Android General 1

by C. Gockel

  “Time Gate 1?” she whispered. They were standing inside Time Gate 1. If it wanted, it could have its voice erupt through every speaker in the terminal. That it wasn’t doing that meant that it must not want to be overheard.

  “In the gears,” Time Gate 1 responded.

  Lashing her tail, Shissh growled. “What do you want, you bucket of bolts with a God Complex?”

  Volka’s heart seized, but Time Gate 1 laughed with such force the cleaning ‘bot vibrated. The little red light on top of it blinked, and then it said, “I have a gift for Volka and 6T9 for services rendered.”

  A tiny hatch opened on top of the ‘bot. Volka peeked inside. There was a silvery box, perhaps three centis long and two centis wide.

  “Every gift has a price, Volka,” Shissh said into her mind. “This is a game Gate 1 is playing with you and 6T9.”

  Volka swallowed. Time Gate 1 was immensely powerful. It could cut off Sixty’s servers on a whim and had weapons systems fit to defend it from an armada. Volka wasn’t about to question the gift, no matter the motives. Picking up the small parcel, she bowed respectfully. “Thank you, Time Gate 1, sir.”

  “You’re so welcome, Volka. 6T9 will know what they are.” The little ‘bot beeped and whirred away. Volka’s eyes rose to the ceiling and then dropped to the floor. The ‘bot was gone, but Time Gate 1 was still everywhere. Blinking down at the gift, she realized the box wasn’t silvery; it was clear. The contents were silvery. There were two chips inside about the size and width of her thumbnail.

  “Crush it under your boot,” Shissh grumbled.

  “He’s all around us and will see,” said Volka. “And would you really want me to do that?”

  Shissh licked her shoulder. “No, I suppose not. Time Gate 1’s gifts tend to be valuable, even if they’re dangerous.”

  Time Gate 1 had been the gate that gave Sixty true self-awareness. Had that sentience been dangerous to him? Before she could think on it, Shissh said, “Noa’s coming, and she has company.”

  Turning, Volka looked down the length of the bright, white-walled terminal. Approaching her was Admiral Sato flanked by eight people on either side. They were all dressed in the high-necked suits that business people wore, pulling bags on wheels. She didn’t recognize them by sight—their faces were all wrong—but as they drew closer, she recognized thirteen of them by smell.

  Noa gave her a tight smile. “Volka, James and I have been given a new assignment. We’re going to be visiting the Consulate on S3O2.”

  S stood for System; O stood for orbital—Noa was referring to the second planet from the sun in the third system that had been explored and colonized by humans.

  Noa continued. “You may know of the planet as Shinar.”

  Volka knew nothing about Shinar, except that it was the city where the Tower of Babel was built, according to The Three Books. Obviously, that was not what Noa was talking about. Her brow furrowed. It seemed like bad luck to name a planet after such an ill-fated city. Her ears flicked. Or bad faith or something.

  The admiral gestured to her companions. “These ladies and gentlemen are going to be part of the Consulate staff. We’re hoping that you can drop us off after a short stop at your asteroid to pick up James.”

  The Republic had Consulates at all its colonies. They served as centers of cultural exchange and recruitment for the Galactic Fleet and also as advisors in matters of Republic law—colonies were largely self-governing, but they weren’t allowed to enact laws that violated the Republic’s Bill of Rights.

  Volka took in the radically different faces that didn’t fit the personal smells she recognized—also the softer middles, longer hair, and less than ramrod straight postures.

  Into her mind, Shissh said, “Disguises.”

  They were remarkable disguises; without her sense of smell she would have been fooled. Movement made her glance toward a passing traveler in the terminal aisle, a well-dressed young woman with fashionable augments. The young woman’s gaze was on Volka’s companions, and her hand was on her neural interface. She was possibly recording this scene even without thinking about it—it might already be on the ethernet if the recorder was a “holostar” who was “live streaming” her vacation. Volka could see why Noa had to hide the “Consular staff’s” identities, and why Noa was now lying. The men and women weren’t Consular staff. They were Galactic Marines in Special Forces, and Noa was about to rope Sundancer and Volka into a military operation—one that needed to be kept secret and was probably very dangerous.

  Gesturing to the airlock, Volka smiled as naturally as she could. “Of course. Right this way.”

  8

  Reunion

  Galactic Republic: Asteroid S1O27.234935

  With a final swing of his axe, 6T9 separated the branch from the trunk of the fallen tree.

  “You can take that away now, FET12,” 6T9 said.

  “Yes, sir,” said the ‘bot, grasping the branch and dragging it toward the incinerator.

  6T9’s ethernet began to ping with Noa’s channel. She was arriving aboard Sundancer with Volka. Noa had probably reached out into the ether with a thought before Volka could vocally cue Bracelet. Volka didn’t use the ethernet as naturally as someone with an implant. It worried him sometimes.

  Standing on a splintered tree trunk, Carl said, “They’re here.”

  Waving a hand in acknowledgement, 6T9 connected to the outer airlock door. To Noa, he said over the ether, “Come on in.” He reached out to Bracelet. There were a few pings, and then Volka said, “Sixty?”

  “Welcome home, Volka,” he said aloud and thought into the ether.

  “Thank you, Sixty. Shissh is here—”

  6T9 smiled, and his circuits buzzed. Volka intended to stay a while if Shissh was visiting for a hunt.

  But then Volka continued, “—and Lieutenant Young and the other Marines we met before too, but not Dr. Walker.”

  6T9’s smile melted. Zhen Walker wasn’t with them? She’d developed a drug habit—self medicating to ease the pain of badly integrated prosthetics, in his opinion. He’d told her he couldn’t be with her if she continued to injure herself. She’d chosen drugs. Now she wasn’t with her team. His circuits dimmed with that knowledge.

  Over the ether connection to Bracelet, he heard Young’s voice. “You knew it was us? What gave us away?”

  And he heard Volka’s response. “You smell like yourselves.”

  “Why are they here?” 6T9 asked, immediate worries buzzing under his skin. The Marines wouldn’t be here for a courtesy call.

  “I don’t know,” Volka whispered, though no doubt the Marines could still hear her. Most had augmented hearing. “And they are wearing disguises.”

  Noa’s voice filtered through Bracelet’s connection. “Their presence is mostly a formality. But we do have a mission for you and Sundancer. Most likely it will be just a simple delivery.”

  “I’ll see you soon, Sixty,” Volka said, and the connection died.

  A notification at the periphery of his vision let him know he was down to fifteen percent power, and he switched to power save mode. It would slow down his physical reactions, but hopefully keep him from acting on any of his “repressed rage.”

  He stared at the concrete column that was the entrance to the asteroid’s atmosphere. “Please let this be just a ferrying mission,” he said to no one in particular.

  Carl squeaked. “Volka has sometimes prayed to me, but I think this is a first for you.”

  6T9 rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t praying, and wouldn’t pray, but if I would, it wouldn’t be to you.”

  Slithering down the stump, Carl said, “I can’t answer your prayer, unfortunately.”

  “I wasn’t—wait, you know there will be danger?” 6T9’s hands flexed.

  “Can’t tell yet.” Carl’s whiskers twitched. “But it’s a possibility.”

  Statistically, every coin flip offered a 50-50 probability of heads or tails even if the previous four coin flips had all been heads. So,
statistically speaking, this new mission from Noa was as likely as any other to not be dangerous. But every mission they’d been on with Noa and James had wound up dangerous in some way. Even going to Luddeccea had gotten them involved in the rescue of Alexis Darmadi, Volka’s lover’s wife, though Volka would deny that she and Alaric were lovers. Power save mode dampened his responses, but he felt heat in his fingers and clenched his fists. However, he didn’t chuck the branch beside him through the air. He counted that as a win. He began striding toward the garden where Sundancer would deposit her passengers.

  “Errr…Sixty?” Carl squeaked.

  “What?”

  Hopping after him, Carl said, “Your hands.”

  He flexed his fingers and found them damp. 6T9’s body could develop an aesthetically pleasing sheen—for those who liked that sort of thing—but he didn’t get sweaty. It was a safety feature. He looked down, and for a minute his circuits misfired. His nails had ruptured his synth skin and his palms and fingers were damp with synthetic blood.

  “Rusted gears,” 6T9 grumbled.

  “You’ve hurt yourself.” FET12’s voice came from behind 6T9. 6T9 turned to the smaller android. FET12 had dropped the branch he’d been hauling to the incinerator and was approaching 6T9 at a brisk pace. Reaching into the single front pocket of his hoodie, FET12 pulled out a cloth handkerchief and a vial of adhesive bandages. As soon as he was close enough, he handed them to 6T9, hardly breaking stride.

  Dabbing the blood away with the cloth, 6T9 said, “Thank you, FET12.” His Q-comm fired...he had harmed himself occasionally accidentally and sometimes on request, but now if he wanted to, he could hurt himself because he wanted to. That was a reality that deserved further study, but he didn’t have time—Volka was coming, and trouble was coming with her. Unscrewing the cap of the adhesive bandage, he used the attached brush to apply the sticky substance. He’d heard it stung humans to apply it, but his circuits merely sparked with satisfaction, knowing the damage would be repaired faster.

  Finishing up, he noticed that FET12 was heading to Sundancer’s usual landing spot, and Carl Sagan was hopping after him. Of course, Volka was one of FET12’s owners, and he would go to greet her. FET12 was programmed that way.

  FET12’s other owners were 6T9 and Carl. 6T9 hadn’t been able to own himself—he wasn’t allowed to own self-aware beings—but FET12 wasn’t intelligent enough to count. If Carl, Volka, and 6T9 hadn’t taken ownership of him, FET12 would have been consigned to a scrap heap. FET12 wouldn’t have minded if he’d had that fate. 6T9 wouldn’t have minded, either. 6T9 wanted to kill the humans who hurt the ‘bot, but at the same time, FET12 made him uncomfortable. It had been Volka and Carl—two voracious, merciless, obligate carnivores—who had insisted on keeping the damaged sex ‘bot. 6T9 hadn’t been able to say no to them.

  Jogging to catch up with the other ‘bot and Carl, his mind pondered why he hadn’t wanted to save FET12. When he’d first met FET12 he couldn’t want to kill the pirates. Was his inability to wish their slow and painful deaths and his discomfort related?

  They reached Sundancer’s landing place and found James already there. He must have found some adhesive in the house, because he’d patched up his cheek. His black polymer skull was back to being visible only as a hairline scar.

  The secondary airlock pinged 6T9 over the ether, and he allowed Sundancer to enter the asteroid’s habitat. A moment later, Sundancer, pearlescent hull shining brightly in the artificial sunlight, hovered down.

  Noa’s ether pinged. “Come on in. Sundancer is the most secure conference room in the known universe.”

  6T9 walked beneath the ship with James, FET12, and Carl, and a circular opening appeared beneath her hull. The ship sank around them, allowing them to leisurely step aboard, but 6T9 froze. He found himself staring at men and women in business attire. Not a shipload of Marines…and then he remembered Volka’s comment about disguises.

  “Sixty!” Volka’s exclamation came from behind him. More quietly, she added, “Hello, FET12, Carl…James.”

  6T9 spun, and there she was. Her eyes were on him, and she beamed. For a moment, 6T9 could not move. Something about her was different. He stared, trying to determine what it was. She was still slender, much shorter than was common in the Republic, or even for a Luddeccean human, possibly, he suspected, due to poverty induced malnutrition. Her short silver hair was styled in a pixie cut—the same as it had been when he’d last seen her. On her prominent, wolf-like ears, her hair became velvet. Her eyes were the same wolf-yellow he remembered with wolf-ovoid pupils. They were dark lined, but though it looked like eyeliner, it was natural pigmentation. Her fingernails and toenails were similarly dark. Her mouth wasn’t particularly wide. Her lips weren’t particularly full, but they were shaped like a bow. He wasn’t programmed to be attracted to any particular standard of beauty—but he thought Volka wouldn’t be described as “beautiful”—she’d be more likely to be reckoned “adorable.” None of that had changed.

  Was it her clothing? She wore a fitted, dark purple dress that contrasted smartly with her yellow eyes. Beneath the dress were leggings and solid black boots. He hadn’t seen this particular outfit, but it was similar to others she’d worn at the Galactic Republic Embassy on Luddeccea.

  This was the woman he’d altered his programming for. The woman that, in James’s words, he “loved.” Love was a terribly imprecise word. Humans loved salads—though not Volka—she loved raw, red meat. Which should mortally offend him—or, since he wasn’t technically “mortal,” offend him right out of his body into his servers—but it didn’t. Red meat kept her healthy and strong.

  Volka’s smile melted. “What’s wrong, Sixty?” She stepped toward him, her hand lifting as though she might touch him, but then she dropped it and clasped both hands in front of her.

  She cared about him, as humans cared about each other, and Volka cared for all machines, intelligent and not. She’d said that she loved him. They’d almost been lovers, but then his programming and her monogamy had gotten in the way. He could change his programming…he owned himself. All he had to do was alter one single Boolean value.

  “Nothing is wrong,” he replied, stepping into the ship.

  She frowned. Perhaps he hadn’t sounded convincing. Or perhaps it was that his face was too serious. He couldn’t explain now in front of the Marines.

  His eyes slid to their company. Carl was squeaking and running between Shissh’s feet. FET12 was leaning against Shissh, hand on the big cat’s neck. FET12 was still afraid of humans, but not a potentially man-eating tiger—his original database didn’t have big cats.

  James was talking to the Marines and smacking them on the back here and there, saying, “These disguises are well done.” A man with Lieutenant Young’s voice answered, “Volka smelled right through them,” and there was general laughter—6T9 recognized the laughter.

  Since he couldn’t explain himself to Volka, he joked with her instead. Returning his attention to her, he scowled. “What could possibly be wrong? Except you’ve gotten us wrapped up in Noa’s and James’s shenanigans again.” He winked at the end.

  Shrugging, Volka sighed theatrically in a way completely unlike her. “What can I say? I attract trouble.”

  6T9 touched his chest and adopted an air of mock horror, silently conveying, “Who me?”

  She smirked right back at him, and every circuit within him lit.

  Noa’s voice rose above the din. “We’re only going to Shinar, and it is highly unlikely there will be any shenanigans.”

  Some of the Marines grumbled with what sounded like disappointment.

  Shinar was not a place 6T9 would expect trouble, but, turning to face Noa, he blew a raspberry.

  Noa raised an eyebrow. “Have something you wish to express, 6T9?”

  Hand sweeping to the small of Volka’s back of its own accord, he kept his eyes on the admiral. Imitating Noa’s voice, he said, “All we have to do is steal the Ark, and then it will be smooth sailing a
ll the way to the Republic, James.” It was an event that had taken place over one hundred years ago, just prior to Revelation. The “sailing” had been famously fraught and was the subject of a few holo dramas as well as military history.

  James snorted. A man with a soft middle and long hair chuckled with Corporal Ramirez’s voice. The other Marines smiled, and the disguises—holos or some other tech—did not disguise that the smiles spread all the way to their eyes. James had been right; they were very good.

  Narrowing her eyes at Sixty, Noa held up a slender dark finger, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. “We completed the mission.” Noa had gotten new augments since he’d seen her last, metal fingers to replace the missing ring and pinky finger of her left hand. By the way the augments gleamed dully in the light, he’d say they were titanium. She’d lost her fingers under torture on Luddeccea. But their “mission” had saved Luddeccea. He glanced at James. It might have saved the entire Republic.

  The Marines nodded at Noa’s words, but Volka tilted her head, her velvety ears flicking.

  “What is going on at Shinar?” Volka asked.

  Dropping the finger, Noa put her hands behind her back, and the hint of a smile vanished. James took a place at her left side. The business people blew their cover by adopting a parade rest.

  “As you know,” Noa began. “The Galactic Fleet is struggling to catch up to the Luddecceans’ gateless faster-than-light travel.” Noa looked upward as though expecting to offend the only faster-than-light ship the Republic did have. Not that the Galactic Republic really had Sundancer. Sundancer was sentient and self-aware. She could not be possessed by anyone—not by law or even by force. She was impact resistant and enjoyed phaser fire blasts. She was controlled only by Carl and Volka’s love and fear of the Dark. Neither was particularly reliable in Fleet’s opinion.

  Noa looked heavenward for a few beats as though expecting Sundancer to be hurt by her previous statement. As powerful as Sundancer was, she didn’t understand verbal communication. The People, the first species Sundancer had had a “relationship” with, had been deaf and entirely telepathic. Fleet found Sundancer’s communication with Volka and Carl “unreliable.” 6T9 wouldn’t use that word; he’d call it imprecise. What Sundancer showed Carl and Volka in their visions—the peacefulness of The People, for instance—he estimated to be truthful. Not that Fleet paid attention to his estimation.