[static]
HYPATIA: Alexander, this is Hypatia. We read you, please repeat, over.
ALEXANDER: [screaming]
HYPATIA: Alexander, this is Hypatia. Report your status, over!
[NO RESPONSE]
HYPATIA: Alexander, do you read us, over?
[NO RESPONSE]
Surveillance footage summary,
prepared by Illuminae Group Analyst ID 7213-0089-DN This guy wasn’t built for gymnastics. Chinese extraction, late twenties, out of shape. To put it kindly, tubby. He darts from the bridge auxiliary service exit, a woman with dark hair in a long braid beside him. The noise following them is unbearable. High shrieks, counterpointed by a low roar—the sounds of death. Death and desperation. The audio on the recording peaks and distorts, then equalizes as he slams the door shut and silence falls.
Our records ID him as Byron Zhang, the female as Consuela Nestor. They’re the two civilian chipheads forcibly recruited from the Hypatia a few days before. She’s sobbing and he’s gasping for breath like a set of wounded bagpipes. Hard to tell if he’s out of shape, terrified or it’s the nose they broke during his Gandhi routine.
They’re each clutching a portable console like a pro geeballer making for the score line as they stumble to the first intersection. There, they exchange a long look, both of them trembling. Saying goodbye without saying a word.
She nods, breaking the moment, and they split. She turns left, he turns right. Our records show she died of blunt force trauma at the hands of an afflicted refugee thirty-seven seconds later.
Zhang heads down his corridor, and it’s immediately apparent he doesn’t know his way around the ship. His movements are jerky, terrified, and he ricochets off the walls before stopping two intersections over. He’s only saved by the fact that the afflicted are moving through the ship from Nestor’s side, not his. After about thirty seconds, he seems to regain his wits and starts trying to open doors. AIDAN, of course, has them locked down. Zhang fumbles, tugging at handles and slapping at palm plates, with no result.
It’s another minute before he proves he really does have the genius IQ that got him in all this trouble, and thinks to try things the new-fashioned way. Chest heaving, he stops to power up his console and stab madly at the screen, fingers dancing in a frenzy as he tries to coax open the meeting room doors he’s standing outside. Stuck in the corridor, he’s completely fucked (oh, I’m sorry, “at a serious tactical disadvantage”) if any visitors come calling.
The only thing breaking the silence is him still gasping for breath, now cut through with a kind of low, terrified moan he doesn’t seem to be aware of. And then AIDAN speaks.
“That will not work, Byron.”
His gaze darts up, hunting for a surveillance camera so he can speak to it directly. “You’re going to destroy the fleet. You have to at least let the unafflicted make it to shuttles.”
“I intend to save the fleet, Byron.” Not a catch in AIDAN’s voice, not a flicker of life. Just that calm, even tone, so slick you’d slide right off it without ever managing to find a handhold. And Zhang is trying. He’s scrambling for anything that might save his life.
“Your calculations are out, AIDAN. The hits you took at Kerenza damaged you more than you understand. Let me help you.”
“Please cease attempts to override my security protocols, Byron. For want of a better descriptor, it tickles.”
Zhang’s laughter is grim and high-pitched, cut short by an answering howl from around the corner. A group of three afflicted are ranging out from the pack in search of new prey. With a whimper he abandons his efforts, searching the hallway for anything that could help—shelter, I suppose, a weapon. Got to admire the survival instinct even in the face of seemingly hopeless odds. It’s fascinating.
His gaze falls on the emergency fire station, and he darts to it, yanking open the door. Not programmed and under AIDAN’s control, that one—it has to be accessible in the event of systems failure. He stuffs his pudgy frame inside the tiny supplies cupboard without a cubic centimeter to spare, yanking the door shut a split second before his hunters round the corner.
They lope straight past, and AIDAN chooses not to speak. Decides not to alert them to Zhang’s terrified presence just a couple of centimeters away.
Zhang stays inside the cupboard a full ten minutes after they go, and only then does he ease the door open cautiously, listening.
“Byron, your assistance is required. The shutdown attempts have resulted in some areas of inaccessibility. I can provide you with a safe place while you work to restore my systems.”
Zhang swallows, eyes locked on the security camera.
“I will allow you to live, Byron.”
It must be tempting. You can see it on his face. The way his lips part just a fraction, the stare that’s fixed on the blank lens above his head. You can see the questions written plain in his eyes. How badly do I want to live? Just what, exactly, is my life worth?
Then he straightens. Shoulders pushed back. Jaw clenched.
“I’m not going to be restoring your systems, AIDAN.”
“Your assistance is required, Byron.”
“The Hypatia needs my assistance, you fucked up calculator.”
“You cannot imagine you are in a position to effect a shutdown, Byron.”
“Can’t I?” Byron’s eyes are wide now, gleaming with something new—a kind of madness to match the computer’s. Not the look you want to see on the face of an enemy as intelligent as this one.
HYPATIA: Alexander, this is Hypatia. We read you, please repeat, over.
ALEXANDER: [screaming]
HYPATIA: Alexander, this is Hypatia. Report your status, over!
[NO RESPONSE]
HYPATIA: Alexander, do you read us, over?
[NO RESPONSE]
Surveillance footage summary,
prepared by Illuminae Group Analyst ID 7213-0089-DN This guy wasn’t built for gymnastics. Chinese extraction, late twenties, out of shape. To put it kindly, tubby. He darts from the bridge auxiliary service exit, a woman with dark hair in a long braid beside him. The noise following them is unbearable. High shrieks, counterpointed by a low roar—the sounds of death. Death and desperation. The audio on the recording peaks and distorts, then equalizes as he slams the door shut and silence falls.
Our records ID him as Byron Zhang, the female as Consuela Nestor. They’re the two civilian chipheads forcibly recruited from the Hypatia a few days before. She’s sobbing and he’s gasping for breath like a set of wounded bagpipes. Hard to tell if he’s out of shape, terrified or it’s the nose they broke during his Gandhi routine.
They’re each clutching a portable console like a pro geeballer making for the score line as they stumble to the first intersection. There, they exchange a long look, both of them trembling. Saying goodbye without saying a word.
She nods, breaking the moment, and they split. She turns left, he turns right. Our records show she died of blunt force trauma at the hands of an afflicted refugee thirty-seven seconds later.
Zhang heads down his corridor, and it’s immediately apparent he doesn’t know his way around the ship. His movements are jerky, terrified, and he ricochets off the walls before stopping two intersections over. He’s only saved by the fact that the afflicted are moving through the ship from Nestor’s side, not his. After about thirty seconds, he seems to regain his wits and starts trying to open doors. AIDAN, of course, has them locked down. Zhang fumbles, tugging at handles and slapping at palm plates, with no result.
It’s another minute before he proves he really does have the genius IQ that got him in all this trouble, and thinks to try things the new-fashioned way. Chest heaving, he stops to power up his console and stab madly at the screen, fingers dancing in a frenzy as he tries to coax open the meeting room doors he’s standing outside. Stuck in the corridor, he’s completely fucked (oh, I’m sorry, “at a serious tactical disadvantage”) if any visitors come calling.
The only thing breaking the silence is him still gasping for breath, now cut through with a kind of low, terrified moan he doesn’t seem to be aware of. And then AIDAN speaks.
“That will not work, Byron.”
His gaze darts up, hunting for a surveillance camera so he can speak to it directly. “You’re going to destroy the fleet. You have to at least let the unafflicted make it to shuttles.”
“I intend to save the fleet, Byron.” Not a catch in AIDAN’s voice, not a flicker of life. Just that calm, even tone, so slick you’d slide right off it without ever managing to find a handhold. And Zhang is trying. He’s scrambling for anything that might save his life.
“Your calculations are out, AIDAN. The hits you took at Kerenza damaged you more than you understand. Let me help you.”
“Please cease attempts to override my security protocols, Byron. For want of a better descriptor, it tickles.”
Zhang’s laughter is grim and high-pitched, cut short by an answering howl from around the corner. A group of three afflicted are ranging out from the pack in search of new prey. With a whimper he abandons his efforts, searching the hallway for anything that could help—shelter, I suppose, a weapon. Got to admire the survival instinct even in the face of seemingly hopeless odds. It’s fascinating.
His gaze falls on the emergency fire station, and he darts to it, yanking open the door. Not programmed and under AIDAN’s control, that one—it has to be accessible in the event of systems failure. He stuffs his pudgy frame inside the tiny supplies cupboard without a cubic centimeter to spare, yanking the door shut a split second before his hunters round the corner.
They lope straight past, and AIDAN chooses not to speak. Decides not to alert them to Zhang’s terrified presence just a couple of centimeters away.
Zhang stays inside the cupboard a full ten minutes after they go, and only then does he ease the door open cautiously, listening.
“Byron, your assistance is required. The shutdown attempts have resulted in some areas of inaccessibility. I can provide you with a safe place while you work to restore my systems.”
Zhang swallows, eyes locked on the security camera.
“I will allow you to live, Byron.”
It must be tempting. You can see it on his face. The way his lips part just a fraction, the stare that’s fixed on the blank lens above his head. You can see the questions written plain in his eyes. How badly do I want to live? Just what, exactly, is my life worth?
Then he straightens. Shoulders pushed back. Jaw clenched.
“I’m not going to be restoring your systems, AIDAN.”
“Your assistance is required, Byron.”
“The Hypatia needs my assistance, you fucked up calculator.”
“You cannot imagine you are in a position to effect a shutdown, Byron.”
“Can’t I?” Byron’s eyes are wide now, gleaming with something new—a kind of madness to match the computer’s. Not the look you want to see on the face of an enemy as intelligent as this one.
