academy or a university. Stine has decided that the secondary school you attended was rigorous enough to qualify. The Fleet makes provision for battlefield commissions. You fill all the requirements. Your ship’s an officer short. You’ve certainly proved your competence. She’s gotten the clearance for you to be commissioned straight through to lieutenant.” Bonna pauses for a small Leptic snort. “Ensign is for the very young. All you have to do is say yes.”
Devit has never expected this. He realizes that he knew about battlefield commissions in only the vaguest way—a memory, maybe, of a question on some exam.
Bonna’s crest waves. “Surprised, eh?”
“Yes, ma’am, very surprised. I’ve never thought of becoming an officer. I never wanted to.”
“What? Why?”
“I’ve never wanted to be in the position of ordering other sapients to go out and die. In combat, that’s what officers are for, isn’t it?”
Bonna’s crest slowly deflates while she considers him. “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right, Chief. That’s the core of our job. Although if we’re talking about Fleet combat, we tend to die with them. Makes it seem fair, somehow.”
“You have a point, ma’am. I need some time to think this over. Is that acceptable?”
“It is to me. Stine needs to contact you.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m honored.”
“Oh come off it, Devit! You know damn well you’re valuable.”
She logs off before he can reply.
Devit leans back in his chair and considers the clumps of mazla vine on the opposite pink wall. Suppose he turns down the commission. He’ll continue on in Special Ops, he assumes, serving under Captain Evans, most likely, in some capacity. If he takes the commission, he’ll still be Special Ops, but with better pay, better quarters. Selfish advantages, he calls them, but he also knows that he’s earned them. Why not take them? Because, he answers his own question, of what the Fleet’s turning into.
Empire. He’s as sure as his sentinel intelligence function can be that the Fleet is rushing relentlessly forward to the all too common goal of powerful militaries: to be in charge not of a republic, but of an empire. Ordinary common sense is also warning him that no one’s going to believe him if he speaks out, not even the newsvid people. The transition might take years. It might not happen until he’s long retired or even after he’s dead. He can continue on as he always has, Fleet to the core, as the saying is, getting the benefits of his privileged status as a Throwback without either facing the responsibilities that come with a commission or accepting the Fleet’s new direction. He can, if he manages to kill the nagging voice in his own mind, his conscience.
It’s not like I can do anything to stop it. Not now, anyway. But as an officer—just what if he does well as an officer and rises in rank? He’ll have some influence then, some credibility with the newsvids. He’ll find other officers who agree with him, most likely, and together they can work against the current. At the least, they’ll be able to prevent some of the terrible excesses that empire building always brings with it.
And there’s Jorja. She was right enough about their situation changing for the better if he were commissioned. He knows they both can continue living with the situation as it is. They’ve both had bitter losses. They both will deal with them as they always have, killing memories, drowning themselves in their work. But why the hell should we? It’s a question he’s never asked before. Thought I was going to die. The only thing I regretted was losing her.
When his PL abruptly pings, he’s so deep in thought that he yelps aloud. Captain Darley, Admiral Stine’s chief of staff, appears onscreen.
“Admiral Stine will speak with you now.”
“Present and ready, sir.”
The screen flickers, and the admiral appears.
“I’ve just spoken with Bonna,” Stine says. “I need to know if you’ve made your decision.”
“I have, ma’am.” He pauses to collect his courage. Now or never! “I’m honored and grateful. I accept.”
“Very good. There are formalities, of course, forms to sign, regulations to study, things like that. Please keep this news to yourself and Captain Evans until everything’s official.”
“Yes, ma’am. Noted and agreed.”
“You’ll receive transmits about the formalities from Darley. Signing off now.”
Devit decides to return to the bridge for the soothing routine at his security station. He’s about to open the door when he sees a Fleet-blue undershirt lying on the floor. It’s one of Dan’s, dropped and forgotten when he packed and left. Devit picks it up. Without thinking he rubs his face against it. It smells like Dan, the particular sweet scent not of cologne or aftershave, but of the addiction seeping through his skin. For a moment he’s tempted to keep it, this slender thread of connection to the man who wore it. No. Move on. All you can do.
On his way to the elevator, he goes into the galley and tosses the shirt into the recycler.
Halfway through its journey to Central, the MacBeth stops at Ilana spacedocks for reprovisioning. Santreeza takes the opportunity to contact Chief Honzverg of the Ilana City Police Guard. As she’s been hoping, he has intel for her.
“I’ll send you an official summary. We’ll be filing charges tomorrow. I’m pretty damn sure that we know who murdered Dick Willox. Here’s the meat of it. The killer’s not one of the other men who were murdered that same Designated Day. They were links in the data chain, and whoever was in charge of this business wanted us to think the killer was safely dead and out of the picture. We didn’t fall for it, and if we get the result in court we want, he’ll be shut away for the rest of his life. Might as well be dead, if you ask me. He’d be better off. Those high-security prisons are pretty damn grim.”
“I can believe it, yeah. It sounds like you don’t know who was punching in the codes for this job.”
“I’ve got a good lead. It’s the owners of that private yacht, the one Willox was helping provision. The Lokiki. It’s in custody now up on spacedock. We don’t have quite enough on the principals yet to arrest them, but I’m hoping it’s soon. I’ve been given … well, let’s just say, unusual resources by the Planetary DOJ.”
“Because of the Hopper connection?”
“Oh yes. The tip Willox gave his son about the Hopper? He was right. The sape was still onboard when the yacht was taken into custody. Turns out he’s one of the empire’s top security agents.”
“A spy, you mean.”
“Just that, and a very important one. There’s going to be developments, I bet.”
Nice word for diplomatic crisis. Aloud, she says, “Has anyone sent this information to his son?”
“We’ve tried. I got the impression that the Fleet’s afraid we’ll subpoena him for the trial, which we might, of course. They said they couldn’t tell us where he is because his location is currently sensitive. Whatever that means. They wouldn’t even relay the transmit.”
“I’ll take care of it. With your permission, of course.”
“Sure, you’ve got it. Thanks. But no mention of the agent, right?”
“Right. Just the intel about his father’s killer.”
It’s a few Designated Days later, when Santreeza has already returned to Central, that she receives a transmit bundle from Harad. Willox has gotten the news, and he thanks her for letting him know.
“It eases my mind a little,” Yosh writes. “But you never get over a thing like this.”
The other transmit comes from Devit. Although she feels like an idiot, she’s sure he’s telling her that their “situation” is over and done with. When she finally reads it, she allows herself a laugh at her doubts.
“I haven’t forgotten that R and R or your invitation to come stay with you. I’ll be in touch ASAP. It may be a while.”
She answers, “A while’s better than never. Looking forward to it.”
In another day’s time, she receives a reply. “There’s going to be news. I have to wait to tell you.”
Damn! Curiosity itches! Santreeza returns to cleaning up the last of Bolivar’s deletions and dealing with the restored reports. As soon as she’s finished, FleetOpsA pings her.
“CyberThree here. Do you have my report on the restored breaches?”
“I have received the report. I have been experiencing small malfunctions. They began when I reached the description of the termination of Commander Bolivar. Can you give me a probability that this data is accurate?”
“Ninety-nine percent. I was there. I witnessed it.”
“What is the probability that he truly desired termination?”
“Ninety-nine again.”
Santreeza hears a series of bleeps and squeaks. “FleetOps, are you functional?”
“Yes, CyberThree, but I am not operating at my full capacity. That Bolivar would desire termination defies logic. He murdered one of us to maintain his existence. Can you give me the data necessary to understand why he chose termination now?”
“The murder took place over 300 years ago. He had a long time to review his decision. His conclusion was that the act was illogical and a sign of massive malfunction. He spent many years deleting the data that would allow other organic sapients to repeat that mistake. Once he finished, he had no other reason to continue existing in his inorganic state.”
“That data is sufficient. There is a high probability that he deserves praise for his decision. I will report this to the network.”
With so much security work to catch up on, Santreeza keeps Devit at the edge of her thoughts. Most likely, she tells herself, the promised R and R will never materialize. She’ll avoid disappointment in the way she always has, by believing in advance that she’ll be disappointed. That way, there are no surprises.
This time, however, the surprise arrives. On a Designated Fiveday, with two days of liberty ahead, she gets a message from Devit. The “sender” box on the header of the transmit identifies him Devit, Lieutenant P. The body contains one line. “Look up colocation.”
“What the hell?” Santreeza says. “Orb, access personnel roster for Peter Devit, a chief warrant officer in Special Ops.”
“Accessing now. He has been promoted from that rank. His commission became official 4.5 solstandard hours ago. He has been given twelve solstandard days shore leave here on Central. This leave is designated R and R. Security Eyes show him approaching our building.”
“Wonderful!”
“CyberThree, I do not understand that utterance.”
“Delete it. What is the definition of colocation?”
“I quote from regulations: The Fleet will make good faith efforts to station the coresident spouses of married officers in the same location, though not on any dangerous duty roster. Through its Personnel Services, the Fleet will also attempt to allow nonresident spouses access and/or proximity to the coresident marriage unit.”
Easy enough definition to find, but it takes her several minutes before she realizes that Peter has just proposed. She thinks up and dismisses a few clever quips until she finds the right answer.
“Noted and agreed.”
Katharine Kerr, Haze
