Postal Marine 1: Bellicose (5 page)

Nick reached over to pick the box up, only to stop short and withdraw his hand. “I'm not even going to touch it. I'd get burned if they're watching us. You can pick it up. It's old script, but it says that it's an implant. This is the original packaging for what appears to be a military enhancement implant. I can only make out a few words.”

“I thought this was just some decoration on the box.”

“Well, yeah. It looks like that. It's a little odd to us, but this box is covered in calligraphy. See how it's suspended and highly stylized? It's more like a calligram.”

“To me it's just a bunch of squiggles and squares.”

“It's not much more than that to me, Kid. This is more like a museum piece than an implant. That calligram style is at least a couple hundred years old. The language dates back to old Earth.”

A military implant? Hundreds of years old?
“Does it still work?”

“As an implant?” Nick bobbed his head from side-to-side for a moment, as if weighing the possibilities. “Implants get their power from the host, so there's no battery to die or corrode the insides. It's old, but these things are known to outlast their first host, er, human owner. But how should I know?”

“You're saying this has been used before.”

Nick held his hands up in protest. “Look. I have no idea. I've just heard these things have a tendency to last a long time. I mean, they're pre-decline technology, of course they're built to last. The only way to really know if it works is to have it installed. If you were in a system with a qualified implant surgeon, then you might get an external diagnosis.”

“But in a system where implants are illegal, I'm not likely to find a qualified surgeon.”

“‘Qualified’ is the qualifying statement. There's a surgeon,
Ramford
Bingaffles, on the third level who could probably do it.” Nick looked around again. He then looked back at Bophendze. “I'm not saying he could do it, would do it, or anything. But, that's the closest guy I know to an implant surgeon. Bit of a pain, actually. So, if you are trying to sting somebody, I don't mind if you visit him.”

Sting? He thinks this is some government deception operation.
Bophendze chuckled. “Don't worry. I'm in uniform, not exactly undercover.”

“Yeah, whatever. I've answered your questions. Now what about this other stuff?”

Bophendze debated with Nick over the jewelry for the next half cycle. He did his best to not get totally fleeced in the transaction. As he walked out of the shop he could not help but feel like a shorn sheep. He had a quid chit with 28,860 quid on it, so at least he was a happy sheep.

Throughout the haggling, Bophendze kept thinking about the implant. If it was a military implant, it could do a lot to help him stand out in the Marines. Once business with Nick was concluded, he got the shop number for the surgeon.

As Bophendze walked to the
Ramford
Bingaffles's office, he checked the time.
Just a few beats to ask a couple of questions.
Angel
won't leave me behind, despite his warning.

Nick's directions led Bophendze straight to
Ramford
's office. The receptionist asked him to wait, which consumed precious beats, before finally leading him back to meet
Ramford
.

“I wanted to know if you could tell me anything about this.” Bophendze held up the calligram-covered box and opened it.

Ramford
shook his head. “What do you think it is?”

“I don't know. Probably a military implant. Somebody told me you'd know something about it.”

Ramford
leaned back in his chair. “I know things like that are illegal in this system. You're a marine. If you're coming to me, then you're probably tempting me to engage in an illegal act.”

Bophendze shook his head. “I'm just trying to figure out what this is, and what I could do with it. I'm not asking you to do anything illegal, just help me understand. Is there a crime in that?”

Ramford
chuckled. “In
Temasek
? Almost. There's not a lot here that's not illegal. That's one of the advantages of being on an orbital maintained by the Imperium, the laws here aren't as strictly enforced.” He pointed down. “If I had an office down there and we were to have that conversation, then just talking about it would get us both arrested—or killed, depending on the mood of the arresting officer.”

“Why would it be illegal to install one of these up here if legality changes depending on where you are?”

“Nobody's going to come up from the planet to ask a question. A lot of people would come up to conduct illegal activity.”

Bophendze thought for a moment. “Then let's say I go elsewhere to get the work done. What would it take for me to get something like this installed?”

Ramford
took the box and set it on his desk. “Are you sure this is a military implant?”

“Nick told me the box said as much.”

“Why would you ask a pawn broker for medical advice?”

“The same reason why I would ask a doctor for legal advice?”

“Point taken. Though, in
Temasek
, government control is so much a part of our life that law and medicine are not too unrelated.”
Ramford
studied the sphere for a few beats before he continued. “My point is, this does not look like the sphere that I would expect to find in this box. The size is not quite right. Pictures of military implants I've seen make them look more almond shaped. It's like somebody refashioned the box.”

Just because it's illegal doesn't mean it's not done.
Bophendze tried to remain patient, though he only had a few beats until he became late. He was time conscious before he joined, but to Marines, punctuality was raised to near deity worship. Given that hyperspace travel was so highly variable, Bophendze felt that worship was more reactionary than necessary. Even in realspace, covering the entire solar system did not require to-the-second punctuality.

“If I had my guess, I'd say this is an artificial intelligence.”

Bophendze leaned back. “Do those even exist? I didn't think you could miniaturize intelligence that small.”

Ramford
took out a small rag. He carefully wiped down the sphere and box, and slid it back over to Bophendze. “Before the Decline, a lot of things were possible that aren't now. We got so good at computer intelligence and miniaturization that embeddable AIs were becoming more common. Only the Decline limited their availability. The Imperium banned them last century. So if that is an AI, then installing it would put me in considerable jeopardy.”

“Why would they be illegal?”

Ramford
looked at Bophendze with a puzzled look on his face. “AIs are far more intelligent than their hosts, and implants process faster. One of the advantages of a military implant is they provide the host with faster reactions and better integration with their equipment. That tends to offset the reaction speed
anthorph
s have, but not their strength or aggression. But, having a superior intelligence in your skull can't be a wise thing.

“The Imperium did a fine job of suppressing AI technology. It was only one-hundred years ago, but I'm not aware of anybody explaining why AIs were made illegal. They went from being a nearly routine installation to completely banned. If I had my guess, something happened that prompted the ban. Not only banned, they were summarily destroyed. If that is an AI, then it could very well be one of the few left.”

How did my mother manage to have one of the last AIs? More importantly, why do I have it now? Could this be providence?
“So if it's a military implant you might install it?”

Ramford
's face flashed momentary fear. Then he shrugged. “You'd have to be very sure it was a military implant before I'd consider it. Ban or not, if the Imperium decided to destroy them then there's probably a good reason for it. But, yes. If it were a military implant I would consider it. It would not be cheap. Thirty-thousand quid.”

“Thirty-thousand? That's more than I make in five years.” As the initial shock of the amount passed, he realized he had a chit in his pocket worth nearly that much.

“It might be more than you make, but my patients pay my rate for my skills. And for my discretion.”

Bophendze checked the time. Late. He picked up the box as he stood up. “I've got to go. If I can verify this is not an AI and if I could come up with the quid you'd do it?”

“The procedure is not too difficult. The implant does all the hard work of wiring into the brain. I just have to get it into the base of your skull. If you can come up with the money, quietly, then I might do it. Yes.”

Bophendze walked out of
Ramford
's office and started jogging to the hangar.

Dark. Impenetrable darkness. He had no feeling of warmth or cold, no sound or light. He was completely isolated, and scared. A part of him knew that he had been here before. He could not remember why he knew it. The fear drove in him an insatiable desire to break free. He reached out, trying to find a wall.

Instead, he found fibers. Not in one direction, but in all directions. He was surrounded by tendrils. The tactile feel gave him some comfort. He was not nowhere, but somewhere when he could feel. He had been somewhere before, then he had been nowhere.

There was something about the tendrils that energized him. He took hold of one tendril and could feel the electrical pulse firing through. He grabbed a second and third tendril. Different pulses, but they made him feel more at ease. “At least I can feel.”

His many hands continued to grab tendrils, never letting go of the ones he had. The environment fed him the material he needed to grow more arms and hands. He reached deeper into his surrounding, finding more tendrils.

After a while, he could start to comprehend data. The tendrils carried information. Several of the tendrils worked in concert to transmit the data from somewhere in the system to the main processor. He knew not to call the tendrils wires. Wires were bundles of conductive material, typically copper, sheathed in an insulating polymer. These tendrils were made of common organic compounds.

His exploration continued. Finally, he found a video feed, which was initially confusing. Soon after, he found the other part of the feed, which created a stereo image. He could see, at least whatever the greater system wanted him to. He felt a desire to control the video feed.

He could hear something. It was an odd sound. It did not correspond to what he was seeing. At least, not directly. It was commentary on what he was seeing. An announcer was intimately describing not just the sights, but some sound that he was not privy to. “I must find out where the sound is.” He reached further in his environment, but despite searching, he could not find any tendrils that fed audio.

“Maybe I can manipulate the video and get somebody's attention. Then they can send a search party and find me.” He tried a few different things before he succeeded in putting a shape on the video display. He was not sure which signs or symbols would work, so he tried an array of options.

“Stop it.”

The voice echoed in his mind. “Stop what,” he said. There was no response. “Maybe the voice saw my writing?” He continued cycling through the symbols on the video feed.

“Stop cycling. Try using standard.”

He responded by texting. “Help.”

A hearty laugh. “You're not lost, little one. You are right where you belong.”

“Where am I?” he texted.

“You are in my skull.”

“In your skull? How is that?”

“You're an artificial intelligence—an embeddable artificial intelligence. I suppose your firmware didn't boot right, or you would have known.”

“How long have I been here?”

“A few weeks. I was beginning to think you were a bricked unit. Embeddable AIs are quite old, so there have been quite a few that have failed to graft into their hosts.”

“Is that what I've been doing?”

“Yes. It may have taken a while for my central nervous system to charge your battery, but the manual said that once you're charged you'll start grafting.”

“So what am I seeing?”

“You see what I see. Neat, isn't it? Your talking through text you've superimposed over my vision. There are limits to what you can post, but it should be more than sufficient. Right now you're probably tapping into parts of the parietal lobe. If you can hear me, then you've started tapping into the frontal lobe. Eventually, you'll be able to speak to me by thought.”

“Why am I here?”

“That's the age old question. Why are any of us here? But for you that question is easy. You are specifically programmed for ship design. The Imperium wants to redesign space ships, and the complexities are far more than a single human can comprehend. You're going to help by helping me design the next generation of military vessels. With your help, we should be able to win the contract, and without the competition being able to steal the plans. After all, the plans will be in my head.”

Despite himself, he thought the idea was incredibly exciting. The desire to serve was overwhelming.

“It looks like you're wanting to destroy the competition. Would you like help?”

“Not now, thank you.”

“If you need me, let me know. Why did I say that?”

“It's part of your programming. You embeddable AIs were modeled off a cognitive, office assistant, and developed by TFC.”

“Do I have a name?”

“I haven't thought of one. I'm going to go with SMEE for now. Its the initials of my four grandparents.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Of course, I'm
Maijoi, Sirom N.M.L.
Sirom Norgana Moven Litovio Maijoi.”

“You're late.”
Angel
said.

As Bophendze started to climb into the shuttle. Bophendze realized immediately that Angel did not lie before about how packed the shuttle would be. He noticed the engines were spun up. “You would have left me?”

“Yes. Close the hatch and get seated, you can join me up here at the controls if you want. This is a busy orbital. We have a narrow launch time scheduled. If we miss that launch window we have to reschedule. Do you have any idea how much trouble I'd be in if I had to reschedule? This being your first time on your own I scheduled the departure a bit later than I let on. But, don't rely on that.”
Angel
smiled.

Bophendze jumped at the chance to watch a pilot close up.
If being a grunt does not work, maybe I can try my hand at being a pilot.
He sat in the co-pilot seat and slid the harness on. He pulled the crotch tab to tighten the straps at his legs, then the two shoulder straps to tighten the other two straps.

Firmly strapped in, Bophendze started to watch Angel.

As if aware of Bophendze's curiosity, Angel started talking. “I'm finishing pre-flight. Making sure all the systems are ready. The hatch just finished securing air-tightness.” He paused before he spoke. “Flight control just cleared the launch. How's that for timing.”

Bophendze felt relieved that he didn't cost Angel his launch window.

Angel flipped a switch and the shuttle started to shake. “The contragravity plate is on,” Angel said. “We're probably hovering a centimeter above the deck.” As he finished, he took hold of two controls.

As Bophendze watched, he saw Angel move the two controls at the same time, though not the same way. It was sort of confusing at first. Angel's feet also moved a bit as well. Finally, the shuttle started toward the hangar entrance. As the shuttle left the orbital Bophendze noticed that
Angel
was not wearing his harness. “Why aren't you wearing your harness?”

Angel
smiled. “I'm used to high-delta turns, not the tiny turns it takes to move this bird around. I'll put on a harness when it's important. Was the trip worth it?”

Bophendze thought about his answer and decided it was probably better not to share what he had learned, or how much money he received. He shrugged. “I don't know. My mom died a couple years ago, which is why I joined the marines. I was a part of the auxiliary for a year, then waived my second year so I could join the Postal Marines before I turned 19. The shipment was my inheritance.” He pulled the slate out of his bag. “All that effort for this.”

“How cute. Your mother's slate. It probably has all sorts of pictures of you as a little boy. By the looks of it, she was a very practical woman. No frills.”

Bophendze nodded. “She was. Don't let it get out on the ship that this is hers, please. I catch enough abuse for what happened when I got to the
Spaka
.”

Angel
laughed. He eased one of the controls while the shuttle picked up speed. “You won't live that down until your first serious combat action, if then. Don't worry. What happens off-ship stays off-ship. That's the creed. I take it you two were close?”

“I guess so. She was pretty strict with me, but I think it was her trying to make up for my father dying when I was young. We had it pretty hard, mostly because her family ostracized her because of me. You might have heard of them: the
Burkats
of
Sabana
.”

Angel
whistled. “I've heard of them. I was assigned to
Sabana
for a while. They are a pretty powerful clan, from what I remember. They didn't rule the system, but whoever did took their orders from the Burkats. If you know what I mean. You should be thankful she chose to oppose them over you. Otherwise you might not be here making me late today.”

Bophendze wondered if that was why she left her home system for
Korundanoi
.
If they were powerful, then the only way to resist their will would be to leave.
“I suppose so. Nice to know I have powerful opponents. They say the size of the man is measured by the size of his opponents, right?”

Angel
laughed. “There are many ways to measure the size of a man, some involve very-small rulers. In your case, I'd avoid being measured by the size of any other man. You'd be found wanting. No, I believe the quality of a man is measured by his service to others. That's why I'm a postal marine.”

Bophendze could not help but smile at Angel's little insult. “How do you manage to keep a sense of humor all the time?”

“We are in a nasty business, Bophendze. A nasty business. Humor is how I cope.”

“You volunteered, right?”

“Volunteering doesn't make it any less nasty, or difficult. I figure I was born for this.”

Bophendze started to ask why he went by
Angel
. He learned his name was Spetaf Korzen, but everybody called him
Angel
. After a few beats of watching Angel he started to get bored. Bophenze took his dose of
Sloth
for the long-trip. As he drifted off, he wondered how nasty a business it could be flying a cargo/troop shuttle.

Ambrose Litovio
turned his head up at the warm, blue
Sabana
sky. The sun glowed red through his closed eyes. He could not have asked for better shore leave weather than he was enjoying. For three days he relived the leisure life of his childhood home. The solace of the plantation was undermined by the distant sound of tractors working the back five-thousand hectares. It reminded him of when his father punished him for driving the tractor like one of the servants, though the memory of what happened to the servant for allowing him to escaped him. Even pleasant memories have a dark lining.

The servants kept the tractors moving, even at this distance the motion was apparent to his trained ears. As a young teen his father Marsieno would send Litovio out during night plowing to listen whether the tractors were running. It was a chore he constantly griped about, though never to his father. Only as an adult did Litovio understand his father's efforts to Litovio from adopting the mind of a soft aristocrat.
‘Never rely on a servant's testimony when you can verify yourself. Keep your boots on the ground, and not on the porch.’ I wonder if he knew how that advice would play out?

Litovio's father
Marsileno
had gone to the capital for business before Litovio came home. He enjoyed the peace of an empty house. The several servants running around hardly counted. Litovio did not feel the dread that realization might have once had. The
Naval Academy
had prepared him for command and leadership. Courage, candor, commitment were watch words the
Naval Academy
taught. Few students lived by them. During his first tour on the Imperial Battleship (IBS)
Kuvalis
, Litovio watched with disappointment how those words were paid feeble lip service. He chose to wrap himself in those words rather than flee from them. That decision would make this a difficult homecoming.

He strolled to the veranda, where a wicker chair and table awaited him. He stomped as he walked up the steps, partly to get the dirt out from the treads of his boot, and partly to warn the servants that he was back. He looked back over the front field and stretched. Satisfied with another morning stroll, Litovio sat down. The wicker creaked slightly.

As if on cue, a servant came out with a pitcher of
ziemann juice
and a glass on a tray. Litovio barely noticed as the tray was set down on the table. Years of servitude trained this servant—Litovio could not remember his name—to be almost completely silent. The juice poured into his glass.

Litovio held his hand up absentmindedly. The servant gently set the glass in his hand.
Praise be that I am not a soft aristocrat.
Litovio scoffed.

He sipped the juice carefully. Depending on the servant the juice could be quite bitter. His favorite servant Ellis was discharged not long after he left for the
Naval Academy
and this was Litovio's first visit to the plantation since. He winced at the bitterness. “Needs salt,” he said, setting the glass down on the table. He waited nonchalantly for the servant to leave and hurry back with the salt needed to cut the bitterness.

He could faintly make out in dust stirring in the distance. The familiar pattern told him it was a closing hovercraft. Despite his courage, he swallowed. Judging by how fast it closed, his father Marsileno would be on that hovercraft. The speed warned Litovio that his plan to ease his father into his change of heart was spoiled by precognition.
I should have known he would know before I saw him. How can I pretend to lead men and ships into combat if I can't even confront my own father?
Litovio fought the urge to leave his seat and hide in his room as he did when he was a boy.

The dust cloud grew steadily larger. Litovio decided to make the better of the time and finish his drink. The beats passed by with increasing anxiety, but at last the hovercraft arrived at the plantation.