by C. Gockel
They walked down the gangway. On the dark side of the station it was cold, despite the layers of insulation—three of plasti-tubing for pressure and radiation, and thicker, less flexible plexi plating that telescoped over the plasti-tubing for additional radiation protection and projectiles. Their breath frosted, Volka shivered, and his power reserves depleted to 12 percent. If Volka’s bag hadn’t had a thick plastic handle, his synth skin might have gotten frostbite. He slipped into power save mode as they entered the airlock. Volka was quiet, but she nodded to herself a few times, remembering whatever it was she had to say, he supposed. How strange not to have eidetic memory, or even one where data wasn’t tagged and databased for easy retrieval. Eliza spoke of “searching for memories.” It was such a whimsical description…did humans imagine traveling up and down the tails of axons and hopping to dendrites, searching for old data? He’d never asked. Searching for memories the biological way had never seemed as efficient, but the process seemed to stir up related data in the human subconscious. Maybe there was an evolutionary benefit to that? Perhaps it was part of what gave humans their “flashes of insight”?
They stepped into the terminal’s main pedway and into a seemingly moving wall of humans. It was unusually crowded, and there were considerably more semi-dressed and flashy dressed humans than normal. Holoboards were advertising a Stellar Funk concert in the gate’s amphitheater, but sure enough, as Volka passed, the same boards began projecting images of goods and services that had the name secret in them: Time Gate 3’s best kept secret for pizza, Intimate Secrets Augmentation Service, ethernet apps designed to keep your secrets secret, and the like. Volka ignored them, and 6T9 had to. The pedway was increasingly packed, and he was supposed to not let Volka crash into anyone.
Focus shifting between the humans around them, his attention was caught by a human male who was, objectively, of aesthetically pleasing proportions and symmetrical features. Walking with a swagger, he was wearing a black jacket that appeared to be real leather—not the more tasteful pleather. 6T9’s first thought was that if the man was as young and healthy as he looked, he’d be good for several rounds in quick succession. He was programmed to notice. His second thought was that the strange human male’s own gaze was on Volka, a half step behind 6T9 in the press of bodies.
6T9’s vision went white.
When he could see again, the stranger’s eyes were lower, on 6T9’s hand holding Volka’s. 6T9 had no memory of taking it or of transferring her bag to his right hand, and his bag further up his shoulder. The stranger’s eyes rose to 6T9’s, and 6T9 smiled at him, though he felt like driving a fist through the stranger’s face and ruining its probably store-bought symmetry. Something made the stranger look quickly away and veer in another direction.
6T9 looked back at Volka. He understood why she had caught the stranger’s attention. With her silver ears and hair, yellow eyes, and objectively adorable features, she always stood out. And now she wore a dress that was fitting of an ambassador’s attaché, purple with starscapes at the hems and form fitting, but not revealing. Her figure wasn’t exaggerated by cosmetic surgery. She had faint laugh lines. She looked like someone of importance who was comfortable enough in her own skin to not need to be outrageously augmented. She looked real…and she was staring at their joined hands, her ears slightly lowered, but forward—an indication that she was slightly perplexed. Holding hands meant a lot on Luddeccea. The Republic was vast, with many different cultures; in some of them, holding hands meant more than sex. 6T9 couldn’t make himself let go. “So we don’t get separated,” he said.
Volka didn’t protest, the crowd became even more dense, and it seemed like he’d been prescient, not just…jealous. He didn’t release her fingers until they reached the airlock where the Consular shuttle was parked, not simply tethered as Sundancer was. The shuttle was dark, square, and boxy, with short stubby wings that were for stabilization more than lift. Hover bands gleamed under its fuselage.
There were two “Consular staff” waiting outside the ship by a simple metal gangway, standing a little too rigidly at attention for office workers.
Volka strode up to them. “We need to speak to Admiral Sato. It’s urgent.”
One of the staff, pale and puffy, who looked like even one round in the sack might give him a heart attack, tapped his temple. When he spoke, it was with Lieutenant Young’s voice—incongruously hale and healthy. “I’ve told her. Head up into the shuttle airlock and wait there.”
Nodding, Volka and 6T9 did just that. The disguised Marines followed them, and the gangway lifted behind them with a hiss. Another panel slid over that with a second hiss. They were sealed in, and the shuttle was ready for vacuum. Engines began to hum.
The disguised Marine that had spoken like Young went through the inner airlock door to the front of the craft. 6T9 saw spacious seating, and even a hover ‘bot supplying refreshments. His view was blocked almost immediately by Noa and James coming down the aisle toward them. The other disguised Marine had stayed behind. He placed a tiny device on the airlock wall, and then said in the voice of Jerome, the team’s “comm guy,” “Admiral, sir, you’ll have some privacy here.”
The words could mean that he was simply allowing them the privacy of the airlock—but 6T9 guessed he’d just set up some sort of jammer to scramble spying devices.
“Thank you, Jerome.” Noa nodded at the man.
The man looked like he might salute, but James, who’d been scratching his head, made a small “down” motion with his fingers. Amazingly, the disguise Jerome wore blushed. His half-raised hand dropped to his side. Noa indicated the cabin with an incline of her head, and Jerome quickly stepped out. The inner airlock door slid shut behind him.
“You can talk now, Volka,” James said.
Volka stood very straight, her ears forward. “We have a message from Luddeccea.” When 6T9 had first met her on Luddeccea, she’d been so deferential when she spoke to humans. She had bowed her head and flattened her ears. His Q-comm sparked as he watched her now. He’d played a part in her growing confidence.
Since nobody had told 6T9 to leave, he decided not to bring to anyone’s attention that he wasn’t part of this particular “we.”
“A message?” Noa looked at 6T9. “How?”
Carl squeaked. “Telepathically.”
“With a member of The One?” asked James.
“No,” Carl replied. “Captain Alaric Darmadi was distressed. Volka picked up on it.”
The shuttle lifted from the deck, creating .1 G of down force. Illogically, 6T9 felt as though it was more than a hundred times that.
One of James’s eyebrows rose. Noa shifted her weight from one foot to another. She eased her hands behind her back. “I didn’t know you are so telepathic.” She spoke slowly. Cautiously. The statement almost sounded like a question.
Bowing her head, Volka flushed. “I’m not. It’s just…Sundancer amplified the signal. I couldn’t do it without her.”
Noa visibly relaxed. 6T9 didn’t. Carl had said, Volka picked up on it. She was being modest. Because she was Luddeccean…or…because…what did it mean when a human could feel the distress of another human light-years away? Humans didn’t do that. Volka wasn’t human—or she was, but she was more, too. She wasn’t just part human and part wolf; she was part quantum wave “surfing” entity like Carl and Shissh. That was the explanation. His Q-comm sparked, and his sensory receptors dimmed. The explanation didn’t quite fit. She didn’t pick up the distress of just anyone, did she? She didn’t know when her former employer, Alaric Darmadi’s uncle, had been in distress. Static crawled up 6T9’s spine. She picked up on Alaric’s distress because she loved him. His vision flashed white. He imagined rearranging Darmadi’s unaugmented face, and his hand tightened on the handle of her bag.
Telepathy…he’d never have that sort of connection to Volka. Even Carl, even Sundancer couldn’t read 6T9’s mind…
“This telepathy…was it like the time in the alien craft?” James
asked, making it seem routine. Technical.
“Yes,” said Volka, raising her head too quickly, ears coming forward again. “But this time he had information he wanted shared with you. He knows the Republic has hardened the Fleet, and that you’re testing Fleet personnel daily for the Dark.”
Noa and James’s eyes slipped to one another.
James’s focus went to Volka, and he nodded. “Thank you for asking for privacy for this meeting, Volka.”
6T9’s Q-comm sparked. They were testing Fleet daily…and it was top secret. Or was supposed to be.
Volka took a deep breath as though steadying herself. “Alexis, Mrs. Alexis Darmadi—”
Did Volka need to steel herself to say the woman’s name? 6T9 exhaled. He’d tried to strangle James for merely saying Alaric’s name. He supposed Volka was doing better than him. He swallowed and checked his palms. They were dry. The most recent boot up was doing some good.
Volka continued. “As you know, she was infected by the Dark. It didn’t just give her the ability to read its language, it gave her insight into its character. It is…incapable of imagination or creativity, according to Alexis. Alaric has a very strong suspicion that he knows how the next attack will go.” She stuttered. “It’s...he says it’s very much conjecture...horrible conjecture...but he thinks, based on what she’s told him about other things too—the Dark, it doesn’t even have fission weapons. The People couldn’t imagine it so it couldn’t either, you see, and maybe the scientists who it took over in System 33 knew of it, but maybe not the specifics of it, and well, it can only have the brain power of the animals it infects, and pirates aren’t that clever so it never got around to making fission weapons itself but it might have them now.” She took a breath. “But whether they have them or not isn’t the main thing he wanted me to say to you. He said, he thinks if Alexis is right about the Dark’s lack of creativity, that the next attack will follow the same pattern as the last one. A large, visible assault that will draw attention away from a smaller, covert attack. That covert attack will be how it attains its main objective. Just like New Fargo in the Luddeccean System was attacked by the bulk of the pirates, while covertly Alexis was kidnapped and infected.”
Noa’s eyes narrowed. “That attack didn’t work.”
Carl nodded. “I said that exact thing.”
“But it almost did,” Volka said. “She would have been returned to her parents, who didn’t have a werfle, cat, or weere—”
“What werfle could stand them?” Carl sniffed.
“And infected all of New Fargo, and likely independent miners in the system,” Volka said. “While her father—or, by that point, the Dark wearing a shell of her father—gained influence. Maybe even great influence. The only reason it didn’t succeed is because of Sundancer. The Dark thought she was dead…or incapacitated…it won’t next time. It will be ready for her.”
6T9’s sensors told him that the shuttle was descending. He should feel lighter. He didn’t. “It’s a lot of conjecture,” he said. He sounded angry, according to his own internal auditory analysis.
“It is,” James agreed.
Carl squeaked. “He felt very strongly about this.”
“Humans feel very strongly about many things,” James replied.
Noa had one arm across her body. With the hand of the other, she cradled her chin.
“He said the next attack will be in the Republic,” Volka said, voice almost desperate.
Noa’s arms dropped. “He is right about that.” Her gaze shifted to James and then 6T9. “It is conjecture. A wild hunch. But we don’t have a lot to go on.” Meeting Volka’s eyes, she said, “I’ll share this with command, Volka. We’d be idiots not to consider it. Thank you for carrying this message.”
Noa turned around, and Volka blurted out, “He says that it’s most likely already infiltrated the Republic. That at the pirates’ camp it didn’t infect everyone at once, though it could have been easy just by contaminating the water supply.”
Neither James nor Noa denied it; instead, they met each other’s eyes. Every sensor in 6T9’s body felt like it had gone offline. Noa inhaled audibly, and to Volka said, “There are over a trillion humans in the Republic and over a thousand outposts of humanity…and those outposts are in contact with perhaps a thousand more outposts not officially part of the Republic.”
Noa was admitting that Darmadi probably wasn’t wrong, and it was a kick to the chargers. 6T9 felt like his power levels had been drained. The feeling was perversely a relief. Since his reprogramming he was jealous and violent, but he still didn’t want humanity wiped out. That core programming still remained. He wasn’t completely lost.
The airlock door whooshed open on a silent command from Noa or James. Noa headed toward the main cabin, James behind her.
Volka stood stock still, lips parted. “What do we do?” she whispered, one hand reaching toward Carl, her eyes meeting 6T9’s.
Not many people in the universe looked to 6T9 for advice when it came to the survival of the human race. Circuits sparked within him. “We help them bring Okoro home.” He looked at the ‘bot bearing refreshments. There was alcohol, and that could give him a real charge—literally, not figuratively. He could convert it to power, but he couldn’t get drunk. “But, while there is time, we enjoy what pleasures we can.”
Volka smiled. Grimly. But still. “You’re right. We cannot worry about what we can’t help.”
6T9’s processors whirred with, she agreed with pleasure! He was a sex ‘bot, after all. He didn’t bring that to her attention. He was a sex ‘bot with a Q-comm. She was in public and would be humiliated if he mentioned aloud that she agreed to pleasure with him. In private, he might tease her, but for now…he motioned for her to go first down the aisle and followed her, Q-comm humming.
Shinar did have pleasures that even a Luddeccean would enjoy. Had Volka ever been skiing? Mt. Enmerker had some of the best. But there were scientific wonders as well, ones even he would like to see. The Bestiary for one.
Volka sat down in an empty seat, and he opened an overhead bin, put his bag in, and simultaneously started downloading data on the Bestiary. It was rated not only excellent for families, but also one of the most romantic destinations on Shinar. He felt the urge to switch himself to monogamy mode now.
In the periphery of his vision, he saw James walking down the aisle, drink in hand. From her seat, Volka whispered, “James…I think maybe you may have hurt your cheek?”
Pausing his task, 6T9’s eyes slid to the other android, and his circuits darkened. James’s cheek was peeling away from his polymer skull—exactly as it had done earlier on the asteroid. Touching it gingerly, James lied, “It’s nothing. Scratched myself, that’s all.” The other android walked past them without a backward glance. As though it were really nothing. 6T9 released a ragged breath and resumed loading Volka’s bag into the overhead compartment. He gave it a shove, and then his circuits went dark again. The handle was cracked in half. When had he done that? When Volka had talked about Alaric? When the concert goer had ogled Volka? Or just now, when he’d gazed at his friend’s injury?
“Sixty?” Volka asked. “Are you all right?”
He swallowed. No more code changes. Not now.
14
In the Domain of Logic
Galactic Republic: Shinar
The Consulate’s toilet on the planet of Shinar was gold-plated. Kneeling in front of it, the taste of bile still in her mouth, Volka wasn’t in a position to appreciate its splendor. Releasing the toilet’s basin, she trembled and fell to her butt. The man who’d shown her to her suite had told her the toilet was from the Earth’s twenty-first century. She rubbed her head. She’d puked her way into history. Wonderful.
Heavy, familiar footsteps approached the bathroom. The door was already open, but Sixty paused and knocked. “May I come in?”
“Sure,” said Volka.
Sixty went to the gold-plated sink and filled a glass with water. Sitting on his heels, he o
ffered it to her. “Bracelet let me know you were indisposed.”
“Thank you, Bracelet,” she said. “But you didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did,” Bracelet replied. “You are experiencing nausea and vomiting at least twice a week.”
“It’s just the hormone pills,” Volka said, noticing Sixty’s look of concern. “Nothing to worry about.” The hormone pills kept her from experiencing her season. That would be a lot more inconvenient than throwing up a few times a week. On Luddeccea, she’d kept herself confined to Mr. Darmadi’s studio, or her home, and just weathered her season far from anyone who might have been willing to lend her “relief.” Here there were so many people. She didn’t doubt that she could find “relief”…and then grief when the man discovered it wasn’t a carefree week of debauchery she was after. She’d stalk him afterwards, probably pregnant; she knew she wouldn’t be able to be dependable about insisting on birth control during the season. She might even lie about being on it. She exhaled heavily. Another pregnancy with a baby destined to die from all the radiation and harmful chemicals she’d been exposed to. She couldn’t do it again.
“Maybe you need to readjust the formula,” Sixty suggested.
She scooted so her back was against the wall. “I did already.”
“Try again,” Sixty said, sitting beside her.
She could do that? She hunched her shoulders. The Republic had a thousand flavors of soda—of course they probably had a thousand flavors of hormonal birth control—if she just complained. She was terrible at sticking up for herself, at least for things like this. She could fight for her life, but confront a doctor—a person more learned than her—and dare suggest the pill they’d given her wasn’t the right formulation? That was hard.
Sitting down beside her, Sixty put an arm around her shoulders. For a moment, she froze, but then she leaned back against him. It was a bad idea. Not because anything untoward would happen—she still felt like throwing up, and he wouldn’t press the issue—but because the closeness was not healthy. She needed to grow attached to a man that was available.
