User:Narc/Silent Night

Chapter One
As the sun rises on a part of an unseen world, dozens of light-years away, Kraft receives a medium-priority interrupt from his system clock, and proceeds to handle it. Most of the interrupts he handles are low-priority ones from automated systems -- the hundreds of tiny, but capable, sensor probes that dot a small volume of the star system the gray station was built in. In the last 24 hours, he has handled exactly 24,553,308 such low-priority interrupts. He lets one queue up for several milliseconds before finally applying a mostly-automated subroutine to the data stream from probe #151.

Kraft is an AI, with his Black Box -- his quantum core -- being among the oldest generation still in service. Without the Black Box, Kraft would be nothing but a glorified calculating machine, with no more reasoning capability than the average housefly; but with it, Kraft can think, and he does so now as he considers the best way to awaken his owner. He has been asked to vary his methods, within reasonable limits, and Kraft's long experience tells him he has not quite yet worn out the method he has been using for the past three days.

He cues the speakers in the sleeping cabin to a low starting volume and begins playing a favorite piece of classical music of his owner's. He also sets up a simple linear progression of increasing volume that will continue until the alarm is canceled, and settles down to watch and listen through his sensors as his owner slowly awakens.

"Five more minutes!" the sleeping form exclaims in the general direction of the pillow he has been sleeping on.

"You told me not to let you do that today, sir," Kraft explains, though he believes the reminder is unnecessary.

"Did I?" asks Jack. "What made me say such a stupid-- oh!"

Kraft waits, as he knows this ritual well. In the last six months alone, he and Jack have had the almost exactly the same morning conversation 26 times.

"It's Monday, isn't it?" Jack finally asks.

"Yes, sir, it is." Kraft files away another successful repetition of the morning ritual -- number twenty-seven in six months -- and shuts down the music.

As Kraft expects, Jack sits up almost as soon as the music cuts out, and makes his way to the privacy-screened bathroom where there are no video sensors. He activates the audio pickups there, as well as the ones in the small office on the other side of the sleeping cabin, anticipating Jack's morning routine. He further deactivates the video pickups in the sleeping cabin -- they are no longer showing anything interesting.

"New messages?" asks Jack over the sounds of splashing water.

"Only the standard 'commercial crap', sir," Kraft replies. Jack had specifically requested the use of the term when referring to the normal junk-mailings that always seemed to travel through the Internet.

"Relevant news?"

"Tensions seem to be mounting regarding the blockade of the Petra system. I estimate we have only another week, maybe two, before the council will unilaterally decide to reopen it to normal shipping traffic. I quote one part of a relevant opinion piece: 'How long will the mad scientist be left to tinker around with his failure engine while millions await the resources and habitats to be built in Petra? I would guess not long anymore, as the council are not the buffoons they seem to be.' End quote."

"'The mad scientist'," Jack repeats, with a snort added for emphasis. "'Failure engine.' Some people are just never going to learn."

"Yes, sir," Kraft replies simply.

"That drive works, and it could be the answer to our most immediate problems, and they don't want us researching it in depth because it keeps them from their precious resources. As if a bunch of minerals was worth delaying us."

"In purely economical terms, in the short to medium run, our research project, even if successful, would not result in a gain in available resources -- whereas exploiting the mineral wealth of the Petra star system could bring the manufacturing industries to new heights, producing more wealth." Kraft pauses. "In the long run, of course, the expanded range from the jump drive would open the doors to exploitation of many more star systems, once a sufficiently large fleet of support ships was built using the new drive. But this would take several years, at least."

"And people aren't really good at thinking of the long run, I know, Kraft." Jack sighs. "To be honest, I wouldn't care that much if it weren't so vitally important to find out where the Aurora went -- and why. And we can't do that if dozens of warp drives are scattering and rearranging the local hyperspace continuously. Do people really not care anymore?"

"Sir, the official funeral for Thomas Rierden was three months ago," Kraft states.

"I know," Jack says, with another sigh, "people have given up. Even Nora stopped sending those messages of hers."

"The last message from Nora Rierden was fourty-seven days ago," Kraft confirms.

"Too long," Jack states, flatly. He has dreaded asking the next question, and waits until he's seated at his desk in the small office before asking it. "How's the analysis coming along?"

Kraft activates several displays on the desk, showing the recent activity. "There is very little further data that can be gathered with current sensor technology. I've been able to refine the hyperspace field density readings still further, but the data on the hyper-anomaly is still insufficiently detailed to correctly model of the observed phenomena. I am attempting a directed brute-forcing of the yet-unknown data, but at worst, it could take significantly longer than the estimated time remaining before traffic is allowed again in the system."

"So, same as ever, except now the deadline's closer." Jack purses his lips. "We'll see what the council says in... how long?"

"Less than a minute, sir, I suggest you prepare yourself."

"Gee, thanks," says Jack, and sits up straighter in his chair.

"Incoming video conference request," says Kraft, "approximately 40 seconds earlier than schedules."

"Put it through, Kraft," Jack replies.

The displays on the desk vanish, to be replaced by the grim face of Speaker Michael Rondell.

"Doctor Jameson," Rondell says.

"Speaker Rondell," Jack replies. "I always look forward to our weekly meetings," he adds, a wry smile on his face.

"As, usually, do I, Doctor," Rondell says. "Unfortunately, I have not been looking forward to this meeting."

Frowning, Jack looks carefully at the Speaker's face before replying, "I hope you're not going to tell me what I think you're going to tell me, are you, Mike?"

Rondell sighs. "I'm afraid so, Jack. The Council has decided, with a near-unanimous vote -- and one abstention -- that the Petra system will be reopened to traffic in two weeks, unless a break-through in the research taking place there occurs."

Jack stares and is silent for several long seconds. Finally, he begins, "But, Mike, Tom--"

"--Is probably dead, Jack, or he might as well be," Rondell says. "We had a state funeral for him three months ago."

"He could've survived. We might find him."

Rondell purses his lips. "You've still got two weeks, Jack. If you find something, anything, even remotely like coordinates -- or at least a good general idea -- we might do something. As it is, the pressure from the public is mounting. We've got no choice." He looks down, not wanting to meet his friend's eyes. "I'm sorry, Jack."

"Not half as sorry as I am, Mike," Jack replies. "It's my design, my test plan, my coordinates. It's my own damned fault. I know you tried. Thank you."

"I did what any good friend would do," Rondell says. "I kept everyone off your back so you could work. I'm sorry--"

"Sirs, if I may interrupt," Kraft suddenly says, "I believe you will both be interested in this."

Jack raises an eyebrow in silent query, then looks straight at Rondell. "I do believe you were saying something about a break-through, Mike?" He smiles tentatively/.

Rondell matches the smile. "I do believe I was, Jack."

"What's the latest news, Kraft?" Jack asks.

"My current dataset seems to match the observed hyperspace variances to within .0001%, well within tolerance at current precision levels," Kraft reports. "In other words, sirs, I believe I have a correct model, which should allow me to trace the path of the Aurora as it jumped into the hyperspace anomaly, and discover where it may have arrived."

"May have arrived?" Rondell asks, frowning.

"There is only limited experimental data available to test the current theoretical model against," Kraft explains. "If the theoretical model is correct -- which our limited evidence suggests is true -- then we can trace the Aurora's destination to a spherical volume of space within some limitations. We will not be able to pin-point the location any further due to the fact that the jump attempt itself will have destabilized the anomaly to a degree, and thus the data, necessarily gathered after the fact, will not reflect the state of the anomaly at the time of the original experiment."

"How big a volume are we talking about here?"

"It is a function of the extra distance traveled -- for a single light-year, the sphere would be approximately two light-minutes in diameter, a distance easily covered in real time by modern ship sensors."

"But it's not likely to be such a short distance," Jack intervenes. "If it had been, he would've gotten back using regular warp drive, and we wouldn't be having this discussion."

"Yes, I gathered that," Rondell replies. "Very well, then, I will report this news to the Council while you refine the data and run your model, or whatever you science types do." He hesitates slightly. "You might consider putting out a press release announcing this as soon as possible -- it might get some of the pressure off the Council's backs while they decide what to do further, and maybe sway them in the right direction."

"I'll do that, Mike, and thanks," Jack says, smiling.

"You're perfectly welcome," Rondell says. "I'll contact you tomorrow with the results from the Council's deliberations -- for now, you've got about..." He looks off-camera to the bottom-right. "...ten hours before the next Council meeting, plenty of time for that press release to work its magic."

"Understood, Mike. Until tomorrow."

"Until then, Jack," Rondell says, and closes the connection.