Free Last and First Contacts (Imaginings) by Stephen Baxter Page A

me is Professor Frederica Gonzales of the University of Southampton, England, Europe. Our visit was arranged through –’
    ‘You are recognised, Doctor Allen.’
    ‘Who am I speaking to? Are you the station’s AI?’
    ‘A subsystem. Engineering. Please call me Cal.’
    Allen and Freddie exchanged glances.
    Allen growled, ‘I never spoke to an AI with a personal name.’
    Freddie said, a bit nervous, ‘You have to expect such things in a place like this. The creation of sentient beings to run plumbing systems was one of the greatest crimes perpetrated during the Heroic Solution, especially by AxysCorp. This modern shuttle, for instance, won’t have a consciousness any more advanced than an ant’s.’
    That was the party line. Actually Freddie was obscurely thrilled to be in the presence of such exotic old illegality. Thrilled, and apprehensive.
    Allen called, ‘So are you the subsystem responsible for the hurricane deflection technology?’
    ‘No, sir. That’s in the hands of another software suite.’
    ‘And what’s that called?’
    ‘He is Aeolus.’
    Allen barked laughter.
    Now a fresh voice came on the line, a brusque male voice with the crack of age. ‘That you, Allen?’
    Freddie was startled. This voice sounded authentically human. She’d just assumed the station was unmanned.
    ‘Glad to hear you’re well, Mister Fortune.’
    ‘Well as can be expected. I knew your grandfather, you know.’
    ‘Yes, sir, I know that.’
    ‘He was in the UN too. As pious and pompous as they come. And now you’re a bureaucrat. Runs in the genes, eh, Allen?’
    ‘If you say so, Mister Fortune.’
    ‘Call me Fortune…’
    Fortune’s voice was robust British, Freddie thought. North of England, maybe. She said to Allen, ‘A human presence, on this station?’
    ‘Not something the UN shouts about.’
    ‘But save for resupply and refurbishment missions the Tempest stations have had no human visitors for a century. So this Fortune has been alone up here all that time?’ And how, she wondered, was Fortune still alive at all?
    Allen shrugged. ‘For Wilson Fortune, it wasn’t a voluntary assignment.’
    ‘Then what? A sentence? And your grandfather was responsible?’
    ‘He was involved in the summary judgement, yes. He wasn’t responsible. ’
    Freddie thought she understood the secrecy. Nobody liked to look too closely at the vast old machines that ran the world. Leave the blame with AxysCorp, safely in the past. Leave relics like this Wilson Fortune to rot. ‘No wonder you need a historian,’ she said.
    Fortune called now, ‘Well, I’m looking forward to a little company. You’ll be made welcome here, by me and Bella.’
    Now it was Allen’s turn to be shocked. ‘By the dieback, who is Bella?’
    ‘Call her an adopted daughter. You’ll see. Get yourself docked. And don’t mess up my paintwork with your attitude rockets.’
    The link went dead.
     
    Shuttle and station interfaced surprisingly smoothly, considering they were technological products separated by a century. There was no mucking about with airlocks, no floating around in zero gravity. Their cabin was propelled smoothly out of the shuttle and into the body of the station, and then was transported out to a module on an extended strut, where rotation provided artificial gravity.
    The cabin door opened, to reveal Wilson Fortune, and his ‘adopted daughter’, Bella.
    Allen stood up. ‘We’ve got a lot to talk about, Fortune.’
    ‘That we do. Christ, though, Allen, you’re the spit of your grandfather. He was plug-ugly too.’ His archaic blasphemy faintly shocked Freddie.
    Fortune was tall, perhaps as much as two full metres, and stick thin. He wore a functional coverall; made of some self-repairing orange cloth, it might have been as old as he was. And his hair was sky blue, his teeth metallic, his skin smooth and young-looking, though within the soft young flesh he had the rheumy eyes of an old man. Freddie could immediately see the