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C.A.T. Copyright © 2011 by Rosie Oliver All rights reserved. No part of this story (eBook) may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or book reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidences are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Published by TWB Press Cover Art by Terry Wright Edited by Terry Wright 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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EXCERPT:

Triton Base on the frozen moon orbiting Neptune:

C.A.T. sensed it was going to be a bad fur day when Commander Zacman rushed in

through the sliding door and shoved his robo-cat off his desk. The electro-mechanical feline

barely had time to wipe all traces of its search for local self-learners off the net-screen, let

alone twist around to land on its paws.

Another man entered the space-base command office at a more measured pace.

C.A.T. engaged its facial recognition app. Bald head. Canted brows. Crooked nose. Pinched

lips. The Chief of Engineering. Nobody knew his name, just called him Chief. “That plane

was in full working order. I checked her myself.”

“Damn it, Chief,” Zacman said, skimming his fingers over the net-screen. “It’s the

third one we’ve lost in as many months.”

~4~ 

 

“You don’t have to tell me. I was the first one at the crash sites. I had to pick up the

pieces. The way the debris was scattered, it doesn’t take a maths-head to see it was pilot

error.”

“You’re saying three of my pilots screwed up? Not likely.”

“The Accident Board investigated the last two crashes thoroughly. They couldn’t

come up with anything else. You know what a suspicious lot they are.”

“They’re paid to be suspicious, but they’re wrong. My pilots are the best.”

C.A.T. jumped up onto a shelf behind Zacman and peered over his shoulder for any

hint of its earlier manipulations on the net-screen. The last thing C.A.T.’s ID chip wanted was

to be suspected of being a self-learner at the controls of a standard issue robo-cat. It wouldn’t

trust that information to any human, not even the commander. If the truth was ever

discovered, C.A.T. would be permanently deleted.

Self-learners were illegal.

The Chief eyed C.A.T. warily. “That robo-cat of yours is on the blink again.”

“Quit worrying about Cat. You had it last week for a thorough check-out.”

“There’s something not right about its behaviourals.”

“That’s your over-egged imagination talking.”

“The only thing it’s good for is spare parts.”

C.A.T. wanted to jump in and defend itself, but its survival response-mod kept its

voice transmitter quiet.

Zacman quaded the net-screen and switched on an instruction set in the bottom right-

hand window. The other windows started playing re-enactments of each of the three plane

crashes.

C.A.T. directed one video sensor to glance at the Chief. He was concentrating on the

net-screen. C.A.T.’s logic module determined the Chief was looking for any excuse to

confiscate it for spare parts. It instructed itself to be extra careful around him, and then it

focused both video lenses on the crash re-enactments.

“I see a lot in common here,” Zacman said. “The pilots had their plasma dust shields

at full strength, meteoroid avoidance modules on, and automatic escape vectors out of the

ring arc on standby. Yet each one crashed into a large asteroid.”

“Pilot error,” the Chief insisted.

“I still want your team to do an analysis of similarities between the asteroids. Find out

where they came from. There has to be something we’re missing.”

The Chief sucked his teeth.

~5~ 

 

C.A.T.’s emotion app detected indignation in the Chief’s hard expression.

“I know you would do it as a matter of course,” Zacman said, as if he too noticed the

Chief’s offence at any insinuation he might be slack in his duties. “But I want you to

personally check the results.”

The Chief drew himself up to his full height and executed the sharpest salute C.A.T.

had ever seen. “On my way, sir.” He left at his usual measured speed.

Zacman slumped into his chair. “There’s got to be something wrong with those

planes,” he muttered, pushing his fingers through his short black hair and then clasping his

hands behind his head. “What though?”

C.A.T. swung its mechanical tail to and fro, waiting for the commander to come up

with an answer.

Zacman went back to studying the windows, in turn, as each played a crash re-

enactment from the viewpoint of looking down on the space-plane and Neptune’s rings. In

each case, an asteroid seemed to have come from out of nowhere.

Then he played the crashes, in turn, from the pilots’ views. A speck of rock grew to

fill the entire window, even though the view slewed one way, jerked another, accelerated

forward, and spun round. It was as if the asteroid countered every evasive manoeuvre the

pilots performed. He played them through simultaneously. And again individually.

C.A.T. was in the middle of a mechanical yawn when Zacman hit the freeze control

during the replay of the third crash: Davenport’s final corkscrew turn in Liberté. Zacman

stared at the image of a rock surrounded by stars and dust. C.A.T.’s logic module probed for

a reason why the commander had picked up on that particular scene. The background showed

no meteoroid activity. It analysed Liberté’s ring arc for any asteroids. All incoming data

showed just one space rock. C.A.T. compared the plane’s control inputs to the responses.

Everything was functioning properly. Its logic module concluded the asteroid’s erratic

trajectory had made the collision inevitable.

Zacman loaded apps on the net-screen with a precision of purpose that made C.A.T.

watch him carefully. It wasn’t until he was pathing through the computer coding that C.A.T.

worked out what he was doing, a search for similarities between the avoidance manoeuvres

of all three pilots. His approach to the problem was elegant, efficient, erudite, and effective.

In fact, it had so many Es that Zacman had to be a maths-head.

C.A.T.’s voice transmitter let out a purr.

Zacman snapped his head around to C.A.T.

It swished its tail up against the air vent grill to make a similar sound, the result of its

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survival response-mod activating to avoid anyone detecting its hidden self-learning

capacitators.

The commander stared at C.A.T. Its emotion app sensed suspicion. And for good

reason: it had almost revealed its ability to appreciate the commander’s maths-head abilities,

which only a self-learner could do. Seems the Chief had given Zacman a reason to be

suspicious of C.A.T.

Zacman returned to his pathing routine.

C.A.T.’s survival response-mod unwound. Close call.

A few minutes later, Zacman hit the GO tab.

The results appeared in a window. There were six common manoeuvres between the

three pilots. He ran his finger over the list: 3g+ turn into third quadrant, plasma dust shield

on at full strength, meteoroid avoidance module on, initiation of trajectory into escape vector

activated, auto-pilot shutdown, and finally a retro-jets flare that lasted less than three

seconds before impact.

Zacman checked the planes’ comms logs for any distress signals. In each case, the

comms link went silent after the dust shield was switched on. “God, there was nowhere for

them to go,” he said, closing his eyes and burying his head in his hands.

C.A.T. detected guilt. Its history database revealed why. Six years ago, Zacman had

ordered four pilots to their deaths on Callisto. He’d miscalculated the oxygen supplies

required for such an ambitious rescue operation. Before they suffocated to death, they had

saved the lives of twenty-seven colonists. The pilots were acclaimed heroes, yet Zacman still

woke up at night screaming their names.

Guilt was a sleepless bed partner.

C.A.T.’s robo-cat control pod curled its body up on the shelf, and its logic module

pondered one question: How had it missed Zacman being a maths-head? He must have been

actively hiding his maths-headedness. Why, though? They were the royalty of the

intelligentsia, not usually stuck struggling for survival at the edge of the solar system with

common humanity. Was his hiding-in-plain-sight some form of self-inflicted punishment for

what happened on Callisto? C.A.T.’s electro-neurals began to rapid fire as its logic module

mulled over the question.

Zacman’s net-screen switched to a visual of Flight Officer Katie Hoskins. C.A.T.’s

facial recognition app logged in brunette, sighing eyes, perfect nose, and puckering lips.

“Sir?”

“Ready my plane.”

~7~ 

 

“You’re going out?”

“That’s right.”

“How should I log your flight?”

“Patrolling the rings.”

“But sir, regulations stipulate the commander must delegate that duty to lower-

ranking pilots.”

“I’ll sign the waiver.” Zacman glowered at her image on the screen.

“But surely Officers Thurston or Perschau...”

C.A.T.’s video sensors registered Katie shrinking under Zacman’s glare.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll make the arrangements straight away.”

The net-screen blanked.

C.A.T.’s logic module kicked in. The commander’s determination to go out on patrol

by himself defied all data-enhanced reasoning. However, its self-learning capacitators

predicted the reason was tied to what happened to his pilots on Callisto.

“Activate voice commands, Central,” Zacman said into the net-screen.

“What do you require, sir?” came the monotone female voice of the Triton Base main

computer named Central.

“I wish to state my last will and testament.”

“What would you like to put in your will?” Central inquired flatly.

“My robo-cat is to go to the Chief so he can use it for spare parts.”

C.A.T. jerked its head up from its crossed paws, its danger-mode set to maximum

alert.

“The rest of my estate is to be sold. The proceeds are to be spent for the benefit of the

Callisto survivors.”

“Your request has been initiated, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“Deactivate voice command, Central.”

“Have a nice flight.”

For links to purchase C.A.T. go to www.twbpress.com/cat.html

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About the Author Rosie Oliver is a lateral thinker by inclination, a chartered mathematician by training and experience, and a systems engineer by reputation – a good basis for doing what she enjoys, writing hard science fiction. After working for over 30 plus years on real tech, she is now doing an MA in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University. What could be lovelier than studying in the Elizabethan Manor house at Corsham Court? Rosie lives in Chipping Sodbury, England, with three cute cats, the runt of the litter definitely being the boss cat! She invites you to visit her science fiction blog at rosieoliver.wordpress.com.   

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