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“I think I know her well enough to trust her innocence.”

Genoa shook his head sadly. “Alas, you know very little, and you may be a victim of powerful mindcraft beyond your understanding. Simara was fabricated in a secret black lab, the first bold experiment with genomic mapping. No one knows her full capabilities.”

“She’s not a machine. She’s human.”

“Omnidroids are surgically enhanced for specialized performance in higher areas of mathematics and logic. No unaugmented human can understand their intuitive grasp of V-net architecture. Power brokers are beginning to realize just how much financial responsibility has slipped out of humanity’s grasp into machine control, how many critical aspects of our world might be vulnerable to an omnidroid takeover.”

Zen pulled the cellulose faxslip from Genoa’s grasp. “Simara’s in trouble and needs my help.”

“People are rioting in the streets of New Jerusalem, demanding the decommissioning of all twenty-three remaining omnidroids by surgery or death.”

“No one has the right to do that!”

“Politics is the art of the impossible—you must know that from your father’s work. Civil rights must be balanced by public privilege, and social conscience can be manipulated at will.”

“Is that what’s happening here? A political charade? An excuse for police action?”

Genoa pressed his lips and shrugged. “I’m a small asteroid in a big belt. I can’t know anything for certain. A murder charge with no dead body? Who’s to say it’s not a trumped-up pretext to rein in the omnidroid elder and her unfortunate travelling companion? You could end up being a trailing edge in a blanket cover-up.”

“I can’t let that happen to Simara. It’s not right.”

“You’re a victim of your father’s ideology, and it pains me to see you wander off into battle like a fool with a plastic sword. You and Simara will be the only civilians on board this troopship, and your pitiful attempts to fight for justice may not be well received by the Transolar crew.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Zen said, “but how will I recognize Simara’s enemy? Who can I trust?”

Genoa sighed and looked him square in the eyes. “You and I are the enemy, our collective will. If humanity is to be sacrosanct, then all other species must fail and the omnidroids must perish. As a youth at university I studied the fossil records from old Earth, the cradle of our genome. At least ten humanoid species came down from the trees and walked upright to hunt on the primeval savannah. How did they decide the one victor, the one primate that survived to harness language and scientific thought? Did they fight among themselves and burn the children of their enemies to placate invisible gods? Did the most brutal species inherit the fertile ground?”

Zen shook his head at the comparison to aboriginal warfare. “Mankind has grown beyond physical violence. We left behind the tools of destruction long ago. Guns and armadas—those were relics of ancient empires.”

“True, but the V-net is our new battleground, and the courtroom our sacrificial altar. Fair warning is all I can offer. Your ship is leaving within the hour. Hurry now, and be well.” Genoa Blackpoll held his elbow up, and Zen matched him with a bold thrust against his forearm. They paused for a silent moment of benediction, connected by clan on the fringe of their territorial border, one step away from abyss in all directions.

Zen rushed to the spacedock and found a porthole to view
Adam’s Inspiration
grappled to the station, a military transport vessel without visible weaponry. The streamlined craft was pointed like an arrow with a protective cone on the front and a bulky antimatter reactor at the rear where four navigational rockets flared out like fins. A bright red Transolar insignia was painted on the side with horns ablaze, the burning shield of authority.

Zen made his way through the boarding gauntlet and stripped for sterilization. His money belt was useless now that he was a digital citizen, and he tossed it aside as his brown skin glowed under purple irradiation. He unfolded cellulose clothing from a fabricator and dressed himself in drab, recycled paper. The disposable sandals had thin straps and soles similar to dancing slippers, a token comfort. He had become a ward of the state, a penniless pilgrim, his treasure squandered for a chance to save an alien girl who crashed in his quadrant, an omnidroid genius with mysterious powers.

A Security guard in a crisp blue Transolar uniform met him at the gate and scanned a code on his faxslip. He had a pistol holstered at his waist. “Zen Valda? What’s your business onboard?”

“I’m travelling with my wife, Simara.”

“The omnidroid prisoner?”

“Can I see her?”

The guard shook his head. “No way. She’s in solitary. I’ll show you to your bunk slot. You won’t have any privileges.” He pushed off down a narrow corridor, and Zen tagged along behind until they reached an open hole in the wall.

“This is your assigned quarters for the duration.”

Zen grabbed a handrail and peeked into the tiny compartment—just a launch couch with a viewscreen overhead. “I have to stay in here?”

“No, you’re not under arrest, but keep out of our way. There’s a washroom down the hall and a galley to pick up your rations. Transolar ships are under acceleration at all times. We don’t float around in space like traders. We get where we’re going. At midpoint we lock down for turnaround. That’s the only time you’ll be weightless. Make sure you’re strapped in when you hear the klaxon.”

“How long does it take to reach Cromeus?”

“By burning both ways, we can make it in two weeks. Spare no expense.”

Zen nodded, unsure of the logistics.

“We preserve our orbital velocity and slingshot around Bali for a free momentum boost,” the guard continued, “so that gives us a head start.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. Buckle up in fifteen. I’ll see you ’round.”

Zen squirmed into the tunnel enclosure, barely bigger than a coffin. The air was stale and smelled of lingering sweat. A larder to one side was stocked with grey goop and pouches of water. Life in the Transolar Guard was certainly not living up to the recruitment ads!

A klaxon sounded to announce a countdown sequence as Zen made himself comfortable in his launch couch. Acceleration punched him in the stomach at first, but settled back to a gravity that was less than Bali normal. He passed the time practising with his cochlear appliance, trying to work up a user profile to filter out the steady V-net chatter. Every fleeting thought unleashed a cacophony of random sounds and images from the V-net, an overwhelming tide of bewildering information. The only way to stave off the onslaught was to learn the art of directed thinking, a focusing of concentration, a purification of intention. Zen needed to find the truth about Simara and her case. Everything else was a bedlam of unwanted data.
—the relationship between the positional centres of kissing circles can only be expressed as a matrix equation generalized to n dimensions—specifying the strict conditions under which local gauge symmetries can be spontaneously broken—
::Zen, you stupid man! What are you doing here?::

Zen sat up from his launch couch with a start and banged his head on the viewscreen above. “Simara?”

::I warn you away for your own damn good, and still you throw yourself into the jaws of doom. What is the matter with you?::

Zen winced at the power in Simara’s diatribe. Did the noise on this earbug increase by proximity, or was she yelling at him? Where was the volume control? “I know you’re angry with me, and disappointed and hurt. You have every right to be. I failed you miserably like some woeful boyfriend on a wild night at Vishan. I see that now. But I couldn’t slink away home without trying to earn some redemption. Not when you’re in trouble and need my help.”

::There’s nothing you can do. You’re just making things more complicated for mothership.::

“I can fight for you, Simara. I can provide evidence in court. I’m learning about biogens. I know about the persecution and discrimination against omnidroids. I’ll fight for you all the way to your decommission if I have to!”

Her signal disappeared into the V-net chatter of strange jargon and abstruse educational lectures. Had he said something wrong? “Simara?”

—an infinite series will converge absolutely if the sum of the absolute value of the summand is finite—physical reality is nothing but a crude artifice designed to give coherence to perception and meaning to existence—
::Come and see me, Zen. We need to talk privately off the V-net grid.::

“I’ve been denied access. They’re holding you in solitary confinement.”

::You have conjugal rights once a week under section 47 of the criminal code, subsection 7, paragraph 42. Speak to the captain and give him the reference.::

“He’ll likely tell me to jump into vacuum.”

::No, he won’t. Transolar executives are sticklers for procedure, and any variation from standard treatment can be used in court to sway sentiment on the jury. He will press for executive permission as commander in transit to record the meeting as data under oath, and you will tell him that his rights are superseded by your right to privacy guaranteed under paragraph 45. Hold strong on this and summon outrage. Have him look up the statute if he gives you any trouble. They have no right to monitor a conjugal visit. There’s enough porn in the barracks already. Got it?::

“I’ll try.”

::And bring me some candy.::

“Candy?”

::There’s a free vending machine in the tunnel outside the officers’ quarters on Deck 3. They have ice pops there too, if you want to experience the perks of rank. I have to work right now, but mothership will watch for the meeting on my appointment calendar.::
—the runtime of divide-and-conquer algorithms is determined by their asymptotic behaviour—antimatter energy can be harnessed but never destroyed—ooh, that’s it, sweetie, right there, harder, faster—

Zen contacted the captain immediately and relayed Simara’s instructions. The captain was curt but professional in granting a conjugal visit and gave only token argument for continuous surveillance of a criminal in transit. Zen proclaimed the legal right of innocence until proven otherwise and won his cause easily. A meeting was scheduled for Day Three at C2:20 in Simara’s bunk enclosure. She was officially categorized as a high-security risk and could not leave her cubbyhole until they landed on Cromeus. The captain was helpful in pointing out that
Adam’s Inspiration
would transition to Cromean time at midpoint—a twenty-four-hour cycle with three shifts of eight hours each, although the hours were 98% shorter according to atomic clock, all very confusing.

The days stretched out into a viscid and interminable pathway as long hours ticked past. Zen contemplated his upcoming meeting in the flesh with Simara. She obviously knew he was an idiot and unable to control his base emotions—that much was clearly evident to all. Genoa Blackpoll had set him up for a dalliance, and Nancy Stavos had taken full advantage of the situation, but there was no sense blaming the juva ben. Zen had known what he was doing and would be sorely tempted to do it again—that was the worst part! His body was a slave to lust, even though his mind made token resistance. The Bali girls with glad hands in the dark caverns had taught him to respond naturally to touch. How could he cancel out his years of training as a sexual being? How could he trust himself in a monogamous relationship?

Zen busied himself with research to escape his nagging conscience. A murder conviction required motive, forethought, and physical evidence. Juries decided final outcomes during online discussions behind digital firewalls on the V-net. Public opinion and character references would not be taken into account—just the cold facts of certainty. Zen contacted Genoa Blackpoll back on Trade Station for any news about the court case and came up empty. A renewed initiative was being organized to find the missing flight recorder following Zen’s detailed remembrance of the deep trench along Zogan Ridge. News of the alleged crime had not been released to the citizens of Bali, and Zen’s name had not been connected with any public record.

Zen arrived precisely on time for his conjugal appointment in the female barracks and climbed up a ladder against steady acceleration to find Simara on a launch couch in a wall-slot no bigger than his own. He peered in and saw the bottoms of her feet. “Simara?”

“Hi. C’mon in.” She pulled her legs up and squished to one side to make room for entry.

Zen climbed carefully inside the tight enclosure, rubbing along the length of her body in passing, touching her again, remembering. His skin tingled with self-conscious energy, so close to Simara, separated by thin cellulose clothing. She squirmed to make space for him on the launch couch and tried to ease him along with the tips of her fingers. Her space-wasted body was slim and wiry, but her breasts punched out to rub softly against his shoulder. His ears felt hot, and his abdomen ached with desire as he finally reached her smiling face and propped himself above her on arms and knees. Her breath smelled of toothpaste.

“It’s okay, Zen,” she said as the portal slid closed below their feet. “Just because we’re on a conjugal visit doesn’t mean we have to, you know,
conjugate
.”

Zen chuckled weakly, but felt sweaty with discomfort. “Are these cubicles soundproof?” The next passenger in her bunk was just inches away, probably some female trooper trying to grab precious shut-eye between duty shifts.

“Yeah, they have a sonic field that cancels all noise.”

Zen surveyed the walls. “That’s what they say, but maybe they can read the vibrations in the field, tease out the words.”

“You’re absolutely right, very astute. That’s exactly what we did. Mothership reverse-engineered the system and is listening in the captain’s room right now.” She gave him a confident wink. “We’re okay in here, and sorry I was so hard on you about Nurse Stavos. She was just doing her job, but I really think she pushed over the limit of propriety.”

Zen waved his chin hastily. “No, it was all my fault. I was weak.”