Spy Station

by J. M. R. Gaines

  “Shhh, ruhig, Liebchen.” Klein seemed serene, his face now like the pictures of the Earth Buddha she had seen in history bases. “Softly, softly catchee monkey,” he murmured.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I have real problems and all you offer me is enigmas.”

  “So sorry. Something a wise detective once said.”

  “Well, what in the cosmos is a monkey and why would I want to catch it?”

  “A small, mischievous tree creature from Earth. Fast, agile, and clever.”

  “You seem to know a lot about them.”

  “One was my uncle.”

  “Uncle? What’s that? There you go again.”

  “A joke. One of my incorrigible Earth mannerisms.” He switched on the lights and guided her to sit down in a chair. “OK, here’s the explanation. If you are tracking a clever being – and you are – you have to learn patience and make your moves slowly and deliberately. You don’t want to spook him. You want to let him believe he’s still in control until the very last minute. Only when it’s too late do you want him to realize you have apprehended him. Then you can act ruthlessly.”

  “But what if the Song Pai are involved in this? They’re clever, but brutal. You ought to know.”

  “Sure, I got to know them all too well. And when it came to it, I could kill them, too. Almost killed myself in the process, but that’s beside the point.” He leaned close to her. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Liebling, you can actually trust the Song Pai in this business.”

  “Those smelly, detestable squids?”

  “Think back. Were they too smelly or detestable to blast that damn mercenary out of the sky when he came to terminate you and your mother? Their destiny is tied to yours.”

  Ayan’we didn’t know what to say. Klein was right that the Song Pai, no matter how repulsive in person, had always acted with reliable courage and honor when it came to protecting the Forlani.

  “You’ve convinced me,” she finally admitted. She looked Klein in the eye and was startled to see that he had only one eye to look back at her. Hadn’t Torghh rebuilt his injured eye at Coriolis? What did this mean?

  “Won’t you stay with me until this is over?”

  “You don’t need me anymore right now. Gotta go,” he said, slipping a floppy, wide-brimmed hat over his head and draping a cloud-colored cape over his shoulders. “I’ll be back, though. In the meantime, rely on yourself. You’re totally able to get to the bottom of this.”

  He disappeared. Ayan’we disappeared in her own dream. There was only darkness and confusion, and out of it arose a very low sound, a tone so profound it could have echoed since the creation of the universe. After a long time, a slow progression of notes, a phrase repeated over and over, growing dominant, louder, and then finally a burst of light. Ayan’we awoke to find the timer had illuminated her office again, but she would have sworn for a second there had been the flash of a sun rising over a new world.

  Unlike Erica and Ayan’we, most of the personnel on Transfer Varess enjoyed a restful sleep, as their various living quarters did their best to simulate nighttime, or some other appropriate pause from a day of activity. At breakfast, over fruit and grilled crickets, Entara felt refreshed and confident for the next conference session. If there were any orchards on Varess, she would have had a little run and leapt up a tree for some fresh sunberries. She was eager to compliment Ayan’we on her speeches at the Love Court.

  Entara stroked her daughter’s hairless head and softly said, “You were superb, firstborn. If you ever get tired of flying around the spiral arms, you can always come back to Forlan and be an advocate.”

  “Are you kidding, mom?” answered Ayan’we incredulously. “I’ve never been so nervous in all my life. Words were just pouring out of my mouth before I could think about what I was saying. I hope I didn’t make too much of a blunder.” She put her chin in her hands and made the Forlani equivalent of a frown.

  “You couldn’t have defused the danger better. You managed to make Klein and me look like heroes. And when you deflated that Fianni with your sarcasm I thought I was going to burst out in laughter. That cold fish Isshel was as impressed as the sisters in the cluster, and you know how reluctant males are to acknowledge any achievement by one of us. Don’t be too critical of yourself.”

  “I was thinking of Amanda. I probably shouldn’t have ever spoken of her existence in the presence of Earthlings.”

  “They would have found out anyway. Haven’t you been finding their devices everywhere? I can’t imagine they didn’t have them in that room and everywhere else in the station. They’re just the opposite of the Dissenters, you know, these corporation types. They trust technology to a fault.”

  “That just makes me feel worse. I’d rather die than endanger Amanda. I feel a special thing with her that goes beyond her just being Klein’s child. To tell you the truth, I had a really low opinion of human females before I met her. The odd thing is, she’s not exceptionally smart. Rather naïve in some ways. I just can’t help feeling close to her.”

  “Not all sisters have the same blood or the same skin. As for the rest, I’m not worried. If Klein, who was a condemned man, was able to elude them as he did, I think Amanda and her mother will remain safe.”

  “You’re so right about that same skin stuff. I hope you’re right about the rest of it, too.”

  3

  T he following day, the Interzonal Conference agenda was devoted to a long string of presentations of conflict parameters by each of the delegations, though the Blynthians and the Song Pai both passed on their turns to speak. It was boring, even for diplomats. The Song Pai paid rapt attention to their tablets, but it did not seem to have anything to do with the proceedings. Only their head delegate, a scarred and powerful individual, was following the reports with any kind of interest. Lila managed to sneak a glance at their delegation as she was passing by on a routine errand and whispered to Ayan’we that the cephalopods were captivated by a broadcast of some kind of violent underwater sporting event. Leave it to the Song Pai to dream up forms of exercise that include blood-letting.

  When the day’s conclave finally broke up, Ayan’we had just given assignments to the security cluster for their shifts, when Isshel suddenly appeared by her side.

  “A long, weary session, wasn’t it, Cluster Leader?”

  “It certainly was. I hope we make better progress tomorrow.”

  “I know you must be tired, but if it is not too much, I would like to invite you to come to my quarters to see my project. I just did a final test this morning and it is quite complete.”

  “Well, I don’t know much…”

  “I am sure that as the firstborn of Entara and Tays’she, your opinion would be most helpful. Besides, you showed some interest when we spoke previously. Most unusual for a project that was then still unfinished. Few fem… anyway, I would consider it a great honor.”

  “Absolutely,” Ayan’we assured him. It was not often that any male Forlani sought the opinion of a female on aesthetic matters. Besides, it would be a pity to discourage Isshel’s openness to intersexual relations in general. Or maybe in particular, a little voice in her head warned. Be prudent.

  On the way to the Forlani residency, Isshel explained that he now intended to devote himself full time to the psychological observations Ayan’we had asked him to make. He was becoming more and more curious about the Phiddians since their astonishing behavior at the love court.

  As Isshel opened the door of his cabin, Ayan’we saw that he had already set a seat in a privileged spot in front of his apparatus. He hurried to offer her some bits of fruit as she sat down. When all was in readiness, he grew serious and took a place at the equipment console, pausing as Ayan’we had seen human orchestra conductors do in recordings before they began to direct the philharmonic in a symphony by Schumann. This association with Klein’s favorite music made her excited.

  Isshel began to move his hands gracefully over the console and jets of colore
d water sprang from the basin. Spellbound, Ayan’we wondered how these colored fountains could come from a pool of water that appeared quite clear. This, however, was only the beginning. After twining into intricate arabesques, the jets of water detached themselves from the pool completely and began to trace arcs and spirals through the air. As they did, their colors changed to create fascinating patterns. At times they were mainly red and golden. Then they would become blues and purples, accentuated with metallic silver. After several minutes of mesmerizing gyrations, the jets joined to form a single pattern in red, gold, green, and blue. Ayan’we recognized with a little shock that it was a motif from one of Tay’she’s famous versions of the Great Spiral of Being. As the form reached its climax, the jets burst into individual drops of color that each slid, as though along an invisible course, back into the basin.

  Ayan’we was so impressed she couldn’t think how to react. This artistic experience, created so far for her alone, was beyond anything she had witnessed. Realizing that Isshel was staring at her intently, waiting for some judgment, she snapped to herself and said, “It’s incredible, absolutely marvelous! Isshel, this must be shared, not only with your finest critics in the Brotherhood, but with all Forlani. I had no idea… well, I knew you were an accomplished artist already, but this will make you one of the masters of our culture.”

  Ayan’we’s effusive praise at first seemed to gratify Isshel but after an instant he started to become embarrassed. “Please, please. Your pleasure means a lot to me, but you are going to give me a swollen head if you keep it up.”

  “I had no idea this could even be done.”

  “It is a rather new technology for art. A larger version of this console was only discovered two years ago and the brothers who were investigating it have kept it a bit secret. We didn’t want to produce an early failure that would cause the senior critics to order us to abandon our experiments with it.

  “How does it work?”

  “It is actually based on mechanisms invented by our friends the Song Pai, though they employed it for strictly mundane purposes. As you know, their entire existence is based on the movement of fluids. They would probably think that we Forlani males are mere degenerates to put such things into operation for the creation of “useless” beauty.”

  “How in the world did you get the Song Pai to turn this over to you?”

  “They left it behind as junk. I’m sure you’ve seen their new compound at the spaceport back home. They needed it because the old one was too small and obsolete. After the Council approved the land swap for their new place, they authorized the Brotherhood to send in some designers to propose ideas for using the old property. We found it full of gear that they considered not worth salvaging, since their new compound was furnished with all the latest and best. With the help of a gang of indentures that was still cleaning up, we figured out that very large versions of this machine, which we call a Stasis Displacer, served them by allowing massive redirection of water and other liquids without dependence on physical pipes. Simply put, it creates virtual channels by modifying the usual effects of gravity and molecular adhesion. It’s a variation of boson field formation that I couldn’t begin to explain sensibly, with my poor science background. We just figured out how to reverse engineer the process into a more compact form that would be useful for artistic media.” Isshel bowed his head a little as he saw that Ayan’we was eyeing him with awe. “Of course, most of the adaptation was done by my more clever colleagues. This is just my own personal experiment.”

  “I barely know where to begin. To be honest, I feel a bit stupefied by the beauty of it all. Please sit with me and help me enjoy these treats while I become less tongue-tied.”

  This time, Isshel did not give Ayan’we an easy excuse to leave. He brought up the subject of the gardens at the Eyes of Awareness mahäme to which she belonged. It was a suitably aesthetic subject that she could handle much more readily than the high-flown topic of Stasis Displacers. She grew more aware that he was trying to draw out the conversation, not merely out of respect or in search of praise, but because he was enjoying her company and hanging on her words, regardless of their triviality. She was surprised to find that she didn’t really want to leave. She was enjoying his presence in a strange new way. It was only when the shift change signal sounded on her communicator that she hopped up and strode away with a quick goodbye. She was glad that the rendezvous with the new shift was all the way at the other end of the residency, because she found it hard to concentrate for once on spycraft and logistics.

  Doctor-Professor Torghh found himself rushing down a hallway into the station’s restricted area at a very inopportune time. He was set to deliver a speech to the Blynthians about emergency medical care on interstellar vessels and had been busy preparing the details of his presentation, meticulously double checking the stats on solar radiation risks to Earthlings, Forlani, and various other organics. During his preparations, Torghh had been interrupted by an emergency signal from a robot in need of repairs. As much as he would have liked to simply relax and prepare his speech in private, Torghh always felt compelled above all to aid any being in distress, be they fleshy or mechanical. He wondered how much of this stemmed from the programming of his creators and how much was the development of his own personality, shaped by the experiences of his existence. These thoughts were only of secondary importance to him, as his CPU was dominated by concern for his fellow automaton while he rushed into Sector 12 of the station.

  One of the station’s robotic guards approached him. “Please desist and return to your quarters,” the guard insisted. “Security camera failures have been detected in the last several hours in Sector 12. We cannot guarantee your safety.”

  “There is another robot there, badly injured,” Torghh signaled. “It is within my primary programming to preserve the existence of all suffering beings, whether robot or organic. Please allow me through.”

  The guard responded by digitally repeating its pre-recorded message again. Torghh gave a brief hiss of frustration as he signaled his identification clearance while the guard blathered on about security camera failures and guarantees of safety. The doctor went so far as to obtain a physical badge from a holding cabinet built into his left leg and held it at the level of the guard robot’s glaring red eyes. After a scan beam briefly shot from the guard’s eyes onto the badge, it beeped an acknowledgement and then delivered a different message. “Doctor Torghh, you have been granted override capacity to enter restricted areas in event of emergency. Please be advised, if you enter Sector 12, that we cannot guarantee your safety.” The guard seemed to flatten itself against the right wall, allowing Torghh just enough room to squeeze past before he continued his dash into Sector 12.

  Once he reached the coordinates of the distress signal, Torghh realized that there was no injured robot lying on the floor, as had been predicted. Then why is the distress signal still activated? He wondered. The distress signal is an involuntary reaction in a robot. It cannot be faked, and will only be triggered if the robot is critically damaged and total system failure is imminent. What could have happened to this unit?

  As he scanned throughout the hallway, Torghh only barely noticed the overhead light fixtures beginning to flicker and fail. His optic units could function almost perfectly in areas with such a lack of light that a human would be functionally blind, so why would something as minor as light bulb failures on a space station bother him? He was more troubled when he detected one of the security cameras glitching out, but he continued his search in spite of it. He could sense himself getting closer and closer to the source of the distress call. He arrived at a part of the wall with a wide, ugly crack in it, and the signal increased in power, indicating that he had finally reached the exact location of the damaged robot. Torghh made a titanium fist and struck the crack, watching as the wall dented. It appeared that the wall had recently been plastered over, as if to hide something. Torghh sensed some kind of movement behind him, but a hasty sensor check s
howed only the walls of the corridor, so he kept on task. He pulled the flimsy plaster away from the wall, ripping large chunks of it away, until he finally discovered the damaged robot in the crevasse.

  Even by the standards of the injuries Torghh had seen in his years as a doctor, it was a horrifying sight. The robot’s torso had been completely ripped apart, a jumble of wires and smashed pieces of metal and plastic remaining where its central units should have been. Its appendages had been disconnected, leaving it completely immobile. But the most disturbing aspect of the robot’s physique was its top unit injury; a long, narrow, metal pole had been rammed into the robot’s equivalent of a skull, smashed all the way through to a cognitive processing unit. An expressive motion unit, like a lower jaw, continued to move up and down very slowly, as if it were trying to tell Torghh “Please kill me,” even though no audible sound came out. Yet as Torghh sifted through the rubble surrounding the robot, he noticed that the power core—the one thing that could keep a robot functional—was still completely intact. Who would want a robot so damaged, yet maintain the power core to prevent shutdown? he wondered.

  He didn’t wonder long. He hadn’t noticed as a spindly automaton had slowly crept into position further up the corridor and deployed a mysterious device. He only heard a squishing sound, as a liquid that felt like hot plastic began to encircle him. As it grew thicker around him, it instantly hardened, immobilizing his limbs. He could see nothing but layers of the opaque, cloying plastic obscuring his optic units. It must have contained some kind of suspended nano-particles that also scrambled his electronics, because he felt parts of himself losing coordination with each other. Torghh tried to route extra power to his limbs to punch through the coating of plastic, but the extra strength proved useless at restoring his mobility. That irrational, organic emotion Torghh had always despised—panic—finally seized control of his CPU and commanded him to scream. But the cooling plastic had already grown so tight around his body that he could no longer even broadcast a distress call, much less articulate a mechanical sound!