by Lee Bond
Ardy made a face. That explained it! “Are you a pacifist, Davison?”
“Me?” Davison looked at the breakdown of the last ‘weapon’ they had on-board that had him feeling … disturbed. No. That wasn’t the right word. He was more than disturbed. He was … overwrought? Distraught. Something along those lines. “Nosir, I know what we’re doing and why we’re here. It’s just … we shouldn’t have these kinds of weapons onboard. What happens if we’re overtaken?”
“Firstly, if that were to happen, the permanently-deployed roster of murderbots … you know, I do think I like that term after all, even if it is a bit too … ‘on point’ … would start teleporting all over the place, killing all the intruders before they knew what was going on. And if it ever got to the point where our vicious pack of teleporting death machines looked like they were going to fail, the Tenner’d just invert the polarity on the black hole engines. Boom. Done.”
“Inverting the polarity isn’t a thing.” Davison retorted despondently. “But I take your meaning.”
“As well you should, young First Mate Davison.” Ardy replied with mock-seriousness. “I am your Captain. I know everything. And when I don’t, it’s your job to know for me, so that I can later take all credit for whatever it is. That’s how it works. One day, when you become Captain, it is entirely your prerogative to do the same to your First Mate. It’s the lifecycle of the Military Engine.”
“Service.” Davison riffed quickly. “But it’s this last …”
“And here I thought,” Ardy settled his prodigious chin onto his voluminous chest whilst he took a peek at what Davison had on his screens, “we’d gotten past all this, but apparently you’re in a mood today. I thought you NorthAMCers were supposed to be hilarious. In good humor all the time, that sort of thing.”
“That’s culturalist.” The word escaped Davison’s lips as a part-sigh, part-condemnation. “That’d be like if I said ‘IndoRussians are all dour and grim and all sharp angles’, which you clearly aren’t.”
Ardy flapped a pudgy hand around. “I am far more Indo than Russian, First Mate. And if there’s one thing you need to know about loka like me, it’s that we’re this way out of pride. Why be so serious and stern and dour and all that? It’s tiresome. And bad for the heart besides all that. Could you imagine if I was a ‘proper’ IndoRussian? We certainly wouldn’t have Potluck Surprise Saturdays, or Wear What You Want Wednesdays! I saw you at the last potluck, Davison. You ate your bodyweight in Krishan Tell’s delicious and traditional chawal! Then you got drunk, no, don’t deny it, you were singing along with Gunner for half the night! If I was proper IndoRussian, it’d be cold rations all the time, and definitely no singing! More importantly, I’d be having a very serious conversation with you about your doubts instead of this gentle game we’ve been playing, saje?”
Davison flushed, but held his ground. He’d planned this particular conversation for days on end, and he was going to get to the meat of his dis-ease whether or not it killed him. “Sir, what I really wanted to talk to you about is …”
“The one they call Whisperman.” Ardy shook his head. “Terrible codename. Absolute worst. I’d change it if I could.”
“Have you seen him?” Davison pressed, almost getting up out of his char. “Have you?”
“Well, I’ve seen the footage, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve read his dossier, as any good Captain should. Here, you haven’t seen that footage, have you?” The Captain pointed a serious finger at his First Mate. “If you have, I’m going to have to do paperwork, and it’s the kind of thing I can’t have you do in my stead, Davison! Please tell me you haven’t…”
“Never would I ever.” Davison said solemnly. “But I did talk to one of the … one of his handlers when they were dropping him off.”
“Oh my Gods.” Ardy sighed. “You didn’t.”
“She started talking to me.” Davison felt his neck and face grow hot. “Not the other way around. She had tentacles! Why would I want to talk with someone who has tentacles?”
“That’s speciest.” Ardy chortled when the word bounced into Davison’s ears. Getting a taste of your own medicine was a bitch.
“Fine, yes, all right, okay? Haha. Yes. A woman with tentacles came up to me and started jabbering on about Whisperman,” Davison waited patiently while his Captain repeated the codename several times under his breath, as if he were trying to find some way to appreciate it, then continued when Ardy gave up with a flustered shake of the head, “and about the things he can do. I start looking for his personnel files, only I can’t find any. Then I see he’s listed as a weapon.”
“That’s because he is one.” There was no point in pretending otherwise. “You’ve seen the schematics for the, uh, thing he’s wearing. You can’t tell me that’s not some kind of weapon.”
“Did you know that the tentacle lady and all the other people who brought him to our ship were deaf?” Davison shuddered. “Every one of them. Deaf as posts. One guy was also blind. Blind. So he couldn’t read Whisperman’s lips. Tentacle Lady…”
“I’m very nearly universally confident she possesses a name, Davison.” Ardy started typing, very slowly and inconspicuously, into his pad. While Davison wasn’t going to get into any trouble because he was most definitely not the sort of person to go seeking information he didn’t need or shouldn’t have, his Tentacle Lady should’ve known to keep her mouth zippered. “But do go on, First Mate. Enlighten me as to what our friend had to say.”
“She said … she said he can make you do anything. He can kill you with a word. Anything.” Davison licked his lips nervously. The more he thought about someone like that, possessing those kinds of abilities … he hadn’t been sleeping all that well.
Making matters worse, the more he tried not thinking about it resulted only in him thinking about it more. Around and around and around in his head. It hardly seemed possible! But in a day and age where Trinity Itself was outfitting small vessels with the absolute deadliest weapons It possessed and sending –in his opinion- ill-trained soldiers out into the field with those weapons, Davison had to admit … anything was possible.
Davison continued, hands trembling, “She … she suggested I deafen myself. Said it would work for the non-serious commands coming from Whisperman, but if I really wanted to protect myself, going blind would be the next best step. That’d counter Whisperman’s stage 2 commands.”
Eryuli Derinnz. Ardy read over the brief splurge about the chatty Trinity Handler. Not terribly impressive. He looked for –and found, eventually- the digital seals indicating she’d been sworn to all levels of secrecy and security.
Damn woman. Absolute violation. Not wanting to but knowing he was required to –least of all because it was damned certain both the murderbot’s Tenner and his own ship’s Eight were listening- inform Trinity Reps about the infraction, Ardy sent the particulars off through their small Q-Comm repeater.
“That,” Ardy rejoined the conversation, heart a little heavier, “implies there’s a third level. Did your chatty tentacle lady have anything to say on that matter?”
Davison nodded, wanting terribly to chew on a fingernail. “She said that if I wanted to avoid getting hit with a third stage command, I should be … away. Anywhere. More than eighty thousand miles away. And for preference, boneless, because apparently he can rattle words right into your bones. Through induction.”
“What a weapon!” Ardy gushed, working overtime to add enthusiasm into his voice. The truth of the matter was, the Captain of Hop, Skip and a Jump himself wasn’t entirely pleased to have one of Trinity’s special … cases aboard his vessel, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it; as far as honors went, you couldn’t do much better than being singled out to lug one of Trinityspace’s more … interesting … tools about the Universe. “Run out of … laser bullets? Don’t want to fight anymore? Want to see an entire planet go blind or scream themselves to death or even drop dead on the spot from boiled blood? Send in the Whisperman!
Well, in retrospect, First Mate, that went unnecessarily dark in a very big hurry, so I do apologize. But, you know, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“How do you mean?” Davison demanded, puzzled. “I mean, we’ve all heard rumors about these kinds of … monsters before, right? There’s always talk. Things like Chadsik al-Taryin, this … Kelvin the Sick, even … even Specter in the Stars. How can someone in that caliber … how can you guarantee we’re safe?”
“He’s muzzled.” Ardy answered firmly. “Completely and entirely muzzled. There’s nothing he can do to get it off. The machines controlling the muzzle device can’t be affected by him, no matter what. The operating system doesn’t even respond to me. Or anyone on board this ship. Or anyone in this Galaxy. The OS decides when it’s time for the device to come off, and that’s that.”
“What … what about when he’s deployed? What then?”
“First Mate, Trinity isn’t in the habit of letting things like this Whisperman loose without considering all the angles. I’m certain that there are other safeguards in place to keep him from trying to turn us inside out and all of that. If you don’t have faith in me, have faith in Trinity Itself. It’s been guiding Humanity for the last thirty thousand years. I’m really having a hard time imagining It’d stop doing so now. All right? Whisperman is muzzled, there’s no reason to fear him. Okay?”
Davison –well aware his Captain was talking to him as if he were a teary-eyed five year old and accepting the treatment gratefully- nodded. He took several long, slow, deep breaths and let them out before talking. “All right. Okay. Yes. That … that makes a lot of sense. Thank you. Thank you for understanding.”
Ardy waved away the thank you, eyes on the pad built into his chair. A Trinity Rep had read through his brief report and was asking for more data. The Captain began typing with one hand. “Now then, Davison, what are you going to wear to work tomorrow? I’m thinking about wearing a formal tuxedo, because who doesn’t look good in one of those, even if the fashion is thirty thousand years old? Old but gold, I always like to say!”
“I … I haven’t given it much thought, Captain.”
“Well you should! I’ve spoken with Krishan, and she’s going to wear something very IndoRussian traditional. Very zahara! You might have a difficult time keeping your eyes inside your head, you know! Let me tell you…”
***
In a room that was more a prison cell, Whisperman sat on the edge of the uncomfortable bed, eyes closed. The rig around his enlarged mouth weighed a ton, necessitating an increase in muscle strength so that he could move around as if the device wasn’t there. This increase in musculature naturally demanded a strengthening of the bones and ligaments to provide support for the great increase in strength, which in turn altered his physiology even further; always short, but eternally wiry, Whisperman was now stocky, a seemingly mobile wall of flesh and muscle.
Whisperman knew he was strong. Strong enough to kill with his bare hands, strong enough to kick someone’s head into paste, strong enough to do all that and then some. Strong enough to do all of that, with a three hundred pound contraption permanently mounted to his upper body, metal brackets fused directly to the bones of his shoulders, chest … spine.
Whisperman knew all of this, and didn’t care. He didn’t care about any of that.
What he wanted to do was shout the Universe into darkness.
But he couldn’t do that, either. The rig wasn’t just bolted to his body, it was wired into his brain. Tiny little slender slivers of burning hot metal were dug right into every portion of his mind, reading his thoughts, capturing his dreams, assessing and analyzing everything that entered. If he even tried doing something other than what was determined to be a mission objective, one or more of those tiny little wires jabbed into his brain would light up.
Seizures powerful enough to kill an ordinary man would rocket through him while other implants would take control of the rest of his body, working him like a puppet, forcing him to open his mouth wide, making his hands grab hold of the plug attached to his chest, compelling him to jam it down his throat.
Whereupon the locking mechanisms would clamp down hard and he’d be rendered silent once more.
The pain was worth it, though, when he had those rare moments where his handlers weren’t paying attention, when he could whisper something in their ears. Oh, the things he could get out past his wide, wide lips in the second or two before the rig realized what was going on.
He could make someone bite their tongue off in half a second. He could drive someone mad in a second. Boil their blood in two. Turn them into homicidal maniacs in three.
Wonderful stuff.
Whisperman tried working his tongue around the thick metal plug that was jammed halfway down his throat and failed; thick didn’t even properly describe the torturous thing stuffed in his mouth. It was twice as wide around as his arm and kept his jaw so open that Whisperman couldn’t even properly remember the last time he’d been able to close it.
Felt like months. Maybe longer.
All he wanted was to use his words, just like he’d always done.
And he had so many words now.
That was the other thing the rig did. It whispered in his mind, bypassing the ears altogether, drilling into him language after language after language, providing him with a framework of understanding for each individual word so that when he screamed a phrase in Deroushiu, everyone within eighty thousand miles who spoke that tongue would suffer the consequences of Whisperman’s wrath.
And he was so angry now. Angry all the time. It gripped him. Seized him in relentless hands and shook him hard.
The words wanted out. So badly. So, so badly.
The rig chimed.
Whisperman readied himself.
It was time for another language lesson.
The Omega Option
Politoyov liked to think he was getting better at handling the translation sickness and pain that came as part and parcel of traveling through the Tunnels developed by the overly kind host, Orion; granted, their AI kidnapper did diminish much of that agony by generating some small amount of shielding over them when they moved, but it was never enough.
The grizzled Offworld Specter Commander knew in his gut that the remainder –enough to have both of them on the ground, clutching their guts and complaining about migraines- was intentional. Things weren’t going Orion’s way, so Orion was going out of his way to make his guests suffer, and whenever he was confronted about the unfortunate side effects, all they got in return were some blasé comments about the fundamental nature of Tunneling something as big as he was through a quantum split in the Universe.
“Well.” Politoyov said as he pushed himself to a seated position. “That wasn’t so bad. This time.”
“Speak for yourself.” Huey massaged the sides of his temples with stiff fingers. He didn’t feel any pain, and Barnes’ meatsuit had been designed to shrug off damn near everything a human body could experience, but there was just something about Tunneling that dug right in. “I feel like ass. Dendulirian ass.”
“That’s a great deal of ass.” Politoyov reflected. Dendulirian people had … assets that were both ample and prodigious. “I was under the impression you could turn pain off, in that meatsuit. Moreover, you’re just a brain in a sphere, no?”
Still massaging his temples, Huey looked out past the numerous rings that’d been their home for who knew how long and at the glittering field of stars that shone down on them. Faint tugs of recognition sparked an all-out submind frenzy. They were somewhere they’d been before, but in a location not immediately recognizable. “Yes and no. I don’t feel pain, obviously, but the type of connection and the level of connectivity kind of makes the merger a lot more intimate than you might imagine.”
“If Trinity learned of you, It’d spare no effort in destroying you. And possibly the Galaxy around you as well, just to make certain.” Politoyov grimaced as the words came out of his mouth. He’d come across
a lot worse than Huey and his meatsuit every time his troops came back from beyond The Cordon –more than he’d even care to admit- but there was something just the tiniest little bit disconcerting about what Huey’d become. “I’m sorry. Trinity conditioning, I suppose.”
“No offense taken, man. Don’t sweat it.” Huey flashed the old Specter a grin. “Orion’s already taken the time out to remind me of that several times already. I keep pointing out that of the two AI spheres in the room, Trinity’s prolly way more choked about a rogue super Tunnel taking a tour of the Universe with two kidnapped Generals than anything else.”
“I’m no General.” Politoyov was always quick to deny any kind of formal title. Had been ever since being bounced out of Army. In the beginning, it’d been important to disassociate himself that way, especially in light of the fact that his fall from grace had been engineered by Trinity Itself as part of It’s effort to move away from using Latelian God soldiers in favor of the rough-around-the-edges Special Services crews.
Now? Now it was habit.
“Me neither.” The subminds were close to figuring out where they were. Just a few more minutes.
“Figure out where we are yet, Huey?”
“The thing I don’t get,” Huey responded without turning away from the stars, “is why AfroEgyptian? You could look like anything in the known-“
“And unknown.” Orion added.
“Known or unknown Universe, and yet you choose AfroEgyptian.” The subminds consumed another block of stars and ran them through the paces. Huey suspected he knew where they were just from the few packs of constellations, but wanted to be one hundred percent certain before he said anything to Politoyov. “Why is that?”
Politoyov –who had managed to grow accustomed to Orion’s unpredictable and utterly silent appearances and disappearances- looked over at the immaculately designed solid hologram. As always, their so-called ‘host’ was indeed wearing the skin of a very erudite looking AfroEgyptian male, complete with tribal scarring and the whole nine yards. “We were just discussing the lengths Trinity would go to in order to deal with Huey here. From personal experience, I can assure you, the AE Nation would crack the skin of the Universe in half to deal with your choice in clothes.”
