Symbiant (Part 1 of 2)

Symbiant (Part 1 of 2)

By Len Morgan

I looked up with a start, eased my wheelchair back, as my monitor alarm sounded.  The upper third of my screen flashing red, synchronizing with the main alarm in the control room.

"What's happening John?"  Nils, my fellow controller waddled over.  Breathless from the exertion. He gazed over my shoulder at the screen.

"Looks like another Shepherding unit has gone offline," I said.

        

"Mmm.  Nothing I can do to help there, I'll go kill the alarm."

I muted the monitor, and opened the map of our sector and located the unit in the upper left quadrant of the circular screen, twenty miles west of its last reported location.  It flashed twice more then it was gone.  I watched on helpless as the shoal it had been herding broke up.  Without a herding unit to keep them in line they form smaller shoals and head off in all directions.  It'll take days, maybe weeks to round them up, a good percentage will never be recovered.  The main alarm was silenced and Nils returned to his station. 

Nils shook his head, "What causes units to go offline like that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine chum. Most likely its processor is fried, like the other defective units we recovered two weeks back."

"It has to be hardware, stands to reason..."

"All I know is that’s the seventh unit lost in six months and all below 200 feet."

“A unit a month. It can't go on. At this rate, we'll have lost a third of our stock by years end."

"The General Manager thinks this one could push us into the red, and you know what that means…"

.-...-. 

Three weeks later we were down another unit.

"The Shoals spread all over the North Sea, Irish Sea and North Atlantic.  Bastards," Nils thumped his desk.  "All our species are of known genotype and can be identified to the shoal of origin."

"Huh! You know fish rustling's rife. There are plenty of hungry bellies in the third world.  What would happen if inspectors tried checking the fish on their plates?" 

"They'd be committing suicide," said Nils. "Then there's the black zones. Not regulated by the common fisheries policy 2078. Rustlers trawl those waters for wild and unaccompanied shoals."

"Despite the total collapse of wild fish populations in 2056, they still don't give a hoot for species husbandry."

  

The PA system interrupted their conversation:  'Mr. Sturroch the GM will be holding an emergency meeting in the main hall in 15 minutes.  Attendance is not optional.'

.-...-.

"You will all be aware of the setbacks we have encountered over the last year.  They have been costly and we are a small company in comparison to some of our competitors.  Obviously, we cannot sustain losses of this magnitude indefinitely.  Therefore the board of directors have decided that in the best interests of both shareholders and staff we need to take immediate action."  He paused and opened a document folder containing a single sheet of paper and started to read aloud.   "We have choices to make.  The official receiver can be called in to wind up the business, or we can try to sell it as a going concern to one of the larger offshore fisheries.  The latter may result in the continuation of our employment.  The board has decided to put it up to tender, in order to maximize the return of our shareholders' funds.  I'll hand you over to the Chairman Derek Wilberforce who wishes to say a few words about our accomplishments over the last half-century."

"Thank you for stating the position so succinctly Mr Sturroch,"

(Half-hearted applause.)

"As you will all be aware, we were the first company in the field.  If we hadn't taken steps to recreate and rebuilt fish stocks there would be no fish left in the sea and the world would be the poorer for it.  The cloning techniques we pioneered to restore stocks of cod, haddock, herring, and flatfish were initially illegal in Europe, but fortunately not in international waters.  At first, we tried to corral fish stocks.  That was abandoned in favour of herding with small manned submersible craft.  By 2085 automated submersibles replaced human fish-herders these proved to be a more cost-effective solution.  Then, three years ago, the failures began.  We Attempted to bridge the gap by recruiting human fish-herders once more.  Just a handful of recruits and returnees signed up.  We are not the only company in this situation but our position is dire.  There will be negotiations underway over the next month, and we will keep you informed of progress.  That’s all I have to say.  This concludes the meeting, thank you for attending."

.-...-.

Three weeks later, I arrived for my shift in a low state.  Staff morale, in general, was subzero.  We were all waiting for the axe to fall.  At any moment a receiver could be appointed to wind up our operation, and that would be that!

.-...-.

"John Whitely?"  The man standing by my terminal smiled.

"That's me," I said, a cold shard of fear spreading up my spine.

"Geoff Smythe," he offered his hand, so I took it by reflex.  "I'm the new GM.  Mr Sturroch has been reassigned. Come into my office John, we need to discuss your future."  He headed towards his office and I followed. His name was freshly painted on the door.  He collapsed into the ample chair behind his desk. "Nice to meet you, at last, I've heard a lot about you and read your company history. It's impressive!  So, I won't keep you in suspense, 'North Sea Fisheries' will become a subsidiary of 'Continental Shelf Fisheries' as of noon today.  We at CSF are not, as you might think, letting people go."  He paused to take out a pen and sheaf of papers from his desk.  "On the contrary, we intend to become the largest and most successful fisheries in the Northern Hemisphere but, we do have a problem."

"I see." Here it comes.

"Relatively speaking, we are newcomers to the industry.  We need experienced men like yourself to train new recruits.  It takes a certain kind of mind to be a good herder, as you know.  We need your skills and expertise to get our new approach technology online."

"Mmm..."

"Don't say anything yet John, let me tell you about your exciting new future.  You will be on the management team pay scale, then when we go live with the 'new approach' you'll be our wet manager, responsible for everything that takes place beneath the waves."

"But, I'm no manager."

"No matter, you'll receive all the training you need.  Now, do you have any questions?" 

"First thing, how many units will we be allocated, sir?"

"Just call me, Geoff management are on first name terms."

"Okay, Geoff.  How many and how soon?"  I warmed to his informal style.

"What do you need?"

"Three would be an ideal working team for this sector." I paused for thought.  "Five would enable us to round up the scattered strays before they're snapped up by rustlers.  Then the two extras could be used to bring back strays from other sectors.  Then when normal operations resume they'll provide backup for our maintenance program."

"You can have four units for this sector, but I believe two will be sufficient in normal circumstances."

"You asked me, and I told you what we need."

"Don't misunderstand me, you've never worked with units as efficient as these."

"I've not heard of any groundbreaking new developments.  If there had been, I would know.  It's my job to know," I said.

"So, what do you know about Crystal Minds?"

"CM's?  I thought they were a means of reducing prison populations by storing the felons mind in a cube while his body is borrowed by someone who needs it."

He nodded, "Well that's part of it.  But, most criminal minds are rehabilitated within three to six months; that's if they're capable of rehabilitation.  Yet they are sentenced to serve anything from three years to life."

"Then why are the sentences not set lower?" I asked.

"Because society's perception of justice is half a century out of date."

"So someone gets the use of a body for the period of their sentence?"

"You've got it John, and the re-educated CM's get to be gainfully employed for the balance of their incarceration."

"Your using felon CM's to run our units?"

"That's the plan.  Do you have any objections?"

 I thought for a while.  "Do they know what you're doing?"

"They can either remain under program control, running scenario's and simulations for the balance of their sentence, or they can volunteer for gainful employment as herders, strato pilots, or Air-Taxi jockeys." He reached for the intercom, "My usual Tina, and Strong black coffee for Mr Whitley." 

"You've done your homework."

"Thank you.  Actually, there are a thousand potential uses for CM minds, and they get paid the going rate for the job. Credits accrue in their personal accounts.  Volunteering provides them with funds and training for a career when they're returned to their bodies.  It's preferable to the boredom of perpetual simulation or inactivity." 

"Well, if they're volunteers..."

Geoff's assistant arrived with coffee and sandwiches. "Thanks, Tina."

"I had no idea CM's could be linked to machines or real-time systems. Other than humans of course.  That's a whole new concept."

"You know John, this is only the beginning.  Our techno's have even linked them to animals like horses, sheep, and dogs.  They've been existing in a whole range of symbiotic relationships.  They not only retain their humanity they lead full productive lives as symbiants."

"That's an impressive undertaking," his enthusiasm was infectious, and I was warming to the possibilities.

"I saw the holo-pic on your terminal John.  That's a great family you have there?"

I swallowed coffee and gazed out the window.  A strato-copter was being unloaded, "That holo was taken eight years ago, before my accident."

"What happened?"

"They left because they couldn't stand my mood swings any longer.  I don't blame them, I'm not proud of that period in my life.  It was eight years ago.  I'm over it now," I felt moisture on my cheeks and brushed it away.  It didn't help.

"I meant how did your accident happen."

"I was out in the duo-sub, with a trainee who couldn't cut it.  He lacked the required sensitivity and reaction speed required in fast-flowing currents.  Not everybody develops the subtlety and delicacy of touch, you know.   After months in rehab, I wound up in this damned chair, paralyzed from the waist down." Anger railed up inside me and I hammered the wheels on the chair in frustration.

"John, I never intended opening old wounds..."

"Worst thing was not being able to control a sub and do my job," I looked into his eyes.  "In my dreams I'm whole and back in the place where I belong, swimming free."  The tears came anew, "I do hate self-pity."

He looked straight back at me, "I'm sorry, I had no idea."

"No, Galicia and I were drifting apart long before the accident.  The final straw was when I alienated my son Josh in a self-pitying drunken rage; I don't drink anymore.  He's thirteen now, I still see him on school holidays.  It's being beached that hurts me most of all." 

"I can believe it," he said.

I nodded.  "Well, I guess that's life."  I wiped my eyes on my shirt cuff and smiled.  "So I guess you'll be withdrawing the job offer?"

"Not at all, we desperately need your expertise in the water," he said.

To be Continued/…

Copyright Len Morgan