Chapter Text
The Interstellar Manufacturing Corporation had been on ART’s shit list for a while now.
If there were a general checklist of terrible things a corporation could do to a colony, they’d done that a few times over and then some. Approach an inhabited planet with greed in their eyes? Check. Forcibly enslave its people? Check. Start claiming resources once they moved in like the parasites they were? Oh yeah. There were some uneasy reports about possible alleged (and other legal words for we can’t say for sure) alien remnant contamination, but all of the sources were spotty at best. This was like Barish Estranza all over again, but only this time, it had been allowed to run amok.
It should’ve been higher.
We’d just docked and the influx of incriminating information was baffling. Really, this was steep, even for the Rim. But it was always more complicated than that.
BE should’ve taken notes. They’re getting away with a lot, even for here, I said, mentally thumbing through the data ART had acquired while we were docked in one of their core systems. And by acquired, I mean easily pried out of all their outdated tech while masquerading as a transport vessel.
Usual ART stuff.
The Interstellar Manufacturing Corporation had been able to control the spread of information thanks to their isolation. It said over the feed, hacking and scanning and compiling information faster than even I could think. They were not anticipating the loss of Typhon.
Did I mention there was a war? They’d only reported some skirmishes with ‘terrorists’, but that was what all colonies called rebel groups that didn’t want to be forcibly enslaved. So no one cared as long as the IMC was (lying about) winning.
The IMC’s frontier was far on the outskirts of the Corporation Rim. That meant that nobody really paid attention to what it did as long as they kept trading and being profitable— because let’s be honest, who would go all the way out there to give them an audit? They barely had compatible technologies because of how much drift was going on. And hell, the IMC had systems closer to the Rim that they were playing nicely with, so people could check out those ones and just assume they were telling the truth about everything else.
It’s how they’d gone under the university’s radar for so long, too.
Technically, they owned the frontier. They had the paperwork. No hostile takeover had happened in between, and there were no lost agreements. However, they did fuck off to their shiny inner Rim solar systems and leave the frontier for dead by cutting all funds… until they saw how much wealth and industry they built up independently.
Then they wanted it back. Which happened all the time.
Then one of their planets blew the fuck up. Which did not, in fact, happen all the time.
Not even just a little bit. There was ART arming all of its pathfinders and threatening to bomb the crap out of a colony, and then there was whatever the hell happened to Typhon— which got hit so hard that the planet cracked apart deep enough to expose its molten core and kill everything on it.
“We should leave,” was the first thought I decided to vocalize. Threat assessment liked it very much.
They’d found a goldmine of information. Time to take it back to Preservation and the University of Mihara and New Tideland so that everyone could hit the showers. At this point, information was the best they were going to do. The IMC was an established corporation that wasn’t going to run out of money like GrayCris. What it needed to lose was an all out war, and evidently, it was getting one. A SecUnit and a sapient research vessel weren’t going to do anything here.
I am currently preparing a message buoy to send through the wormhole. We still do not know the origin of Typhon’s destruction.
“We do,” I argued. “They said it was the terrorists.”
This was technically a purposeful misconstrual of ART’s statement, but we both knew the real answer to how they managed to crack open a planet like hard candy was rounding out to be 72% in favour of alien remnants. Which were one of the many banes of my very existence, considering our last interaction with them nearly got ART deleted, did delete an alternate version of myself, and made my organic tissue freak out over one specific near death experience of my own. So no, I was not going to advocate sticking around here.
If we can confirm that the IMC is violating Corporation Rim regulations, leaking the information to Rim and port authorities will weaken their trade and aid the rebelling colonists. It pointed out, insufferable as always. We have spent too many cycles in the wormhole to return early. If this is frightening you, we can drop the conversation and continue watching media while I work.
“Asshole.”
That is the namesake you have given me. Yes?
Could I do anything about it? No- well, technically I could continue arguing, but this was ART’s bread and butter. Pulling it out of an operation this attuned to its mission would be near impossible unless I wanted to have a long discussion about how getting close to similar danger we faced last time made me feel. Which would be about as enjoyable as getting murdered by the Frontier’s so-called terrorists. So that was that.
Was I going to sit here in Asshole Research Transport’s lounge and make an explicit gesture at the ceiling? Well, it’s not like ART had hands to make one back.
— — —
Getting the go-ahead to do this without either of our crews present was already hard enough.
Planning a trip to get close to an active warzone was not the most fun thing to do when surrounded by humans who didn’t understand the concept of killing each other for resources (excluding Tarik, who didn’t like it because he understood all too well). It was even less fun when we realized that getting even remotely close to the frontier wasn’t going to happen when their connecting planet, Demeter, had already had all of the IMC forces driven out of it before Typhon even exploded.
The closest they were going to get was a dwarf planet named Triptolemus.
I hated it already.
As previously noted, we didn’t have buckets of information to go off of. The only reason we knew this place existed was because the IMC and adjacent companies had posted numerous listings wanting help with shipping to it. Of all the cargo they wanted, the university had wisely opted out of arms or personnel, but settled on cheap synth rock they would need for infrastructure on such a dusty, brittle planet.
After a corny 12 episode series with no second season, I was tense, “We’re getting close. Anything suspicious?”
I am exchanging correspondence with multiple sources. Our scheduled arrival is approved and certified.
ART was talking to them. Of course it was. Of course it didn’t mention it. “Give me the transcripts.”
For being such a pain in the ass, ART had effectively made note of all information exchanged. Each addressed message was mined for metadata within an inch of its life and annotated with as much tone and cultural context as possible to make my job easier. Trying to decipher how it showed consideration from it being its asshole self was hard. Past experience made me think ART knew it would fail to distract me, and this was its roundabout way of trying to make me less paranoid through data overload.
“This feels too easy.” While the conversations were meant to be efficiently digestible to a bot much dumber than ART, the overly suspicious grilling felt halfhearted at best. This was still a company at war, but they really wanted ART there.
They are in desperate need of resources after their numerous losses.
“I know that.” Even if I greatly enjoyed watching another evil corporation begin to give its final death rattle, they’d inquired about ART’s specs more than they’d asked about the shipment. It was like how humans used to crowd around the shiny executive vehicles wherever they came to the mining camps. “As far as they’re concerned, you have no running life support. Keep it that way.”
Through the feed, I could practically feel ART’s preening attitude. It was a genuine concern that this underdeveloped society with a history of disrespecting Corporation law would try to seize it for personal gain— future relations be damned. And while I’m sure ART knew that, having its comparative superiority indirectly mentioned was interpreted as a compliment.
Thank you, but I’m not worried. It sent back, leaning on me through the feed, I am known to have uniquely effective anti-theft measures onboard.
“Yeah, me.”
Since it was a stealth operation, ART couldn’t exactly have its regular crew onboard. Nobody was particularly at ease sending us off so far from the main Rim, but the situation with the IMC and the Frontier was impossible for them to ignore. That meant that it had been just ART and I once we lost connection in the wormhole. It was vaguely reminiscent of the first time I’d snuck onboard, but watching media together for cycles on end was always better without the threat of being destroyed. Technically we could've brought Three along with us, but for obvious reasons, none of the humans wanted it back in a situation so similar to when it lost One and Two.
Yes, 64% of it is you. Prepare for docking.
I resisted making another obscene gesture at it. There’s no way in hell the stat was that low, but being angry about it did a half decent job of taking up processing space where more spiralling anxiety could otherwise fester.
While the orbital dock on Triptolemus was brand new and still shiny with the IMC’s blood money, the fact that they still lagged behind on Corporation Rim technology made the entire process feel painfully slow. Probably because I was neck deep in data, but I felt like I needed every scrap of information I could manage. Physically, I was sitting in ART’s lounge. Mentally, I was cluttering up my inputs with all of ART’s exterior cameras and sensors to make sure that the ‘this is a terrible idea’ statistic was only climbing the regular amount.
Success. You’ll have to be patient for this part.
‘What part?’ was almost executed as a question, but I’d been working my way through the crappy security systems fast enough that I could already see what it meant.
It appeared that their version of port authority was just more soldiers.
I could see them from the nearest orbital station cameras: Regular humans dressed in tactical gear just waiting for its airlocks to open up to perform their sweep. The connection ART made to the dock favoured its cargo modules, but seeing the business end of several weapons pointed at it before the air had even cycled just pissed me off. Their armour was ugly and covered only the head, chest, shoulders, and knees. The greyish white getup would be ultimately useless against anything that could aim, because there wasn’t a face shield in place on any of them.
“Clear,” crackled over their comms. A human -presumably the one in charge- made a motion for the others to finish up, “Send in the Marv’s.”
I’d already known what a MRVN looked like from the last dock, but seeing the fleet of identical little robots with happy face displays on their chests was no more pleasant the second time. They weren’t particularly strong, so they filed in by the dozen to work in conjunction. If this were anywhere within the Rim, a hauler bot would just detach the entire module and it could be emptied from there, but no, a budget for robotics that large went straight to their war effort, so ART’s cargo storage would be full of them for as long as it took to clear out the synthetic stone.
You’re reacting like they’re insects.
They’re close enough, I sent back, still observing them through ART’s cameras. I was monitoring the feed around them, and found that they only really pinged each other to coordinate movement or deliver short mood sigils.
A robot that didn’t have sophisticated intelligence, had a simple form, and was designed to reflect happiness at their overlords at all times was exactly what humanity loved. No wonder these things were everywhere.
Well I find them endearing. It said, looming a little too much in our feed for a moment before rerouting attention to its inputs. The feeling was somewhat equivalent to a side eye. Glancing between me, then the MRVN’s, and back again with just enough delay to be intentional.
“Fuck you, ART.”
We spent the next cycle watching a generally worse reboot of World Hoppers, which ART still tremendously enjoyed, on account of it being a ‘well-budgeted fan project’ when in reality it was just made for soulless profit. We were also tapped into the IMC’s systems, which gave ART free rein to mine a landslide of information, compile it, and then filter by relevant details to toss me the interesting stuff. Hacking them felt less like the delicate technological feat it was supposed to be, and more like the identical verb of cutting something with aggression and brute force– because well, it wasn’t like it was hard when I could bum processing power off of something ART’s size.
The same went for being able to register the inbound Militia before anything else.
It had been three hours of anticipating chatter, waiting for the IMC’s first ship coming from the colonies to successfully make contact with the forces on Triptolemus (and the rest of their core systems by proxy). That was unsurprisingly a big deal to them, and the fact that we would be there for it wasn’t as statistically improbable when taking into account that the dock had just opened. Waiting until everything was secure was a luxury reserved for corporations that weren’t desperate for progress after numerous losses and stacking bodies.
It’s not one of theirs. ART said, tagging several pieces of data in our shared workspace.
Oh.
Preliminary rounds of identification were done by the IMC’s security systems. Not a single update had passed by without our knowledge for the last cycle and a half we’d been stationed here. Even the undereducated humans stuck here couldn’t take in all the behind the scenes, because the system had been built by reasonably smart people who taught an algorithm to do it for them. This was all well and good, until their crappy little ID check on the incoming vessel happily accepted the first mate’s identification code instead of the registered captain’s. Not immediately alarming if the other human was just busy. That’s why it was acceptable.
But a real human usually took a little longer than a few milliseconds to respond.
The one they just received was too fast. Like ‘got killed and had your credentials fed to an AI’ type of fast. “We need to go.”
The MRVNs are still currently unloading cargo module B7, and all the locks are still engaged. I am scheduled to remain at this dock for the next 36.5 hours, at which point the station will permit our disconnect.
Like I didn’t know that.
“You-” I was absolutely sure my face was doing something. Performance reliability tanked three whole percent. Drop your cargo modules and get the fuck out of here.
To ART, ditching the parts of itself locked into the station would feel like little more than leaving behind a boot that got stuck in the mud. Since when did it care about them? There were no humans out there we were obligated to protect and shit was very obviously about to hit the fan. Sure, maybe it’d get flak for the premature departure, but having an active firefight where it was operating would no doubt be a breach of whatever contract the university signed with the IMC.
This is an opportunity to make contact with Frontier colonists.
“That is not what we signed up for.”
Many opportunities are unscheduled. That’s how we met. It shot back, then waited for a 0.6 second pause. I appreciate the security consultation, however it would be disadvantageous to avoid all risks.
My stupid organic tissue was having a great time playing with the adrenaline, but on a logical level, ART wasn’t wrong. The Interstellar Manufacturing Corporation was exactly the kind of scourge that needed to be knocked down a peg in the Corporation Rim. There was no telling if we’d actually be able to do anything for the Militia, but not getting shot dead here was kind of important for their freedom.
The moment the lockdown starts, close all the hatches. Don’t let anything in, and if something goes for us, we’re out.
Thank you.
It probably knew that much, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that I was there. Plan A rarely survived any confrontation in the history of ever, so when it all went to shit, that was our framework, and I would be the one helping ART get back onto that track by any means necessary. Since none of these humans were with either of us, I could at least cut down on the variables. It was easier to protect a massive, armed spaceship than a squishy, neurotic human.
The communications lit up with an incoming signal, “This is the IMC Colonial Navy’s Carrier Juliet 06. Are we clear to approach?”
We actually paused the knockoff adventure drama, pooling our attention on the incoming streams of data from ART’s sensors and the station security. There were orbital defence measures on this station, but they were ranged, as it was counterintuitive to kill everyone trying to stop a ship that was already there. Just when I expected them to pass that threshold in time, the system unexpectedly threw up a warning tied to- Voice patterns not recognized. Fuck.
I killed it. Well, technically ART killed it with code I spat out faster than the flag could alert the control station. Same difference.
“06, you are clear to approach. Sending configuration…”
The idea of the Militia sending one ship- one single commandeered ship to take out an entire orbital outpost was the thing that had my threat assessment spiking. Sure, only one carrier vessel was going for the maiden voyage because it was all the IMC could spare during a losing war. They were sending humans and updates, but not anymore. Now those humans were different ones, and the update was more war. Taking on a battle like that was suicide, which meant that the likelihood of some fiery explosion intended to wipe everything out at once was high enough to be uncomfortable.
ART, please tell me you’re scanning for combustibles on that ship.
There aren’t sufficient quantities to do this place in all at once.
It was close enough that we could tap their signals– a flood of new inputs to sort through and pick up. The carrier, while stolen, had been sufficiently filled. The camera quality onboard wasn’t tremendous, but Militia personnel were seen preparing for violence in just about every nook and cranny.
“Approaching the enemy!”-- “Everyone, get into position,” — “Barker, you wasted son of a bitch, you did it,” crackled on their private radio, the last one was sent to the helm of the carrier.
“Yeah, yeah,” came the slurred response of a human that was on too many intoxicants to be trusted with a ship that large. “This thing is a blimp. Should’ve made Cooper fly again.”
Several inputs that were just laughter, and one indignant individual swearing that they were all assholes, cluttered the comms before it all fell silent once more. (I should have paid more attention to that, but hindsight is 2020, and I was too busy being mildly repulsed).
So maybe they really were that confident. Did I mention how much fun I was having so close to an under-documented military force? These people blew up a planet— using someone else’s technology, but still. Who knew if one ship of undetectable alien remnant was about to atomize ART and me because it wanted to make peace with the space terrorist revolution.
And I was lucky enough to help it mutilate every possible warning signal until the ship was well and docked on the same orbital station that we were.
IMC personnel were already congregating at the ship’s hatch before it had completely finished docking. They were tense, sure, but only enough so that they were at attention. They trusted these people more than they had trusted ART.
The massive door slid down.
A titan.