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The construction site bustled with the combined effort of seventy androids and two dozen mechs. Zone markers had been placed around the area, identifying it as a live build zone. Outside the zone, Mission went about its day-to-day activities, mostly upkeep, administration, or leisure. One large mech, an excavator, occupied a central position in the area; the hole it had been working on was nearly twenty meters across, perfectly vertical. Twin scoops adorning the mechanical’s huge arms scooped soil and bedrock alike into a sorter station; the raw materials were broken down on-site and reused. Some of the pre-fab walls were already completed, stacked neatly to one side by two of the lifters.
Amidst the controlled, methodical activities in the construction zone, the rapid incursion of a lone sled was quite a shock. Workers frowned as the sled raced through their midst at unsafe speed, wondering at what the pressing need could warrant such a foolhardy risk. As the sled whipped past, one of the construction specialists glanced around, looking and listening for some reason for the speeding vehicle: nothing. It had not been an emergency response vehicle, that much was certain. Checking his latest com report, the specialist saw that no general emergency had been sounded—either section or ring—and so decided this must be some higher-up late for a meeting in one of the inner rings.
“Redfru!” Oriza’s loud bellow caught his attention. Palos turned, forgetting the sled, and went to see what his supervisor wanted. He would be very happy when the new tunnel access points were finished.
In the sled, Uspa ignored the construction zone as he planned his next course of action. Although there were safe-plans for almost every contingency, a rogue android capable of planned evasion required careful consideration. He hoped it was indeed a simple malfunction, but the chance that such a malfunction would leave a fully operational android able to use pre-meditated deception to avoid capture…well, the possibilities were somewhat limited and not very encouraging. The General had avoided voicing his initial analysis to Letaran; Uspa preferred to gather facts and make a carefully calculated decision. In times of need, however, he was capable of quick and decisive action. Perhaps this type of need was quickly approaching. If his guess at the reason behind the Amon’s death was correct, tactical mobilization—of at least a small force—would be needed to insure no further casualties. His jaw set as if clenching the thought in his teeth, Uspa observed the anterior parkade doors to the Chancellery building opening just ahead.
Some minutes later, General Uspa walked past a pair of hulking praetorians and into the Chancellor’s observation lounge. Spar was sitting on one of the sofas, a goblet of drink in his hand, facing a canted window. This high up, the Chancellor’s personal retreat afforded a vantage that overlooked virtually the entire city—or at least as far as one could see, perhaps out to one of the two outer rings. As Uspa strode across the heated marble floor, he noticed a small hologram hovering above a data clip on the small table in front of Spar. A mech of some kind was slowly being rotated in wire-frame animation, detailing both its exterior construction and its internal functions normally invisible from the outside. As he got closer, the General realized it was on of the new combat mechs he himself had designed. The design was only fifty or sixty years old, bipedal, and could be operated by pilot or allowed to perform independently. Based roughly on the much smaller preliator, these new machines were to replace some of the older, track-based medium firepower solutions currently employed by the military.
“Is today an omen of things to come, Arak?” The Chancellor’s question caught Uspa off guard, but the brief surprise that registered on the General’s face seemed to go unnoticed; Spar never looked up from the tall window. Stopping beside the Chancellor’s sofa, Uspa bowed slightly before addressing his superior.
“I have met with Letaran and been brought up to speed on the rogue. He is a murderer, completely dysfunctional and…”
“He is a problem, Arak.” Spar raised the gilded chalice to his lips, sipped some of the blood-red liquid; his gaze never wavered from the cityscape beyond the window. “I need this problem solved.”
Uspa nodded. “We are certain the rogue was a direct result of Arrival’s corrupted transmission?” It was not a question to which the General expected a response. Spar nodded grimly and took another sip—wine? Not likely. “Then there is the strong possibility that this will not be an isolated occurrence.” A brief pause; “Chancellor, I formally request authorization for regional mobilization.”
Spar’s eyes finally flicked towards the General momentarily, the brief glance unreadable. “Mobilization?”
“Of course,” Uspa explained, “this would be a shared effort by Military and Security forces. Light response, only search and patrol inside the cities. Between the cities, we could…”
“No, Arak; not yet.” Spar finished off his drink and set the goblet to one side. Waving a hand above the data clip, the image of the new mech promptly vanished. “It’s too much attention, too much drama. Communications are nearly completely restored, I’ve been told, and there are no other incidents similar to this Max Haiden situation.” The Chancellor’s tone infused the name with disdain, even disgust. Uspa tried to argue, but Spar forestalled him. “I do, however, want this Max Haiden recovered and studied. I want the reason for his malfunction discovered so that we can prevent this kind of incident from ever happening again.” Looking at the General again, Spar smiled tightly. “Don’t worry, Arak; I haven’t turned into a complete fool. You have already ordered Letaran to set up a security perimeter around Mission and increase patrol frequency in the greater region, at least to the Listig perimeter. When this Haiden turns up, I want you to personally see to his capture.” Spar raised a warning finger. “I want him alive and whole, Arak. We may not get another chance, and I don’t intend to have the arrival of the colonists compromised by some problem we do not understand. Once we know how it happened, we can make sure it never happens again.”
Uspa nodded, his jaw clenched in obvious displeasure. Spar looked at the General and sighed. “Sit down, Arak. You’re making me crane my neck.” The tall man complied, taking a seat on the opposite sofa. He tried to relax, but his muscles wouldn’t seem to loosen.
Spar leaned forward, squinting slightly. “Are you injured, Arak?” Uspa’s hand went to the bruise on his right temple; he’d forgotten to have that looked at.
“It’s nothing, Chancellor.”
“Don’t ‘Chancellor’ me, Arak. We’re sitting. Medic one,” Spar voiced towards one of the marble walls. A soft tone of recognition sounded.
“Really, sir, I’m fine.”
Spar dismissed Uspa’s dissemblance with a curt wave of one hand. “You’ll let the medic fix it; no argument.” The Chancellor smiled tightly. “Perhaps it will do something for your foul mood as well.”
Uspa leaned forward, placing his folded arms across his knees. “Spar, I’m—“ he searched for the right word “—worried that you are underestimating the magnitude of the problem.”
The Chancellor chuckled. “I appreciate your diligence, Arak, but there is such a thing as overreaction. I am confident that the measures already taken, coupled with the capture of Max Haiden, will bring things back to normal.” Sitting back in the sofa, Spar nodded towards the approaching Medic. The small nonsent performed a quick scan of both men before proceeding to probe Uspa’s bruised temple more directly. The General never even glanced at the small robot as it delivered a quick, cooling topical spray to the injured area. Chirping its approval, the medic left just as another robot—a waiter—proffered a selection of drinks to the two men. Taking a flask of brandy and motioning Uspa to do the same, Spar waited until the service robot had departed before offering a toast.
“Here’s to a less complicated future.”
Uspa paused momentarily before touching his own glass to that of his old friend. The brandy burned as he tossed it back; it had been a long time since he’d shared a drink with Hedric Spar. With a sigh, Uspa made an effort to appear outwardly relaxed, if only to set the Chancellor’s mind at ease.
Copyright © 2004-2005 Jay and David Steele. All rights reserved.
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