Dark Transmissions

by Davila LeBlanc

  Chord spoke, making certain its vocal settings were both calm and polite. “Forgive this unit. Might you please repeat the question, that it may offer a better response?”

  The captain gave a mild look of annoyance to his companion seated next to him. This one was a much older and sour-­looking Wolver. Her most distinguishing feature was her yellow metallic right eye, which let out a faint whir as she looked Chord over. A savage star-­shaped burn scar marked the skin surrounding it.

  “How many languages do you speak?” The captain’s tone, if Chord had interpreted the data appropriately, betrayed a desire not to be repeated. This made sense; Humanis were short-­lived, with lifespans on average measuring a mere seventy to two hundred standard Sol years. It was therefore no surprise to Chord that they did not like to waste time on repetition.

  “The unit is capable of speaking all known languages within Covenant Space as well as various dialects of Late Modern . . .”

  The sour-­looking Wolver woman, short with long white sideburns, raised her hand, cutting Chord off. Her real left eye was a dark brown hinting on black; her skin was also dark, almost like pitch. Her nose appeared to have been flattened on her face.

  “We don’t care if you can speak tongues that no star-­born Humanis has read or spoke in millennia. We need to know if you can speak and read the tongues we use in the present, you get?” She flashed her sharp canines as she said this. Like all Wolvers, her face had a feral, almost savage look to it. A quick glance revealed to Chord that most of her body, save her head, was covered in a layer of thin black hair.

  “This unit does indeed ‘get’ what the Wolver has said.” The Wolver’s interruption had been a rude one. She was fit, imposing and menacing and no doubt would have easily intimidated an Organic Intelligence. Yet Chord was Machina. Fear and offense were emotions it was incapable of feeling or acting upon.

  “Please forgive the commander.” The captain was young, no older than twenty-­five Sol years. Everything, from his straight posture to his short cut dark black hair, clean-­shaven face, to his neatly manicured and cleaned hands, made Chord think of the words “proper” and “new.” His eyes were almond shaped, and icy blue.

  “Machina will know when I’ve done something worth forgiving.” The Wolver’s ears were pointed and larger than her Kelthan friend’s. Their ridges were adorned with plain metal circular rings. Her hair past the temples was graying, cut military short with one shoot of black going along the side. She gave Chord a long dark stare.

  “Does the commander not trust Chord?”

  The Wolver rose up to her feet, her hand resting on the long hilt of an even longer curved knife sheathed at her side. “Gleaned that when you gave my bios a scan, did you, machine?”

  Where the captain’s Pax Common had sounded polite and well practiced, the Wolver’s was harsh, slightly accented, indicating that it was her secondary and not primary language. Chosen Protocol dictated that Chord facilitate communication. This would mean addressing the Wolver in her native tongue.

  Wolven was an inherently more emotional dialect than Pax Common. Speaking it properly often proved challenging for the Machina. Chord knew for a fact that this had been the language’s intentional design.

  The Wolver ancestors had never wanted Machina to be able to speak their tongue to begin with. Which had not prevented Chord from accessing, downloading and copying all known Wolven vocabulary into its memory caches. In any case, Chosen Protocol dictated that Chord use this information to help stir the current situation away from conflict.

  “The Living Green blesses a fellow sister of the Sefts. Hoping that a missed word or two won’t be cause for like-­numbered disagreements.”

  Of the many languages in Covenant Space, Wolven was more fluid and musical. Much of its understanding relied as much on the emotional tone of the speaker as the words that were spoken. Chord had arranged all vocal settings to be warm, polite and respectful for this very reason.

  Despite its first activation having been over five hundred standard years ago, Chord still had little practical understanding on Humanis Intelligences. Countless data about their spoken dialects, subdialects, traditions, cultures, religious and spiritual practices, yes, but understanding? Next to none. Which is why the Wolver’s reaction was so unexpected. Her left pupil grew small as her eye zeroed in on Chord and she let out a deep, menacing growl.

  “If the soulless machine doesn’t want to die for true, it had best stop sullying a tongue its kind ain’t deserving of either speaking or knowing.”

  “The machine isn’t searching for quarrel. It fairly reminds the Seft sister that her blade will not be enough to harm it. That is a truth.”

  “Commander.” The captain was ignored as the Wolver took a step around the table toward Chord.

  “Speak my tongue again, machine. Give this blade dancer cause to rejoice.” Her words were a deep menacing growl.

  “Commander.” The captain did not so much as move. Yet his tone was sharp. If the commander had heard his voice, however, she did not seem to show it.

  “Go on, machine,” she snarled. “Show me your dance.”

  “Commander Jafahan, you will stand down!” The captain’s spoken Wolven was a strong bark. A few customers looked up at this, giving both the captain’s table and company a mixed combination of shocked or offended stares and sneers.

  “The master should fill up his dog’s dish.” Chord heard one of the men who had stood and sung earlier grumble to another one of his friends.

  The Humanis named Commander Jafahan took in a long breath before giving Chord, along with anyone else who was still staring, a final dark look and sitting back down. When she spoke it was in a loud tone inviting everyone to go about their business. “Forgiveness, Captain. It wasn’t my intent to subvert your command.”

  The captain took a sharp sip from his brandy, returning to his calm and composed Pax Common. “Rage is a practical asset to have on the battlefield, Commander. But in the future, I recommend keeping that temper of yours under control.”

  “No easy task, Captain.”

  The captain shot Commander Jafahan a friendly grin. “If I recall correctly, a wise woman told me once that no prize worth having was ever easily won.”

  Commander Jafahan straightened her back and offered the captain a stiff nod. “Sounds more like sappy would-­be words of inspiration to me. Sir.”

  The captain took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Machina Chord, the commander and myself are of the Covenant’s Patrol. Our vessel, the Jinxed Thirteenth, will set sail for End Space in three days. Our voyage will take us well outside Covenant borders for twelve standard Sol months.”

  Chord paused for a moment, accessing its memory cache. “End Space: name given to uncharted sectors of the universe by the Humanis. InstaNet Signal: nonexistent. Covenant law: nonexistent. Surveyed Systems in End Space ready for Third Expansion currently number—­”

  The captain raised his hand in an action that Chord recognized as a polite way of showing that he had heard enough. He smiled. “You sound good enough to me.”

  “This unit is glad to have pleased you.”

  “Shouldn’t be getting too happy just yet,” Commander Jafahan said.

  “This unit must profess confusion. Was not the purpose of this meeting to negotiate passage to the Sol system and Terra? That somehow its ser­vices as a translator would be requ—­”

  “Just wait to hear the offer, machine. Ain’t like time stalks your kind.” Commander Jafahan quickly cut Chord off.

  “I may be young, Machina Chord, but I pride myself in having a good eye for talent and character.” The captain paused to take a small sip from his brandy.

  “This unit thanks you for the compliment.”

  “You are more than welcome, Machina Chord.” The captain glanced over to Commander Jafahan; they both shared a knowing nod. The captain l
ooked back to Chord.

  “I can promise you safe passage on my ship. In exchange, you will be our translator. Perform your duties during this tour and in return I promise to bring you to Terra.”

  The captain rested his hands calmly on the table. “Does this sound both reasonable and fair to you?”

  “You offer this unit passage. And for payment it must perform what amounts to its core function?” Humanis social protocol required a smile, and so Chord arranged its silicon lips to do so. “The unit believes the offer to be more than fair.”

  The captain presented his hand across the table to Chord. This was recognized as a Humanis way of sealing a deal. Chord quickly adjusted sensors and servos in its shell’s grip to avoid crushing the captain’s fingers as the two shook hands.

  The captain nodded. “We lift sail in three nights. Slipspace willing. I will have my second in command forward you all the relevant information.”

  “The unit offers thanks, Captain . . .”

  “Soltaine, Captain Morwyn Soltaine.” The captain cut Chord off, but his tone was not sharp, and the interruption was therefore not an angry one. “Welcome to the Jinxed Thirteenth, Machina Chord.”

  CHAPTER 2

  JESSIE MADISON

  In the beginning there were two lines. Ancient Humanity and their creations: the first sentient machines, or Original Intelligences. However, the word “Intelligence” could hardly be applied to either. The creators and the created were slaves to each other. Both were flawed and incapable of recognizing one another as equals.

  Ancient Humanity were our great ancestors, to whom all present Intelligence owes its existence. They were dependent on their machines, their toys and servants for everything.

  And what of their creations? Without their Human masters or their programmed protocols, they were void of purpose.

  —­Excerpt from the “Codex of Compassion” by Gruemor’SantKa TalSuntar, “The Owl,” Alexandran scholic

  July 1st 2205

  Jessie Madison had just awakened from the oblivion of seven years of criosleep. Seven dark years of traversing through the voids of space on board the AstroGeni Corps automated transport vessel Patricia 2. There had been no dreams during her journey. Praise be to all known deities and fates true or false for that. Earlier automated sleeper voyages through deep space had resulted in the loss of entire sleeper crews. Driven insane while living dreams they were unable to awaken from.

  Newer generations of sleeper tubes, designed by the good ­people at AstroGeni, had solved this problem by completely shutting down all nonvital functions of the brain. The end result was that Jessie had not felt the passage of time from the second she fell into her artificially induced slumber until her awakening.

  One moment Jessie was on her back, naked, with feeder and breather tubes down her throat on Earth. Then had come the sharp sting of autoinjectors in her arms. Jessie’s last active memory was her sleep tube filling up with the viscous purple nutritional gels. Her eyelids had grown heavier and heavier . . .

  What followed was silent darkness, complete and total.

  Time stopped as the Patricia 2 embarked on its machine-­piloted journey to the AstroGeni mining facility of Moria Three, which orbited the newly surveyed world by the same name. Moria Three was rich in both minerals and gases. AstroGeni deep-­space survey drones had estimated the company would rake in triple-­digit trillions in credits. Construction of the automated orbital facility Moria Three, so named after the dwarven mines of an old century twenty novel, had begun. All of it unmanned, like a perfectly well-­oiled symphony of clockwork.

  It would be seven years of dreamless hibernation, and once awakened, she and her husband, David, would be the first Human beings to lay naked eyes on the station and the gas giant world of Moria. This was no small honor. The HR Rep at AstroGeni had been all too keen to remind them of this any time either she or David got cold feet about their seventy-­five-­year contract and the subsequent time debt they would acquire with it.

  The quiet darkness ended suddenly with blinding stabbing lights as Jessie desperately gasped for breath. She blinked rapidly, trying to make out her surroundings. Despite every one of her senses feeling muted, what little she was able to see, smell and hear reassured her. She was on a medical bed in a sterile white room, and wearing a clean night robe. She could hear the beeping of vital monitors. This was accompanied by the sounds of David retching and gagging on a bed next to hers.

  “Greetings, employee Jessie Madison. This program introduces itself as the station’s omniexecutor, or OMEX, to facilitate future communications.” A woman’s electronic voice spoke into the room. “AstroGeni would like to welcome you aboard Moria Three. Your journey took seven years and the current Earth date is July 1st 2205.”

  Jessie winced, her head awash with nausea. “Who won the World Series when I left?” Her voice was a dry croak. She’d have killed anyone, her loving David included, for a glass of water right now.

  “The Venus Beauties bested the Mars Roadwarriors four to seven in the finals.”

  Jessie smiled, clumsily covering her eyes with her forearm. “I told you there was no way the Warriors were taking the Beauts.”

  There was a pause in David’s retching. “Good thing for me I was never much of a gambler, then.”

  A second wave of nausea, this time triggered by the pain in her eyes, caused Jessie to wince. The urge to vomit was getting stronger. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “It is a completely natural reaction to the criosleep process and an unfortunate side-­effect,” OMEX, who still sounded neutral, uncaring and yet so very polite, tried to reassure her.

  Beside her, David’s gagging had intensified. “Your partner, David Webster, awoke an hour earlier. You will both be able to process solid foods by the end of the Earth Sol day.”

  Jessie tried her best to fight the sick feeling she had inside her stomach. As if he were reading her mind, David paused midgag. “I wouldn’t try to fight it, Jessie.”

  Jessie chose to follow his advice. She pulled herself over the side of her bed, her arms feeling limp and sluggish. She stopped fighting her gag reflex. Her stomach heaved as she regurgitated blue bile-­flavored nutritional gel.

  A vacudrone, looking like a kitten-­sized cockroach with a small clear plastic tube for a nose, quickly scuttled over to the puddle of vomit and immediately started sucking the mess up. This was accompanied by the sounds of tiny brushes scrubbing as its legs simultaneously cleaned the floor.

  “The AstroGeni Corporation thanks you for the invaluable ser­vices rendered for the duration of this contract.” OMEX spoke as if oblivious to the fact that there were two horribly sick Human beings in the medical bay.

  The words of thanks were lost on Jessie, who resumed vomiting uncontrollably. They had been briefed back on Earth about all this, but the cold reality was far worse than any training trideo she’d watched back on Earth. In fact, it was far worse than any flu, food poisoning or hangover Jessie had ever experienced.

  She couldn’t wait for all this to be over. She wanted nothing more than to open her eyes without it hurting her head or triggering fits of nausea. She wanted to get up, stretch herself and move. But what topped her present list was to finally hold David in her arms.

  They had safely reached their destination, both of them intact and unharmed. Jessie didn’t let the thought that she was thousands of light-­years away from the safety of Earth Gov or any viable rescue operation should anything go wrong get to her. She was safe, David was alive and once this maintenance contract with AstroGeni was done and over with, they’d be rich. They could finally bring a new life into the world and be certain that said new life, their future child, would be comfortably taken care of.

  Two hours after her awakening, Jessie was finally able to enjoy sips from her coffee. The warmth was welcomed into her still-­shivering body. The beans had been bred and s
elected by top baristas on Earth for a strong and coarse flavor. None of this mattered to Jessie, who was just happy to have something hot in her hands. Her stomach was still a little upset as she leaned back on a black memo-­foam couch, letting out a comforted sigh.

  The medidrones had injected her with liquid proteins, adrenaline and calmants. This didn’t remove the chill Jessie still felt in her bones. Nor did they do anything for her muscles, which now felt like stiffened molasses.

  “Our new home, my lover.” David was seated at the dinner table, a round clear glass designer piece, and ravenously chewing into a heavy piece of jerky. His eyes were blue, hinting on gray, and as he smiled at her she could make out his dimples. His long unkempt hair, which he usually kept neatly brushed and tied behind his neck, was matted to his scalp with dried nutri-­gel.

  All gods true or false but the man was gorgeous, even when he was filthy. She couldn’t tell how horrible she looked at the moment, her hair greasy and still covered in dry nutri-­gel, her skin pale and clammy. Regardless of this, part of her wanted to grab David right now and enjoy him all to herself. Another—­arguably more sensible—­part of her just wanted a warm shower.

  “I need to clean myself. Soon.” Jessie’s fingers were still trembling and numb from the criofreeze.

  “Maybe we could clean each other together.” David shot Jessie a wicked grin.

  The grin was returned. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  OMEX chimed in. “The hot water should have been running upon your arrival. However, atmospheric calibrations . . .”

  “OMEX, no need for excuses, we’re just happy to be awake.” David swallowed the last bit of his jerky with a satisfied gulp.

  “Then perhaps a better view can be offered to pass the time.” The walls to their “living room” went from a clean opaque white to fully translucent, and suddenly they were sitting in space. Beneath them was the gas giant of Moria.