Lanis’ shirt is damp with sweat as the sim pod’s hatch hisses open. Just one more indignity, Lanis thinks. Maybe I should start bringing a change of clothes if I’m going to make a habit of it. She licks her dry lips as Ash moves to unbuckle her from the pilot seat.
“So, how’d I do?” Lanis asks softly. Along with the sweat, the stirrings of a headache have transformed into a fully fledged migraine. Lanis shuts her eyes tightly as Ether removes the neural shunt with a wet click and opens them to see Ash shaking her head with a sort of bewilderment.
“I mean… you passed, from a simulation perspective. But are you ok?” Ash replies, looking intently as Lanis. She gives Lanis’ leg a gentle squeeze after she unbuckles the last part of the pilot harness.
Lanis inhales deeply through her nose, out through her mouth. Her legs are cramping, her skull feels ready to split open, and she’s already shivering.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she lies. She steps gingerly out of the pod and onto the polished concrete floor, and lightly touches the small neural shunt at the side of her head: It’s tender, but at least it isn’t hot like the first time she integrated with Ether. The mind is a sort of muscle, after all: Isn’t that what one of her instructors said? Or maybe it was the opposite…
Suddenly Heinrich is standing before her, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Headache?” he asks. “Makes sense. Those readings were barely outside our disconnect threshold.”
Besides a soft humming noise coming from the sim pod and the creaking of a few chairs, the question falls on an awkward silence, as if all the air left the room the moment Lanis stepped into the pod and still hasn’t returned. Lanis meets his eyes, forcing herself to match the man’s intensity.
She manages a weak smile. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Heinrich clears his throat. He looks to Ash, who nods minutely, before looking back to Lanis. His tone is curt, but there’s a hint of something behind it, an awkward sensitivity.
“Right. You passed. Come with me.”
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Lanis doesn’t remember too much about the details of the contract. Mirem says she can pull them up later if she wants, but assures her that it’s all very standard. I should really have an external lawyer look at this, Lanis thinks as she flips through the document. But what would they do? Bargain? Maybe she’s being stupid, trusting them. But I want to keep working with Ether. And I probably need corporate protection. This is the only way to accomplish that.
She does remember the office though, and the man who sits behind the desk. Heinrich’s boss’s boss, Mirem says under her breath as they’re escorted inside by an chisel-featured valet in immaculate Versk livery, pale blue with silver accents across his lapels. The office is a sort of atrium, all light and blooming plants, and the desk is a gleaming expanse of polished wood. Real wood, she imagines, imported at profound expense.
The man who rises to greet them behind the desk is tall and slim, and his shaved head nearly gleams in the light. What does gleam are the small implants that tastefully adorn his temples, curving over his ears in ridges of silver and matte black.
An admin, Lanis thinks for a moment. There’s something about the glaze of his eyes, and the awkward way he smiles as they take their seats, as if his muscles are a bit out of practice, that gives the impression that the man is more comfortable in an integration couch than in human relations. After all, AI administrators aren’t just reserved for Planetary Authority or Fleet logistics, but are utilized wherever the AI structure begins to abut the legal threshold for sentience. That’s where strict oversight has to be maintained.
Of course, the real administrators barely see the light of day, so essential is their continued oversight to the efficiency of the systems they co-run. That could have been my future, Lanis thinks, living out my days in a navigation pod, cosseted by the Ship’s systems, beatifically wasting away until I became half ship myself That was the goal, wasn’t it? She blinks her eyes rapidly.
“Greetings Lanis. What a pleasure to meet you,” the man says, inclining his head to Lanis and Mirem in turn. His voice is high, almost childlike. “And Mirem, what thanks we have that you brought us such joy.”
“My name is Renfol. I am the vice president of the Versk Armored Suit division and the director of this facility. I’ve been kept abreast of you, Lanis, and I must say we are most impressed. Despite your lack of piloting background, we are prepared to offer a three year piloting contract with an advisory sub-contract if piloting does not suit you. I have it here; would you do me the honor of reviewing it? I’m pinging it across, but I have two deliciously old-fashioned hardcopies for both of you to review. A physical signature is really the only way to mark such a moment.” Despite the man’s almost simpering tone, there’s a predatory look in his eyes as he slides the documents across his desk.
Lanis accepts the ping as she leafs through the hardcopy. She glances at Mirem, who is doing the same. It’s all legal gibberish, really; maybe if she could focus, she could make sense of it, but this headache, god… eventually she catches Mirem’s eyes. Lanis gives a small shrug, conveying the feeling of just tell me what to do. Mirem gives a subtle nod.
“Ok,” Lanis says, her mouth caught between a grimace and a smile. “Where again do I sign?”