My in-room wardrober contained only basic patterns, but I still prefer having my own clothes—items in fabric, color, and style that I’ve chosen myself. It’s hard to be confident and in control when you’re wearing what someone else selected. Makes you feel like a child, even if nobody ever picked out your clothes when you were a kid.
Casually, I rake my new things into a bag Dina donated. Yeah, I know; I expected the thing to blow up, but so far it hasn’t, and there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with it, either. So I sling it over my shoulder and head for the rover. I’m not going to check on anyone else. When I woke up in Med Bay, after Kai died, I promised myself I wouldn’t let anyone get that close again.
Guess I’m early because nobody’s around yet. So I tap the door once, and the panel slides open, allowing me to grab a seat in back. If anyone shoots at us on this run, always a possibility here, I don’t want to be under the gun hatch again. It’s fragging cold, and I wrap up in my double-breasted s-wool overcoat to wait.
My patience doesn’t last long, though, and I remember the PA in my pocket. I fish it out and thumb it on. It hums as it powers up, and a tiny little keypad ejects from the front, inexplicably reminding me of teeth. I’m nervous as I enter the codes Keri gave me. For all I know these things detonate if keyed wrong, and my fingers feel big and clumsy. But no boom when I’m done, just the sound of security disengaging as the thing clicks open, revealing a touch pad and a small data screen.
The instant I touch the pressure point, though, a smooth, asexual voice speaks. “Welcome, Mair Dahlgren. It has been seventeen days since your last entry.”
Is this thing an AI or just part of the data entry software? Can it feel loneliness if neglected? I pause for a moment, then answer, “This isn’t Mair. She died almost a week ago, and her granddaughter gave me this unit to assist in carrying out her final wishes.”
“I am sorry,” says the little machine in a tone that approximates sincerity. “Please provide proof of identity with thumbprint and voice sample. Speak your name clearly, and I will update my records to reflect transference in ownership.”
“Sirantha Jax.”
There’s a pause, then a ray of thin yellow light emits from the data screen, sweeps the upper arc of my face, and I realize I’ve been ret-scanned. My heart thumps, thinking that the data will be beamed to the Corp along with my last-known location, and all this will have been for nothing. I’ll wind up in the asylum after all, beneath Newel’s tender care. Oh Mary—
“Congratulations.” The unit smoothly interrupts the near panic of my thoughts. “You are confirmed as new owner of PA-245. In the event you should misplace or forget your codes, depress the emergency access button on the bottom of the device, and I will offer you the choice of retinal scan, voice confirmation, or thumbprint to reset your security access.”
Right, it’s a closed system.
“What if I want to change Mair’s old codes?” Keri knows them after all, and I don’t trust people instinctively. This gadget is mine now, and I want whatever data I impart to remain confidential.
“Do you?” it asks.
“Yeah. Let’s get that done.”
Such an advanced interface. This can’t be a simple software package. It’s capable of reasoned interaction. Most programs would’ve simply recited the instructions for doing so.
“I’m bringing up input parameters on-screen. Please key the new codes, then confirm with reentry.”
Wow. Maybe I’m giving the thing too much credit, but it seems to understand why I wouldn’t want to speak the code aloud, although voice recognition is clearly contained within its field of expertise. As I choose my three codes, then tap them in, twice, I wonder about its limits.
“Are you an AI?”
Is that a rude question?
“New codes confirmed,” it advises me. And then, almost kindly: “I am Artificial Intelligence 245, personal assistance and data management, fully equipped with the Helpful Administrator personality chip. Do you require further aid?”
“Yeah. Show me what Mair dug up on Marakeq. Please.” I feel dumb adding the last word, but I can’t help myself. There’s something…different about this little machine.
And as the others start to arrive, I settle back to read.
CHAPTER 17
Here I am in the cockpit with March again.
I’ve hardly seen him in the last week. I get the feeling he’s been avoiding me, but I’m not sure why. The way I figure, I’m the one who should be embarrassed, but I refuse to let it bother me. I didn’t start my life over just to turn into something I’m not. As I’ve never cared what anyone thought of me, I’m certainly not starting with March.
He watches me settled into the nav chair beside him. We’re cruising, already a good distance from Lachion. I took my time making my way up here; in fact I made him summon me, something I can tell pissed him off. I check the port, even though I know it’s clean. Stalling, because I have a fist squeezing my intestines, sweat popping out on my upper lip, and a snail of discomfort crawling down my spine. It doesn’t get easier; we just don’t have people shooting to distract me.
Kai started every flight perfectly. He’d lean over, a lock of ash blond hair flopping into his eyes, and he’d give me the tender, sheepish smile I came to love. Saying, “For luck,” he would brush his lips against mine. But I never felt like I needed luck with Kai. He was my luck. We were golden; nothing could touch us. I wish I could remember what the frag happened on Matins IV, whether I killed him—
“Steady,” March says, resting a hand on my forearm.
I recoil reflexively. The warmth of his touch lingers, but I don’t want him to comfort me, if that’s his intent. He has no right, and he shouldn’t know the things he does. I didn’t confide in him.
“I’m fine,” I bite out.
“He’s gone,” he growls. “Not coming back, Jax. And I’m all you’ve got.”
His words make me gulp twice in sharp succession, suddenly light-headed. Much as I don’t like March, I respect him—or I did. For a long moment, I gaze at him, jaw clenched. You think I don’t know that? You think I’m ever able to forget that? Heat suffuses my cheeks, and I feel myself trembling on the verge of something extreme, like I might cry. Or kill him.
I know which I prefer.
“Tell the crew to strap in,” I say, my eyes on his. “You speak to me like that again, I jump us all the way past the Polaris system. And if you don’t think I’ll flatline everyone on board, take another look at the wreckage of the Sargasso from Matins IV.”
“You talk tough, but—”
“But what?” I’m out of the nav chair and in his face. “Take a closer ‘look,’ asshole. Am. I. Bluffing?”
He doesn’t want to. But I know the moment he does because his face goes queer and ashen. “You’re saying you did that on purpose…?”
I shake my head savagely and drop back into my seat. “But this time, I’ve got nothing left to lose except my life. You keep pushing me, and I’m not going to give a shit about that, either. I don’t care if you think it’s pathetic that I”—my voice breaks, but I’m not going to let these tears fall in front of March—“miss him. Keep your opinions to yourself, understood?”
I don’t add: You’re not even worthy to say his name. But it’s there between us. He knows. To my surprise, he’s the first to break eye contact.
“Just do your job,” he mutters. “Sometime today would be good.”
Without another word, I take a look at the star charts. Marakeq would take months to reach if we didn’t have a jumper on board, so it’s not as far as it could be. The information I salvaged from Mair’s research advises me that it’s primarily a swamp world with isolated pockets of civilization, and the dominant life-form appears to be amphibian intelligence. We’re further handicapped by the fact that the planet is both class P and nonhuman. Nothing like setting the bar high, right?
As I plug in, I hear March telling the crew to prepare for jump. I’m blind again, waiting for him. Hating him. Then I’m crowded full of him as the phase drive starts powering up. Before his walls come up, separating us as efficiently as a room partition, something I never had with Kai, I glimpse something.
Something I’m not supposed to see. And it changes everything.
But I don’t have time to reflect; the ship trembles beneath me, and I need to focus on getting us to the beacon intact. So I push the new awareness to the back of my mind and ready myself for grimspace. Oh, it feels good, a rush I almost forget each time I leave it behind. But Mary, the colors—I’m aware of the cadence, the cosmic tides, and the sequence of vibrations that tell me inarguably: That way. And March responds to my directives as an extension of me. His hands are mine, sure and confident, guiding us through the primordial soup. Even as I hate him, I wish I could show him what it’s like—
You already are.
I’m not sure what that means, and I want to challenge the barriers he’s put up to find out, but I can’t divert myself from navigation. If I let my concentration slip, there’s no telling where we’ll end up. So I keep monitoring the wildfire outside the ship; everything seems so small, and our hull looks like it should ignite plowing through the ether, but the colors don’t touch us.
Now and then I see shimmers, reflections of others, maybe traveling parallel, maybe time trails. Grimspace ghosts. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever see shadows of myself, the echo left by my own passage on another vessel. That’s a paradox the Corp didn’t encourage us to contemplate, and right now, I understand why.
We’re here.
I sense his assent, and the ship shudders, making the jump back to straight space. I don’t need to see the astrogation charts to know we hit the mark, but before I can savor the pleasure of a solid run, the phase drive whines in powering down. I’ve heard that sound before, and its feedback screams inside my skull. Hope to Mary we don’t need to leave in a hurry. The frog-folk aren’t likely to give us any trouble in orbit, but if gray men or others track us down, it could get real messy without a phase drive.
Sighing, I tug the plug out of my wrist, and there’s a moment of vertigo as I accustom myself to seeing with my eyes again. Everything flickers before coming into focus, and sometimes I wonder whether I’m real at all, maybe I’m a program someone’s coding for an interactive holo. The absurdity of the thought makes me smile—who the hell would want to pretend to be me?
March taps the comm panel. “Dina, I need you to—”
“Already on it,” comes her waspish reply. “What am I, stupid? That’s a rhetorical question by the way. I’ll let you know when I figure out what’s wrong.”
Unlike last time, I don’t head out of the cockpit right away. Instead, I shift in my seat, watching him fiddle with the controls. I know he doesn’t need to be so proactive, adjusting this and that once he’s input our cruising course. All he needs to do for the next several hours is monitor our progress. I smile as I realize that means he’s nervous.