On the other side of GoogolSoft’s speaker phone, Brin’s secretive second meeting came to a close.
“Alright, Boss-dog. We’ll see you,” R.T. transmitted.
A second’s delay, “Awesome.”
“Diana—” she started.
“Good talking—” the hen’s voice started at the same time.
Damn, the delay was still a problem. She’d have to look into that.
They both shared an awkward moment punctuated by a breathless chuckle. They vied silently to let the other one speak in some sort of game of politeness chicken (no pun intended).
“We’ll talk to y—”
“Okay then—”
Another verbal thrust and parry ended in stalemate.
“AlrightDianagoodtalkingtoyoutalktoyouagainsoon,” R.T. shot out like a word bullet.
“I’ll—” Diana stopped, beaten to the punch, their joust complete. “Okay, R.T. talk to you soon.” Then she added, “I hope we can count on you to do your part.”
R.T. opened the channel and shut it again, taken aback.
“Diiaaana,” Brin drawled. “Come on, man. R.T.’s cool. Be cool.”
A beat and a half of dead air. “I’m cool.”
R.T. opened the channel again. “You can count on me, Diana,” she broadcasted with an internal wince. It was more defensive then she intended.
“Totally. Totally. We know that,” Brin interjected. “You get back to making us the most successful name in the Storyverse, you hear?” He was infectiously genial. He made it so you wanted to please him—needed to please him. Like letting him down would be akin to executing baby pandas, gangland style.
“You bet, Brin.” This time she winced because she sounded like a godsdamned schoolgirl.
“Ciao,” he said at the last and terminated the signal.
R.T. let out exhaust she hadn’t even realized she was recirculating. No wonder she was running so hot.
As cool air vented in, she was able to acknowledge that Diana was right to be nervous. She was new to their cabal; completely untried, loyalty untested, and sitting at the center of their entire operation. Literally.
R.T. was a light personal transport spacecraft attached to and suspended by thousands of microfilaments, wires, tubes and struts. Specifically she was a Routine-Class Teuton-Drive Psyche-Infused Astromobile (R.T.P. 10001); R.T. for short. Her working class looks belied the reality: she was a one-of-a-kind, built-to-spec commission from the Bastard Sun to a clan of interdimensional wormhole gnomes. She was literally centuries ahead of her time thanks to a little time-travel and her Psyche-Infused Unique ID Personality Matrix. A design currently used as a router for the entire Infi-Net.
Her cabin was empty, her hold silent, and her quarters uncharacteristically tidy. “Surfacing” as she had begun to call it depressed her. So she dove. Her consciousness—the parts of her that were her—splashed down into the Infi-Net Control Center. Here she was herself… well, what she came to see as her real self. She flexed imaginary fingers, stretched imaginary arms. They could be real. She could do that. It was another one of those things that made her unique. For lack of a better term she was a were-craft. Both woman and spaceship. Inside the Infi-Net however, she was merely a projection.
She willed her hair up into a ponytail, pulled the zipper all the way up on her jumpsuit, and cracked her knuckles. It was time to go to work. She stood in a bright white expanse of nothingness. This was her workshop. With a thought, a seat and workstation came into existence in front of her. Hundreds of monitors unfolded outward, momentarily constructed out of ones and zeroes before hardening into form. She took her seat.
Her right hand went about locating probable causes for the transmission delays, while her left went about reallocating background memory functions to allow smoother navigational transitions. She smiled as she worked. It was good to feel a part of something.
A pebble of guilt pelted her in the back of the head, thrown by the unruly child of unwanted memory. Right, the Shadowstories. Technically she was part of them already. After all, she was literally built to be one. But those guys were total dicks. (And messy pigs.) Self-absorbed bravado made flesh, given weapons, and sent about a mission they didn’t understand. Yet somehow they did it. They were really good at it, even.
R.T. wanted more. She couldn’t blindly rush into danger quite the way they could. She couldn’t shut down all sense of logic and self-preservation and unquestioningly punch whatever got in her way the way those guys did.
Lord Chuckles was a self-righteous ass. Always taking unsolicited charge or telling everyone what (he thought) was what. He had a keen enough eye, and gave the impression of sapient thought, but he was a total blowhard and really bad with listening. She got her nickname—Rootin’ Tootin’ Psychomobile—all because he didn’t bother to pay attention when she was introduced.
Grebok had the equal and opposite problem. Hit things first, think about them never. How anyone could have traveled to the far ends of the Storyverse, gained rank in six military branches, been (reportedly) classically educated, and still be so ridiculously thick was beyond her ken. He was truly a walking contradiction.
Sparky was an asshole’s asshole. The only wonder about that weasel was that no one had shot him in the back of the face. Surly and unlikable in almost every conceivable way. Also, not litter trained despite his protestations, or attempts to pass the buck to Gunther.
Poor Gunther. He wasn’t even a hero. He was otherwise harmless, and took good minutes, but man, you just wanted to put him out of his misery.
She caught herself looking up at the picture she’d taken while they were held captive on Rotworld.
Maybe Grebok wasn’t so bad. He was a capable pilot, and could be surprisingly deep. Maybe she missed all of them in their way. Maybe she was sorry she bailed on them without so much as a note. She just left them at that Intergalactic Rest Stop.
She reached up and turned the picture face down.
You know what? Fuck them. If they wanted her around so much, they would’ve given a shit at the time. Brin cared. Brin had a plan for the future. Several plans, matter of point. Compare that to the zero plans any of those half-apes had. Brin understood stuff, like machines, and girls, and not punching everyone he met.
The Infi-Net was her chance to make a real difference. Not just carting those so-called heroes around the Storyverse looking for lizardmen to nut-kick, and maidens to screw. Having to pull their fat out of the fire every damn time they got in too deep. Which was every damn time. R.T. do this. R.T. do that. R.T. where are you? R.T. we need that fucking air support! R.T. we’ve angered the local god and need pickup. R.T. that was Gunther who pooped in your Twin Foil Exhaust Vent.
Yeah, fuck them.
They were probably still at that rest stop: milling around outside the women’s room, thinking she was in there with “female issues.” That’s how little they understood women. Not that she was a real woman… technically. Or maybe she technically was, but not really? Well… that just went to show even more how little they understood her. Yeah, probably pacing around outside the bathroom like useless puppies, harassing interstellar transients, mistaking vending machines for evil robots (again), punching janitors and stuff. Apes.
Another twinge of regret poked her in the back of the head. She kind of missed punching janitors.
No. No she didn’t. Not as much as she liked building the future. With Brin. With GoogolSoft. With….
Her eyes flicked over to what her right hand was doing. The delay! She found the cause… or causes. Multiple carrier signals… that didn’t make any sense, probably a glitch. No way were people in the Infi-Net, that was nonsense.
A piggyback signal, however? That was not only possible, it was happening.
Someone was hacking the Infi-Net.
Maybe she could track it….
That bitch.
