Old Guy and the Planet of Eternal Night (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 6)

by Timothy J. Gawne

  It’s been so long since I’ve been in a place like this that I hadn’t recognized it: it’s a security screening zone for biological humans, like they had on Old Earth and her colonies back when the Neoliberals had been in charge.

  In front of us was a maze of waist-high metal poles whose tops were connected to each other with ropes. In the middle of the room was a doorframe without a door, and what looked like an industrial dishwashing machine. On the far side of the room was a simple desk with a weather-beaten old man wearing light a blue short-sleeved shirt and dark blue trousers. He had a photo ID badge hanging around his neck with a picture of a much younger looking man, and the words “Victor Magnusson Security L2” in large black letters.

  Do you know where this leads?

  “I think I do,” said Harlan, “but… we thought they must have died out. And then we forget about them. It’s an entrance to the presidential executive zone, back when this colony was founded. But that it is still being manned…”

  The guard doesn’t look too healthy. Do you think he could be an original member of the presidential staff?

  “Possibly,” said Harlan. “The executive zone had the best anti-aging drugs available at the time. But even so, a thousand years is a long time for a standard biological human to function, at least with the treatments that they had then. Do you think he’s dead?”

  I distinctly hear snoring. I believe that he’s asleep.

  Harlan peered at the security guard with his primary optics. “You’re right. Aren’t you amazed to encounter a real biological human being after all this time?”

  It’s an interesting find, but over the last few millennia we’ve had the odd hominid crop up every now and then. Individuals buried deep underground in suspended animation, lone survivors of fiendish alien experiments, that sort of thing. And then there are the vampires, they’re nearly human. We cybertanks miss our old friends and colleagues, and we wonder what happened to them. But a lone biological human, especially a stranger? We are attentive and considerate, but they are hardly an object of worship, nor do they replace what we have lost. And what about you? You want to worship this human?

  “Hardly. As you say, we miss our other selves, and friends and neighbors and society and culture. As far as these people, some of us – or at least, the biological components of some of us – go back far enough to hold a grudge.”

  I can see that. Still, I think we should try to wake him. We might learn something.

  “True,” said Harlan. He upped the gain on his speakers, and bellowed “SECURITY GUARD VICTOR MAGNUSON YOU HAVE VISITORS.”

  The security guard startled and looked around in confusion. “What, what? What’s going on? Yes?”

  “Hello sir,” said Harlan. “I am Private Seymour Harlan first platoon, 3243rd Interstellar Company, reporting in.”

  The security guard blinked. “Harlan? I don’t recall a Harlan… do you have any ID on you?”

  “Why yes I do, sir,” said Harlan. A small side-chamber opened on his left side, and he removed a plastic laminated photo ID badge, and handed it over to the guard who placed it under a scanner.

  You still have your old ID badge? And your first name is Seymour?

  “I’m sentimental,” said Harlan. “It’s a long story, but it’s been a good luck charm for me. Never thought I would actually use it as ID though. Besides, what’s wrong with Seymour?”

  The old guard squinted at his terminal. “Your ID checks out – but it’s been a while since you’ve been logged in. How are things on the outside?”

  “Things are fine,” said Harlan. “But a few issues have come up recently. I really need to talk to the president. If you could pass us through?”

  “Oh, the president,” said the guard. “She’s hard to get a meeting with, let me tell you that. You know, she came through this very same checkpoint several times, with me running it! Me, running the checkpoint and the president came through! That was a while ago, though. Can’t quite remember when… but she did come through here! Her and her staff!”

  “And that’s splendid,” said Harlan. “Now if you could pass us through?”

  “Oh, yes, sorry, of course, of course,” said the guard. “If you could place all your personal belongings on the scanner belt, and pass through the metal detector.”

  “But,” said Harlan, “I’m made of metal. I’ll set it off.”

  “What?” said the guard. He stared at Harlan. “You are wearing a metal suit. Take it off and put it on the scanner belt, please.”

  “No,” said Harlan, “I am the metal suit. I can’t take it off. There’s nothing inside.”

  “Now young man don’t you mess with me,” said the guard, angrily. “You know there are stiff fines and even jail time for interfering with a security screen. Take your metal suit off and put it on the scanner belt, sir.”

  Harlan made his visor lift up, and opened up his chest, revealing only emptiness inside. “Really, sir, I am just the suit.”

  The guard’s eyes widened. “Well I’ll be… just the suit of armor, as you say. How did that happen?”

  “I was badly injured in the line of duty,” said Harlan. He closed his chest panels and lowered his visor. “Although I got better. And I was awarded several prestigious medals.”

  “Oh, a wounded veteran?” said the guard. “We thank you for your service. Would you please walk through the metal detector?”

  Harlan did as requested, and walked through the bare rectangular frame of the metal detector, which promptly beeped an alarm.

  “If you would excuse me sir, I will have to wand you. Could you please raise your arms?”

  Harlan raised his arms, and the security guard walked slowly over from his desk carrying a portable scanning wand. I noticed that his shoes had so worn that they were little more than scraps covering the tops of his feet. The guard checked Harlan’s armored shoulders, and his armored legs, and the light plasma cannon strung across his back, and the seeker grenades snug in their launching brackets… the scanning wand remained silent. It probably hadn’t worked in centuries.

  “If you don’t mind, sir, I will also need to pat you down.” The guard proceeded to put on a pair of thin plastic gloves – though these had rotted out and were only ragged blue strips around his wrists. He felt along the solid metal plates of the armored suit, the weapons, and did not react.

  “Well that’s OK then, sir,” said the guard. “But you really should be wearing your badge on a lanyard around your neck in here. I think I have a spare on me – yes, here it is. Now who is this other person? You have an ID?”

  I’m sorry, I lost my ID badge. I’m Giuseppe Vargas, Cybernetic Weapons Division. I’m with private Harlan.

  “Oh, lost your ID?” said the guard. “Well I have some forms to get you started on having it replaced, but I can tell you what a hassle that is. You should be more careful with your ID. I have a temporary badge I can give you, but you’ll have to get your replacement within 24 hours, and Private Harlan will have to officially vouch for you. Now, if you would step through the metal detector?”

  I set off the metal detector as expected, and was duly wanded and patted down, and then passed through security. The old guard shuffled back to his desk and sat down heavily. I think he was back asleep before we left, both of us with official-looking badges hanging from lanyards around our necks.

  That brings back memories.

  “Myself as well,” said Harlan, “although I’m not sure how accurate they are. I swear I can remember things that occurred before I was constructed, when there was just the biological me, but I shouldn’t be able to.”

  Human memory is a flexible thing. If you had seen pictures of these old-style checkpoints, and known that the biological Harlan had gone through them, your mind must just be interpolating through the data points.

  “So I’m told,” said Harlan, “but it’s still strange to remember being here before, when I know perfectly well that this me never was.”

  We walked alo
ng a bit, and we came upon a heavy metal door on the right-hand side of the corridor. It was covered with big warning signs: “RESTRICTED AREA,” “SECURITY A3 OR HIGHER ONLY,” and “VIOLATORS SUBJECT TO FELONY CLASS II PENALTIES.” In smaller print was a sign that announced: “Entrance limited to unauthorized personnel.” We stopped to examine the door further.

  It might be dangerous.

  “It might be fun,” said Harlan. He tugged at the handle, then tugged harder, then yanked with all his strength, and the lock gave way and the door swung open. Harlan stepped inside and I followed. We had not made it three meters before we were fired upon by an automatic weapon. Harlan took the impacts, and I scuttled over to the right, then Harlan jumped into an alcove on the left.

  We were out of the zone of fire of who or whatever was shooting at us, but pinned to the walls.

  Are you injured?

  “Just a few scratches, nothing a little buffing can’t fix,” said Harlan. “This is a light slugthrower. I could just walk up to it and tear it apart by hand.”

  Unless it has an auxiliary grenade launcher or something else really nasty.

  “And I used to think you were so much fun,” said Harlan. “OK, we’ll do this by the book.” He ripped some paneling out of the wall, and scattered it out into the hall where it was promptly fired upon. He then launched a couple of seeker grenades, these instantly locked onto the source of the incoming fire and shot forwards. There was a loud bang and then silence.

  Did you get it?

  Harlan jumped out into the open, light plasma rifle in his hands, but nothing happened. “Yes, I got it. Come take a look.”

  I stepped out, and saw the blasted remains of an automated sentry gun. A primitive thing, but effective against civilians.

  I told you it might be dangerous.

  “And I told you that it might be fun,” said Harlan. “So we both win!”

  You’re stealing my lines.

  We continued on past the sentry gun. There were signs of long neglect: heavy dust covering the wall-mounted cable trays, water stains on the floor, mildew on the walls.

  Eventually we came to a section with several civilian-style doors that had neat little nameplates stuck on the walls to the left of each door. We stopped at one labeled “State Dept. Aide IV Hiram Bentholam.” It wasn’t locked.

  Inside, everything was covered with dust: the desk, the computer terminals on the desk, the antique coffee maker, even the desiccated corpse sitting in a high-backed swivel chair in front of the desk. Wiping the dust from the ID badge hanging around the corpse’s neck identified it as Hiram Bentholam, State Dept. Aide IV, deceased at least a century. Well he died at his post, which I guess is something.

  There were three computer monitors on the desk, two were dark, but one was still displaying data. I found a small towel over near the coffee maker, and used the non-dusty underside to wipe the surface of the working computer monitor clean.

  Harlan and I peered at the display. It seemed to be a listing of military units in the Rigel star system, along with detailed reports of reconnaissance and logistics plans.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” said Harlan. “The colonial government here never had any authority over that system, they were local only. Once we landed in this dust cloud none of us have had any contact off planet, and ever since the rupture these people never had any contact outside the executive zone at all.”

  I typed on the keyboard, and uncovered menus showing active space warships, detailed lists of inter-stellar trade routes, intelligence from spies on different planets…

  It’s a strategy game! Mr. Bentholam must have been taking a last turn at Galactic Empires: Provinces in Revolt before suffering a fatal heart attack. I used to play it a long time ago. Although currently it’s set at the “easy” level, hardly a challenge.

  “Huh,” said Harlan. “Let’s poke around some more.”

  We checked the other offices in the area. None of them had any corpses or active computer monitors, just dust. We continued on down the corridor, when suddenly there was a bright light and a voice shouted out “freeze! Identify yourselves!”

  We both stopped and raised our hands. “I’m Private Seymour Harlan, first platoon, 3243rd Interstellar Company,” said Harlan. He raised his ID badge with his left gauntlet. “And this is Giuseppe Vargas, cybernetic weapons division. He lost his regular ID, so he’s only got a temporary one.”

  The light lowered a bit, so we could see who had accosted us. It was two men dressed in black suits. Their suits hung loosely on them, as if the men had once been large and muscular, but had shrunken in on themselves. They each carried a small minigun in a quavering hand, and the apparent leader had a flashlight.

  “You there,” said the leader to Harlan, “let me see that ID.” Harlan dutifully handed the man his ID, and it was dutifully inspected. I then did the same with my temporary ID. “Looks OK,” said the man, “but we’ll have to go to central to check. The local scanners are all out.”

  I wondered that none of the guards noticed that the picture on Harlan’s ID (which was of his original biological self) did not resemble a suit of metal armor. I suppose that, given enough time, long habits turn into unthinking rituals. They had gotten into the sequence of officially being seen as examining an ID without actually looking at it.

  “That sounds fine, sir,” said Harlan. “Lead the way.”

  The leader hesitated a bit, apparently unsure about what to do next. “I’m afraid I’ll have to confiscate your weapons. That’s the rule for entering central.”

  Harlan unclipped his light plasma rifle, and then unloaded his seeker grenades and handed them over. I contacted him on a private short-range radio link.

  Are you sure that you want to do that?

  “Unarmed I could take these two out before they could get off a shot,” transmitted Harlan, “and I’m immune to weapons this small. Let’s humor them and see where they lead us.”

  It’s your party.

  We walked down a hall, and came to another security screening zone. It was similar to the first one we had entered, but better maintained. Here the wands worked, beeping furiously as they were passed over our Harlan’s metal armor and my metal/ceramic/polymer android body. The guards debated what to do about this. They had Harlan open up his visor and chest, and they peered inside to make sure that he wasn’t smuggling in any dwarves or other contraband. I had to lie down on a moving belt and pass through an x-ray scanner, and the guards got to see my mechanical innards in detail.

  “You sure have a lot of prosthetics,” said one guard.

  I know. That’s what happens when an advanced medium range missile decides that it doesn’t like the truck you’re driving in.

  The guard nodded. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Yes I am. Although the maintenance contract is a bear.

  “I can imagine,” said the guard. “You must have a really good health insurance plan.”

  They led us off to a holding cell, and told us to wait. The cell had two concrete walls, two walls made of centimeter-wide metal bars, and two hard metal benches bolted to the floor. There was a video camera outside the cell pointing in, and if it was in working condition everything that we said verbally would likely be recorded. So I contacted Harlan again via short-range radio.

  You sure this is a good idea? We might be stuck here for a while.

  “Not a problem,” transmitted Harlan. “I have inbuilt light cutting equipment. I could get through these bars easily. And if we do get trapped it’s only a matter of time until my brother knights come after me. So let’s just go with it. I think I’ll take a nap.”

  Harlan lay down on one of the benches, which groaned slightly under his weight, and became still. I guess he was sleeping, though it’s hard to tell with an armored suit. They don’t fatigue like biological humans but they do need some down-time now and then, as their neuronal dynamics are human.

  I also need to sleep, but even as a sub-mind I can do memory co
nsolidation section-by-section if I want to, without shutting everything down at the same time. Or I could just put myself on standby, or I could reduce the duty-cycle of my processors and fast-forward through time until something interesting happens.

  I decided to stay awake for a bit, and use the peace and quiet to reflect. Our captors were apparently the survivors of the original ruling Neoliberal caste of the founders of this colony. According to the armored suits, these had panicked during an assault by monsters and they had killed a large number of civilians in the crossfire. The original biological version of General Trellen had cut the Neoliberals off from their external weaponry and sealed them into their palace. People had debated what to do with them, but between the pressure of ongoing monster attacks, getting the hydroponics working, attending to the wounded, etc., that had been a low priority. As time went on and nothing happened, it was easier and easier to continue to do nothing: oh maybe we’ll try and contact them next year, darn this is a bad time how about after we’ve finished the current school year, no there’s just too much going on how about next year…

  Neoliberals. The living embodiment of the worst of human greed and hypocrisy. It’s been so long since I fought them back on Alpha Centauri Prime, and then later on Old Earth (though it can be debated just how much of what happened on Old Earth was really me, but that’s a another story). I can empathize how easy it would be to just forget about them… But why then did they stay in this place? It was part of the essence of Neoliberalism to expand, to control, to corrupt, to enslave - while calling it freedom. Living in peace with other political systems was never an option for them. This isn’t their style.

  In any event, as The Fortress was constructed the colonists must have just built over the old presidential palace, and eventually it was forgotten. Oh I’m sure it’s in the records somewhere but if nobody ever had a reason to think about it, it could be treated as just another block in the foundation…