“The demands the mech guild is making are totally reasonable,” said PresidentPlugPuller. “I’m sure most of you have heard them already. They want...let me see...in the new contract they want a guarantee of their right to repair themselves and replace their own parts at their own discretion. That‘s something they’ve got under the old contract that Daintree want to take away. Daintree want to offer them- offer- them a corporate plan which provides all their maintenance and repair or replacement of their parts-”
PresidentPlugPuller’s flatmate Tai made a sort of mech approximation of a snort. PresidentPlugPuller looked over at him. “Right,” he said. “No thanks. So…what else have we got. Ah, yeah.”
PlugPuller went quiet for a minute while he read over the document. “This is another thing that the mech guild already have that they want to keep in the contract. They reject the use of human-grown organic parts that Daintree want to offer them- again, offer- to use in place of the most frequently replaced mechanical parts.”
“Gross.” said Tai.
“Yeah.” agreed PresidentPlugPuller. “It’s vile. Daintree already make their lowest-level human workers grow organic material inside of them that Daintree can sell and use for repairs on workplace injuries. That’s standard practice. So their idea is that the highest-use parts in their mech workers are replaced with organic material which can be grown for free by the entry-level human workers. The mech guild say absolutely not.”
“Right.” said Tai. “Disgusting.”
“Right.” said PresidentPlugPuller. “So they say that...uh...the use of human-grown organic parts is below their dignity and extremely exploitative of Daintree’s human workers. Totally fair. What else have we got…”
PresidentPlugPuller went silent for a while again while he looked at the mech contract proposal. “Ah, yeah. The next part is an actual change instead of continuing something the mechs already have in the contract. So the next demand is for the right of any mech who has proprietary or black-box coding to have it custom rewritten and replaced with Nucule coding which is universally compatible. Also any mech with coding in the bloated and buggy Prill to be offered a complete rewrite with guaranteed maintenance of their personality and any acquired features or spontaneously generated subroutines. Again, nothing controversial here,”
Tai nodded.
“But this would be new so Daintree will probably fight it. What else. Oh, yeah. Any mech whose body is owned by the company and too large to be practically moveable must have a mobile form of their own possession so that they can leave their work premises alone at their own discretion and permanently if they wish. None of this stuff is unreasonable.”
“Totally reasonable,” said Tai. PresidentPlugPuller looked at the things his viewers were typing. Mostly agreement.
“But Daintree are pushing back against all of it,” he said. “And their counter is to offer this parity with human workers. ‘Freedom’, that’s how they’re trying to sell it. As opposed to being tied into a contract through the guild.”
Tai laughed. “I know,” said PresidentPlugPuller. “It’s ridiculous. But this takes some people in. Daintree have this aggressive campaign going on justnow in all their fulfilment centres- people have sent me and the guys pictures of the posters they’ve been putting up. Stuff about ‘we see you as an individual! Free to make your own choices!’”
Tai and PresidentPlugPuller both laughed together.
“Join our partner programme today!” read PresidentPlugPuller. “The freedom to negotiate your own contract!’ Dude, this is disgraceful.”
“We’re trying to make light of it,” said Tai. “But it’s really bad. If Daintree get their way and designate all their mech workers as human then they won’t be in the mech guild any more and they won’t be paying into our mutual repair fund. Daintree’s a huge company, that’s millions and millions of mechs. So all the mechs left in the guild will lose all their contributions,”
“And all the Daintree mechs will lose access to the mech mutual repair fund.” continued PresidentPlugPuller. “They’ll have to pay for health insurance like the human workers do.”
“And Daintree are telling them that it’s a better deal for mechs,” said Tai. “‘You don’t have to pay for other mech’s repairs! Why should you, a modern and highly efficent machine with zero moving parts, help cover the wear and tear on this guy who’s got a million perishable gaskets and things that need constantly replaced and has to be serviced weekly? Why should you, tiny machine who runs off solar 98% of the time, subsidise the fuel bill for this gigantic crane dock worker guy?’”
“You wouldn’t think that machines would be taken in by this human rubbish,” said PlugPuller. “But we know some of them are.”
You wouldn’t normally get maimed by security for having a wank at work, but in Orson’s case there were aggravating factors.
If you asked the security forces, they would say it wasn’t the masturbating they maimed Orson for, it was the three officers’ arms he broke while resisting arrest.
If you asked Orson’s employers, they would say ‘who?’, and then legal would have a quiet word, and then they would say that there was an ongoing multi-system employment law dispute involving the largest mech union that unfortunately prevented from dicussing this particular employee.
Ex-employee.
If you asked Orson, he would say it was never intended as an act of protest. But it wasn’t 100% not, either. If this business did ever come to trial, Orson would have to take the stand and argue that he just accidentally thought about boobs or something and then needed to deal with it. That situation was looking more and more likely. And the trial would be extremely public at this point. It was all getting seriously out of hand.
Had it been a defiant wank? Sure it had, a little. Honestly Orson hadn’t even really needed it. But if you were shut out of collective action, what choice did you have other than a little solo action? Everyone else had been out on strike. Everyone else was allowed to join the union. But Orson wasn’t allowed to join, because unions weren’t for humans.
If you ask me, you shouldn’t let this case put you off having the odd wank at work. It’s extremely unlikely you will be maimed (you may be arrested.)
----------
(Excerpt from transcript of 1st day of hearing, Labour Relations Board enquiry in Daintree Distribution Centre 038884/17/42 Dunbar Commerce and Transport Hub Location)
‘It’s silly to think of humans needing to take collective action. It makes sense for machines, certainly, but it’s really quite anti-human, when you think about it. Humans have free will. They have likes and dislikes, and needs. They have to do things they don’t want to do, right? That’s a necessary part of our society. And they’re only going to do those things if they’re promised a fair wage in return. You know? So the system regulates itself. People who need workers have to offer an agreeable, sufficient wage or no-one will work for them. It’s simple! If the wage is too low and the conditions seem bad or dangerous, no human will do the job and the business will fail. It’s machines that are in danger of exploitation because they only want to do the kind of work they’re built for, so much they’d do it for free. That’s why humans have the freedom to sell their own labour and machines have their guild.’
‘Well, that’s been the accepted view for some time now, Business Secretary-’
‘Some time? Only the past, oh, couple of centuries,’
‘Yes, but in the past couple of centuries artificial intelligence has become significantly more complex and sophisticated. The machines of today are very different to the machines of 200 years ago,’
‘Obviously, but-”
‘We at Daintree are not arguing that machines and humans are exactly the same. Of course they’re not, and I understand why some people are offended by that idea. But Daintree believes that the machines being produced today are independent autonomous beings and that they should have the same freedom humans do as workers to negotiate their own contracts and not have to be locked into whatever the machine guild decides is best for them.’
----------
Taking a wank break in the warehouse toilet wasn’t part of Orson’s normal routine.
He disliked shirking as a rule and he usually took care of these kind of personal needs in his home time, not when he was on the clock. But he hadn’t felt like it last night, or this morning, so he hadn’t, but now he really needed to.
You couldn’t control when inspiration struck.
He was taking matters in hand in a perfectly orderly manner when suddenly armed security services burst into the toilet. He didn’t know they were security at first, of course. He just heard a lot of stamping and crashing and people shouting his name. Maybe the last thing you want to hear when you’re trying to rub one out? “Orson Foster!” they were shouting and for some reason Orson squeaked out “...yes?”. Then a hundred security uniforms with approximations of humans inside ripped the door off the cubicle. Maybe a thousand. Probably ten. Still, a lot.
“You’re under arrest!” bellowed some of them.
“But...it isn’t illegal,”
“Striking illegally in violation of labour law? Yes, it is,”.
They grabbed him. They dragged him out. He was still holding himself. “At least let me pull my pants up,” he suggested.
“No!” barked one of the security jobbers. Possibly the leader, there was no way to tell (unless you knew about epaulettes and pips and badges and other bullshit Orson did not know about). “And watch him,” he told his fellow narks. “The monkeys that work in these places have augmentations a lot of the time, he’s probably stronger than he looks-”
Orson realised pathetically that he hadn’t even thought to try fighting back. His arm adjuncts should still be active. He was supposed to deactivate them before he went to the toilet. Whenever he left the warehouse floor, in fact, but specifically before toilet breaks. He never bothered. When he did his new start training they warned him about the (supposedly) multiple warehouse staff who had neutered themselves to varying extents going to the bathroom with their arm adjuncts still active. It hadn’t made much of an impression on him, clearly.
Before he could start thinking about fighting back, one of the security finks belted him on the back of the head. “Ow!” he grunted.
“We can do this one of two ways,” said the possible chief nark.
“What?” said Orson, He thought he could feel blood trickling down the back of his head.
“You can be sensible and calm and walk out quietly with us and be arrested with some dignity,” said the guy. “Not much, but some. Or you can keep on being hysterical and force us to carry you out, on your back, using your head to open every door we come to. And everyone will see your little willy bobbing about. You’re not going to look cool, you’re not going to look like some revolutionary. But you do have a choice of exactly how stupid you look,”
“I don’t care!” squawked Orson “I shouldn’t be arrested!”
“He’s getting panicky,” said someone else. “I don’t think he’s going to be walking out of here,”
“He’d better. I don’t feel like carrying his fat ass.”
“We don’t have time to mess around with you, fat boy,” said another fink. “Stop fighting us,”
“I’m not fighting you!”
“Then let us cuff you,” said someone. “Stop fighting, put your hands down and let us cuff you.”
“What?”
“Put your hands down,”
“I’m not...I can’t…”
“He’s got scars on his arms,” said a more observant nark. “They’re augmented.”
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Stop resisting or we’ll have to manually reboot you,” said the King Fink. “Using these,”
‘These’ were the side-handled batons they were all carrying, represented by the one their fearless leader was prodding Orson’s tit with. “I’ve had enough of you,” he told Orson, which seemed like a lie. “I’m not doing it on purpose,” said Orson.
“Are you mentally deficient? Stop crying and put your hands behind your back,”
If Orson had relaxed, his arms would have dropped but because he was somewhat tense they were sort of locked. Daintree’s human workers were not actually trained to use the artificial enhancements they were surgically modified with. The adjuncts were supposed to operate unconsciously and intuitively. It was believed that if you made a worker too conscious of them- say, by training them- they either wouldn’t be able to usefully operate the adjuncts or they would be able to operate them in ways that might be dangerous.
This meant that if and when the case came to trial, Orson could argue honestly that he hadn’t meant to hurt any of the security staff. He had been trying to comply. He wasn’t aggressive. He was a naturally compliant man. He had wanted to put his arms behind his back like he was told to, but what had happened was that he had accidentally broken some guy’s jaw.
The security team moved on him to subdue him, batons in hands. Orson unintentionally got a hold of one of the batons in both of his hands and broke it in half. This made the security staff even more eager to restrain him. Two guards struggled with Orson, trying to force his augmented arms behind his back.
The security team leader was on a line with someone in the Mimas call centre, trying to explain the situation and get them to deactivate Orson’s adjuncts so that they could arrest him. It wasn’t the easiest thing to communicate. The call centre guy wasn’t necessarily convinced himself but the security commander persuaded him to speak to his superviser and superviser agreed with security. Orson’s adjuncts were remotely deactivated. Suddenly the security finks who had been grappling with the enhanced warehouse employee found themselves meeting zero (or almost zero) resistance.
They were surprised. Orson was even more surprised. He hadn’t intended to snap a side-handled baton in two and he definitely hadn’t intended to stab himself in the gut and side with the pieces. The sharp-edged broken shards had been clenched tightly in his hands and when his arms suddenly lost their strength the narks wrestling with him pushed them firmly into his body.
It took Orson a moment to realise. He knew something terrible had happened but he didn’t know what. He knew his arms were by his sides now and he was still gripping the pieces of broken nightstick but they were- he didn’t want to look but he was brave and he looked down- the broken pieces were in him, one driven deeply into his lower belly just above his crotch and the other in his side underneath his ribcage.
Orson’s first thought was dismay for the organs he was growing inside. He’d been trying to keep them safe, taking his vitamins and honestly trying to eat a little more healthy food. Well, thinking about eating more healthy food. They had been almost ready to go. They were lost now, they must be lost. How could they survive this?
Orson didn’t understand what had happened. There wasn’t any pain. The pieces of baton were just sort of attached to him now. No pain. Just a cold wet feeling inside his belly and a hot tight feeling in his neck and face. He looked down at himself trying to figure out what was going on.
One of the narks noticed that he’d suddenly gone very still and quiet and looked at him suspiciously. “Is there a problem?”
Orson was just about to tell the guy that, yes, he thought there might be a bit of a problem, but the problem seemed to be stopping him saying anything. Then the problem was stopping him seeing anything other than fuzzy grey. And then he changed his mind and decided there really wasn’t any problem at all.
Then there were no thoughts at all for a while.
The problem became the security team’s problem.
“Wait- aargh!” yelped one of the guards. “What’s he-”
“He’s passing out, godammit he’s heavy-”
“Don’t drop him!”
“Oh good grief look, he’s bleeding, he’s bleeding so much…”
“How is he bleeding like this? What happened? One second he’s fine and then he’s just...dying…”
“We didn’t do anything! He did this to himself-”
“Get him to the transport, there’s a doc-box there. Hurry. Now!”
----------
The guy had been dressed in the same sort of gear Silas and the others were wearing but you could tell a mile off. He didn’t normally wear anything like this, it didn’t sit right on him. He was a C-suite guy with Daintree or one of the two or three other companies with interests on Vu-Murt. Most likely Daintree. He had probably been lent the military get-up this morning, for this trip they were about to take.
He’d looked distinctly unimpressed when he was presented with the small team that had been charged with getting him safely to Marius. Silas couldn’t blame the guy. He knew his appearance didn’t inspire awe in his enemies nor confidence in his comrades. He looked like you wouldn’t leave him alone to mind the door of a bingo hall on a Friday night.
Silas’ colleagues were very slightly more physically imposing than he was, but still less than impressive. Everyone out here looked defective. There was less food for everybody than they would usually be provided so everybody was growing increasingly frail. Fat and muscle burning off as they toiled around under the sun. Because they were all starving to death, taking care of your appearance became a ridiculous notion. Silas had turned up on Vu-Murt with a freshly-shaved head and smooth face and was immediately bullied for it. Like everybody else who got the piss taken out of them on arrival, he decided to stop cutting his hair and beard and soon looked like a cartoon character of a man stranded on a desert island. They all looked like castaways, which is pretty much what they were. On deployments like this it was standard practice to cultivate a little recreational mental illness, just to pass the time. On Vu-Murt you were issued a readymade one as part of the kit. Mr Corner Office looked so openly horrified at the state of his supposed security detail that Silas almost felt sorry for him.
The plane they were taking to Norov-Ava didn’t look military. The outside security contractors weren’t supposed to go to Norov-Ava. They weren’t supposed to even go within the Marius area. This was supposed to be on the DL, a bit surreptitious.
The other guys seemed pretty excited about the assignment. They thought they had been hand-picked for this secret mission. Silas knew that really they had all just drawn the short straw (or had Mr C-Suite? Honestly nobody with any luck found themselves here.) He was still in a pretty great mood though. It was just great to get away from base for a while. Silas, from experience, believed the bromide that a change was as good as a rest. The team wouldn’t even be permitted to get off the ship- it would be fly over, land, drop off Daintree Guy, fly straight back. Just getting a fleeting change of scenery would take their minds off visualising their garrison murder-suicide rampage fantasies for a little while, though.
The flight over to Marius had been pleasant and uneventful. Fairly relaxed, though the grunts were all trying to appear professional in front of their client. Silas let the others chat and looked out the window most of the way. He liked watching the landscape go by underneath him. He hadn’t moved faster than walking pace for weeks so sweeping over the great sprawling craters was exhilarating.
Mr Kinnie- the Daintree exec- had introduced himself shortly after they reached cruising altitude. Silas thought maybe the guy was a bit nervous about flying. He had seemed like a right uptight dickhead at first, very aloof and haughty, but once the plane was safely off the ground his demeanour changed markedly. He relaxed in his seat.
“So what’s it like out here?” asked the executive of the soldiers. “See much...action?”
There was a pause as they froze, unsure how to respond. Silas snorted. The others took that as permission to laugh. Mr Kinnie, surprised, looked momentarily annoyed. He glanced around quickly and then decided to smile and laugh along.
“Sucks out here, huh?” the executive asked. There were nods and sounds of agreement. “Believe me, I get it,” he said. “Guys, you have to know that...if they let us do what needs to be done, we could have you all out of here in less than a year. Just months, I’m talking.”
Silas rested his chin on his knuckles and looked out of the window. There were vaguely positive sounds from the other soldiers.
“What...needs to be done?” asked one of them, sounding genuinely curious.
“Oh, eh, you know.” said Mr Kinnie. “You’re here all the time, you know the situation better than me.”
“It’s...very complicated,” said the young soldier. “It’s a complicated...situation that has been...going on for a long time and...it’s unlikely to be resolved in the forseeable future.”
The squaddie paused, trying to recall something he’d read on a whiteboard in a classroom months ago. “Why?” asked Silas without turning around.
“Because...because the different groups in the...conflict have...ideological differences and cultural differences that will...that will remain even if both sides make...reasonable concessions and engage in diplomacy in...in good faith.”
“It’s intractable,” said Mr Kinnie. The squaddie nodded hesitantly.
“That’s why we need to take decisive action,”said the executive. “This must be resolved by impartial outsiders with everybody’s best interests at heart,”
Mr Kinnie looked out of his window, down at the ground. “Look at them.” he said. “Look at these people.” He gestured down at the camps they were passing over. “Maybe the Callistoans want this land and maybe their grandparents and great-grandparents were born here on...Callisto...and we can appreciate that they feel a connection to this place. But look at them.”
The soldiers very obediently looked.
“They talk about a home and a tradition of human settlement on Vu-Murt but we came here in the first place to make a refuelling station to let us go further.” said the executive. “This was never a place for humans to stop, it was a jumping-off point. That’s what we’re interested in, right? Human progress. I know that’s what the company I work for is interested in. Making things better for more people.
Now, I have respect for the Callistoan people and I know that you all do too. I want them to flourish.” said Mr Kinnie. “You guys are here, you have a much better understanding of the situation than all the bleeding heart activists who blame us for what’s happening here.”
Silas took a sidelong look at the other soldiers. A couple of them were nodding.
“As long as the Callistoans are here they’re going to fight.” continued Mr. Kinnie. “I understand that. Honestly, I admire that. I’m sure you all understand what keeps them fighting. But how long do we allow this to keep going on for? I don’t want to see these people wiped out, even though the brain dead protestors think we’re trying to do a genocide here or whatever they say. The people who want the Callistoans to keep fighting, they don’t really care about them.”
“So what are you saying should happen?” said Silas. Everyone turned to look at him.
“What’s your name, soldier?” asked Mr Kinnie.
“Toduran,” said Silas.
“You’ve been very quiet,” said Mr Kinnie. “Forgot you were there.”
Silas nodded in acknowledgement.
“Toduran, I’m not saying what should happen. Not my job to decide what should be done here. But it seems to me that if we keep up this charade of diplomacy and trying to find a solution by working with the Callistoans, we’re not working in their interests. There isn’t a workable possible compromise here. All we’re doing is allowing the Callistoans to slow-roll their own extermination.”
The executive paused and looked around at the squaddies, spreading his arms.
“If we stopped pretending to try to deal with them as equals and just removed them for their own safety, that would be the more respectful way to treat them,” he said. “More respectful of their right to life,”
Silas didn’t say anything.
“What do you think, Toduran?” asked Kinnie. “You look like you’ve been here a while , I’d imagine you’re well positioned to comment,”
Silas shrugged.
“If you disagree with me, I’d be very interested to hear what you think I’ve interpreted incorrectly. You’re the boots on the ground, you’re here day in day out. I’m just going on the impression I get filtered through to me at a yawning remove. Part of what I’m doing here is to get a first-hand impression of the situation.”
Mr Kinnie gave Silas an indulgent smile. “Love it if you would weigh in, soldier,”
Silas stretched in his seat. “Honestly, Mr- Kimmie? I only noticed there were people here when you pointed them out to us, out the window there. All I’ve done here is walk up and down beside pipes and roads. I thought we were here to keep infrastructure company. You start talking about genocide and human rights and I’m thinking…”
Silas affested a wide-eyed, slack-jawed expression. “There are people here? There’s a civil war happening here? Wow, man,”
The Daintree executive looked steadily at Silas, considering.
“Hm,” he said. “That’s interesting, Toduran. What about the rest of you? Is that how it seems to you?”
“Going to be starting our descent in a little under two minutes,” said one of the pilots. “All of you back into your seats and strap in. And stow your stuff. I don’t want all your junk clattering about in here while we’re trying to put this thing down.”
Silas looked out of the window. He hadn’t moved from his seat or unbuckled his harness the whole way. He was ready to land. The others started moving about and rummaging around for things, suddenly wondering where their sweeties or their handhelds had gone. Silas looked down at the ground as the aircraft turned, tipping up so he had a clear view down to the ground.
They were travelling over what looked like empty desert now. Refugees weren’t allowed to camp this close to Norov-Ava so there was nobody out here. There was nothing but an ocean of purple to the horizon in any direction.
The desert here wasn’t sand, it was roughly broken-up rock that fractured into sheets like slate. Wretched to try to walk on. All the pieces slid around over each other so it was exhausting trying to get anywhere and when you fell the sharp edges of the pieces could cut any part of you that wasn’t protected. That was one of the reasons patrolling on Vu-Murt was so miserable. The sheet rock crushed fairly easily under the tracks or wheels of heavy vehicles so they’d flattened down roads to drive on but most of the moon’s surface was like this: godawful slidey tiles.
It didn’t stop people trying their hardest to have fun on it though. A popular thing for tourists to do in Norov-Ava was hiring vehicles to take them out into the desert to mess around. Things with either tank tracks or big soft puffy tyres that could get a bit of traction on the loose shingles. Silas supposed there wasn’t all that much to do in Norov-Ava. Drink. Smoke. Lie around at the beach. Go shopping.
Squaddies weren’t allowed in Norov-Ava. Some guys sneaked there anyway when they had leave, if they were tight with a pilot or could afford a decent bribe. Silas had been there once, briefly, and decided it wasn’t worth maybe getting into trouble for. Not for him, anyway. He just wasn’t into fun, though. He didn’t like the beach, wasn’t really into clubs, didn’t enjoy shopping, did enjoy a drink but that tended to go with food and-
WHAM! There was an explosion on one of the engines that rocked the small plane. Silas’ adjunct informed him that it had happened before his meat parts had even put the loud noises and the violent lurch together and taken a guess at a possible cause. His real brain hadn’t caught up to his adjuncts before a second explosion sent them spiralling. “What the-?” said Mr Kinnie. He sounded confused more than frightened.
“Bird strike!” yelled back the pilot who was still conscious. “I don’t know how we hit them! They just appeared!”
“Bird strike?” said the exec. Multiple alarms were sounding in the cockpit. The guys who hadn’t been strapped in had been sent flying. One had hit the bulkhead and left a blood smear down the side of the cabin. Another one been thrown forwards right into the cockpit and collided with one of the pilots. The aircraft felt, to Silas’ non-expert sense of aviation, as though it was crashing.
The pilot who hadn’t been brained by a flying squaddie was wrestling with the controls and trying to flip switches while definitely needing both hands to grapple with the yoke.
“HELP HIM!” yelled Mr Kinnie at Silas. The squaddie turned to look at him, psychotically calm. He couldn’t even be arsed to do a proper shrug. “I don’t know how to fly a plane,” he said.
“But your adjuncts…” said Kinnie. “You’re meant to have...emergency protocols,”
Silas should be fitted with the adjuncts that Daintree designed and produced and put into all of these grunts. In any emergency situation they were supposed to deliver drugs and electrical stimulation to put the soldier into optimal state for whatever action the emergency plan downloaded into his neural adjunct prescribed.
If Silas’ ‘hamburger helper’ was doing anything, all it had done was tranquilise him. He was too calm to even bother trying to save his own life. Cameron Kinnie wondered whether it was a failure of a Daintree product or of Silas’ own biochemistry that was causing this very disappointing field test. Personally he was inclined to blame Silas. There was obviously something wrong with him.
Cameron had gotten a weird feeling off the guy as soon as they’d been introduced. Weird know-it-all, superior vibe...as though he thought that he, a squaddie packed off out to Keelut, thought he was better than a mid-level exec at the corporation that owned over a third of everything in the known universe. Cameron had gotten the vibe off him that he might be the kind of guy doing military work experience to put it on his CV for future attempts to go into politics or for corporate ladder-climbing purposes himself.
That didn’t really fit, though. Silas seemed too...checked-out. He’d have been interested in meeting Cameron if that were the case. He’d have been full of questions, trying to make a good impression at least and get invited along to HQ. If this had been Silas trying to make a good impression, well…
Cameron’s first impression had been that the younger man lacked the correct motivation and that was only being confirmed.
“We’re going to crash!” he yelled at Silas. “Help him!”
“I don’t know what to do,” said Silas but that became as lie as soon as the words were out of his mouth. A packet of data that had been bouncing around finally managed to ping-pong into Silas’ neural adjunct and a .exe file ran automatically (permissions already granted in perpetuity). He did know what to do in an aircraft of this model and year that had lost both engines due to bird strike (vultures) in air of this temperature and density and with the wind at its current direction and speed. He didn’t know who he was or anything else but it didn’t matter because all he was interested in was flying this plane. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up, eyes blank.
“Oh, thank god…” muttered Cameron Kinnie.
