Weight of Ashes

by Rook Winters

  “It depends. A lot of human encryption technology is long past obsolete but a personal device like this would use a human-friendly key, something a human could type or speak.”

  “Like the words to a song?”

  “Yes, it could be something like that. The length of the key would depend on how paranoid the person is and how good their memory is.”

  “Are you saying that cheri citrus makes sense to you?” Walker asked.

  “It took me a moment but I think it’s a reference to an old joke Clint and I had with a friend of ours when we were in school. A woman named Sofia. She desperately wanted to work in space. She had her heart set on low gravity research. We used to tease her about leaving us behind. We made up our own words to the song Oh My Darling Clementine. Cheri citrus has got to be a reference to that. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “It’s worth a try if you’re confident. You don’t want to make a bunch of wild guesses.”

  “How much of the song would it need?”

  “How much is there?”

  “Not a lot, although remembering it after fifty years will be the trick. Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling, Clementine…” Marsh spoke the words but was clearly struggling. “I might need to sing it.”

  Polk’s wide eyes matched the bemusement that Walker felt as Marsh started to sing.

  “Oh my darling, oh my darling

  Oh my darling, Clementine

  You are lost and gone forever

  Dreadful thought, dear Clementine

  On a spaceship, on a spaceship

  Searching for her Nobel Prize

  It’s biology’s defender

  Our dear classmate, Clementine

  Oh my darling, oh my darling

  Oh my darling, Clementine

  You are lost and gone forever

  Dreadful thought, dear Clementine

  Growing peas in zero Gs

  And Einstein messing with the time

  All her research will expire

  If the stars do not align”

  “That is a first,” Polk said through a wide grin. “I’ve helped a lot of folks with a lot of problems over the years but no one’s ever sung to me before. I recognize the tune. There have been some lewder versions of it in my tavern.”

  “Did it work?” Walker asked.

  “We’ll need to type the lyrics in first. The clue is in uppercase with no spaces and no punctuation so I’m guessing that’s how we type it in. Can you repeat the words slowly?”

  Marsh half spoke and half sang the ditty a second time.

  “Here goes nothing.” Polk tapped several times on a screen. Nothing moved. No lights flashed. There was no audible signal of success or failure.

  “What’s it doing?” Walker asked.

  “It didn’t work. It’s possible the vault is damaged but just as likely that it simply doesn’t acknowledge a failed attempt.”

  “That’s inconvenient,” Marsh said.

  “To us maybe but think about how you’d feel with a chip embedded in your bone. You don’t want it being chatty with malicious devices. Someone sits down beside you on a transport and locks you out of your own data vault by silently bombarding it with bad decryption keys?”

  “But what about the metadata? If the device responds to metadata pings, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of not responding?”

  “Like I said, that part’s not standard. I can only tell you what I’m seeing and what the specifications say.”

  “How do you even have the specifications for something like this?” Walker asked. This world was foreign to him but he understood enough to find it suspicious that Polk had so much conveniently at his disposal.

  Marsh elbowed him roughly, and he had to suppress a grunt.

  “Listen, kid, I can see your grandpa hasn’t clued you in to what you’re involved with here but I’m giving you one warning. I make things happen that otherwise don’t happen easily. Have you studied any chemistry?”

  “A bit.”

  “You know what a catalyst is?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what I am. And my work affords me some privileges and access. And like a catalyst, I’m a constant while the things around me react and change. That requires discretion. My means and my sources are private and will stay that way. And once you walk out my door, you were never here. Do you understand that?”

  Polk’s tone was soft and his words were mild. The threat was in those tiny eyes that projected menace with the subtlest narrowing of the lids.

  Walker gave a single bow of his head. The air suddenly felt thicker, and the walls seemed to draw closer. Walker wanted out of the room.

  “I got the words wrong,” Marsh blurted. “We didn’t sing dreadful thought, dear Clementine. We used to say going to miss you, Clementine.”

  Polk tapped the new words into a tablet and waited.

  “Ah, here we go.”

  CHAPTER 12: KANE

  “The governor called for me,” Kane said to the human receptionist. She was pretty, although far too young for him. Not that it mattered. Fate held no pairing off option for him.

  “You can suit up and I’ll check with the boss.”

  “How’s the mood?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the first human today.”

  “Sour split. Just my luck.”

  “The governor ate not long ago so it should be in gentle spirits.”

  A door to his left was marked with the silhouette of a human. Inside, a variety of ambassadorial suits hung sterilized and ready for use. He found one labeled LARGE and pulled it on. These suits used to be tight in the chest and loose in the belly on him. He noticed today that it felt a little snug everywhere.

  He swiped the panel on the left forearm of the suit and it dinged after completing a self-diagnostic test. Kane set its emotion-to-temperature conversion sensitivity to its lowest setting and pressed his palm on a wall panel where a virtual READY button pulsed green.

  Alien sounds came through a speaker which his suit translated for him. Inside his helmet, a synthetic voice said, “Kane, you will wait for many seconds. You may sit if you desire.”

  Modern translation systems had a large catalogue of generic synthesized human voices so that humans could differentiate between individual Qyntarak in group conversations. The computer would normally decide on the appropriate voice to use for each speaker, but the most elite Qyntarak members were assigned dedicated voices in all translation systems by law.

  Kantarka-Ta was the governor’s second-in-command and gatekeeper to the most powerful being on Earth so it had a dedicated voice. And when that voice said to wait, you waited. As far as human affairs went, Kantarka-Ta was in charge. All humans reported to it, excluding Kane and his small team.

  He stayed standing for a long time. One could never know when they were watching, evaluating, judging. He didn’t want to enter the meeting tired, though, so when the first wave of fatigue hit, Kane sat. Eventually, he let his helmet tip back and rest against the wall.

  Kane was starting to doze off when Kantarka-Ta’s voice returned. “Kane, your entrance is permitted now.”

  A new virtual button began pulsing on the wall panel: OPEN. He shook his head in an attempt to clear the fog of sleep that had started to encroach and entered the governor’s meeting hall.

  “Governor Torkanuux, it is an honor to once again be in your presence.”

  Humans weren’t physically capable of emulating the Qyntarak gesture of respectful greeting so Kane knelt on one knee, something diplomats had agreed upon a couple decades earlier after the balance of global power had clearly shifted to the Qyntarak. Kane didn’t care for it himself but he had few reasons to complain. Compared to most humans, his life was very good. Kneeling occasionally was a small price to pay for that.

  “The Akarrak assembly vote will happen in eighteen days. Failure of yours to reveal more evidence of human interference creates in us large quantity of doubt that your group has any usefuln
ess left.”

  “Honorable one of many, with the death of Clint Donovan we have closed the door to any possible interference. He didn’t have a following, only a relationship with two voting members of the Akarrak.”

  Kane’s heart throbbed in his chest. The suit, which was capable of translating his human physiological responses into temperatures that the Qyntarak could comprehend, was muting his reactions. He didn’t see any value in letting the Qyntarak ruler know how panicked he felt.

  There was almost no light in Torkanuux’s chamber. With the assistance of his helmet, Kane was able to see the creature as it shifted forward and curled its upper body, a move meant to communicate authority and dominance. Kane didn’t have any instinctual response to the inhuman movement but he’d spent enough time around Qyntarak that he reacted anyway. He took a small step back, which would be barely perceptible to the alien with the suit controlling his body temperature, but it was enough to signal his deference.

  “Donovan was a friend,” Governor Torkanuux said. “A friendship unequalled between our species. Friendship to be forever unequalled with the vote successful in eighteen days. Such alliances between Qyntarak and human will no longer be expedient. My staff report that their statistical models predict discontent with the acceptance of the new laws. Violence from humans is predicted. Passive resistance from human rights advocates among Qyntarak is predicted. Prosperity must be protected.”

  “The Reclamationists are fragmented and scattered. We have no evidence of any coordination that would support making a meaningful statement, let alone precipitate widespread unrest.”

  The Qyntarak twisted its upper body, which meant confusion. Kane realized his message was getting garbled in translation.

  “The Reclamationists—the traitors—are few and not well organized. They are not able to disrupt prosperity.”

  The Qyntarak wiggled its frond-like antennae in understanding. “For fifteen days, your group is to act on data from my staff and follow up on all risks from their predictive systems.”

  Kane hated when the translator said staff, as if anyone, human or Qyntarak, had a choice about their work.

  “Kantarka-Ta will instruct you on the relationships for work assignment.”

  “Thank you, Governor, honorable one of many.” Kane knelt and retreated from the room. He was taking a few calming breaths in the changing closet when another door opened and he was pulled in. The feeling was like falling but he moved horizontally. He ripped off his helmet just in time for his vomit to splatter on the floor.

  “Kane.” The first time Kane heard the gurgling hiss of Qyntarak speech, he thought it sounded like a cat coughing up a hairball. With more exposure over the years, he now heard the nuance and subtle variety in timbre between speakers. But even with all his experience, the sound of a Qyntarak barking out English was grating. To hear it a few feet away coming from Kantarka-Ta’s vocal slot while bile still sat on Kane’s tongue was unsettling. “St-stable miniaturized directional gravity control fr-from our fr-friends at Aldeb-a-aran.” The words came out in stutters as it strained to produce each syllable. The training and practice required for a Qyntarak to achieve the level of physical control needed to speak English went deep into obsessive territory.

  “You could have just asked to see me.”

  “Wh-wh-where is the amusement in s-such?”

  “You mean where’s the fun in that?”

  Kantarka-Ta tilted backward and lowered its fronds. The Qyntarak gesture for mild irritation.

  “Inso-so-solent h-human.”

  “Insolent? I don’t work for you, Kantarka-Ta.”

  “Not y-yet. I heard Torkanuux. Y-y-y-your time is drawing to an end. S-soon you w-will work f-for me.”

  “Then it’s off to the gulags, is it?”

  The Qyntarak twisted in confusion.

  “Never mind,” Kane said. “Did you actually want something or were you just seeing if your new toy would make me throw up?”

  “Th-that w-was an unexpected bonus f-for me.” It waggled its frond antennae in circles. Humor. Delight. Joy.

  What an asshole.

  “Then you’ll excuse me.” Kane turned to leave but Kantarka-Ta reactivated the gravity device for a fraction of a second, pulling him back just far enough for his foot to slip in the puddle of his own vomit and he fell to the floor. He was back on his feet at once.

  Stay in control, Kane. Stay. In. Control.

  Kantarka-Ta was small for a Qyntarak. Kane figured just over 400 pounds and seven feet when its upper body was folded over, the normal standing position for an adult Qyntarak. Unfortunately for Kane, it was still twice his mass and incredibly fast so he was at the alien’s mercy when its clutching appendages grabbed him. One took hold of his right arm, the other his neck. Kane winced at both the pain and the unnatural feeling of the alien’s leathery scales over braids of its muscle and fat equivalents.

  Its longer stabbing appendages poked at Kane’s torso, a move that the Qyntarak knew to be intimidating to humans. It was not wrong about that.

  “You are th-th-the most arrogant human I know. When the governor is done w-with you, you w-will learn your place. The fascination with humans that Torkanuux carries w-will pass and yo-yo-your kind will f-f-f-fade.”

  Glaring at a Qyntarak was pointless since they couldn’t see it but Kane did so anyway.

  “Will that be all?”

  The blunt pincer around his neck tightened and he wheezed. The antennae waggled in circles again. “You come to me pe-personally for work for yo-your crew. And to review progress.”

  Kantarka-Ta released its grip and Kane’s hand went to his neck involuntarily, the instinctive self-defense reflex trumping his ego’s desire to appear strong.

  The alien croaked a command in its own language and the door reopened.

  Once through the doorway, Kane said, “Your Fs are getting sloppy and you still slur S sounds, which is weird given that you don’t have a tongue.” The closing door obstructed his view of the alien swaying with rage.

  “Thank goodness killing me would be bad for business,” he muttered at the closed door.

  CHAPTER 13: MARSH

  The video of Clint Donovan looked like a rush job. His face wasn’t centered in the frame and distracting shadows danced when his head and hands moved.

  “Marsh, I’m recording this as a backup in case something happens before I can explain everything in person. It’s time, old friend.”

  Clint changed to a different language and Polk paused the playback several seconds in.

  “What the hell is he talking?”

  “French. And a bit of Latin.”

  “What kind of unholy hensuckle are you two mixed up in that you’re talking in dead languages?”

  “French isn’t a dead language.”

  “It is here, but that’s beside the point. I need to know what he’s saying.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I need to know what I’m mixed up with. An old man and a kid from the woods show up with a data vault in a piece of bone with a video of some guy in a science uniform talking in French and nacking Latin? This ain’t some water purifier falling off the back of a transport. If you guys are Claimers, you better tell me right now and then get out of my town while you still can.”

  “We’re not Reclamationists. Yes, he was a state-licensed scientist. So was I until I chose a different path. We spoke French when we were young and we learned Latin in school because that’s the language of scientific naming. It’s just our way. Nothing sinister or treacherous there.”

  “He said in case something happens and that it’s time. Doesn’t sound like a trip down memory lane to me.”

  “If you’ll play the rest of the video, I’ll let you know.”

  “I play, you translate. In real time.”

  “Fine.”

  Polk started the video from the beginning and Marsh translated.

  “It’s time, old friend. I hope things have gone well for you and that your
people are keeping alive some of the old ways. Our work here has proceeded as you predicted it would years ago. No doubt you’ve heard rumors. Temperature translation suits, gravity control equipment modified for human operators, and lots of genetic engineering. We’ve raised children with tolerance for extreme gravity variations and even high g-force acceleration. One kid could carry on a conversation at 14g.

  “We’ve also had success with introducing thermal vision. One group of subjects had hybrid vision, able to see colors and temperatures. From a scientific point of view, it has been incredible.

  “But I’ve been uncomfortable with the way patients have been managed for a long time. Like animals instead of people. With the help of allies in the Qyntarak leadership, I was able to get new policies implemented so that patients could at least live with the families of the human researchers instead of in glorified cages. I was raising a girl myself. Elle, a clever and resourceful young woman. If all goes according to plan, you will have met her already. Although, if you’re watching this, we’re on plan B.

  “Elle’s become like my own daughter. If something has happened to me, please look after her.

  “All those years ago, we agreed on a few things when the two of us decided to go separate ways.”

  Marsh said two but that was not an accurate translation. On the video, Clint had said trois. Three, not two. It was a calculated risk—it didn’t seem like Polk knew any French and Marsh didn’t trust him enough to talk about Nora.

  Polk didn’t notice the brief deception, and Marsh continued to translate without faltering.

  “We agreed to focus on the big picture and the long game. That we would do our small part to protect humanity, to contribute in some way to the long-term survival of our people even if we were no longer the dominant species on our own planet. We agreed that if our personal situations ever demanded it, we would be available for each other. Most importantly, we agreed that we would not sit idly by if the situation ever became so dire that it demanded action.