Realm Wars

Chapter 3

The possibility of a fire drill diminished to less than two percent. Apparently, this wasn't a test after all. It was a real emergency.

If the machine executed its duties according to protocol, MTHR might receive more than an upgrade. On the other hand, if the admin-drone failed to perform adequately, it might find itself with a one-way ticket to the scrap pile.

Barcodes and bitmaps, the machine cursed inwardly.

When the hoverton turned the corner, its optical receptor identified the man sitting at the console as Cube employee 4382, Nat Buzznard. Executor Buzznard acted as the company lead officer at the Hestia facility. On the holocom in front of the executor, a three-dimensional image displayed a jowled man stroking thick mutton chops. Colonist 338, John Griff, the colony's Security Chief. MTHR's identification chip compared each man's phenotype with an animal species, allowing the machine to easily differentiate between the two homo-sapiens. The Executor's frail features resembled that of a vulture, while the Chief's stocky frame matched a bulldog.

"How can we be of service to you, Griff?"

"I need a technician ASAP. Everything's on lockdown over here."

"I wish I could help, Griff." Buzznard slurped his drink through a straw. "But that's outside the scope of our contract. If you'd like to review the documentation—"

The Chief cut him off. "Contract? People's lives are at stake here."

The Executor raised a hand. "I'm sure we can work something out." He took another swig of his drink. "I just wanted to be clear that this service does not fall under our pre-existing agreement."

The Chief's jaw visibly clenched. MTHR's processor couldn't always interpret human emotions, but according to behavior patterns, there was an eighty percent chance that the Security Chief was not calm. The jowled man stood in silence shaking his head, then sighed.

"How much?"

The executor leaned in. "Well, given the unconventional circumstances, and the timeliness of this task, it will cost..." He pressed a few buttons on his holopad, "...double the normal amount."

The Chief's eyes went wide. "You contractors are worse than the blasted refugees. You might as well just feed our men to a pantra."

The gangly man pointed his cup at the holocom. "Don't focus on the cost, think about how much you'll save when you don't have to replace any salvagers."

The chief inverted his eyebrows. "Your compassion is overwhelming."

The Executor smirked. "I'm sending our best technician."

The holoimage blipped out of existence and Buzznard dialed a new number into the holocom.

The machine rang.

And rang.

And rang some more.

The Executor paced the room.

Eventually, the call went to holo-mail. "We're sorry but the subscriber you're trying to reach has not set up their holo-mail. Please call back later."

The Buzznard squeezed his cup so tight, the lid popped right off.

"Sun spit," he cursed. "Where in the realms is that girl?"

MTHR didn't quite know how to respond. Organics had an obtuse way of reacting to chemical changes in their body. No exact protocol existed for dealing with emotional humans. "Query: Executor, can this unit be of any assistance?"

He stopped pacing, then turned around, as if he were surprised to see MTHR. "Yes, hoverton." He raised a finger. "I need you to locate Dash immediately."

Dash?

The machine searched Cube personnel files. MTHR never understood why biosapens referred to themselves by names other than their company designator. According to birth records on file, the name Dash was rare among humans. Particularly females. According to Mother's internal dictionary, the etymology of the word denoted a person of swiftness. It was also a symbol used to indicate a missing element. Within 1.3 seconds the admin-drone located a full dossier on the employee named Dash. How obtuse, there was no last name. An image of a young woman displayed. Due to privacy laws, her exact age was unlisted. However, MTHR's processor estimated the woman was in her mid to late twenties. The remaining information was quite basic.

NAME: Dash

COMPANY DESIGNATOR: Employee 1-X

OCCUPATION: Automaton Management

ASSIGNMENT: Basement Server farms

"Clarification: You mean, employee 1-X, sir?"

He waved a hand. "Yes, 1-X. Dash, that's her."

MTHR scanned through the rest of the document. The file provided little information. The admin-drone found this anomalous, as most employees had full background checks and additional details attached to their folders. Under the employment history section, it merely read, Prior Military. 1-X also held the highest performance record in the quadrant, and apparently won last year's ladder races.

A cursor flashed on the machine's internal display. Under annual training, the box read incomplete. Despite MTHR's multiple holo-mail reminders, 1-X was the only employee who had not completed the annual refresher slides. This one individual caused the whole division's timeliness metric to drop an entire percentage point. Such disregard for due dates sizzled the admin-drone's circuits. Surely the executor would want to know that the employee he intended to send on a priority one call was the same delinquent preventing his organization from achieving a one hundred percent compliance record.

"Statement: Is the executor aware that employee 1-X has not completed her annual training?"

"Where is she?"

The machine tilted it's optical receptor as it searched the personnel tracking logs. "Response: Last known location, server farms."

The Executor sat back down in his chair. "Inform Dash that she needs to get her happy aft down to dig site four immediately."

"Follow-up: And the training slides?"

The businessman flicked his wrist dismissively. "Feel free to remind her when you get there."

MTHR nodded its optical receptor. "Acknowledged." While automatons did not require such gestures for communication, studies showed that humans felt more comfortable around machines that mimicked their body movements. Therefore, the admin-drone incorporated human-like gestures into as many interactions as possible. As the hoverton spun around to leave, a jolt of energy surged through its circuits. Perhaps it could still achieve a ninety-seven percent compliance rating after all.