The Black Box

DATE: Year 308-B, Sol 433

LOCATION: MTC Department of Asset Management, New Paris (Mars)

The office of the Department of Asset Management was located in the upper spires of New Paris, far above the smog of the manufacturing districts. The walls were paneled in real oak, imported at staggering cost.

Senior Vice President Wilson sat behind a desk that was simply a slab of black glass. He was a small man, meticulously groomed, wearing a grey suit that cost more than most dwellers made in a lifetime. It worked anywhere. He was peeling an orange with a silver knife. Across from him, a hologram flickered. It was the last transmission from the Cold Moon.

The footage was chaotic. It showed a flash of white light and then the impossible. It showed the debris field moving. Millions of tons of scrap metal swarming like a hive of angry bees, tearing the massive cruiser apart.

-Captain Delavan was a blunt instrument, Wilson said, slicing a segment of the orange.

-The asset was destroyed, a nervous aide said, standing by the door. The telemetry confirms the escape pod was vaporized. The Black Box drive is gone.

-Incorrect, Wilson said. He didn't look up from his fruit.

He tapped the desk. The hologram zoomed in on the explosion. It slowed down to a frame-by-frame crawl.

-Watch the energy signature, Wilson said. A standard explosion expands outward. Entropy. Chaos.

The hologram played. The white light pulsed. For a microsecond, a sphere of perfect, blue geometry encased the pod.

-That is not a thermal detonation, Wilson said. That’s a phase shift. A Precursor defense protocol. Old Earth tech. Real old. The Box didn't explode. It protected itself.

The aide stared at the blue sphere. Protected itself? It’s just a hard drive.

-It’s a lot of things, Wilson said. A Command Key. We suspected something like it for years. The Old Earth defense grid didn't just turn off during the Rip. It fell into disuse and stopped working in pieces. Delavan thought Phoenix picked up a piece of unusually shiny salvage. Maybe Phoenix did too.

Wilson popped a slice of orange into his mouth.

-And now, someone else has noticed.

He swiped the desk. The hologram changed. It showed a deep-space scan of the sector. The debris field was silent, but a faint, purple vector line was cutting through the dark, moving away from Earth at incredible speed.

-This signal was detected four hours after the Cold Moon went dark, Wilson said. Stealth configuration. Radar-absorbent hull. It’s not one of ours.

-Pirates? the aide asked.

-Happy Android Kabushiki, Wilson said. The robot company.

-They build janitors, the aide scoffed. They don't have deep-space recovery units.

-They have a lot of things, Wilson said. And some of them are fast. Their algorithms must have picked up the Precursor signature before we did. They have dispatched a Unit-9 Prototype. If they reach the Asset first, they will claim salvage rights. Even though we had the damn thing.

Wilson stood up. He walked to the window, looking out at the red sky of Mars.

-HAK’s like us. They’ll sell the Box to the highest bidder. The Saganites. The WMA. Maybe even the Union. We cannot afford a bidding war.

-So we sue them?

Wilson smiled. It was a cold, thin expression.

-We’re Asset Management, dummy.

He turned back to the desk.

-Activate the Cleaner Team. Tell Commander Doremus to prep The Forager. I want him to burn hard for Venus.

-Venus? The fleet is heading to Venus?

-The fleet is irrelevant, Wilson said. Just the Sparrow. HAK will intercept them in the Dead Zone. I want Doremus to be there when they do.

-And the refugees? the aide asked. The Marley convoy?

Wilson wiped his hands on a silk handkerchief.

-We still need them on Earth. We promised.