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Authors: Laura E. Reeve

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BOOK: Vigilante
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Her jaw tightened. He was trying to use the only fact he knew about her
recent mission as leverage. She couldn’t protest that Terrans had checked her into the commons
after torturing her, coercing her to sign over Matt’s leases in exchange for Brandon’s safety,
and then pumping her full of alcohol and smooth.
She
hadn’t
voluntarily taken anything, but she couldn’t protest her innocence.
“Since you haven’t read the mission record, you shouldn’t presume I was
unsuccessful.” Her voice was biting and cold.
“That’s another point. How can I properly treat you when I’m not allowed
access to your records or medical history? I can’t even perform genetic tests.”
“You can take those concerns to the Directorate of Intelligence.”
From his look, she knew he’d already tried. She added, “Otherwise,
you’ll have to work with me, as you see me. Surely that’s possible for your medical
discipline.”
Tafani’s eyes narrowed and a sour expression formed on his face,
settling naturally into the lines about his mouth and eyes. “My
discipline
is hampered by the restricted bio-sampling imposed by the
Directorate. Thus, I must resort to behavior modeling, counseling, noninvasive therapy, et
cetera.” He paused. “So we come back, full circle, to my strong recommendation: You shouldn’t
sojourn in G-145. New space is not conducive to your recovery.”
“It’s too late to change my plans.” A wave of her finger brought up the
Universal Time display. “
Aether’s Touch
has been given a departure
slot. We disconnect from Athens Point in three hours.”
“Regular sessions are necessary for your recovery. Can you continue them
from G-145?”
Ariane shrugged. “I doubt it. Bandwidth is a precious commodity at this
point in G-145’s development.”
“I’m going to note in your records that you disregarded my
recommendation.” His frown deepened.
“Go ahead and ‘note’ all you want, Major.”
She cut off the session before Tafani could answer. Childish, but
so
rewarding. Tafani would probably appeal to Owen or Owen’s
superiors in the Directorate, but he wouldn’t find any support. The Directorate would love to
see her stop these therapy sessions. In the past, her missions for the Directorate had been
short, successful, often dangerous, and had never impinged upon her civilian life—until six
months ago.
She smiled as she removed the v-play face shield and gloves. After
stowing them, she double-checked her tiny quarters for any loose items. A quiet hum of relief
started in her chest and she took a deep breath. She felt
free
.
Soon she’d be moving
Aether’s Touch
away from Athens Point and
positioning it for the N-space drop. It was wonderful to deal only with her civilian job. She
had an exemplary pilot safety record. She’d been Matt’s pilot slightly less than six years, and
he’d made her a minor partner in Aether Exploration two years ago.
She cancelled her privacy shield. She always paid for one whenever she
used the Common Communications Network, or ComNet, through a commercial habitat. Privacy law
was vital support for her false identity.
On her way to the control deck, she passed through the ship’s small
galley and caught a whiff of Matt’s packaged lunch. Having grown up on a generational ship,
Matt easily experienced sensory overload and avoided planetary food sources, because of his
deeply rooted suspicions of microbes and uncontrolled bacteria. The
one-hundred-percent-hydroponic-source noodle dishes that he loved, however, were too bland for
Ariane’s taste, although the scent was enough to make her stomach rumble.
She tapped the code to retrieve her favorite, cabbage and emu rolls.
Having been on enough prospecting missions with Matt, she had to order her own food stores or
go crazy eating his tasteless food. This close to departure, however, she decided not to heat
the pack and permeate the ship with its wonderfully rich odor. There’d be plenty of time during
the next few months to torment her employer with the “dirt-grown stench.”
She moved lightly, holding the open pack of rolls in one hand and almost
skipping through the passageway. In a little while, there would be only herself, Matt, and
Aether’s Touch
—and she couldn’t forget Muse 3. She paused at the
open hatch to the control deck and listened to Muse 3 pose questions to Matt.
That
little gnat of a problem was growing
rapidly, in its own way. Neither she nor Matt knew much about training AIs, and the how-to
literature, if it existed at all, was tightly controlled. Calling upon one of the few existing
experts was problematic because Muse 3 might contain illegal rulesets. Muse 3, however, had
been created by Matt’s longtime friend Nestor just before his death, and she understood why
Matt was reluctant to deactivate it.
“Will I be allowed to pilot
Aether’s Touch
?”
Muse 3 used stilted, formal language, but in its creator’s voice, which sounded incongruous for
anyone who had known Nestor.
“We have an autopilot if Ari doesn’t want to manually control the ship,”
Matt said absently, checking off provisions on his slate. His free hand ruffled his blond hair,
causing it to stand straight up off his scalp. Ariane wanted to reach forward and run her own
fingers through it, but Matt was the civilian equivalent of her commander; they wouldn’t be
able to crew together if she gave these stray urges any space or time in her head.
“There is no autopilot function for N-space,” Muse 3 countered.
The sly but childlike, wheedling tone made Ariane smile. Now
that
sounded like Nestor. The corners of Matt’s eyes crinkled with
amusement, but Ariane didn’t miss his painful flinch. He was probably reminded of his friend’s
murder, perhaps again seeing Nestor’s body, strung up for him to discover.
“You can’t pilot in N-space,” Matt said.
“He’s right, Muse Three.” Ariane decided to step onto the control deck
and stop this exploration of boundaries. “Look at all the experiments where someone sent
automated equipment into N-space, never to return. A human must be at the controls.”
“What hypotheses exist for this requirement?”
“Yes, Ari?” Matt turned toward her and rolled his eyes. He focused on
the cabbage rolls in her hand and sniffed suspiciously.
She ignored Matt’s silent warning and picked up a tightly packed green
roll with her fingers, looking at it while she considered how to answer Muse 3’s question.
She’d studied the physics, managed the checklists, put in her simulator hours, and passed her
flight reviews, but she wasn’t an authority on N-space.
“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s due to our neurons being quantum detection
devices.” She said this in a rush because it related to a theory about consciousness, and that
was the last topic she wanted to discuss with an AI. Sure, AIs could attain the right to vote,
but no one attributed them with anything more than self-awareness.
“Perhaps this relates to the navigation equations—” Muse 3 went
silent.
She exchanged worried glances with Matt. After a few moments, Muse 3
came back online. It stated its origin as it reinitialized. “Muse Three, constructed by Nestor
Agamemnon Expedition, born of the
Expedition Seven
.”
“Muse Three, don’t attempt to evaluate the navigation equations,” she
said. “Only Minoan time buoys can do that, and we don’t even know whether they’re Neumann
devices. Besides, AI isn’t supposed to run ships—ever. It’s illegal.”
“Yes, Ari.”
When had Muse 3 started using her nickname? At least it was being
obedient. She exchanged a grin with Matt. Unexpectedly, Muse 3 displayed the view from the
external cam-eyes and announced, “Master Sergeant Alexander Joyce is approaching slip
thirty-three.”
Sure enough, a nondescript man with tightly clipped hair and a mustache
had separated from the dock traffic and was approaching their ramp. When he set his foot on the
ramp, the security systems on
Aether’s Touch
came alive with a
notification alarm. As Ariane watched, she wolfed down her two cabbage rolls and threw the
packaging into the recycler.
Matt acknowledged and silenced the alarm. He swiveled to face her, his
warm brown eyes tightening with a chill she’d never seen. “What’s Joyce doing here?”
“How would I know?” She wiped her fingers on her coveralls, which would
soon be heading to the steamer anyway.
“Can’t we go about our business without having the Directorate of
Intelligence always breathing down our necks?”
That’s not fair—it only happened once
, she
wanted to say, but they had avoided the subject of “what happened” on her last mission, and
she’d been satisfied with that unspoken arrangement. She didn’t care to bring up memories of
what Matt had gone through any more than she wanted to rehash her own experiences.
“He’s not in uniform.” She refrained from adding that it probably meant
Joyce
was
under orders.
“Master Sergeant Alexander Joyce requests admittance,” announced the
ship systems, which sounded synthetic and neutral to her after listening to Muse 3.
“Go to quiescent mode, Muse Three.” Matt glanced at Ariane. “We’ll
both
talk to Joyce, in case I need an interpreter for
militaryese.”
She shook her head at the unusual cynicism coming from her business
partner and employer. Matt used to have enough unbridled optimism for both of them. Perhaps
Nestor’s murder, as well as Cipher’s violent attempts to assassinate her, had changed Matt.
Regretfully, she wondered whether anything could neutralize the poison of bitter
experience.
As they climbed down the tube to the front airlock, the ship’s systems
announced, “Disconnection in two hours and thirty minutes. Environmental system conversion
should begin immediately.”
When you can’t dodge crap from the Great
Bull
, as Lieutenant Diana Oleander had heard said in various and more vulgar forms,
the only way to avoid the splatter is to stay faceless
. The flutter
in her stomach warned her that such a barrage might be coming her way.
“Pleased to meet you, Colonel. If you and your aide will step this
way.”
Colonel Owen Edones followed the Terran, his shiny shoes clicking on the
deck. Oleander brushed imaginary lint from her service dress coat and walked calmly behind and
a step to the right, just where an anonymous aide should stay.
For a moment, she wondered whether the scheduling staff aboard the
Bright Crescent
was purposely torturing her. She squelched the
idea. Someone had to take the place of the mysteriously missing Sergeant Joyce on this
emergency mission, and her name must have come to the top of the rotation list titled
“Unpleasant Additional Duties for Junior Officers.”
She followed Colonel Edones through a door into a small conference
room.
“This is a secure room, sir.” The serviceman who showed them into this
room backed out quickly, closing the door behind him.
Looking around, Oleander understood his haste. Putting a dead body on
the conference table could barely make the place more grim. Two Terran officers and two
Autonomist officers sat at the table, their faces pale and drawn. Her own red service dress
with gold trim was the single bright spot; the Terrans wore their customary muddy colors and
the other Autonomists, including Edones, were dressed in the black uniform of the Directorate
of Intelligence, which sported light blue trim in modest amounts.
“Shut that down.” The major, whose name tag read BERNARD, pointed at the
slate she carried. Oleander had read her premission briefing. Bernard was the leader of the
Autonomist weapons inspection team visiting this Gaia-forsaken Terran outpost. Despite the cool
temperature in the room, Major Bernard’s face sweated. Beside him sat a burly female captain
named Floros, who looked ready to vomit.
“Yes, sir.” Oleander thumbed off her slate and stowed the stylus. She
tilted the slate so everyone could see that it couldn’t record.
Colonel Edones walked to the head of the table, where an empty chair
waited. All faces rotated to watch him. In Oleander’s short experience with Edones, she’d
noticed he could grab and hold the attention of any room.
Something’s wrong
. Oleander suddenly wished
she could flee through the door behind her. She wasn’t going to like what was coming. Moreover,
she saw the dark maw of the Directorate sucking her even deeper into the muck of military
intelligence.
“You called me here using an emergency priority, Major.” Colonel Edones
put the lightest lilt of a question onto the end of his sentence.
Bernard took a deep breath and said, “A temporal-distortion weapon’s
gone missing.”
CHAPTER 2
If a weapon or weapon system (as defined in this Proto col) is lost or
destroyed due to accident, the possess
ing Party shall notify the other Party within forty-eight UT
hours, as required in paragraph 5(e) of Article II, that
the item has been eliminated. In such a case, the other
Party shall have the right to conduct an inspection of the
specific point at which the accident occurred.

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