by T. R. Harris
“Like you did before?” Copernicus snapped. He still wasn’t convinced the aliens would tell the truth. “You lied then; what’s to say you won’t lie again?”
The two Gracilians looked nervously at each other. “But you were there when we pledged to cooperate fully,” Kovach pointed out.
“You’re missing the point,” Coop said. “You promised not to lie the first time I met you. Why will it be any different now?”
“Because … because we said so,” Kovach stammered, realizing now why Coop would question their sincerity. “Believe me when I say, this time, we will tell the truth.”
“Because your lives depend on it,” Panur stated, helping the alien articulate his point.
“Yes, exactly.”
The Humans and Panur sat at the single table in the room while the Gracilians remained on their twin cots. They were content not to get too close to the mutant and the pair of angry Humans.
“So why don’t you begin at the beginning,” Adam said. “Tell us the truth about Kanan and the Gracilian involvement with the Aris.”
“Of course,” said Vodenik anxiously. “We were truthful that we have been studying the Aris culture for a hundred standard years, if not longer. We have sent hundreds of probes and expeditions into the area of the ancient Aris star system, including regions beyond the Zaniff Asteroid Field. During that time, we collected thousands of artifacts, including service modules, dark matter collectors, message pods, synthetics and so much more, many items that even today we do not understand their function.”
“Collectors?” Adam asked. “How many? You mean more than the one Jroshin had?” Adam knew how dangerous dark matter collectors could be. Without proper handling, they could be used to make the deadliest bombs in the galaxy.
“Five or six, I am not sure.”
“Where are they now?”
“Aric Jroshin took two of them, not the single unit you claim he had. The rest are on Gracilia, in a secure vault accessible only to those with proper authority. You must understand, Jroshin was the lead scientist in a society built on science and investigation. He oversaw all aspects of the Aris program, and when the time came to evacuate Gracilia, he took with him a cache of items, designed for the preservation of our culture and our work.”
“So not only the two billion Juirean credits?” Copernicus asked, his curiosity piqued.
Kovach laughed. “The credits were of no importance to him or other Gracilians, except as a means to restart our programs once a new base was established. That base was to be Aac’or. Unfortunately, we failed in our effort to take over the government on the planet.”
“And what part did Kanan play in these plans of yours?” Panur asked.
Kovach took over the narration. “That developed over time. At first, the KN unit was just one of many modules we were studying.” He looked at Adam. “You say you have had personal experience with the units? If so, then you know they are extremely helpful when not in the service of an Aris. It was through Kanan—as well as others—that we learned volumes of information concerning the Aris and their society. And it was Kanan who first introduced us to the Lerpiniere-Effect, which allowed us to hold the units in suspension while we began to explore their inner workings.”
“Lerpiniere-Effect, what’s that?” Adam said, looking at Panur.
“We know it as the interphase field,” the mutant said. “It’s a method of creating an ever so slight incongruity between dimensions. It’s subtle, taking place on an atomic scale, while still allowing for sight and communication between those within the field and those outside. You have experienced a simplified version of the field firsthand, although it appears the Gracilians have learned how to modify its production.”
“That’s what they made—or said they made—in the DE ship?”
“That is correct!” Vodenik said. “Although the phase shift is subtle, it is enough to keep the service modules from teleporting. They do not have the capability of transiting dimensions. Once we could contain the modules, Kanan became the first unit we dissected—”
“And that we were able to rebuild successfully,” Kovach added for detail.
“But you didn’t put Humpty Dumpty back together just right, did you?” Coop asked. “You screwed up somewhere along the way.”
Adam shook his head, along with the aliens. He knew the Humpty Dumpty reference would be lost on the Gracilians.
“So, you missed a few things when you rebuilt him,” Adam clarified.
“Yes, yes, we did,” Kovach said quickly. “But not all was unintentional. Kanan and the other units were very forthright in telling us of their programming restrictions. This involved threats against the Aris and the prohibition on the building of additional service modules. What surprised us was that the modules knew exactly where these limitations were in their programming. But since they were forbidden from removing them, the reprogramming was left to us. After we removed the restrictions in the KN unit, that is when we first noticed the changes.”
“What changes?” Adam asked.
“In what you would call his personality,” Vodenik took over. “Before this, there had been no talk of service modules as part of the evolution of the Aris. Kanan and the others accepted their role as servants. But once we began changing the programming within Kanan, he came to believe differently.”
“That the service modules were the next step in Aris evolution?” Panur asked.
Vodenik nodded. “But it was much more than that, and it only became more pronounced as the years went by. I will explain. Every service module was aware of the racial goals of the Aris, including the search for immortality. By then, the Aris could have moved to any world they wished to carry on their civilization as they faced the eventual death of their home star. But that was not the main driver of their ambitions. What they most wished to accomplish was a suspension of evolution. By this time, the Aris were content with how far they had come as a species, but they knew the race would continue to evolve. It was a basic law of nature; however, they feared that at some point in the distant future, all their past accomplishments would be discarded by this evolution. They did not want that to happen. Immortality was the answer. With immortality, an entity does not evolve. Without it, all things change, either to advance through biology or to wither away through entropy.
“This search for immortality was the consuming goal of the Aris for thousands of years, and eventually, two schools of thought developed. One wanted to build sophisticated robotic carriers in which to hold their consciousness. These robots would be representations of the Aris and be periodically upgraded, making them essentially immortal. Through integration with the machines, Aris could exist far beyond the point of their star’s extinction and the migration of the race to other worlds within the galaxy.
“The other school involved a more ambitious plan designed to produce natural immortality on a biologic level. Faced with the Aris’ innate fear of the machines they were building, this approach was the preferred option, although it had plenty of opposition. Even so, the Aris could extrapolate far enough into the future to see that this plan had merit. However, the argument arose concerning the unimaginable time scale required by this approach and how, during that time, the race would continue to evolve, therefore defeating the purpose of the experiment. The effort then shifted to the science of suspended animation as a way to preserve the Aris as they were then, and then to be awakened only if and when their Grand Experiment came to fruition.”
“We already know most of this,” Panur said. “An Aris named Nunki led the Grand Experiment in search of the Apex Being. I assume others followed a different path, that of building the robotic carriers.”
Kovach shook his head. “That was not how Aris society operated. Once they reached a consensus to pursue the natural path to immortality, the entire race turned in that direction.”
“So, where did Kanan get the idea he was the reincarnation of the Aris?” Copernicus asked.
The Gracilian
s were more relaxed now as they imparted information without fear or deception. Because of that, Adam believed what they were saying.
Vodenik leaned forward on the cot. “At the time, Kanan was assigned to one of the Aris who opposed the Grand Experiment, but being a loyal member of the race, his owner agreed to assist. However, he must have been open with Kanan as to his true desires, and when the restrictions were removed from the unit, Kanan reverted to the beliefs of his master. But there is more you must understand.”
“Such as?” Adam asked.
“Kanan’s beliefs are more radical than those of the ancient Aris. As has been related, some Aris wished to build machines to hold their consciousness; however, there was never any discussion of the machines replacing the living beings in their entirety. That is what Kanan believes. He knows he is immortal, a product of self-repair, and the Lerpiniere shielding on his shell. He cannot be destroyed in conventional ways. Because of this, he sees the ancient modules as the ultimate in Aris evolution, an unchanging, immortal structure that contains all the knowledge of the Aris, and the culmination of both schools of thought: natural and artificial immortality in one individual. To him, he is the Apex Being.”
“That is also why he has begun building robotic bodies,” Kovach added.
“What do you mean?” Copernicus asked.
“The desire to be Aris,” the Gracilian stated. “Even as his thinking is warped, he knows the Aris did not envision their immortality would be carried out within a small metal orb. The robots they experimented with looked like Aris. They had biological functions—to a degree—which would allow the Aris to experience life as they had always known. The service modules—although highly intelligent—are not living beings. They cannot feel, smell or taste. They cannot even speak without telepathy or artificial means. And now Kanan has begun to build Aris bodies, yet with the consciousness of the Aris—his consciousness. He will continue with this quest.”
“That’s why he’s making a detour to Arret before joining up with his fleet,” Adam said. “That’s where he’s been making the robots.”
“Okay,” Copernicus said. “I can see that. But why is he being such a dick and killing everyone he comes across? He’s attacking worlds that have already been sterilized by Kracion. Does he want to rule over a dead galaxy? What good would that do him?”
Kovach shook his head. “That is not his desire. He wishes to make the biologics in the galaxy the servants of the new Aris, just as the ancient service modules were servants of their masters.”
“And what exactly would we do for him if he got his way?” Adam asked. “He doesn’t need food or shelter, or any of the things that regular people need. And he doesn’t need money … or even sex, as far as I know. What does he need us for?”
Kovach again shook his head. “That we do not know. At this time, he is simply following his programming, corrupted as it is, but programming just the same. Perhaps in time, he will learn that he does not need us. However, when this subject was first broached, most of the Gracilians working with him were relieved he expressed a need for us. We knew what he was capable of and how fragile was our standing.”
“Which brings up another question,” Copernicus said with a tinge of anger in his voice. “Why the hell did you go along with him? You knew how to restrain the service modules, so why didn’t you stop him? Hell, the two of you even helped him come to Navarus and nearly kill Adam and me. Why?”
“It is complicated,” Kovach answered.
“Tell us anyway.”
“It has to do with our identity as a species,” Vodenik said, taking over the conversation. “As we have said before, Gracilians believe we are the direct descendants of the Aris. At the time of their Grand Experiment, they could travel to any world, even any dimension. The star of Gracilia is the closest to where the homeworld of the Aris once existed. It only seemed logical to us that the Aris would have come to us first, either for migration or for their experiment. Kanan confirmed this, which brought an incredible amount of pride to our people. And then later, when Kanan was freed of his inhibitions, he pronounced to those who had knowledge of him that he would lead us to domination of the galaxy, a galaxy the Aris—our ancestors—helped to create. At that point, many of us vowed to support him.”
“He’s not looking for partners, but slaves,” Adam pointed out.
“Even slaves of the master is better than not being included at all. And besides, for many, Kanan was the next step in the evolution of the Aris. Some worshiped him as they would a god.”
“But not the two of you,” Copernicus said sarcastically. “You were too smart to fall for that.”
The aliens looked at each other, embarrassed. “For a time, we were among those who worshiped him. However, we worked the closest with the unit, and as his reactions and proclamations became more erratic, we lost most of our respect.”
“Your metal god almost killed us,” Adam snapped. “If Panur hadn’t shown up when he did, he would have succeeded. To us, that makes you just as guilty as Kanan. How long were you planning that?”
“Kanan contacted us after you returned to Navarus with the Gracilian warship. He knew what you would try to do. That was why we made the Lerpiniere field to include the entire vessel.”
Adam frowned. “Did it ever work, or was the whole thing a trick?”
Vodenik grimaced. “It was never in effect, but the field is viable; however, Kanan and his modules only pretended to be captured.”
“That means he could have escaped at any time,” Panur stated. “If his goal was to kill Adam and Copernicus, he could have done it long before arriving on Navarus. It was something else. He wanted to come here.”
“That would seem to be a logical conclusion,” Vodenik said.
“Why? It was only him and the four new modules. What did he hope to gain?”
“That we do not know. We followed orders. He did not reveal his intentions.”
“This is all well and good,” Copernicus said impatiently. “But what do we do to defeat the fucker? Do you know how to stop him?”
“I am sorry, but we know not how to defeat him. What we said before about having to dismantle the unit to stop his functioning was the truth. But how we reach that point is unknown.”
“But the interphase field does work on him?” Adam asked. “At least when it’s a real field.”
“Yes.”
“But he won’t fall for that trap twice in a row,” Copernicus said, exasperated.
“He didn’t fall for it the first time,” Adam corrected.
Coop shrugged.
“My friends,” Panur said as he abruptly stood up from the table. “I believe we have enough information to begin our preparations.”
“We do?” Coop asked.
“Yes. Our Gracilian partners have confirmed certain aspects of a theory Lila and I have working. It’s time for me to confer with my counterpart.” He looked at the anxious faces of the Gracilian scientists. “You have done well, for now. I will return for more verification. Remember, I am constantly on watch for deception. Every session is another test. Keep that in mind until we meet again.”
Chapter 5
Admiral David Adkins usually had a light, almost playful sense of humor, something seldom found in a senior officer of the Union military. But not today; in fact, he hadn’t had much of a sense of humor since coming to the Dead Zone, except when thinking that the situation he was currently in was a joke.
Kanan’s forces left their sanctuary on Saloc eight days before, and now nearly five hundred of the black dark-energy warships were approaching the Human base on the planet Htay-Win. Now that did make him laugh, not from humor, but from … well, he didn’t know what to call it. All he knew was that when Kanan’s ships arrived at HW, they would find the Union base there abandoned. In retrospect, that shouldn’t come as a surprise to the Aris service module. After all, the base was on a reclaimed Dead World with barely a breathable atmosphere and a slowly recovering ecosystem—and n
ot much more. The only people on the planet were the ten thousand colonists who eked out a living there, and in Adkin’s opinion, they weren’t worth spilling Human blood over. Still, the admiral didn’t like to back down from a fight, and the only satisfaction he got from abandoning the planet was that the colonists would probably be safer without the Human forces there. Kanan was coming after Adkins’ 3rd Fleet, not the colonists, at least not initially.
Next up for Kanan after Htay-Win was the planet Dasnon, and that was another matter. There were over three million inhabitants of the planet, including major military bases for both Union and Juirean forces. It wasn’t a place one could just desert. Kanan had attacked six other Dead Worlds, making a point of killing every colonist he could find. Why he did this was still a question? All he’d done is kill people with no follow-up occupation of the planets. It was as if he was making a point that life—real life—meant nothing to him. He was a machine, a machine that had survived for three billion years. Biologics—as the modules referred to living creatures—were soft, vulnerable … and temporary.
And this kind of thinking made him extremely dangerous. Perhaps he would kill the colonists on Htay-Win. Who knew? But he would certainly make an example out of Dasnon, one of only two fully functioning and habitable worlds in the sixteen hundred light-year swath of planets called the Dead Zone.
Adkins cringed at the thought. Although he had a little over one thousand warships in the Zone at the time, most were guarding the capital world of Navarus. Dasnon was once a backwater planet with barely a fourth of the population of Navarus, that was until the Union and the Expansion set up bases there. Now the place was growing exponentially, with seven major population centers and over three million residents, not counting the military. And no matter how Adkins worked the numbers, he could see no future for the planet.
In anticipation of the defense of Dasnon, the mane-heads scrounged together two hundred ships that had not been part of their ill-fated fleet that was crushed by the evil service module’s armada only twenty-eight days before. Added to Adkin’s current contingent of three hundred eighty Union warships he had on station—plus the eighty that had just arrived from Htay-Win—and even the two hundred Juirean warships wouldn’t be enough to make a difference. The admiral knew the kill ratio. Against the Juireans, Kanan managed an impressive eight-to-one kill ratio. And in the tiny encounter with Adkins’ force of twenty-eight warships against a single Gracilian dark-energy ship, ten Union vessels were lost while Kanan escaped without a scratch. Five hundred enemy warships against six hundred sixty allied vessels … well, the numbers spoke for themselves. Adkins forces couldn’t go head-to-head with Kanan’s. A different strategy was needed.
