Wincing at Light

<– Chapter 7 / Chapter 9 –>

It was good to be back home. Good to be back at Persia with its bright lights and its buzzers and sounds and mumbles of conversation that didn’t come vicariously through earphones. Good to breathe quasi-fresh air and not have to worry about bursting like a grape if he cut himself on anything sharp. It was afternoon, getting on toward evening. The storm had subsided as the extrapolations had predicted, but Archae Stoddard was overhung by leaden, gray clouds. He wondered if they would see the sun tomorrow, or even the moons tonight. Despite his five years here, despite the fact that a clear night meant in many cases the loss or expulsion of critical volatiles into space, Brett was still awed by the starlit sky, the view of an alien solar system from the surface of a non-terrestrial rock, the unique view of this spiral arm of the galaxy rolling past in milky bands of gossamer light.

But at the moment, Brett was nowhere near a window. He was buried four levels down from the obs deck in his office below multiple levels of manufactured steel framing and behind untold stacks of paper. Brett sat at his desk. Ashburn stood across from him, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand and a sour expression on his face.

“I ran every diagnostic I know and came up with nothing. She’s firing on all cylinders as far as I can tell. Simple commands, complex codings, multiple system simulations–you name it, I tried it. She’s as quick and powerful as she was the day she came out of the box as far as I can tell. If anything, she’s improved.”

Brett folded his hands together. She was not improved, but it wasn’t a point he would argue with Ashburn. “Did you run a check on the hardware components?”

“James and I manually verified almost five kilometers of fiber optic line from jack to sensor. No breaks, no wear, no nothing, just like Cassandra is reporting.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Either with a single line of bad code in the multiple billions she’s got both from us and from external agencies, or knee deep in little green men. I couldn’t find evidence of either.”

“The environmentals stayed constant?”

“Not a peep.”

Brett sighed. “Then we assume she’s wrong for the moment. Keep the atmospheric monitor routine running indefinitely until we can get more evidence, but otherwise run all systems as normal. We’ll hear quickly enough if she starts spitting out bad data.”

Ashburn frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “And what if she keeps up with the security notifications?”

“Ignore them.”

The sec-o shifted uneasily, and Brett understood. “I know that runs contrary to your training. If it makes you feel better, you can run down each of her reports and file the paperwork saying she’s mistaken. You’ll want to keep the reports she generates, anyway, so we can more efficiently track the problem. No one is going to leave you hanging in the wind on this, Ashburn.”

Ashburn nodded and held out the papers in his hand. “These are the diagnostic results. You want them for your file?”

“What do you think?”

Ashburn grinned. “I’d guess not. Look, I’m going to get out of your way. I promised Doc Liston I’d run down to medical and check his containment protocols.”

“That’s not your job.”

“Yeah, but I know a think or two about seals. It’s peripheral to station security, so I’ve educated myself and become pretty handy in my own way. Besides, this is just double checking his work. He’s worried about Tappen.”

Brett nodded. “Meningitis.”

“It’s still early and he doesn’t have the results to back it yet, but he’s thinking it might be bacteriological. Dangerous shit if it gets into circulation. Tappen wouldn’t be the only one down before we could get a handle on it.”

Brett straightened in his chair. “You don’t think–”

“No. I checked for that. Streptococcus pneumoniae, Neisseria meningitidis, Haemophilus influenzae. Scanned them all, and a couple more the doctor suggested. We don’t have a meningitis causing bacteria roaming around the station tripping the sensors. Cassandra can detect the most common and she filters for them, though she does report the results to Liston. You see what I’m saying.”

“It was a thought.”

“Already covered by better men and better minds, Chili.”

He laughed and waved Ashburn out the door. “Get out of here, and send Djen in on your way. Tell Tappen I’ll stop in either later this evening or in the morning. Bring him flowers or something.”

Ashburn let himself out and Brett turned to his keypad to retrieve the day’s messages. His mail scrolled down the screen in amber letters, waiting to be opened. At the bottom was a single line in all caps, signed with Djen’s terminal address.

MEET ME IN THE ARBORETUM. IT’S YOUR TURN TO BRING THE COFFEE. M

He left at once.

#

She sat on the bench they usually occupied for the daily briefing. Brett handed her one of the steaming cups he’d grabbed in the commissary on his way and she smiled gratefully as she took it.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

“What are you going to do about Ritter?”

Brett leaned back and exhaled slowly. “I’m going to talk to him. I’m going to get his side of the story before I jump to any conclusions. You should be doing the same thing.”

“I didn’t want to speak in front of Ilam. Not that I don’t trust him in most things, but given his relationship with Ritter. . .”

“And given the fact that they’re confederates in that damned game, you assumed he would get to Ritter before I did so he could come up with a reasonable excuse that didn’t involve bad vibrations and straight out superstition.” Brett sipped at his coffee. This wasn’t a conversation he had wanted to have. “What did you want to tell me? I’ll keep it just between us, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t need you to do that. I can look after myself.”

He winced. “I know.”

“Then why did you offer?”

“Because I take it as my role to minimize conflict between personnel where I can. If it makes you feel better, I’ll go to him and say something like ‘Ritter, old buddy, Djen’s been reporting that you’re a deadbeat, an asshole and probably more or less mentally deranged. What do you think I should do with her?’”

“Ritter obviously isn’t the only asshole on this station.”

“Ouch. That hurts my feelings.”

She grinned wickedly. “I didn’t specify that the asshole was you, Commander, but I find your assumption telling.”

“Ouch again. Let’s get on with this before I have to consult Liston on his credentials as a proctologist. Tell me what you wouldn’t tell me then.”

“Some of the staff have been voicing their concerns to me about Ritter and his behavior over the last couple of weeks. They seem to believe that I’ll pass this information on to you for action. They think I have your ear.”

“You can have more than that if you want.”

She brushed on, ignoring him. “Most of their opinions are vague. Nothing like today where we encountered questions about his methodology or the quality of his work, but more general feelings. They were initially amused by the postings of the game results every morning, but it’s gone beyond that, Markus. At the end of the day he posts examples of the reading’s veracity. People are starting to think he’s spooky. And they’re starting to think he’s more than a little obsessed.”

Brett shrugged. “It’s not any worse than when he or Sievers or any of them were trumpeting their poker victories. It’s just another card game, and the interest will pass as the game loses its luster of uniqueness. You said nearly the same thing yourself this morning.”

“I’ve talked to more people since this morning. And you weren’t so glib after what you concluded from playing last night.”

He hesitated. “There is an intensity to their play that can be a little unnerving, but I wouldn’t rank it as alarming. It isn’t going to interfere with our mission critical functions.”

“If the others start ostracizing him, or him and those he plays with, it could interfere. We’re not a large enough community for anything but complete cooperation.”

It was a valid point, and Brett chewed the inside of his lip as he considered it. In the isolated Persia microcosm, even the most minor incidents between personnel had a tendency to swell until they engulfed anyone who cared to pay attention. This wasn’t backyard Indiana where idle gossip and unsubstantiated opinions floated away on idle breezes.

“You think I should criticize his work and his personality,” he said. He laughed, but it sounded as uneasy as it felt. “That should be effective.”

“That isn’t all of it. Did you know he blew off his duty shift in the chem lab this morning? He didn’t report a sick call and hasn’t answered his messages. He just didn’t show up. Someone went to bang on his door about ten this morning, but he’s not answering and the door’s locked.”

“He was probably just up too late playing cards, but I’ll talk to him. Missing his shift will be a good enough excuse to sit him down.”

“You don’t think what Ilam let slip this morning is enough to sit him down?” She shot a glance at him which suggested he was being intentionally difficult.

“Sure it’s enough, if it could be substantiated. It can’t be, and it could be argued that Ilam has cards on the brain just as much as Ritter. He could have misinterpreted Ritter’s actions. He could have misjudged the severity of the damage to Ritter’s suit.”

Djen raised her finger. “And he was also the most vocal defender of Ritter’s actions, regardless of the fact that Ritter obviously just pissed that mission away. You can’t tell me you believe he did anything else.”

Brett sighed and threw up his hands in surrender. “I’m tired of talking about Ritter’s shortcomings. I’ll speak to him as soon as I get a chance. What other news have you got for me?”

“No major issues. Nathan and Stivetts piped a remote fix for the nitrogen levels to engines Two and Four. That was done by lunchtime. The issues with Three have been put off until tomorrow because of the weather. Doctor Liston is diverting non-emergency medical to the second sublevel dispensary to keep Tappen under wraps.”

“What’s the news on the screens from Nine?”

“I dropped them off at the lab. Ilam’s going to help me with the diagnostics first thing in the morning. They aren’t his area of specialty, but he was on site and knows the general situation. I’ll probably draft Jaekel for theory and programming experience. We should have something substantial by day after tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow evening if I crack the whip at them. Ilam asked if we should plan to replace the screens in the next day or two.”

“Not until we find out what happened to these. We don’t have the resources to sacrifice eighty screens at a time for experimental purposes.”

She nodded. “That’s what I told him. He seemed relieved.”

“I don’t blame him.”

“We also need to talk about Cassandra,” she said. “What’s the matter with her?”

A cool ball of discomfort settled in Brett’s stomach. The transition caught him unprepared, and he wasn’t able to mask his shock. “What makes you think there’s anything the matter?”

Djen raised an eyebrow. “Let’s see. You mentioned this morning after you were late that you’d had to interact with the primary interface. That’s always important. On top of that, I’ve got a stack of preliminary daily reports on my desk and I happen to be quick enough to recognize a full system diagnostic done under your user credentials when you obviously weren’t in the building. That means it was Ashburn, which means it was serious. My question is, how serious?”

“I don’t know at this point,” he admitted. She knew as much as he did, it appeared. Brett found that this pleased him. It meant he wouldn’t have to lie. “Ashburn is getting aberrant security notifications which he can’t seem to verify. Cassandra seems convinced she’s correct, but obviously isn’t. Ashburn wants to make sure it’s a bad code and not a system tic that could spread to more sensitive areas.”

Djen winked at him. “Which also explains the stationwide atmospheric analysis every twelve minutes. I’m going to have a big stack of paper to add to your files, you do realize?”

“Do you have any particular concerns about Cassandra?”

“I didn’t until this afternoon, until I saw Ashburn’s reports. Now I’ve got to worry that she’s stumbling over complex functions. If I’m going to analyze several billion nanomech units, I’d like to think I can depend on Cassandra to get the numbers right. I have to believe that, in fact, or this investigation may take decades.”

“You can trust her. Ashburn jumped her through the hoops and she came out aces. At this point, it seems like an isolated error, but I’m not taking any unnecessary risks.” He glanced at her sidelong. “And I want this to stay quiet, Djen. If people are having problems with Cassandra, I want them reporting it independently. We don’t want to plant the information in their heads that she may be faulty.”

“I understand. Are you going to talk to her again? I mean, by the primary interface?”

Brett furrowed his brow. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Curiosity. I’ve never been down there.”

“I think that’s probably for the best,” he said.

“You don’t seem to mind.”

“I don’t really have a choice. Ashburn doesn’t go down there. Ritter doesn’t. In fact, no one that I know of. Because it isn’t healthy, I’ve heard people say. When people interact with her through voice recog or keypads, she’s a machine. She’s reliable. There’s something fundamental that changes when you use the other, the primary interface. She seems more. . .fallible. Vulnerable.”

“Human?”

He shook his head. “Tragic. She becomes an object of pity. The primary interface is a powerful tool, Djen, but all of the documentation generated for the Cassandra system more or less says flat out that human contact should be limited. Not because of what it does to the machine, but because of what the machine does to the user. The psychology can be hazardous. That’s why they use Cassandras only for deep space missions with trained personnel. You can imagine the outcry if they were lodged in any and every corporate office in North America.”

Djen seemed willing to accept his answer, and he was glad. It was like defending the actions of an old girlfriend to your wife. Not a place he wanted to be. They sat together for a time in silence drinking their coffee.

“Any other business that requires my attention?” he asked finally.

“I’ll have tomorrow’s duty rosters on your desk after dinner. Or I could hand them to you during dinner if you’d like to join me.”

Brett froze for an instant, certain he’d misunderstood.

“Are you asking me out?”

She smiled, and the lights caught her eyes, lending them a glimmer. “Assuming you say ‘yes’. If you say anything else, I’m pretty sure you didn’t hear me correctly.”

Brett started to answer, but his attention was drawn away by movement on the path in front of them, back toward the entry doors. A moment later Ritter came around the wide bend. His eyes scanned back and forth among the pallets of plants and several of the taller groves of deeply rooted saplings.

“There’s Ritter,” Djen said, still grinning. “I guess you can talk to him now. Or you can answer me, mister.”

At the sound of her voice, Ritter stopped and raised his hand. Brett rose, lifting his own hand to return the greeting.

He didn’t realize Ritter wasn’t just waving at him, that he held a gun in his hand, until after he’d been shot.

He landed on his side with a stitch of fire up and down his shoulder and an icy numbness in his arm. He may have cried out, but he couldn’t tell. It had happened too suddenly. Activity seemed to burst around him, but he made little sense of it because it came with no sound: Ritter lifting his head sharply as if he’d been startled; the snout-nosed pistol falling from his hand, bouncing on the path; Djen covering him with her body, her mouth wide in a shout or a scream. Slow moments later the technicians appeared, slicing through the greenery from their monitoring station. Someone made a diving tackle that caught Ritter from behind, bowed him forward enough to crack his spine, then drove him to the ground. Running footsteps rebounded up and down the webbed pathways. Brett could feel each one against his cheek.

And finally pain, poignant and bitter, stabbed up into his neck and down to his groin. At eighteen, Brett had been in his first auto accident. He’d pulled out into an intersection and been t-boned by an old couple’s late model Cadillac. The weightless, time-lost and sickening thud of impact had filled his nightmares for a week, though no one had been harmed. His entire body felt like that sound now.

Then he breathed, and the pain subsided a bit. Noises rushed at him from all sides. Angry shouts, the buzz of a general station alarm. Djen was calling to him. Shaking him, actually, and it aggravated his shoulder more than a little.

Brett sat up. A smear of ugly crimson stained the sleeve of his suit midway between elbow and shoulder. In the middle was a furrow where there had once been a firm, round muscle. Had he surveyed someone else’s arm, he would have pronounced it a shallow wound, but those weren’t the words that came to him now.

“What a lousy, fucking shot,” he observed.

“Markus?”

He looked away from the wound, smiled weakly up at Djen. She had her arms around his waist, holding him steady. He thought there might be a glistening of tears in her eyes.

“I’m fine. The bastard mostly missed.”

“You’re very pale. Lie down again. Doc Liston is on his way.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, and promptly fainted.

<– Chapter 7 / Chapter 9 –>