Skies Over Tomorrow: Constellation (14 page)

“I know.”

“I have always feared her aggressive nature rubbing off on you. It will be your downfall, too, if you don't keep yourself in check.”

“Don't worry,” Chiera said.

Dr. Williams then leaned close to his daughter and said, “What do you think about Mr. Peterson?”

Chiera looked at her father and then at Peterson; from the quarter angle, his pointy nose peeked over the ridge of his high cheekbone. “You can't be serious?” she said.

“My chances for grandkids have been cut in half. Before you die, I hold you responsible for continuing the family line.”

“Father, tell me this is not a setup.”

Dr. Williams just happened to kick the back of the driver's seat.

“Lieutenant Williams,” Peterson said. “May I address you as Chiera?”

“You may address me as Lieutenant Williams.”

“That's rather formal if we're to become friends, don't you think?”

“Mr. Peterson, I don't wish to become friends because I don't like you. Please shut your mouth and drive.”

“Your father said you are a bit hostile.”

Chiera frowned. She formed a fist and whacked the blonde understudy in the back of the head and said, “I'd say more than a bit.”

“Chiera, that was not necessary,” said Dr. Williams.

“Of course it was,” she said, “and I'm warning you for the last time about playing Cupid.”

“Sure, as you say.” Dr. Williams smiled.

“If you want grandkids so badly, why don't you make some?”

“Speaking of which, has Major Torres mentioned the Nzingha Project to you?”

Chiera's frown grew even heavier at the mentioning of Major Torres' name.

“I saw you two on the viaduct and assumed—”

“It was just a debriefing of sorts.”

“I see,” Dr. Williams said. “Well, what I am about to tell you, I didn't tell you, understand?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Command Central, Major Torres and myself have selected you and a few others as candidates for a project that has room for only two pilots—well, really one. Because of the complexity of systems in the prototype, an AI is needed to operate them, especially the hyperdrive system.”

“What? A mech with hyperdrive? Wait. What does this have to do with grandkids?”

“I'll get to that,” he said. “You may not be aware of this, but MAC has retaken Sync, and now they're concentrating on Morrilla. The Alliance has received its first report from your mother since she infiltrated the Federation. We've learned they have discovered some sort of portal. To be more exact, an astral chasm. It is of alien design, and if they are successful in realizing the technology, then the possibility exists that scores of Federation destroyers could just appear in orbit around Morrilla.” With a snap of his fingers, he said, “Just like that.”

“If they have that kind of technology—”

“Yes, we won't have a chance. Fortunately, they are just beginning to decipher it, and that gives us time. The Alliance has asked me personally to work with Command Central in revolutionizing hyperdrive technology so that we may make a preemptive strike on Mars and take out the astral chasm.”

“What?”

“But, first, the prototype has to be tested,” Dr. Williams said.

“You mean you built a mech with a hyperdrive?”

“Yes. The gunsuit, Nzingha, is ninety percent complete. All it needs are pilots. One human and one AI replicant.”

“Oh, this must be where the grandkids come in,” she said.

Dr. Williams smiled for a moment. “It has nothing to do with grandkids, but everything to do with cloning. You may not like what I've done, but I thought Miranda was deserving of this opportunity. Up until her death, we decided she would pilot Nzingha.”

Chiera frowned at her father and said, “Tell me you didn't make Miranda into some robot.”

“Replicant,” he said, “and, yes, I did.”

“Why'd you do that?” she said, rising to her feet. “You just couldn't let her go! Never mind my feelings! It just had to be Miranda, didn't it?” Chiera picked up her gear and jumped off the PT, barely landing on her feet. “Well, I'm not interested in flying with a ghost!” she said after the vehicle.

“Well, I'm sorry if you haven't gotten over her death!” Dr. Williams said, as he and Mr. Peterson rolled on.

“What?” she said. “How dare him. How dare you!”

Chiera dropped her gear and chased after the landau. She slammed a fist on its white cowling. “Stop!” she said. Dr. Williams tapped Peterson on the shoulder, and the personnel transport slowed to a halt. Chiera moved to stand in front of it, her breathing heavy. “Listen to me,” she said. “I am well over Miranda's death. You don't see me losing any tears, or gunning for Torres, for that matter, do you?”

“Neither am I, and that's another issue, but if what you say is true, then you won't have a problem with a replicant that only looks like your sister.”

“Tell me the truth: Why'd you replicate her?”

“Because there was no one else suitable,” he said. “Her body and neural intelligence were accustomed to piloting gunsuits, better than anyone else deceased, and available. What was salvageable from her remains served as the basis of the application for the replicant. We need it to copilot Nzingha. Do you know how much time we've saved from not having to train two human pilots in Nzingha's operation.”

“Forever the scientist, right, father?”

“Don't be angry with me, Chiera. If you're willing to put your life on the line for Morrilla, then I'm just as willing to do anything to protect it, so you won't have to die, too, you understand? When you've calmed down, stop by my lab so that I can introduce you to the replicant. You will see it is not your sister.”

Chiera stepped aside in silence.

“Let's go, Mr. Peterson.”

The personnel transport hummed off. The reverberation of the rhythmic grinding its six bloated tires made from traveling over the cracked concrete floor and patches of loose rocks coupled with its soft tone, until it was out of sight, and then the tunnel became quiet. The lieutenant then walked back and retrieved her gear, and proceeded on to her quarters. As she walked the hazardous corridor, she wondered if she had overreacted to the resurrection of her sister.

Light crept upon her from the rear, as a horn trumpeted a couple of times, and she stood aside for a convoy of porters to roll by. She continued on after they passed. Not many walked the corridor because of the time it takes; however, Chiera often did, as her bunker was less than a kilometer from the bay floor. The solitaire stroll also soothed her and helped focus her thoughts. She sauntered another seven meters before reaching a side passageway that lead to general complex 01. She walked another four meters down the three-meter-wide passageway and entered the antechamber of her compound where a green private sat behind a desk.

“Hello, Lieutenant Williams,” he said, as he pushed a digital pad across the metal surface top. “Did you have a nice flight today?”

“Yes, I did,” she said, placing her right hand on the LCD screen of the ID register. “Until I crashed.”

“Again, ma'am?” said the private, as the doors to their left unlocked once the tablet confirmed her identity. “You keep that up, they just might demote you to do my job, and maybe I can take your place.”

Chiera clutched a fist and, throwing it behind her back, sprouted the middle finger as she neared the automated doors. They opened and revealed a couple pilots at their lockers, and she stopped. At the opposite end of the entrance, beyond the open postern to the dim sleeping quarters, the neat, symmetrical formation of bunk beds looked tempting. “Change clothes first,” she said. Looking off to her left, to the pattering sound of water, the steam of the shower room invited her to have a bath. “Shower, then sleep,” she said.

Chiera, perched upon a towering scaffold, reached up to the right, slanted vertical stabilizer of her fighter; her arms stretched out with a circular buffer in hand, as she refurbished the gun gray matte color of the wing. She was pleased with the repairs to the craft and was excited to fly it again. The excitement of being airborne watered her smile and carried her thoughts to the clouds. Not even the noise of ongoing activities about the bay floor distracted her. Her radiant smile and the light in her eyes revealed that she was more than anxious to get back in the air, and it would not be long, perhaps by late afternoon, before she could take her lover up for a dance. Given that she and the ground crew worked eighteen, twenty-four, and sometimes thirty-six hours straight, every effort was made to ensure the fighter would not stumble in mid-flight. Only in the air could their hard work in rectifying damages from its crash landing be measured by how well she and the fighter boogied.

“She's looking great, ma'am!” the ground crew chief said from the base of the scaffolding.

“She'd better after all we've put into her! Can't wait to take her up!” said Chiera. “Is our romp scheduled with Operations and Torres?”

“Yes ma'am, but you won't be taking her up today!”

“What?” Looking down, she saw the sergeant fanning a digital notepad.

“You've been reassigned for the next two weeks!” he said.

Chiera dropped the buffing wheel and rushed down in a show of acrobatics. Landing on her feet, she grabbed the pad from the sergeant and squatted to read the orders. “Damn it, what the hell?” she said, standing back up. “I don't believe this! The Owl? Whom am I flying with?”

“Don't know, ma'am! Major Torres wants to see you before you go up!”

“Where is he?”

The crew chief pointed toward Bay Operations. Chiera slammed the board against the sergeant's chest and stormed to the control room. She did not follow the pedestrian path but made a beeline for BO, cutting through a bedlam of construction sites, under the Sentry stances of gunsuits in repair, past machinery and equipment, and on through the work areas of others. She walked with her eyes focused on its rectangular windows, hoping to see that Torres saw her approaching. When she reached its stairs, she vaulted over three steps to the top landing and yanked on the door handle, pulling to the left, and in one motion, slid the door into the wall. Though operators were busy with incoming requests and planning schedules, everyone stopped and looked at her, as she and the noise of the bay blew in. “Major Torres!” she said.

“Lieutenant, just a minute, and close that door!”

Chiera exhaled sharply, as her hands went to her waist; she tapped her right foot in a rhythmical cadence with her arms akimbo. The major moved off to confirm a schedule with an officer and operator, and she waited. The thick sole of her right boot rapped on the grated floor. The exertion of her frustration was subtle, yet amplified by the bay's racket.

Torres looked back to Chiera, taking in her tapping foot and confrontational stance before his eyes met hers. “Lieutenant, close the door!” he said.

Chiera came to attention and then stood at ease.

The major sighed, and his left hand went to the right shoulder guard of the lieutenant that accompanied him. He said something. The head of the lieutenant turned slightly, and then she—it—turned about.

Chiera's rigid shoulders and stern stance deflated. “Miranda?” she said. The shock on her face was sharp and as distinct as the sound of metal crunching in a crash. The replicant stepped away from the major and operator and toward Chiera. It walked by her and closed off the sanctum of Operations from the commotion of the bay. The replicant then turned and faced the insolent lieutenant.

“It's a pleasure to finally meet you,” it said.

Chiera was quiet.

“I expected to meet you sooner, but you never came to your father's lab. You disappointed him.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't have time,” Chiera said, looking the replicant over.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant Williams?” said Torres.

“Why have you assigned me the Owl as of today, of all days?” she said. “I was looking forward to testing my fighter later this afternoon.” Her eyes never left the replicant, as she then said, “Is this my co-pilot I am to fly with for the next two weeks?”

“Yes, and come off it, Lieutenant. It's only temporary,” the major said. “To qualify for the Nzingha Project, you'll have to fly the Owl with Lieutenant Sankofa, here, as part of an evaluation process.”

Chiera looked to Torres and said, “Why are both a human and a replicant needed to pilot this gunsuit?”

“If you should ever pilot Nzingha, then you'll find out the answer to that question. In the meantime, you two get acquainted during your flight. You're scheduled to go up in a couple of hours. I suggest you get cleaned up and ready to go.”

The replica of Miranda reopened the door and exited out of Operations, and Chiera, looking at Torres with a disapproving stare, took a couple of steps backward before she returned to the noisy environment of the bay floor. The door of BO closed behind her. “Bastard,” she said, taking the pedestrian path back to her fighter's lot, with what she referred to as a ghost accompanying her.

Among the commotion and derangement of machinery and provisions from the endeavor of rebuilding, Chiera began to unbutton her beige cargo suit, which failed to keep the underlying maroon turtleneck clean. After hundreds of hours of repair work, her hope of flying her variable fighter at least once that day did not come to pass. As she walked, her hands wiped over her face, and she noticed how the midday light coming in from The Deck accented the grime on her fingers, to which she realized that she had just blackened her appearance even more, as smudges blemished her face already. Still, she did not care and looked off to the left, to the thick window wall that separated the outside from the hangar, and saw Lieutenant Monty Harris courting an operator, and smirked.