Dark Transmissions

by Davila LeBlanc

“Sorry, cowgirl. This is a welding job, not the wild west.” Plasma bolts were ultraheated and could potentially pierce the station’s hull. Jessie and David both had to give their vocal authorization before they could even be accessed.

  “We can never have nice things.” Jessie sighed a satiric pouty sigh and turned her focus to the task at hand. Her suit made her look like a giant brown round blob with fully functional arms and legs. The Mark 4 had been designed to be a mobile tool kit. Each pocket had various interchangeable attachments and tools that she could connect to her suit’s fingertips.

  “Suit, I need a magnetic power tether. Locate, please.” A pocket next to her right thigh suddenly blinked red. Jessie zipped the pocket open, pulling out the piece she needed. It was flat like a black puck with a hollow hole in its middle for the wire to be welded in.

  Jessie let the tether float next to her as she grabbed the drone’s power cord and pulled it closer. The two pieces fit together snugly. She pulled the tether and cord down to the station’s hull.

  The tether instantly clamped onto the hull with a dull heavy magnetic thump, which Jessie felt through her magboots. She turned to her right hand. “Suit: ice.” The index finger of her suit whirred and mechanized itself into a needlelike form. Frost instantly started forming itself at the tip.

  Jessie then looked to her left hand. “Suit: fire.” Her left index finger performed a similar task, only this time instead of frost, the finger began to glow with blue-­heated plasma.

  The next part would be tricky. Jessie started welding the wire to the tether with one finger while the other followed closely behind, instantly cooling off the superheated metal. This would prevent any droplets of melted metal from floating up and damaging her suit.

  “There’s something about a woman in her spacesuit that just gets me all hot and bothered.” David’s voice interrupted James Brown’s “Haw!”

  “I could keep it on tonight if you want,” Jessie replied coyly, her eyes not once leaving the tasks at hand.

  “Gravity in the Inner Ring would make what Jessie Madison is proposing impossible,” OMEX interjected.

  “Of course it would, OMEX.” Jessie sighed. It was going to be fun to be able to hold a conversation without OMEX, the electronic third wheel, constantly listening and chiming in.

  “What would the news from Earth be?” Jessie was now well into her welding job, her fingers nimbly and steadily working together in perfectly timed synchronization. Between her and David, she was the one better suited for this sort of job. David had always been what she referred to as a touch-­screen tech while she was more the hands-­on type and incredibly proud of it.

  “Well, in politics, my dear, Earth Gov and Mars Gov are talking about a potential union. Venus is still preaching planetary independence. Could lead to war. And the Jovian Colonies hosted their first ever World Series.”

  Once he was done David cleared his throat before adding, “Or at least that was the case six months ago.”

  “There is no need to worry, David Webster and Jessie Madison. A new tightbeam signal was uploaded three days ago. You should have new information on Earth activities before your return to the sleep tubes.”

  Jessie flipped off her comm-­link while keeping the music on. David could read in on her vitals from the Inner Ring’s main bridge. Truth be told, she could do without two separate voices in her earpiece right now.

  “Jessie Madison has turned off her communication link. Is she all right?”

  Jessie was finished with her welding job and gave the wire a solid tug. “She is fine, OMEX, just—­”

  “Enjoying what would be referred to as ‘alone time.’ Jessie Madison’s wish will be respected.” There was a brief pause, then OMEX added, “Enjoy the smoke.” With that said, Jessie was alone with her music and her thoughts.

  Jessie gave the finished wire another pull. It was firmly welded. She turned to face the drone. The magnetic tether connected it to the station’s power supply, allowing it to perform repair and maintenance for as long as was needed along the surface of Moria Three’s hull.

  The red line of the drone’s optical lenses suddenly glowed red. It scanned Jessie over before abruptly lurching into motion, turning around and resuming its interrupted task of repairing the thruster. The autodrone’s fingertips mechanized the various tools required for the job.

  “You are more than welcome, MTD-­45,” Jessie grumbled to herself, and was happy that David was unable to hear this. He would have no doubt laughed at the fact that suddenly a machine was upsetting Jessie.

  She turned around and left the drone to its task. Jessie could now sit down and enjoy the view of Moria and the stars. She’d jury-­rigged the release valve on her suit to fire out a controlled dose of marijuana smoke into her helmet. One long breath of air and Jessie’s head was swimming.

  She was in no rush to get back to the Inner Ring. Once she was back inside, the countdown to sleep would begin. She and David would have a full week’s worth of time to themselves and then they would get back into the criotubes, only to be awakened again should the station autodrones require further maintenance.

  While not being the most glorious line work, it was still one of the most lucrative. Fifteen years of their contract were now up. Only sixty more remained. Then they would go home and start the real work. And that was the worthwhile project of starting their family. They could be rich and, more importantly, free to grow old together. The thought of this made her smile.

  “So good, so fine, I got you!” James Brown sang, and Jessie, her head awash in marijuana smoke, could not help but smile and agree with him.

  CHAPTER 6

  CHORD

  Core Protocol: A machine may not willingly lie, or omit the truth.

  Later rewritten to read:

  Chosen Core Protocol: Once it assumes control of a shell, a Machina may never willingly lie or omit the truth.

  —­The Chosen Protocols, author unknown, date unknown

  10th of SSM–10 1445 A2E

  Chord was silently observing the boarding party of Arturo Kain, Morrigan Brent and Phaël, all gathered in the Jinxed Thirteenth’s main outer airlock. The trio was presently slipping into their respective gear.

  “Have you ever been on a drop, machine?” Arturo Kain asked Chord as he clipped the front of his black one-­piece thermskin. Glowing red stripes went along his spine, arms and legs. It would keep him warm in the harsh vacuum of space. It was also filled with a composite sealant gel that would plug any holes should his lifesuit be breached.

  Chosen Protocol forced Chord to answer the question truthfully. “This unit has had little to no experience operating in zero gravity, Sergeant Kain.”

  Arturo Kain rolled his eyes when he heard this, an action Chord had noticed certain Humanis did to indicate a feeling of annoyance. Arturo pulled back his black hair as he slipped the thermskin’s hood over his head. When compared to Arturo’s more advanced and plastic thermskin, both Phaël’s and Morrigan’s were almost laughably ancient and outdated, looking more like long thick strips of brown leather.

  Chord broke the silence that followed. “Will this be problematic for you, Sergeant Kain?”

  Arturo shook his head. “Not at all. I truly look forward to having an inexperienced operator along on what could very well be a dangerous rescue op.”

  Chord started to reassure Arturo. “While this unit may be lacking in practical operational experience, its uses remain many. For inst—­”

  “I give no humping care about your machine ‘pride’ being hurt.” Phaël cut Chord off while she assisted Morrigan Brent into his heavy photosynth combat armor. Morrigan was clipping on the pieces of his thick scratched-­up black chest plate, while Phaël clamped on his leg pieces, complete with magboots also of a scratched-­up black. Morrigan’s armor had no doubt been the cutting edge of lifesuit technology several hundred years ago, in th
e early days of the Covenant’s Second Expansion. However, once his suit was sealed up, Morrigan would no longer be able to look past or over his shoulders.

  Arturo Kain’s photosynth lifesuit was cleaner and in far more pristine condition than Morrigan’s. The armored plating clipped and adjusted itself to the contours of Arturo’s body automatically. His lifesuit was a light plastic kev-­weave and pearly white. It was the latest Pax Humanis military model, complete with fully mobile joints and articulations, offering Arturo total flexibility including the neck and fingers.

  Both Arturo’s and Morrigan’s suits were equipped with photosynth air tanks. This was a more recent innovation to Humanis lifesuit technology, developed by the Wolver Breedmasters of Uldur. The photosynth air tank contained a type of moss that constantly absorbed the subject’s exhaled carbon and produced the oxygen needed to support Humanis life in space. This allowed for lifesuits and the majority of vessels to maintain an almost permanent supply of breathable air.

  “I don’t see why the captain couldn’t just send Tor along with us instead of the Paxist deserter and the Machina,” Phaël grumbled loudly to herself.

  “Why, Phaëlita, I’m shocked at such unbecoming words.” Morrigan gave Arturo a warm pat on the shoulder. “We’ve got nothing to fear. The Sureblade himself is with us on this mission.”

  Arturo let out an angered “click” of his tongue and rudely slapped away Morrigan’s hand. “Don’t you ever touch me, Private. Am I understood?”

  Morrigan shrugged casually at this and stepped back while locking the final black armpiece of his armor into place. He pulled at a latch on his left forearm. Suddenly there was a whirring of gears as all the separate segments of his suit locked and sealed themselves shut.

  “Infinite willing, one day we can be real good friends, Sureblade.” Morrigan shot Phaël a wink, then slid on his helmet, a solid black opaque piece. It sealed and locked itself at the neck with a loud pressurized hiss.

  Arturo and Phaël both gave each other dirty looks as Arturo clipped on his black-­hilted twin zirconium blades. These ceramic short swords were razor sharp and could keep their edge far longer than any metal. Both were vacusheathed in beige mechanical quick-­draw scabbards.

  “I’ve put down more than my fair share of loud little pups,” Arturo said as he checked to make sure his zirconium blades were both safely sheathed and fastened to his suit.

  “Of course you have, you murdering Paxist!” Phaël let out an angry hiss, taking a step toward him.

  Arturo nonchalantly picked up his morph carbine and checked its ammo counter before locking it into a shoulder holster on his back. Folded in upon itself, Arturo’s carbine now resembled a large black book. The morph carbine was standard Pax Humanis issue, easy to maintain, reliable and simple to transport. Once unfolded, it would be able to rapidly fire plasma-­coated flechettes from a two hundred round magazine.

  “This unit is confused by the witnessed exchange. Why any Intelligence would choose now to antagonize a fellow crewmember is more than illogical, it is—­” Chord struggled to voice its thoughts.

  “The word the Machina is too polite to use is ‘stupid,’ child. I keep telling you to watch that tongue of yours.” Morrigan planted himself firmly between Phaël and Arturo, stiffly shaking his head “no” at her.

  “Sergeant Kain, how long until your team is ready?” Captain Morwyn’s voice on the group’s private comm-­link interrupted them before anything escalated ­further.

  “As ready as we’ll ever be, Captain Sir,” Arturo replied, ignoring Phaël altogether. This act only seemed to infuriate her even more as she clenched her fists tightly and her flat ear gave an angry twitch.

  This was another one of the many Humanis behaviors that Chord found more than curious. For all intents and purposes, Arturo Kain and the two Adorans were each unwanted by their respective galactic nations. Why, then, insist on keeping old feuds and hatreds alive? Especially when those in command of the powers for which they professed loyalty offered next to nothing in return?

  Morrigan must have read into this, for he laid his hand on Chord’s shoulder as a recognized gesture of comfort. “Now don’t you blow a circuit trying to understand us.”

  Morrigan slid a two-­handed steel vibro sword into a sheath on his back and locked a gray metal-­segmented morph-­shield gauntlet onto his left wrist. A heavy ser­vice blaster pistol was hanging in a worn leather holster at his side. He finally slung his even heavier looking omnibarrel carbine over his shoulder.

  The OBC was an older model weapon with an adjustable barrel. The user could adjust its width through dials in the handle. This, ­coupled with multiple firing pins and mechanisms built into its body, allowed the omnibarrel carbine to fire any kind of ammunition. Morrigan tapped his helmet with an armored hand.

  “Private Morrigan Brent suited up, all weapons, ammunition and lifesuit systems in the green.” Morrigan punctuated this by slapping his gauntleted fists on his chest.

  Meanwhile, Phaël stepped into her own lifesuit. At first glance it appeared to be a long single piece of segmented chitin. Upon closer inspection, the “suit” had a brown, almost bark-­like appearance to it. If Chord could trust its shell’s optical bioscans, Phaël’s “lifesuit” was very much alive, with a pulse, circulatory system and lungs. Long pouches lined Phaël’s legs, within which were contained what appeared to be rolled-­up bright green tree vines.

  It was the first time since activation that Chord had ever seen a living skinsuit.

  The Wolver Breedmasters of Uldur counted their living skinsuits among their greatest prides and one of their most jealously kept secrets. Bred for generations, the living skins were said to choose their wearers. Like microscopic tardigrades, the smallest and possibly oldest living bioorganisms in the observed universe, the living skinsuits were capable of surviving in the harsh vacuums of space. More plant than animal, the “suit” derived nourishment from starlight. Given the fact that the Breedmasters refused to upload any information about the skinsuits onto the InstaNet, Chord had no way of knowing how they fed themselves when they were not in use. From what little Chord had been able to learn about Uldur’s culture, they were considered to be a holy relic and beyond price for anyone devoted to the Living Green.

  Black stripes, reminding Chord of Terra’s old tigers, were painted in black ink all along the private’s living skinsuit, and like Arturo Kain she was also able to enjoy complete mobility. Even her toes were capable of a solid grip while protected by the suit. Private Phaël stood up and Chord could see the suit close itself along a seam on her back all the way to her neck. She then nimbly slipped a heavy black fur cloak over herself.

  Phaël gave her “second skin” a comforting scratch on her shoulder and suddenly two translucent flaps of skin, reminding Chord of the jellyfish images it had sampled in the datastream, wrapped themselves around Phaël’s head. Morrigan handed her a golden comm-­link collar, which she clasped around her throat.

  Four heavy knives were sheathed along her sides. She gave each handle a pat before nodding. “Phaël Farook Nem’Ador, suited and ready.”

  “This is a rescue operation, not a combat drop.” Captain Morwyn’s voice was calm over the comm-­link. “Weapons are to remain cold unless myself or Sergeant Kain state otherwise.”

  Arturo turned to face the rest of his team. The look in his face was one that Chord could recognize as complete discontent. He slid on his helmet, which offered him a fully clear face guard, and there was a hiss as his suit pressurized itself.

  Arturo cracked his neck loudly before speaking. “The last thing I wanted when I woke up was to run a rescue op with you lot.” Phaël stepped forward, ready to object, and Arturo raised his hand to stop her. “Given that we’ve got a job to do, I will say this once and only once. Follow my orders, work together and we all come home. Understood?”

  “I’ve delivered the same speech many tim
es back in my day, sir. Feels good being on the receiving end of it for a change.” Morrigan clumsily raised his fist to his heart in a traditional Pax Humanis military salute; it was quickly returned by Arturo. Phaël merely snorted rudely and looked away.

  Arturo ignored this and looked to Chord. “Machina Chord, you stay by me and do as I say when I say it. I expect you to perform your functions both quickly and efficiently.”

  “This unit knows of no other way to execute a task, Sergeant Kain.” Chord added a nod to this, something it had seen the Humanis do whenever they understood or agreed with a concept presented to them. This act did not appear to have any kind of effect on Arturo.

  “Good to hear, Machina Chord.” Arturo looked to both Phaël and Morrigan. “Lock in and prepare for decompression.”

  Morrigan pulled out a thin length of diamond-­wire rope from a spool in the small of his lifesuit’s back and handed one end to Phaël, who begrudgingly attached the offered rope to a clip on the “belly” of her suit. Chord mechanized a spool of diamond-­wire rope from a compartment in its shell’s chest and offered an end of it to Sergeant Kain. The latter accepted the rope with a nod before securing it onto a space in his suit’s shoulder blades.

  “Sergeant Kain to Command, ready for inner airlock decompression.”

  “Received, Team Sureblade. Please stand by,” came the soft polite, electronic voice of Pilot Lizbeth Harlowe. Red lights started to flash as the platform of the outer airlock lowered itself down one floor. Chord could make out the gusts of the ship’s atmosphere being sucked out as they were lowered down one deck.

  Morrigan stiffly turned his entire upper body to face Arturo. “Team Sureblade?” He spoke through the team’s comm-­link.

  Arturo shrugged this off, his hands resting on the hilts of his swords while he looked ahead to the ship’s outer airlock. “When you are the one in command, we can call it Team Brent.”

  Chord took a moment to observe Phaël’s living suit and started scanning its cellular structure. As if she knew she was being watched, Phaël spun around. She shot Chord a glare from behind the transparent green membrane of her suit’s face guard, pulling her fur cloak closer to herself. “Mind your eyes, empty box.”