Obliquity

Only Two Things Are Infinite

The glittering array of bars, clubs and other assorted drinking establishments boasted by Galactic Central was extensive but, without exception, expensive. Nevertheless, Cam figured he'd earned a drink or two, and Kaz certainly didn't care about the cost. He came from old money, and as the black sheep in the family his aristocratic parents back on Rigel were happy to sling him a generous allowance on the proviso he restrict his embarrassingly lowbrow activities to locations lots of light years away from both them and his more respectable siblings.

Although the diviest they could find, their selected bar was still several orders of magnitude classier than the best Theves had to offer—the carpet didn't look remotely hose-downable and the chairs weren't even bolted to the floor.

"Why's everyone so hot for these damned AI defence systems, anyway?" Kaz took a slug of his third Arcturan whiskey. "What's so great about 'em?"

"You mean apart from how, compared to us, they're faster, cheaper, more durable and pretty much endlessly upgradeable?" Cam was still nursing his first drink. Time was, his second drink would by now be nursing his first drink, or more likely trying to resuscitate it with the help of his third and fourth drinks while the fifth provided moral support, but those days had passed. For now, at least. "And they also don't get hangovers and they almost never miss. Apart from all that stuff?"

"Yeah." Kaz scowled into his glass, before draining it. "Apart from that." He motioned to a gleaming droid (even the droids here were classy) for a refill. "I mean, I bet they're no fun to have a drink with."

"Yep, there is that," agreed Cam. "When it comes to propping up a bar, we've got it all over the AIs. Mind you, that's probably only because nobody's bothered to design a bar-propping one yet. When that day comes, the Sentinels are in trouble."

Putting down his glass, Kaz gave his CO a considered—albeit three-whiskey—look. "Like we're not already?"

Cam thought back to the CE's chilling, not-particularly veiled threat. You don't know the half of it, my friend. Still, he couldn't see much benefit in sharing his concern. "Sentinels are always in trouble. It comes with the job. Only the depth varies."

Kaz wasn't so easily put off. "You know what I mean. What happened, boss? How'd we go from being venerated to tolerated? Hell, sometimes not even that. What went wrong?"

"Nothing, Kaz. Well, no one thing. Times change, is all." Cam ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. "The restrictions on AI deployment got a little looser, or a little more ignored, anyway. The quelling of the Tau Ceti uprising a few years back didn't do our PR any favours. And lately the Galaxy's had an unusually long run of relative peace and quiet, which tends to lead people to wonder why they'd want a bunch of highly armed and expensive stiffs hanging around doing not much of anything. And there's probably a thousand other things."

"You mean like Chief-Executives who won't listen to plain common-sense?"

"Yeah, that kind of stuff definitely doesn't help. Although..."—he gave his wingman a consoling pat on the back—"look on the bright side. If things go tits-up, then who's gonna be on hand to save the day and serve the CE a big old fistful of humble pie, huh?"

Even as Cam uttered the words, he regretted them. It wasn't as if he was superstitious, as such—of course not. It was just that, well...he'd tempted fate too many times in the past to go giving it the slightest hint of an invitation to deliver some payback.

Despite the misgivings, his statement had its intended effect on Kaz. "Damn straight. With a big old dollop of we-told-you-so on top. Man, she's a piece of work, that one." He shook his head. "Can't believe you guys used to bang."