The A.I. War, Book One: The Big Boost (Tales of the Continuing Time) (18 page)

“Here’s the thing:
everyone knew about it
. The day before launch, the engineers – hate to be them, wouldn’t you? Living with
that
disaster on your conscience for the rest of your lives? – the engineers had a conference call where they discussed the probability that the O-rings wouldn’t hold up in the cold. Fantastic, isn’t it? That people could put the lives of those astronauts at risk like that, knowing the problem, just for fear of their own shoddy work being found out?

“Of course, that was the old United States, wasn’t it. They didn’t execute people for failing to do their duty. One of the reasons they lost the Unification War, isn’t that what they teach these days? Mind you, the Unification
does
execute people who fail to do their duty. Cover up something that you know is wrong and get caught at it, it’s the firing squad for you, isn’t it.”

While Trent was talking, Thorvald’s features had gone from deep scarlet to nearly purple. “Are you suggesting we’ve done that?
Are you saying that?
”

Trent pointed at the sub-Chief who’d answered his question about the O-rings. “You.” He gestured at the main pump assembly they’d ended up floating nearby. “Take that assembly off, would you? We’d like to look at the joints on the flow tube sleeves.”

The sub-Chief looked back and forth between Trent and Thorvald. “It’ll take about ten minutes.”

Trent stared at Thorvald, and said, “Do it.”

IT TOOK THEM more like twenty to get the hydrogen pumps shut down and the casing removed.

“Now,” said Trent, “serious brownie points to the person who can tell me what’s wrong with this assembly. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m talking keep your job caliber brownie points.”

Jean-Paul Troileac moved his head closer to Trent’s and whispered to him.

“Ah. I’m told that brownie points are not an obvious concept to non-native English speakers. I can see that. Let’s try it this way,” Trent said cheerfully, “the first person to come up with a reasonable suggestion
almost certainly
won’t be prosecuted for dereliction of duty.”

A voice from the back of the crowd said, “The constricting sleeves are on backwards.”

“They
bloody well are not,
” Thorvald all but screamed. “They’re bi-directional and you
can’t fucking mount them
backwards.”

“Ah,” said Trent softly, “but they are. The sleeves themselves don’t have a front or a back, but the direction in which you fit them into one another matters. The sleeves joints should run
in the direction
of the hydrogen flow, not against it. Which brings us back once again to –”

“Challenger,” said Ken. “The sleeve joints surrounding the o-rings were upside down. It rained the night before, and water leaked in and froze.”

“As they are here,” said Trent softly. “Not upside down, but backwards. Leave this assembly casing off and fire this engine. And we’ll all wait here and we will measure the hydrogen that leaks from that joint. Chief Thorvald, would you like to perform the measurement?”

“I’ve had enough of this shit,” Thorvald snarled at him. “I’m not being hung out to dry over this crap gear and this crap job. You bastards try and hang this on me, you, you,
dirty liars,
I’ve got records and test results and … and … and ...”

Thorvald gasped for air and then died of a massive stroke.

“I KILLED A man,” Melissa said.

Me too,
Trent started to say, when he saw that she was serious.

He’d found her on one of the fore observation decks. She hovered a dozen centimeters over the chairs that ringed the view window, the deck’s lights down, the blast shielding raised up out of the way, watching the traffic swarming through Halfway. There was nothing visible except Halfway – not the sun, the Earth, or Luna; just structures and ships, flickering through a starry black sky.

“Monitor,” said Trent. “Please shut down recording in this room.”

“Yes, Chief. I will respond again to the phrase ‘
Command
, Monitor.’”

“Thank you, Monitor.”

Melissa glanced at him. “It will record that you requested privacy. Tomorrow when I report, Commander Vance will want to know what we talked about.”

Trent shrugged. He came closer to her. “And you’ll tell him.”

“Of course I will.”

“Is there anything you wouldn’t tell him?”

Amusement crossed her features. “Nothing likely to come up between us, I think.”

“Who did you kill?”

“A bad man.” She paused. “A man, anyway, doing a bad thing. He killed a girl and I killed him before he could kill anyone else.”

“Reb? Erisian Claw?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t think so, except that he had a pumped laser, an Elite killer. We don’t know where he got it yet, but there are officers tracking his known contacts. I’ll know more tomorrow.”

Trent blurted, “Chief Thorvald is dead.”

Melissa stared at him. “What?”

“It’s my fault. I wanted to make sure he was removed from his position, we can’t afford any more screwups, so I went down there with witnesses and demonstrated what was wrong with the torches, and now we know and they’ll get fixed. But he –” Trent hesitated. “Medical says he had a stroke. A really bad one. By the time they got him stabilized the damage was too great.”

Melissa blinked. “Dead? Really dead?”

“Really dead.”

“Oh, God.” She stared out at the glittering dark sky. “Aren’t we just the pair.”

“We’re fixing the torches. There are three fuel lines per torch, and they’re all wrong in exactly the same way. We fix them, all forty-eight assemblies, and the ship can boost.”

Melissa nodded. “I saved two of the three hostages, and I killed the hostage taker. Of course, the PKF onsite before I got there got the other eighty hostages out of the building without
anyone
dying. Even if they did everything else wrong you can imagine. No knockout gas, no slowtime bubble for removing casualties. Who the hell
trained
these people?”

“The rocket scientists,” Trent said, “mounted the joints on the fuel lines backwards. The rocket scientists … weren’t.”

“I shouldn’t have asked him where he got the rifle. You don’t, you know. You don’t talk about their weapons. You talk about their friends, their mothers, pets, food, sleep, you don’t
remind them
they’re standing there with a, with a
goddamn gun
in their hands.” She shook her head. “I was in Los Angeles during the TriCentennial. My second posting there – I should be used to this. I asked him about that rifle, Gene.”

“Don’t break my hand, OK?”

“What?”

Trent reached forward, not too fast, and put his left hand in her right.

She stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. “Chief, are you crazy?”

“I don’t think so.” Trent thought about it. “Well, maybe.” He held her hand a little tighter. “You’re one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. I’ve loved you since almost the first moment I met you.”

“Ah,” she said wisely, “you
are
crazy. And not used to death,” she added. “It hits people like this, when the adrenaline stops.”

“Is it hitting you that way?”

“Oh, yes.” She squeezed his hand once, lightly, and let it go. “I’m going home. Good night, Gene.”

“Want company?”

She kicked off toward the door, caught herself at the doorway with one hand, and hung there with her back to him. “Sure,” she said finally, very quietly. “You can come home with me for a drink.”

THEY SAT ON cushions on the floor in her living room, with the lights and gravity down low, sat close enough to kiss, and drank together.

Melissa had served Trent a dry white wine, which Trent didn’t care for, but at least it was a good white. Melissa admitted that she hadn’t purchased it herself; she thought it had belonged to the house’s previous resident, Neil Corona.

Trent had met Corona – had he given it a moment’s thought, he’d have guessed the man for better taste in alcohol. He finished his wine and was pleased, when he checked Corona’s alcohol cabinet, to find a nearly full bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin, along with a few bottles of mixers. Clearly none of it had been touched since the TriCentennial Rebellion – a thin layer of dust covered all the bottles. Trent made two drinks – two shots of Bombay Sapphire with a shot of dry vermouth and a touch of lime juice, and put them into the SloMo to suck the heat out of them.

“Try this,” he suggested.

Melissa took a sip. Her eyes widened, and she took another. “Oh. That’s … very good.”

Trent nodded. It was. They sat and sipped at their martinis.

“Your hand was softer than I was expecting,” Trent said. “When I held it.”

“I suppose you can thank Trent for that.”

She refers to me a lot,
Trent thought. “I don’t understand.”

“I became an Elite in 2074. That was Trent’s fault. I was an Elite candidate in 2069; I should have been an Elite before the end of the year. Instead … Trent happened. And happened and
happened
. And it was 2074 before I finally went through the program.” She held her hand out to him. “You like my skin?”

Trent held her hand again, for the second time. He stroked the skin of her forearm. “It’s brilliant. It’s not like…” Trent fell silent. “Brilliant,” he said again.

In the dimness he could barely see her smile. “I know. We didn’t get this skin until 2072. Because of Trent I have a sex life.” She laughed a little. “Well, the potential for one. Because of Trent I can bear children – the skin around my stomach will swell and expand as the baby grows; the old skin didn’t do that. Female Elite created prior to ’72 had to have abortions if they got pregnant. I was prepared for the lack of a sex life. I was prepared to never have children. But,” she said softly, “I am very glad that I didn’t have to give those things up.”

“I’m glad too.”

It surprised Trent at least as much as it surprised Melissa when he found himself kissing her. Her lips were soft, the skin of her cheeks and neck –

She pulled back. “No more,” she said, slightly breathless. “You can sit with me and we will finish our drinks, and then you have to go home.”

“Of course,” said Trent, “I will leave when you ask me to. Finish your drink and don’t ask me to, just yet.”

THEY HAD A second drink together, and a third. Melissa never finished her third. She lay in Trent’s arms, fully dressed. She’d refused to let him kiss her again, and after a while stopped answering when Trent spoke to her. He took the drink out of her hand, and put both hers and his on a low table beside them. The room was warm enough, and twenty percent gee was better than any bed. He laid down beside her, kissed her on the cheek, and went to sleep with Melissa du Bois in his arms.

20

“HU JINPING TOOK his brother’s rifle.” Melissa said. “His brother was a member of a threecell. Jinping took his brother’s rifle to go kill his girlfriend – he didn’t even know what it was.”

“The cell members?”

“We wrung them dry and executed them this morning. None of them had a downline in place yet, and their cell upline was in Hong Kong – I forwarded my report to the Hong Kong office. Unrelated to the
Unity
, so far as we can tell.”

Mohammed Vance studied her. She was in her office aboard the
Unity
, and Vance’s holo, sitting across the desk from her, was life-sized and would have looked almost real to ordinary eyes, aside from a faint shininess – under bright lights even that would have disappeared. Of course, Melissa’s Elite eyes could see the grain in the image. Sometimes Melissa thought she could see encryption artifacts, as well.

They spoke in French, with the comfort of two people who knew one another well.

“What of M. Yovia?”

“I think we can stop worrying about him.”

“So?”

She shrugged. “He is against the coming war, but he has done his duty admirably.”

“One can say the same about you,” Vance observed. “I don’t doubt you identify with M. Yovia.”

Melissa nodded. There were no secrets with Vance – the man was patient and irresistible, and she would not have lied to him if she’d been able. “Results are results. We’ve been on the lookout for sabotage; there’s been none. We’ve been on the lookout for slowdowns, for work done inadequately. There’s been none. Quite the contrary, Yovia’s work has been exceptional.”

“Surprisingly so,” Vance suggested.

Melissa smiled. “Everyone agrees that his work is better than it was – but not so much better that it is outside the bounds of his capabilities, were he properly focused. His former wife is no longer here to distract him; it’s agreed by all that she kept him off task when they worked here together.”

“And now he has a relationship that keeps him on task.”

Melissa was mostly incapable of blushing, since becoming an Elite; she’d have been surprised to learn that the tips of her ears still turned red when she was embarrassed. “We have held hands. We kissed once. He spent the night sleeping on the floor of my living room. Low gee; more comfortable than it sounds.”

“Certainly.” Vance looked away from her, obviously uncomfortable himself with any more discussion along those lines. “The work with the fusion motors,” he said after a bit.

“More Monitor than Yovia, so I’m told. Monitor identified a variety of possible causes for the problem with the fusion reaction. One of its suggestions identified hydrogen loss in the fuel lines as a potential problem.”

“And Yovia came up with the historical reference to the upside down sleeves on solid rocket boosters of the United States Space Shuttle
Challenger
, which exploded in 1987 –”

“– ninety-three years ago. Yes.” Melissa shrugged. “The only reason he’s not a Player is fear of punishment. It’s true of half the programming staff. He has a huge universe of data at his call, and he integrates much more quickly than you or I would. Could we be describing Trent? In the sense that we are describing the traits that go into any great computerist. Again, this is at least half my programming staff.” She paused. “We can interrogate him again, but I am certain that the man I interviewed upon his arrival at this station is the same man I am working with today. If it’s not, he is not only a great computerist … he is the world’s greatest actor. Certainly much better than the man whose face he wears.”

“Really? I thought Selstrom quite good in
Death Valley
.”

Melissa forced herself not to smile. “I have not seen it.”

“Well. I will come visit, I think, on the fifteenth.”

Now she smiled. “I will look forward to it, sir.”

“Perhaps you should give some thought,” Vance added, “to remaining aboard ship after it has been fully staffed.”

Melissa’s heartbeat picked up. She said slowly, “This was not our original agreement.”

Vance’s eyebrows raised fractionally. “I do not
make
agreements with my officers.”

She ignored the implicit warning. “You know what I mean. I will follow any orders you give me, but if you are taking my concerns into account, as you took them into account when posting me here in hopes that I would attract Trent’s attention –”

“I did not –”

Melissa overrode him, a little appalled at herself while doing so. “– then please take into consideration my wishes as we go forward.”

“I did not post you here to attract Trent’s attention.”

“Oh?”

He sighed. “Very well, not solely or even principally to attract Trent’s attention. Your immediate predecessor, due to a lack of attentiveness, permitted … quite a
large
bomb to explode upon the
Unity
.”

Melissa took a deep breath. She could feel Vance changing the subject – surely she did not need to remind him of her second tour of duty in Los Angeles. “I do not want to serve aboard this ship when it embarks upon its combat mission. In
any
capacity.”

He studied her. “But you will follow your orders.”

She could hear her voice sharpen. “When have I not?”

He waved a hand in a dismissing motion. “Forgive me. I do not doubt your patriotism or your attention to duty.” He actually leaned forward – for Vance, tightly wound as he was, a moment of high demonstrativeness. “Do not doubt my determination to see this through. The longer we delay, the worse our probability of success becomes in any conflict with the forces arrayed against us.
They
know this as well as you do.”

“I have never,” said Melissa du Bois, “doubted your determination.”

He studied her a moment longer with those oldstyle black Elite eyes. “I will see you on the fifteenth, Sergeant. Excuse me – Chief.”

“I will be happy to be an Elite Sergeant again, when this assignment is completed.”

He nodded. “We’ll discuss your rank when I see you next. Good day, Chief.”

ON THE MORNING of April the 4
^th
, 2080, the first Thursday in April, Monitor’s dashboard came up green.

Melissa du Bois was there when it happened. All of the programmers were present as well, every person from all three shifts, and the room was crowded as a result, even in free fall with all the cubic available for use. A dozen rings of champagne had been brought in for the occasion, and people clustered against the walls and up against what would be the ceiling when
Unity
finally boosted for the first time.

The last person working was Ken, who chattered as he typed. “... stinking genetic algorithms, back in the day we wrote code like
men
, by
hand
, the way God and Grace Hopper intended, but can they link libraries
themselves
, they
cannot
, for this we require the fine touch of a human being, and no, not just any human being, but someone with decades of wisdom and a
steady hand
...”

“C’mon, Kenny,” Marie Kohl called out. “I’m getting older over here.”

“... but not old enough for me, more’s the pity,” Ken continued. “You lack the experience to appreciate a gentleman of my
capabilities
, is what it is, because
as they say
, the older the violin, the sweeter the music. Why are we talking about violins? I need a drum roll.”

Keith Daniels performed quite a credible drum roll with the palms of his hands, beating on a table top.

“Who knew the kid had skills?” Ken asked. “Let’s count down. Ladies and
gentlemen
,” he proclaimed, “I give you the wizards of graveyard. Navigation!”

On the holo hanging before all of them, the bar with the label “Navigation” beneath it slowly turned green.

“CSI,” Ken chanted, “Tac support, slipship remote, slipship launch, troop carriers, laser cannon, and missiles. Monitor, show us the green!”

One by one the labels Ken had named went from gray to green.

“A round of applause,” Ken yelled, “for the fine folk of graveyard! No, don’t interrupt me with your damn clapping. Day: Intership, remote instruments, security, PI, Library Management, and the Redundant department of Redundancy. Show us green!”

Green lights flickered and came up in the holo.

“And last and most, swing shift, most handsome of all the programmers, and with a rhythm all our own: Lifesystems! Farm! Damage control! Repair and trauma! Surgery and sick bay! The cracker and … this psycho bastard
here
killed a man for this one: ladies and germs, boys and girls, cyborg killing machine with the world’s greatest legs, I give you the largest fusion engines in the history of the human race, running at 104% of capacity as of this morning: show us the torches, Monitor!”

Green across the board.

“Pop the champagne,” said Trent. “We have –” Every programmer in the room chanted with him.
“True wisdom, divine speed, and maximum justice!”

“You have Thursday and Friday off,” Trent told the room when the applause and whistling and chatter quieted down enough for him to be heard. “Get drunk, get stoned. Don’t sleep with anyone you’ll be sorry to wake up next to.” Jean-Paul Troileac kissed Eloise Legut while Trent was saying it, and Trent was aware of Melissa looking at him. “Of course,” Trent said cheerfully, “
that’s
a judgment call if ever there was one. Ladies, gentlemen, those in between and out the other side, this is superb work. No one ever did what we do, any better than us. You’ve got 48 hours. Back to work with day shift Saturday morning.”

“YOU’RE NOT DONE,” Melissa said after the room had cleared out and just the two of them were left.

“No,” Trent admitted. “Green is nominal. It just means we’re within tolerances. We can do better. We will do better. We’re fueling up from the tenth through twelfth, we’re scheduled for initial boost in late April. By then we’ll be tighter on every metric. But don’t understate what those people did. We are, this fine diurnal period, kicking
serious
ass. Taking names. The system likes us a
lot
. And we are awful damn fond of it, too. We have Total Mutual Respect and Admiration.”

She looked amused despite herself. “You computerists are such
...
such ...”

“Nerds,” Trent said. “I think that’s the word you’re looking for.”

“
You
are not a nerd,” said Melissa.

Trent laughed. “Of course I am. You think anyone spends the tens of thousands of hours I’ve spent doing work like this unless they love it?” Trent looked up at the board, green all the way across, and grinned again. “I’m a nerd and you bet I love what I do. I am
so
damn good at it.”

She smiled at him, a little shyly. “Did you hear what Kenny said?”

“Cyborg killing machine? Or world’s greatest legs? Go with the compliment,” Trent advised. “Kenny’s an odd bird, but there’s nothing wrong with his eyesight.”