Jack Chalker - Melchior's Fire

“I assure you that I am unobtrusive.”

“You misunderstand Doc,” Jerry Nagel commented, approaching the two of them. “We don’t want unobtrusive. We want nonexistent . In other words, if you get into our space or photograph and record anything we don’t think you should, or if we just think you did that, well, then, just remember that you will be alone and unable to get any additional instructions, and our primary occupation isn’t exploration, it’s salvage . Now, how smart is that dedicated positronic brain of yours, camera? Do you understand your rules among us, or do I have to spell it out?”

“I believe I get your meaning,” Eyegor assured him, sounding a bit uncertain.

“Well, let’s just put it up front. You record anything having to do with us, you ask permission first. And when we’re doing our job, which means any time we’re working aboard ship or at any time down on a planet, you will obey our orders instantaneously no matter what. Either do that, or we will demonstrate how quickly and efficiently a salvage engineer can disassemble a robot of any sort and catalog its parts for later sale. That clear enough?”

“I believe you have made yourself as clear as need be,” the camera responded a bit nervously.

Queson looked the thing over and frowned. “Does the name have some meaning?”

“A show business joke,” the robot told her. “If you do not know it when you hear it, it is not worth explaining, nor is it my choice anyway.”

“Okay, suit yourself. At least I assume you don’t sleep or eat or need any maintenance?”

“I require no maintenance, that is correct, and my redundant dual power supplies are sufficient for centuries to come. I have a small number of spare parts that I carry, and the ship’s own maintenance section can fabricate anything else I might need. As I said, I should not be in your way. You should barely notice my presence unless you wish to.”

“Oh, if you’re a member of our crew then we’ll all want to be aware of your presence,” Nagel assured the robot. “You could come in handy for us as well. If we’d had you last time we’d have saved ourselves a lot of grief.”

“I shall be happy to assist you if I can do so. I am, however, a robot, not an android or a cybernetic device. My programming is not something I can get around, so please remember this. I was designed for a single function, so my initiative is limited. My primary function comes first.”

“Well, so long as we don’t have any surprises, that’s the main thing,” Nagel warned it. “If it appears that your programming requires you to do something against my interest or the interest of my crew, you’re salvage, so please remember that. That, too, is something you will find yourself unable to get around.”

Nagel was already walking away, going towards Sark, who was checking a bill of lading on a hand tablet. One by one, pictures of everything loaded aboard the Stanley came up, along with coding as to which prefabricated cube it was in and just how to get it. A small earpiece told him what each was and any specs he requested. The big man glanced up as Nagel approached.

“Any problems?” the engineer asked.

“Not if that shyster was as good as his word and what’s listed here is actually in those things. This is high-quality stuff. Mostly salvage, of course, but still the best, mostly new or lightly used. Makes you wonder where the salvage barons here got a lot of this stuff.”

Nagel nodded. “Trust nothing from Sanders. Take a container or two at random and check it physically against the bill. Test anything you want in any of them to make sure it works. Let me know if there’s any funny business.”

“Already in the works. So far so good.”

Nagel nodded and turned away. He still didn’t feel good about this. There was too much legend, too much not in control, too much in the way of question marks. He didn’t mind going up against some smart-ass humans or aliens or whatever was there, and he sure didn’t mind the profit potential when it looked like everything was deep down the toilet, but what he’d told the robot was true. They were a salvage team, not explorers. They didn’t go out into the unknown trying to find stuff, they went to places where others had found potential valuables and they took it apart and hauled it back for sale. He hadn’t known about that damned worm, but he’d had all the specs on the last planet they’d gone, all the scouting reports, climate, geology, you name it, and even though they hadn’t been able to get much information on the dead colony he’d had great three-dimensional photos of the complex from orbital surveys, so he knew pretty much what he was going to find and had plenty of time to research just how to get it out of there.

Not here. An ancient legend, some crushed ships and bodies, and a spook jewel. That was it. He’d researched the legends, of course, and what little was truly known from the stuff those ships had brought back, but there were more blanks than information.

The Three Kings. What did that mean? That ancient scouting report from that cybermonk said three worlds, but much of the information in the physics of that report suggested that they weren’t planets at all. Planet-sized ships? Moons? What?

Further research suggested that the only kind of setup that could sustain wild holes over such a period of time was powerful gravitational forces caused by massive bodies in a kind of cosmic conflict that were, nonetheless, stable enough to just sustain the stresses and keep reopening the cracks. The original report had suggested some sun-sized gas giants that might do it, but then how would you keep things like moons or even orbiting stations from being pulled apart in the stresses over time?

He didn’t like it. He wanted a picture, he wanted the scout’s complete reports, he wanted every expert opinion cranked through the very best brains organic and inorganic and everything in between. This was riding a wild wormhole into a maelstrom.

Well, at least this grand expedition to Hell wasn’t for some kind of noble reason like scientific research and exploration or shit like that, and it sure wasn’t to keep the repo men off An Li’s back. If you were going to be this dumb and this high risk, you’d better be doing it for money.

Either Sanders really was already richer than Midas or he was pretty damned confident this was going to succeed, though. Sark reported that everything seemed to check out, and now, boarding from a tug, Jerry Nagel was impressed with the repairs on the Stanley . It didn’t even smell anymore.

In fact, it was so comfortable and homey looking that he suspected that the refurbishing had been done less for the crew than for Eyegor’s benefit. You didn’t go to see entertainment, not anymore. You went into the entertainment, interacted with it, became part of the whole thing. Who the hell other than a masochist would want to experience a real salvage environment?

He sat down in his office just off the wardroom, an office he’d never had before, and began going through the routine as best he could.

“Comm Nav check. Good day, Captain,” he said in a conversational voice.

“Hello, Jerry. It’s good that we’re able to go out together again,” responded a pleasant, melodic woman’s voice. It didn’t seem to come from any sort of speaker, but seemed centered as if from an invisible person standing in the middle of the room.

“Yes, well, I’m not too pleased with the setup—I think I’d rather have another go-round with that worm, since I know more about it and its world than I do where we’re going—but at least we’re not all up the creek with no paddle. I guess your share of this, if we pull it off, will pay off your debts and make you fully independent and self-sufficient?”