bemusement. “Sir, we have no opponent. The Midnight and the shuttle which escaped from it were totally destroyed. It is just a matter of searching through the wreckage and retrieving the AI.”
“I’ll wager that the AI will not be found.”
Makaev frowned. “Sir, may I ask what you are basing this assumption on? Have you access to information I have not been privy to?” There was a hint of mockery in her voice.
“Call it a gut feeling,” said Kajic. Then, seeing his second in command’s expression of disbelief, he added, “Inform the search party that we are looking for a Commander Morgan Roche, and have her image relayed down to them.”
“The AI’s courier?”
“We have unwittingly locked horns with a formidable enemy, Atalia.” He nodded thoughtfully as something else occurred to him. “And I think we have found the cause of the Midnight’s destruction.”
“But, sir,” said Makaev, annoyance flaring in her eyes, her voice. “Proctor Klose was the only one who could have—”
“That is what we are meant to believe, Commander. In the same way we were meant to believe that nothing could have survived the destruction of the frigate; and in the same way we are now meant to believe that there are no survivors from the shuttle. But all the while we search that wreckage, the further away she gets.” He set his gaze firmly upon her. “Commander, I want the search for survivors extended immediately. Roche must not elude us!”
“Sir.” Makaev straightened her posture and snapped a salute. Nevertheless, Kajic detected cynicism in her tone. “I will convey your request to Warden Delcasalle. If there are any survivors, they will be found.”
“Indeed they will, Commander. And this time you will keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.” Makaev turned away as Kajic’s image faded. While the bridge staff attended to their duties, he retired to his usual pattern of overall monitoring, letting his thoughts surf the vast sea of data crashing mercilessly on the sands of his mind.
Roche was the key. He had been a fool not to have seen it earlier. He hadn’t misjudged Klose at all; his assessment of the man had been sound. It was Roche he had underestimated; her personal files had deceived him. Yet his subconscious mind had suspected, and had tried to warn him with the image of the faceless enemy. Had he analyzed the hunch in more detail, he might have been prepared.
At least now the problem was isolated, and all he had to do was focus his attention upon it. The Intelligence officer would not outwit him again. Not now...
Leaving the running of the ship in the hands of his junior officers, he opened the mission portfolio and began to study his adversary in more detail. And as the information filtered through his mainframe, he found something akin to admiration for the woman who momentarily distracted him.
priority gold-one
The prompt was sharp and burning. He cast aside the unwanted emotion and continued with his research.
6
Sciacca’s World
Behzad’s Wall
‘954.10.30 EN
1650
All her life, Morgan Roche had enjoyed working with machines. Left without parents at an early age, she had been raised in an orphanage on Ascensio run by the planet’s social welfare AIs. The orphanage’s environment was one in which her social skills lagged (although contact with other children and adults was not rare—the orphanage understood the need for the Human interaction that a biochip could not provide, and so stays with a host family were frequent), but her proficiency with AIs soared.
By the age of eight she was entertaining herself by devising ways to circumvent the programming of her tutors; by the age of ten she had been so successful in this venture that she knew the inner logic of the AIs better than the programmers themselves. Every foible, inconsistency, and subtle glitch was committed to memory along with her basic education, which she absorbed by default.
At seventeen she left the orphanage to seek
“I’ll wager that the AI will not be found.”
Makaev frowned. “Sir, may I ask what you are basing this assumption on? Have you access to information I have not been privy to?” There was a hint of mockery in her voice.
“Call it a gut feeling,” said Kajic. Then, seeing his second in command’s expression of disbelief, he added, “Inform the search party that we are looking for a Commander Morgan Roche, and have her image relayed down to them.”
“The AI’s courier?”
“We have unwittingly locked horns with a formidable enemy, Atalia.” He nodded thoughtfully as something else occurred to him. “And I think we have found the cause of the Midnight’s destruction.”
“But, sir,” said Makaev, annoyance flaring in her eyes, her voice. “Proctor Klose was the only one who could have—”
“That is what we are meant to believe, Commander. In the same way we were meant to believe that nothing could have survived the destruction of the frigate; and in the same way we are now meant to believe that there are no survivors from the shuttle. But all the while we search that wreckage, the further away she gets.” He set his gaze firmly upon her. “Commander, I want the search for survivors extended immediately. Roche must not elude us!”
“Sir.” Makaev straightened her posture and snapped a salute. Nevertheless, Kajic detected cynicism in her tone. “I will convey your request to Warden Delcasalle. If there are any survivors, they will be found.”
“Indeed they will, Commander. And this time you will keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir.” Makaev turned away as Kajic’s image faded. While the bridge staff attended to their duties, he retired to his usual pattern of overall monitoring, letting his thoughts surf the vast sea of data crashing mercilessly on the sands of his mind.
Roche was the key. He had been a fool not to have seen it earlier. He hadn’t misjudged Klose at all; his assessment of the man had been sound. It was Roche he had underestimated; her personal files had deceived him. Yet his subconscious mind had suspected, and had tried to warn him with the image of the faceless enemy. Had he analyzed the hunch in more detail, he might have been prepared.
At least now the problem was isolated, and all he had to do was focus his attention upon it. The Intelligence officer would not outwit him again. Not now...
Leaving the running of the ship in the hands of his junior officers, he opened the mission portfolio and began to study his adversary in more detail. And as the information filtered through his mainframe, he found something akin to admiration for the woman who momentarily distracted him.
priority gold-one
The prompt was sharp and burning. He cast aside the unwanted emotion and continued with his research.
6
Sciacca’s World
Behzad’s Wall
‘954.10.30 EN
1650
All her life, Morgan Roche had enjoyed working with machines. Left without parents at an early age, she had been raised in an orphanage on Ascensio run by the planet’s social welfare AIs. The orphanage’s environment was one in which her social skills lagged (although contact with other children and adults was not rare—the orphanage understood the need for the Human interaction that a biochip could not provide, and so stays with a host family were frequent), but her proficiency with AIs soared.
By the age of eight she was entertaining herself by devising ways to circumvent the programming of her tutors; by the age of ten she had been so successful in this venture that she knew the inner logic of the AIs better than the programmers themselves. Every foible, inconsistency, and subtle glitch was committed to memory along with her basic education, which she absorbed by default.
At seventeen she left the orphanage to seek
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