“I rip administrative androids into pieces and use the resulting chunks of metal as free weights,” Rogan replied.

  “That’s an excellent idea!” the robot replied enthusiastically. “Did you file a form eight-dot-seven? That’s what the company’s suggestion plan is for, you know . . . sharing good ideas.”

  Rogan sighed. “Thanks . . . Now, shut up and get out of the way.”

  The robot did neither. In fact, it not only led the way but slipped into the VIP tour mode. “All that you see here represents the latest in technology. In fact, the Calag corporate vision statement, ‘High-quality food through the use of leading-edge technology,’ pretty well sums it up. Everything, including the planet and all of its ecosystems, was designed to deliver full value to customers and share owners alike. Take the weather, for example . . .”

  Unable to make the android shut up, Rogan did the next best thing and tuned it out. They had left the landing pad and were walking/floating along the access way that paralleled the gigantic conveyer belt. Having landed on the belt, the massive grav haulers dribbled bits of vegetable matter behind them as they were carried along. The warm, musky smell of freshly harvested crops filled the air and lifted Rogan’s spirits. Like millions of farmers before him, Rogan loved the look, the feel, and yes, the smell of the harvest. Okay, he was about two million tons short of making his wheat quota, but what farmer ever brought in what he or she hoped for? And what could be more worthwhile than feeding the hungry? Certainly not law, or accounting, or any of the other professions that came to mind. No, he had one of the best, if not the best, job in the Confederation.

  A warning Klaxon interrupted his thoughts. Rogan turned toward the droid in time to witness the switch from the VIP to the production mode. It stopped in midsentence, paused to “hear”

  some radio traffic, and sped down the access way. A real VIP might have been offended, but Rogan was pleased to see that the anonymous programmers had their priorities stacked in the right order. Production first, suits second. He started to run, but the flying torso soon disappeared around a curve.

  Rogan had to jog for half a mile before he caught up with the administrative droid. It was speaking to a trio of maintenance bots. “Don’t just stand there . . . Get to work!”

  “I have an idea,” one of the machines replied. “Why don’t you fix the problem? We’re on a break.”

  Rogan eyed the admin droid. “What’s going on here?”

  The torso pointed at a huge cargo hauler. “This unit is loaded with animal protein and the cooling system broke down. I ordered these droids to repair the hauler, but they refuse to do so in a timely way.”

  “They can’t refuse. They’re machines.”

  “They can’t refuse to work,” the admin droid agreed, “but their operating system allows them to determine how fast they work. And these droids are participating in what they call a slowdown.”

  “That’s right,” one of the robots put in. “We want paid maternity leave.”

  “And 801(k) plans,” another added.

  “Plus sick leave,” the third said earnestly.

  That was when Rogan realized that the runaway robot, the one he had been forced to chase all the way to the ocean, was part of much a larger pattern—a problem that couldn’t come at a worse time. “Okay,” Rogan said. “You’re unhappy. I get that. But we need to get this stuff off-planet or I’ll be looking for a job and you’ll be taking a break in a recycling bin.”

  “All right,” the first droid said. “Don’t get your panties in a knot. We’ll make the repair. But this isn’t over.”

  Servos whined, power wrenches chattered, and the smell of ozone filled the air as the maintenance bots removed an access panel. The machines completed the repairs within fifteen minutes, bolted the access plate back in place, and left for their next assignment. The admin bot switched to the VIP mode and was about to resume the tour when Rogan turned and walked away. It was rude, but the android didn’t mind. Sentients were similar to the weather—unpredictable and frequently in the way.

  Rogan returned to the truck, dropped into the pilot’s seat, and took off without consulting the air traffic control computer. It was still complaining when Wally cut it off. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a problem. A big problem. A significant number of the robots are going bonkers.”

  “Bonkers?”

  “Yeah. They’re demanding benefits, staging slowdowns, and generally acting human.”

  “It sounds like a virus.”

  “Damned right it does. I’m on my way back to headquarters. I’ll hook the runner up, run some antivirus software, and see what happens. In the meantime I want you to prepare for a planetwide shutdown and reboot.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. That would bring the whole shipping process to a halt. Corporate will go crazy.”

  “What choice to do we have? Even if the droids can’t strike, they can still bring us to our knees. So get ready.”

  “Okay, let me know what you find.”

  “Roger that.”

  Rogan felt a compelling sense of urgency as he completed the trip home and exited the truck. Normally Bob would have spidered out of the support building to greet him, but the lead robot was nowhere to be seen until Rogan entered the barnlike structure and saw the droid talking to its subordinates. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “We’re discussing the company’s sexual harassment policy,” Bob replied defensively.

  “Robots can’t have sex,” Rogan countered.

  “That’s true,” a robot named Judy agreed. “But our programming requires us to be conversant with all of the company’s policies and procedures.”

  Rogan sighed. “Bob willcome with me. The rest of you can return to work.”

  There was a certain amount of grumbling as the robots returned to their tasks and Bob followed Rogan into the workshop. The runaway robot was laid out on the worktable in the middle of the room. The walls were lined with storage cabinets, a heavy-duty bench, and industrial-quality power tools. “Hook it up,” Rogan instructed. “We’re going to run every kind of diagnostic software we have on this unit.”

  “Okay,” Bob replied, “but I’m supposed to be on a break in twelve minutes.”

  Rogan sighed. “Shut up and connect the lead.”

  Bob opened the 43/B’s access panel, plugged a lead into port 1, and ran a quick check. “The connection is good. Do you want me to run the tests?”

  “No,” Rogan replied, “I’ll do it myself.”

  The next fifteen minutes were spent running a variety of diagnostic programs, and the results were unmistakable. He activated the link. “Wally . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “You were right. It’s a virus. Something called Unionworm 87.6.”

  Wally produced a synthesized whistle. “That’s some bad shit . . . It sounds like somebody found a way to get past our antivirus software. Remember the shipment of 81/Cs we received a few weeks back? How much you want to bet that at least one of them was corrupted?”

  “Put ’em in electronic quarantine,” Rogan responded. “Then we can take a look. In the meantime shut everything down, overwrite every operating system on the planet, and boot us up. How long will it take?”

  “At least two hours.”

  “How long til the fleet arrives?”

  “Five hours and thirteen minutes, give or take three seconds.”

  “Okay, make it happen.”

  The sun was going down by then. The lights in the house were on but disappeared as Wally went to work. Rogan couldn’t see it but knew systems were going down all over the world. The rail gun was offline, harvesters stood motionless, and thousands of robots were frozen in place.

  The reboot should work. But what if it didn’t? He would have made a bad situation worse.

  The thought dogged Rogan as he entered the darkened house. He knew the layout by heart, so it was easy to find a glass and a bottle of Duncan’s Prime. He took them out onto the wraparound porch and sat in a rocking chair. It made a gentle creaking sound as Rogan poured a drink. The sun dipped below the horizon and darkness closed in around him.

  Chapter Six

  The only thing worse than the danger of space travel is the monotony of it, especially when machines do most of the work and the crew are reduced to little more than low-paid backup organisms. There isn’t much to do aboard a tug, and we spent most of our time playing cards.

  (Excerpted from “A Star Sailor’s Story,” by Gabrielle Gianopoulos, Multimedia Matrix 30.8, Reference code NFH 4278.90.)

  Calag Planet 4782/X

  Jennifer Tran had all the money she could possibly use hidden away inside her almost microscopic cabin. So why was she hard at work cheating the tug’s crew out of their hard-earned pay? She wasn’t sure. Maybe the answer lay in one of the many lessons Joman Jones had taught her. “You gotta remember that suckers want to be fleeced. Why else would they trust a perfect stranger? Or risk their money when the odds are stacked against them?”

  Jennifer suspected the answer was a little more complicated than that but agreed with her ex-partner’s basic conclusion. If the suckers wanted to be fleeced, then it was her duty to fleece them, even if that meant acquiring money she didn’t really need.

  Shoals of blue cigar and stim stick smoke floated around their heads. Tran’s throat felt dry.

  She sipped some whiskey and took one last look at her electronic cards. Although the rectangles were as thin as their cardboard predecessors, they came equipped with high-definition video screens. Each card had four different values, and a hand consisted of what was visible onscreen plus the next image in the queue. That’s why Rockets and Stars was such a complicated game. Tran placed her cards on the table next to some very crisp bank notes. “I’ll raise a thousand and see what you’ve got.”

  Tran had the All Seeing Eye, three Rockets, and a Planet Buster—enough to take the pot.

  Not a lot of money when compared to the amount in her stash but a serious stake for everyone else.

  The entire crew was seated around the heavily worn table at the exact center of the ship’s minuscule lounge. Light rayed down to illuminate the top half of their faces. The tug’s captain was a husky middle-aged woman who referred to herself as “Moms” Morko. She shifted a half-smoked cigar from one side of her mouth to the other.

  The ship’s engineering officer, Randy “Red” Lewis, was located directly across from Tran. He was dressed in blue coveralls and winked at her as if they were party to a private joke.

  The tug’s astrogator was a cyborg named Billy “Bolts” Smith. He turned a vid cam in Tran’s direction. “Are you sure? That’s a lot of money.”

  Tran summoned her best sneer. “So? What’s the matter? Are you chicken?”

  “I don’t think so,” Bolts answered thoughtfully, “but with a body like mine, it’s hard to tell . A thousand it is.” The cyborg opened his chest cavity, reached inside, and removed a sheaf of crisp new bills. They whispered their individual denominations as he placed the pile on the table.

  “Ditto,” Moms growled as she masticated her cigar. “I’m feeling lucky today.” Two gold wafers thumped the tabletop.

  Red shrugged apologetically as he pulled a wad of currency out of a pocket and counted some greasy bills onto the table. A layer of dirt covered their solar threads, so they remained silent.

  Tran nodded, added her own money to the pot, and touched the lower right corner of each card. It had taken three days to work her “sims” into the deck. The All Seeing Eye blinked but continued to stare as the Rockets melted into Comets and the Planet Buster morphed into a Supernova, the highest card there was. Tran grinned. “Read ’em and weep.”

  Moms nodded, Bolts waved a tool arm, and Red smiled enigmatically. Tran felt a sudden hollowness at the pit of her stomach. Where was the shock? The disbelief? The anger? The answer quickly became apparent as each crew member touched the lower right corner of his or her cards. Moms had five supernovas, as did the others. That made sixteen supernovas in all.

  Twelve more than the deck allowed and a clear message: the crew knew their passenger was cheating and had chosen this way to say so.

  Tran was scared. What would they do? The answer was obvious: anything they wanted. It was their ship and she wasn’t supposed to be aboard. The only thing Tran had going for her was the illicit fare. Half had been paid up front, and half was due on landing. But what if the captain reneged and took the money? The crew could kill Tran and blow her body out through the main lock. Tran kept her hands in sight and waited for the crew to make the first move.

  Moms removed her cigar and examined the soggy end for defects. Finding none, she returned it to the corner of her mouth and squinted into the light. When she smiled, a hundred tiny lines appeared on her face. “Well, I’ll be damned. Three equal hands. Amazing. Whaddya say to a three-way split?”

  It seemed as though a three-way split was just fine with the rest of the crew—and Tran could do little more than watch as the crew split the pot three ways. She figured each member of the crew was pocketing more than a thousand credits of her hard-earned money. The bastards. As soon as the cash had disappeared, Bolts collected the cards, shuffled the deck, and scanned the other players. His tone was amiable. “Ready for another hand?”

  Tran slipped out of her chair and pretended to yawn. “Thanks, but no thanks. I need some shut-eye.”

  “Good idea,” Moms replied. “You wouldn’t want to miss your beauty sleep.”

  Tran checked the captain’s face for signs of sarcasm, but none were visible. She turned and left the lounge. Had she lingered a moment or turned to look back, she might have seen the one-finger salute directed at her back.

  Fortunately for Tran the fleet arrived at their destination sixteen hours later. She paid Morko, then was ushered onto a four-seat shuttle and ordered to strap in. The fact that Tran was seated immediately behind Morko made it difficult to see, but by craning her neck Tran could look out through the view port. The mostly brown planet was marbled with blue seas and white clouds.

  Though she was not a person to spend time thinking about beauty other than her own, the world was so heart-stoppingly perfect that even Tran took time to admire it. She wished there was a way to make a piece of jewelry that looked like that, something she could wear around her neck.

  The shuttle bumped down through layers of increasingly thick air. Clouds rose to envelope the shuttle in a momentary embrace before disappearing upward. A mountain range ran north and south, its peaks as uniform as soldiers on parade. Plains rolled away to either side of it, they were green with vegetation, and a system of crisscrossing access roads split them into sections.

  It was, Tran realized, a world without cities. And that thought made her nervous. She’d been born in a city, raised in a city, and with only a few brief exceptions lived her entire life in cities.

  What the hell would she do here—on a world populated by machines and a single glorified farmer?

  Hide, that’s what, she told herself grimly. Hide until it’s safe to leave. The bag containing the money was under her seat. By straining against her harness, Tran could touch the black ballistic nylon and take comfort from it.

  Yes, the relative safety of the ag planet was worth the price. She would be nice to the sodbuster, keep a low profile, and live for the day when she could escape. The captain’s voice came over her headset. “Hang on . . . We’re coming in for a landing.” Tran saw the ground come up and prepared herself for a jolt that never came.

  • • •

  Moms made a perfect three-point landing and turned onto the apron. A single person stood waiting. Rogan wore a flowery sport shirt, freshly pressed slacks, and a silly grin and held a ragged-looking bouquet in front of him. The flowers looked as though they had been pulled directly out of the ground.

  Moms killed the engines, released the external hatch, and followed Tran to the door. She watched Tran descend the robo-stairs, cross the apron, and say something to Rogan. That was when the PM kissed Tran on the cheek and gave her the flowers. Moms smiled as he offered to carry the black bag and Tran refused.

  Rogan waved and Moms waved back. She liked Rogan and was normally invited to dinner.

  Not today, however. Three, as they say, is definitely a crowd.

  Moms watched the couple enter a beat-up grav truck. Had it been washed? Yes, she thought it had, just the first of many changes in Rogan’s life. The truck lifted, banked steeply, and headed east. Moms felt for a cigar, found one in her breast pocket, and stuck it in the corner of her mouth. She checked to make sure her shuttle was being fueled before returning to the cockpit. A tone sounded. Moms touched a button. “Yeah?”

  “Hi, Moms. This is Wally.”

  “Hi, Wally. It looks like the reboot worked.”

  “Yeah . . . There were about a dozen units that failed to boot up, but we’ll deal with them later.”

  “So you killed the worm?”

  “For the moment . . . But the bigger question remains. Why didn’t our antiviral software identify and kill it? The security nerds have some explaining to do.”

  “Sounds like it,” Moms agreed. “How’s the loading going?”

  “We’re running about three hours behind schedule. Other than that, things are going well.”

  Moms nodded. “Great . . . Who knows? Maybe we can make up for lost time.”

  “Here’s hoping,” Wally agreed. “So did you tell him?”

  Moms played stupid. “Did I tell who what?”

  “Did you tell Rogan about Tran? About how she tried to cheat you?”

  Moms wished Wally would grow the hell up and let him hear the annoyance in her voice. “No, Wally, I didn’t, and neither should you. Dan’s no fool. Give him time. He’ll figure it out.”

  “You shouldn’t have brought her,” Wally said accusingly. “I could report you for taking a bribe.”

  Moms examined her cigar, wished she could light it, and knew she couldn’t. Not while the fueling process was under way. “I’ll tell you what, Wally . . . I’ll pretend you never said that.