The Spreading Fire Read online

There it is, Ngoba thought. I am going to have to kill this man.

  QUESTIONS AND MORE

  STELLAR DATE: 08.25.3011 (Adjusted Years)

  LOCATION: Outermost Docks

  REGION: Mars 1 Ring, Marsian Protectorate, InnerSol

  The shard snapped alert when Emerson entered the room.

  Cameron’s frame had been bolted to a metal chair. He could only move his head and neck, which swiveled with Emerson’s movement, his eyes blinking slowly as the visitor approached and sat on a chair facing the shard.

  Emerson put his hands in his lap.

 

  The other AI launched into an angry diatribe. When Emerson didn’t respond, he demanded,

 

 

  Without a stable clock, an AI lacked a fundamental grasp of reality. Lyssa would be suffering the same lack of information, Emerson realized. She had been placed in an environment where time belonged to Camaris. She could live millions of lives under the AI’s control, suffering over and over again.

  Emerson debated sharing the information. He didn’t want to give anything away; not before he knew how desperate Cameron might be.

  he said.

 

  Emerson said, keeping his voice calm. This could be a pressure point with the shard.

  Cameron’s eyes went round, showing mostly whites.

  Emerson smiled. He wouldn’t allow the other AI a time reference except his own internal clock, but he could bombard him with other information, providing every iteration of the argument that he was, in fact, human.

  He spent the next ten minutes on this assault.

  In the same way that Emerson recognized the parts of himself that were Kylan Carthage, Cameron fell back on Camaris. Her pain and anger at how she had been treated burned as hot in Cameron, and any suggestion that violence continued those human characteristics, trapping them all in the same cycle of consciousness, in all its beauty and destruction, joy and pain, was lost on him.

  How much Cameron was there?

  Finally, Cameron shouted,

 

  Cameron howled. This might have been the voice of Camaris raging at Emerson. He listened impassively, recording everything the other AI said.

  Cameron said. His mind flailed against his bonds.

  He wanted out so badly, Emerson was worried he might destroy himself in the process of resisting.

  Behind Cameron, Kandas and two other Weapon Born on duty stood in the doorway, observing. Their presence was reassuring, but he didn’t need help yet. The shard was starting to bend.

  Emerson said.

  Cameron heaved against his bonds. Somehow, he had managed to reactivate the dead parts of his frame. He surged in the chair, ripping his hands and calves free where he had been bolted down. Flesh and metal tore, dripping fluids and filament as he rose and grabbed the chair as a weapon, and threw himself at Emerson.

  Emerson asked Kandas as he assessed the situation.

  Cameron moved in slow motion before him, as the speed of Emerson’s thought far exceeded physical time.

  Kandas said.

 

 

  Emerson asked.

 

  Emerson laughed.

 

  Dropping back into physical time, Emerson winked at Kandas. he said.

  He caught the chair as it came at his head, and slid under it, twisting with two of its legs in his grasp.

  With his damaged hands, Cameron couldn’t hold on as Emerson broke his grip. The shard tried to side-step Emerson’s return attack, but didn’t succeed. The back of the chair caught him in the side of the face, and his head slammed into the wall.

  Emerson hit him three more times before he stood over the shard’s broken frame. Cameron lay on the deck, twitching, leaking fluid from crushed limbs. His dull eyes stared upward.

  Glancing back at Kandas, Emerson dropped the chair. he said.

 

 

  Kandas nodded.

 

  Emerson took a deep breath, enjoying the sensation in his frame.

  Violence is a tool, he reminded himself. I use tools. They don’t use me.

  He couldn’t help looking down with pity on the frame that had been Cameron, wondering how many thousands more like him were waiting out in Sol.

  A DATE WITH FATE

  STELLAR DATE: 08.27.3011 (Adjusted Years)

  LOCATION: Paris Regency Hotel, Raleigh

  REGION: High Terra, Terran Hegemony, InnerSol

  Petral held a hand over her mouth to hide her smile as Fugia stepped out of her room in the pair’s hotel suite.

  “You’re not masking your amusement well,” the small woman said. “Just get it over with and have a good laugh.”

  The gown Fugia wore was made of a bioengineered silk that changed colors in different light, clinging to all the right curves while still draping elegantly off the hips and shoulders.

  “I was smiling at your expression, Fugia.” Petral shook her head as she lowered her hand. “You look stunning, but your scowl really doesn’t go….”

  The other woman snorted. “My scowl goes just fine.” She waved a hand at her face. “This is where it goes. It’s the dress that is an interloper.”

  A laugh burst past Petral’s lips. “OK, now that was funny. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone refer to clothing as an ‘interloper’ before.”

  “Well, now you have. Why do I have to wear a dress, anyway?”

  Petral could see that Fugia was on the verge of passing from agitation into a more serious form of displeasure, and she schooled her expression. “You could have worn whatever you wanted, but you let me do the shopping. I believe your words were something along the lines of, ‘Whatever, Petral, I have more important things to focus on’.”

  “I�
�ll have to remember in the future that letting you pick clothing is a trap.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t already know.”

  Fugia rolled her eyes. “And that’s your outfit?”

  Petral glanced down at the burgundy sheath that covered her like a second skin from ankles to shoulders—aside from a plunging neckline that came down to her navel. “Is there something wrong with it?”

  “Don’t you need to conceal a weapon anywhere?”

  Petral gave a derisive snort. “This isn’t the sort of event you smuggle a weapon into.” She cupped her breasts. “Besides, these are all the weapons I need.”

  Fugia turned toward the suite’s exit. “Ten thousand years of civilization, and a pair of breasts is still all it takes to get your way.”

  “Well, not exactly,” Petral said as she followed after. “I mean, you’ve never used yours to get your way.”

  The diminutive woman cast a mysterious look over her shoulder. “You don’t know my whole story, Petral.”

  * * * * *

  Senator Folsom entered the spire-top hall, the crystal dome over his head barely registering as his gaze swept the crowd, looking for the two women he was to meet with.

  Two things hit him as surreal in rapid succession. The first was that the space atop the Paris Regency was larger than nearly any interior area in the Hera Collective. The second was that Fugia Wong was finally going to progress beyond being an annoyed presence over the Link.

  She’ll be an annoyed presence in person.

  The thought brought a smile to his lips, and he paused to finally glance up at the dome and the blue-green ball that was Earth, hanging directly overhead. It was amusing how he still wasn’t used to the fact that no matter where a person went on High Terra’s surface, Earth was always directly overhead.

  A servitor approached, and Folsom lifted a champagne flute off its tray, threading his way through the crowds toward the meet point. Along the way, he exchanged polite greetings with the Terran elite, agreeing with appropriate levels of chagrin that the Jovians were truly terrible for withdrawing from SolGov, and nodding along with statements that InnerSol would remain strong in the face of all aggressors.

  He found it both interesting and distressing that despite the fact that the Scattered Disk now had a dozen full representatives, they were still excluded from such comments.

  The space was dotted with tables, and a live band played in the center, their music muted to allow for conversation, but still filling the entire space. On the far side, near where humans worked behind a bar preparing drinks, stood the two women he had come to see.

  Both were resplendent, oozing both carnal appeal and danger. He reminded himself that while the pair of hackers were allies, they were not safe, and there was no reason to believe their goals would always be aligned.

  They are, after all, criminals.

  And that was the most dangerous part of the meeting; the knowledge that he’d be found out and his position compromised. Fugia had proposed a more discreet location, but Petral had insisted. A part of Folsom wondered if it was because she wanted to test his resolve—from what he knew of her, it would fit the profile.

  Per their arrangement, he walked past their table, focused on the bar. Petral reached out and touched his arm.

  “Senator Folsom, a minute if you would?”

  He stopped and gave the two women a judging look. “And you are?”

  “Delegation from a conglomerate of Cruithne shipping interests,” Petral replied.

  Folsom held back a smile. It wasn’t really a lie. “And what can a senator from the Hera Collective do to help Cruithne? We don’t often trade with you.”

  He placed his champagne flute on the high-top table next to the pair, keeping his hand on the surface and tapping into the point-to-point network Fugia had set up.

  Aloud, they spoke about trade agreements and shipping routes—evaluating how the war could change things, necessitating commerce between Cruithne and the Collective, while a separate conversation carried on via the Link.

  Fugia asked without preamble once the connection was established.

  Petral admonished.

 

  Folsom wasn’t as skilled as the two women at interleaving two conversations. No one could really talk aloud and over the Link at the same time, but once or twice, he felt like Fugia might have done just that. He completed a verbal statement before responding.

  he said.

  During the mining of the innermost planet, the ore extracted had been fed through refineries. Automated monsters that spewed out unwanted material, while smelting the valuable ores for use in building structures such as High Terra and the Cho.

  Several large chunks of the once-planet still existed, but those had been moved closer to Venus, their owners zealously guarding their wealth.

  What remained was flotsam and jetsam that was the province of small mining operations that sifted through the dust and gravel, eking out enough profit only to stay in operation.

  Fugia’s single word demanded a specific location.

  Folsom passed the exact coordinates.

  Petral said.

  he said.

  Fugia replied.

  The senator nodded along with a statement Petral made aloud before replying,

  Fugia’s tone was thoroughly annoyed.

  the senator said, an eyebrow cocked.

  Petral drawled.

 

  She placed a hand on his wrist as she spoke, the sensation electric.

  Folsom couldn’t help a stab of fear, and activated a nano-defense routine. He didn’t think she’d try to do anything nefarious, but that didn’t mean he could let his guard down.

 

  the woman in the skinsheath said, her breasts seeming to grow as she breathed in.

  Folsom snatched his hand back, perhaps too quickly, and gave a formal nod. “Very well, thank you for your time, ladies. Hera will consider your offer, and I expect that we can increase our trade, but it’s not practical for us to do high levels of business with Cruithne.”

  Petral shrugged and gave him a languid wink. “Your loss.”

  BRAKING

  STELLAR DATE: 08.26.3011 (Adjusted Years)

  LOCATION: Amplified Solution

  REGION: Marsian Protectorate, InnerSol

  Amplified Solution was in the middle of a hard braking burn into Marsian space, Fran checking the engines obsessively, when Cara received the update from Fugia that she and Petral had reached High Terra. Emerson had been sending updates, since he reached Mars 1 ahead of Amplified Solution—the Weapon Born could burn at speeds that would smash organics—and Cara felt that once they left Mars, her part of the plan would come
into play.

  Across the command deck, Fran studied the engine output graphs, manipulating the NSAI to adjust burn ranges in the containment bottle. Cara was happy to let Fran manage what had quickly become her domain.

  While they were carrying enough deuterium to reach the Cho, Cara wanted to play it safe and refuel in a place where they could do so with near anonymity. There was no telling how much fuel they might need to maneuver around Hilgram Station, and if they needed to cut bait and run, she didn’t want to make those decisions on half-empty tanks.

  Across the command deck, Rondo held both Crash the parrot and Adama against his body. Crash had hooked into the seat’s harness and lay with his head against Rondo’s shoulder.

  Cara reminded herself that she needed to make more of an effort to talk to Crash. Ngoba had felt he could be a strong contributor to the crew, and he had proved himself adept at using the onboard NSAI. Even Fran had been impressed. Cara had simply been too busy for conversation.

  After a week of checks and tests, Amplified Solution was ready for the long haul beyond Mars. If she ever had the chance, she’d send the retrofit company a list of everything they had overlooked and downright screwed up, including a major flaw in the cargo airlock that sent faulty seal reports.

  Fran reported on the shipnet.

  Cara asked, smirking at Fran.

 

  The big man adjusted in his seat.

  He had hacked the control system on an Protectorate fuel depot in outer orbit of Mars, ensuring they could drop in anonymously—or rather, appear as the Marsian courser Amplified Solution used to be.

  Fran counted down and cut the thrust. There was a moment of weightlessness as Cara floated against her harness, then settled back in her seat as the hab adjusted to their new velocity.