Freedom's Myth, page 17
part #3 of Freedom Saga Series
“Did you plan this?” asked Ulva.
“No, but I did expect something like this. Maybe not this soon, but it was inevitable. When Kids in the Band wrapped, there was a… mistake… in decommissioning the characters. Several of them woke up on the trip to processing.”
“That must have been awful for them. What happened?”
“They escaped. Back then, we used ground vehicles disguised to look period to move things on and off the set. They were computer-controlled because it was cheaper than training drivers. The kids escaped and started looking around. They followed the light to the then control town. Like Medwin’s group, they found the museum and learned of their reality.
“Trevor slit his wrists that night. He couldn’t face the truth. Kineta got as far as the edge of town before being shot by a retrieval team. Andy died of thirst trying to get to Divine knows where.”
“And you snuck Aunt Marcy out in the confusion,” said Ulva.
Michael looked shocked.
“Oh, come on. I’m not stupid. The clues are there if you look for them. I won’t tell. For the record, you’re right. Aunt Marcy proves everything you’re trying to say about clones being people.”
Michael nodded. “I just hope I get the message out in time. My long since ex-wife has teamed up with John. They are making things difficult.”
On the screen, Medwin took a deep, shuddering breath. The monitor for his grief dropped into the orange.
Ulva spared the other monitors a glance. “This is useless. The empathic feeds are just grief.”
“To be expected. Save it and phone them. Offer your condolences, tell them you received word from Armina’s parents and that this week’s session is postponed, and that they’ll get full pay.”
“They’ll never believe it. They know about us.” Ulva looked surprised.
“Yes, they’ll know. And maybe they’ll learn that it is someone as human as them sitting in the controller’s chair. A little kindness can do a great deal. When they get off the set region again, I want them to see people, not monsters. Rowan’s opinion of us is low enough for all of them. Good thing she loves Ryan and has to reconcile his past, or we’d likely have a sniper assassin after us.”
“You think Rowan would do that?” gasped Ulva.
“I think Rowan, as admirable as she is in many ways, can be more than a bit fanatical.” Mike chuckled. “I’ve lived with an eighty-five per cent parallel to her start-up personality and experience configuration for nearly fifty years. Trust me in this, don’t ever piss off your Aunt Marcy.”
* * *
The phone in the corner of the room rang. Obert looked at Medwin, who sat on the couch with his face in his hands, then stood, walked over, and picked it up.
“Hello, O’Hare residence.”
Pause.
“No, this is Medwin’s friend Obert.”
Pause.
“Ulva? Yes, we heard. How did you?”
Pause.
“Her parents, right.”
Pause.
“She’s here too.”
Pause.
“I understand. That’s probably a good idea.”
Pause.
“That is very nice of the studio.”
Pause.
“Yes, it is a tragedy. We’re all going to miss her.”
Pause.
“That’s very nice of you. I will.” He hung up the phone.
“Who?” asked Kendra.
“That was Ulva. She said she heard about Armina and that the focus group is postponed until next week, with full pay. She… She says she is sorry.”
“Sorry,” snapped Medwin. His face went red as he leapt off the couch.
“Medwin?” Kendra rushed to lay her hands on his chest.
Medwin gritted his teeth. Finally, he got himself under control. “See you tomorrow. I need some air.” He strode from the room without looking back.
“Where do you think he’s going?” asked Obert.
“Someplace dark, Obert. Someplace very dark,” replied Kendra.
Chapter Thirteen
The Other Shoe
Ryan opened the door to the junior officers’ quarters. The centre of the floor was occupied by what looked like a circular, above-ground swimming pool. A pump and filter unit hummed in the left corner of the room. A series of broad steps rose to the edge of the tank in the right corner. The octozoid’s land scuttling suit sat in the pool in front of the steps.
“Captain, you have come.” Jacques lifted his bulbous body out of the water.
“Sorry it took so long. The cargo in the bay wasn’t properly sorted.”
Jacques swished his tentacles. “It is I that apologizes for taking you from your work. I told your minion that my request was of a low priority.”
“I needed a break. What can I do for you?”
“First, my appreciation for your efforts towards my comfort. I feared that I would have to spend the voyage in my scuttling suit. I love scuttling, it is my favourite hobby. The beauty of a forest, the exotic life, but several days in succession would be a clam too big to swallow.”
“My pleasure.”
“I echoed in your file that you are an engineer.”
“Yes.” Ryan moved to the side of the tank and dabbled his fingers in the water. It was cool to the touch and smelled vaguely like the sea.
“Wonderful. If, at some point during the voyage, you could perform a maintenance on my scuttling suit, I would be appreciative. I have been waiting for transport for so long that the support enhancers on the right foreleg have begun to fail, and the oxygenation mix keeps slipping.”
“I’ll download the schematics before we leave and see what I can do.”
“Thank you.” Jacques swished his tentacles happily as his bulbous body pulsed. “I’ve often said that mammals are the nicest people. In my educational days, I conducted tours for air-breathing visitors to Quooo. They would don aquatic apparatus. I think it was called SCUBA, much like my scuttling suit, and I would guide them through the natural environment reserve. Homo sapiens always left extra work vouchers to thank me for my efforts. I understand it is one of your traditions.”
“Tipping. A gift given for when your service provider does a job of greater quality than the standard set by the employer.”
“An interesting tradition. It paid for my first scuttling suit.” Jacques bobbed in the water.
“Why is everything so delayed? Every person going to supply aid except Pikeman tells me they were due to go months ago.”
“The last ship cancelled its service. I am told Star Searcher insisted they take more cargo than they could carry for a remuneration less than their expenses. When the news was released that a pirate had taken the vessel that preceded them, the captain chose to accept the Republic judges’ alternative sentence. Your legal problems—which I think make a bad crab of justice, you should have been absolved—are a rich field of crabs for Star Searcher. That sentient knows you are in a cave with only one opening.”
“Thank you. Things are making more sense now. Why didn’t I hear about the pirates?” Ryan drummed his fingers on the edge of the pool.
“Please don’t do that,” said Jacques.
“Sorry, bad habit.” Ryan stilled the motion.
“As to your question. Star Searcher did all it could to suppress the information. I only learned of it because I had a cave sibling on the ship that was attacked. She returned to the station in an escape pod, having eaten her own tentacles to survive.” Jacques pulled his tentacles close around the central mouth at the bottom of his bulbous body.
“Not pleasant.” Ryan’s handheld beeped. He took it from its belt holster and checked the screen. “Stardust! I need to get back to work. I’ve just been informed by Star Searcher that I have to be out of the loading hangar by twenty-three hundred hours.”
“If someone ate that crab, the galaxy would be a better place,” remarked Jacques. “We will converse later, Captain.”
* * *
Medwin went to the basement of his building and moved to the storage space for his mother’s apartment. He took his keychain from his pocket. Armina had given it to him on his birthday. It was just a ring with a piece of leather that had the image of a falcon pressed into it. He paused, staring at the gift. A long minute later, he unlocked the locker and stepped in. His father’s dress uniform hung in a clear plastic bag. A photo album with pictures from the science fiction club in grade nine sat on a shelf. Medwin pushed his feelings aside and moved to the back of the room. A compound bow with a quiver of arrows hung on the wall.
“Camp was fun.” Medwin paused, knowing that the camp experience he remembered was just the echo of some other clone’s memory. “Here’s hoping I can do it.”
Medwin took down the bow and arrows.
* * *
Ryan stepped onto the upper hull of the Star Hawk. Looking down, he saw a jumble of cargo containers. Taking a rope that had been strung between the upper hatch and the ramp leading to the E.S.T.C. transfer system, he walked down to the platform.
Rowan was feeding an E.S.T.C into the system. “This is the last of the E.S.T.C.s from our official cargo.”
“Good. We won’t need to sort out the rest from that periodic mess. Just grab an E.S.T.C., scan its bar code, and slot it in.”
“How’s Jacques?” Rowan moved into Ryan’s arms and hugged him, resting her face on his shoulder.
“Fine, he just wants me to take a look at his scuttling suit.”
“He could have told me that.” Rowan nestled into the embrace.
“He’s from a tropical tribe. Octozoids from the equatorial regions are very precise with manners. He wanted to thank me for setting up his quarters. He needed a good reason to request I drop in since we are only acquaintances.” Ryan shrugged without breaking the embrace. “It’s a cultural thing. Cold water octozoids tend to be less formal.”
There was the sound of a bang. “Stardusted, nova blasted, rotted fruit husk of a rotting carcass, tricky fish thing!” Ryan and Rowan looked to see Tim bending over and rubbing his leg. A moment later, he limped up the ramp into the Star Hawk with a crate on grav-lifts.
“That’s profanity from four species. He’s learning something anyway,” remarked Rowan.
Ryan nodded. “He should have learned some things earlier. We should clear the E.S.T.C.s. It will get rid of the clutter. Where’s Wispy?”
“A big piece of his leg cartilage fell off about an hour ago. He went to his quarters. Didn’t you notice the quiet?” Rowan led the way to the hangar floor.
Hours later, Ryan pushed an E.S.T.C. onto the transport track and watched as it disappeared into the Star Hawk. He could still see the back of the container when the track retracted into the ship, then the outer hull sealed over it.
“Full up, hotty boss. You’re sharing quarters with sixteen of my maintenance robots. I’m sure Rowan will put you up if you ask nicely,” remarked Henry through the speaker on Ryan’s handheld.
“It’s a start.” Looking over the hangar bay, Ryan could still see a jumble of containers, but only a couple of E.S.T.C.s. Several cargo cases not assigned to their shipment were stacked against the wall to make room. Most of the rest were random stacks on the floor. Descending the access ramp, he moved to look in the hangar bay. What met his gaze was a solid wall of cargo containers. Krakkeen hung from the roof over the cargo ramp area, dangling a line of what looked like silk. Tim and Rowan positioned a k-no-in shipping container on the end of the line with grav-lifts underneath it. Krakkeen guided it up to the ceiling, secured it, then dropped another line.
Rowan scanned the identification code on a felinezoid shipping container and repeated the process.
“We’re… that full!” breathed Ryan.
“We’ve packed all official cargo, all passenger cargo, and now we are filling up the last corners,” remarked Kitoy.
Ryan shook his head as Krakkeen lowered himself on a thread and stepped away from his work. “Not bad for a hurried endeavour,” remarked the spiderzoid.
Ryan spoke to the air. “Henry, button her up and do a pressure check.”
The Star Hawk’s hangar bay ramp retracted into the ship and closed. No seam was apparent.
“Doing pressure check. Pressure check is green. We did it, hotty boss.” Henry’s voice came from the ship’s exterior speakers.
“How are we supposed to get in?” asked Kitoy.
“Top hatch. Up the ramp, climb up the hull with the rope. I’ll collapse the ramp and ride a grav-lift up the side.”
“That is a practice that would be against spiderzoid worker safety regulations,” remarked Krakkeen.
“Homo sapiens ones too. Which is why I’m the one doing it,” said Ryan with a smile.
“Ryan, that is foolish,” scolded Kitoy.
“Give it up.” Rowan moved to her captain’s side. “Very specific brain damage when it comes to taking risks. He likes maglevs too.”
Ryan checked his handheld’s screen. 21:15 hours. “With luck, we might even meet Star Searcher’s deadline. Henry, start the preflight.”
Half an hour later, Ryan passed the trolley with the collapsible ramp through the top airlock, followed by the grav-lift he’d ridden up the side of the ship. He paused to inspect the wall that had closed to cut off two-thirds of the station’s hangar. He knew that behind it was a jumble of cargo containers whose order bore no relation to the periodic table.
He clambered down the ladder into the airlock. The hatch closed behind him.
“Henry, how’s the preflight?” Ryan spoke to the air as he joined Rowan, Kitoy and Tim at the elevator.
“All systems green on our end, my sexy captain. I’ve just transferred over telemetry for the Space Traffic Control confirmation check.”
“Good. We get out of this hangar and then dock with the spar, get a good night’s sleep while Star Searcher does its forms, then we head out.” Ryan spoke more for the benefit of his biologic crew than Henry.
“Sleep that knits up the weary balm of day,” remarked Tim.
Ryan looked at his son. “Nice work. The environments in our visitor’s quarters are textbook perfect.”
Tim puffed up like a twelve-year-old being rewarded for an A on an exam. “Thanks, Da… Captain.”
Ryan nodded.
* * *
Mike checked the computer screen on his desk. The S.E.T.E. stock price was as high as he’d ever seen it. “The stocks look good, Fred.” Standing, Michael moved to the lounge area in the corner of his office and took a seat. An oil painting of Marcy in her youth looked down over the lounge area with its four padded chairs and coffee table.
Justice Fred Edwards, a Caucasian man with strong features and greying black hair, dressed in a sports jacket and slacks, leaned forward in his seat and set his cup on the oak coffee table. “That’s good. The fact that the stocks rebounded will stymie the charges of management not in keeping with a reasonable standard of care.”
“Can’t we just get rid of this whole situation? Hilda obviously has a conflict of interest,” observed Mike.
“After fifty years? If I was trying the case, I’d be inclined to dismiss your history. And I know what she’s like!”
“What gets to me is, it has been fifty years. When I caught her in bed with Francene, it was the last straw. Open and shut, split the assets, and thank the Divine that there weren’t any kids. She never liked the cat anyway. I miss Fray to this day.”
“Out of the two females in your life back then, Fray had the better personality.” Frank lifted his coffee cup in a toast to the long-dead feline. “Look, Mike, it’s an old battle tactic. You know it. Attack on multiple fronts, force the opposition to divide their resources, then go for the exposed weaknesses.” Fred cradled his mug in his hands. “Marcy is—”
“Where I might be vulnerable.” Mike nodded.
“Several of the writs claim that you are suffering from a Pygmalion Delusion. If we go to open court, Hilda will drag your name through the mud. Even if we win, and I’m confident we can, you’ll lose. Have you tried talking to John?”
“What would be the point? He’s a dull instrument. If it was just him and some off the shelf lawyer, no offence.”
“None taken. Every profession has gradients of quality.”
Mike nodded. “I wouldn’t be worried, but if Hilda is anything like the woman I married all those years ago, she’s like a bulldog. She got me off once—”
Fred snorted. “You were married for six years. I should hope more often than that.”
Michael rolled his eyes as a smile twitched his lips. “Bad choice of words. The thing is, back when she was in the Ground Forces Legal Corps, she was formidable. If she had a higher stardust tolerance, she could have gone a long way there.”
“The good news is the criminal charges stemming from the Ryan-Rowan affair have already been dismissed. Her writs regarding them didn’t meet the burden of criminal intent because it was a training exercise. I don’t think she expected anything to come of them, but it tossed up smoke to obscure her real intent. Keep us busy and disoriented so that when her day in court comes, we will have missed her true attack strategy.”
“Which is?” Mike regarded his friend and lawyer.
“To sully your name. To discredit you in the public eye, then show that you intentionally manipulated circumstances to destroy Angel Black. Likely because you have a perverse obsession with the Willa character. To make a case that you manipulated Ryan Chandler, a medical clone suffering from transfer dementia, into stealing the Rowan surrogate with the intent of seizing control of the series. To put it into the public consciousness that you are obsessed with the AH-F surrogate model.”
Mike snorted with derisive laughter. “If loving a woman for fifty years, raising two children with her and intending to grow old with her is an obsession, she has a point.”
“It’s because Marcy is actually an AH-F series clone. It shouldn’t matter, but we both know that it does.” Fred put his empty mug on the table.
