black box. There is no process for repairing an intelligence core. You do not, for any reason, open a grav assembly. Even if someone wanted to crack an artificial gravity generator—and was not stopped by legions of frantic Network drones—they would find themselves unable. Inside those indestructible white casings lie mechanisms as mysterious and unknowable as the Network itself. Hell, maybe it is the Network. Mer has often wondered if all Network technology isn’t just some magical substance, portioned out and poured into unbreakable containers.
Mer sighs, clicking another pattern on the table. Sure, his gut has been telling him bad things since he pulled her out of that academy ship, but it wasn’t until he met the Human that he realized: his instincts hadn’t even gotten started.
Run! Fight! Freeze! Move!
And weirdest of all: Watch the Human!
He should have killed it when he had the chance. But the suit—Gor damn it, the suit convinced him not to. It convinced him he ought to be grateful. Which is why he is sitting here on a Blackstar, waiting for his order and shaking like a—
He nearly puts the talon through the table when his helper intelligence messages him. He pulls himself together, avoiding the glances of his fellow patrons. [What?] he sends to his implant, attaching several irritable emotions.
[You said to message you when there was news], says his implant.
[Well?]
[There’s news.]
Mer taps a talon several times before responding. He has long suspected that the small intelligence in his Network implant hates him—or at least goes out of its small way to annoy him. [What is it?] he asks, as calmly as his instincts will allow.
[I’m seeing a Network response], says his implant. [It is centered in the arboretum across the bridge. The one that you, in your high-tier wisdom, asked me to watch.]
Like the magic of the Network itself, a Network response is one of those things that you often miss if you’re not looking for it—unless you happen to be a Network mechanic. Outside, Mer can see a slow crosscurrent forming in the continual drifting of traffic. The legal intelligences continue on their individual oblivious ways, but the sub-legals are beginning to drift out of their lanes and toward the arboretum. Something in there is upsetting them, some irritation in the Network, and they cannot rest until it is fixed. And whatever it is, Mer would bet good credit that it’s centered around the Human.
[Maybe you should follow them], says his Network implant. [Whatever the problem is, I’m sure they could use a big strong individual like yourself.]
It’s mocking him. Again. But Mer has larger concerns. He stands, the table groaning as he leans his weight on it long enough to get on his feet.
You’re in danger! cry his instincts. Watch the Human!
[You seem tense], says his helper intelligence.
Mer takes a breath, talons rattling against the table. Tense is not the word. He is not the Mer he used to be. He’s not the relaxed Mer of his village, or even the dutiful Network mechanic who spent the last year as the sole legal employee on a lonely waystation. He has become a wound and trembling spring, a torqued titanium rod, an overpressurized plasma container—
[It’s over], says his helper intelligence. [Whatever it was, it’s resolved. I suppose you can go back to sitting and thinking high-tier thoughts.]
It’s not over! Something is wrong! You’re in danger! Watch the Human!
Mer does not reply. He stares out the front of the establishment, listening. Something is touching the edge of his hearing, a maddeningly subtle sound. It’s unfamiliar, but it instantly raises the fur along his spines. It’s metallic, he can tell that much. A continual ringing, like several tones sliding on top of each other—
And now he can feel it through the floor. The slight ringing becomes a trembling in the very atmosphere. One by one, nearby eyes and sensors are raised to the front of the establishment. Now someone stands, the better to see. Outside on the bridge, intelligences are falling over one another to get out of the way of…something. And then that metal roar crests and a silver tide rolls by, shaking the air with its call.
[Now that is an intelligence], remarks his helper intelligence. Unlike you, it does not add.
Mer ignores the message. “A four,” he whispers, reading the registration off his overlay. He’s never even seen a four before, but here’s one in the metallic flesh. It’s gorgeous, an ever-changing rainbow of reflections and flashes of light. It