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Neptune’s Angel

Copyright © 2012 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

Edited by Terry Wright

Cover Art by Terry Wright

ISBN 978-1-936991-41-9

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by

Rosie Oliver

Triton Base on the frozen moon orbiting Neptune:

C.A.T. curled up in Commander Zacman’s chair at his vacant

console in the Control Centre. Its survival response mod restricted it

to following robo-cat’s control pod instructions to keep a low profile.

Should anyone suspect it of being a self-learner, the punishment

would be immediate deletion. No questions asked.

Everything going on around the room was as expected, routine

and repetitive, until: “Mayday,” a male voice shouted from a comms

console. “Mayday.”

C.A.T.’s ears twitched round, and its video-optic sensors

focused on the emergency response screen. Its danger mode mod set

off a chain reaction through its electro-neurals and apps, which

commanded its voice transmitter to emit a loud hiss.

Flight Officer Katie Hoskins, who sat at the console closest to

Zacman’s chair, scowled at C.A.T.

~4~ It instantly shut off its voice transmitter. Its emotion app had

nearly gotten it busted, as only a self-learner could respond

emotionally to a mayday call. So C.A.T. playfully swiped at its tail,

careful not to rip the ginger fur lining with its alloy claws, just to

distract Katie away from any hint it was a self-learner.

“What now?” Lieutenant Edward Woodward said, sitting at the

comms console and drawing Katie’s attention away from C.A.T.

It curled up again while its emotion app registered close call.

The emergency screen showed a flashing red dot against

Triton’s star-map. The dot had deviated from a green-line approach

trajectory towards Triton Base’s array of landing pads. The console’s

left screen flicked on revealing a face that glistened with sweat.

C.A.T. fed the image through its facial recognition app: sticking out

ears, dimple in chin, thick jowls, heavily wrinkled brow. Cargo Pilot

Eric Trubshaw, stationed at Neried Moon Base, married with

children.

“We have your transponder code and flight plan, Trubshaw,”

Edward said while working through his options menus. “What is your

problem?”

“My controls are locked. I can’t manually override them.”

C.A.T.’s diagnostic module analysed possible failure scenarios

through all the layered backups and built-in fail-safes aboard the

cargo craft. Its logic module assessed the probability factor against

this type of failure at a million-to-one.

“Give me permission to take control of your bridge,” Edward

~5~ ordered.

“Doing it now.” Trubshaw worked his instruments in front of

him. His hands flew up in the air. He blinked and stared down at his

bridge. His jowls drooped.

C.A.T.’s emotion app detected bewilderment.

“I don’t get it,” Trubshaw said. “These permission systems are

foolproof.”

Edward slid open a red panel. He hit the tab switch underneath.

The ESTC, Emergency Space Traffic Control holographs materialised

above two flatbeds in the middle of the Control Centre’s floor.

Floating image number one depicted Triton Moon as a small blue-

grey ball with a pink ice cap. A web of green lines circumnavigated

the moon, indicating the flight paths of other spacecraft in the

vicinity, which were marked by flashing yellow dots. White dots

showed the location of the comms satellites in orbit.

C.A.T.’s video sensors zoomed in on floating image number

two: Triton Base and its star-shaped formation of six landing pads

that stood on pink ice and a seventh pad set off in the misty distance.

The 3-D image also showed the spherical domes of Triton Base

clustered beside Pad One, and the new liquid oxygen fuel reservoirs

situated some ways out from the perimeter.

A red-line trajectory flicked on, cut past the sprays of green

flight paths, and terminated at the oxygen fuel reservoirs. The red line

was Trubshaw’s course to an imminent collision with disastrous

consequences.

~6~ Flight controllers worked their consoles with an air of urgency

as go-arounds and holding pattern orders were given. Yellow dots on

the holograph veered off their designated courses and arced away

from Triton Base, some shooting off the holographs entirely.

Katie spoke into her comms. “Saunders and Marshall, get ready

for launch. Inbound cargo craft with control failure. Prepare to engage

and destroy before it crashes into our fuel depot.”

Trubshaw hit his bridge controls with force. He looked up,

white-faced and wide-eyed. “How is this possible?”

C.A.T.’s emotion app identified fear.

“My control coordinator app won’t let me in,” Trubshaw added.

“Copy that,” Edward said. “We’re looking into other options.”

“I’m going to need a miracle.”

C.A.T.’s curiosity app wirelessly searched the library files

stored on Central, Triton’s main computer, for information on

miracles. Results came back, cases of people surviving against

insurmountable odds when certain death was imminent. These cases

defied logic and were called miracles.

Commander Zacman dashed into the Control Centre and headed

directly for his chair. C.A.T. had barely enough time to scramble off

before Zacman sat down. Its irritate-the-owner app sent him a how-

dare-you-disturb-me glower.

He didn’t seem to notice as he went to work touching activation

tabs.

The robo-cat scampered over to Edward’s console and jumped

~7~ up on a ledge under his monitor where C.A.T. settled down to watch

the action.

“Give me some options, people,” Zacman said.

Edward looked up from his screen. “Yup. I’m working through

the menus now, sir.”

“Full status report,” Zacman ordered.

One-by-one the eight flight controllers said, “Nothing available,

sir.” Finally Flight Officer Katie Hoskins added, “No rescue is

possible. Shall I instruct Saunders and Marshall to engage?”

“Tell them to get into position but hold their fire. Maybe we can

figure something out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Zacman hit a switch on his console for Central to record the

Control Centre activities. “Everyone keep working on Trubshaw’s

problem, and Edward...”

“Sir?”

“Tell him straight. This could end badly. He’ll understand. He

used to be Service.” Zacman stared at C.A.T. “In the meantime, I’ll

get my computer ace to look into Central for an answer.”

C.A.T. jerked its head up and hit the bottom of Edward’s screen,

which crackled and sent zigzag lines cutting across the view.

“Hey,” Edward shouted. “Somebody get this cat-bot out of my

way.”

“Come here, Cat.” Zacman patted his knees.

C.A.T.’s danger mode mod kicked in. Its logic module knew

~8~ any involvement in this crisis could expose its self-learner

capabilities, which would get it deleted, for sure. Nine lives only

counted for real cats.

It jumped to Zacman’s lap and stared at him. The Control Centre

returned to its efficient hum. Zacman pretended to talk into his

comms while talking to C.A.T. “Go into Central. Find out what the

problem is with Trubshaw’s craft.”

This would be no simple database search for library information.

Zacman had supplied C.A.T.’s codec, its digital-binary essence, with

backdoors so it could upload itself into Central’s main processors.

However, these processors utilized effective rogue software cleansers.

If C.A.T. opened one wrong file or analysed one wrong line of code,

Central would track it like a common virus and delete it. Permanently.

Zacman raised his left eyebrow. “Well?”

To purchase Neptune’s Angel, please go to www.twbpress.com/neptunesangel.html to find all the links to Kindle, Nook, TWB, and other fine online e-book sellers.

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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 has

an MA in Creative Writing from 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, with 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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