The Final Dawn

by T W M Ashford

  Jack picked it up and turned it over in his hands. There was a thick crack running along its visor.

  "Oh, yes. That." Rogan looked embarrassed. "It broke on the hatch when we were bringing you on board."

  "Sorry," said Tuner.

  "Well, it's not like my suit came with oxygen tanks anyway," sighed Jack. His eyes widened. "Wait – what's the atmosphere like out there?"

  "Oh, it's oxygen," said Tuner. "Just don't expect the good stuff."

  Jack put the helmet back on the shelf and returned to the two automata. His legs felt like jelly. His gloved fingers writhed around each other like a nest of snakes.

  "Ready?" asked Tuner.

  "Nope," replied Jack.

  "You'll be fine." Rogan pressed a large button on the far wall. "Just… try not to stare too much. And don't have a meltdown like when you first saw us. We don't have time to go through all that again."

  The loading ramp lowered with the same slow, electronic buzz as the cargo planes back home. Jack tried not to hyperventilate. He could do this. He could do this. Adjusting to androids and robots had been easy enough. How much more petrifying could the rest of the intergalactic community be?

  The ramp came to a stop with a loud, terminal clang. Rogan and Tuner hurried down it. They turned around at the bottom.

  "You coming?" asked Tuner, staring back up.

  Try as he might, Jack couldn't get his legs to move. It was as if he was wearing mag-boots. His blood pounded so hard in his temples, his eyes started to water. The insides of his gloves were damp with sweat. Even though his bladder was empty he felt a sudden, desperate urge to pee.

  "Get a grip," he whispered to himself. "Do you think Armstrong had this much trouble getting off the Lunar module?"

  Just think what this discovery could mean for humanity, he told himself. You’ll be a hero.

  He took a deep breath, concentrated on the metal panels beneath his feet, and started walking.

  The smell hit him even before the noise did. Even the odour of Kapamentis was busy. His nostrils stung from a cocktail of petroleum (or something similar, at least), old steel and iron, the smell of fresh rain on concrete, and something else – something pungent and sour. There may have been oxygen in the air, but it had to fight to be noticed. Jack worried he might suffocate from the stench alone.

  And still, the noise – it was as thick as the storm clouds that swam across the planet's sky. The banging of wrenches and the buzzing of saws. The howling of enormous, blazing thrusters. Indiscernible shouting in a dozen foreign tongues. The sizzle of neon and the gentle patter of rain.

  Jack stopped at the bottom of the ramp, an inch away from stepping on an alien world. The sound of small piston-operated legs approached.

  "You do know you're going to have to look up eventually, right?" said Tuner.

  Jack braced himself, then raised his eyes.

  The port seemed even bigger from the ground. The towering, neon-tipped wall that ran around its circumference now looked to be a tiresomely long walk away, whichever direction he looked. Above him raced the airborne traffic he'd spotted before. Groups of ships banked left and right like shoals of silver fish. Searchlights swept across the neighbouring skyscrapers, and plumes of steam and smoke rose from vents lining their walls and rooftops.

  Countless alien ships were parked on the port’s landing pads, each a different size and shape. Some were small and sleek – one resembled a hawk sweeping down towards its prey. Others looked so immensely bulky and rectangular it seemed impossible they could ever get off the ground. Some, like the Adeona, had parked horizontally with their thrusters facing outwards, whilst others had descended into their bays nose-up like an Apollo rocket in reverse. Of a few, Jack couldn't identify the propulsion systems at all.

  Jack's mind may have had an easier time adjusting to his new reality had he left his observations at that.

  Many – perhaps even most – of the individuals hurrying about were automata, repairing or cleaning the ships while their owners left to explore the city. Jack recognised some of their models from those back on board the Adeona. He struggled to tell if others were sentient robots or just construction equipment on wheels.

  But the rest…

  The first stranger he laid eyes on was, much to the relief of Jack's sanity, far more humanoid than he had expected. He featured the regular number of arms and legs, was approximately six feet in height, and his head was neither green or engorged. But he did have ridges of horns running along his cranium and cheekbones, and his eyes were as dark as black quartz. Jack could only imagine – with a shudder – what the rest of the man's alien body looked like under his patchwork leather armour. Bumpy, he guessed.

  That was the pilot of one ship. Beside another stood a squat, grumpy-looking creature that Jack could best describe as what a Goliath beetle might look like if it were to hit the gym a little too often. It was four, maybe five feet tall, and covered in a hard, purple exoskeleton. The two-pronged horn jutting out from its head looked designed to cause blunt trauma. It was deep in irritated conversation with an automata of its own.

  A slim, silver alien stood by one of the more flashy looking spacecraft and scrolled through a holographic data pad. Jack put her height at about seven feet. Her elegant limbs were as thin as broom handles. She wore a spacesuit of her own, though hers was much more advanced and better tailored than Jack’s. She stared through a transparent, bowl-shaped helmet with beautiful, sea-blue eyes.

  There were many other species busying themselves around the port, but by that point Jack's brain wasn't in any state to notice them.

  "Hello?" Tuner waved a hand in front of Jack's face. "Is anybody still in there?"

  Jack shook his head and tried to get a hold of himself.

  "Sorry," he said. "Just a bit… overwhelmed, that's all. I mean, aliens. Actual aliens."

  "You do realise that you're the biggest alien here, right?" He tugged on Jack's arm. "Hurry up. You might not be in a rush, but we're sitting ducks out here. I really don't fancy being captured for a second time.”

  Jack allowed himself to be led along the pathway between bays. He glanced back at the Adeona. Long and covered in scuff marks, she looked just as ramshackle on the outside as she did within. Scores of thrusters and air brakes flanked her sides. Funnily enough, her shape sort of resembled that of 11-P-53's head.

  "Why don't you guys just go on without me, if you're in such a hurry?" Jack watched in mesmerised awe as a pair of small, winged creatures fluttered over his head. "I thought you were leaving me behind anyway."

  "Well for once, Tuner had a good idea," said Rogan, raising an eyebrow. The corner of her mouth turned up in a smirk. "Automata aren't usually seen wandering about by themselves unless they're on an errand. Even then, some of the more 'enterprising' citizens of this district may see a couple of stray bolt-buckets as… well, ripe for the taking."

  "But if we keep you near us," said Tuner, his lights flashing excitedly, "then people won't bother us. Hopefully."

  "Oh. Thanks. I'm glad I can be of service before you leave me out here to die."

  "Don't be so melodramatic," said Rogan, rolling her eyes. "There's an archive not far from where we're headed. I need to get specific coordinates on where we're going next. Maybe while we're there we can find out where your Earth is, too."

  Jack brightened up.

  "Okay, I can get on board with that. How about this – I escort you both to this place you want to go, and then you guys give me a lift back to Earth after?"

  "Don't push your luck." Rogan shook her head. "We saved your life, remember. If anything, you owe us."

  Jack grumbled under his breath but continued to follow them out of the spaceport. He supposed things were looking up. If he could find out where Earth was, surely he could find somebody willing to give him a ride there.

  They passed a bipedal alien in a scruffy engineer uniform. It had a head like a saiga antelope without the horns – a pair of thick, fleshy nostrils hung d
own in a floppy snout. It was working through an agenda on its clipboard, but glanced up as Jack walked by. The tall, silver alien engrossed in her data pad did the same. Now he was closer, Jack saw that her helmet was full of water. She had gills on either side of her neck, just south of her jawline.

  He discovered a new alien species everywhere he looked. Mammalian, reptilian, people who looked vaguely aquatic – even a humanoid bird or two. It was mind-boggling. Breathtaking. It would take a lifetime or more to document each and every one of them.

  The automata stepped aside so that a large, hairy creature could cross the path in front of them. It resembled a woolly mammoth, only without the ears, trunk or tusks. The eyes on its flat face looked wise and sad.

  Jack shook his head in wonder.

  Humanity needed a new home amongst the stars. Kapamentis, perhaps, was not destined to be it. But here was evidence that not only was it possible to sustain life someplace other than planet Earth, but for it to thrive there. The human race could surely carve itself a little niche amongst the eclectic galactic community… if it could ever get itself there.

  If he could ever get back to Earth and tell them how.

  7

  The Way to Tortaiga Square

  It took more than five minutes for Jack, Rogan and Tuner to exit the spaceport, and a further ten before Jack had to ask them if they knew where they were going.

  "I have an actual map of the district stored in my databank," snapped Rogan. "It would be literally impossible for me to not know."

  "Hey, I'm just asking," said Jack, holding up his hands. "This seems like a really bad place to get lost, that's all."

  The streets immediately outside the port had been no less busy. Streets was perhaps an archaic term to use – few vehicles relied on asphalt to get around anymore, and those that did were either great industrial monsters that lurched along hissing steam into the air, or beast-pulled carts on which either fresh produce or rancid trash bags were tied and stowed. Rogan assured Jack that other districts around the city planet were far more desirable but here, at least, the ground floor was a whole different world to the grand towers above.

  Stalls and storefronts spilled out to fill the streets from neighbouring buildings. More than once Jack struggled to identify what they were trying to sell – for some species, the line between food and pet seemed pencil thin. Vats of green preservative bubbled. Mechanics struck malfunctioning engines with spanners. He was approached by an eager trader desperate to put something small, black and full of spines in his hand. Tuner had hurriedly pulled Jack away before he could unwittingly accept it.

  When the thick air wasn't busy with the smells of filthy puddles and motor oil, it was full of delicious odours, like that of meats being fried and noodles being boiled. Or something that looked remarkably like noodles, at least. Jack looked inside one grubby nook of a restaurant and almost lost control of his knees. Behind the kitchen stove was a five-foot tall octopod, preparing a different steamed vegetable dish with each of its eight tentacles. None of the aliens waiting for their food seemed to think there was anything weird about the chef. To be fair, the food smelled damn good.

  He was also starting to get the hang of his translator chip. It didn't actually change the sound of anybody's voice – he still heard them talk in their original alien tongue – yet somehow, by the time the incomprehensible noises reached his brain, he understood what they were saying. It was a little like having subtitles on in a foreign film, only without the effort of having to read them. It didn't work with every species he came across, and he had to focus on one voice at a time. Even reading signs and labels became a little easier and less eye-watering as their walk went on – though, given his ignorance of Kapamentis' culture, foods, pronouns and corporations, no less nonsensical.

  Naturally, this had led to a little trouble.

  "What on earth is that?" he'd asked when passing one stall, not expecting anyone to hear him let alone provide an answer. He'd been asking a lot of questions, and Rogan had learned to tune him out. "My God. It's horrible."

  The rickety stall at which Jack pointed was overflowing with random junk. Busted carburettors and carbonators; screw-top tubes of mysterious liquid; bags of crushed up crystals. The headless bodies of rodents – some cooked, others raw, all filleted – hung by strings from the sheet metal roof. On the edge of the stand lay a maggot-like grub about the size of a guinea pig, wriggling and giggling. Every now and then it would dribble a milky white liquid onto the market floor below.

  "I mean, is it food?" Jack continued. "Or is it some sort of infestation?"

  Tuner hurried back to Jack with a panicked expression in his bright LED eyes.

  "Stop talking," he whispered, tugging on Jack’s arm. "Keep moving and for crying out loud, stop talking."

  "What?" said Jack. He watched as the grub secreted a thick, white gunk from pores running down its side. "I mean, look at it. Are you honestly telling me…"

  A lumbering shadow fell over the stand. Jack's words trickled to a stop. He looked up.

  The largest, plumpest and most disgruntled bug Jack had ever seen glared down at him from behind the rickety stall. It was a sweaty, twelve-foot caterpillar, only Jack couldn't imagine this one would ever have the good fortune of transforming into a beautiful butterfly. It testily clacked together the two sharp mandibles that flanked its mouth, reared up on its spindly hind legs, and raised half a dozen claws in a fighting stance.

  Jack's ears heard only a series of guttural grunts and chittering, clicking noises when the owner of the stall spoke. Yet his brain understood the words all too clearly.

  "That," growled the giant bug, "is my daughter."

  An awkward silence followed.

  "I am so terribly sorry," said Jack.

  It was fittingly tragic that those were the first words Jack communicated to an organic species outside his own.

  Tuner yanked on Jack's arm so hard it almost sent them both sprawling across a nearby trash pile. They ran off through the busy market, ignoring the stall owner's bellowing roar. Something was thrown, but it landed with a dull metallic thud behind them.

  "Here's a tip for not getting your head caved in," said Tuner, while Jack stopped to catch his breath. "Presume that everything you say will offend somebody, so don't ever say anything at all. Stick to that, and maybe you'll survive the week."

  "Duly noted." Jack leaned against a damp concrete wall. "Seriously though – how was I supposed to know that thing was his family and not food?"

  "Well for an Ubekian Cutworm, sometimes they are one and the same. But that's not for you to decide!"

  "Is there a problem?" asked Rogan. She’d doubled back to find them.

  "Nope, no problem," said Tuner, giving Jack a cheerful slap on the back. "Just a mild case of culture shock, that's all."

  And so they'd continued through the bustling, drizzly streets. Jack did his absolute best to avoid making eye contact with anyone, let alone conversation. Then they'd turned off into a set of quieter, darker alleys, and now, only a quarter of an hour after leaving their ship, there was barely any sign of life at all… save for the cold glimmer of what looked suspiciously like eyes watching them from the shadows.

  As Jack said, it seemed like a really bad place to get lost.

  "Is there a reason why there's nobody else hanging out around here? Like, maybe a reason why we shouldn't be here either?"

  Clumps of wet newspaper gathered in the gutters. Old, stocky monitors hissed out rolling pictures of monochrome static. Street lamps spluttered on and off, showering the dark puddles with white and orange sparks. Alien graffiti had been scrawled across the walls and metal shutters.

  "Oh, there are plenty of reasons," said Rogan, taking them down yet another dark and empty alley. This one was even more narrow than the last. "Junk raiders, for starters. But unfortunately this is the only place that offers what we came for. Don't worry. I'm told it's nicer once we get there."

  "I sure hope so," Jack mumbled.
The rickety balcony above them rattled as a rabid critter took flight. "So what is it you came here to get, exactly?"

  "A way out." Rogan splashed through a puddle. Jack wondered if any of the automata ever caught rust. "There's a small rogue planet called Detri, way out in Dark Space where nobody tends to go. They say it's a place where our kind can be left to live in peace, where we needn't worry about fleshies putting us to work. A planet of our own to call home. A planet where we can be free."

  Rogan stopped and spun around.

  "That's a story told from automata to automata. Many of us don't believe it even exists, but it does. I've seen the map files." She stepped closer to Jack. "I hope I don't have to explain the importance of you keeping this information to yourself."

  Jack held up his hands.

  "Hey. Your secret's safe with me. Who would I even tell?"

  Rogan turned around and carried on down the alley.

  "So what are you trying to buy here?" asked Jack, hurrying after her. "Safe passage to this Detri place?"

  "Wouldn't be much of a secret sanctuary if any of you fleshy pilots knew where it was, would it?" she replied. Tuner laughed. "No. Nothing so straight forward, unfortunately."

  "The subspace route to Detri is an old one," said Tuner. "Nobody really uses it anymore."

  "Subspace route?"

  "They’re like shortcuts between systems," Rogan explained. "Ships with top-of-the-line skip drives can go wherever they please, but cheaper models like ours have to stick to the interstellar highways."

  "Ah. Sounds like a pretty good place for a hiding spot then," said Jack.

  "Indeed… except that the Negoti Corporation bought the entire planetary system it goes through. Now they use that route as their own private shipping channel, sending the Somnium crystals they mine back out to the rest of the galaxy. Nobody gets through the Ceros Gate without the right clearance codes."