The Expendable Few: A Spinward Fringe Novel

by Randolph Lalonde

  “Sounds like fun,” Isabel says. “Only, I wonder what kind of entertainment you’re into that is only guilt free in special places?”

  “No comment,” he replies with a nervous laugh.

  The rest of the ride takes place in mechanical and verbal silence. The monorail system doesn’t make so much as a hum, and my companions are just as taken by the view as I am. The course the transit car takes sends us hurtling between buildings that look more like interstellar hulls. Their round concrete and metal sides are stained by contamination. Brown, yellow and green buildings are streaked by watermarks that turn their colours to sickly shades. We watch in silence as the view of larger rounded buildings lit by the high yellow sun are replaced by the underside of the city, where smaller pods, or rounded structures piled together rest in shadow.

  There we see the masses. The slick ground is mossy and soft, rotting underfoot as hundreds of issyrians make their way from place to place. A few are in sealed suits, trying to protect themselves from contamination. The rest wear clothing much like ours: light woven fabrics in loose fitting shapes. I don’t know that issyrians have one specific colour to their skin - I haven’t known that many to be honest - but most just beneath us was a sea of muted tones.

  The transit car reduces speed and angles down. Issyrians clear the track as we slowly drift into an open air station. There are hundreds of them gathered around a hovering holographic image to our left.

  “Be quiet and careful,” Mary warns as the doors slide open. The crowd engulfs us passively the moment we emerge from the car. The transit platform is full. It seems to be standing in as a viewing platform for the holographic figure of a boy, who can’t be older than thirteen.

  Big oval eyes glance our way briefly, only momentarily distracted by our presence. “-right and true,” the young speaker says with a bearing that demonstrates a mastery of oration. “Time and time again humanity has proven that it can adapt nature to its needs, now it is time to find a middle ground. That is our calling, that is why the Eden Fleet has joined us along with its master, Eve herself. She believes, as do I, that having the power to adapt something to our needs does not mean that we cannot compromise, that we cannot preserve or restore as much of the natural environment as we can while becoming its master. To be the master of our environment is our destiny, it is our fate, but how we accomplish that mastery is up to us,” proclaims the speaker.

  “That’s the Child Prophet,” Remmy whispers. “I’ve seen a few of his recordings before.”

  “I’ve heard of the little shit,” Mary says. “How the hell did a little snot-nose found the Order of Eden?”

  “He is their messiah. The predictions he makes come true,” says one dull eyed issyrian. He’s short, and unnaturally thin in the centre. “So they say.”

  “Figurehead,” Remmy mutters. “I’m sure that’s all he is.”

  “Like minded allies are coming to our door,” the Child Prophet announces. “It was said that before the darkness a people would treat with the Ruling Order, and it has come to pass. The majority of the United Confederation Governing Council have voted that they will enter into an alliance with the Order of Eden. They have made pledges for all their member worlds, advancing our cause, and joining us in our glorious coming fate.”

  “Hate fate,” says an issyrian somewhere behind me. The phrase is repeated by a few others in the crowd as the hologram fades.

  I realize we weren’t the only humans in the audience as a trio in worn, dark blue loose fitted protective clothing make their way out of the crowd. “Don’t be here, not now.” One fellow with a long scar across his forehead says to me in an intense whisper.

  I take his lead, following right behind. “No! Don’t follow us!” says a woman behind him in a strange, thick accent. “Stupid travellers, you don’t belong in Trest.”

  Something about the size of my fist flies past my head. Rolling across the ground in front of me, it looks like a chunk of dried moss and clay. We hurry away, not running, but making good time alongside the tracks. Running would have been like signaling the crowd to chase us. When I check the rear view on my comm unit I’m relieved to see that, even though a few of them are brandishing chunks of dirt and clay, ready to toss, they are letting us go. One of them hurls a good sized chunk in our direction and it strikes Isabel in the back. The dry clay bursts apart on impact, making it look more dramatic than it is.

  “You all right?” I ask.

  “Fine. Just wish I could turn around and tell them we have nothing to do with the Order.”

  I glance about and can only see the deeper shadows under the towering round buildings and dozens of circular houses piled like eggs. Issyrians look out their doors and windows at us and the crowd behind chanting; “Hate fate!” With an over the shoulder glance I see issyrians crowding into the transit car. More than half the crowd manage to fit inside, and from the looks of it they are set to do harm further down the line.

  “Come!” says a voice from beneath a low rail bridge. “Hurry, come with me!”

  I check my comm unit and nod. “You’re Emiss?”

  “Yes, friend of humans. You don’t all look the same to me. Come before you get into more trouble!”

  We do as we are told and follow her through a service grate under the monorail. I almost retch as we turn a corner and we are struck with a sickly sweet smell. It carries a warm humidity that makes me feel like I’m being coated with the stench.

  “A few dead down here, sorry,” says the tall, thin issyrian. She wears clothing that matches mine closely - a long shirt with draw string pants and simple boots. “It makes it easier to hide, not even patrol drones come here.” She rushes us down several tunnels. When the scant sunlight coming through the grates overhead disappears she becomes slightly luminescent, shedding just enough light for us to pass without stepping into the deeper pools or tripping over unidentifiable rotting piles. I’m still sure I’ll be sending everything I’m wearing out the airlock the moment I return to the Sunspire.

  “Finally,” Isabel says as we emerge into an alleyway. “I hate being underground.”

  “This way,” our guide instructs, starting down a narrower alleyway without making sure we’re following.

  “Wait,” I say.

  She stopped and turns, looking me up and down with her big, oval blue eyes. “I’m waiting.”

  “We’re new here, very new here,” I tell her. “But how could the issyrians let the Order of Eden take one of their solar systems?”

  “We didn’t know how your commercial system worked. Before we had a chance to learn Regent Galactic owned all the land, and many of our people enjoyed the things they brought, paid too much money. We were too poor to buy back,” she replies in a rush.

  “What about your government?” Mary asks. “They must have some interest in saving this world.”

  “We are quarantined. Contaminated, sick,” Emiss says as if speaking to a slow child. She rolls up her sleeve to show us a wound that looks like some kind of bacteria was eating at her. “Omira, Doctor Marcelles’ friend, tries to help, but no one can help. There are few clear waters.”

  “So they won’t send help because they’re afraid of becoming contaminated?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Remmy counters. “I’ve seen a couple dozen issyrian travellers, they looked perfectly healthy.”

  “Outcasts, barren folk. They seal their skins and communicate the same way you do, with words, and data. It’s a shadow life.”

  “I’m sorry,” Remmy says with unexpected sincerity. “We don’t know enough about your people to avoid stupid questions.”

  Emiss stares at him a moment, her eyes shifting to a more vibrant blue. “It is all right, we have many prejudices. I will try to limit mine to the ones that apply to you in particular.”

  “Are we near our destination?”

  “Yes, just around the corner.”

  Once we’re through the oval door the smell eases
, and the air begins to clear. The hallway is wider, cleaner, and there are several issyrians with the back rig that we saw in the port. They look healthier, and I assume the machine on their backs running viscous fluids in and out of their bodies is some kind of filtration unit. Most of the issyrians we see inside are armed, all of them eye us with some suspicion. Parallel to the hall there are three centimetre wide runnels with a thin jet of greenish brown fluid, it never ceases to flow, filling the space with the sound of the forced jet.

  “I’m detecting chemical communication,” Remmy says. “These issyrians are a lot healthier, I think.”

  “I didn’t know we could detect pheromonal communication,” I reply.

  “I’m using the medical scanner. I can’t tell what they’re saying, but they’re talking to each other.”

  We come to a roughly circular central chamber with a domed ceiling. Pipes come in from all directions. Many of them are capped or redirected so their contents flow back into the sewer system. In the centre is a thick column with vessels, intertwining tubes, and monitoring systems built in. There are several alcoves scattered around the room. I watch an issyrian emerge from one with a new circulation device affixed to his back. He looks worse than our guide, with a misshapen head and only one arm. The solid stone of the hallway is replaced by fine grating. Several other issyrians and a few humans - all of them looking healthy and clean - are busy at work maintaining the machinery, or working the controls at free standing input columns. A breeze tickles my skin from below as we move across the space towards a pair of staircases. I look down and see whirling waters. At a glance I can see several small shapes, like fish, darting around beneath.

  “This is an incubator and treatment room,” our guide tells us, directing our attention down through the floor. “One of the few places on this hemisphere where our children can be born then grow to adolescence.”

  “Why don’t you cover it?” Mary asks. “A lot of things could pass through this grating.”

  “They must become accustomed to interference, learn to combat contamination. The pools are also monitored so the aggressiveness of diseases can be maintained.”

  “So you know how to purify the world outside?” Isabel asks hopefully.

  That seemed to surprise Emiss, whose gaze lingers before she answered. “No, the Order has contaminated every space on this world. We disease and cure our young so they can evolve to survive. They know pain in youth so they survive as adults.”

  “Thank you Emiss,” says a raspy voice from above. We look to see an older woman coming down a winding metal staircase. “I can handle things from here.”

  “I wanted to speak to you about the recruiting centre,” Emiss replies.

  “There will be time later. Why don’t you spend some time in a regeneration pod?”

  Emiss bows and walks away without another word.

  “Thank you,” Remmy says as the issyrian passes by him. He’s rewarded with a nod.

  “I speak for Doctor Marcelles.” The tall woman says as she descends. Her piercing grey eyes make quick work of inspecting me and my companions.

  “We’re here to ask for his help on behalf of Freeground Intelligence,” I tell her.

  She idly checks a display on a nearby control column. “You have a problem that even Freeground Intelligence, with all their tendrils stretching out into the galaxy can’t solve?”

  “I wouldn’t say they’ve got a lot of contacts out here,” I reply.

  “Then how did they find Doctor Marcelles? They have someone out here listening, watching,” she returns her attention to us. “You have the look of fresh initiates. You’ll learn all about how Freeground Intelligence compartmentalizes, and maybe even how long of a reach the organization has.” She turns towards a nearby exit and beckons.

  At the end of a short hallway is a makeshift sitting room, where a few humans casually watch news broadcasts from the Stellarnet. “…taken responsibility for the Holocaust Virus, but the British allegations make things interesting for the Order of Eden. As more recruitment centres appear across civilized worlds we see more allegations of the Order of Eden’s responsibility for the virus. Most of our viewers live on worlds that have wiped out artificial intelligences in all their systems, making machines safe again. The Order of Eden calls the mass deletion the first digital genocide. If you ask the representatives from the new British Empire, they’ll unanimously tell you that it’s the best remedy to the Holocaust Virus. The Carthans and Roma Prime Public Affairs office, agree, adding… “ the newscaster says.

  It’s strange seeing a real human actually reading the news. Until the Holocaust Virus, most news casters were artificial intelligences with fairly convincing human images sitting in to represent them. The Stellarnet was the first to come back online. I didn’t see much of it because of Freeground censorship, but I saw enough to know that humans were at the wheel again, bringing their creativity and imperfections with them. “Across the core worlds that were worst hit by the Holocaust Virus, new governments are emerging along with the old establishments. Despite the infighting, groups of rebels and combat ready ships are making their presence known. A common message; ‘Hate Fate’ has been spreading like the virus that brought on these terrible times, and this newscaster expects that these words will become our call to action. They are a direct reaction to the Child Prophet and his message of-” I stop listening. The newscaster seems to be reveling in the misfortune of billions almost as much as the Order itself.

  “Have a seat,” our hostess invites. “I can have food brought if you like.”

  “No thank you.” I take a seat across from her in the middle of a worn sofa. Remmy and Isabel sit on either side of me. Mary warily lowers herself into an ancient armchair. “No offence, but I’d like to speak to Doctor Marcelles directly.”

  “He’s a little busy,” she replies. “My name is Omira Gerring, where he goes, I go, so this isn’t just his decision.”

  “Well, there are some things, like our offer, that I don’t think I can discuss with anyone else,” I tell her. I decide that would be my last attempt at getting past his gatekeeper for a long while. I don’t want to wear out our welcome before we’ve even had a chance to so much as shake the Doctor’s hand.

  “I know everything about his past work. Besides, he’s listening,” she says with a knowing smile.

  I take a breath and nod. “All right. I’ve come with an offer. We can get him in range of Jacob Valance. We’re aware that he never got to finish his work with him.”

  “He finished what was important. The Valance project was a failure in the end, so Doctor Marcelles moved on.”

  That takes me by surprise. Ever since I found out about Jacob Valance and the framework designs, I was under the impression that it was Marcelles’ masterpiece, maybe even an obsession. How could he move on from something so revolutionary, or someone who went on to create his own history? Her statement also takes one of my best bargaining chips away.

  “Isn’t that a little like child abandonment?” Remmy asks.

  “Valance was programmed with what he needed to survive before the Doctor escaped from Vindyne. Judging from the data we saw four months ago, he’s still failed to trigger the final phase of his development, so the chances of him ever becoming more than just an average framework with a passable intelligent personality installed are next to nil. We’ve moved on.”

  “To what?” I ask. “That is, if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Applying stable quantum entanglement to medical nano technology,” she answers. “It’s all theory now, but we’re certain it’ll be a leap forward when it’s applied.”

  “So your work doesn’t have anything to do with the issyrians here?”

  “No. They provide a safe place to work and we help them develop a treatment for their people. Their hope is to evolve the new broods into an infection resistant breed that can take the planet back. Rejoining their Houses is impossible now, so that’s their only option.”

 
“I’m sure Special Projects will be glad to help. They’d at least provide research data, maybe even send some people down for a while,” I tell her. “Or you can rejoin Freeground, and you’ll have full access, your own department and a safe place to research for the rest of your lives.” It’s a risk, embellishing the offer a little and extending it to Omira as well, but she already seems unmovable.

  “You have the clout to make that happen?”

  “My mission director does, and I know he’d be behind this kind of research,” I reply, sure of my response.

  “Are you sure you can promise this to me as well? You don’t even know who I am.”

  “I can guarantee Freeground Intelligence would extend their offer to you, especially if you know everything he does.”

  “In trade for what?”

  I don’t see any reason to hesitate or package those details. “We need your help in defeating the framework technology. We have evidence that-”

  “Stop there,” she says, holding a hand up. “I know for a fact that Doctor Marcelles warned Freeground Intelligence, Vindyne, and anyone who would listen about the potential harm that could be done if that technology was misused. The portions of the framework technology that he worked on were meant to augment a living being, not to create an army. Now you’re in a new arms race. I can assure you he wants no part of it.”

  “You can’t be safe here. It’ll only be a matter of time before the Order discovers this place,” I retort. It is only when I watch Omira lean back in her seat that I realize that I’ve been reduced to being adversarial. The encounter is supposed to be about enticing Marcelles back and it’s turning into an argument.

  “I’ll discuss this with him. Please make yourselves comfortable, just don’t wander.” Omira is on her feet and heading out of the room before she finishes speaking. She doesn’t give me time to add anything, not that I have anything in mind.