First Quadrant Border

Central Authority Space Station New Haven

Landing Area 21

At one end, the jetty was attached to the hull of a first-generation lithium-drive star frigate that was at least three hundred years old, turned on its side so it looked like it was doing a fly-by very, very slowly.

On the other end, it was welded to what looked like a pre-CA orbital satellite that was covered in rust.

How it had gathered rust in space was a bit of a mystery, but half of it was missing, so it may well have been recovered after crashing into the planet it used to orbit. A common fate for many of the older satellites that had been advertised as eternal orbiters when sold to unsuspecting world governments in pre-CA times

The history of spaceflight was littered with such hyperbolic claims that failed to live up to their promises. And the history of governments was filled with gullible assemblies that thought they knew how to best protect their people.

Now, everyone relied on the Central Authority for their protection.

Ubik’s attention jumped from one ancient craft to another as they headed towards the main reception area, the direction clearly marked by large signs every few metres, although there wasn’t really anywhere else to go.

Some of the vessels that made up the space station he recognised, some were as alien to him as any Antecessor craft. The CA had collected a huge number of old ships and stuck them together. It was like travelling through a museum, although not a very well curated one, where the exhibits had been piled on top of one another in no chronological order.

The platform they were on had once been a Class E colony ship, used to transport thousands of people in stasis in order to populate new worlds. The habitation pods had all been stripped off, leaving only the central spine.

A smart choice. The old Class Es were built with gravity plates installed, back before the increase in demand made them prohibitively expensive. They couldn’t be removed without deactivating them, and reactivation was also very expensive. Much better to use them as they were.

“The gravitational forces here are all over the place,” said PT. “I’m amazed the station doesn’t rip itself apart.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” said Grandma, leading the way. “All the forces here are perfectly balanced. Beautiful example of engineering, I must say. As I’ve always said, you can trust a computer to get the maths right. I was always terrible at maths. Decimal points, always in the wrong place.”

More and more people joined them as they were funnelled towards the upended star frigate, which had its hull cut open to form a giant opening with a sloping gangplank into the interior of the space station.

Everyone was now wearing their CA-assigned suits.

“You can face the trials on your own or in a team?” said Fig. “And they vary the difficulty depending?”

“That’s right, dear,” said Grandma.

“No one else has a drone escort,” said PT, his eyes constantly moving to assess any threats, note down structural features and generally behave in the most paranoid manner possible. “We’re already sticking out.”

“No one cares,” said Ubik. “The really rich get special treatment, same as everywhere else. They’ll just think we must be VIPs.”

No one was paying them any attention. The voices around them were excited and boastful and completely self-involved.

People in groups argued about who in their party would do best in the upcoming trials; people on their own weaved quickly through the crowds with eyes full of determination, eager to become the person they believed themselves to be.

The air was thick with hopes and dreams. Ubik found it ridiculous. Everyone wanted to be someone they weren’t.

Most of them were young, some had older escorts. There would be some organics among them, sent to babysit the kids of well-to-do folk. And some were just ambitious nobodies who had low CQ scores but wanted to be someone special in the universe.

They were all here to prove themselves. Organicless and minor characters on the galactic stage, this was their chance to become members of the galaxy’s police force. A chance to bully others far more powerful than themselves. Looking down on others, it was every powerless person’s dream.

“Grandma can access their network, right?” said Fig. “She can give us a pass. That’s how you’re going to do this.”

“Grandma can’t interfere in the trials,” said Ubik. “She can speed things up, but we have to beat the trials by ourselves.”

“You mean, you have to beat the trials by yourself,” said PT.

“Yes,” said Ubik. “That’s what I mean.”

Ubik was confident he had everything under control. Part of this confidence came from his knowledge of tronics, which would serve him well in this place that was so very reliant on technology, and the other part was from the sheer lack of care the Central Authority took in supervising this place.

PT and Fig were correct when they noted the poor security arrangements both inside and outside the CASS New Haven.

There were no Guardians here. There was no integrated AI network. Nobody was watching the applicants, checking on them, grading their abilities and splitting them into different levels of skill for more accurate assessment.

None of the basic approaches you would expect of a training facility for one of the biggest organisations in the galaxy were present.

New Haven was fully automated and literally left to its own devices.

Devices that weren’t even checked for errors and breakages. It wasn’t necessary.

Mutual-maintenance. As long as all the machines didn’t break down at the same time, there would always be at least one machine capable of fixing all the others.

After all, the probability of every machine on the space station developing a fault at the exact same time was simply too low to be considered anything other than negligible.

That was how machines thought. Or were made to think. If a probability was so unlikely as to be virtually impossible, then it was impossible.

Maybe not impossible. That wasn’t a word a machine would use.

But whenever they made a list of jobs that needed to be done, it always came last. And always coming last was the same as never.

Maybe not never. That was also a word a machine wouldn’t use.

Ahead of them was a large hangar-sized corridor you could fly a starship through. It was split into several channels, separated by low barriers.

Turnstiles scanned the barcode on each person’s suit and then indicated if they should go left or right. The further they went, the more channels appeared, splitting the crowd into more and more lanes.

People from other landing areas within the space station were all filtered into the main thoroughfare, a highway for people, merging and intersecting.

Every time Grandma came to a turnstile, it gave them a green light to go left. After the first few turnstiles, their lane never had anyone in it other than them. They strolled past the slower moving lines to their right.

They received the occasional dirty look, but nothing more. There was always someone with more privileges, someone with greater entitlements.

“We’re going to go straight into the first trial, are we?” asked Fig.

“Yes,” said Ubik.

“And they won’t notice the drone leading us isn’t one of theirs?” said PT. “Or that our suits aren’t from their stores? Or that we have organics?”

“That’s right,” said Ubik. You had to love machines. They didn’t ask stupid questions. Unlike some people.

After walking for twenty standard minutes, passing hundreds of people shuffling a few steps at a time, they entered a vast hall with a series of large gates at the far end, each with a number over it. From 1 to 111.

Their lane was clear and led directly to gate 21.

“All gates are busy,” boomed a voice overhead. “Next available gate is estimated… two minutes.”

The gates were circular, three metres tall and constructed of dull brown metal.

“You will be assigned one of thirty-two different trial scenarios. Sixteen different robot opponents. Eighty-one different battle configurations. Purchase a trial guide from the shop for more information.”

Lines snaked and folded back on themselves, but they all eventually led to one of the 111 entrances. Thousands of people were gathered here, ready to face their trial. The air was abuzz with excited voices.

“Detailed breakdowns of each trial are available for purchase now. Equipment loadouts graded for each type of encounter can be found in the trial guide.”

“Nobody has any equipment,” said Fig, looking around.

The people lined up were wearing their basic CA suits and had nothing else. No weapons, nothing.

“Your loadout is forwarded to your prep area once you enter the gate,” said Ubik. “It’s all prearranged.”

“You’ve prearranged for your equipment to be waiting for you, have you?” asked PT.

“No,” said Ubik. “I don’t have any equipment.”

“Of course,” said PT. “Why would you?”

Above the gates, there was a large black screen on the wall, stretching all the way across. On the sides, it displayed various statistics and information about how long left there was for each gate.

There were also long lists of data that weren’t labelled, but Ubik recognised them as telemetry from drones. Firing rates, damage taken, processing subroutines — the fact they were willing to display so much of their internal data was an indication of how little they thought of the applicants.

“I wonder what the pass rates like,” said Fig.

“Oh, let me have a look,” said Grandma. “Mmm. One percent. That’s not so bad, is it?”

And in the middle of the screen was live video footage of teams facing their trials. Teams of well-armed people running around, firing shots at different types of robots, with fast cutting and thumping music.

The current central image, bigger than the others, was of a team of six people in heavy-duty battlesuits in an arena, preparing to fight.

There was a loud beep that drew everyone’s attention towards the screen. Six cylindrical silver pillars rose out of the ground and immediately began firing laser bolts in all directions, thousands of rounds a second.

In unison, the six raised their arms and shields appeared from their suits, covering them from head to toe, deflecting the laser bolts.

The barrage continued unabated, punching the shields with each hit, sparks flying, pushing the team back. But their leader began shouting orders and the team moved slowly forward, working their way towards the pillars as their shields were chipped away.

Three of the team moved to the front, providing cover for the three behind, who turned off their shields and took out small circular devices which they armed and then threw along the ground.

The bombs rolled towards the pillars, lights flashing.

But then the six pillars started moving.

They rose even further out of the ground, limbs extending from their cores. Tentacles shot out and grabbed the bombs and threw them back.

Lasers hit the bombs and they exploded in the air, the shockwave throwing the team off their feet.

Relentless laser-fire rained down on them.

Their shields broke, their suits sustained severe damage, some limbs were blown off.

The image switched to another arena.

This one was smaller, with only one applicant in a tricked-out battlesuit. There were gun turrets on each shoulder and a rocket launcher on each arm.

A large square block rose out of the ground. It looked more like a tank than a robot. It had only one turret but it was a big one.

The applicant flew into the air — his suit was equipped with a jetpack.

The tank began firing from its turret, following the flier.

The applicant fired back. Rockets and missiles homed in on their target. They all hit, but the damage was minimal.

Two more turrets popped up and the rate of fire increased dramatically. The flier was riddled with holes and then his jetpack exploded.

The image quickly cut to another arena, just in time to see a muscular woman with twin howitzers, one under each arm, get hit by a beam of white light between her eyes, followed by a mass of brain matter flying out the back of her head.

“Oh, did I say one percent?” said Grandma. “Silly me. I meant point zero, zero, zero one percent.”