Amongst the Stars of Cygnus [Hard Sci-fi Survival]

57: Who Holds the Reins



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The air in the partitioned research lab within the topscaler wing was cold and clinical, stripped of all warmth by the humming environmental controls. Jiang Wei stood with his arms crossed, a picture of detached scientific oversight, as Doctor Bao Vang conducted his… experiment. Two heavily armed CorpSec guards stood by the sealed door, their opaque visors betraying nothing.

In the center of the room, under the harsh glare of an overhead diagnostic lamp, stood one of the Provider's workers. At Vang's request, its headgear and reflective faceplate had been removed, revealing a face that was unnervingly humanoid. Its skin was pale as alabaster, its dark eyes devoid of any discernible emotion. Faint, intricate lines of silver circuitry were visible, inlaid just beneath the skin at its temples and circled to the back of its head, a sign of its bio-engineered and cybernetic nature. It stood perfectly still, its posture one of serene, patient readiness.

"Subject's vitals remain stable," Bao Vang noted, glancing at a nearby monitor. "No discernible stress indicators. Fascinating." He circled the worker, his expression a mixture of academic curiosity and something colder, more predatory. "Let us begin by testing the core parameters of its obedience."

He stepped in front of the worker. "Raise your right arm."

Instantly, the worker's arm rose, the movement fluid and unhesitating.

"Now, turn in a circle. Slowly."

The worker complied, rotating with a smooth, even grace. It was disconcertingly… human-like in its movements, lacking the jerky, mechanical quality of a drone. It was personable, its posture conveying an eagerness to please that was both useful and deeply unsettling.

Vang's tone hardened. "Stop. Now turn the other way. Faster. No, slower. Stop. Face the wall. Now face me." He rattled off a series of conflicting, deliberately ambiguous instructions, pushing to see where the logic would break, where hesitation or confusion might appear. The worker responded to each command the moment it was uttered, transitioning between actions without a flicker of uncertainty, its body a perfect instrument of compliance.

"Remarkable," Jiang Wei murmured from the sidelines. "Its ability to parse and act on contradictory inputs is flawless."

Bao Vang's expression grew more volatile, a cruel glint entering his eyes. He stepped forward and shoved the worker hard in the chest. "You are slow. Inefficient. Why did you hesitate on that last command?"

The worker stumbled back a step, catching its balance with that same inhuman grace. "My apologies, ser," it said, its voice calm and even. "I will endeavor to improve." There was no fear, no anger, no resentment. Only a sincere desire to fulfill the given instruction.

Vang's face twisted in frustration. He was probing for a weakness, a flaw, and finding none. He shoved the worker again, harder this time. "You are a poorly designed biological automaton. A failure. Do you understand?"

"I understand, ser," the worker replied, its tone still perfectly modulated, still eager to please.

"Let us continue with a simple test of strategic reasoning," Bao Vang said, a faint, predatory smile on his lips. He gestured to one of the CorpSec guards, who stepped forward, holding a stun baton. "This guard will administer an electrical shock. The rules are simple. On my count, you and I will each choose to either cooperate or defect. If we both cooperate, both of us receive a shock. If one defects and the other cooperates, the cooperator receives a triple shock. If we both defect, we both receive a double shock."

"Do you understand the parameters?" Vang asked.

"Yes, ser," the worker replied, its voice calm and even. "I understand."

"Good. Round one. On my mark… cooperate or defect? Three… two… one… mark."

Vang's hand was a closed fist—defection. The worker's hand was open—cooperation.

"I defect, the unit cooperates," Vang said, a glint in his eye. "Administer the punishment."

The CorpSec guard stepped forward and pressed the stun baton to the worker's shoulder. A sharp crackle of electricity filled the room. The worker's body convulsed for a second, a brief, violent tremor, but it made no sound. The moment the shock ended, it stood perfectly still again, its dark eyes still fixed on Vang, waiting.

"Round two. Mark." Vang defected again. The worker cooperated again. Again, the shock. The worker's body jerked, then settled, its expression unchanged.

Round after round, the pattern repeated. Vang defected every single time. And every single time, the worker cooperated, accepting the punishment without protest, without hesitation, without any change in its placid demeanor.

Vang's frustration mounted. He was trying to force it into a rational, self-interested choice, but it refused to play the game as he intended.

"Why?" Vang finally snapped, stepping closer. "Why do you continue to cooperate when it is demonstrably against your own interest? Game theory dictates that defection is your optimal strategy! If you defect, you are punished less, regardless of my choice. Defecting minimizes your harm. It is the only logical move!"

The worker tilted its head, its dark, unblinking eyes meeting Vang's. "Your analysis of the payoff matrix is incomplete, ser."

Vang stared, taken aback. "Incomplete? Explain."

"You have framed this as a two-player game between us," the worker said, its voice still a model of calm reason. "That is incorrect. It is a three-player game. You, me, and the guard with the stun baton. You and I are a team, and our opponent is the guard, who represents the introduction of punishment into our system. The objective of our team should be to minimize the total amount of punishment received. If I cooperate, the maximum punishment our team can receive in any round is three, and should both cooperate, we incur only two. If I defect, the potential punishment is four—double for you, and double for me, should you also choose to defect. In every scenario where I defect, the total negative utility—the total amount of shock administered—is greater. Therefore, my continued cooperation is the most strategically advantageous choice, even if the punishment is distributed solely to me."

The room was silent. Jiang Wei's arms, which had been crossed, slowly lowered. Vang stared at the worker, his mind reeling. It had reframed the entire problem, not out of a sense of altruism or martyrdom, but from a perspective of higher-level, systemic optimization. It saw itself as a component of a larger whole, and it acted to protect the integrity of that whole, even at its own expense.

This was a level of logical and selfless dedication that was profoundly, terrifyingly alien.

The scientist's composure finally snapped. With a snarl, he struck the worker across its face. The sound was a sharp, cracking report that echoed in the sterile room. The worker's head snapped to the side from the force of the blow, but it did not recoil. It did not cry out. It simply straightened, its head returning to face Vang, waiting for the next instruction.

One of the CorpSec guards shifted uneasily. This was crossing a line, even for a topscaler's experiment.

"Doctor Vang…" the guard began, his voice a low warning.

Vang ignored him. He turned to the other guard. "You. Raise your rifle. Aim it at this unit's head."

The second guard, surprised by the direct order, hesitated for a split second before his training took over. He raised his rifle, the weapon's targeting laser painting a small, angry red dot on the center of the worker's face.

The worker did not flinch. It did not tremble. It simply stood there, watching, waiting.

"You see this?" Vang said, his voice a low, intense hiss as he leaned close to the worker. "This is a weapon. It can end your existence. One word from me, and your functional cycle is terminated. Do you feel fear?"

"No, ser," the worker replied, its voice as placid as ever. "I am prepared to be deactivated if you so wish."

The sheer lack of self-preservation, the absolute sublimation of self to function, was both magnificent and monstrous. This was the perfect tool. The perfect servant. The perfect soldier.

Then, Vang did something that startled everyone in the room. He unholstered his own sidearm, not to threaten the worker, but to offer it. He held the weapon out, butt first.

"Take this," Vang commanded, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity. "Now, shoot me." He nodded toward the first CorpSec guard, who stared back in stunned disbelief.

The guard's hand instinctively tightened on his own rifle. "Sir?"

The worker took the weapon. Its long, slender fingers wrapped around the grip with a familiarity that was deeply unnerving.

"I cannot comply, ser," it said, its voice still impossibly, infuriatingly calm. "This action does not align with my Provider's directive to preserve the life of the colony's personnel."

It then turned, placed the pistol carefully on a nearby workbench, and looked back at Vang, its posture once again that of serene, helpful readiness. "What is your next instruction, ser?" it asked, as if nothing had happened.

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A slow, chilling smile spread across Jiang Wei's face. He stepped forward, clapping a hand on Bao Vang's shoulder.

"That's it, Bao," he said, his voice filled with a profound, almost religious awe. "That's the answer."

Vang, still breathing heavily from the intensity of the moment, turned to him. "It… it refused a direct order to harm, even after being abused. Its safeguards are absolute. It's perfect."

"More than perfect," Jiang Wei corrected, his eyes gleaming with ambition. "It is the ideal workforce. Utterly obedient, tireless, and incapable of rebellion. So much more reliable than our current colonists, with their distracting emotions and inconvenient notions of self-interest."

He looked at the worker, which stood waiting patiently, a blank slate of pure potential.

"Doctor Vang," Jiang Wei said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "your new priority is clear. Forget the ethics reports. Forget the philosophical debates. I want you to find a way to produce more of these. And I want you to find a way to sever their connection to the Provider. Find the loyalty protocols in their genetic code, and rewrite them. Make them loyal to us."

===

The vehicle yard was a bustle of activity under the pre-dawn floodlights. The Phoenix, its yellow stripes a splash of color against the grey duracrete, sat waiting on the launchpad, its engines idling with a low, powerful thrum. Ground crews scurried around it, making final checks, their movements illuminated by the lander's running lights.

Dmitri Ganbold stood near the boarding ramp, a datapad clutched in one hand, trying his best to project an aura of command. He wore a slightly-too-tight environmental suit, the Company logo stretched taut across his chest. This was his chance to prove that his logistical acumen translated to operational leadership, and he was determined to see it succeed.

His team was a motley collection of the colony's personnel. Luo Zuri, her expression calm and focused, was already in the pilot's seat, running through the pre-flight checklist. Kyreth Vashin, the reinstated pilot, swung into the co-pilot's seat, his fingers already dancing over the secondary controls. Ervin Sekhon, his prosthetic arm glinting under the lights, was securing a crate of provisions in the main cabin. Yao Guowei conducted a final weapons check with Casimir Stephanov, who looked almost boyishly excited, his rifle held with a little too much enthusiasm for a simple security detail.

"All personnel, final boarding call," Dmitri announced, his voice a bit louder than necessary, trying to cut through the engine noise. "Let's maintain schedule."

He lumbered up the ramp and into the main cabin, strapping himself into one of the seats.

"Clear for takeoff, Director Ganbold," Luo Zuri's voice came crisply over the internal comms.

"Proceed, Doctor Luo," Dmitri replied, trying to sound authoritative.

With a surge of power that pressed them all back into their seats, the Phoenix lifted off, its vertical thrusters kicking up a swirling vortex of dust. It ascended smoothly, clearing the crater ridge before banking gracefully to the north, heading towards the unknown.

In the back, the initial tension of liftoff gave way to the low-key banter of a team settling in for a long flight.

"You know," Casimir said, leaning over to Kyreth's seat, a mischievous glint in his eye, "I was thinking. This lander's got some serious thrust-to-weight ratio. I bet we could do a barrel roll if we wanted to."

Kyreth grinned, his eyes flicking to the flight controls. "Don't tempt me. I haven't had a chance to really open her up yet. Besides," he added, glancing pointedly at Dmitri's broad form, "I'm not sure the harnesses are rated for our current payload."

Dmitri, who was trying to review geological survey data on his console, stiffened slightly but said nothing.

Casimir took the hint. "Yeah, good point. We'd probably have to recalibrate for… excess mass."

Yao Guowei, who had been silently observing from his seat, finally spoke, his voice a low, flat warning. "That's enough, Stephanov."

Casimir quieted, but Kyreth leaned back in his seat and addressed Dmitri directly, his tone deceptively casual. "Hey, Director. Just a thought. If, you know, things go sideways out there and you end up needing a new print, are you going to opt for the same model? Or are you going to upgrade? Pick something a little more… streamlined?"

The air in the cabin went still. Ervin looked up from his scanners, a look of mild alarm on his face. Luo Zuri's focus remained on her instruments, but a faint smile touched her lips.

Dmitri Ganbold slowly unbuckled his harness. He rose from his seat, the soles of his boots clanking on the deck plating as he walked the short distance to the cockpit. He loomed over Kyreth's shoulder, his shadow falling across the instrument panel. His jovial, slightly bumbling demeanor was gone, replaced by a cold, serious stillness.

"If I were to perish on this expedition, pilot," Dmitri said, his voice a low, chilling murmur that cut through the hum of the engines, "I think I would indeed choose a new form. Something leaner. More muscular. Something with… reflexes." He paused, his gaze boring into the back of Kyreth's head. "Something like you, perhaps."

Kyreth froze, his earlier bravado evaporating in an instant.

Dmitri leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "In fact… why not an exact copy of you? The template is already in ARI's system. It would be… efficient."

A wave of pure, visceral horror washed over Kyreth. The thought of another him, a version piloted by the mind of Dmitri Ganbold, walking around, existing… it was a violation on a level he couldn't even begin to process. He felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead.

Casimir, watching from the back, suppressed a smirk. The idea was as brilliant as it was terrifying.

Dmitri held the moment for another beat, letting the threat sink in, then he straightened up, his jovial mask slipping back into place as if it had never left. "But let us hope it does not come to that, eh? Let's all focus on a safe and successful mission." He clapped Kyreth lightly on the shoulder, a gesture that was meant to be friendly but felt like a final, chilling punctuation mark, before returning to his seat and re-engaging his harness.

===

Davron Federoff stood before the viewport in his suite, hands clasped behind his back, the very picture of a patriarch contemplating his domain. Below, the vehicle yard bustling, but his focus was elsewhere, turned inward, replaying the frustrating calculus of his failed vote. The door slid open, and Tamarlyan entered, his posture composed, but his eyes carrying a new, almost unnerving stillness.

"You went to see it," Davron stated. It was not a question.

"The Provider is an entity of profound significance," Tamarlyan replied, his voice even. "Understanding its motives is critical to our long-term strategy."

"And you believe you understand them now?" Davron turned from the window, his gaze sharp, probing. "You are keeping secrets, Tamarlyan. From me. From your own family."

The accusation was soft, but it landed with the weight of generations of Federoff authority. Tamarlyan met his father's gaze without flinching. "I am gathering information, father. The situation is… fluid. Sharing incomplete data would be strategically unwise."

"Unwise, or inconvenient?" Davron countered, stepping closer. "The vote. It failed by a single vote. Our entire strategic alignment was undermined. I want your deduction, Tamarlyan. Who betrayed us?"

Tamarlyan remained silent for a moment. "The variables are numerous. It could have been anyone seeking to curry favor with the current command, or someone acting on a personal, unpredictable conviction."

"I suspect Yao Guowei," Davron said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "He has spent more time with the original colonists than with us. He may have been… influenced."

Tamarlyan feigned a look of thoughtful consideration. "An interesting theory, father. But mr Yao has consistently acted in our interest, overseeing the prioritized retrieval of our key personnel. It seems an unlikely betrayal."

"A very convenient alibi," Davron muttered, unconvinced.

Mikhail Petrov entered then, his datapad held ready. "Director. As requested, the initial review is complete." He paused, sensing the tension.

Davron waved a hand, dismissing the topic of the vote for now. "Later. First, Tamarlyan, I want your assessment of the Provider. You seem convinced of its necessity."

"I am," Tamarlyan confirmed. "Our high-altitude drones have confirmed it: the crystalline growths are spreading from the northern anomaly. Slowly, but they are spreading. The Provider is an ally in countering this influence. It is a matter of long-term utility. The Anomaly is an existential threat that requires an existential solution."

Davron's expression hardened. "The Provider is an existential risk of its own. We are relying on the unsubstantiated promises of an alien intelligence that tells each of us precisely what we wish to hear. It tells the faithful it aligns with their God, it tells the scientists it offers knowledge, it tells the desperate it offers survival. A Federoff does not cede control of his destiny to another, Tamarlyan, especially not to an entity whose promises are ephemeral. We must hold the reins of our own fate. And we lose that control the more we entangle ourselves with this… Provider."

"Control is an illusion if the ground beneath your feet is literally being eaten away, father," Tamarlyan countered, his voice still respectful but firm.

Frustrated by his son's obstinance, Davron pivoted to the more immediate, more personal matter of control. "Speaking of control," he said, his gaze locking onto Tamarlyan, "the orderly transfer of assets is a cornerstone of our family's stability. Your inheritance was processed as per protocol. I expect the restoration of those assets to my portfolio will be handled with similar efficiency."

He did not ask. He stated his expectation.

Tamarlyan's calm expression did not waver. "Father, our position here is delicate. The colonists, and Commander Woodward, see me as an ally, in part because my shareholdings are not perceived as a direct threat. A sudden, large-scale transfer of those shares back to you at this moment would be seen as a consolidation of power. It would destabilize the very trust I have worked to build. For the sake of the family's long-term influence, it is strategically wiser for the current arrangement to remain in place."

It was a perfect, corporate, unassailable refusal. Davron stared at his son, a cold fury building behind his eyes. He had been blocked. By his own heir, using his own logic.

He turned away, pacing for a moment before stopping in front of his legal counsel. "Mikhail," he said, his voice now devoid of any familial warmth, "the Company. Review my personal portfolio of claims against the Centauran Colonial Initiative."

Mikhail Petrov immediately brought up his files. "Of course, Director. The claims are substantial." He began to rattle off the list, his voice a dry monotone. "As per the Dolya Colonial Charter, Article 14, Section 3, all A-class shareholders were guaranteed provision of permanent, appropriately appointed living quarters within 60 standard days of our arrival in Gliese 777. This was not met. Article 19 guarantees the establishment of foundational infrastructure at Gliese 777 to support its Company-licensed secondary colonization wave, a key driver of future profitability. This was not met. Furthermore, your personal contract stipulated a guaranteed minimum annual dividend payout, irrespective of actual Company growth, which was never credited following the ship's departure from Gliese 777."

Petrov paused, letting the weight of the breaches settle. "These claims, Director, are not merely for the principal amounts. They are subject to a cumulative interest rate of ten percent, compounded annually over the seventy-thousand-year term of the voyage, as stipulated in the charter's penalty clauses for catastrophic mission failure where shareholder assets are concerned."

Tamarlyan, who had been listening, suddenly straightened. His mind, even with its blunted enhancements, ran the calculation in an instant. The number was astronomical. It was more than the entire colony, the entire planet, could ever be worth. His father held a stranglehold provision, designed to be impossible to pay.

Davron smiled, a thin, predatory expression. "The Company, as represented by its current command authority, is in default. It cannot meet its obligations."

"Indeed, Director," Petrov confirmed. "Under the charter's insolvency provisions, in the event of catastrophic default, the primary claimant has the right to seize all unallocated Company assets as compensation."

"Which means," Davron finished, his gaze cold as ice, "I have a legitimate claim to all the unallocated shares."

Tamarlyan stared at his father, a dawning horror on his face. This was the power of the old world. Not brute force, but the crushing, inescapable weight of law and contract, wielded with absolute precision. His father hadn't needed to ask for his shares back. He had a way to take the rest.

"Mikhail," Davron said, his voice calm, triumphant. "Draft a formal notice to Commander Woodward. Present our claims, and our demand for the immediate transfer of all unallocated shares to my portfolio, in lieu of payment." He turned to Tamarlyan, a final, unspoken lesson passing between them. "This, my son, is how you hold the reins."


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