The Last Cycle

by A. R. Knight

  A good description of what happens once Sax slithers his bulk through the doors would include the thwacking of the Oratus’ tail, the tripping kick of his left talon and the sparking snap of Sax’s jaws as they bite that fateful miner’s barrel apart, rendering the weapon little more than a sputtering bit of metal.

  A sufficient description would simply state that when the lift reached its destination, only the Oratus remained upright, conscious, and capable of continuing its trek towards the Priority Beam.

  9 Captives

  Outside, above the blue fringe of Aspicis’ atmosphere, ships are gathering. Viera’s calling them out to us, one by one, as shuttles blast away from the Meridia towards the bulks of Vincere cruisers, frigates, and more. Tiny lights glowing towards massive ovals, spindly branch-like craft, and those colored rings that make up both the defense and the safe haven for Aspicis’ ruling species.

  “They’re all cowards,” Malo’s saying, next to her. “They’re being attacked at their very center and their response is to run?”

  “Did you see them?” Viera says. “An Amigga can’t exactly fight for itself. They have no hands. No legs. Nothing.”

  “Then how did they take over the galaxy?”

  It’s a good question, but answering it isn’t going to help us escape so I tune them out and focus on the terminal. T’Oli’s draped itself over the top of the screen, which is a meter wide, and we’re watching a small fight play out on level three, close to the surface. Bas, the rose-gold Oratus that stole me from Earth, is busy leading a quartet of battered Flaum wearing ragged, varied cloth and metal armor through a floor stocked with crate after crate of what looks like nutrient goop. Chorus forces are using the crates as cover, and it’s a slow-going firefight.

  “Any other ideas?” I ask the Ooblot. We’ve been trying to get the terminal to switch off of the broadcast to something we can use, but T’Oli says I lack the security, which is why the screen’s ignoring me.

  “You’re sure you want to leave this room? Now?” T’Oli replies.

  “If we stay here, we’ll either die when the tower blows up, or the Chorus will come back and force me to complete that oath. When I don’t, we’re dead.”

  “A compelling set of options.”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  “Well...”

  “T’Oli, are you going to help, or not?”

  The Ooblot bends its eyestalks around the sides of the terminal, hunting for something while I watch. T’Oli used to be a creamy white, but enough miner scars and other debris from our last few encounters has given the Ooblot a series of blackened scars along its surface. I’m sorry for that, but I’m not at all sorry for bringing T’Oli with us. The Ooblot’s proved its worth time and again, as the recurring nightmares I have about the Fassoth caverns beneath Earth’s surface remind me every night.

  “The terminal’s secured,” T’Oli says. “So we either find the passcode, which, as it seems to be tied to a genetic scan, isn’t going to work. Or we do what the Chorus doesn’t expect its guests, waiting for approval and acceptance from the First Chair, to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Tear the terminal apart.”

  The Ooblot doesn’t wait for me to ask how. Instead, bits and pieces of itself flow into the tiniest of cracks around the terminal, where various pieces were meshed together. T’Oli hardens its skin, and in doing so, expands those cracks ever-so-slightly. The Ooblot repeats the process over and over again until, with a hasty patter, it tells me, “Catch!”

  The screen falls forward towards my arms and I rush my hands up in time to snag the glass as it falls into my grip. It’s heavy and warm, but T’Oli doesn’t give me much time to do anything with it before pattering at me to set it on the ground. I do, and lean it against the silver, square post that serves as the terminal’s base.

  “As expected,” T’Oli patters from up at the top of the post. “It’s entirely wireless here. If we cut the power for a moment, the terminal will reset.”

  “What?” I’m still watching the fight on the screen, because at least Bas leaping into the middle of the enemy, claws whirling, makes some sense.

  “The screen doesn’t have a life of its own, Kaishi. It needs power, like a fire. It must be fed,” T’Oli stops pattering for a moment, and the screen goes black. “In this case, that power comes from a little transmitter here in this post. One I just wrapped up in my non-conductive skin.”

  “I have a thousand questions.”

  The terminal bursts into colors so bright that I sit back, hands on the ground and feeling a lot like a little girl, surprised by the unexpected. The colors fade into a default slate blue, with several small squares dominating the screen. I recognize these from Cobalt. Ignos called them icons. Here, one is shaped like another terminal, black and rectangular. Another, though, I recognize; an emerald-green ring, like the Cache I still wear on my left wrist.

  I’ve mostly forgotten about the device because, as its former owner told me, it contains a library of the Sevora’s knowledge. A now-dead alien species that’s never been a part of the Chorus, never been inside the Meridia, probably wouldn’t have much to say about the tower we’re in. Still, I remind myself to take it for a look if T’Oli’s terminal hijacking doesn’t work out.

  “As I thought,” T’Oli patters as it slurps down next to me. “They set these things to run on a slave circuit to some central station in the tower, but if you knock them off, someone has to put them back on.”

  “Can you stop that?”

  “Explaining things?”

  I close my eyes for a hot second. Think of the jungle. The breeze through the trees. T’Oli is its own creature, with its own mind, history, and way of working with its world. I can’t expect it to understand me, just as I don’t understand it.

  “You’ve lived all your life in a galaxy I didn’t know existed until a short time ago,” I say to those creamy-gray eyestalks. “What you think is common knowledge, I don’t know. I don’t even understand.” This is the point where, if I was talking to something with hands, or even claws, I’d reach out and take hold of one to press my point. Because T’Oli has neither, I hope the Ooblot reads the sincerity in my eyes. “I want to learn all of this someday, but now? Right now? I’m too scared, too stressed and tired to worry about anything other than survival. So tell me straight. Can we get out of this room?”

  T’Oli quivers. Its eyes look back at the terminal. “I will try, Kaishi. The terminal is now unlocked. We can use it to learn about this place, and perhaps find a way to open the door.”

  I give the Ooblot a smile. “See? Not one thing I didn’t understand.”

  “Don’t take this as an insult, but that was harder than you know.”

  Malo comes over a little while later, as T’Oli and I peruse the terminal’s endless secrets. The warrior crouches next to me, watches as we cascade past diagrams and pages, flashing boxes full of information, numbers and words, graphs and pictures. I’m chasing a thread, a word that appeared not long into our scouring of the Meridia’s levels: Cobalt.

  T’Oli had us looking for ways to open the door, but when that space station’s label flashed up under a list of Chorus assets, flagged in bright red towards the top in its own little box titled Potentially Lost, I took control. The Chorus let their terminals work by touch, so when Malo gets over to us, I’m tapping and whisking away all manner of long logs and pictures that toy with nightmares just beneath my surface.

  All the pieces are here, stored away in what T’Oli calls Cobalt’s ‘file’. There’s a map, like the one I saw when I was on the station. Those very same corridors are laid out, white lines on a deep blue background.

  “Those were our rooms.” I say as Malo sits next to me.

  “This is Cobalt?”

  “Don’t you recognize it?”

  “I never saw a map like this.” Malo watches as I slide our view around, over towards a larger rectangle room. He puts his own hand on mine to hold the screen still fo
r a second. “I know that place, though. Viera almost killed me there.”

  “Dalachite would have killed all of us if we hadn’t taken care of it first.” I find the chamber where the Amigga tested me, and the central core, where Dalachite’s body had merged with the station itself. “It still haunts me, you know.”

  “We all have nightmares now.” Malo’s voice says he’s thinking of his own demons, and I don’t blame him.

  I don’t want to look at Cobalt anymore and so I swipe away the map. What comes up next is a longer document. A wall of text that would have me skipping past if not for the title. Our Future Universe. It’s a grand statement, something I’d expect Father, or Jakkan back in Damantum to make before a litany of promises about a coming utopia. This... this isn’t much different, except the Amigga version of paradise includes the gradual elimination of every competing species.

  “Two paths,” T’Oli says, its eyestalks reading alongside my own. “Your Cobalt was on one, exploring biological routes. The other is a turn back. I never thought the Amigga would consider it.”

  “A turn back?” Malo asks.

  “Look at the terminal,” T’Oli says. “It’s small, it can do a lot, and it doesn’t take any food or water. You don’t have to teach it anything, and it will never ask you a question, or disobey an order.”

  “Right?” the warrior looks as confused as I am.

  “Now imagine you add a weapon to this. A miner.”

  “Like the familiars,” I say. “They took orders from Dalachite, and they used weapons.”

  “But they weren’t very frightening,” Malo says. “I could have beaten any of them.”

  T’Oli patters out some nonsense that I gather, from the way it closes and shakes its eyestalks, means we’re not getting it. Viera announces another shuttle launch and T’Oli’s eyes snap back open.

  “That’s it. Think of those ships. Like Kolas’ cruiser, but smaller, and everywhere. They could fly, shoot you from space, and be coated in armor,” T’Oli says.

  “That would be... harder for me to beat,” Malo replies.

  “Impossible, more like,” the Ooblot says. “They existed at one time, took over planets—”

  “But they’re not around anymore?” I ask.

  The Ooblot says no and I turn back to the report. Malo’s still asking questions but if these things aren’t a threat right now, I don’t have time for them. The report’s clear, straight. Humans aren’t mentioned, but it’s not hard to see where they fall in with the pathways to one of the Amigga’s imagined futures. We’re a test, and so far as this document reads, we failed it. Other species are listed too, and all of them falter when pressed by the Chorus’ standard for success: control.

  “After that rogue faction, using stolen machines, took so much territory so fast,” T’Oli’s saying. “The Chorus forced the Vincere to strip away all A.I. from their ships, and most of the networking too. They destroyed so much of their power because the Chorus was so afraid someone could take it out of their control. One Amigga, one Flaum with the right codes and the Priority Beam could have forced every Vincere craft to self-destruct, or turn their cannons on each other.”

  “The Priority Beam?” I ask, because there’s nothing about that in this report.

  “The galaxy’s most powerful communication device,” T’Oli says. “That’s all I know. Sapphrite told me all of this, but I never thought I’d get off Vimelia. Or invade the Meridia. Otherwise I would’ve asked more.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I look back to the terminal. “That doesn’t matter. There’s enough here to prove we can’t side with the Chorus, no matter what. We’ll die if we do.”

  “We’ll die if we fight them too,” Malo replies. “You know that.”

  “Hey!” Viera calls from the window, and I’m relieved she’s rescuing us from falling into the same pit of doom and gloom we’ve been circling since coming into this room. “I can tell by your sad face and Malo’s set shoulders that you’re talking about something useless again. Know what’s more fun? Counting all the ships still blasting off of this place. Everyone’s leaving. I think the Chorus is afraid.”

  “Even if they are, so what?” I reply. “You think Bas and Sax will treat us any better?”

  “They are warriors,” Malo says. “They might be honorable. Better than the lying Amigga.”

  “So if the Chorus is scared of them and if they’d be better friends to us, I say we help them,” Viera agrees. “Get out of here and do what we can to make sure they win this fight.”

  I’m about to endorse the plan when there’s a strange buzzing sound that fills the room. A pair of panels on the wall behind the terminal slide out, and with a glopping, messy noise, purple nutrient goop slimes from some hidden pipe to fill the new basin, rushing out from behind the wall to where we can grab it. Viera’s the first one there, looking at the food with a shake of her head.

  “Even here, we still get the same garbage,” Viera says. “You’d think they’d have something better.”

  “If they’re feeding us, it must mean they think we’ll be here for a while.” I find that second wall panel that opened turns out to be a drawer full of utensils - plates, bowls, thin fabric things that I gather must be for cleaning any goop that finds its way onto us instead of into our mouths.

  “Well, if we’re going to join a revolution, I don’t want to do it hungry,” my Lunare friend says, and she takes a bowl and scoops it through the goop.

  “I never like to fight on a full stomach,” Malo says, watching Viera and then me take our portions.

  “Better than an empty one,” Viera says between mouthfuls. “Eat up, Charre. You’re all bones now anyway.”

  The nutrient goop goes down easy as we watch ships continue to cluster outside. Smaller craft are joining, or launching from, their larger brethren now, with many streaking towards the atmosphere in formations. It’s a fascinating display, and one that chips away at my own resolve to fight against the powers that created all of this. At least until T’Oli speaks up.

  “I believe I have found your history,” T’Oli announces. “It seems the beginning of your species occurred only a few levels down from here.”

  “I thought you were searching for a way to open the door?” I ask as I go over towards the Ooblot, looking at the screen.

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s possible from here. It seems the Chorus do not trust their own guests to do what we’ve done, and gain control of the system.”

  “So we’re trapped?”

  “Unless you have a better idea, I think we’re stuck until Ferrolite comes to let us out.”

  The screen shows a space some levels beneath our own, and while there’s not much in the way of description - giant black boxes cover most of it, with warnings of improper security - the level’s title tells enough of a story: Alternative Species Development. If T’Oli’s right, and the story of our species begins there, then I want to know it. I want to understand why the Amigga chose to make us.

  Then I want to destroy any records of it.

  10 Ancient Adversaries

  Like the others, this lift ignores Sax’s input. The floor he selects isn’t where it goes, but at least this time the lift heads up. Towards the Priority Beam, one level at a time. Once the doors open, though, Sax decides he’d have preferred to go down.

  If he understood the other levels, this one feels like Sax has stepped out of the galaxy he knows. The reality he knows. Machines, at least those with any moving, walking, or talking capability have long since fallen out of favor. There’s no reason to risk creating a death robot that could be hijacked from some remote location or by someone who happens to get inside its internals when you can create a genetically-modified super weapon like the Oratus.

  Which is why Sax is surprised to find this level packed with eight-limbed robots. What’s more, though Sax is too young to have seen any of the old warbots in action, these look glistening new. The sheen on the bright blue Chorus paint glimmers in the static
white light from overhead stripes. No combat burns, no dirt or rust from action on hostile worlds.

  Who would store these here? And why?

  A step out from the lift gives Sax a good view of what he’s looking at. The warbots sport a core, a ball that looks like an Amigga fashioned out of teal-shaded steel. Each one has a number of modules attached to it, most ending in either microjets, miners, or variations on multi-tools and physical weapons meant for either destruction or interrogation. All of them appear to be dormant, and their silent stares loosen the frozen knots forming in Sax’s stomach.

  The warbots hang from detachable clamps lowered from the ceiling, black-and-gray striped cords dangling like an industrial puppet-master’s strings.

  A return to machines like this would raise terror on other worlds, would pull recruits to Evva by the thousands, and not without reason.

  The first time the Amigga built a gigantic armada of computerized soldiers, they marched from world to world, building the base of what became their empire. Sax has seen the logs, read up on the history. Required, in case the Vincere should ever run up against a similar force from somewhere else.

  The warbots would stream in towards the target, an endless wave of tireless, ruthless fighters. They would decimate everything with uncompromising exactitude – targeting what was necessary, not caring at all about the morality of the situation. In other words, a perfect Amigga soldier.

  At least until the warbots were stolen, hacked and turned against their creators. The first time was an anomaly, then it happened again and again and again.