The Golden Mean

by Michael Formichelli

  The Golden Mean

  by

  Michael Formichelli

  THE GOLDEN MEAN is copyright ©2013 by MICHAEL FORMICHELLI.

  All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this work or any part thereof.

  THE GOLDEN MEAN is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to any person, organization, or event is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Michael Lam 2013

  ETMC Colony 4837-D

  "New Bimini"

  J2350:17464

  298.2397 C.E.

  A sea of neon charts and numbers swept around Merte Algol's digital incarnation like a mathematical tempest in a sea of darkness. The wellbeing of the colony depended on her attention to them, but instead of cycling through the myriad of decisions that had to be made, she found herself focused on a single, blinking icon.

  The rectangle with a bent line across it had a flashing set of text located above in the message's "From" line.

  "1111000100011011000110010010101111-10"

  It was also the origin address of the message packet. It wasn't any Cyberweb address she had ever heard of, and it didn't even follow the standard protocol for such things. The exponent was particularly disturbing; digital addresses were always whole integers.

  Twenty minutes ago Merte decided it was some weird joke or a new Cyberweb scam, and deleted the message without opening it. Its present incarnation was the thirty-ninth sign of its strange persistence since.

  "MARC, what happened to the automatic deletion?" She said into the digital ether. MARC was the colony's automated caretaker, a sentient program that monitored the colony's automatic functions. He was also her closest confidant and she counted him as her oldest friend here.

  "It was overridden by a subprogram within the message. I do not know how it was able to access my system. Whoever wrote it is a master programmer."

  Merte sighed inwardly. MARC did have a tendency to wax poetic when the most awful things were going on.

  "What do you suggest? This thing isn't going away."

  "We open it," MARC responded.

  "It could be a virus."

  "My scans have turned up no such code. I admit, I failed to detect that rather elegant program that side-stepped our security, but I am somewhat confident this is not a virus packet."

  "That's not comforting, MARC."

  "It was not meant to be, Merte."

  Her digital self smiled. After a lifetime of dealing with organics, a machine's honesty was always welcome.

  "Alright, open it."

  The message icon blinked out of existence, replaced by a stylized eye with a red pupil set against a spiral arm galaxy.

  "Oh hell," Merte said. Everyone from the Confederation knew and feared the symbol of the Abyssian Order. Seeing the eye in the galaxy meant dealing with the legion of cybernetic drones under the exclusive command of an artificial intelligence that humanity could no more control than understand. Even the barons, those masters of the Confederation of Sovereign Systems feared the Abyssians.

  The message's audio component engaged. Much to her surprise, the voice that filled her mind's ear was male with a pleasant bass tone. She expected something more robotic.

  "Metrics confirmed; greetings Doctor Algol. I am the entity known by organics as Daedalus. An audience is required with your sentient process. To optimize communication run times, my emissary shall arrive in your system on J-Date 2596846.970162. The nature of my inquiry requires my emissary to have a physical existence. I have configured the emissary to fit comfortably within your colony's environment. You will receive contact once it arrives in system. Message end."

  Merte floated, staring at empty space. If her body could have gone cold, it would have.

  "I am curious to see what it looks like. It isn't every day that one receives a visit from an emissary of Daedalus," MARC said.

  "I'm not sure this is a good thing." She almost asked MARC to page her daughter, Athame, but resisted—it didn't necessarily have to do with her.

  "I'm quite certain it is not a good thing, but it is still a special occasion, Merte."

  If she could, she would have given the AI a wry stare.

  "Discontinue program, MARC. I have to tell the others." Space went blank around her.

  Merte sheathed herself back within her body without waiting for an answer from MARC. Her brown eyes snapped open as soon as her awareness shifted from the digital world to the physical.

  Her office had once belonged to the colony's chief administrator, or as she liked to refer to him, the Extra-Terrestrial Mining Corporation's "Crony-in-Chief." It was a Spartan thing, a cube of fastcrete adorned with a plastic plant in a plastic vase and a lonely holographic projector frame on the wall to the left of the door. Her desk was the office's aesthetic mirror, barren except for a crystal pyramid with a pulsing blue schematic within its heart.

  Merte stared down at her narrow, mahogany-colored hands with a numb mind. She couldn't tell if it was shock or fear overriding her normal senses. She thought it shouldn't actually matter, but since one would pass with time and the other wouldn't, she knew that she would have to figure it out before the emissary arrived. It wouldn't do to have her feeling so unnerved when the emissary demanded whatever it was going to demand.

  Merte took a deep breath and pushed it from her body in a steady, quiet stream.

  MARC, she messaged.

  "Standing by, Merte."

  Send to Das'Voq and Ram, I want to meet them physically in twenty minutes, the usual spot.

  "Done."

  She settled back into the genuine leather chair cradling her frame. It creaked under her weight despite her petite frame, as it always did, but somehow it seemed louder this time.

  -----

  The lift struck the floor hard enough to send a jolt through Merte's body. The sound made her jump inside, though it was worse in the old days when there were nothing but tunnels and mining equipment on this level. They were gone now, along with long hours in the dark and the stink of sweaty miners and ozone from the machines. Merte's revolution banished such things to the realm of stories a long time ago.

  The construction on this level was all new. The gray halls were well lit and the apartments all had modern, iris style doors. It was all thanks to a deal Ram worked out with a Confederate trader ten years ago that included, along with modern doors and lights, getting proper radiation shielding for the colony. Merte didn't need to know the details of how he pulled that off with their limited funds. She knew that not asking questions of Ram or most of their visitors was the path to happiness.

  New Bimini was on the edge of the Confederation. The system was located along the shared border with the Orgnan Empire and the only thing scarier than their interstellar slave economy—the Revok Domain. Far from of the center of Confederate life on Kosfanter, most of their visitors were Orgnan, Revok, or Confederate citizens looking to do things out of the Confederate Space Authority's sight.

  The population of New Bimini was a mixed group, mostly human since the ETMC was a Terran corporate barony, but there were also high numbers of Galaeneans, and Volgoth thanks to the illegal slave trading the ETMC conducted in the old days. Members of all groups waved cheerfully to her as Merte headed for Oroth's, the restaurant that old timers like herself favored.

  "What's this all about, Merte?" Das'Voq stood in front of a pair of glass doors interrupting the regularity of the corridor—the entrance to Oroth's.

  He masticated a length of blasting cable in the fleshy beak of his mouth. It was a habit of his from the old days before the revolution, and for a moment the excitement of that time rushed through her like a rogue wave. She couldn't help a smile from creeping onto her face.

  His mottled brown-and-blue skin matc
hed the loose tunic and pants he wore on his well-muscled frame. Das'Voq was a surly Galaenean with hot, purple eyes above a modest, single cheekbone that stretched from one side of his face to the other. Although Galaeneans were gender-shifters similar to amphibious creatures on Earth, Das'Voq had spent decades in his male form due to their shared condition, and Merte often attributed his ornery disposition to it even though she knew she shouldn't. He was willful even when she first met him all those years ago in his female mode.

  "You'll find out on the inside, Das, like everyone else."

  "Even I have to wait?" He spat the cable out with a sound that was something between a pop and a bark. "So being your mate gets me nothing, huh?"

  Merte shook her head, bent down, and picked up the ten centimeter length of cable.

  "It gets you out of consequences for this." Merte held up the cable. "If you were anyone else I'd fine you for littering."

  "Me? It is a cold female that fines her life-mate, Merte." His mouth dropped open and his tongue lolled to the side, but she knew his ire was faked. His mottled skin would dull if Das'Voq was really upset.

  "Watch it or I'll have you locked up as well," she said.

  "That has possibilities."

  "Shut up and get in the restaurant." Merte rolled her eyes.

  Das'Voq's beak opened wider and his tongue straightened out, the Galanean equivalent of a smile.

  Oroth's was a cream-colored chamber punctuated by three thick, transparent pillars. Each of the pillars contained a sample of the sea from the home worlds of each of the major species in the colony, complete with fish. It cost a small fortune to bring in the wildlife, especially the black eel-like things from Galaenus.

  At this hour, the twenty delta-shaped tables were sparsely populated. New Bimini was still a mining colony, and although it was now independent from its ETMC master, it still survived primarily on the ore trade and most people were at work in the mines.

  "Did I ever thank you for the fish, Merte?" Das'Voq asked as they walked towards a group of tables at the back.

  "Only every time we're here," she responded in their traditional dance of words.

  "Oh, I must've forgotten."

  Merte laughed. It was an old joke between them, Das'Voq hadn't forgotten a thing since the revolution—none of them had. She was blessed in that way. Males who never forgot anything were unheard of in her own species.

  Ram sat at a group of tables pushed together to form a parallelogram. His white jumper suit was accented by gold cufflinks and a high, half-collar that cradled the nape of his neck but left the front exposed. Not only did it contrast greatly with Merte's casual pink-spaghetti-strap shirt and navy pants, but it was the splitting image of his father. After all these years, Ram still liked to remind her of the man. In a way she hated him for it, but her guilt refused to let her express it. Ram helped them during the revolution even after it claimed his father's life.

  At their approach, Ram looked up from the glass of creamy-orange fluid on the table before him. A set of black eyes in a face almost as dark as her own gleamed in the light. He leaned back in his chair.

  "What is the emergency?" Despite having matured in the colony, Ram's melodic voice still had the hints of his father's Bharatan accent.

  They were too much alike in many ways. Merte had almost let it stop her from promoting Ram to the ruling triumvirate after order was restored. If Das'Voq hadn't reminded her that Ram gave them the access codes to MARC, she wouldn't have. She still had reservations, but Ram's aid in those days was undeniable. She wondered what his real motivations were. What kind of boy betrayed his father like that?

  "Well?" Ram took another sip of his drink.

  "You can at least wait until we're seated." Merte pulled out a chair and made use of it. Das'Voq took one opposite her so they bracketed Ram.

  "Okay, you're seated. Why did you call this meeting?"

  Merte gave him a stern look before letting her eyes drift away from his perturbed expression.

  A waitron arrived at their table.

  "The usual?" The girl's name was Kelli, a short Terran with sand-colored hair and dimples when she smiled. Merte remembered delivering her.

  "This farce again? We do this every time." Ram swirled his drink.

  "Yes, this again," Merte said with an edge in her voice.

  Ram looked away from her.

  "Just water, please," Das'Voq said.

  Merte nodded and watched Kelli get the far-off look of someone using their cyber-link implant.

  "Okay, your orders are in. Let me know if I can get you anything." Kelli smiled and moved away.

  Merte had the chance to replace all of the service positions in New Bimini some years ago when they finally started turning a profit in trade. She refused, over Ram's objections. Under the ETMC, service positions were a way of recycling critically injured or aged labor in the colony. Although after the revolution such conditions were a thing of the past, the people in those positions and their progeny depended on the jobs for survival. Merte wasn't about to take that away from them. New Bimini's populace was her family. She hadn't fought to liberate them from the ETMC's tyrannical oppression only to plunge them into an economic one.

  "All right, so now can we talk about what this meeting is about?" Ram crossed his arms on the table.

  MARC?

  "I am present," he responded to all of them.

  "We received a message today," Merte said.

  "So?" Ram swirled his drink and placed it back on the table.

  "It bore the Eye in the Galaxy," she responded.

  Ram's eyes narrowed. He licked his lips.

  "The Abyssians?" Das'Voq's eyes widened.

  "No. It was from Daedalus."

  Their orders arrived during the silence. Kelli placed a plate of shortbread cookies and a glass of simulated milk in front of Merte. Das'Voq's water followed.

  "Thank you, Kelli," Merte said.

  "Can I get you anything else?"

  Merte shook her head.

  Kelli departed with her usual cheer.

  "The Daedalus?" Ram whispered. He leaned forward, knocking over his drink. It began a slow crawl across the table's polished aluminum surface.

  Merte nodded.

  "What does he want?" Das'Voq asked in the same, hushed tone.

  "An audience with me." Merte watched Ram's drink flow slowly towards the table's edge. She frowned when it became obvious he would do nothing about it.

  "Why?" Ram frowned.

  "I don't know, but we have to prepare." Merte picked up a cookie and tapped it against the edge of her plate.

  "Well, I know it's an AI but maybe we can set up some kind of firewall so he can't get into our sensitive databases. It just wants a digital audience, right?" Ram flashed a quick, half-smile.

  "It's sending a physical emissary," Merte said.

  "What? That makes no sense. Why would it expend the resources to travel here, unless—" Ram was cut short by Merte's glare.

  "Don't even say it, Ram. That little episode is over now. She won't do it again." Merte shifted in her seat. It'd been a long time since her daughter, Athame, had made the mistake. She was starting to believe that nothing would come of it.

  "Apparently, she won't have to. Once may have been enough." Ram snorted.

  "There is no guarantee Athame is why the emissary is coming here. Speculation will get us nowhere. We should turn our attention to things we can influence. Will it be able to discover our secret?" Das'Voq's skin dulled.

  "Fleshriding is a serious crime. I told you two there would be consequences," Ram said.

  "That's enough, Ram. She only did it the one time," Das'Voq said.

  "That you know of." Ram righted his empty glass and slammed it down on the table.

  "Enough." Merte dropped her cookie. "Right now there are more important matters before us. Our secret—"

  "It can't discover it, can it? I mean, you and MARC designed it to be fool-proof, right?" Ram asked.

  "Dae
dalus is not a fool, Balarama," MARC stated with Ram's full name.

  "Maybe this isn't about Athame. It could be Daedalus found out, somehow." Das'Voq inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly through his mouth.

  "You mean because of what your daughter did?"

  "That's enough, Ram!" Merte slammed the table with her hand. The cookies jumped and some of her milk sloshed out of its glass. "If he found out, it's because of something else."

  "What else? That's not possible, Merte. If it wasn't your daughter, then it must be sending the emissary for some other reason." Ram shook his head.

  "What other reason?" Das'Voq said.

  They looked at each other.

  "Maybe it's finally decided to do something about your revolution," Ram muttered.

  Merte's teeth ground together.

  "Daedalus was not constructed until 2346 C.E. by the Terran calendar, Balarama. Considering the amount of time it has had to move on us, I find the probability that it has decided to do so now remote."

  "If Daedalus wanted to restore the ETMC to New Bimini, the first we'd know about it would be with the arrival of an Abyssian Praetor, not a message announcing an emissary," Das'Voq said.

  Ram shifted his jaw back and forth.

  "Fine, but what does it want, then?"

  "It's all just speculation until the emissary shows up. We have five days to prepare. I called this meeting to figure out how to use them wisely," Merte said.

  "I take it you're not going to let me leave before this emissary arrives?" Ram asked.

  Das'Voq pounded the table with his fist, startling both Merte and Ram.

  "How could you even ask that? You are part of this pod. We all share each other's fate—or would you rather we exiled you?" He said in hissing tones.

  "What about Athame? Are you going to keep her here for Daedalus to wipe out, too?" Ram shot back.

  "Our daughter has more sense than you do," Das'Voq said.

  "Sense?" Ram laughed. "Daedalus is a damn war machine. I don't think we're being dropped in on as a social call. I bet you a year's pay that it's coming here because of Athame." Ram shook his head.