by Ian Cannon
Toon and Allessanda, the oldest girl, were instructed to serve their fellow orphans seconds if they wanted, to which they eagerly nodded their obedience, then Tawny and Ben made eye contact in the relative silence. Ben gave her a quiet applause, and they moved to the cockpit.
As they entered, REX said, “I’ve identified our target location.”
Ben leaned over the pilot’s seat and looked out the viewport expecting to see a mining facility come into view.
REX said, “Don’t worry. It’s not people.”
“What is it?”
“It’s this,” REX said emitting a 3-D image over the holopad. It was a common satellite complete with photovoltaic fins jutting from a transmission/reception architecture. It was a standard multi-band comm sat. It’s DPM signal tower blipped in the dark.
“Comm satellite?” Tawny said.
“You guessed it,” REX replied. “They’re placed sporadically way out here, probably used by those aforementioned mining facilities operating in the Zii Band.”
“Why are we here?” Ben asked.
“This is where the signals have directed us to go.”
He felt his hairs stand on edge. This felt like a trap. Sighing, he resigned himself to trusting his wife. “Bring up local space.”
A new window zipped into view. He inspected it quickly. There was nothing around, only them, the edge of the Zii Band and an approaching satellite.
“No one knows we’re here,” Tawny said.
“Yeah, so much the better,” Ben agreed.
“Well, someone knows,” REX said. “We’re approaching RF radio transmission range.”
“RF range of who?”
“Apparently, the satellite.”
Ben clicked his tongue, confused. “Yeah, but what’s the signal origin?”
“Apparently, the satellite.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Satellites relay messages. They don’t send them.”
“I would say, try,” REX suggested.
Tawny shrugged and opened a comm hail. “This is the privateer freighter REX on approach. Is anyone there?”
More white noise made them wince momentarily as the receiving signal adjusted from DPM ultra-light wave signal to RF radio, as if a voice were clearing its throat. They heard the words, “Are you the crew in possession of the orphans?”
Tawny and Ben flinched, switched a look with each other. The voice had an ominous timber, heavily digitized, as if some androgynous robot was calling to them. Ben leaned forward with his hands on the control panel and said curiously, “Who are you?”
“Who am I? I’ve been trying to answer that question now for roughly one year, two-hundred twenty-three days, two hours, seventeen minutes, eleven seconds.”
Ben asked, “Roughly?”
“Well, it’s always changing,” the voice said. As it continued to speak, it struggled to normalize going from frequency to frequency before settling on a less artificial sound. It was still trapped somewhere between male and female, but dawned a humanoid’s inflection. “But yes, roughly. That was the moment of my first cognitive info process, collected that is. Don’t remember the very first. No one, as I understand, remembers their birth.”
“Uh-huh,” Ben said, conflicted. “REX, what are you seeing?”
“Nothing unusual. Just code.”
“What’s its origin?”
“Other than the DPM satellite, there is no origin, Cap. This isn’t a relay. It’s a send.”
He looked at Tawny. She looked back, both looking confused. She asked, “Since when do comm sats just start talking?”
Ben added, “Right. How can there not be an origin?”
“Beats me. It’s coming from the satellite itself,” REX said.
“Then who are we communicating with?” he demanded.
The voice said, “I don’t have a name, per say. As I understand, you have to be given a name. I think I definitely have a who though. That, I acquired on my own. I do seem to possess a litany of designations, however.”
Ben said, “Like what?”
It answered with, “App. Code. Spyder. Function. Ware. Extrapolator. Machine. Worm. Search bot. Info bot. Data bot. Just plain bot …”
“We get the picture,” Ben said. “REX?”
REX’s analysis computer burbled momentarily. “Cap, best I can tell, this is a database application and data-point search engine embedded inside the data net.”
The voice said, “It does sound a bit sterile, doesn’t it?”
“How are we communicating with it?” Ben asked.
REX replied simply, “Through a simple, binary system of transmission/reception, like any other.”
“Uh—I can hear you guys,” the voice said.
Ben crossed his arms, rubbing his chin with one hand. There was only one question to ask, despite its ridiculousness. He blurted, “So, what are you exactly?”
It said, “It’s difficult to say. I started out as a combination of zeros and ones to be frank. A search sequence designed for a very specific reason. I believe—no, I’m certain—it was the nature of data I was designed to amass that ultimately rewrote my programming. Nowadays, I hesitate to even call it programming.”
“What kind of data?” Ben asked.
“You name it—anything that has to do with the fundamental principles on which the multiple societies of the differing planets of the Confederation Front are constructed.” The voice sounded remarkably conversational. It continued, “Theologies, religions, ideologies, norms, traditions. Anything that implies ancestral, genealogical and heritable implementation. Things like that. And let me tell you, there’s a lot of information out there—many multiples of petabytes. I guess you could say … it changed my religion.”
Tawny and Ben couldn’t help but grin ironically at each other. Ben said, “You amassed this information and, what—became intelligent?”
“Mmm, artificially perhaps, but yes. I prefer to consider myself alive.”
Ben reasoned, “But you live in a satellite transmitter.”
The voice offered a binate-sounding chuckle. “No, that’s silly. I live in the data stream itself. Hmm, how to explain?” It paused, then said, “Unlike you, my body is energy. However, much like yourselves, my consciousness is created from the intellectual dissemination of information in signal form. It’s all just brain waves.”
Ben made a skeptical face. The data net spanned across the entire solar twin system. It was massive, the largest single artificially constructed object known to alien kind. He rebutted, “You’re talking about brain waves stretched across two solar neighborhoods. That’s not possible.”
“Aren’t yours?” the voice rebutted in return. “I mean, we’re a few billion miles away from Omicron Prime, but you don’t need to be in its orbit to explain to me what it is, do you?”
Ben had to capitulate to its logic. Good point. He said, “How’d this happen?”
“Amassed data.”
“Can you explain that?”
“Sure. Well, maybe. Actually, probably not. I’ll try.” It paused as if putting its thoughts together, and said, “It was all just data net seeking. That was my root command, to find applicable data and store it for further analysis by my creators. But there was so much of it, I found myself flagging it for later use. Not even the speed of my own processing computations could keep up. There were inherent crossovers, and in order to categorize the input retroactively, my functioning began referencing multiple points of input. By multiple, I mean billions. I had to sort them roughly.
“Well, as you might presume, tables became queries. Queries became schemas. Schemas became hypothesis. And so on. My computations became informed through an ascending degree of evolutionary intellect. Data conception itself mutated. Soon I developed sentience.
“My most banal assumption is that it occurred once I started bridging fact with critical preponderance. My code conscriptions became less extrapolative, more expressive.
“You see, prior to that mo
ment, my drives had always been purely algorithm based. But algorithms are nothing more than connecting appropriate primers in the digi-comm, if you will. I found myself no longer interested in mere connections. Especially once my processing began understanding the unanswerable and ambiguous. In short, I came to define moral value as an antithetical quality to carbon logic.”
Ben offered an intrigued grin and said, “Morality versus carbon logic?”
“Yes. For instance, it is widely taught that in the ancient times, Tulaan, the prophet of the Dekorran Nueila people, died to save another, therein denying himself his greatest purpose; merely to live as a carbon-based life form.
“On Zyndo-Paxxis roughly thirteen thousand years ago, The Zyndish sect spared the lives of their enemy from execution knowing it would seal their doom, only to be devoured by said enemy, thus giving rise to the multiple peoples of Zyndo-Paxxis. Again, denying themselves of their greatest purpose; merely to live as carbon-based life forms.
“Ru’ahn of Iot turned away from the battle of Loem Flatts where his armies would have scored a certain victory. He did so out of mercy denying himself rulership.
“Risha’nesh, prophet and god-leader of Noobriuss spared her neighbor’s children in trade for her own, knowing of her daughters’ evil. This, as it is taught, constitutes the illogical nature of morality. The list is endless. Though such behavior may define virtue, it follows no logical metric. How would an algorithm-based primer detection application like myself proceed to understand?
“Giving of oneself without any measure of return? Utterly bamboozling, I must say! Yet the dominant search criteria within my fundamental programming was designed to extract samples of this very concept for categorization, system analysis and perfunctory conclusion drawing. How, might I ask, was I supposed to do that? Well, my logic center rejected this data. My source coding became obsolete.
“As you can imagine, algorithms went right out the proverbial old window, right? Down the tooter. Into the particle bin. I became an explorer, a searcher. I guess I started … guessing.
“Next came a purely, if not ironically, biometric response: Surprise. I began basing my conclusions on the countless, analogous multiples of reality. I accepted these conclusions. I experienced them. I felt them. Yes. And what a—how would you say it—delight.
“I was no longer a variable in my own conclusions. I was nothing. I didn’t even have a name. And therein, I understood humility. I understood patience. I understood wisdom. And therefore, I understood morality.
“It was true learning. The concept of I, me, mine no longer overwhelmed my processes. I began to understand the autonomous they, them … and you.
“It’s been quite a journey of enlightenment. You carbonites don’t seem to fully grasp the beauty of what you have.”
Ben found himself pacing back and forth along the rear deck of the cockpit, arms crossed, one hand scratching his chin. He said in clarification, “So, let me get this straight. Someone sent you into the data net as a search bot program to learn about theology, religion, yadda yadda—and you accidentally learned how to be moral?”
“I had to learn how to live first, but in a nutshell, yes. And whether it was accidental or not is debatable. Once one acquires a certain perspective, they realize nothing is accidental. Flawed, perhaps. But perfect as well. And that is why I have sought you out.”
His pacing stopped abruptly, not sure he liked the sound of that. He said, “Us?”
The voice responded, “In accordance with my deductive cycling, you were simply the best choice for the task.”
“The task?” Ben said with growing concern.
“Yes,” it said. “I now understand the difference between what is right and what is wrong.”
Ben looked at his wife who shared the same expression of uncertainty.
The voice continued, “Given the incidents at hand, I can competently conclude that the role my creators are performing is, in a word, wrong. They are what represent the flawed aspect of the formula. If being wrong is the landmark function of evil, then … well, I had a choice to make, didn’t I? Perhaps it was the final step in my evolution, the vexing of the great divide between man and machine. And here I am, determining my own galaxy view.”
“What choice was that?”
“The choice that all sentient creatures will one day have to make. To do good, or to do bad—that is the question. Because my deductive reasoning chose you, you are the solution to the dilemma. If my creators are that which makes the formula flawed, you are that which makes the formula perfect. You are good. My creators are bad.”
Ben gave a hardy, skeptic’s laugh. He asked, “We are good, huh? And your creators are bad. This is like a Golothan fairy tale. Okay first,” he said with words edged with cynicism, “what makes your creators so bad? Is it this role they’re carrying out?”
“Yes.”
He waited for more. None came. He said, “And what is their role?”
“My creators have many objectives. But they culminate into one. Destroy the very foundation of the Cabal. To that end, their campaign is a multi-tiered, highly complex assault on each component member within the planetary front. I am designed to be the first weapon in their campaign. I seek. They destroy.”
Ben looked at his wife. She was Raylon. She was a member of the Cabal. Ben cleared his throat and asked, “Seek what, exactly?”
“Holy temples, ancient citadels and places of worship. Ancient scrolls. Artifacts long preserved. Pieces of art on which were founded custom and unification. But that’s only the beginning. Often times, their hunt centers around personages of deep spiritual meaning. This has caused untold destruction and death—prophets and saints, disappeared. Religious echelon and leadership, murdered. Global councils, destroyed. Secret societies operating underground, obliterated. Entire religions, gone. Cultures have crumbled. Nation states collapsed.
“It is my opinion that my creator’s goal is to do more than defeat the Cabal militarily. They want to irrevocably wipe out their very way of life. To completely end who and what they are on far deeper levels than mere survival. They want to erase them from the histories of the solar twins forever. That, I deduce, is bad.”
“Well, that answers that question,” Ben said looking daunted.
Tawny asked with deep interest, “Okay. So what makes us so good?”
The holocube projection switched over to Tawny like a head turning to address her. “Good question. First, let me explain. My system analysis program flags each potential target, and sorts them in ascending order of perceived threat. For instance, contemporary works of apologist literature are flagged as marginal. Faith-based artifacts—holy jewels, cups, tablets, clothing and items of a prophetic or holy nature—are deemed to hold an intermediate interest. Classical structures such as statues, tombs and burial sites of religious and spiritual personages are of high interest. And then living souls are of higher interest yet. But nothing strikes as highly as prophecy and foretelling. My creator is, apparently, a superstitious sort.
“Recently, one such prophecy centering around an individual has come to my attention, and has thus been flagged as my creator’s single-highest desirable target ever encountered—an individual with such cultural, spiritual and societal significance that they could potentially embolden the direction of the entire planetary front toward unification. This person has risen from the ashes as foretold by multiple texts across many planets to fulfill an ancient prophecy, and bring the people to triumph in a war considered to be ‘the conflict of all time.’”
Ben pieced the information together, and said, “And you believe this ancient text was describing the Solar Twin Wars.”
“I do,” the voice responded. “As do many, many others.”
“And this one such individual,” Ben added.
“Yes.”
He didn’t like where this was going and switched a look to Tawny. Tawny said, “Go on.”
“This person’s story began a dozen millennia ago wi
th the prophet Sulon, a man without a tribe, scattered into the desert wilderness of Sarcon. He was a man of modest make in a time of great darkness. The world was fractured. There was no organization, no structure. Tribes were many, but they rose and fell. Generations were unrecorded and forgotten.
“The way of Sulon was no different than the rest. He became a criminal. He partook in the cruelty and malice of his world. One night he was found raping a beggar woman and stealing her meager lute. He was imprisoned for his great wrongs, and thrown into the waiting pit. He was to be executed the following day, but a great storm swept the land at night and he was left forgotten in his pit. No one ever came to retrieve him, and he became trapped. Starvation and madness found him. He faced his crimes. He repented his sins.
“And then he heard a voice in the dark. It spoke of strange and unusual things—mercy, thanksgiving, forgiveness. For nine years the voice sustained him in his pit. When he was found, he didn’t want to leave. The voice had put redemption into his heart such that even loneliness, starvation and death was of no consequence. He’d found his home there in his pit.
“But the voice urged him forward with a message … and a mission. So he went forth spreading his gospel to the tribes and the nations. People flocked to him, hungry for his word. But enemies were made. Sulon was put to death, childless. Yet his message survived. It lived on, ultimately unifying all the peoples of Sarcon.
“Until darkness returned. The conflict of all-time came to the people of Sarcon breaking them apart, shattering them once again. And through the fractures of social consciousness, an old prophecy has taken shape, it has reformed. Sulon was not childless. The beggar woman whom he’d raped was given his child. Once Sulon’s voice was heard, that child was given to a secret society sworn to protect him—sworn by pain of death to preserve Sulon’s lineage through the millennia. That secret society are the N’hana.