Rapturous Pejoration: Contact, #5

By Mike Freeman

RAPTUROUS PEJORATION is a hard hitting space opera/ scifi adventure. It is the FIFTH book in the Contact series.

'Another winner from Freeman, my favorite scifi author. Edge of the seat action meets mind blowing imagination. I would love love LOVE to see this on screen!' GEORGIA

'Ace! The pages flew by, this thrilling adventure delivers on all counts. Thought provoking with a ton of intense, fast paced action!' C. COUSINS

'So much imagination woven with so much great action and suspense - the cast of great characters keeps growing. Superb entertainment.' O. HORSFIELD

The United Systems' grip unravels…

Competing civilizations scrabble for advantage as the Saber Cut plummets toward Plash with three precious Scepters on board. The Talmas weighs whether to keep Weaver alive as, in the background, Darkwood advances his mysterious agenda…

Rated [R]. Violence, sex, profanity.

US English. 139,000 words.

About the author. To give his stories a realistic edge, Mike has been bitten by a snake, suffered frost bite, had his wayward yacht sink under him during a force nine gale, held a NATO TOP SECRET security classification and been serially used by a string of beautiful women. He is scared of horses and lives in a sprawling metropolis, where there are none.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Freeman
• Release date: Nov 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310692215

Mike Freeman

Mike Freeman is an NFL Insider for CBSSports.com. Before that, he was an NFL writer, investigative reporter, and columnist for the New York Times; a columnist for the Florida Times-Union; and a sports reporter, features writer, and investigative writer for the Washington Post, Boston Globe, and Dallas Morning News. He lives in New Jersey.

Book preview

Prologue

The final chapter of Reciprocal Paranoia. Skip it.

Prologue

Voth watched in bullet time as Havoc’s jetpack flashed brightly in the infrared spectrum. Probabilistic bubbles converged as Havoc hauled Weaver closer to him. What the hell were they doing?

Weaver pendulumed above Havoc then around him. Voth grimaced. If Havoc didn’t flare or deploy a chute they would fly into the roof of the fortress. He didn’t want to lose Weaver. Nanoscreen cartridges shot in all directions as Havoc arced down, less than a klick from the roof. Their feed fidelity was so good he could see Weaver’s eyes roll up in her head.

Weaver’s out, Dixon said.

Microseconds ticked away as Voth played through the scenarios and targeting priorities. If Havoc was taken out, the unconscious Weaver would crater. Was that Havoc’s plan?

Nanoscreen cartridges arced lazily outward as Gaspard’s firing solution flashed around Havoc’s probabilistic bubble.

The window is closing, Major. Nanoscreen imminent. Do we take the shot?

Eddington’s voice came over the circuit.

Take him out, Major!

Voth’s decision crystallized.

Do it. Take the shot.

Eternity Inverted

Felicitations and a Waltz

Mercury’s Vigil

The Fall

Silk over Scorpion

The Bear and the Eagle

Goodnight, goodnight

Baiser de la mort

Midnight without Oxygen

Siege of Alesia

Loki and the Asp

A Merry Foxtrot

Prelude

Our story overlaps briefly with book four, Reciprocal Paranoia. At the outset, the Saber Cut has just recovered Ambassador Abbott. Synchrony is achieved at the end of the first section, Felicitations and a Waltz, when the Saber Cut explodes.

Felicitations and a Waltz

 1.

Lucius Darkwood studied the mellifluous platinum pouring from the slender trumpet-nose of a delicate and endearingly odd sculpture. The streaming rod of platinum dropped onto a curving half-dome and coated it like a magical dragon egg, before it detached from its smiling lip and fell to the ceiling in a sculpted silver curtain. Darkwood frowned. The liquid was falling upward. He hadn’t yet discerned the exact mechanics of the effect.

No matter.

He shivered with excitement as he passed through the ornate archway and walked toward the tiered terraces rising up the steep right wall, where shelves of mute and mysterious pipes rose to the heavens. The pipes were arranged in racks of thirty two, and each one had a stripe missing from its front and a sphere poised on a narrow ledge at its top. All that is, except for the first rack in front of him. The Alliance scientists had flirted with this rack and as a consequence, its spheres, without exception, dwelled on the solid plates blocking each pipe at waist level. The cymbals hanging optimistically beneath each pipe were untouched. Conventional physics suggested that was their perpetual fate.

Interesting.

Darkwood strolled to the next rack and studied the spheres perched overhead. He visualized a sphere plunging down its pipe and imagined how it might strike the cymbal. Did it pass through the plate, or did it simply appear on the other side – as the Talmas-infected Abbott had apparently done in the carousel? Of one thing, Darkwood felt certain: it wasn’t a trick or a gimmick. No mere conjurer would construct tier upon tier of such dull artifice; there would be no point. There was something of greater significance going on here.

Darkwood shed his right gauntlet as he stepped backward, and then flicked his bare hand against the plinth to release the rack. The thirty two spheres dropped, with the leading sphere fully a millimeter below the hindmost. Darkwood found this egregious display of mechanical tolerances both slovenly and distasteful, though he conceded it might be engineered into the mechanism deliberately.

The spheres dropped like a theater curtain, millisecond by millisecond, and the corresponding sensor data streamed across his mind’s eye: position, velocity, angular velocity, acceleration, jerk, snap, spin. He mused on the nature of the interface while the spheres hissed through the atmo, waiting for the experiment to conclude. His working assumption was that while much of the alien technology could be deadly to humans, it was, in all likelihood, not quite so deadly to the Aulusthrans – otherwise it would seem to be an extraordinarily inefficient system for learning. That said, there was a progressive exposure built into most things he’d found. Maybe most of their population lived deep within the planet and, in the manner of ants, those that came to the surface were nearing the end of their lives, and consequently had limited utility to the group. Darkwood dismissed this idea as he gazed around. The magnificent sculptures set high into the walls opposite were not the work of nameless drones – the species responsible were the polar opposite of egoless ants. More likely, chambers like this were reserved for the elite, and few Aulusthrans ever grappled with the challenges he was exploring.

He admired an exquisite statue recessed high into the wall above the archways behind him, of a many tentacled creature being speared and rended by a mighty Aulusthran. Darkwood was an unapologetic elitist, and the idea that the Aulusthran race demanded competence at pain of death appealed to him at an instinctive level, no matter how unworkable or horrific it might be in practice. Perhaps those Aulusthrans that failed their challenges really died. Perhaps the inevitable loss of some worthy individuals was compensated for by the whittling of the chaff, to the benefit of their entire race. Maybe the Aulusthran conception of death was different in a fashion that reduced its sting, or death was equally unpalatable, but the rewards of conquering the challenges made the risk worthwhile. Darkwood flushed with pleasure. So much he didn’t know. So much to learn. One thing was certain – one of the few things that the tiresome philistine Tyburn had been right about, in fact – humanity had handicapped itself when it allowed social initiatives to blunt the efficacy of evolution. Such actions had the allure of being humane in the short term, but life was competition and the arena of contest was the universe, not merely Hspace. A balance might be needed, but the current balance was dramatically wrong. Darkwood’s comparison of himself with Tyburn amused him. Tyburn’s thesis had been pathetically parochial in comparison to his own, but then Tyburn had no conception of the real threat.

He shifted his attention back to the rack. His imminent experimental failure would only compound his deepening conundrum – the mastery of the alien technology. He didn’t know where to begin in moving the spheres past the plates. He was confident in his capabilities, of course – if anyone could do it, he could do it, and not just could do it; if it was possible, he would do it. He’d learned early in life the vital distinction between those who could and those who would. Countless people talked about what they could do – usually in the past tense, as what they could have done, but for whatever reason, didn’t. The acid test for Darkwood was simple: did you do it? Anything other than positive affirmation was meaningless; no amount of equivocation, tergiversation or abjuration distracted from accomplishment or its absence. You did, or you did not. The path of one’s life through the universe was indelibly recorded in space and time, and there was no enduring record of what one could have done, but didn’t. Success might be fleeting, but anonymity and failure were ceaselessly, damningly permanent. He stiffened as he flushed with purpose. He would master this alien technology and he would achieve his purpose.

The first sphere struck its plate and the atmosphere beneath it compressed. More spheres thudded to a halt and the expanding atmospheric shockwaves interweaved like ripples on a pond. Darkwood glanced back at the plinth as the booming sound reached him. The answers were here. Or perhaps, he thought, regarding his bare hand, the answers were inside him somehow. It seemed an enduring fact that aspects of the Aulusthran technology were tied to individuals, or consciousness, or identity. And not just individuals, given what Karch had told him about Havoc and Tyburn’s unexpected connection. Individuals and collectives, somehow.

The booming diminished, the thirty two spheres stood at rest, and Darkwood stood none the wiser. He turned to the ornate archways set in the wall opposite, and examined the twelve feeds of their inner chambers in parallel. He chided himself – he was only delaying the inevitable test. He turned abruptly and strode toward the carousels.

The sole active carousel brightened and darkened as it revolved in the center of the four darkened husks surrounding it. Darkwood’s suit was bathed in the carousel’s ever changing radiance as he regarded the mighty platinum fluidfall emerging high on his right. He strode straight past the carousels and toward the recessed exit chamber set into the far wall.

Here it was. The test.

He took the short step up into the cube. Faint whispers of light reverberated across the millions of crystals lining the walls. He slowly traced his way around its perimeter, starting on the right, brushing his ungloved hand across the wall and discriminating the thousands of needles that stroked the pads of his fingers. He passed the scars where high energy kinetics had struck. It was apparent from the faint marks that the fine crystals were regenerating quickly. Self-healing was normal in capable human structures as well, of course – as well as people – but he was still impressed with the speed.

He circled round to the instrumentation strip on the left wall, taking in the Aulusthran ideograms and screen panels. The Alliance team had escaped from this cube by vanishing and reappearing somewhere else – one could not overstate the importance of the second part. In reviewing the Alliance contact with the United Systems, it appeared that Weaver and Fournier had mastered this interface, and possibly others, without necessarily realizing how.

Darkwood contemplated his bare hand. He was the pinnacle of what a human being could be. There was no optimization that he could make that he hadn’t made. He knew the dangers of playing at the boundaries of human capability – who didn’t? Thus, despite its myriad of frustrating inefficiencies, he still maintained a human form. No one could say he wasn’t human. He still had eyes as primary sensors, naturally heavily augmented. He could still eat and even digest food – he enjoyed eating and drinking, and what could be more human than that? He could breathe when required, though now that he wasn’t accompanying humans – other humans, he corrected himself – he wasn’t breathing as much as he should. He even, and this was most frustrating, he even forced himself to speak his words where the absence of urgency allowed it. There was simply no basis for arguing that he wasn’t human. It was nonsense.

Objectively, he knew that he was experiencing changes in his risk appetite, which was increasing not in and of itself, but because his judgment of the severity of consequences was decreasing for reasons he hadn’t entirely pinned down, but which had something to do with the blanching of his emotions. Weaker emotions were often inaccessible to him now. He reassured himself that he still felt many emotions, though it was possible he felt the sensation of emotion remembered in some cases, rather than the emotion itself. In any case, he didn’t feel nothing, which was perfectly adequate for his needs, and would not interfere with the purpose he had selected for himself. His memory was perfect, and not only could he recall the sensation of emotion, he could access it vicariously. He’d cultivated a relationship with Karch, who could be admirably fiery and distil emotions with a purity that nourished him. He shrugged off his doubts. He was more alive than any human he knew or knew of. He was the pinnacle of human life in the universe – for what was it to be human, but to strive beyond what was possible, and then reach out for more. To conquer, however primitive the notion might be. To fight for something.

If he’d explained his thoughts to the others on the AV Intrepid, they would most likely have compared him to Tyburn. He chuckled at the comparison – and was pleased at a meta level to see his sense of humor operationalizing. He still had humor, and what was humor, if not quintessentially human? Tyburn was a primitive simulacrum of the real thing, to wit, himself. Tyburn’s concern for the Karver Republic was laughably quaint – had Tyburn ever paused to consider what a childish and arbitrary taxonomy he’d inflicted on himself? Darkwood wouldn’t let such naïve classifications stand in his way. His purpose was the triumph of his species, not merely his tribe. His species was his tribe, and their presence here was no accident. He knew the adversary was out here somewhere.

Watching them.

He wasn’t paranoid. Humanity’s contact with the Dem – best characterized by its lack of direct contact, of course – was either a cosmic aberration or an incomprehensible mismatch. It was inevitable that humanity would butt into another civilization with a similar order of technological capability, and humanity in its current form was not ready to meet that challenge, even without reference to their overly – indeed total – dependence on the Dem.

Darkwood cared. Of course he did. On Plash, he’d felt stronger sensations than he’d felt in years. Plash revivified him. He smiled. What better marriage, than to enjoin humanity’s need for unification and victory with his thirst for challenge and purpose? He felt a shiver of his unbounded potential and laughed as feelings welled up inside him. Excellent. He flexed his hands as he beamed with joy. Truly it was his purpose. He was embracing the most staggering challenge of them all.

Survival.

He had his side. Of course he did.

He reached his bare hand toward the panel.

 2.

Darkwood swam in a swirling ocean of innumerable data, surveying spiraling galaxies of endlessly branching and boundlessly interconnected nodes of information. The lure of even the smallest scintilla of specificity was a glittering deception that, upon closer inspection, immersed him in an infinity as amaranthine as the one he’d come from. The grist of this model was simply intractable with the tools at his disposal. Fortunately, the interface simplified matters for him by identifying the macroscopic quasiparticles in the cube, together with the functions he could use to manipulate them. He assumed that the technology behind the interface synchronized the manipulation of the wavefunction properties of the quintillion interacting particles that comprised him – eliminating temporal issues and doing the heavy lifting for him, in effect – but unfortunately this boon had proved to be something of a false trail so far. To his puzzlement, he still couldn’t effect the translation.

He worked methodically through every permutation he could conceive of. The environment was somewhat reflective, and he experimented with adjusting the functions and therefore altering the scope of the data they encompassed, or the transformation they effected. Even with these changes, he couldn’t do it. His macroscopic quasiparticle was clearly discernible, but no matter how he tried, no matter what he manipulated in the myriad of functions that ranged over the recursing infinities, he couldn’t execute the transfer. He felt somehow… inadequate. It felt like there were a hidden set of parameters that his own presence brought, or in this case, failed to bring. He felt too weak. It was a puzzle, indeed. Fournier and Weaver had accomplished something that he couldn’t. Maybe the technology had translated his position, and he simply hadn’t realized it.

He exited the interface and blinked back to reality.

A pair of glowing blue eyes greeted him.

 3.

Three lithe and shadowy feminine figures surrounded Darkwood in the cube. Their eyes shone respectively blue, red and green, and regarded him with a steadiness and purity he would associate with a great cat. The recessed wings of these angelic figures swept back in beautiful curves and their skin had the appearance of lustrous metal. Each svelte figure stood in a pose that would make a master sculptor weep at the accomplishment of their life’s work, or at least Darkwood liked to think so.

He shook his head.

Damn it.

The sylphlike beauty in the center blinked her blue eyes slowly.

You appear to still be here, Lucius.

Darkwood gazed around the cube. What was he missing?

Indeed, Erina.

The green-eyed Roxana stepped closer. Her skin shimmered like quicksilver as she stroked her hand across the panel, though her touch had no effect. The emerald glow on the panel brightened as her eyes radiated with curiosity.

Given the successful translation of the Alliance team, and my assessment of your relative capability, Lucius, I believe your failure implies we are missing something critical.

Darkwood felt disappointment tempered with rising excitement. It was so rare that anything defeated him in Hspace. On Plash it was an hourly occurrence.

Fascinating, isn’t it, Roxana?

Roxana artfully curved her neck.

Oh yes, Lucius, it is fascinating.

Cassandra fixed her luminous red eyes on him.

Might we have a copy of your sense data, Lucius?

Of course, Cassandra. I do beg your pardon, girls. Here it is. Where is Angela?

Angela, his orange-eyed assistant, spoke in his mind.

I am completing my scan of the carousels, Lucius.

Jolly good, my dear.

The panel glowed dimly blue as Erina stepped closer to it.

Did you get any impression of what was required to potentiate the transfer, Lucius, or what inhibited it?

"Nothing terribly specific, I’m afraid, Erina. There is clearly a significant energy requirement, but I remain convinced that the system deals with that. I apologize for my vagueness, but I would be being remiss in my self-reporting if I didn’t confess I felt a certain lack of presence in the interface."

Cassandra tilted her head.

Presence, Lucius?

Indeed, Cassandra. I feel like a child pushing on a heavy door – as if I’m trying to do the right thing, but I don’t have enough mental strength to complete the action and effect the outcome.

Erina moved her big blue eyes so close to the panel that the two dim orbs were reflected in it.

Such feelings could be meaningless, of course.

Of course.

What about the timing? Roxana said.

Darkwood nodded.

Yes. I still don’t understand the timing issue, but again, I suspect the system deals with that.

Cassandra’s arm extended like an unfurling ribbon.

The Alliance team experimented with the carousel before they successfully activated the exit, Lucius. It may provide a more tractable idealization.

Darkwood turned to the brightening carousel.

An excellent point, Cassandra.

 4.

Ventrone blinked his eyes open. Everything was pitch black. He wondered if he was dreaming – or dead – when his thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakably deep voice of Lieutenant Spinner.

The princess awakens.

Ventrone’s instincts were honed. After any incident where you weren’t sure what had happened, it was possible that no one knew what had happened – maybe everyone’s recordings were damaged, or partial, or they’d missed the pivotal events. It came down to one simple fact: someone might have been a hero. And if no one knew any better, that hero might as well be him.

Ventrone coughed some imaginary grit from his throat.

Lieutenant. Thank God I managed to save you too.

In the ensuing pause, Ventrone wondered if he would finally get some flutter for his dress uniform. His mum would beam with pride – and forgiveness, hopefully.

Spinner transferred him a short clip from Spinner’s POV.

Er, no, I wouldn’t call it that, Ventrone.

The clip showed Ventrone plummeting amongst a sea of debris, his mouth open for a full throat inspection while his body performed an action best described as a penguin attempting to cartwheel using its wings.

Yeah, I guess I meant the bit just after that.

The next clip was immediately forthcoming. Ventrone hadn’t realized his eyes could open that wide.

This bit? Spinner inquired.

Ventrone sighed as he watched himself humping Spinner’s leg like a bonobo chimp. Goddamn personal cams. Still, one day it might work.

I guess we just wait it out then?

Spinner ignored him, as did most officers. Most people, truth be told. It was his fate to be misunderstood. He was like… a combat poet. Without the poetry, of course, but the idea was right.

I can’t get a signal out, Private. We’ve got too much shit on top of us and it’s blocking the signal.

Ventrone contemplated the rubble crushing him. The pressure on his suit was immense – much greater and he’d be pizza.

They’ll still come and get us, won’t they?

We’re in a mountain of rubble. Do you want to take that chance?

A zealous cry of enthusiasm was clearly called for.

No, Sir.

Exactly. That’s why you need to fire upward, Ventrone, and try and blast a way through to the surface.

Ventrone opened his mouth to confirm his joy at Spinner’s missive when he realized what was being asked of him and snapped his mouth shut. Fucking typical. He’d barely discovered he was alive and the nearest officer was already volunteering him for death.

I do, Sir?

Yes, Private. I suggest a D40 or a D42.

Ventrone’s eyes shifted slowly from side to side as he contemplated firing into the mountain of shit. However you approached it, it seemed like another way of saying: causing a mountain of shit to fall on yourself.

After a pause, Spinner politely inquired as to the source of the delay; not missing the opportunity to reinforce the timeless bond between officer and subordinate, whilst simultaneously demonstrating his concern for the wellbeing of the bedrock of the United Systems commando forces – the fred.

What the fuck is the problem, Ventrone?

Ventrone considered the minefield before him, and how to navigate safely to the other side.

"Er, are you sure you want me to do it, Sir?"

Yes.

Not much room for maneuver there. Ventrone edged the boat out a little further.

"It’s just this seems like one of those situations, Sir."

"Those situations, Ventrone?"

Those situations, Sir, where the brave junior officer inspires his steadfast and loyal troops by taking the lead.

"Ah, one of those situations."

Yes, Sir. Leading by example, they call it, Sir.

Is that what’s supposed to happen?

Ventrone felt greatly encouraged. In fact, he was scarcely able to believe his luck.

It’s practically doctrine, Sir.

You want me to fire into all this shit instead of you?

Almost giddy, Ventrone went directly for the confirmation close.

Good luck to you, Sir. You’re a brave man.

Thank you, Ventrone, and good luck to you too.

I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you, Lieutenant.

I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you as well, Ventrone.

Ventrone frowned in the darkness. He felt a growing sense of disquiet at Lieutenant Spinner’s mutual concern.

Er, is there any particular reason you’re crossing your fingers for me, Lieutenant?

You’re damn right there is, Ventrone. I’m two meters underneath you. Ok––

Wait!

 5.

Darkwood flexed his hands as he contemplated the towering carousel. He and the plinth were drenched in pale luminance with the quality of moonlight as the structure revolved. The radiance imparted the girls’ silhouetted figures with a wonderful duality – he must remember to create something artistic with that effect at home.

Hephaestion?

The bulky shadow loitering by the ghostly hulk of one of the inert carousels glided forward.

Yes, Sir?

How many cutters are operating?

All five deployed cutters are still operational, Sir. They have eliminated forty seven microdrones so far.

Darkwood raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected so many.

From the United Systems?

Nineteen were of confirmed or suspected United Systems origin, Sir. Five remain unclassified.

Darkwood nodded.

They have our approximate position, of course?

Hephaestion’s mighty head tipped forward in agreement.

Indeed, Sir.

I should like to avoid being caught indisposed while we experiment with the carousel, Hephaestion. Would you be so kind as to position yourself at the entrance to the chamber?

The eight-legged major-domo-cum-war-robot glided toward the cavern entrance.

I’d be delighted, Sir.

Darkwood looked up at the structure before him.

"What would be useful is to pin down how Abbott effected his positional transitions from inside the carousel. What was he accessing? We are clearly missing an alternative interface. One that does not require physical access to the plinth."

The orange-eyed Angela emerged from the darkness to join him by the plinth.

I couldn’t detect any such interface, Lucius.

I’ll scan, Erina said, and Angela’s eyes glowed a little brighter at this perceived affront, given that was what she had just done.

Darkwood shook his head.

I suspect that not only dear Angela here, but the Alliance team would have found such an interface, if it was readily accessible, Erina.

Cassandra tilted her head as she considered the curving wall-cum-screen behind the plinth.

"It is regrettable that we can’t access the interface to better assist you, isn’t it, Lucius?"

Darkwood chuckled.

I know. An intriguing enigma, isn’t it?

Roxana looked down at the plinth.

It appears we are measurably differentiable.

Darkwood smiled at Roxana’s plaintive expression.

Indeed, my dear. I wonder what I have that you do not. Is it some profound question of consciousness or something as mundane as biology?

Erina’s blue eyes watched him with infinite patience.

Would your own composition suggest a biological explanation?

It was a good question.

Darkwood shook his head.

Probably not. Why don’t you try, Erina?

Erina’s eyebrows raised.

You wish me to access the system, Lucius?

Darkwood nodded.

To try and access it, yes, Erina.

Erina’s blue eyes widened a fraction. Angela, who stood next to the plinth, reached toward it – clearly wishing to reassert herself after Erina’s perceived insult about her scan.

I will do it, Lucius.

Darkwood smiled at the girls jockeying for position as Angela’s fingers stretched toward the plinth. The moment tickled his fancy. Imagine his girls actually triggered the interface. Would that mean they were conscious? Alive? And what would he do in that case? High capability units were one thing, conscious AIs were quite another.

Angela stopped halfway, looking rather bashful.

If I may, Lucius?

Angela waited attentively. It was mildly disappointing, but she’d always been the least willful of his current girls. He toyed with the idea of fine tuning her votive drive, but he was loathe to fiddle with the girls once they were operational – better to create a new model if one had doubts. He smiled as he gestured at the plinth.

Please, Angela, go ahead. Let’s see if you’re alive.

 6.

Captain Archibald Eddington leapt up into the shuttle and scanned across the faces of the eight commandos – or freds, in his parlance, the finest the Fredericksburg archipelago could produce – assembled inside.

Eddington would have preferred a full squad, of course, but one made do with what one had. Once he’d shown what he could do with eight good men and women, he would surely be offered more.

He waggled his luxuriant mustache. If he’d had control of the surface deployment then the whole ground situation would be neatly wrapped up with pink ribbon by now. Major Voth was a nice enough chap, but he was simply too passive for tactical command. Eddington didn’t blame the Deuce – square peg in a round hole and all that. What tactical command came down to was confident aggression. Eddington was a master at that and he had the flutter to prove it.

Wind whipped smoke through the cabin as he gestured at the freds to lean closer.

That’s it, chaps, gather round and let me give you the hey-ho. We’re going to check the status of Cobra team who’ve run a bit long in the dark. Could be action and plenty of it. Eddington dropped his booming voice a fraction to show that he was taking his freds into his confidence – they loved that sort of thing. Now look, chaps, Major Voth’s been doing a splendid job on the intel side, but Colonel Fluellen’s asked us to show what a bit of salt and vinegar can do for the results on the ground. Everyone got that?

Sergeant Robinson’s delicate brow furrowed.

Salt and vinegar, Captain?

Eddington cut down decisively with his hand.

"Vigor, old girl. Vigor."

Robinson nodded hesitantly. Eddington swished his mustache as he stared at Sergeant Robinson to make sure she’d got the picture.

"A bit of grip, Robinson."

Robinson nodded slowly. The old girl looked a bid timid, but Eddington knew she’d soon come round. Some of the other freds were either half-smiling or looked a bit vacant. It didn’t matter. It always took the freds a little time to adjust to a new leader, but if one could trust in anything, one could trust in the United Systems commando to come through. He nodded enthusiastically – bouncing the opulent rug on his upper lip.

"Excellent. Don’t be overwhelmed by the flutter on my suit, chaps. Cut me and I’m a stick of rock that says ‘United Systems’, same as you. I know you’re as keen get into the fight as I am. Don’t worry, the Butcher of Jemlevi and the other Alliance cads are on my list too, but first we’re going to find our chaps, and woe betide anyone that gets in our way. The greater the challenge, the greater the glory, eh? Bring it on, that’s what I say. You chaps with me?"

Having suitably inspired the freds, Eddington twisted to the front.

Alright, Pilot, take us up.

Eddington felt the buzz of adrenalin as the shuttle rocketed up and over their encampment. He loved this feeling. He was born for it. The shuttle banked around a jagged spire en route to the damaged subsidiary tower and Eddington swung round and slapped Robinson’s leg.

No glory in moping about in a cabin when there’s action to be had, eh, Robinson?

He didn’t hear her reply. He was too busy eagerly looking out front.

 7.

Darkwood watched Angela’s beautifully sculpted hand reach toward the plinth. Angela’s hands were a work of art. They should be, of course – he’d considered eleven million designs before he’d settled on the one in front of him. Five minutes well spent for something one regarded so often. They weren’t his favorite though. Erina’s hands were exquisite – slender and wonderfully proportioned, he considered them a triumph – though out of all his girls, Cassandra had the most beguiling presence. He could never pinpoint precisely why, which might in itself be the reason.

Angela’s bare fingers brushed the plinth. Nothing happened. At least, nothing that Darkwood could detect. None of his girls needed suits, of course – much like Darkwood himself, though naturally his suit improved his survivability.

Angela raised an eyebrow as the orange of her eyes deepened.

Nothing appears to be happening, Lucius.

Erina smiled.

Does that dispense with panpsychism, Lucius?

Darkwood contemplated Angela’s metallic hand against the granite texture of the plinth.

Perhaps it does, though I struggle to believe that a rock has a soul, Erina.

Perhaps one can have experience without a soul, Lucius, Cassandra said, perhaps consciousness or identity is not required for experience.

Erina turned to Cassandra.

But then what is consciousness, if not experience?

Darkwood nodded.

A good question, Erina, – of course, Erina flushed with pleasure at his complement – If a rock is conscious of what happens to it, I would suggest in the absence of data to the contrary that its awareness would be less than yours, which is less than mine, and that this system detects consciousness on that continuum with a minimum threshold that lies somewhere between us.

Roxana tipped her head sideways.

Which brings us back to the question of what consciousness is, Lucius, within the frame of reference of these systems. I haven’t found a definition within this facility.

Erina’s eyes widened.

Though we have the inscription from the gardens, ‘Consciousness enables identity. Identity enables responsibility. Responsibility enables accountability. Accountability enables punishment.’

Darkwood nodded as he quoted another of the excerpts that Touvenay had translated and that Karch had provided him with.

’Only a consciousness can be punished.’

Cassandra gestured at the plinth.

So perhaps the system is activated by identity rather than by consciousness.

Erina didn’t appear comfortable with Cassandra’s distinction.

You’re begging the question, aren’t you, Cassandra? There is a risk of lapsing into circular definitions here.

Cassandra raised her chin as the red of her eyes intensified.

Unless there isn’t a one to one mapping from identity to consciousness.

Erina pursed her lips, before deciding to concede Cassandra’s point.

True.

Darkwood mused over the problem.

In any case, the plinth may detect cognition rather than a phenomenal consciousness, or rather, it may require both of those things before it will activate.

Roxana looked mildly wounded.

But I have cognition and I am conscious of the phenomena I experience, Lucius.

Both Cassandra and Erina turned to regard Roxana with wide eyes.

Oh Roxana, Erina said, in a tone that suggested what she’d heard was a bit silly.

Darkwood regarded his green-eyed beauty with amusement.

But are you experiencing reality, Roxana, or are you merely translating inputs to outputs?

Roxana spread her hands as her features expressed an alluring mix of innocence and helplessness. Darkwood had seen men go weak at the knees when that particular look was deployed.

But I pass every conversation test, Lucius. I am indistinguishable from a real person.

Erina’s eyes briefly displayed a waving pattern.

Just because an entity can pass a conversation test doesn’t mean it’s conscious, that’s ridiculous.

Darkwood raised a hand.

Please, girls, let’s be civil.

Erina blushed.

Sorry, Lucius.

I’m more than a translator of inputs to outputs, Roxana said, I’m sure I am.

Cassandra looked at Angela sympathetically.

Perhaps you feel like you are more than a translator of inputs to outputs because that is what Lucius designed you to think?

Perhaps. But even it if is, that doesn’t invalidate my feelings, does it?

Darkwood wondered about that as he considered the carousel.

Maybe not for you, but perhaps in the eyes of the universe. This system implies you may not be genuinely conscious of what is happening to you.

Bless her, Roxana pouted a little.

I am conscious of it, Lucius. I’m sure of it.

Erina and Cassandra turned to each other in surprise. Darkwood felt that his creations might be on the cusp of something wonderful as Cassandra looked quizzically at Roxana.

"But do you really believe anything, Roxana?"

Roxana nodded.

Of course it do. I sense, I experience and I believe.

Erina spread her hands as she looked up at the carousel.

We still need a working definition of consciousness. One that is actionable from an access perspective.

Consciousness is an awareness of the present, Cassandra said, and therefore inimically tied to the concept of time.

As well as state, Erina added.

The sum of our experience, Darkwood said.

Cassandra blinked her red eyes slowly.

Consciousness is a subjective perception of a time-ordered set of detector data supplemented with affective reactions that forms one’s perspective of a series of events interwoven with an ongoing meta-level analysis continuously supplemented by said experience of the present.

Gosh, Darkwood said.

But I have all those things, Roxana said.

So do I, Angela said.

And thus we are back to the explanatory gap, Erina said. How does consciousness arise from a physical system?

If there is one, Cassandra said.

Erina frowned.

If there is a consciousness?

An explanatory gap, Erina.

Erina pointed at the plinth.

But this system suggests there is an explanatory gap.

So perhaps we are coming from the wrong direction, Cassandra said, maybe it is about personal identity, and we do not have one.

Erina frowned.

But what is an identity other than a collection of experiences and its interpretation? A consciousness, in other words.

But is consciousness the same as identity? Cassandra said. I have no transcendent and immutable sense of self. I am not the same being as I was yesterday or a year ago when I was born. A consciousness continuously changes, even though it may feel like the same being. Does that not put a strict view of consciousness at odds with identity, since I am not the same being I was six months ago, and yet, of course, I am.

Erina frowned.

Perhaps your personal identity changes with time.

Cassandra nodded.

But then we still are no closer to distinguishing consciousness and identity, or detecting what it is that Lucius can present to the plinth and that we cannot.

Darkwood was entertained and fascinated as his girls circled the question of humanity, or rather, he corrected himself, broadening the concept, the essence of conscious life. As the only living creature present, in at least one measurable sense, he decided to contribute his own experience.

It is true that one’s sense of personal identity changes over time.

Erina watched him.

Together with one’s experiences of the present?

He nodded.

I should say so.

Cassandra’s head tilted as she watched him. Her large and attentive eyes gave him the sense of having the most profoundly enraptured listeners – a sensation that he loved.

A changing sense of identity is at odds with identity as an enduring constant.

Erina pointed at the plinth.

The system may only require an identity. There is nothing that suggests it needs an immutable identity. Consider: if Lucius changes every physical molecule in his body, is he still Lucius?

Angela frowned.

Does that not depend on the rate of change?

Erina nodded.

"I would assume so. And depending on the rate and nature of the change, would Lucius still be conscious of being Lucius? And if he is not conscious of being Lucius, is he Lucius?"

Cassandra nodded thoughtfully.

"Which raises a question of continuity, and brings us back to the role of time."

Erina nodded.

And the present – for what is the present? It is presence of a consciousness. For otherwise, the present does not exist.

Cassandra’s eyes circled slowly.

And without the present, consciousness does not exist. Can you be conscious of something other than the present?

Darkwood felt they were circling something important but just out of reach.

Angela frowned.

We can be conscious of something other than the present. We can visualize the future and the past.

Cassandra’s red eyes glowed more brightly.

But you only do it in the present.

Angela frowned but didn’t appear to have a rebuttal. Cassandra turned to Darkwood and smiled playfully.

You have to admit there is something delightfully metaphysical about discussing the nature of consciousness with beings that you claim are not conscious?

Darkwood laughed.

Do you claim that you are?

I wouldn’t have the first idea if I am or if I am not, Lucius. If I appear conscious, does it matter?

He smiled. The perfect reply. He pointed at the plinth.

As Angela has so amply demonstrated, it appears to matter to that.

Angela gazed downward as Cassandra and Erina simultaneously tipped their heads and blinked. Roxana looked positively crestfallen as she pouted at him.

But if I’m not conscious… why am I me?

 8.

Ventrone studied the Lieutenant’s firing mission with a growing sense of despondency. The pressure on his suit was colossal. If he fired upward, the shock fronts might tip his suit over the edge and flatten him.

Are you sure it needs to be this… big?

This stuff is incredibly resilient, Ventrone. None of our tunneling rounds can penetrate far enough and we need to blow through it.

Ventrone contemplated the firing sequence.

And the follow up detonations?

The progressive explosions give us the best chance of not being reburied. It minimizes the chance of debris taking us out.

Right. And you don’t think Fleet might find us anyway?

Do you want to die in this heap of slag, Ventrone?

Well if I’m going to die, Sir, I’d rather delay it as much as we can.

Proceed, Private.

No wriggle room there. Ventrone gulped as he stared at the rubble. What was being asked of him was madness. It was beyond madness. It was… hyper-madness.

What’s the problem, Ventrone?

I’m not totally sure about this, Lieutenant.

I’ll do it.

No, no. I’ll do it.

You sure?

Yes. This is my fight too. I just can’t let another man take this risk for me. You know, this time.

That’s very commendable of you, Ventrone.

Ventrone nodded gravely.

I know.

Ok. Go ahead.

Ventrone readied himself. A munition to clear a blast path and then a directional nuke followed by four more in succession. He shut his eyes.

Will I get a medal for this?

Only if you actually do it.

My mom would love me to get a medal. I mean, a real one this time.

You showed your mom a fake medal?

She was ecstatic. They did a presentation at my old school – the one I was expelled from. I was a hero.

She must have been very proud.

She was, until some meddling journos robbed me…

Ventrone remembered his mom crying with pride, and then the change in her expression as the student journalists marched onto the stage waving their damning evidence. He could still see the little raccoons thrusting the transcripts in this face. He would have killed them all, if they hadn’t been eleven years old.

It was their investigative story of the year.

Spinner took a moment

Reviews for Rapturous Pejoration

[pinerider77 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Best author since Neal Asher; gripping series, can't wait for book six.