Author: Alastair Millar
He awoke with a start. Cockpit red with emergency lights. Tried to move. PAIN! Slipped back into darkness. He awoke again; air still red.
“Ship?” he whispered.
“Yes, captain?”
“Need medical help,” he gasped.
“Affirmative. Medimechlings dispatched. Your condition is critical. Initiating emergency protocol B6. Distress beacon activated. Transponder check, affirmative, active. Requests for aid sent to all confirmed-non-hostile ships in range. Please try to…” But he had already drifted back into unconsciousness.
He came to in a warm yellow light that didn’t sear his eyeballs. Awareness seeped in: the smell of antiseptic, the humming and beeping of monitors, sensors on his chest; he was in a med-bed. “Where…?”
“Good evening Captain Gupta.” A voice from the air. “Please relax. You are out of danger. An assistant will be with you shortly.”
A minute passed. A figure appeared, literally, near his feet. Pleasant, presenting female. “Greetings. I am SIGGI, your holographic Synthetic Intelligence Guide and General Interface.”
“Hello, Siggi, I guess. Where am I?”
“Welcome to Anjou Station, in stable orbit around the planet of Marchioness Prime.”
“I’ve never heard of Anjou Station.”
“We are a small, private facility offering galactic-quality medical services in a refined and entirely discreet environment, for the discerning and demanding short- or long-term guest. We are operated by a sister company of your employer, Trans-Lines, You’ve been here quite a while, it’s good to see you lucid.”
“What happened?”
“According to the investigators, a pinhead-sized piece of ultra-dense material punctured your ship’s starboard protective shielding, outer membrane and inner membrane, before passing through you, and exiting through the membranes and shielding on the port side. It was not possible to identify the material, although our defence research arm has made strenuous efforts to do so.”
“My family…”
“They are aware of your situation.”
He lay back. He was lucky to be alive. Not least because… “Why did the ship wait to send medibots?”
“Under the Future Accords of 2058, artificial and synthetic intelligences may intervene medically only with patients’ specific consent, except in cases of clear life endangerment.”
“I was injured. I could easily have died.”
“Yes. It was an anomaly. The unit is being deconstructed to identify the source of the error. Trans-Lines extends its apologies for the inconvenience caused.”
“I feel like I should be angrier.”
“You are under controlled sedation; strong emotional responses to this and other issues could be harmful to your recovery.”
“Other issues? What other issues?”
SIGGI’s pause was noticeable. “This is a private facility. Regrettably, the maximum amount guaranteed by your personal health insurance and employer’s coverage has been exceeded. There is a substantial debit on your account, roughly equivalent to eighteen times your annual salary, that will need to be met. Failure to do so by transferring the appropriate amount or voluntarily entering debt bondage may result in the Anjou Medical Corporation taking legal action against you.”
“But I can’t afford that! And I can’t enter bondage, I need to support my family!”
“Trans-Lines is willing to offer an alternative solution. All your related current and future medical expenses will be met in return for signing a binding non-disclosure agreement preventing you from discussing the ship AI failure.”
Costs for cover-up. If ships could kill by neglect, what other systems could do the same? No wonder they didn’t want word getting out. And if he didn’t sign, would the systems here be among them? It wasn’t something he wanted to test.
“Not like I have a choice, is it?” he asked bitterly.
Wisely, SIGGI did not reply.
