Tony Ballantyne - CAPACITY

So…what if all the AI pods on the planet knew the secret of the pathway that must be followed by a laminar VNM expansion in order to enclose a volume in the manner of the Bottle? Was it a failsafe piece of knowledge they all shared; did they all know how to make the super-fast replicating VNMs that had formed the red artifact that now lay before him? He hoped so. It was a more comforting thought than the idea that Pod 16 itself had deduced the shape in just the few seconds before it sent out its incomplete plaintext message of warning.

Or, even more disturbing, was Pod 16 responsible at all? Had something else entirely done that to the pod and poor James Gabriel?

Feeling slightly foolish, Justinian finished waving to the Bottle. Maybe someone inside had seen him. More likely his image had been bent and projected somewhere else in the Minor Mountain range: a ghostly image to scare any unlikely climbers that happened to be passing by. The same effect that had given the impression of something falling as the flier cruised by. Many other people had undoubtedly tried the same thing in the past, to no avail.

But now Justinian was going to try something new. So far as he knew, he was the only Empath here on the planet. He had been brought here to speak to AIs. Well, now he was going to try to empathize with one. He pulled the slim packet from his pocket and worked the mechanism that dropped a tiny blue MTPH pill onto his hand. He swallowed it and relaxed.

The cold air seemed to thin around him, silent waves of emptiness spreading out across the mountains, reflecting back the lifelessness that existed up here at the roof of the world. The effect was psychological, he knew. MTPH worked by boosting the mind’s ability to process peripheral information, to bring to the fore the details that only the subconscious had picked up on. Some people said there was a very small psychic component, but Justinian had used MTPH for fourteen years and didn’t believe in any such thing.

Justinian concentrated, tried to imagine his mind taking hold of the impossible shape of the bottle. Listening for crystalline singing or subsonic rumbling, tasting the thinness of the air. Feeling the hairs on his body prickling to the energy of the red aura…

Nothing. All he could feel was his own imagination. If there was any information being transmitted by James Gabriel or Pod 16, he was not picking it up. The only thing he was aware of was that the baby was experiencing mild distress; probably his subconscious was aware that his son’s diaper must be full by now.

He gazed at the impossibly twisted shape of the Bottle and realized he was going to learn nothing here. The whole diversion had been nothing more than that-a diversion. A chance for Leslie and the EA to delay him.

He turned and pulled his way back along the thick white rope towards the flier. He ran up the exit ramp, calling instructions ahead of himself as he did so.

“Okay, ship. Take us up and get us back to the spaceport at maximum speed. We still have time to make the shuttle, right?”

“Only just,” the ship said.

The shuttle was a genuine antique and looked it. Everything about it spoke of its considerable age: the great wings that swept across the landing field, dwarfing the incoming flier; the clear spoon-shaped section of the flight deck; the scorched paint of the underside. The aerodynamics of the ship made it much more a thing of the air than the soulless shape of the flier as it simply moved from A to B. This was a vehicle that negotiated or, failing that, fought with the elements. This was the craft that would carry him off planet, up to the safety of the hypership.

Justinian felt quite giddy at the thought as he strode from the exit ramp of the flier into the shadow cast by one of the shuttle’s great sweeping wings. He carried the baby in one arm and his bag in the other.

The shuttle pilot was waiting for him, radiating an unease that Justinian could have picked up even without the lingering effects of MTPH.

“Hello,” he said. “All that time on the shuttle and we were never properly introduced. I’m David Schummel.”

Schummel was old: he looked to be in his sixties. He had chosen to let his hair grey and thin, possibly because that lent him a distinguished air. He was a tall man who retained his good looks, an effect enhanced by his maturity. He had warm creases around his eyes, nonetheless, the smile he gave as he shook Justinian’s hand seemed nervous.

“I got the impression you were avoiding me,” Justinian said coolly, noting Schummel’s uncomfortable reaction. “I’m Justinian Sibelius,” he added.

Schummel raised his eyebrows. “Sibelius. One of the old company names. Are you one of the company children?”

“I am,” Justinian said, effectively ending that line of conversation.

Schummel’s embarrassment at his tactlessness seemed slightly pathetic on a man of his age. The nearby lowered entrance ramp offered them both a view of the shuttle’s darkened interior, and yet Schummel made no move to lead Justinian inside.

“What’s the matter?”

Schummel looked at the ground; he seemed ashamed to speak. “Justinian, I don’t know what you’ve done, but you’ve pissed off the EA big time. I need to ask you not to leave the planet.”

Justinian stared at the man, all expression shutting down. He shifted his son in his arms and felt the baby’s little pink hands begin to play with the fur around his collar.

“This is my son,” he said. “Can you tell me why I should risk his life by staying here?”

A spasm of something almost like pain crossed Schummel’s face. “Look, I got the order to take off half an hour ago, and I refused. There were three fliers still not yet arrived here and, anyway, what was the hurry? The hypership isn’t due to depart for another six hours.”

“Thank you for waiting,” Justinian said with just a hint of sarcasm. Nonetheless, he suddenly became fully aware of the group of fliers that formed a rough semicircle in front of the spoon-shaped nose of the shuttle. All of them were pulsing with colors that showed they still contained passengers. No one was boarding the shuttle yet.

“And so the games began,” David Schummel said, following his gaze. He was looking in every direction but at the baby, Justinian realized. “I got another call about five minutes before your flier touched down, telling me to abandon takeoff. Apparently the hyperdrive on the hypership has developed an irregular fault and they need to move it out of orbit in order to reduce the effect of Gateway’s gravitational field.”

Justinian gazed at him. “That’s all bullshit, isn’t it?” he said softly, and already he felt the defiance of the last two hours draining away. Why fight the EA? It always won.

The captain leaned forward and touched Justinian on the arm. His lined face now looked very old; his voice was heavy with resignation.

“Listen, Justinian, I’ve seen this happen before. I flew a lot of missions in the Enemy Domain. You’re not the first person I’ve met who has tried to get away from a situation he didn’t like, only to be held up by a series of seeming coincidences. The only difference today is that the EA doesn’t have its usual web of senses covering Gateway. It can’t pick up the smallest nuances of your expressions; on this planet it doesn’t have the finesse to cause subtle effects to gradually unravel that lead you to places you don’t want to be. It has to employ a more direct approach.”

Justinian held his son close and gazed at Schummel, who looked away, embarrassed.

Justinian’s voice was low and firm. “It can be as direct as it wants. I don’t care. I’m leaving.” It was his last attempt to take back control of his own actions. The baby shifted in his arms, eyes closing; he was tired. Justinian felt tired, too. He pulled his son up and rested the baby’s little head against his shoulder.