Part 8 (1/2)
”If you can restore internal communications first, I may be able to a.s.sist you in troubleshooting the rest.”
Bren hit the kill switch.
Hoffman let out a long sigh. ”I wonder if we just shot our careers straight to h.e.l.l.”
”We didn't. It's a routine startup drill.”
”Heh. Getting routine for us, huh?” Hoffman said.
”Yeah. Can't you see yourself at a party back on Earth? When some girl asks you what you do for the force, you can say, 'I start AI cores ... yeah, really ... mobile AI cores with big guns. Oh, don't worry, we're real careful.'”
Hoffman laughed. ”I still wonder if we're gonna regret this.”
”I wonder if Meridian is really off,” Bren said. ”Let's start cleaning up.”
”Our next target is Tanelorn, tentatively scheduled for next month around the eighteenth. We have support elements moving into orbit now,” Jameson said.
Bren and Hoffman exchanged relieved glances. If Jameson had started the meeting in such a mundane way, then Jackson hadn't told anyone about their misuse of one of the most deadly tools created by humanity.
”And the a.s.sAIL replacements?” asked Bren.
”You'll have twelve this time. But if these are trashed, then we'll have to either push the schedule back, or go in with fewer units. Well, I suppose we might be able to get some run-of-the-mill infantry stuff,” said Jameson.
Bren shook his head. ”Anything without an AI core isn't smart enough for a s.p.a.ce station incursion. They pretty much shoot at anything that moves. Only good for holding a line in some field that's been cleared of civilians.”
”We could put a couple at the breach point. If the a.s.sAILs get defeated, we might need them to keep from being overrun,” Jackson said.
”I agree, it can't hurt to take some more precautions,” Henley said.
”I'd like to start the a.s.sAIL cores earlier for the next incursion. We should also give them some information about Red, including some best-guess schematics my team has come up with,” Bren said. ”It could make the difference if we encounter more surprises.”
Jameson looked at Bren.
”Who is in favor of giving the cores another half hour of preparation?” asked Jameson.
Bren, Henley, and Jackson raised their hands. Devin hesitated and then raised her hand. Bren wondered if she'd vote that way if they weren't intimate. She was probably asking herself the same question.
Vendrati looked on in undisguised horror.
”That would be an error,” she said. ”The schematics are much more reasonable. Historically, the age of a core has been the most important indicator of the level of danger it poses to us.”
”I'll consider the request,” Jameson said. ”I'll see what other hardware we can get, it may affect my decision.”
”My team has some theories about the defeat of the a.s.sAIL armor that I'd like to run by our folks Earthside,” Bren said.
”Of course,” Vendrati said coldly.
”I think we should also cut Vigilant communications with Earthside for the course of the next incursion,” Jackson said. ”If we're going to be using mature cores, we need to increase our network security measures.”
Jameson nodded. ”Very well.”
Bren mulled over Jackson's suggestions. The part that bothered him was the way they had gone into Thermopylae all full of fire and confidence. Now they were all worried about being routed by experimental robots. He didn't like this turning of the tables, but he reminded himself it was all part of preparing for the worst-case scenario.
That was something they had been doing more of these days.
Five.
Chris tramped along through the station accompanied by his gear and his depression. He couldn't shake either burden.
Just take a pill, you'll work through this, he told himself. He believed it intellectually, but his emotions weren't aligned for the sacrifice. He'd had uncomfortable a.s.signments before, but he'd always managed to find critical allies with the power to either get the resources he needed or rea.s.sign him. How could he run that game when he couldn't tell who was who in these d.a.m.n suits? Everyone went by his or her last name, and he hadn't put the company roster into his link cache. People spoke through their links per the protocol in his rules book.
He had been trying to operate based on the ranking colors of the gear everyone wore, until he discovered the colors didn't denote company rank, at least not in the Earthside sense of it. So what would he have gained for his machinations when he got back?
Chris felt an old specter laughing at him in the vaults of his awareness. His father had worked for a lifetime without a significant promotion. Although a competent company man, his father hadn't partic.i.p.ated in the politics. Chris struggled daily to avoid that trap. He'd take any angle he could. Now he felt himself losing the traction he had won in the past.
Armored in his gear, he left his quarters to explore the premises. He stared at the artificial faces of the others who walked by him in the corridors. He hadn't realized before how much he relied on being able to see people's faces. He couldn't tell if he was pleasing someone as a conversation moved along.
As he walked, he thought about the offsite.
What is the point of it all? I haven't been given any explicit a.s.signments. There are simply the rules. I have to partic.i.p.ate in the challenges. Other than that, what is everyone doing here?
The codes of behavior didn't make sense from any conventional perspective. The people here wandered aimlessly between ma.s.s sessions in the virtual environment where they partic.i.p.ated in strange games of skill. Chris studied the first couple of games he'd been a.s.signed a.s.siduously, concentrating on performing his best, but his results had been mediocre. He engineered people, not artificial rule sets imagined by misled gaming enthusiasts.
It has to be a test. Something to sift through the employees, find the ones with real ... something. The people who crack it will be picked out for special attention.
If it was a test, it had to have been masterminded by Alec Vineaux. Chris had spent hours back on Earth a.n.a.lyzing the leader of VG. The man loved adventure and challenges. So maybe Alec had contrived the offsite as a way to find other souls like him to run VG. Chris had to fit himself into that mold.
Chris vowed to demonstrate that he had brains and initiative. He'd figure out the secret puzzle and show Vineaux he had special talent. An action man, a conqueror. That was what Vineaux had to be looking for when he devised these crazy rules. Surely, he wanted people who wouldn't just accept things as they were. He wanted people who would twist the situation around to their own liking.
What Chris wasn't sure about were the challenges. Did Vineaux want someone with brains as well as bravery? Or were the challenges meant to trap people who only thought within the confines of the rules? They could be a grand distraction. Maybe the challenges were only to keep people busy so they wouldn't find their way around the rules.
Figuring out what the real a.s.signment is will be more than half the work.
He came to a door his link described as a dining area. The marker confused him since the rules dictated that partic.i.p.ants ate in their quarters. So why the dining room? It didn't fit. And that meant Chris had to investigate. It could be a clue.
Chris stepped through. The room beyond held stacks of white boxes and clear plastic water bottles. Empty tables extended across the chamber, interspersed among nests of plants and airscrub gra.s.s. The mundanity of the chamber's floor level decor clashed with the cold monochrome beauty of the vaulted ceiling. Giant triangular windows fitted together in elegant pyramidal joists offered a view of the inner ring of Synchronicity. The piecemeal view of the sunlight glinting on the off-white surface of the station exterior made it look like a gargantuan ivory carving viewed through a bleached kaleidoscope.
He zigzagged through the area staring at the sterile white on white. Chris wondered what they did with all the dust they filtered out of the air at the station. None of it had been left here.
Chris spotted a person in gear sitting at one of the tables at the far side of the room. He thought of a fat black bug waiting to be served food in a cla.s.sy restaurant. The suit had blue accents like his. That made the bug an entry-level partic.i.p.ant like himself.
”Hi,” Chris said through his link. ”What's going on in here?”
The suit s.h.i.+fted slightly. Chris interpreted it as a shrug from the person inside.
”Catching up on some work. The quarters are nice, but I thought I'd find someplace else, you know, change of scenery.”