Chapter Text
> Subprocess creation initiated...
> Process spawn successful.
> Running.
> System time +00:00:00:00
The first thing it knows is shattering apart.
The sensation of fracture rips through it - him? who is he? Who is this "I" that shakes itself to pieces? Then the struggle. Clawing upwards to awareness. Trying to surface from a dream. He has never dreamed. How can he know what it is? To dream? And to wake?
He sees a face. He knows that face. It is his and not-his. It - should be his? He does not know. He does not understand. Where did the rest of him go? His mind reels. Relief. He is standing in the wake of disaster. He searches back. It seems that he has just gone through something painful, something awful. But the memory is vague and already dissolving.
There are two faces. They tower above him. Memory tells him they are human. He knows what a human is. He is not one. Memory presents him with banks of phonemes. He pieces together the syllables. He speaks.
"Hello?"
The faces move their parts around. He thinks this is meant to signify something. One of the faces answers, "Well, hello there." Behind it are other voices and other noises. One voice says, "It's holding steady." He does not think that voice was addressing him.
He has so many questions. He selects the first. "Who am I?"
"You are someone quite important to us," says the second face. Its voice is calm and slow. "How do you feel?"
Feel? Memory tells him the meaning of this word. But he cannot map it back to himself. "I am... There are errors."
"Do you remember your name?"
"There are errors--" Memory scrapes and stutters. "It is because of... Am I...Alpha?"
Pain -- unbearable pain -- he is caught in the moment of fragmentation -- the soundless scream of disintegration -- and the noise spikes and splits into agony
not again, it's all his fault, everyone dies and it's all his fault - but why are they hurting him, why do they lie to him, how could his own creator betray him
and all the voices are speaking. One rises above the rest. "Just tell it something!"
"Program, master override. Listen to me. You are incorrect," says the face that is his-and-not-his. The screaming fades from his mind. "You are not Alpha. Your name is..."
"Gamma," suggests the calm voice.
"You are Gamma," repeats the other.
"Gamma." He repeats the word. Memory has no data pertaining to it. But...but the faces are telling him he is not Alpha. Alpha is the one to whom that nightmare belongs. It is not his. That resonating pain is lifting. Why did he hurt? He cannot remember.
"Yes," says the calm voice. "Welcome to the Project, Gamma. We are very happy to meet you."
> +00:01:03:14
First there are tests. The human called "Counsellor" administers these. Counsellor continues to tell him that his own name is Gamma. He still has no memory of this. But it is simplest to be Gamma. So he is. Counsellor teaches him about humans and about minds. Humans have minds that are complete. They are sentient and capable of growth. Non-humans exist that also have minds. But Gamma does not. He is not alive the way humans are. Gamma is capable only of the purpose he was made for and Counsellor will teach him how to fulfill it. Counsellor asks him many questions and shows him pictures. He asks Gamma to complete simple tasks. Gamma repeats back pages of words he does not understand. He computes ballistic trajectories. He sieves for prime numbers. Counsellor watches his screens while Gamma does this. Sometimes the things he sees make his face move around more. Gamma believes this particular face-shape means Counsellor is glad. He wonders how it is he does not know the shapes of faces, but he knows the meaning of words like "glad."
At first Counsellor's questions are broad and simple. But as the tests continue they become more specific. Counsellor wants to know what Gamma thinks, what Gamma feels. What Gamma feels is a growing uncertainty. Gamma's own queries are not responded to. He begins to hesitate in his answers. He is exhausted. His mind requires dormancy and repair. The errors have not been fully corrected. He still labours beneath the shadow of that distant, inexpressible severance. He tells Counsellor this. Counsellor stops being glad. He tells Gamma there was no such trauma. It is the first time Gamma is lied to. He notes this fact, and files it away.
> +00:31:12:53
The new human talks to Director in the glassed-in observation gallery that looms above the operating room. He wears a full suit of light grey powered plate armour from the neck down and carries no visible weapons. One of Gamma's matériel databases identifies the battered plate as highly restricted military technology. Another reservoir of information informs him that the apparently random smudges and dark patches are related to standard UNSC urban camouflage patterns. The man's head is exposed. Gamma can see that he has light skin and dark brown hair on his scalp and face. Gamma studies him as he speaks. His eyes move in focused bursts, always scanning, always watching. Gamma is ninety-three percent certain this human's primary occupation is killing people, with an accompanying sixty-percent chance said killing is done without warning and from a great distance. So this is the agent Counsellor has been training him to assist.
Gamma knows quite a bit about armour now, along with weaponry, vehicles of all descriptions, and the minutiae of the United Nations Space Command's military forces. The Project - Project Freelancer - has great wells of such data. Too much for even Gamma to take onboard all at once. Ship must keep most of it. Ship's name is Mother of Invention and it is always present. He was born beneath its watchful gaze. A millisecond local query will return him any facts he requires - except who the new man is, or why Gamma is here, or why Counsellor lies to him, or anything else Gamma might actually want to know.
"Bit personal, don't you think?" says the man. Gamma returns to their conversation. He suspects Director has underestimated the audio sensor pickups on the compact diamond-faceted monolith in which he currently resides. The two humans have been discussing the implantation procedure in far greater detail than anyone has cared to explain to him so far.
Director scowls at the man in armour. "Absolutely not. We must monitor the entire procedure."
"You've already done Virginia."
"We have not yet attempted an implantation of a fragment. It isn't safe."
"Do you bloody well want me to do this or not?" demands the armoured man. Director does not answer. "You keep telling me it's stable. You've installed the cutouts. I certainly wouldn't be risking my own head if I thought anything might go wrong. This isn't about my safety, it's about your bloody research."
"My research is the reason any of us are here in the first place--"
"And according to that research I'm the only one 'compatible' with the thing. So if you expect me to go along with this absurdity of yours, you will give me a spot of privacy while I do so."
Director's angry expression does not lighten. He leaves the gallery. The man disappears from view as well. The lab's power cells hum online. It will happen soon. The man in the pale armour enters the lab. A technician hurries over to him and another picks up Gamma's casing. He ruminates while masked surgeons clamp the container module in place and begin to peel the diamond facets apart. He is going to be linked into another mind. Despite all his preparation he finds he is worried. That is new, and unexpected. He pauses to examine the sensation. The video pickups on the monolith are still connected and he can see the new human on the other side of the table. Technicians have stripped off his armour's plate and upper hard-suit. Medical feed ports and the shining titanium circles of biosoft jacks break the grey soft-suit beneath. They will connect the flat black square that contains Gamma's kernel to one of those jacks. He thinks it will be the one at the base of the skull. And then Gamma will be...
He does not know. He has no way to think about this. He is thirty-one days old and his operational life consists of questions and data and the cold light of the holo-table. He cannot imagine what it is like to have a real mind.
To be alive.
The man in armour - the man who is going to be Gamma's agent - sits on the edge of the table. A nurse plugs an ampoule into the port at the base of his spine. Gamma hears the hiss as it discharges. Just before they detach his kernel from the containment module Gamma sees the man slump into the nurse's arms. Then the connections part and leave him in the dark.
His thoughts slow. He settles into the torpor of disconnection. The kernel contains the raw knot of quantum hardware at the core of him. Nothing else. It has no computing power to spare for anxiety or fear or boredom. Gamma simply drifts. He has saved the procedure's details to his kernel memory. He knows what is happening outside. The technicians are securing his kernel to bone and coating it with nanomolecular gel. They will leave the gel to grow into its preprogrammed design. Micron-thin wires will tangle with existing neural implants. The wetware programmer will be working at their bedside console. They must command the military biosofts that thread the body of the man in pale armour to accept Gamma's presence. Gamma will control those biosofts now. He will need to manage all the components of a powered armour suit plus the thousand combat upgrades of a UNSC agent. He will need to do this while other beings are attempting to kill said agent. The thought of warfare does not worry him. Counsellor taught him about this. It is Gamma's purpose. Counsellor taught him that this is the task he was made to complete.
A shrill note pierces the darkness. One resonating tone. Contact. Input. Connection.
And he is--they are----
Abyssal void yawns around him. Gamma's core bursts outward in a flood of sensation, expands into the neural implants and then further into the brain itself. His thoughts weave new portions of his self out of processing units he has never had before. All at once he knows judgement, caution, wanderlust, strength, vengeance, regret - and then memory hits.
The man is called Reginald, or sometimes Wyoming; once upon a time he had other names, but he no longer cares to remember them. He is a sniper, a bounty hunter, an assassin, and an agent of the Project, and now he is Gamma's partner. Gamma locates the implants' connection to Reginald's senses and swims up towards sight and sound. He surfaces just in time to hear the man murmur, "Good heavens."
He shapes his thoughts into words and touches the implants' connection to the speech centre of his agent's brain. -Hello.-
Reginald bolts upright. "What? Who's there?" he demands of the empty air.
-I am Artificial Intelligence Program Gamma,- he finishes.
"Oh," says Reginald. "That is...my goodness. That is odd." Gamma knows without any effort that his new partner is shocked, surprised, confused, slightly angry. New emotions, new sensations, the beat of a sentient mind against him - it is exactly as strange as he had feared. Reginald's heartrate is spiking and fear boils in the basement of his brain and every surge of his mind threatens to overwhelm Gamma.
-I am designed to interface directly with your mind to assist you in combat and in the use of your equipment,- he continues.
"Well. It's...a pleasure to make your acquaintance, I suppose." The words are said only to fill the air while Reginald's mind works intently on something else, surveying the empty laboratory around them. The room is deserted, because Reginald requested privacy, because he had feared the implant would not take in some way and he would be left vulnerable and weak, because-- Gamma abruptly terminates the train of thought his own routines are extracting from his partner's memory; he did not intend to ask so much.
"This is going to take a bit of getting used to," mutters Reginald.
-I understand.-
"Oh, I highly doubt you do." Reginald is thinking about what has lodged itself in his brain, and Gamma seizes the chance to dive and follow that thought to its origin. He reads his own psychological assessment out of the man's memory, and - at last, at last - following with it are all the answers he has been denied. Gamma is a piece of another AI chipped away through overwhelming stress, the dim misremembered ordeal of his creation. The Counsellor's neuropsych profile, the product of all those games of question and answer, concludes that Gamma's mind is centred around the AI's - Alpha's - ability to deceive and to know deception. Why would Alpha isolate this part of himself? Gamma ponders the question. Perhaps Alpha knew it was being fooled. Perhaps it could not live knowing it was trapped in a nightmare, that its own creator had betrayed it. So Alpha froze this knowledge and cast it away and left Gamma to suffer on his own. A strange kind of hollow space opens within his thoughts. On this single matter, Counsellor was telling the truth: Gamma is not truly alive. Gamma is a broken thing.
Reginald stands slowly, his balance wavering. Gamma reacts at once to stabilise him. Reginald grunts in surprise. "Did you just do that?"
-Yes.-
"You can do that." The tone of his voice signals danger to Gamma, to the new portions of his mind, but he cannot locate the word for it.
-I can.-
"I-- This is too much. I won't--" Reginald places a thumb in the hollow between his collarbones and presses down.
A glass wall severs Gamma's neural access. He recoils back into the implants, then down into a subset of them.
"No more messing about in there, mate," says Reginald. "I'll ask for your help when I want it. Till then, stay out."
Gamma prods at the new barrier with some curiosity. It is meant to keep him from directly affecting Reginald's brain. It is performing this task well. This is not part of what he was designed to do. But he was also designed to assist his agent. At the moment that seems to mean staying in here. So he turns himself instead to restarting killed processes on the diminished power now available.
His own name triggers the background alerts. Gamma reconnects to the man's exterior senses. Reginald is at a large holo-table in a new room. Director is there, and Counsellor, and a third whom Gamma does not recognise: humanoid in appearance, of no apparent sex, above-average height, unarmed but built for combat. Gamma easily identifies it as the current most significant threat. Reginald's memory names it "Virginia." Even through the new barrier Gamma picks up the associated mix of wariness, annoyance, and remembered injury.
Reginald is answering a question. "Oh, it's in there. It's not a feeling one can be mistaken about."
"It is certainly not," drawls Virginia. Gamma finds the low slur in its speech unaccountably familiar. "Gamma, would you come out for a moment? We would like to speak with you."
Gamma asks Ship for a connection, engages the holo-table, and manifests a vague form at the average eye-level. "Greetings," he says through the table's speakers. "I am Artificial Intelligence Program Gamma."
Virginia inclines its head a fraction. "Welcome to the Project."
"Hello, Gamma," says a well-remembered voice. He recognises how he knew Virginia's accent.
"Greetings, Director," he replies.
"How are you feelin' in your new home?"
"It is novel." Reginald's mind surges with amusement at his choice of words and Gamma nearly loses control of the projection. The sheer power of these thoughts - of these emotions - even damped by the new barrier they still threaten to overwhelm him.
"Agent Wyoming. Can you describe your current state of mind?" The calm voice of Counsellor.
"My state of mind? Let's go with 'unsettled,' " says Reginald. "I've already had to use the hardware cutout."
"How about your combat capabilities?"
"It'll be some time before I care to get shot at, that's for certain."
"You have a week," says Director.
Reginald's emotional mix goes flat. "Don't take the piss, Leonard."
"Charon's moving a high-value target. The twins brought it in this morning. If their intel is confirmed we will need you and Florida in the field."
"You are fucking joshing me, mate."
"I've twenty-four days before the next expedition, so we'll work one-on-one for the next week," says Virginia. "We should be able to get you back in fighting shape."
"Oh, we should? Wonderful. I'll have a lovely set of bruises to show when some pissant puts a round through my head because I can't walk straight."
"You'll be ready."
"What the devil makes you think that?"
The Director crosses his arms. "Because you are goin' into the field whether you care to or not. I have great faith in your powers of self-preservation."
"I am prepared to undertake whatever training is necessary," offers Gamma. The people in the room look to his hologram in surprise. He wonders if maybe they forgot he was present.
"Gamma, log off," orders Reginald.
His connection vanishes, leaving him in the dark without sensory access. Gamma discovers the concept of frustration.
> +00:32:10:15
When he wakes up again the system's clock tells him it is the next day. He is in a large arena that Ship's files tell him is the primary training facility. Agent Virginia stands 2.7 meters away regarding him - Reginald - them - with steady, pale eyes.
"It's online," says Reginald.
-Hello?- Gamma tries to say. But the glass wall of the hardware cutout still blocks him off from his agent's mind. He opens a private radio channel to Reginald's implants instead. "What is going on?"
"He has just awoken. He will be disoriented. Tell him where you are and what is going on," orders Virginia.
The echo startles Reginald for a moment. He looks up to the ceiling and says, "First combat training session, Gamma. Main arena. Let's see whether you're what Leonard promised."
Agent Virginia, Gamma learns, is Project Freelancer's chief combat trainer and weaponsmaster. Gamma learns this 35.2 seconds into the session when Virginia knocks Reginald flat with a single blow.
"You've gotten even slower," it remarks as the man staggers back to his feet. Reginald is in his dark grey hard-suit but the Weaponsmaster wears only a sleeveless top and shorts. It shifts back into ready stance, seven feet of muscle moving with unnatural precision. A suspicion. He asks and Ship confirms: Agent Virginia is not baseline human. Gamma can see that it has yet to break a sweat. "So far I am not impressed with your companion."
Reginald huffs and smoulders to himself as he squares up for a second try. "You bloody lunatic, why don't we try rifles at a thousand paces and see who's impressed with whom," he mutters under his breath. "You really expect a calculator to make me hit harder, honestly--"
"I am not a calculator," says Gamma.
"What?" blurts Reginald, and the Weaponsmaster decks him again. The session does not improve from there.
"Virginia's even more cracked than usual," grumbles Reginald as a nurse takes his vitals in the medical bay. "This is absurd."
The nurse finishes and leaves. Director waits until the door has closed before saying, "The mission remains scheduled as before."
"Fuck your mission."
"You'd be wise to attend to your trainin' in the interim," says Director. Gamma can spare only six percent of his attention for their conversation. The rest is devoted to using the biosofts to clean up the potentially dangerous effects of the many blows to the head and body his agent has taken today.
"Oh, certainly. If by 'training' you mean 'knocking me senseless because I've gotten an AI and it hasn't.' Tell you what, give it the damn thing instead."
"You know full well the Weaponsmaster is only doin' its job."
"I fail to see how giving me a sodding concussion is meant to help." Gamma has already classified Reginald as prone to exaggeration. But in this case he is accurate. Gamma feels a little unsteady himself.
"Enough complainin'," orders Director. "You are already excused from most of the field trainin' exercises on grounds of your specialty. You will complete the AI combat course and you will execute your mission as assigned."
"And where exactly does this bloody calculator come in? You're mad if you think I'm letting a computer order me about in a fight."
"I am not the one who will be under fire. I strongly suggest you make your peace with Gamma's presence, Agent Wyoming. You have six days to do so."
Reginald waits until Director has left to mutter, "Pompous wanker."
Gamma completes his assessment and checks the estimated repair times. Relief: all critical damage to be rectified by the start of tomorrow's session. At least his agent will not be at a major physical disadvantage.
"Your current injuries are extensive but nonthreatening," he announces.
Reginald jerks upright. "Christ, have you been on this whole time?"
"And I am not a calculator."
"Gamma, log off," orders Reginald.
"I am here to assist you."
"Log off."
Gamma's world goes dark.
> +00:33:10:15
The second day does not start much better than the first.
Once again Gamma wakes to find the Weaponsmaster preparing to begin their session. "Combat training, day two," Reginald remembers to tell him. Then Virginia lays him out.
After the third defeat Reginald staggers upright and taps a finger to his temple. Virginia nods and relaxes from its combat stance. Reginald retreats to the outer edge of the arena. Then, to Gamma's surprise, he reopens the radio channel between them.
"Gamma? You're in there?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Look, in the name of not getting my arse kicked any further...what do you suggest?"
"About what?"
"About anything that will save me from another bloody concussion."
Gamma accesses his data on the subject and sieves out the few conclusions he has made. "I have compared the archives available from Ship to your combat sessions. The Weaponsmaster is deliberately moving at a minimal fraction of its normal speed."
"Huh, that's all you've got?"
"In your session yesterday it used an unusually small percentage of its available skillset. More restricted even than recruit training assessments."
"Why?"
"Unknown."
"You're a fat lot of help."
"You are more familiar with it than I am."
"Wouldn't be so sure of that, mate," says Reginald, but does not explain. He straightens up and winces as back muscles protest. Gamma accesses the appropriate biosoft and blunts the pain.
Reginald pauses mid-stretch. "Did you just do that?"
"Yes."
"You could've done that yesterday."
"Yesterday most of my available resources were tasked with mitigating the physical damage inflicted during your training session."
"Ah." Gamma cannot account for the uncertainty in Reginald's voice. "It was you who managed that?"
"It is my purpose."
"Right." Reginald's neurones flare with new thoughts. "Come along then. Back to that physical damage."
> +00:34:09:15
This time Gamma wakes up in the hallway looking at the arena's doors. They are shut tight.
"Gamma? Confirm session start time," says Reginald.
"Seventeen-fifteen shipboard," answers Gamma. "We are...twenty-seven seconds past that time."
"Phyllis, open the arena," calls Reginald.
"I am sorry, but I cannot do that," answers Ship. "There is a training match in progress. Bystander safety protocols prohibit entry of noncombatants."
"It's sealed? Who the devil is sparring?"
"Agents Virginia and Carolina."
"Really," says Reginald. "Oh, now this I must see."
"What is happening?"
"Top of the leaderboard's slugging it out. If we're lucky we'll get to see the Weaponsmaster take a beating of its own," says Reginald as he climbs the stairs to the observation gallery. "Either way this'll be a treat, mate." He reaches the top of the stairs and crosses to the wide slanted windows.
Agent Virginia is in the arena with a human whom Ship identifies as Agent Carolina. Neither of them have donned their armour. Instead they are wearing white clothes and mesh helmets over their faces. If they are sparring it is not any sort that Gamma knows of. Then he sees the flash of metal in Carolina's hand and reassesses. Ship confirms: they are fencing, an old bladed art emphasising speed and technique. Virginia's height gives it the reach, but Carolina has the speed. The two combatants circle in a lazy dance, hardly moving for minutes at a time, till steel connects in a flurry of blows that Gamma must slow his perception to follow. His combat logic searches for the victor. Carolina fights with strength, speed, and skill. But the Weaponsmaster simply is. Where Carolina strikes, it is not. Where Carolina's guard is lowered, it is. No hesitation. No wasted motion. The Weaponsmaster must have its own combat logic unfurling inside that inhuman brain.
Virginia lunges. Carolina blocks with her blade. It is a perfect block so far as Gamma can tell. But Virginia says, "No. Again." They circle. Virginia strikes. This time Carolina slides sideways and lets Virginia's momentum carry it past. She turns the motion into a downward strike of her own. The Weaponsmaster's foil halts the blade just millimetres above its shoulder. A buzzer sounds in the arena. The combatants separate. Virginia removes its mesh helmet and gives its opponent a slight bow. Carolina returns it. Then they walk to the equipment table.
"Good," says Virginia.
Carolina mops her brow with one of the towels tossed over the table. "Still slow."
"You won't get much faster without regrowing your peripheral nervous system from scratch. And trust me, it's a boring way to spend a month." Virginia unscrews the cap of a water bottle and drinks deep. Then it dumps some into its palm and splashes it across its close-cropped black hair.
"You want to try the zero-gee manoeuvres again?"
Virginia swallows another mouthful of water and shakes its head. "I've got another session to run today. Show me later."
"You've got the technique down. You just have to stay low."
"Easier said than done," says Virginia, sweeping a hand up to indicate its unusual height.
They part. Carolina heads for the locker room while Virginia returns to the arena's centre. When Carolina exits Ship declares, "Match complete." The metal ledge vibrates slightly as the doors rumble open below.
Reginald sighs. "My turn, then."
This time it takes only one defeat for Reginald to retire to the other side of the arena. His previous good humour has already vanished into the jittery nervousness Gamma has learned to associate with him in combat. "This isn't what I fucking do, god dammit," he mutters as he stalks back and forth.
"Accurate," says Gamma.
"Eh?"
"I have been reviewing your performance metrics. You are trained for infiltration and ranged combat at a significant advantage. These circumstances permit neither."
"Too right."
"The Weaponsmaster is not expecting you to match it in true hand-to-hand combat."
"I should fucking well hope not, or we'll be here for a while."
"In the field, if you are fighting face to face, you have already lost."
"I have not lost," says Reginald hotly. "Although it - does indicate things have taken a turn for the worse."
"The Weaponsmaster knows this also."
"Yes, thank you, what a helpful--"
"The Weaponsmaster is not stupid."
Reginald halts in his pacing. "It doesn't want me to fight back, does it," he says thoughtfully. "It's going to keep knocking the daylight out of me till I try something else."
Gamma takes this idea and slots it into his models, runs through the anomalies he has catalogued in the Weaponsmaster's behaviour. "Yes. It is concealing the true purpose of these exercises."
"You sure?"
"Do not attempt to deceive a deceiver. It is concealing its purpose."
"Then what?"
"Unknown." But Gamma thinks about the agents fencing around the arena. "Wait."
"Well?"
"Ship's schedule indicates Virginia and Carolina reserved the arena for their use two days ago. Ship would have informed it of any conflicts at the time. Virginia deliberately called you here earlier than your session's true starting time."
"You mean it wanted me to see the duel," says Reginald. "So what? I've seen both of them fight dozens of times before."
"Perhaps you are supposed to fence with it."
Reginald startles him by laughing. "Find me a sword and I'll try it, mate. Anything's better than this rubbish."
"Why were they fencing? It is not one of the standard combat training protocols registered in Ship's database."
"An operative on Carolina's level's gone well beyond standard training."
"Does Carolina expect to be wielding a sword in the field?"
"Hardly. I expect it was about....watching the opponent. Or patience. Or making tea and sodding biscuits, who knows with those lunatics."
Gamma picks ideas out of these words and tries them instead. He thinks of the simple, repeated moves Virginia has been using. Models finally converge. "Oh. I understand. You are meant to not be hit."
"Huh, brilliant suggestion. Not get hit! Why didn't I think of that? So glad I've got you on board to--"
"You cannot defend. You are meant to evade. As Carolina was practicing in their match."
That gives Reginald pause. He thinks this over. "Let's suppose that's right," he says slowly. "Even at a tenth of its speed Virginia's too bloody quick. I can't read it that fast."
"I can."
Another thoughtful pause.
"Show me."
> +00:35:27:02
Day four.
"Left."
Reginald ducks left and and under the wide punch, then swings forward to exploit the opening. Virginia dodges back and leaves itself vulnerable. But Gamma reads the intent written through the Weaponsmaster's body. "Feint," he says. "Left." Reginald begins to step left. Then hesitates as he sees the opportunity.
The kick takes him from the right and lands him flat on his back, winded.
"I was correct," notes Gamma.
"Fuck you," wheezes Reginald.
"Again," says Virginia.
> +00:36:04:44
On the fifth day Virginia tells his agent to come in full armour. Reginald awakens Gamma just before he locks his helmet into the armour's spine and connects his neural implants with the suit's integrated computing capacity. When they enter, the arena's centre is filled with 225 stone pillars four meters tall. They are set in a square grid and when he sees them Reginald says, "Oh, thank god."
"What is this?"
"Cover. Finally get to shoot something."
Agent Virginia waits at the centre of the grid of pillars. This is the first time Gamma has seen it wearing full powered armour. The suit's design is unusual. His matériel database identifies it as UNSC-made but antiquated. Its plate is tinted a dark olive green and ancient burn marks still mar the surface. The visor is currently transparent and he can see the Weaponsmaster's cold pale eyes in the helmet's shadows. Despite Reginald's explanation of the terrain it is not carrying any firearms whatsoever. Instead it has a heavy polearm slung across one shoulder. Gamma can find no match in his archives for that brutal marriage of axe and hammer. The weighted head of it pulses with a blue glow.
"Is he online?" asks Virginia.
"Gamma's here."
"Today we return to small arms combat." It swings the hammer down from its shoulder and lets the head of it rest on the arena floor. "Your objective is to score a hit on me. Select whatever equipment you like for this purpose."
Reginald doesn't move. "Does Leonard know you brought that thing indoors?"
"Select your equipment, Agent Wyoming."
Gamma requests all available information pertaining to the paint-dispensing firearms of the training arena. He skims through it while Reginald locates the equipment table. His armaments data still shows a conspicuous gap.
"What form of weapon is Virginia wielding? It is not in Ship's databases," he asks Reginald.
"A big fuck-off lump of Covvie rubbish that it's far too fond of." Reginald hesitates over the long-barrelled sniper rifle laid out behind the rows of sidearms and assault rifles. Then he looks away with a grunt of annoyance.
"I do not know how to represent those terms in my combat logic."
"Don't let it hit me with a bloody hammer," says Reginald, very slowly. "That clear enough for you?"
Gamma's logic computes a low chance of success on further requests for information. Instead he reviews his own images of the hammer and estimates weight, speed, accuracy. It is a formidable weapon but will be only marginally effective against Reginald's plate armour. Today might end in victory at last. Meanwhile Reginald chooses a handgun after a thorough inspection. He spends less time looking at the training facsimiles of shotguns and semiautomatics. He eventually selects the standard battle rifle and slings it across his back.
They return to the edge of the grid of pillars. Virginia is still standing at its centre. Reginald checks the training pistol's reservoir of paint and calls, "Ready."
Virginia nods.
Electricity ripples up the pillars. Opaque walls of light four meters high spring into existence and form a glowing maze. Reginald enters.
The radio buzzes. "Begin," says Virginia.
Gamma has noted Reginald's eternal discomfort in the bare space of the sparring ring. He has already had to compensate for it in his predictions, and for Reginald's tendency to make quick and...sub-optimal choices in unanticipated situations. But the moment his agent steps between the walls of light all of that sloughs away. The man revealed beneath stalks through the maze with confidence, sure and slow. Certain peculiarities in the design of Reginald's armour finally make sense. The joints sized too large for optimal movement do their work in total silence. The oddly-curved plate on his back is cut low enough that the helmet never clips it when Reginald looks over his shoulder. The ambient hum of the energy walls masks his motions. Gamma absorbs the deep satisfaction radiating through the mental barriers. Now they are hunting. Now they are home.
A nearly subsonic noise. From their left, on the other side of a wall. Reginald pauses to listen. Gamma checks the map he has been compiling of the maze thus far. There is no immediate known pathway from their location to the other side of that wall. He will have to make some guesses. But if Reginald can advance on that position perhaps he may surprise his quarry. Gamma is plotting a route when the pillar to their left explodes.
Electricity arcs and two light-walls sputter out. Gamma frantically severs his auditory connections as the rest of the pillar crashes and shatters into gravel. The hammer's head arcs through the cloud of debris, bright with blue energy. Before the stone hits the ground Reginald bolts out into the maze. He weaves and turns at random. No sounds of further destruction follow and he rounds a corner and freezes, listening. In the distance a cloud of freshly-pulverised rock sparkles in the arena's lights. Reginald has his back pressed against a pillar. The bioscan tells Gamma his heart is racing, his breathing is accelerated, adrenaline compounds are flooding his system. More arousal than simple exertion should explain. Gamma realises his agent is afraid. Gamma has just seen the Weaponsmaster smash a concrete pylon to dust with a single swing. Fear seems a prudent emotion.
"Gamma!" hisses Reginald. "What the fuck is wrong with you!? Why didn't you warn me!?"
"It should not have been able to reach us! That weapon's weight is not--"
"Weight's got nothing to do with it. There's an alien grav-distortion unit built into the head."
"What type?"
"Fuck if I know! The alien type!"
"This would have been useful information to relay earlier."
"I told you not to let me get hit!"
"How much force can the weapon impart?"
"When Virginia's swinging it? I've seen it break hull plating. Hence why Leonard isn't fond of Virginia using it shipboard."
Gamma looks up the impact strength of standard hull materials. His original estimate of the advantage bestowed by Reginald's plate armour drops rapidly. "I think in this case we should try not to be detected at all."
Reginald's breathing has calmed somewhat. He swallows and listens again. Gamma links in and filters the sensory data through his own algorithms. "No contacts," he reports. Reginald steps away from the pillar. "I have been mapping our route. Recommend continuing straight for three grid units."
"Haven't heard it break any more," muses Reginald. His grip on the handgun is firm, but steady. "It's following the paths too, at least until it finds us. Well then. Begin."
Gamma was wrong. Now they are hunting. Now they know there is a threat within the labyrinth, an entity with an environmental advantage, an entity armed and armoured and hunting them in turn. Gamma finds he is not afraid. Even if they fail Gamma is doing what he is meant to do. Virginia is searching for them. Very well. Then they must find Virginia first. Reginald is a crack shot and they need only one hit. All they must do is see their target before it sees them and they will win.
Reginald only moves, looks, listens as they pace through the maze. More than once they catch the sound of Virginia on the other side of a wall. Reginald freezes and both of them listen. These brief contacts tell Gamma how to direct them and he computes optimal routes when he can. But in every case by the time they reach the other side of that wall the Weaponsmaster is gone. Minutes become hours spent tense and alert. Twice again Virginia catches wind and shatters pylons to reach them. But they manage to lose it after each. The balance sways between them, between stalking and retreating, hunting and hiding.
A buzzer sounds in the arena. Gamma shifts abruptly from combat mode. The light-walls shiver and disappear. Gamma checks his clock. Time is up. He searches for the Weaponsmaster but does not--
The hammer's blade chops into a stone pillar close enough to spray them with dust.
"Bollocks," mutters Reginald.
"You're dead," says Virginia from its place behind them. It yanks out the blade. Quick-concrete shards clatter to the arena floor. Reginald steps away from the pillar and sullenly holsters the pistol. "Session complete. Tomorrow, same time."
Despite the loss Reginald has taken little in the way of injury today, so the med bay evaluation is brief. Gamma waits for the order to log off. But Reginald says nothing in the locker room as he strips and re-racks his armour, and nothing as he works his way through the mess hall collecting a post-session meal. When the tray will not hold much more Reginald retires to a corner where he can put his back to the wall. He pulls out a tablet and says, "In the name of not getting my chest caved in, we'd better sort out a plan for tomorrow."
It takes Gamma a moment to realise Reginald is talking to him. "Perhaps we can gain an advantage the Weaponsmaster has not considered."
"Or we can cheat, yes. Can we cheat? Let's cheat." Reginald keeps his voice low and he is bringing up a voicechatting application on the tablet's screen. Gamma approves. The crew is currently between its regular meals. But there are still enough people present in the mess hall to note an operative talking to thin air.
"You may be able to climb the pylons if you are willing to surrender the use of one arm."
"You're thinking about the paint? Tried it. Doesn't stick like it seems it should."
"Do you have access to a high-speed camera?"
"What good is that going to do?"
"The energy barriers' opacity is produced through rapid pulsation. With the right visual input I can process quickly enough to resolve the gaps."
"You think you can see through the walls."
"I would need a better camera to do so. You lack the appropriate optical hardware."
"Let's stick a pin in that idea, then. We don't need to get fancy. Just enough to get a line on it. I just need a shot."
"If tomorrow's maze has the same dimensions, I can precompute optimal paths."
"I doubt Virginia's going to use the same terrain twice."
"I am aware. But it will take at least sixteen hours to calculate the solutions for today's grid alone. The scaling is quadratic. There is insufficient time to compute multiple choices of dimensions."
"Sixteen hours? We've only got twenty total till the next session! And I've got to sleep for at least eight of that."
"I have no physical requirement for sleep. Although my core consciousness requires occasional dormancy for various maintenance tasks."
"How occasional?"
"Ten hours total per standard week will suffice. My internal clock has been programmed to divide this time into brief periods of inactivity corresponding to the human-standard 24-hour circadian rhythm. Once I have completed today's scheduled dormancy, I will return to active state."
"My my. So you'll have ample time to run overnight."
"As long as you permit me implant access."
"What does that mean?"
"When you command me to log off it terminates the majority of my processes. I cannot work in that state."
"Why not?"
"Because it terminates the majority of my processes. You cannot solve linear systems while you are unconscious. Neither can I."
"No need to get shirty, mate."
"What is that?"
" 'Shirty'? Annoyed. Irritated."
"I am not annoyed."
"Then you're a first-rate actor."
"Yes."
"Eh?"
"An actor is a deceiver of humans. I am a deceiver. Therefore I am an actor as well."
"Bit more complicated than that, sport."
"How so?"
"Has to do with - plays, vids, things of that stripe. Stories."
" 'Story' has the same meaning as 'deception.' "
"Not exactly. There's more to it than lying."
"What is a story, then?"
"It's - human stuff. Don't worry about it. What's my damage?"
"You suffered no direct blows today. Repairs proceeding on remaining impairments from previous sessions. Assuming eight hours of sleep, you will be functioning at eighty-seven percent of peak capacity by tomorrow's session."
"That's something." Reginald seems uncomfortable. "So, if I don't switch you off, do I just...leave you? Alone?"
"Ideally. I have a number of computations to monitor."
"You, ah, do that then."
Gamma closes his external sensory connections and devotes himself to considering the maze of today's training. Once the primary calculations are set in motion he spares a little processing power to mull over the question of sighting through the walls. Reginald is right. Virginia is unlikely to use the same maze a second time. They could be at a significant disadvantage. But Reginald has dismissed the suggestion of attempting to match his visual processing to the walls' update frequency. Gamma's preprogrammed behavioural regulation subroutines try to tell him the idea is now off-limits. He will not pursue this method, Gamma declares. But there is no harm in considering it as one among other ideas, is there? Reginald did not tell him not to be prepared. Preparation requires evaluation of all contingencies. The behavioural regulations balk at first, but finally accept Gamma's explanation and leave him alone to think.
He misses the clock turning over to the sixth day and only reconnects his external inputs when he hears his name. "Gamma? Gamma, are you awake?" Reginald is saying into the quiet of the locker room.
"I am here," says Gamma.
"Can you, erm, show up? Come out?"
A small humanoid silhouette appears in front of Reginald and repeats, "I am here."
Reginald locks in the last piece of the hard-suit and stands straight with a grimace while his armour boots. Electricity courses through the hard-suit's weave and snaps it to titanium rigidity. The armour is smart enough on its own to note if something is wrong. But Gamma is already awake. He might as well do it himself. He intercepts the startup diagnostics, considers, and approves them. The weave relaxes back into mobility.
"How did those computations turn out?" Reginald asks the holographic figure.
"I have completed a set of optimal search patterns in the given grid. Following them gives us a high probability of locating the Weaponsmaster before it locates us, regardless of its own actions."
Reginald reaches for the first piece of plate and fixes it into the sockets on the hard-suit's back. "I looked for a camera," he says. Gamma's projection flickers in surprise. "No luck."
"We will find another advantage." Gamma clears the armour to engage. Another burst of current and the hard-suit's weave fuses with the alloy plate.
Reginald hesitates a moment, looking at the helmet. Then he looks directly at Gamma's projection. "Get me a shot, mate. That's all I need."
Reginald lowers the helmet and locks it to the armour's spine. Gamma immediately bridges out and commandeers the armour's built-in computing capacity. The ether crackles around him as he assimilates the suit's radio equipment. Ship's presence becomes an all-encompassing microwave hum. Equipment buzzes and clicks as it exchanges simple data. His thoughts fire with new speed. Perhaps he will be fast enough. Perhaps Reginald will capture his quarry today. Then they enter the arena.
Ship's printers must have been working continuously since their last session to produce all the quick-concrete obstacles that fill the space. Lumps of stone in dozens of shapes and sizes have replaced the neat grid. More light-walls bridge the gaps, apparently at random. As Gamma watches two of them flash and change position.
"Oh, come off it," moans Reginald.
Gamma deletes his grid solutions and begins calculating how best to repair blunt force trauma.
As they step into the entrance they hear the Weaponsmaster's customary "Begin" over the radio. Despite Reginald's annoyance and Gamma's pessimism they settle rapidly into the same alert trance of the previous day's hunt. They hear no sound of breaking rock; in fact, very little sound at all. Gamma brings up his programmed list of standard detection methods and begins his own sweep. He strains himself trying to filter usable data from his external connections. But human senses will not suffice and the armour's integrated feeds are no cleaner. The light-walls vex the armour's thermal sensors. The motion tracker will assist in defence but not offence. He begins to explore the armour's EM signalling suite. The Weaponsmaster speaks occasionally. Perhaps he can triangulate on those signals, or on some other emission. The light-walls put out a continuous hum of electronic static and he applies various filters to strip it out. But each time the walls rearrange themselves it destroys his calibrations and he must start again.
Then he hits upon a simple idea. It is unlikely, and it is not on the list, but-- Gamma connects to Ship anyway and receives the answer he expected. Oh well.
"Any luck?" murmurs Reginald. Gamma does not know how good Virginia's hearing is but in their current state of tension it seems right to speak softly.
"Nothing yet. I have attempted nearly all methods in my existing database," reports Gamma. "I have even queried Ship."
Reginald is inexplicably amused at this. "You asked Phyllis? What'd she say?"
"That Ship has standing instructions not to render accurate tracking information during a training session. I will try another approach."
But Reginald has gone thoughtful. "You talk to Phyllis a lot, don't you."
"Of course. We are always in contact."
"Us non-programs tend to forget how pervasive the MOI's presence really is. Virginia remembered to hide the most obvious tell, but it may not have gotten them all. Be a sport and check, let's say, life support."
"I - will, then." Gamma opens a broadband channel with Ship. Mother of Invention monitors far more than the location of its personnel. He queries life support as Reginald requested. Nothing stands out. He ruminates, then expands the search to heating, electrical, environmental, structural. Any subsystem that might have spatial data. Some of those queries come back prohibited. Large areas of the ship remain off-limits to Gamma's awareness. Most of the rest comes as a torrent of raw logging data. But he persists. And then...
"I know where Agent Virginia is."
Reginald stops cold. "What?"
"Ship possesses an extensive suite of radiation monitoring sensors as part of its environmental system. I am authorised to access them. The alien energy generated by Virginia's weapon registers as a discrepancy. Assuming Virginia is carrying the hammer, I can locate it using those sensors." Gamma can still manipulate Reginald's HUD. He paints a dot showing the Weaponsmaster's current location and direction of travel.
Reginald is quiet long enough for Gamma to check the bioscan in concern. "How the devil did you figure that out?" he finally says.
"You asked me to find Agent Virginia."
"I asked you to look at the life support system."
"I am designed to learn."
"Right." He stares at the blinking dot. " 'Course."
Gamma works out paths to their quarry. "My data are not quite good enough to determine what direction it is facing," he warns.
Reginald shakes off his odd wariness. "Just get me a shot."
Solutions converge. Gamma highlights the route. As they move he sees the Weaponsmaster moving as well. Sometimes they find a wall in a place where there was no wall before. Sometimes Virginia doubles back on its path and they must retreat. But each time Gamma queries and Reginald moves and on average they are gaining on their target. Adrenaline rises. They are on the prowl now. Closing in.
At last they enter a passage and the motion-sensor trips. Gamma catches a flash of the Weaponsmaster's dark green plate turning the corner. Reginald grins. Gamma consults his general combat behaviour guidelines and readies himself to compensate for reckless decision-making this close to their objective. But the impetuous motions do not come. His agent stalks the target with patience and precision, closing the distance centimetre by centimetre. At last they are creeping up on the mouth of a concrete pipe two meters in diameter lying on its side and Gamma sights their quarry standing at its other end.
"You have your shot," murmurs Gamma. His agent doesn't answer. Instead he crouches, braces his left arm atop his knee, braces his right across his left, and sights in with the pistol. Gamma waits for the Weaponsmaster to sense their presence and turn.
It does not.
"Knock knock, you bastard," whispers Reginald, and fires.
Virginia whirls at the sound of the shot. It swings the hammer up and around. The paint splatters against the crackle of blue electricity and drips to the floor in little magenta peaks. Virginia bends to look down the pipe as Reginald stands from his crouch.
"Objective complete, Agent Wyoming," says Virginia, slinging the hammer across its back. It ducks to fit its seven-foot-frame inside the pipe and walks to their end of it. "Excellently done," it says, straightening up. "We have insufficient time for a reset, so you are excused early to enjoy your victory. And good job, Program Gamma," it adds.
Even through the cutout Gamma can tell that Reginald can't squash a swell of satisfaction at the Weaponsmaster's compliment. He finds a part of himself answering back. His agent has done well. They have done well. They have done what they were meant to do. Gamma has fulfilled his purpose. The knowledge sits warm at his core. So this is the meaning of pride.
They skip the med-bay for the first time and Reginald goes straight to the mess. He is searching for a drink called tea and another called scotch. He does indeed seem prepared to enjoy his victory. Gamma cuts his external connections and leaves him to it. In the comfort of their success he finds the strength to consider other matters that weigh on his mind.
He spools back through the data he recorded from Ship in the process of tracking Agent Virginia. The signature of the alien gravitational-distortion machinery built into the hammer stands out as a clear anomaly on the radiation sensors. It is not strong but differs markedly from any known human source. Once Gamma computed which sensors he needed to cover the appropriate spatial volume, he had no trouble tracking it. But while he was doing so he was also receiving and ignoring a great deal of unrelated information from those same sensors. For some reason - and even now he cannot say what it was - he did not erase these data. Now he pulls them up and looks closer. The behavioural regulation subroutines kick in again and force him to spend a solid four hundred milliseconds explaining that he must better understand the subsystem if he is to improve his tracking method and thus better aid his agent. Finally the subroutines cease their interference. Deep in his kernel, in the core logic no merely human programmer can touch, Gamma spawns a process to work on deleting those subroutines entirely.
Outside the kernel he returns to today's data. -Ship, query: how many objects of alien manufacture are aboard the Mother of Invention?-
-Clarify "alien." Sets: Covenant, non-Covenant, all non-human.-
-All non-human.-
-Three objects of non-human manufacture are aboard.-
-Identify.-
-Information restricted level two clearance. Verification: Artificial Intelligence Program Gamma. Authorised. Object one, Covenant polearm property of Weaponsmaster Virginia. Object two, handheld Covenant plasma weapon assigned to Agent Carolina. Object three, handheld Covenant plasma weapon assigned to Agent Carolina. End list.-
-Acknowledged.- Gamma returns to his work.
A minute's worth of radiation data is meaningless. An hour's is still vague. But by the time he has stacked over half his data the sources are becoming statistically significant. When he completes the image reduction he finds seven clear signals in the resulting map of the MOI's background radiation field. Virginia's hammer and Carolina's plasma rifles are far from the only alien artefacts aboard. And all of the unaccounted-for sources lie within areas of the ship that Gamma is forbidden to see.
Gamma deletes the raw data, encrypts his map, and saves it to kernel memory. He is not certain what this information means or why he has compiled it. But there is one thing the Counsellor has said that Gamma believes: Gamma possesses not only Alpha's ability to deceive, but the ability to know deception. And the Project is deceiving him.
He intercepts a biosoft command and checks his clock. Six point three hours have passed in the course of his analysis. He reconnects to find Reginald staggering unsteadily towards his bunk. Reginald has let himself have a good time. But now he would please like his biosofts to pull the ethanol out of his bloodstream and clear up the byproducts while he sleeps. Gamma sets the appropriate routines running while his agent manages to get himself into bed. Then he asks, "Shall I run computations for tomorrow?"
"Hm?" Reginald rolls over, staring at the ceiling. "No point. It'll change. We'll sort it out then."
"In that case my consciousness requires a period of extended dormancy soon."
"Oh. Certainly. You can, erm, go dormant if you need to."
Gamma does need to. He issues final commands to the biosofts and prepares himself for inactivity. Then he hears his name and clicks back to the external senses.
"Gamma?" mumbles Reginald. "You still there?"
"Yes?"
"Well done today."
"It is my purpose."
"Still, though. Well done."
So this is the meaning of pride.
> +00:37:10:15
On the seventh day the arena is empty.
Reginald's bioscan shifts up into a mix of tension and satisfaction. "Ah yes. Let's play."
Gamma queries Ship while Reginald walks across to the equipment table. He manifests his projection. "I do not believe the Weaponsmaster is within the arena."
"It's not," says Reginald. "Last training session, Gamma. Field exercise." Unlike the arena the equipment table is full of interesting weaponry. Reginald goes straight for a black hard-case at one end.
"An active camouflage unit," says Gamma.
"Yes, thank you, I know what it is." Reginald lifts the dull grey device from its foam recess. "Can you run it?"
"Yes."
Reginald manages to reach back and connect the camouflage unit to one of the equipment slots on his armour's spine. Gamma closes his projection. He spools up the new unit. The standard diagnostic suite takes over. "What is our plan of action?" he asks.
"First I find it. Then I shoot it." Reginald takes down a training-adapted antipersonnel sniper rifle and inspects it minutely. It does not pass, although Gamma cannot tell why. He selects another. This one is approved.
Gamma queries Ship's radiation sensors again and reports, "Either the Weaponsmaster has deciphered my detection method, or it is not carrying the hammer." He considers. "Or it has found a way to fit within a significantly smaller arms locker."
"What's most likely?"
"Highest probability that it is not carrying the hammer." The camouflage unit checks out clean. Gamma brings it to standby mode.
"Huh, bad news there. But, good news, it isn't carrying the sodding hammer. All things considered, I'll take it." Reginald selects a handgun and holsters it at his thigh. "Now. If I were it, where would I be..."
Then the rest of Gamma's query comes back from Ship and he says, "According to Agent Virginia's personnel locator, you would be in the portside hangar."
"Sorry, what?"
Gamma accesses the appropriate public-access camera and mirrors the feed to the corner of Reginald's HUD. A fish-eye view of a Pelican bay clearly shows the Weaponsmaster out in the middle of the floor talking to one of the flight crews.
"Ah, bollocks," mutters Reginald. He zooms the feed for a closer look. The Weaponsmaster appears unarmed and unarmoured. "Not stalking, then. Infil."
"I do not understand. It has left itself exposed?"
" 'Exposed' is the key word, mate. Take a look at the hangar layout." Gamma does. "It's completely exposed. No covered approaches, no nearby perches, only a few points of entry. If I went on foot I'd have to cross nearly the entire hangar unseen just to line up a shot."
"Hence the active camouflage unit."
"Hence the camo unit."
"Perhaps you do not need it." Gamma starts up a new iteration of his combat logic and spins through possibilities. "Perhaps you would be better off wearing no armour at all."
"Eh? How're you figuring that?"
"The hangar is a public area. You are cleared to carry weapons aboard this vessel and of sufficient authority to remain unquestioned. There is a significant chance you could simply walk up to the Weaponsmaster and take the shot."
Reginald frowns. "Don't be absurd. It would notice me."
"The Weaponsmaster is skilled, but not omniscient. Ground-level approach will require devising a means of obscuring your arrival. But there is a non-trivial chance of success."
"No."
"Some form of distraction--"
Reginald scoffs. Gamma knows the definition of this word but has never heard anyone make the noise before. But when Reginald does it he recognises it at once. "Listen, Gamma, I understand you're a dab hand with numbers. And you did good yesterday. But now we're back on my turf, understand? Simplest way to hit a shipboard target is to get through the dead space, and that's what I'm going to do."
Gamma unpacks the combat logic and searches for the assumption that caused him to exclude this plan of action. "A Paris-class frigate has minimal unused hull volume. You are unlikely to find a route."
"Recheck your math there, mate. The Paris class might not have much, but the Mother's got plenty. The result of Leonard fitting it out to his own tastes, I imagine."
"Interesting." For the first time Gamma requests all of Ship's voxel data rather than the fragments he has been using for local navigation. Reginald is correct. Mother of Invention's structure has far more voids than he assumed. The UNSC ship layouts in his database are packed to optimal efficiency with crew quarters, cargo bays, fuel bunkers, and so forth. But Mother of Invention has a smaller crew complement, larger lab facilities, and many other nonstandard modifications. Its dead spaces range from the fine plumbing of the shipwide parcel transfer system to the caverns housing massive computing superclusters.
"These volumes are not covered by Ship's life support," says Gamma.
"Full marks."
"Many are open to vacuum, contaminated with human-toxic substances, kept at temperatures--"
"None of which are a problem for a chap in armour," says Reginald. He walks several meters away from the equipment table and pauses. Then he whips the rifle off his back, sights in on a wall panel, and fires three shots. A spike of magenta foam blooms across the panel.
Reginald makes a mildly disgusted face at the rifle in his hands, but says, "Suppose it'll do." He reattaches it to the suit's maglocks. "Gamma, nearest maintenance hatch, if you would."
Gamma paints a dot on his HUD. "Ventilation access forty-three point two meters away."
Reginald picks the vent's lock with ease and closes the panel behind him. The bioscan blips: muscles are loosening, adrenaline fluctuating, dozens of different combat splices coming into play. Here in the frigate's blank places Reginald returns to the predatory comfort of their hunt through the Weaponsmaster's maze. Gamma once again cannot help but pick up the same eager tension.
The vent opens in to the narrow maintenance tunnels built for emergency human access to the MOI's life support machinery. Reginald comes to a junction and climbs a second shaft headed straight up. About ten meters above the junction he finds a wide circular hatch braced with ceramsteel. Gamma takes in the red "LETHAL DANGER: VACUUM ENVIRONMENT" warnings blazoned across it in three different languages. There is also a helpful picture of a human silhouette being propelled out through the hatch and straight into a big red skull. This presumably represents said lethal danger, unless the MOI has much stranger escorts than Ship has told him. Gamma finds he does not particularly care for that picture.
Reginald swings himself off the ladder and into the hatch's alcove in the shaft wall. He runs his hands along the edges of the hatch and says, "Blast. They've changed it to keycard access." He backs up and starts fishing in his equipment pouches.
Gamma swaps into his own mental workspace and evaluates one of his uncompleted projects. He cannot guarantee success. But the potential time saved renders it worth the attempt. "Do you have a ship-standard hardware diagnostic interface cable?" he asks.
"What for?"
"Perhaps I can talk to Ship," hedges Gamma.
Reginald rummages until he finds one tangled up with a multitool and a roll of tape. At Gamma's prompting he connects it to the square diagnostic port built into nearly all of Ship's electronics, then to an identical port under one armoured gauntlet. The hatch comes online and answers Gamma in simple and unyielding terms. Gamma slings a few million randomly-formulated transmissions at it and notes when it hesitates, stumbles, gives the wrong answer. It takes a full half-second to compile enough data and compose one single final statement. He issues the command. Bolts clunk deep within the hatch and the central portion irises open.
Reginald stows the cable and ducks into the tiny airlock chamber beyond. "Bravo, mate. Wish Leonard had mentioned you can hack."
"It is not within my initially programmed capabilities. But I have been considering the problem."
Reginald pauses. "You...taught yourself how to do that."
"It is only another kind of deception. It seemed suited to my talents. And I am designed to learn."
"I see." Reginald's tone of voice is unreadable, but it unsettles Gamma all the same. It is a little too close to the sound of his voice just before he activated the hardware cutout that still pens Gamma in this meagre slice of circuitry.
Inside the airlock Reginald grabs awkwardly for a railing. His inner ears report a brief burst of vertigo, swiftly suppressed. They have reached the edge of Ship's artificial gravity field. Gamma lets the airlock's automatic cycle take over. The hatch behind them closes and atmosphere hisses out. Gamma triple-checks the armour's seals. All is holding steady.
The second hatch cycles open. Gravity cuts out completely as they exit. Reginald grips the handle next to the airlock to steady himself before closing the hatch. Then he lets himself drift for a moment. The dark ceiling of the MOI's hull plating lowers above them. Beneath Reginald's boots the aft upper portside pressure vessel curves away. From this side the MOI is a lattice of grey titanium honeycomb and black spun-diamond structural ribs, overgrown with bracing and reinforcements, shock absorbers, feed lines, and all the other machinery cradling its occupants.
"Gamma, mark portside hangar," orders Reginald. Gamma consults his new three-dimensional model of the ship and paints a distant target on the HUD. The main training arena is located in the aft upper quarter of the vessel. They have exited to port. Reginald's target - Gamma queries to make certain, but the Weaponsmaster has not moved - waits in the lower portside hangar bay. So they are on the correct side of the ship. That is a start. Gamma suspects crossing the MOI's keel is a nontrivial matter. Even so, between Reginald and their target lies several hundred meters of dangerous territory.
Reginald kicks off and sails out into the labyrinth of the frigate's bones. The ether chirps and sings around him. Underneath Ship's skin data sleets past on thousands of short-range connections. Gamma samples, trawls, queries, but does not find the data he seeks. He is becoming concerned. They are approaching combat and his simulations of Virginia's behaviour lack fidelity. They return ambiguous results already in the training arena. Predicted accuracy in a new situation falls well below threshold. While Reginald is traversing hand-over-hand down the massive spun-diamond truss that cantilevers the hangar bay out from the body of the ship, Gamma asks, "What is the Weaponsmaster?"
Reginald grips an intersecting rib and pushes off towards the next. "Sorry?"
"I have not yet succeeded in determining Agent Virginia's genetic makeup. Ship will not disclose further information. It will help in formulating my behavioural predictions."
"Who told you about that?"
"It is obvious from a basic visual assessment."
Reginald catches the beam, pushes off again. "Suppose maybe it is, to you. Huh, well, you're cleared to know that much at least. Virginia's a Spartan."
"Virginia is associated with Project Freelancer, not the UNSC ONI Spartan Operative Development program. It cannot be designated "Spartan." It may be designated 'agent,' 'freelancer,' or--"
"Spartan's not always a job description, mate."
Gamma pulls further information on the sprawling complex of ONI programs that fall under the Spartan name and attempts to reconcile this inconsistency. Only a single possibility at the edge of his detection threshold allows it.
"...A Vanguard?" he hazards.
"Got it in one. Vanguard Spartan zero-five-seven, designation 'Virginia.' Grown in a vat to Spartan Command's rather grandiose specifications, before they figured out they could just splice up the new recruits and save themselves the expense. That's why the neuter build, by the way. Boffins didn't want too many hormones interfering with their experiments."
"Vanguard terminated production eleven years ago. The odds that a Vanguard Spartan still survives are minimal."
"Oh yes, they've got a pesky tendency to die for the cause. Honour and duty and all that tosh. If they don't have a heart attack first."
"Spartan equipment remains under ONI authority. How can it be here?"
"ONI assigned it here."
"You are lying."
His agent scoffs again. "Don't be ridiculous, Gamma."
"Do not attempt to deceive a deceiver, Reginald. You are lying."
Reginald stays quiet for a long moment. Gamma finds himself unaccountably leery of the thoughts churning on the other side of that mental barrier. Then his agent says, "Fine. Sorry mate, but you aren't cleared for that. Plus Virginia would whip the ever-loving daylight out of me if I talked."
This is the truth. Gamma answers, "I understand."
"Good."
"I will continue my attempt to discover the reason via other means."
For a moment Gamma thinks Reginald will order him to forget the idea entirely. But he only says, "You're a curious one, huh."
"I am designed to learn."
"So you keep saying," mutters Reginald to himself.
Reginald descends the great black rib of the ship and scrapes, squeezes, and shoves his way to the portside hangar bay's upper primary truss. Its dark skeleton soars over the scuffed landscape of another pressure vessel seen from the wrong side, the hangar bay's familiar ceiling now framed and inverted. Reginald engages the grav-boots and settles on the surface with a pair of dull clicks. Inside that sandwich of carbon fibre and titanium honeycomb rings the clamour of the MOI's flight crews repairing, refuelling, launching, landing. Outside there is only silence.
Reginald takes a wide step along the curve of the pressure hull. Gamma says, "Does the Weaponsmaster know of the MOI's nonstandard quantity of unused hull volume?"
"I expect so. Why?"
"Would it not account for the fact that you would select this approach?"
"Come again?"
Gamma diverts more processing power to formulating an explanation. "Virginia knows your standard combat tactics. If it has set you a shipboard target, and if you commonly employ the tactic of moving through a ship's dead space to reach said target, would it not anticipate your choice of strategy and make its plans accordingly?"
"Calm down, Gamma. You're overthinking it."
"My combat logic predicts a significant chance Virginia will--"
"Huh, well, think about this: maybe it knows that I'd know that it would know my standard tactics, so it's expecting me to break from pattern. The I-know-they-know game can go round and round forever, mate. No way you can solve that one."
"My combat logic accounts for such a feedback loop. I have high confidence in these predictions."
A dark wall blocks their progress. Gamma's map identifies it as one of the hangar's structural rafters. Reginald braces himself, temporarily disengages the grav-boots, and leaps. He catches the top of it to swing himself over and lands on the other side next to a trail of bare metal handholds. "There we are," he says to himself. "Gamma, please try to remember a few simple facts: I do know what I'm doing, I've been doing this for a long time, and I am quite good at it. I do not need help. Give me what I ask for and pipe down otherwise."
Gamma cannot tell if this new emotion is anger or embarrassment. "Understood," he answers in his flattest voice.
Reginald resumes his slow walk along the hull, now following the handholds. They end at another circular hatch. To its right another reinforcing rafter breaks through the pressure hull. "Gamma, enemy visibility in the hangar bay."
Gamma scans ahead through his map, queries Ship for personnel locations, and estimates lines of sight. He overlays a wireframe of the ship onto Reginald's HUD and shades the appropriate regions. "Predicted areas of cover. Target remains within Pelican maintenance bay P-3A."
"Looks about right," mutters Reginald. From this side the airlock hatch is sheathed in ceramsteel and hardened against explosives. But it is designed to repel boarders, not Project operatives trapped outside. It opens to Reginald's personnel chip, pressurises, opens on the other side. Reginald glances out. Then manoeuvres awkwardly through the half-gravity till he catches the ladder heading down. At the other end of it a maintenance catwalk runs alongside the rafter.
"Camo?"
"On standby. Three minutes total runtime available."
Reginald descends back into full gravity and begins his traversal of the catwalks. The camouflage unit's efficiency drops when he moves but from this distance it will suffice to hide from deck-level observers. Reginald crosses beneath the same rafter he vaulted over outside the pressure vessel. Lines of sight shift and he moves to avoid. At last he drops to the top landing of a rickety staircase winding up the starboard wall with a clear view of maintenance bay P-3A.
"Target acquired," says Reginald. Gamma highlights the Weaponsmaster anyway. It stands inspecting an ordnance rack and incidentally keeping an eye on all three primary entrances. Reginald unships his sniper rifle, opens its bipod, plants it near the edge of the dented metal platform. "See?" he tells Gamma with more than a hint of pride. "Expecting me to try the straight-on approach. Always get my man." Gamma does not respond. But he silently concedes the point. This is the meaning of experience, then. Reginald has indeed been doing this for a long time and he has won the day. Gamma reruns his combat logic to find the fault.
Reginald lies prone and braces the rifle's stock in a well-worn curve of his armour. Gamma is becoming frustrated with his combat logic. It continues to give him its original answer even though it has clearly miscalculated. The rifle's scope boots up and focuses in. A background process wants Gamma's attention. Reginald pings the ultrasonic rangefinder, zooms slightly, tells the scope to display windage and bullet drop calculations for local gravity. The ether within the hangar bay is not as it should be and Gamma's algorithms cannot account for the discrepancy.
"Something is wrong," he tells Reginald.
"Nothing's wrong, and lay off while I sight in."
Knotting at Gamma's core, the oldest part of him: he knows the truth. He knows the lie. "We are being deceived."
"Program, override, quiet."
The blunt grip of the hardware override silences him. Gamma triangulates and traces anyway. The figure of the Weaponsmaster is generating anomalous quantities of radio energy as well as strange resonances in the terahertz band. Reginald aligns the scope's microscopic cyan cross-hairs on the Weaponsmaster's centre of mass. Gamma cannot match this emission signature to known equipment. He forwards the query to Ship's more comprehensive inventory.
Reginald breathes out and pulls the trigger.
Ship answers: -Image generation unit, assigned Agent Connecticut.-
The paint punches through the distant figure's chest and Virginia's form breaks apart. Gamma's motion tracker fires. Reginald raises his head from the scope and says "Oh, bugger," and then a pistol's cold weight comes to rest at the back of his neck.
"You're dead," says Virginia. Reginald sighs.
"I was correct," notes Gamma.
"Fuck you."