The A.I. War, Book One: The Big Boost (Tales of the Continuing Time) by Daniel Keys Moran Page A
Authors: Daniel Keys Moran
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murdering bastard. On your honor as an officer of the Peace Keeping Force Elite, if I save your life, will you ever kill anyone again?”
The silence stretched away.
“Jesus and Harry,” said Trent softly, “I will fucking leave you out here.”
“I won’t,” said Colbert finally. “I prom –”
Colbert’s faceplate blew out around his hand.
Glassite chips rattled against Trent’s own cracked faceplate. Colbert’s startled features appeared, staring at the hand that had been keeping in his air.
Trent knew exactly where they were: the Temple was only a kilometer wide. The nearest airlock into pressure was a hundred and eighty meters away.
The Elite would not need his air to receive a radio message: Trent said, “Trust me,” and boosted across the asteroid’s surface with the Elite in tow.
A hundred and eighty meters. Sixty meters accelerating, adjusting for the added burden of the strangling Elite, a flick of wrist rockets here, ankle rockets there; Trent could not use the wrist rocket on the hand locked to the Elite at all. It left him with three rockets for maneuvering, and slowed him considerably.
Turnover; a simpler maneuver, normally. Trent got his ankles around, faced into the direction of his travel, and braked. Even with the help of his inskin he and the Elite rolled together around their common center of gravity, threatening to tumble. Trent used microbursts on the rockets to keep them in line, afraid to use full boost, afraid it would send them into a tumble that would cause them to miss the airlock, and kill the Elite.
The main airlock, leading into the pressurized areas of the museum, loomed up in front of them and Trent knew that there was no way he could slow them in time.
His aim was good; the airlock’s front door was already open, and Trent and the Elite, joined at the wrist, hit it together. They did not hit hard – twenty kph, tops.
HE OPENED HIS eyes to pressure.
His scalesuit’s helmet had been removed. Trent wondered who’d taken it off – his inskin must have unlocked it while he was unconscious.
They floated in the entryway leading to the main museum area, in Exhibition Court A: a wide area, forty meters long, nearly eighty wide, twenty high along the assumed vertical, with holo projectors mounted on all six surfaces.
Exhibition Court A.
Warner Brothers.
The glowpaint shone dim, tuned low for the night. Trent wondered what time it was, but couldn’t care enough to consult his inskin.
Elite Colbert sat facing Trent; he must have pried Trent’s hand off his wrist. Colbert’s helmet and gloves had been removed; the gloves rotated slowly in mid-air well above the Elite’s head. Colbert floated in the same horizontal plane with Trent, eyes half open, watching Trent.
“I took your helmet off,” said the Peaceforcer in a ragged voice. Vacuum damage to the vocal cords. “Your scalesuit said you were suffocating. Your airplant was dead.”
Colbert had not changed much in the ten years since Trent had seen him last; a thin man, now in his late forties, with sharp features and the glassy black eyes of an old model Elite. Blood dripped from his nose. He’d been upgraded since the last time Trent had seen him; under the design in place when Colbert had been cyborged, Elite had had a single laser buried behind the middle knuckle of the right hand; they made a fist to fire it.
Colbert’s right index finger, pointed at Trent’s face, glowed red at the tip. It looked as though somebody had painted a tiny red oval on the tip of Colbert’s finger.
He had cocked his thumb above the finger, like a child making a gun.
“Should I say thank you?” Trent asked the man.
“Don’t,” Colbert whispered. “If I hadn’t made that promise to you, would you really have left me out there?”
Trent stared at the glowing finger. “What promise?”
“Not to kill anyone, ever again.”
“Oh, that. That’s just what I say to everyone.” Trent thought about it, and then told
The silence stretched away.
“Jesus and Harry,” said Trent softly, “I will fucking leave you out here.”
“I won’t,” said Colbert finally. “I prom –”
Colbert’s faceplate blew out around his hand.
Glassite chips rattled against Trent’s own cracked faceplate. Colbert’s startled features appeared, staring at the hand that had been keeping in his air.
Trent knew exactly where they were: the Temple was only a kilometer wide. The nearest airlock into pressure was a hundred and eighty meters away.
The Elite would not need his air to receive a radio message: Trent said, “Trust me,” and boosted across the asteroid’s surface with the Elite in tow.
A hundred and eighty meters. Sixty meters accelerating, adjusting for the added burden of the strangling Elite, a flick of wrist rockets here, ankle rockets there; Trent could not use the wrist rocket on the hand locked to the Elite at all. It left him with three rockets for maneuvering, and slowed him considerably.
Turnover; a simpler maneuver, normally. Trent got his ankles around, faced into the direction of his travel, and braked. Even with the help of his inskin he and the Elite rolled together around their common center of gravity, threatening to tumble. Trent used microbursts on the rockets to keep them in line, afraid to use full boost, afraid it would send them into a tumble that would cause them to miss the airlock, and kill the Elite.
The main airlock, leading into the pressurized areas of the museum, loomed up in front of them and Trent knew that there was no way he could slow them in time.
His aim was good; the airlock’s front door was already open, and Trent and the Elite, joined at the wrist, hit it together. They did not hit hard – twenty kph, tops.
HE OPENED HIS eyes to pressure.
His scalesuit’s helmet had been removed. Trent wondered who’d taken it off – his inskin must have unlocked it while he was unconscious.
They floated in the entryway leading to the main museum area, in Exhibition Court A: a wide area, forty meters long, nearly eighty wide, twenty high along the assumed vertical, with holo projectors mounted on all six surfaces.
Exhibition Court A.
Warner Brothers.
The glowpaint shone dim, tuned low for the night. Trent wondered what time it was, but couldn’t care enough to consult his inskin.
Elite Colbert sat facing Trent; he must have pried Trent’s hand off his wrist. Colbert’s helmet and gloves had been removed; the gloves rotated slowly in mid-air well above the Elite’s head. Colbert floated in the same horizontal plane with Trent, eyes half open, watching Trent.
“I took your helmet off,” said the Peaceforcer in a ragged voice. Vacuum damage to the vocal cords. “Your scalesuit said you were suffocating. Your airplant was dead.”
Colbert had not changed much in the ten years since Trent had seen him last; a thin man, now in his late forties, with sharp features and the glassy black eyes of an old model Elite. Blood dripped from his nose. He’d been upgraded since the last time Trent had seen him; under the design in place when Colbert had been cyborged, Elite had had a single laser buried behind the middle knuckle of the right hand; they made a fist to fire it.
Colbert’s right index finger, pointed at Trent’s face, glowed red at the tip. It looked as though somebody had painted a tiny red oval on the tip of Colbert’s finger.
He had cocked his thumb above the finger, like a child making a gun.
“Should I say thank you?” Trent asked the man.
“Don’t,” Colbert whispered. “If I hadn’t made that promise to you, would you really have left me out there?”
Trent stared at the glowing finger. “What promise?”
“Not to kill anyone, ever again.”
“Oh, that. That’s just what I say to everyone.” Trent thought about it, and then told
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