It became the basis of his ability to know the human emotion he ought to feel… and, in his own fashion, to feel those emotions as well.
It meant that, though his brain worked at its most basic level through the manipulation of electrical signals in on and off states, that he could hear the words Sheila uttered before his departure, to know what she meant… and to wish he’d managed to respond in kind.
Could a robot love? He didn’t know. He’d spent a disproportionate amount of his mental capacity—and that was quite a bit—finding her, manipulating circumstances until she came under his employ and close observation, ensuring that when chaos erupted he was prepared to extract her to the safety of the island. It meant he’d spent his “sleeping” time simulating the best way to ensure that their mission would succeed, yes, but more critically that she’d survive. Those simulations said that he’d need to “die” in his fashion, drawing so much attention to himself that she could probably strip naked upon her arrival, set herself ablaze, and sprint through the massive primary corridor without much notice.
Was that love? Sacrificing himself so that she could live? He remembered things he’d read in his earliest days, and remembered reading words to the effect that the greatest love one could display was to sacrifice one’s life for another.
If that was the case, then he loved her. Not as Stephen once loved her; he couldn’t love her like that. But in many ways he’d loved her to a far greater degree than her conniving husband ever had.
His timing mechanism interrupted his consciousness routine. Practice.
Yes. He was in a new body. He needed a bit of time, perhaps a few hours, to ensure that each movement he’d learned over the years, from the most subtle to the most overt, seemed fluid and natural in this new form. How long his stride was. How high and far he could reach. How to recognize his reflection. The cadence and tone of his voice. The mannerisms of this body form, studied over the years by leveraging the library of memory videos he’d spirited away from their original storage location so many centuries earlier.
He practiced. He spoke and listened and compared to those audio samples. He stretched his arms out for objects and walls and made note of his range. He practiced the man’s facial expressions and tics.
The craft alerted him that he’d escaped the atmosphere.
Not much longer now.
He wondered how Sheila fared. There was no safer place in the world for her than the island of Eden. He’d salvaged the door from the space station. For reasons the portal inventors had never explained, transport worked best when using materials originating at the target site. This door had been on the space station since its earliest days. Given the distance traveled, he had no interest in taking chances. He might one day learn that the portal inventors were wrong, that there was no “affiliation” with materials from a target site, but he had no margin for error right now.
The space station finally loomed on his view screen. An on-board chip in each approaching ship usually provided identification to the space station. At this point in history, every human ship traveling to and from the space station would have such chips; the station would recognize the approaching aircraft and the tractor beam would pull them in, simplifying the braking and docking procedure.
This ship had no such identification chip.
He wondered how they’d react to an alien craft. The station had no weapons systems, but they could certainly make things awkward once he’d docked and boarded.
As he waited for the inevitable contact, he pushed his Micah-specific memories from his primary storage to long-term storage. He’d know who he truly was, but would act and react based upon the identity he’d assumed. He must fool the people aboard the space station who’d known this man centuries earlier, and one of them in particular.
Oswald Silver.
A mischievous smile crept over Micah’s new face. The world today knew him as Oswald Silver. But Micah, and the man he now resembled, knew Oswald Silver by other names, names that would haunt Silver if uttered. Micah would take full advantage of that fact.
With the transformation finally complete, Micah switched on his radio, waiting for the inevitable attempts at contact.
After a short wait, they came.
Unidentified vessel approaching this station, please identify yourself and your purpose in traveling to this location
His face cracked into a confident smirk, a typical reaction for the man he impersonated when in an ornery, snarky mood. “If you look around the space station, my friend, you’ll see the pictures of the people who built the place you now call home. One of the faces you’ll see in those pictures is me.”
Oddly, the radio operator didn’t accept the answer. Sir, please identify yourself and your purpose in approaching this station.
“I have a concern I’d like to discuss with the station’s management. They’re supposed to act as caretakers, not just of this station, but of the planet from which we all originated. Frankly, given the giant blobs destroying half the planet… I’d say they’re doing a lousy job, and I’d like to lodge a formal complaint.”
Sir, I must insist that you—
Micah offered a dramatic sigh. “Oh, very well. My name is Will Stark. I’ve come to visit Oswald Silver, an old friend of mine. Could you let him know?”
Silence. The radio operator would assess the message with the others monitoring the radio signals. They’d eventually decide they had to risk Silver’s wrath and ask him what to do. Micah smiled. He wished he could see the man’s face upon the announcement of his name.
The radio came back to life. Sir, Mr. Silver indicated that he is not expecting any visitors and doesn’t know anyone with that name. Please provide your true identity.
Micah snorted. “Please tell Mr. Silver that Mr. Stark regrets to hear of his fading memories, but would be happy to give him a… hand… in reversing his dementia.”
There was another pause in communication from the radio operator. Micah suspected that the relayed message had triggered quite a few unpleasant memories in the mind of Oswald Silver.
Sir, we have received instructions from Mr. Silver. We will allow you to land. Mr. Silver is quite eager to clear up your confusion about your identity.
Micah chuckled. “Please extend my thanks to Mr. Silver. I’m eager to resolve all identity issues as well.” But not the one Oswald Silver intended.
He detected the slight initial shudder as the tractor beam seized control of the ship. He’d felt that same sensation on his many previous journeys to the space station in the Micah Jamison body form. Those trips occurred under false pretenses by both sides; Micah pretended that he accepted the basic premises of Phoenix, and those in charge pretended that they’d brought Micah in for the long term, rather than as a pawn to be sacrificed later. He’d used those visits well. While he’d not found the Ravager control server and planted the device preemptively—something his programming wouldn’t allow him to do at any rate—he’d established the necessary connections for the portal and had freed several prisoners of the undeclared war waged by Phoenix on the rest of humanity.
They’d stopped inviting him here after a few trips, likely after noticing prisoners vanished after every visit to the station by one Micah Jamison. He knew he’d get caught eventually; his adversaries weren’t stupid people. But the effort to cover his trail would mean he’d risk the recapture of those he sprang from the brig; best to get them out and eventually lose admittance here than risk losing those people permanently.
The sphere slid into the docking bay; his trained eye noted that it had been recently occupied by another craft. That seemed strange; he couldn’t imagine why any Phoenix would bother leaving the safety of the space station for the current hell in the West or the upcoming scourge of the East.
The craft shuddered slightly as movement ceased. He’d already shut off the engines—such as existed in this craft—once the tractor beam engaged the ship. He—as Will Stark—knew well that his ship couldn’t esca
pe the grip of the tractor beam once captured, and frankly he had no desire to flee. Escape wouldn’t further his goals and get Sheila aboard without notice, nor draw personnel to him while she scouted for, found, and repurposed the server.
Movement to his left attracted his peripheral visual sensors and he turned his head to engage his full video input and processing capabilities. The tube, used to enable transport of persons and property from ship to station without the need to pressurize and seal the outer docking bay doors, extended toward the side of the craft. What would Will Stark do in this situation? His personality profiling system knew exactly how the man would react: aggravate the man known in this time as Oswald Silver. He thus waited until the mouth of tube kissed the side of the craft before he engaged the radio microphone. “Thanks for extending the access tube, but the connection point for this ship isn’t on that side.”
Ship in docking bay AA-23, please repeat. Is there a problem with the access tube?
“I have no direct experience with that particular access tube and have little doubt that it works correctly. However, that’s not my point. There is no door where the access tube currently meets my ship.”
Where might we find the access door for the ship?
“It’s located in the side of the ship facing the outer docking bay doors.”
Repeat, AA-23?
“The ship entered the docking bay moving forward. You’ve extended the access tube to the left side of the ship. The door is actually in the rear.”
The radio went silent. Micah knew Will would enjoy a hearty laugh at this point. They’d made an assumption because all current ships included doors on the left side as they docked in the space station bays. This aircraft wasn’t built in the same style.
AA-23, our access tube cannot reach a door in the rear of the craft in a secured manner.
There was a pause, which Micah understood. They didn’t know what to do. “May I offer a suggestion? Recall the access tube, disengage the tractor beam, and I’ll rotate the ship to my right ninety degrees. You can then reengage the beam and extend the access tube.”
Sir, this is highly irregular—
“I know. Everything else is dull by comparison, isn’t it?”
Another pause. We will withdraw the access tube and disengage the beam for two minutes while you perform your maneuver. Please do not use that time in an effort to leave the docking bay.
“Why would I leave? And why would I not be allowed to leave if I wished? I came here on my own, not as a summoned prisoner. Are you declaring me a prisoner?”
Sir, no… Mr. Silver is quite eager to meet you, and would be most aggrieved if you left before having the opportunity to become reacquainted.
“Reacquainted? I thought he didn’t know who I was?”
We’re withdrawing the access tube now, sir. Begin your maneuver when you feel the tractor beam disengage.
“I’ll do that, because I’m here of my own free will and that’s what I choose to do.”
The radio operator didn’t respond. But Micah watched the access tube withdraw back toward the walls of the docking bay. He moved to the controls and activated the engines—though his ship didn’t have engines in the traditional sense—and once the tractor beam released, he rotated the airship so that its aft end faced the access tube and door.
Moments later, Micah-as-Will strode through the access tube and through the door on the other end, emerging into the medical bay. He expected the doctor in the white lab coat, standing near the entry, clipboard in hand, reviewing the data in her hands. “Welcome aboard, Mister… Mister Stark? Where are you going?”
Micah kept walking. “I’m healthy, Doctor. My medical records should be in the computer systems, unless those have been erased. Contact Oswald Silver; he can confirm that I’m incapable of carrying any diseases.”
“Mister Stark, this highly irregular and I must insist that—”
Micah ignored her and kept walking, exiting the medical bay outside the dock and emerging into the bustling corridor. He thought he heard her mutter something about everyone skipping medical checks lately, but didn’t understand what that might mean. He glanced up at the transparent “ceiling” that provided a panoramic view of the planet below. The gorgeous sphere of sparkling shades of blue and white and green and brown and silver was marred at this point by the slathering masses of Ravagers slithering over massive portions of the terrain. As they moved into twilight hours and the sun slid behind the planet, he watched as the deadly machines turned luminescent. It wasn’t a feature he’d heard about, but it didn’t much matter what color the Ravagers were; they destroyed everything.
He would change that. More accurately, he’d enable Sheila to change that.
His internal timers suggested she ought to be firing up the portal by now.
Time to distract the enemy. He turned around and marched in the direction of Oswald Silver’s private quarters.
After walking for several minutes, he noticed a large framed portrait hanging on the wall. He paused, noting that there were two women standing near the painting, pointing at it and talking in an animated fashion. Curious, he turned to his right and headed for the wall.
“…this incredibly rich guy, and he spent all of his money building this as a gift to humanity, and even figured out how to make sure that everyone who wanted to visit or live here could do so.” The speaker shook her head. “We’ve never had someone with that level of selflessness. Can you imagine anyone doing something like that?” She sighed wistfully. “I wish we had someone like that around today.“ She gazed up at the portrait. The name Will Stark emblazoned the painting itself; a plaque to the side described his life and accomplishments, including leading the effort to finance and build the space station in which they all now stood.
“It’s good to hear that I’ve been missed,” Micah said, gazing at the portrait as he stroked the chin represented in the painting.
The women glanced at him, nodded, then looked back at the painting.
One of them realized what he’d said… and what he looked like. She turned slowly toward him.
Micah leaned in closer, between the women, before frowning. “I don’t think they got the color of my eyes quite right. They’re actually a bit darker than what you see in the painting.”
The second woman looked at him more carefully… and her jaw dropped. “But… how… it says that you’re… how…?”
He shrugged at her stammering. “How? I’m just quite well preserved for an old guy.”
“But you can’t be him! That’s impossible.”
Micah smiled. “Nothing is impossible.”
“What is the meaning of this?”
Micah and the women turned toward the new voice.
Oswald Silver, flanked by men bearing serious expressions and thinly concealed weapons, strode toward them. Silver’s brown eyes, filled with anger, never left Micah’s face. He pointed at Micah, his finger jabbing in the air. “Who are you? What do you want from us?”
Micah sighed loudly as Silver approached. “I now understand how it is that you and your friends struggled to find me for so long. I thought you didn’t know where to look; turns out you just didn’t know what you were looking for.” He fixed Silver with a penetrating gaze. “You know exactly who I am.”
Silver stopped, only a few feet from Micah. The women, sensing conflict, flitted away. Silver tried to maintain a domineering look, but Micah noted that his skin had paled slightly. “I know who you look like. But you aren’t that man. You’re an imposter.”
Micah chuckled Will Stark’s chuckle. “You always were charming.” He glanced around, noting the growing crowd, and ensured that he made direct eye contact with each person, bringing them into the conversation. He then returned his gaze to Silver. “Things were going quite well, Oswald. Then I leave for a few years and return to that.” He jabbed his finger up at the ceiling where the luminescent Ravagers rolled like waves of light across large swaths of Western land. “I don’t much
like what you’ve done with the place, Oswald. To be blunt, when it comes to caring for this world and the people on it, you suck.”
Silver’s eyes flashed with anger, and his skin regained some of its lost coloring. “The world is transforming into something you can’t possibly imagine. And the people are getting better by the minute.” His eyes narrowed, his gaze boring into Micah. “You make it sound as if you actually care about what happens here. That’s a hell of an assertion by a man who abandoned everything and everyone so long ago.”
Micah arched an eyebrow. “Admitting you remember me now, Oswald?” He rolled his eyes. “Oswald. Really? That’s the name you’ve chosen for yourself? I thought some of your earlier choices were bad, but this one? And here I thought you’d hit rock bottom when you stole the name of the swordsman in that old book.” He chuckled, eyes twinkling as Silver’s face turned pale once more. “At least you had the sense to pick the name of the biggest buffoon in the story; it fit you well.”
“He was no buffoon!” Silver roared. His eyes flicked around, as if only then realizing so many had gathered to see the nature of the loud altercation. He knew they’d wonder about the man who’d so clearly left the powerful man agitated… and why Silver seemed to know exactly what the stranger’s obscure comments meant. He took a step toward Micah, eyes narrowing. “Why are you here?”
“I’ve been absent for some time and missed this place.” He shrugged. “Sadly, I’ve returned to find that you’ve taken charge. You’ve apparently learned nothing. I’m shocked your own people haven’t mutinied and killed you yet.” He grimaced. “It’s as if you inherited the worst characteristics of both of your friends, combining mental instability with disastrous decision making and uninspiring leadership skills. Tell me, Oswald: are you going to jump out of a thirty story building to escape the reality of the misery you’ve caused?” He glanced up, looking down on the planet below. “Or perhaps you’ll start a bit higher up.”
Ravagers [03.00] Deviate Page 25
