The Prodigal Sun (2 page)

Flipping open the valise’s grey lid, she studied its interior with an emotion bordering on hatred.

“Oh, for an axe,” she whispered out loud, although she had no need to.

said the voice.

“—a nuclear strike from one hundred meters.” She nodded wearily. “I know, I know, but if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be in this mess. Can you understand how frustrating it is to be cooped up in here with nothing to do?”

Roche bit her lip. Of course it understood. The AI’s previous environment had been the massive information workshops of Trinity, the planet of its birth. There, protected by the system’s neutral status, secretive craftspersons in the service of High Humanity produced the AIs of the COE—rare and precious mind-machines lovingly crafted by carefully guarded techniques. Few people were allowed onto the planet itself, and she had been no exception. As she’d waited in orbit for the envoy from the manufacturers to arrive, then for the
Midnight
to collect her on its way past the system, she had had almost a week to watch the world below, but had learned little. Only a handful of what might have been cities were visible above the smoky-orange surface of the planet; apart from a ring of five skyhooks circling the equator, there was little sign of advanced life. And yet...

Somehow she had been rendered unconscious prior to their arrival. She had no memory of the High Caste manufacturers—who they were, what they looked like, or how they behaved. There was just a blankness, after which she had woken in her singleship with the valise already strapped to her. The experience had been dreamlike, surreal—and frustrating. Such levels of secrecy were paranoid to an extreme—all for the sake of technology no mundane Human could understand anyway.

The valise’s imitation cover fitted over an ebony rectangular box with a small keypad of touch points and recessed nodes along its top. The heart of the valise was a densely packed mass of complex microtechnology, crammed neatly into the small space available, both shielded and camouflaged by the shell of the briefcase itself. Molded in superhard composite along the inside of the lid was the AI’s identification tag: JW111101000, one digit longer than usual. Without a name in the usual sense of the word to fall back on, Roche resorted as billions of people had before her to popular slang. In this case, the term “Black Box” was even more appropriate, given the shape of the AI’s container.

“The sooner we’re back in HQ, Box, the better.”

“
Only
six weeks...” She forced a short-lived smile. “If it wasn’t for Klose being so pedantic, I’d probably enjoy the break from normal duties.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Swiveling the room’s only chair to face the workstation and placing her left palm on the contact pad, she activated the console and called up the ship’s outlet of the Information Dissemination Network. IDnet granted her access to all nonrestricted data, from the volume of processed foodstuff in the
Midnight’s
holds to current affairs on any of the worlds in the COE. Raw data coursed up her arm into the small processor at the base of her skull, where it was interpreted as visual and audio signals and routed to the implanted systems in her left eye and ear. Her implants were by no means the most sophisticated available—lacking three- dimensional clarity and line-of-sight commands—but set her above ninety percent of Armada employees. Such subtle means of communication were sometimes required of Intelligence operatives, so these basic implants were standard to all of her rank.

A virtual screen appeared over her field of vision, seeming to hang two meters from her, impossibly deep in the bulkhead. Skimming at random through the channels, she found a station devoted to general COE news and settled back to discover what the rest of the universe was up to. Try as she might, however, her mind kept returning to Klose and his reasons for denying her what she wanted, while the patient, steady voice of IDnet murmured into her ear, an incessant counterpoint to her thoughts.

// in the wake of crippling solar flares, which destroyed asteroid mining facilities and a hydrogen purification plant in orbit around the system’s innermost gas giant. Ede Prime’s Presiding Minister today released a statement exonerating two members of her advisory staff who yesterday committed ritual suicide, after it was revealed that the Eckandar Trade Axis has been conclusively linked to corruption within a local chapter of the Commerce Artel //

* * *

Ship and captain: for better or for worse, their destinies and characters were intertwined. The post of ship command, contrary to popular opinion, offered not liberation but a lifetime of snaillike confinement. With a prison strapped to his or her back, unable to shrug free even for a moment, every captain had the power to travel vast distances but in reality no more freedom than any of the convicts on Sciacca’s World.

Few deep-space commands led to promotion, at least in the COE Armada; captains quickly learned that the chance of achieving advancement via success in battle was slim, as battles themselves were rare and usually fatal to those involved, and most missions were more concerned with distribution of resources across that region of the galaxy than the expansion of the COE—the Commonwealth of Empires, which had ceased expanding entirely some centuries ago and indeed had, upon the secession of the Dato Bloc, begun to shrink. If they failed to die in space, captains inevitably retired to one of the bleak Space Command planets (whose very architecture mirrored deep-space engineering) and spent their remaining days reminiscing about imagined glories. Meanwhile their ships, unfaithful lovers at best, flew on, piloted by younger versions of themselves who were no less doomed than their predecessors. Doomed to a life of confinement, first in their ships and later in retirement or death.

In a very real sense, then, Proctor Klose was the
Midnight
, but only for a little while. Jealous of his small command, he would resist any attempt to undermine it. And therein lay the problem.

Roche didn’t want to take over. She just wanted something to do. Armada training had prepared her for a wide range of combat scenarios, not months of being cooped up on a worn-out frigate acting as nursemaid for an artificial mind. She knew she should be patient, and perhaps even grateful for the undemanding task, but it wasn’t in her nature to sit still for long. She wanted to move, to act, to investigate.

// shock discovery of remains in the Greater Vexisen Republic dating the emergence of Pristine Humanity into the wider galaxy fifty thousand years earlier than the previous best estimate. Renowned xenoarchaeologist Linegar Rufo, nominal overseer of the excavation, was not available for comment, but acting overseer Dev Bogasi commented that “This find represents the most exciting development in the field for over five hundred years. I’m not saying we’ve found the ultimate source of the Human race, but we’re well on the way. The further back we push the envelope—and we’re up to half a million years, now—the closer we’re coming to a pure genetic strain. Give us another discovery of this magnitude and I predict we’ll be able to narrow our field of search to a handful of //

* * *

Feeling the tension knotting her muscles, Roche shifted in her seat and unbuttoned the tight collar of her uniform. Brooding on it wasn’t going to do her any good, and talking was better than doing nothing. The Box wasn’t the confidant she would have chosen, but she had no choice. It was either that or go stir crazy.

“To be fair, Box,” she said, picking up the conversation where she had ended it earlier, “it’s partly my fault. You remember that derelict we picked up seven days ago?” “Well, I’ve been hearing rumors among the crew—” An all-stations announcement interrupted her, warning the crew and transportees alike of imminent deceleration. The
Midnight
had come out of the anchor point at the edge of the system seven days earlier; this final maneuver would bring the frigate into an inclined polar orbit around the planet, dipping through the belt of moonlets once every two hours. Within moments of the announcement, the engines groaned through the bulkheads of Roche’s room, and a wave of rattles and clatters shivered through the ship.

“Hang on.” She adjusted the workstation to bring up a view of the planet, overlaying IDnet. “It’s nothing, really. The derelict was a life-support capsule with one man inside.”

“Apparently. No one knows where he’s from, though, which makes me curious. The other eight capsules we picked up coming here all contained survivors ejected from the wreckage of the
Courtesan
, the passenger cruiser that broke up near Furioso. But this one... They don’t recognize him. I asked Klose if I could interview the man, but he told me to mind my own business.” She shrugged. “That’s it, I guess.”

She didn’t mention the other snippets of gossip she’d heard: that the capsule had been drifting through space far longer than usual before being detected by the
Midnight,
and that its design was anything but orthodox.

said the Box.

The AI’s overt praise surprised her. “It is?”

“That doesn’t seem likely.”

“Not forgetting modesty,” Roche cut in.

The Box ignored her. Midnight
had been chosen as the vehicle to carry the Box because its route to Intelligence HQ was circuitous, not the direct route one might expect for such an important cargo. If the man in the capsule was a spy, all he had to do was ascertain that the Box was definitely aboard
this
ship, instead of one of the many decoy ships, and notify his superiors.

It was barely plausible, certainly not likely.

And it didn’t make sense, not if the capsule was older than the plans to ferry the Box to Intelligence HQ. Still, it would be an interesting point to raise when she and Klose were next at loggerheads.

// until the vector has been isolated and the outbreak contained, all scheduled traffic in- and out-system—including that for the purpose of trade and Armada activity—is either severely restricted or canceled indefinitely. Anyone attempting to break the blockade will be in violation of the Commonwealth of Empires Security Act and liable to face the severest penalty, by order of Chief Liaison Officer for the COE Armada, Burne Absenger. Repeat: Palasian System has been declared a no-go zone as a result of a Class Three Medical Emergency //

* * *

The
Midnight’s
engines roared again, swinging its ponderous bulk around to the correct attitude for polar insertion.

“So this is the way you spend your time, Box. Is there anything that could go wrong that you
haven’t
thought about?”

“Such as?”

Before it could answer, a red light flashed in the virtual screen, indicating a deviation from the mission plan. She returned her attention to the view of the planet and its attendant asteroid belt—”the Soul,” she reminded herself. The halo of moonlets had grown in size dramatically; individual motes of light now stood out against the indistinct glow of dust and pebbles. Nothing seemed immediately out of the ordinary, so she superimposed a navigation overlay across the view. Multicolored lines defined the vectors and mass of the largest rocks, while bold green angles indicated the
Midnight’s
orbital approach. The latter should have been clear of all obstacles larger than the frigate’s shields could handle, but it wasn’t.

Four red circles—ships, judging by their mass and velocity—occupied the exact center of the
Midnight’s
path.

“That’s strange,” Roche mused, more to herself than to her artificial companion. “The corridor should be clear by now.”

replied the Box.

“Any ident?”

The Box hesitated for the briefest of moments, as though scanning data. Midnight
should adjust its course to compensate. We will overtake the nearest vessel in approximately fifteen minutes. A course correction is required shortly. Captain Klose has denied her request.>

“Typical.” Roche could well imagine the
Midnight’
s captain fuming at the woman’s impudence. All maneuvers by the Armada were booked well in advance; there was no question that Klose was in the right. That didn’t mean, of course, that he couldn’t do the courteous thing and oblige her, but it wasn’t in his nature to deviate from the regulations one iota. Not for COE Intelligence, as Roche knew well, and especially not for a civilian.

announced the Box shortly. Midnight
will pass between the three smaller vessels without need for course correction in—fourteen minutes and seventeen seconds.>