"We're automata." She squatted down to his level. "Mostly construction and engineering models, though some of us have backgrounds in personal assistance."
"This is ridiculous," sneered the grumpy robot. "Of course he knows what we are. He's a fleshy – he's probably got a few of us slaving away for him back home."
"I most certainly do not," said Jack, running a hand through his hair. "You're… you're robots! You don't even exist!"
The grumpy robot made a sound like a floppy drive being processed.
"That's rich, coming from you. We ran your DNA through the system. There's no record of your kind anywhere in the galaxy. The real question is: what are you?"
"I thought you might be a Kerulian," said the small one, "but you don't have the bony ridges along your head and neck like they do. Or their yellow-green eyes."
They all stared at him, waiting.
"I'm a human," said Jack.
"Never heard of them," said the grumpy robot. "Sounds made up."
"An unregistered, semi-intelligent species.” The small automata was in awe. "I didn't think there were any left to find! How did you end up all the way out here?"
"There was an experiment, and…" Jack trailed off, his brow furrowed. "Something went wrong. I don't know, exactly. Wait a second. If you've never heard of a human before, how come you're speaking English?"
"We're not," replied the android with a face. "We're speaking Binary."
"Well, how come I understand that?"
"Because of the language nano-chip we implanted in your neck, of course."
Jack scrambled to reach the base of his neck. True enough, there was a microscopic lump on one of the upper notches of his spine. It burned at his touch, and when he looked at his fingers they were speckled with blood.
"What's wrong with you?" he yelled, getting to his feet. "What the hell have you done to me?"
"Oh, calm down," she replied. "Every child across the galaxy gets this done. You won't get very far without it – not unless you plan to learn a few hundred thousand languages any time soon."
"A few hundred… Why on earth do you guys need so many?"
The three robots looked at one another.
"Bless him.” The small one tilted his cassette-head. "He really has no idea."
"Without that chip, all you'd hear from us would be a long series of beeps," she continued. "The chip translates them into whichever language your brain best understands. It can help you recognise some written communication, too… though that tends to take a little getting used to. You were talking in your sleep. That’s why we could get the translation process started. Sorry if it took you by surprise, but it really is standard procedure."
She stepped closer. Jack backed away.
"Look," said the grumpy robot. "We saved your life. We didn't have to. Either you settle down or we kick you back out into space again. Your choice."
Jack stared at the three bizarre, mechanical figures in front of him, then at the various faceless synthetic creatures peering out from behind the metal walls and cargo crates. As strange as they all were, as insane as the situation was, they didn't look hostile. If anything, they looked more scared of him.
He took a deep breath and held out a trembling hand.
"Thank you, I guess. I'm Jack Bishop."
The android with a face studied Jack's hand, then gingerly clasped it in her own. It was cold, but gentle.
"And I'm RX-1150," she replied. She pointed at the small robot. "This is IL-6-88, who found you on the scans. And this is 11-P-53, our captain of sorts."
11-P-53 – the grumpy robot – gave Jack a curt nod and marched off in the other direction.
"This captain needs to make sure the two of you haven't put all of us at risk," it said, disappearing around the corner. A lot of the curious robots followed.
"Don't mind 11-P-53," said the small robot. "It's under a lot of pressure at the moment."
"I'm sorry," said Jack. "Don't any of you automata have actual names? I'm going to struggle remembering all these numbers."
"We just told you them." The android shrugged. "I'm RX-1150 and this is IL-6-88."
"That's not a name. That's a barcode."
"That's all we have," said a disappointed IL-6-88.
"I have been analysing your language since before you gained consciousness," said the android, pointing at her head. "I believe I could generate a name based on your most popular words, if that would be preferable?"
"Go for it," said Jack, rubbing his neck again.
RX-1150's lenses glazed over for a couple of seconds while she came up with something.
"Josh Rogan," she said.
"Erm, I'm pretty sure that's a curry…"
"Oh, that's good!" IL-6-88 prodded RX-1150 on the arm. "Give me one!"
She took a moment to generate another name.
"Tuna Melt," she announced.
"Okay, I'm not sure you've quite got the hang of names yet," said Jack, interrupting IL-6-88's excitement. "How about this: you're Rogan, and you're Tuner. How does that sound?"
"Do the captain next!" said Tuner, his lights flashing.
"I'm not sure 11-P-53 would like that," replied Rogan. "Besides, Jack Bishop here can call him Captain if the numbers are too tricky."
"Just Jack is fine, thanks," said Jack, wincing. His head was killing him. He lost his balance and staggered sideways.
"Woah there," said Tuner, catching him. To Jack, it felt like hugging a filing cabinet. "You sure you're okay?"
"Of course he isn't," said Rogan, helping to steady him. "His body's having trouble adjusting to the lack of atmosphere. I'm not surprised, given the state we found him in. It sounds like the poor guy's had quite an ordeal."
"You don't know the half of it," sighed Jack, still not quite believing he was talking to a pair of robots. "I should be dead. Am I dead?"
"Well you look it, if that's any consolation," said Tuner. "Let's take him to one of the quarters, let him have a lie down."
"I'm fine, honestly," said Jack, but he let them escort him out of the cargo bay all the same.
They walked down a corridor that was almost entirely circular, aside from the flat platform on which they walked. Everything was built from the same clunky, rusty metal Jack had seen in the cargo bay. It was dim – there were no windows and the only light came from the occasional orb embedded in the curved ceiling. The walls were covered in exposed pipes and cables and maintenance hatches. Every now and then a jet of steam would hiss out from overhead. The air smelled of copper and oil.
"Is this your ship?" asked Jack.
"Yes," replied Tuner. "Isn't she great? We wouldn't be here without her."
"She's wonderful," said Jack, staring at everything they passed. He was struck by an unnerving thought. "How come I'm able to breathe if everyone on this ship is a robot?"
"Automata," Rogan corrected him. "We turned on some of the life support systems when we realised you were a fleshy. Good thing we got it right and didn't flood the ship with methane. The ship was originally built with carbon-based beings in mind. That's why it has sleeping quarters."
"Don't any of the automata sleep?" Jack asked.
"Some of our older models shut down from time to time in order to conserve power," said Tuner, "but no, we don't sleep. And we certainly don't need bunks."
"Amazing. So I suppose I have you to thank for me still being alive, huh?"
"Yes," said Rogan. "IL-6-88 – Tuner, I mean – was monitoring the scans when you popped up."
"One minute we were flying through empty subspace," said Tuner, "and then bam – a little blip out of nowhere. It took some work convincing 11-P-53 to pull over. How come you were out there, anyway? You never said."
"Some sort of wormhole experiment, I think. I was only supposed to go from one laboratory to another, but I guess something went wrong. Or right."
"Wormhole tech?" Rogan shook her head. "Messy business. Good way to get yourself turned inside out."
"You don't recommend it?"
"Good grief, no. Any old Somnium-fueled skip drive will do the trick, providing you've got a clear subspace route ahead of you. Turn right here."
"I'll pretend like I understood a single word you just said," said Jack, stepping through a round opening roughly the size and shape of a bank vault's doorway. A bunch of automata watched from the top of the dark, industrial staircase beyond. They scarpered as he approached.
"Don't worry about them," said Tuner, as the three of them climbed the stairs. He took a little longer than Jack and Rogan on account of his small legs. "Some of us automata are just a little… well, wary about fleshies. Particularly ones we've never seen before."
Reaching the top first, Jack peered into a small room on the right. Three small, gangly robots stood huddled inside what appeared to be a storage closet. They shut the door in a hurry.
"Don't take it personally." Tuner caught up. "Here you are. Next door on the left."
They arrived at a set of magnetically-locked doors. There were three more just like it further along the corridor – if that was all the crew quarters there were, he guessed it wasn't all too big a ship. There was another staircase on the other side, most likely leading down to a corridor that ran parallel to the one along which they’d just walked. Presuming that the rear of the ship wasn’t too much further back, Jack’s best guess put it about about fifteen metres wide and forty, maybe fifty metres long.
Some sort of digital interface extended from Tuner's hand – it looked like a tiny, wiry USB stick. He plugged it into the keypad beside the door, and a second later the door hissed open.
"In you go." Rogan gestured for Jack to head inside. "Get some rest. We'll talk more once you're feeling better."
Jack hesitated before going in.
"Are you going to lock me in there?"
Rogan and Tuner looked mortified. Well, Rogan did. The lights of Tuner's LED eyes turned from yellow to blue.
"Of course not," said Tuner. "You're welcome to come out any time you like. Just don't go wandering about the ship too much – I'm afraid you might give some of our passengers a bit of a fright. We'll be up at the cockpit when you're ready."
He pointed down the upper floor's only other corridor, which lead back towards the front of the ship. Rogan was already making her way over there.
"Okay." Jack stepped through the door, but he kept an eye on the two robots even as they walked away. "Erm… thanks, again."
The door hissed shut. Jack turned around, alone at last.
His quarters were sparse, and the walls just as metal as everywhere else. It didn't look as if anyone had occupied them in quite some time. The only items of furniture were a storage chest, a rudimentary closet – upon inspection Jack found both of these empty – and a simple, coverless bunk. He gave the mattress a cautious prod. It felt quite soft, at least.
There wasn’t a toilet. He would have to ask that Rogan robot what he should do if he ever needed the bathroom. Given the nature of his hosts, he wasn't confident she'd have an answer. He hoped there was one elsewhere on board.
He turned away from the bunk, and his cold breath caught in his throat.
He'd somehow missed the window in his initial sweep of the room. It wasn't a large one, in all fairness – not much bigger than a porthole on an old cruise liner. But the sight of the cosmos outside was enough to still Jack’s heart and send a panicked shiver through his bones. The horror of floating out there, alone and without hope of rescue, was still a little too fresh in his mind.
A chair was bolted to the floor beside it. Jack sat down and gave the glass of the window a nervous tap with his knuckles. He was relieved to discover it was very, very thick.
There was no denying how beautiful the universe looked. There'd always been too much light pollution back home to see anything except for the brightest stars in the night sky, and even then they were but salt crystals compared to the glistening diamonds now scattered out before him. As black and dark and empty as space was, he'd never seen it look so… colourful. Or so full.
He jumped as a loud crackling noise burst through the ship.
"Reactivating the skip drive in T-minus thirty seconds," said a voice through the intercom. It sounded like the captain, 11-P-53. "You might want to strap in. That means you, human."
Jack stared around, wide-eyed. A couple of straps dangled down from the shoulders of his seat. A two-headed metal buckle protruded from the seat between his legs.
He grabbed one of the belts and tugged it across his chest. It reached the buckle easily, but he struggled to lock them together. His fingers were shaking too much. Fresh sweat ran into his eyes.
He heard the belt click into place and moved onto the second one. This one gave him less trouble. He leaned back against the chair and sucked in quick, sharp breaths. His chest heaved up and down.
"Not again," he groaned, shutting his eyes and squeezing the straps tight. "For the love of God, not again."
The thrusters roared into life – he could feel their rage reverberate through every rusty bolt in the ship. Jack was pushed abruptly back into the soft padding of his seat as if he were taking off in a fighter jet.
He imagined the sheets of metal ripping away from the ship just as the panels had disintegrated from the cabin of the chamber. He imagined the glass smashing, the floor buckling, the shrapnel tearing through him like a hundred machine gun rounds.
The pressure on his chest grew. He gritted his teeth and let out a little scream.
And then as quickly as it began, it stopped.
Jack opened his eyes and looked out the window.
Outside was… nothing. Well, almost nothing. Intermittent pulses of deep blue light rushed by the ship as it sailed through an ocean of pure blackness. There were no stars, no planets, no nebulas. If he pressed his head as hard against the window as he dared, Jack could just make out the dim glow of something bright far ahead of the ship – like the blinding light at the end of a tunnel.
They were travelling faster than the speed of light, and it was magnificent.
"If only you could see this, Amber," he said in a near breathless whisper.
He reached into the compartment on the front of his suit and pulled out the old photograph once more. It was as fragile as ever, but Jack was relieved to discover it hadn't been torn in the accident. He unfolded it. His heart sank.
Amber. Where was she? Where was Earth, for that matter?
The experiment could have sent him anywhere.
Faced with all the wonders of the universe, all Jack wanted was to go back home.
5
The Adeona
Sleep was never on the cards. For that, Jack was grateful. He didn't fancy waking from another nightmare… or into one.
Lying down on the bunk for an hour or so had helped get rid of his headache, at least. And his chest no longer felt as if somebody had jumped up and down on it, which was an improvement. Now all he had to do was get ahold of his nerves and decide what he was going to do next.
He ran his hands down his face and sighed. What was he going to do next? He still had trouble believing that he was out in space, let alone on some rickety rust-bucket with a crew of walking, talking machines. If and when he decided to leave his quarters, he half expected to find a psychiatric ward on the other side of the door.
And yet even a cursory glance at the surges of blueshifted light outside the window told him that everything was exactly how it seemed.
He pushed himself off the bed and, after a couple of anxious laps around the room, approached the door. He pressed the most conspicuous button on the keypad beside it, and the door hissed open.
Jack looked both ways down the corridor outside. It was deserted. From down the stairs to his right came a steady clanging sound, like somebody hitting an engine with a wrench. The only sounds other than that were of pipes gurgling and steam hissing.
He steadied his nerves and approached the corridor down which Rogan and Tuner had walked earlier.
S
omething was happening down on the other end, though it was difficult to see what. If it was the cockpit or bridge he was looking at, then his estimations of the ship's size were likely correct. He could hear bleeping noises, but whether they were the voices of the automata or not he couldn't tell. Perhaps the translator chip they put in his neck had a volume threshold.
Slowly, stepping lightly to dampen the noise made by his boots against the metal walkway, he made his way towards them.
There were sliding metal doors to the left and right. He didn't try opening them – he wasn't sure he even knew how. Whomever the ship had been built for, he was sure they needed rooms for downtime and storing equipment.
Light crept out from a doorway about halfway down. His heart rate climbing again, Jack poked his head through the opening. There was a counter, and an assortment of machines, and there were a lot of unlabelled crates piled up into mountains. There didn't seem to be anyone about.
"Hello?"
On the counter, an object not much bigger than (or different in shape from) a cookie jar jumped into life. It whizzed back and forth along the surface on its tank tracks, looking for a place to hide.
"Wait!" Jack inched into the room. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."
The tiny automata paused and studied Jack with its dozens of curious lights. They flashed in a ring around the top of its cylindrical head.
"So, what is this room?" asked Jack, looking around. "Some sort of kitchen or pantry? I wouldn't have guessed you guys needed to eat."
The robot let out a couple of nervous bleeps.
"We don't," it said in a timid little voice, "though sometimes we need new oil. It helps with the joints." It wiggled one of its tank tracks around. "All this food is left over from the ship's previous owners."
"I see." Jack dug through one of the crates. He found something brown, round and furry. He wasn't sure if it was a fruit or a grenade. "Anything I'd like? I haven't eaten anything all day."
A door opened in the automata's side, and from inside unfolded a long, metal arm. It plucked a tin free from a stack beside the counter. A second door then opened and out came a shorter limb, this one sporting a small laser torch on its end. It cut the lid off and held the open tin out towards Jack.
The Final Dawn Page 4
