I looked at my call queue. A dozen calls from various delegates awaited me. Wonderful.
The first was from the FAITH enclave in San Diego. I really didn’t know what to expect. It was generally known that I was a FAITH interstellar probe, but I’d been going to great lengths to make it clear that I was a sentient, independent entity. Well, only one way to find out.
“Good day, Minister Cranston. What can I do for you?”
“Good day, replicant. I wanted to talk to you about your duty.”
“It’s Riker, and I’m very aware of my duty. I have fifteen million people depending on me. That’s never very far from my mind.”
“You have a duty to FAITH, over and above that. You were built by us, you owe your existence to us. I expect to see our group get a more favorable treatment in the future.”
Wow. Dude was blunt, anyway. I hadn’t been looking forward to the typical dancing-around-the-point conversation that people called ‘diplomacy’. I guess this was better. Sort of.
“Not going to happen, minister.”
“That’s not your decision, replicant.”
“Well, actually it is. That’s what comes from being an independent sentient entity. And you might want to work on your social skills. Good day, minister.”
Before he could respond, I cut off the connection.
The next one was from the leader of the Spitsbergen island refuge. This would be a difficult conversation. The Spits enclave would very likely be the first place to become uninhabitable.
“Good day, Mr. Valter.”
Gudmund Valter blinked owlishly at the video. Ex-military, he had an abrupt style that would have sunk him in traditional politics but that was well-suited for this post-apocalyptic world.
“Good day, Mr. Riker. I, of course, am calling to press the case for my people. You have hopefully by now received our food production projections for the winter upcoming. It is not well, not well at all.”
“I know, Mr. Valter. And I reiterate that I will not let people starve. However, bumping your group up in the emigration queue isn’t the answer. That’s still maybe a decade off. We should be concentrating on more short-term solutions.”
“Hope is part of that short-term solution, sir. We can hold on if we know there is an end in the sight. At the moment, most of my people expect to be dead, one way or another, before our turn comes.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. The Spits were a relatively small group—perhaps four thousand people—who had managed to survive on the island of Spitsbergen. Their techniques were impressive, involving intensive agriculture during the arctic summers, combined with seal-hunting and reindeer herding to provide enough calories. But the deteriorating climate was making their job harder every year. They might have another decade or two, at most, before it became impossible.
“Mr. Riker, have you knowledge of the Svalbard Global Seed Vault and the Svalbard Global Genetic Diversity Vault?”
The name was familiar. I did a quick library dive. The Svalbard Global Seed Vault had been built in 2008, which was why I’d heard of it. It was intended as a backup seed bank for other national seed banks. According to the library, in 2025 the Svalbard Trust had expanded the mandate of the Seed Vault to include all species of plant, domesticated or not, from dandelions to sequoias. They’d also established the Genetic Diversity Vault to store animal genetic material.
I was stunned, and sat frozen for almost a hundred milliseconds. This was huge, and Valter knew it. The viability of a colony would increase tremendously with even a fraction of what was in those vaults. Uh, assuming they were still there.
Valter wouldn’t have noticed my hesitation at the human timescale. “Yes, I’m familiar with it from the historical records, sir. Is it still in existence?”
“It is, sir, unlike I would imagine, most of the other vaults around the planet. We did not get rocks and nuclear weapons dropped on us.”
“So…” I was pretty sure there was a punch line coming.
“So, the utility is obvious for colonists. We have it, you need it. Unless you can find one of the other vaults. Think on that, Mr. Riker. Assume any implied threat you care to. We will discuss this further in a few days upcoming.”
And with that, Mr. Valter nodded to me, reached forward out of frame, and ended the connection.
Well, that was one fine pickle. I looked at the remaining calls still on hold. I couldn’t see any that needed immediate handling, so I instructed Guppy to take a message from each and to promise that I would phone them back. Guppy made an excellent secretary slash receptionist. His appearance was off-putting enough so that people didn’t stay online long, and he was absolutely unfazed by bullying, threats, bribery, or insults. Great poker face, too.
I sent out a connection request to Colonel Butterworth. This was going to be one of those good news, bad news things.
Homer – September 2158 – Sol
My God, what a putz. Of course Riker was having problems with the enclaves. The man was a humorless, rigid martinet, with a pole up his butt. Every time he opened his mouth, he offended someone.
Original Bob had always made a point of mocking people who took themselves too seriously. It amazed me that Riker wasn’t able to make the connection. It was obvious that I was more like original Bob than he was.
And now, the Spits had delivered an ultimatum. Okay, that was a real problem, and I couldn’t blame Mister Poo for getting bent out of shape about it. But there had to be a better tactic than frontal assault.
I paced around my VR, hands behind my back, for a few milliseconds. Bet Riker does this. The thought made me shudder. I popped up a Nerf basketball and a hoop, and began taking shots while I pondered. I noted idly that the trajectory of the basketball wasn’t realistic. Yeah, the VR needs work. Who has time?
Valter demanded a place for his people on the first ships. But did he really need to be on the first ships? Or did he just want to be out early? What would be acceptably early? I pulled up the manufacturing schedule and gazed at it. Y’know, ship three isn’t that far behind one and two. And with some adjustments…
The thought had possibilities. But Riker would just dismiss the idea out of hand if I brought it up. Did he even realize what an arrogant ass he had turned into?
He listened to Colonel Butterworth, though. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Smiling to myself, I made a call…
Bob – July 2165 – Delta Eridani
“The Deltans are under attack!”
I looked up at the call from Marvin. I’d been checking in with the autofactory to make sure everything was on track. Quickly, I suspended the autofactory link and brought up all Deltan feeds to the foreground.