10

A Blank Map

“Hey, kiddo. It's me again.”

Miranda's cargo container turned AI-lab is getting familiar now. I was able to glide my way to it without thought, my hands knowing just where to touch and push off, with nothing more than my fingertips.

Lights still flicker on the white ovoid pod inside, and on the screens of lab gear Miranda has hooked up. I don't really know what “core Xflops” or “act. NRG” means, though, so the readouts are useless to me.

“You're supposed to read aloud to coma patients, or talk to them, or something. Dunno if that applies with you. But if you're gonna give me the silent treatment, you can't complain if I bore you.”

The pod offers no feedback on whether or not it is bored.

“The whole piracy thing wasn't my first career choice. My dad owned a mining outfit, had a couple of ships, including this one, 'bout twenty-five guys working for him. We'd take contracts from asteroid owners, tow a mobile refinery out to the rock, drill it out or break up the whole thing, depending on the composition, and fire loads of base metals back at Earth, or Mars, or one of the Trojan point settlements.”

More silence.

“Wasn't a bad life. I mean, the work was hard, but you were doing something, kayno? Every time you launched a cargo barge back, you felt like… well, damn near everything people use and live in is made outta asteroid metals. So it felt like we were building worlds. And not just metal extraction. We'd do raw carbon for synth-diamonds and organics, solid-booster installation for whole-rock Hohmann transfers on M-types, comet ice sometimes.

“Without Belters, we'd all still be under Earth's thumb. And I don't just mean what Nyberg did in the Rock War. I mean minerals, raw materials, organics for food. All the stuff we need to make the stuff to live out here. Belters make Orbital space self sufficient. We're proud of that. I was proud of that.”

My voice seems a little rough, somehow. Maybe I've been yelling too much lately, or… I dunno. I take a breath or two, cough, clear the pipes out. Echoes bounce back from the far walls of the hull.

“Company was growing, working more rocks, leased a fusion drive to retrofit the Cat with. Could move faster that way, push more loads with less fuel, even prospect our own claims. Great idea, right?”

The pod offers no opinion on whether leasing a fusion drive was a great idea.

“That's kinda when it all went sideways. On paper, we could afford it. The numbers all checked out. So long as everything went according to plan. But 'plan' is another word for a list of things that won't happen.”

The pod offers no opinion on the reliability of plans.

“Turns out that if you ignore Murphy too long, he comes by and gives ya a wakeup call. Ours was TZ768-ISR-7712. Yeah, I remember the exact number. Nothing special about it, just another C-type asteroid, carbonaceous, mostly soot, but it had some small deposits of rare earth metals which made it worth the trouble for the claim holder. Outfit called Beskop Logistics. Anyway, the thing was a real pain to work on, too fragile to blast much, and the drills kept hitting these big natural diamonds, like fist-sized, some as big as your head. We kept having to stop the drills, root 'em out, chuck 'em into space. Still wrecked a lotta drill bits, and those things ain't cheap.

“Anyway, we finally get most of it broken up, valuable stuff in the hold, carbons for fertilizer and synth-diamond in a big barge, ready to ship out, just a couple more days of work, really. That's when the word comes down.”

I shoot a glance at the construct's pod. Dunno why I still expect anything. Kinda like talking to myself, really.

“Turns out Beskop's gone bust. Bankrupt. Finito. Broken up, assets sold for mils on the bitcoin, investors and debtors circling like sharks. Sure, we fill the contract, that makes us a debtor, too, but we're way down the list. I mean yeah, we could eventually get paid, or get title to the cargo and sell it, but the problem is, that payoff's maybe six, nine months of arbitration away, and we're only sitting on enough cash to make payroll for one and a half, maybe two.”

I don't know why I'm hanging out in his cargo container. I've got the camera I took from the observation deck airlock, stashed somewhere I don't recall at the moment, and with that and its little mic pickup, I could talk to it… her… it… whatever… from anywhere on the ship.

But it's peaceful up here, and, anyway, I'm not sure I want Miranda to hear to me talking to Lily. Lilith. Whatever she would call herself.

“Yeah. Accounting. Exciting stuff. But it looks like you're a good listener. Anyway, we needed a short-term contract, rush job, and we actually found one. SpaceX needed a shit-ton of—ah, sorry, needed a lot of aluminum, and they needed it yesterday for something or other. Never knew what. They had a couple of likely asteroids, so we talked to the guys, and most of them agreed to take vouchers for pay, for a month at least. Good bunch of guys.

“Anyway, we tow a mobile refinery out there and get to work. We're about three weeks in, pulling double shifts, when SpaceX rolls the deadline forward. Turns out they need it at Mars instead of Arachne, which means our trajectory launch window's three weeks earlier, and if we miss it, well, the way the astrodynamics work out, the whole load won't get there for… well, a long time.”

The lights outside the open container door shut down with a click. Miranda's left them on the motion sensors since she came up here. But I see no reason to go out and wave an arm to switch them back on. The darkness is fine with me.

“Anyway, we could take them to arbitration about it, but there's some tricky language in the contract, and anyway, that would take time we don't have. SpaceX lawyers got us over a barrel and they know it. Delivery in half the time or no money until we sue it out of them.”

I remember fruitlessly trying to talk Dad into holding out, or selling the metals to another buyer and letting SpaceX fuss about the contract they were interpreting so creatively. I remember the look on Kreiger's face, and MacCormick's, when I asked them to pull double shifts. The moment I knew that I wasn't one of the guys anymore, and I never would be again. I was a suit to them, now, even though the only suit I had ever worn was sealed for vacuum.

“Well, we pushed for it. We tried. We paid our crews in hope, with bonuses we didn't have to give, promised them it would be all right. Coupla guys quit on the spot. Turned out they were the lucky ones.

“The ones who stayed, 'cause the promises sounded good, or 'cause they needed the scratch, or they were just loyal to my dad, well…”

I trail off. I don't know how to say this. I don't want to tell this story anymore. I don't know why I started in the first place. I'm sitting here in the dark, in the tomb where I buried all the plans I ever had for my life, rehashing a past I can't change. It's my life's story, and, gods help me, I'm telling it to a broken machine, because I don't have anyone else to listen.

Fuck it.

“Well, when people miss enough sleep, they miss other things. Like how to pack a blasting charge right. Or where the oxygen tanks are. I…

“Ya know what? Never mind. It's just… I guess I wanted it to make sense to you why I turned to stealing, but… maybe it doesn't. I'm gonna go. I'll talk to you later.”

The lights click on again, as I fly out of the container and head for the inner lock. For some reason, I flinch a little as they do, wishing they'd stay off, wanting the dark.

Like I'm trying to hide from something.

Miranda looks up at me, through the open door of her cabin, over the top of a plastic flat-print binder. She's reading tech manuals. Is she actually trying to figure out how to operate the Cat without me? Or to fix the fuel feed systems?

Good luck with that.

“What?” she asks, “What is it now? Why are you bothering me?”

“If you didn't want to be around me, you coulda just stayed outta my life in the first place. I came by to see if you're ready to deal. You tear up those debts you bought, give me back control of the Cat, and I'll drop you off near Saturn, any station you want, and you can charter another flight to Sedna.”

She purses her lips, almost as if considering. “I can't,” she says.

“Seriously? After all that's happened, do you really think you're somehow still going to get your way? Like I'm just going to give up and say 'Sure, lemme just go along with your mysterious suicide plan after all!' Really?”

“No, Marcus, you're not listening. I didn't say 'I won't,' I said 'I can't.' The moment I give you back control, you'd sell whatever information you have on my plans to the highest bidder. Right after you stuff me out an airlock without a suit. That would be suicide.”

Crap.

“I… wouldn't do that,” I say, but it sounds lame even in my own ears.

“Oh? What, you promise? You super-duper pinkie swear? And you expect me to bet my life on that? You already beat the hell out of me back there. Who knows what you'll do next?”

“You act like you didn't do a thing to provoke—”

“And even if you do keep your word, once you dropped me off, there would be nothing to prevent me from turning you in. Which you'd realize if you'd stopped to think about it. It's just like you said. Mutually assured destruction.”

”Or,” she continues, with an exaggerated air of patience, “you could agree, voluntarily, to go along with my original plan, and, when we're done, I do what I already said I'd do—cancel your debts, and leave you free and clear. Perhaps I can even look into getting your piracy problem cleared up. I could smooth things over. Have people paid off. My sponsors' reach extends far enough for that. It would get you out of the hole you've dug yourself into. Isn't that worth it?”

Smooth. But I know she's lying.

“Nice try, Princess. I checked you out on the internet, did some thinking, and figured it out. Figured you out.”

Miranda doesn't say a word. She just cocks her head to one side, like an inquisitive puppy, the way she does, waiting for me to continue. Her eyes are still ringed by fading bruises, but somehow, looking like a raccoon just makes her cuter. I have to keep reminding myself how fucking evil she is underneath.

“I know why you did all the dirty work yourself. I know why your so-called 'sponsors' didn't send any crew with you, and just let you come yourself, even though you don't know a thing about spaceflight. I know why they guarded you with a pair of drones instead of a team of people they could trust.”

“Oh, why?”

“Because they don't exist, that's why. You have no backers. You're alone. This isn't a corporate project. Not even a secret corporate project, with off-the-book funds and plausibly deniable contractors. This is a you project. You didn't bring anyone—because you didn't have anyone to bring.

“I don't know what it is out there you want to go after, or how you learned about it, although it must be something to do with Starlight and the Tombs. Whatever it is, it's valuable enough to kill for. And that's why you came out here alone, isn't it? Whatever it is, it's worth more than anything you could possibly offer to pay someone. And anyone who came with you would have to know that. So who could you trust?

“You needed to go dig up buried treasure, but who could you get to help you? It had to be someone you had leverage with. Someone who had to go along to save his hide, not line his wallet. Someone you could blackmail. So the princess needed to kidnap a pirate.”

I expected to be interrupted. I expected to have to shout over her. I'm breathing a bit fast, staring at her, and she hasn't made a sound. Hasn't even shaken the smug impression on her face.

When she finally breaks in, it's by applauding. Slowly. Sarcastically. Clap. Clap. Clap.

“Bra-vo. You figured it out. So what? What do you want, a banana?”

“What I want it is—”

“Rhetorical question. It doesn't matter what you want. You said it yourself. I needed someone who had to go along with my plan, because he needed to save his hide.

“That's why I picked you, Marcus. It's not because of your piracy skills. Sure, you're good at stealth flying, but so are plenty of other pilots. If I were going to hire, I'd have hired someone with a clean track record. I didn't pick you because you were good. I picked you because you're a loser.”

I unclench my hands, breathe in, slowly. Then out. Calm. Count to ten. No hitting.

“Oh? Well, how's that working out for you?” I ask. “Not so well, huh? Because your plan was stupid. It depended on me to just roll over for you. You thought that because I was broke and in trouble, I must be dumb and weak, and would let you do whatever you want.

“You think that whatever people get, they must have deserved. You want to believe that, because you were born at the finish line, and the only thing you still need out of life is a way to convince yourself that you deserve to be there.”

Her lips curl back from her teeth in a snarl. Finally, she's mad.

“You know what? Fuck you,” she snarls. “You don't get to judge me. You know nothing about me. I worked hard for this. You just don't know that because you didn't see it happen in front of you! All I did wrong was misjudge how suicidally insane you are. That you would actually be willing to risk both our lives out of pure spite, just because you weren't getting your way! So excuse me for assuming you would act like an adult instead of throwing a tantrum!”

“Why'd you do it at all?” I ask. “Why didn't you tell just Barsoom Technical? It's your company, right? Or your family. Either way, they've got money. Enough money to hire someone with an impeccable trust record. A whole outfit. Lonestar Security, maybe some other outfits, too. You get enough people, they can't all plot against you. Then you let them all do the heavy lifting, sit back, and collect the payoff.”

“Because that last time I showed someone else what I found, I got nothing!”

“The last time?” I say. “Was there some other treasure hunt?”

“I mean Barsoom Technical! It was founded just for my research! The whole company was based on my ideas for a new way to create AI. I came up with all of it, took it to my family, asked for funding. And do you want to know what they gave me?”

“What?”

“Almost nothing! Just a few percentage points, no seat on the board, nothing but 'Chief of Research' and a pat on the head. And my father acted like he was doing me a favor. So, no, I wasn't going to give Barsoom my next discovery. I wouldn't have owned any of it. I wasn't going to get fucked again!”

“Oh, come on now. People like you fuck other people, they don't get fucked. I don't think you've ever been fucked in your life.”

For some reason, she winces at this, but I just keep right on going.

“You were born so rich you'd never be able to spend it all if you tried. Are you really so greedy you want even more? Or is money just a way of keeping score for you? And why are you willing to risk your life on this harebrained scheme? You keep saying this is so bloody important, but you won't tell me anything! You just expect me to take your word! What the hell is out there, anyway?”

She holds my gaze for just a moment, glaring, then sighs and… deflates… slightly. She always gets angry like an oxygen tank fire: hot, immediate, explosive, but over just as fast.

“Marcus,” she says, “first of all, I'm not wealthy. My family is wealthy. Oh, they take care of me, so long as I do what they say, and I suppose I'm well off compared to people like you, but they control all the real money. Would you really want to be someone's dependent all your life?”

Right. Suurre. You're not rich. You're not privileged. You're just a regular girl who cost the price of a mansion on Olympus Mons just to be born, whose daddy sent her to med school, then bought her a company to play scientist with. You're not rich or spoiled at all.

But I don't say that. I listen. She's in a venting mood. Maybe she'll finally spill of her secrets.

“But, no, you're right,” she says, “There is more to it than that. So, fine. Do you really want to know what's out there?”

“Yes! Because none of this makes any goddamn sense otherwise! How does someone who dropped out of a neurosurgical residency to do AI research discover some Tomb Builder site on Sedna? It's not your field. You weren't even out there… you were working in the New Brisbane habitat, cutting up kid's brains for fun and profit.”

“Oh, don't be so dramatic,” she says. “The real Lily Trentfield is just fine at home right now in the Arcadia Ring, with her family, and ten thousand shares of Starlight preferred stock to console her for what little inconvenience she endured. But you're right, it wasn't something I set out looking for. I just… found it.”

“Found it how?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” she asks. “No, don't make that face, I mean it. You said it yourself; this is knowledge people are willing to kill for. Knowing this—well, it could be dangerous.”

“Dangerous compared to having my ship hijacked by a psychotic pixie and her pair of robot goons? I'll take my chances.”

Did she actually just stifle a laugh? This girl has some serious mood swings.

“Okay, fine,” she says, “Let me get some coffee, and I'll tell you the whole story.”

“Still hate the smell of that stuff.”

“Too bad,” she says, with a smirk, “the psychotic pixie needs to feed her caffeine addiction. Come on.”

Miranda floats through the door by pulling on the frame, brushes past me, then uses me as an anchor point to push off of with both hands, coasting towards the ladder to the galley level. Her mass doesn't move me backwards that much, but I just drift, too surprised, for the moment, to grab the wall and correct my spin.

Did she just make a joke?

She won't say a word until the vile stuff is finished brewing, admonishing me, without heat, to be patient. Finally, she removes the bulb from the machine, drifts back, and takes a good hard swig of the bitter-smelling black liquid.

“Ah. That's better. The spacesickness meds make me sleepy all the time.”

“Okay, you've got your toxic sludge, now start talking.”

“You really have no idea what you're missing.”

“And I'm happy that way. C'mon, spill it.”

“Okay, okay. But there's not as much to tell as you might think. I don't actually know for certain exactly what the Snark is.”

“The… Snark?”

“Yes,” she says, taking another draft of her “coffee.” “That's what the construct called it, and the name kind of stuck. I think it's from a poem by the guy who wrote 'Alice in Wonderland.'”

“Okay,” I reply, trying to get between her and the vent fan so the air blows the scent away from me. “So it was the construct that found it?”

“Yes, sort of. Except now that you've damaged it—”

“Hey, hey, hey. Hold on now. I just told her the truth. And you don't know that she's broken. Look, she's a teenager, right?”

”Lily was twelve, so not quite, but that's not the point. No, it is not a teenager. They're not the same. The memories are copied, but the hardware is different, you can't just assume—”

“She found out something that really upset her. And that you'd been lying to her. So she blamed it all on you, had a meltdown, screamed that she hated you, then went in her room and slammed the door. Now she won't answer when you knock. Which part of that doesn't sound like a teenager?”

Miranda bows her head, rests her face in one palm. Dark hair ripples and sparkles as it catches the light. “It's not that simple, Marcus. Prototype AI constructs are complicated machines—”

“So are teenagers. But they're also resilient. They feel bad, and then they get better. Let's just wait and see if she comes out of her room, huh? Anyway, are you finally going to tell me what this 'Snark' thing is? You must know something.”

“Well, sort of. It's hard to explain.”

I expect her to go on from there, but she doesn't. She just sits there in midair, fidgeting with the coffee bulb, playing with her hair, looking nervous. A moment of silence stretches into to the point of awkwardness.

“Look,” I prod her. “Why don't you just start at the beginning, and then get to what you know?”

“Random numbers,” she says, and takes another drink.

“Random… numbers?”

“Yes, it all started with random numbers. See, when you unplug an AI candidate from its human template, it doesn't immediately wake up and start talking. At first it's pretty profoundly impaired. A little bit like autism, really, which kind of makes sense, because if you look at the density of microcolumn packing in the autistic brain, it mimics the default layout of certain self-organizing map type neural nets we use in AI. You see, a sparsely connected neural net, like the hippocampus—”

All the irritability and exasperation is gone from her voice, and her eyes sparkle. Gone is the fussy, entitled debutante, and the ruthless opportunist—she wants to tell me all about neural nets and brains, not because she likes me or cares what I think, but because she'll probably tell anyone—random passers-by, delivery drones, rocks, hydroponic tanks full of oxygenic algae. Looks like Doctor Miranda Foxgrove wasn't just playing scientist, and is secretly a bit of a nerd.

A disturbingly hot nerd, like in those stupid movies where they try to make an ugly-duckling-turns-swan plot by putting glasses and an unflattering haircut on an actress—real, genetwist, or simulated—who's transparently a nine and a half out of ten. Even, if in this case, she's the half-scale model. Wish I found that part off-putting, but I don't.

She's bouncing in place, slightly.

I cut her off. “The random numbers?”

“Oh, yes. Right. Anyway, you start by feeding a new AI both random and patterned input, digitally, just nonsense versus stuff like the Fibonacci sequence. The viable ones develop a preference quite quickly. They like things that make sense.”

“Fee-bo what?”

“Not important. What matters is that this particular construct spotted patterns pretty quick, but there was one little part in our random sample that it really, really liked. Kept selecting it over everything we gave it as an alternative.”

“Okay, so it was defective?”

“No, you've met it. Did it look defective to you? Before you wrecked it, I mean.”

“Confused, maybe. Not defective. So what was going on?”

“My question exactly. So I tracked down where that sequence was from.”

“Wait, what do you mean, where it was from? A random number generator, right?”

“No, not quite,” she says, squaring herself up for another lecture. “Random numbers in the computer sense are not actually all that random. They'll work for video games, even cryptography, but to train an AI, no. You need a good source of high-quality entropy that's unpredictable to the AI, has a really high Kolmogorov complexity, but something pre-recorded, specific, that you can use again and again between different AI candidates, to control for—”

She's getting excited again. The coffee bulb, forgotten, is probably going cold in her hand.

“The numbers, Princess. What about them?”

“Oh, yes, right. I looked into where they came from.”

“And?”

“Extrasolar neutrino radiation studies. A couple of decades back, a group of astrophysicists at the Lycaeum was using neutrino emissions to find distant supernovas. And they took all their negative data and recycled it as a random pool for other experiments.”

“What, so someone sold you fake random numbers?”

“No, they weren't fake, and they didn't sell them. They just started using them, and other scientists did, too. Except—”

“Your AI found a pattern in it. Something they missed.”

“Right.”

“But from the fact that we're here now, I take it that it wasn't just a supernova?”

“No. It was different. For a while, I thought the construct might have found signals from an alien civilization. So I paid off some astronomers to rescan the same sections of sky, and… nothing.”

“Nothing? But then what—?”

“Then I had them check known objects in the outer solar system.”

“Oh. Sedna?”

“Yes. Well, orbiting Sedna. Around a hundred kilometers out.”

“So, Tomb Builder tech, then.”

“The construct thought so. I gave it a whole bunch of Tomb Builder data to study, basically everything that's in the public domain. It can absorb knowledge incredibly fast. By the time its speech skills were up to explaining, it already had a theory.”

“Which was?”

“The construct thinks that the Snark is the Tomb Builder's actual colony ship. The one they got here in. From wherever they came from.”

“Oh.”

My voice sounds small, and far away. Even to me.

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“Yes.”

“An actual interstellar spacecraft.”

“Yes.”

“Created by the Tomb Builders.”

“Yes! Do you get it now?”

Something in me is doing somersaults, and I feel like I need to sit down. Never mind that I'm floating in zero gravity, and don't need to expend any effort to hold myself up. Sometimes you need to sit down anyway.

An alien ship. Not a fusion drive cobbled together from bits and scraps of reverse-engineered power generators and fuck knows what else. Not just another junk heap like the one that was still a treasure trove to us primitive ape-beings.

A starship. A real, complete interstellar spacecraft. Thousands of years old, yes, and probably broken as fuck, but, still…

“So when you said that this was going to change everything, you weren't kidding.”

She regards me calmly with those big iridescent eyes, tries to take a sip of her long-forgotten coffee, which my implant eye informs me is no longer emitting all that much thermal infrared at all. She makes a disappointed face.

“No, Marcus. Not kidding or exaggerating. Can you see why I can't just give up on this, even after you broke all my stuff and beat me up?”

I drop eye contact. I could tell her that not every ass-kicking just falls out of the sky, but hell, what's the point in having that argument again?

“Do you even still know where it is without the construct to help you?” I ask.

“Yes, I was very careful to get precise data. And don't bother trying to beat it out of me, I won't—”

“You actually think I'd do that, don't you? Even if I was willing to, which I am not, I don't even want to go out there in the first place.”

She looks genuinely startled. “What? Really?” She tilts her head to one side, then the other, like a kitten trying to figure out why she can't catch the laser pointer dot. “I mean… why not? Don't you understand how important this is?”

“That's not the problem. How many times do I have to explain this? It's—”

“Marcus, I heard you the first time. You think it's suicide. What I don't understand is why. You hijacked ore shipments over and over again and didn't get caught. What is so different about this?”

“The problem is that course you set. We were flying straight at a Sedna intercept with our—my drive blazing, throwing out light, radio, neutron radiation, you name it. Big bright drive signature. That's what lets telescopes pick you out at range.”

“But couldn't a telescope see us anyway? I mean, we still reflect light.”

“What light, Princess? The solar system is huge, and if you're any distance from the sun, it's pretty damn dark, too. Even the best optics can't deal with the distances out here, which means you need to be practically on top of someone to spot them with on scopes if their drive isn't lit. First rule of sneaking around at night is turn off your damn flashlight.

“And that's how I did it. You just calculate a course, fire the drive quick and hard, then coast to your intercept point, and decelerate fast. Like throwing a ball and catching it on the other end, 'cept you're doing the catching yourself, stet? Lights you up when you decelerate, of course, but the trick is to do it hard and brief, match velocities fast, then finish up and get the hell out.

“So, yeah, people saw me all the time. Just no one ever caught me. On that course you plotted, they'd be waiting for us when we arrived. And—”

I raise my hands to shoulder level and bring them crashing together, palm on palm. Miranda flinches at the noise.

“—splat. Just like that.”

“Oh. Well, why didn't you just tell me instead of throwing a tantrum and breaking everything?” she asks, all innocence and puzzlement, like I've never brought this up before.

“Because it's impossible to tell you anything! First time I tried you slammed a door on my foot.”

“Well, you were…”

She stops, sips at the long-forgotten drinking bulb in her hand, and gives a little sigh. “You know what? Never mind. What's important is that you just admitted that I'm right. We can get there safely. You just need to change our course a bit. After you fix the drive, of course.”

She pushes off the table, but overshoots the coffee machine and has to grab the refrigerator door to avoid flying all the way through the kitchen and hitting the main access ladder. Fortunately, she doesn't mass enough for her drifting momentum to drag the door open and spill the contents everywhere, but she's left kicking the air helplessly for a few moments, trying to get turned around.

She's tied her hair back in a ponytail, a sort of grudging concession to zero-g, but it still ripples with every movement, and splays out everywhere, glittering in the lights. It has a sparkle to it, like volcanic glass, something I've never seen in the standard gene-tweak color jobs that just stick Asian hair genetics in Orbital-space Euro-mutts and call it a day.

“Look, your Royal Highness—”

I think—I'm not sure, but I think—there's a little wince in her face every time I call her this, or 'Princess'. It's childish, but I enjoy it all the same.

“—it doesn't matter if I can. I won't, and you don't have anything left to force me with, so it isn't going to happen. So you're going to tear up those debts and give me my ship back, and I'm going to give you a lift back to Mars, or Europa, or wherever it is you wanna go. Then we part ways, and don't rat each other out. Your silence buys mine. However you wanna go get this Snark thing after that is your affair. That's how it's gonna be.”

Thunderclouds gather across her perfect eyebrows, and her lips part to say something… probably something scathing. I reach my hand out to her face, and she flinches a bit, again, but I make a little soothing noise in my throat, and keep going, real slow, to gently lay one finger across her lips.

The age-old sign for silence.

“Don't start another fight. You don't have to say yes right now. Just think about it. And when you come to your senses, come find me.”

In my humble opinion, the greatest gift the mysterious Tomb Builders ever left for us wasn't the fusion drive tech at all, but self-assembling biocompatible semiconductors. Sure, the implantation process isn't anyone's cup of tea, and they're worse when they're growing into place. I can understand why the early adapters were accused of child abuse.

But we often take it for granted just how cool neural lace is. I mean, forget about the VR stuff, it's the little things. Being able to take a phone call, manage your crypto accounts, or send email just by closing your eyes for a few moments.

Or, in this case, read an ebook while floating in the machine shop. In total darkness. With my eye's infrared filter shut down, I can barely make out the massive looming cylinder of the autolathe, the cubical bulk of the CNC mill, the cabinets of tools and racks full of steel and aluminum bar stock.

I don't think she'll find me here.

Not that I'm running away from her; what's she gonna do? She annoys me, that's all.

The Hunting of the Snark: An Agony in Eight Fits

by Lewis Carroll

Fit the First: The Landing

“Just the place for a Snark!” the Bellman cried,

As he landed his crew with care;

Supporting each man on the top of the tide

By a finger entwined in his hair.

“Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:

That alone should encourage the crew.

Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:

What I tell you three times is true.”

I stop scrolling for a moment. Hmm. Typical Lewis Carroll. Poetic, but kinda random. No real source of insight here. Skip ahead a bit.

He had bought a large map representing the sea,

Without the least vestige of land:

And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be

A map they could all understand.

“What's the good of Mercator's North Poles and Equators,

Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?”

So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply

“They are merely conventional signs!

“Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes!

But we've got our brave Captain to thank

(So the crew would protest) “that he's bought us the best—

A perfect and absolute blank!”

Okay, yeah, that's us all right. Pair of gormless idiots, floating around without a clue. Supposedly hunting a Snark we don't understand. Blank map, indeed.

From the moment I met her, I just wanted a way out. But unless I'm willing to brutalize her until she gives me back computer access, which I am definitely not, I need to find a way for that to happen.

Play along, maybe? Make the deal and back out? I don't know.

Scroll ahead some more. Don't know what I'm hoping for, here. Some kind of insight into the construct's mindset, maybe? Anything it knew about this “Snark?”

“Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again

The five unmistakable marks

By which you may know, wheresoever you go,

The warranted genuine Snarks.

More nonsense. I keep scrolling. This is probably a waste of time. But until Miranda gets done with all the sulking she is no doubt engaged in at this moment, and figures out what she wants, I have nothing better to do.

“The fifth is ambition. It next will be right

To describe each particular batch:

Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,

From those that have whiskers, and scratch.

Also apt. We don't know what the hell this thing is. We're only assuming it's valuable. Given how valuable the last find was, though… a share of that would pay off all my debts. Would buy Warnoc Engineering out of the red. Would pay benefits to the families of the guys who died, Findley and Packard. Wu and Hamilton and Sanchez. All of them.

Would rebuild Dad's dream.

Aaaaaaaaaaand would get me killed trying to steal the thing.

I keep reading.

“'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,

If your Snark be a Boojum!

For then You will softly and suddenly vanish away,

And never be met with again!'

Well, that's not fucking ominous at all. That construct may be confused, might be dumber than humans in some ways, but maybe smarter in others. Does she know something we don't?

Is this a warning?

I scroll down to the end.

They hunted till darkness came on, but they found

Not a button, or feather, or mark,

By which they could tell that they stood on the ground

Where the Baker had met with the Snark.

In the midst of the word he was trying to say,

In the midst of his laughter and glee,

He had softly and suddenly vanished away—

For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.

Weird poem. If picking it was some kinda hint, well, damn it, AI, just say what you fucking mean. I'm not a literature and symbolism guy. I just like my stories to be stories. Leave the other stuff to pretentious twits in non-functional scarves. Gotta message, send an email.

But it does sound pretty fucking grim.

Miranda told me I'd join her quest willingly when I found out what it was. But, nah, Princess, you didn't even believe that yourself, otherwise you would have told me the whole story right then.

Still… now that I do know the story, what am I going to do?