title: True Servant

author: Ed Dudart

genre: SF

words: 3100

TRUE SERVANT

A story by Edward Dudart.

PROLOGUE

It is the year 3975; Man had left his home planet to spread out over the universe, taking with him his many servants. Together they met with challenges that were sometimes overcome, and sometimes were overcome by the challenges. Together they evolved too, sometimes in small steps, at other times in big ones. They knew triumph and tragedy, both of which strengthened the bonds between the two.

Sadly enough, some things never change: after Man's faithful electronic servant had developed a true intelligence of its own, thereby establishing its independence, narrow-minded Man would not gracefully adjust to the new status of his former slave. The result became another black chapter in Man's history, known as the Man-AI wars or "Many-wars" in the street vernacular.

Fighting raged, on and off, for some centuries until a "cease all hostilities" was agreed upon. But just as individuals in human history had, a number of AI persons could not swallow the bitter pill of compromise and turned rogue. From their hideouts in the dust clouds between the stars, they fought a merciless guerrilla type war, with sneak attacks and fast retreats. And of course, being computers themselves they were the past masters of "software warfare"!

After several years of learning how to fight this new kind of war, Man founded the S.I.S., the Stellar Intelligence Service, and its sister S.C.S., the Stellar Courier Service.

The S.I.S. gathered all the intelligence it could on its inhuman adversary, sometimes engaging in covert acts of sabotage. At other times their actions were straight "Search and Destroy" type actions.

The S.C.S. took care of the transportation and covert insertion and extraction of S.I.S. agent/troopers, but if necessary it could dish out its own kind of mayhem too.

To support the two services a special lab was established in a deep space station, the coordinates of which were Man's most jealously guarded secret. In the station's many laboratories hundreds of scientists worked on projects ranging from sabotage through computer virus to the development of special techniques for extraction of information from whatever bits of AI brain were brought back from S.I.S. missions.

Working smoothly together, these three units gave Man a slight advantage over the rogue AI, but more was needed. Only after Man, together with the AI that worked with him, had formed a council to act as an intermediary between the warring factions, did a lasting peace seem to come within reach.

But although negotiations have been going on for almost a century now, there is still a long way to go before the last hostilities are finally over.

Chapter 1, Meet Mairearad.

Outside:

Above:

The velvet black of the universe, almost palpable and studded with bright unmoving stars. The sky split in two unequal halves by the lustrous ribbon of stars and dust that forms the Sagittarius arm of our Galaxy.

Below:

A tiny planet in its highly eccentric orbit around its parent sun, a brown dwarf. Near the morning terminator of its night side a dome, almost lost in the wide expanse of terrain. The sky turns from black to purple with the onset of a new day while...

Inside:

As the armoured transport thunders forward, out of control, I hang on for dear life. Bullets graze the steel sides of the colossus, raining me with razor sharp splinters. Ahead looms a gate in a thick, bullet pocked wall; it starts to swing open, but not fast enough! As a siren starts its intermittent howling I realise that I will die, splattered across that damned gate. With the maddening siren song piercing my ears, I count of the remaining meters: forty...thirty...twenty...ten...

* * *

With a hoarse sound I sit straight up in the dark. My heart beats a heavy drum-roll against my ribcage; sweat runs in rivulets down my naked body to drip onto the already soaked sheets. My breath comes in deep, shuddering gasps. Then the soft beeping of my alarm clock penetrates the fog in my mind. I try to speak but no sound comes out of my parched throat. Reaching for the ghostly glow of the water container on the bedside table, the first time my hand skips right over it. On the second try I succeed and sip some water. Now I can manage a croaked, 'Light, ceiling, low.'

A band of light appears just beneath the ceiling, its glow reveals the compact anonymity of a hotel room. I look around, wondering where I am, then my eyes fall on a chair with a space-side coverall crumpled on its seat. Memories come flooding in: S.C.S.'s "Robert A." and its roller coaster flight through Incredible's night sky, followed by a blurry recollection of being half walked, half carried through seemingly endless corridors, a vague impression of a room and someone undressing me, soft sheets and then, oh bliss, a sharp hiss and a cold spot on my arm and then darkness puts an end to my misery.

I take a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly; and feel my anxiety abate little by little. I manage to silence the alarm after two tries. Then, as I am clearly not used to the low gravity on this planet, I very carefully swing my legs out of the bed. Sudden nausea makes me half run, half stumble to the lavatory just in time to reach the toilet bowl. Tears run down my cheeks as my empty stomach painfully heaves and heaves. After what seems endless agony, I lean against the cool wall of the shower stall, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and feel very sorry for myself.

In order to survive interstellar flight aboard an S.C.S. courier ship the boffins have come up with some real goodies to counter the effects of high G and inter-dimensional jump. There is one disadvantage however; the cocktail has side effects to which some people, and I in particular, are rather susceptible. My time aboard the "Robert A." can be summarized in just two words: Bloody Hell!

A one-minute needle shower takes care of the after-effects of my misery and I step back into the bedroom, feeling if not quite fit, then at least a bit more chipper. From an inbuilt cupboard I take my carryall, place it on the bed and key the special lock. While I rummage through the contents I ask for the light to brighten to normal level. As the city is build under an enclosing dome its internal climate is fully regulated. Together with liberal mores, this makes the wearing of clothes more a matter of choice than of necessity; naked or dressed, no one will take notice nor offence.

There is a small yellow sign on the wall. I step in front of it and say, 'Mirror.' A mirror appears on the wall, two metres wide and reaching from floor to ceiling. I stand in front of it and take a good look at the perfect reflection of myself: 194 centimetres tall (just one shy of regulation maximum) and 87 kilograms of lean meat and sinew, an unruly mop of auburn curls that tops a pale, freckle dusted face with high cheekbones under bright green eyes, a wide mouth with full, red lips under a nose that has clearly been broken at least once.

My shoulders are a tad wide and merge into upper arms that are a bit too muscular to be really feminine. They end in strong hands with short-nailed sturdy fingers. Small perky breasts jut out over my firm abdomen and my hips, giving meaning to the word 'broad', support my rather solid bottom, my legs are again a shade too muscular to be feminine. And to complete it all there is an assortment of evenly placed scars. I know some women would cringe away from this mirror image, but it is me and I am perfectly comfortable with what the mirror shows; Mairearad Patricia O'Connel, Corporal in the S.I.S., ready to take on the Universe.

I return to my carryall and take two sheathed throwing knives from its depths. Straps around my upper thighs, they travel just under my crotch within easy reach. I decide not to wear undies and instead choose a pubic ornament. That fitted, I slip into a light-brown short dress without frills. A belt that looks a bit the worse for wear goes around my hips, where it smoothly follows my shape.

It is my special friend; when I take a firm hold of the buckle and smartly rap the belt part against anything hard, it turns into a razor sharp, four-foot sword. Heating it up after use reverts it to its belt shape. As it is made of memory plastic, it cannot trigger metal detectors either. As is the case in all domed cities, the floor is covered with a specially mutated grass carpet, so I do not have to put on footwear.

Dressing finished I pick up a bright yellow beret with a gold emblem that depicts a crossed fighting knife and space ship, in front of a three-dimensional hologram of our galaxy. Two words pedestal the ship and knife: 'WE DELIVER'. I look at it for a moment, and then regretfully put my beret firmly back into my carryall, relock its cover and replace it in its wall niche.

The key card in my door lock has 'Floor Plan' written on one side of it, as I press that it scrolls through an index of the hotel's public spaces, when it has reached 'Dining Hall' I press again. In the corridor bright blue moving lights wink on in the ceiling, beckoning. I lock my door and follow the luminous signpost, every now and then stumbling slightly in the lighter gravity.

Chapter 2, Dining room disaster.

The lights lead me to a pair of glass sliding doors that move silently out of my way. Over the doorway, a sign informs me that this is the hotel's main diner. I enter a large area tastefully filled with tables for one up to ten persons, separated by large flowering hedges. The whole room gives an open impression; still, there is enough separation to insure private conversation.

Following a sign, I come to a long table, where an enormous quantity of food and drink is displayed. My eyes roam over the treasure displayed; there is so much I cannot even name all of it! In my rush toward the display, I bump into an elderly woman who looks up rather perturbed at my ingression. Joining her at her table are a redheaded man and a young woman with long blonde hair, they are both smiling at me.

'Excuse me ma'am,' I mutter and continue towards my goal. I pick the largest plate there is and load it with a large ham and a couple of rolls. While I try to decide what to choose next, there a polite voice on my left side speaks up.

'If I might make a suggestion Miss, how about I get you a tray of assorted food and drink and then escort you to a table where you can enjoy your breakfast in comfort.' Translation: Get your paws out of my food and sit your arse down where I can keep my eyes on you!

I nearly salute the petite girl dressed in chequered mini dress and white shirt. Like me she goes barefoot.

I feel myself colour and answer with a rather meek sounding, 'Whatever makes you happy, sister.'

She smiles broadly, 'My name is Charlotte, but you can call me Charlie, Miss.' I nod silently, and catch sight of the elderly woman. She follows me with a penetrating gaze while Charlie seats me at a little table. The little server leaves and after a surprisingly short wait returns with a true plethora that hardly fits on the table.

The knife and fork feel a bit awkward but as dignified as possible I sample this and that, gradually gaining confidence with the unfamiliar. The S.I.S. is not exactly charm school, even though they have put me through a one-week hypno-course in social skills.

Halfway through my breakfast I notice that "Old Hag" is still watching me closely. What is she trying to do, wish me away? She only succeeds in making me nervous, the bag!

I grab a large pitcher of milk and out of habit raise it straight to my mouth. Gulping thirstily, I notice that her frown deepens and she purses her mouth even more. When I come up for air a stentorian belch escapes my lips, gets even more amplified by the raised jug. "Old Hag" visibly blanches and her male table-companion rises for the exit, fast, although not quite running. Then the last of the ice-cold milk sloshes out of the wide ceramic mouth, cascades down my front and pools in the shallow bowl of my chair. Before I know it I sit in a puddle of very cold and very wet fluid and vent a whole-hearted 'Fuuuuuck!!!'

As I realise what I have done, my cheeks colour a deep red, utterly humiliated I hang on to my nicest smile and whisper through my clenched teeth, 'You bloody old hag!' Now the blonde girl abruptly rises and runs for the exit, both hands pressed over her mouth. As the sliding doors close, her howls of laughter drift back in. Completely dejected I do not notice Charlie coming to stand next to me until her soft voice penetrates my misery.

'If you come with me, Miss, we will have you back in tiptop shape before you know it.' She hands me a towel, I use it to dab at myself. Still, when I follow Charlie, I drip royally all over the place. We pass through a door I have not noticed before and enter a dressing room with tiny cupboards on both sides of a large shower stall.

'Staff dressing room.' Charlie explains and opens one of the lockers with her key card. She removes a paper wrapped packet and turns to me, 'While you take a shower I will have your dress cleaned, Miss.' She waits for me to hand over the soggy dress, puts it into a plastic bag and hands me the packet.

'I'll only be a moment, Miss.' she assures me, 'but if you have a question you just ask the computer guard.' 'All right, Charlie, not to worry.' I reply, and step into one of the cubicles. I put my three friends on a little shelf and soon enjoy cascades of hot water. Suddenly a thought dawns on me, 'Hey, Computer, how long will this hot water last?' A deep male voice answers, 'The water will last as long as you wish, ma'am.' My mouth sags open, I do not remember to have died, but I must be in heaven all the same! In the S.I.S. you have to be obscenely dirty to merit three minutes of hot water, else cold is the norm.

'You mean, if I want to stand here for an hour, I will have hot water all that time?' I ask, still not believing my ears.

'Yes ma'am, you will.' Euforious, I turn my full attention to soaping myself until the end of time. Just as I rinse my hair, my bracelet emits an insistent beeping. Damn, I have almost forgotten the Chief Administrator!

I stop the shower and stand with feet spread on outlines in the floor tiles and arms akimbo; an intense flow of hot air dries me off in no time. Just before the dryer cuts off, it releases a puff of perfumed powder.

'Ah, I think I can learn to live with the decadent!' I think, rip open the paper packet and pick up a bundle of clothes; a chequered waitress's outfit like Charlie wears, only a couple of sizes larger. I dress quickly and finish just as Charlie returns.

'Sorry Charlie,' I tell her, 'I am running late for my appointment with Mr. Thorvaldson so I have to leave right now.' She looks a bit disappointed but offers to show me a shortcut that is not in my key-card. My three friends are firmly in place again, so we quick-march through several twisting corridors that look definitely grimy! Clearly, these passages are not included in the "tourist area". Quickly we move on until we find ourselves in front of a steel sliding door that has simply 'Chief Administrator' stencilled upon it. Charlie presses a bell stud on its jamb to announce me, the door slides open and I step into a large office. Inside I come to a full stop.

Chief Administrator Thorvaldson looks up from behind his immense desk. "Old Hag" and her companions from the dining room sit in comfortable looking chairs facing him. The woman takes one glance at me and her face again assumes that depreciative look. I blush my by now customary red while Mr. Thorvaldson's gaze takes in the tiny tableau. He must suspect something has passed between the four of us but he just smoothly rises and walks around his desk to shake my hand.

'Corporal O'Connel, welcome to Outpost City. I wish it were under better circumstances.' As he mentions my rank I notice three pairs of eyes widen in surprise. I mutter something inaudible but the C.A. already moves ahead.

'First, let me present you my right hand and Vice Administrator, Miss Olivia Burroughs-Hepplethwaithe.' "Old Hag" manages something of a smile and extends her right hand, muttering, 'Pleased to meet you, Miss, err Corporal.' Shaking her limp extension, I lie shamelessly, 'The pleasure is all mine, ma'am.'

'Mr Nigel Harrows-Smythe, head of security.' Mr. Thorvaldson continues. Again hands are shaken.

'Miss Cathryn Stevens, technician and general Jack-of-all-trades.' While I shake an unsuspected strong hand, I pull Miss Stevens a little closer to me, and whisper, 'I'm pretty sure what I said in the dining room was inaudible, still you seemed to perfectly hear my words. Will you let me in on your secret?' She looks me straight in the eyes and with a deadpan face replies, 'I can lip-read, Corporal.' An impish light dances in her blue eyes.

For a moment, I am at a total loss for words, then Mr. Thorvaldson speaks up, 'Excuse me Corporal, we have a lot to cover. May I ask you to step forward, please?' An inaudible sigh escapes my lips while I step forward and face those present. The meeting has started.