The Phantom in the Deep (Rook's Song)

by Chad Huskins

  The pilot reaches forward, and presses a button. Music starts playing. A powerful, driving tune, a classic from Earth’s twentieth century, from the Autumn of 1966. So many buttons no longer work on his console, but thankfully, this button still works.

  Rook cycles up the forward, aft, starboard, port, top and bottom thrusters, primes them for heavy maneuvering.

  Then, something happens, and he has to stop. The laugh starts deep in his belly. It’s difficult to keep down, like holding in your lunch when you’ve got the flu, and your body needs to expel it. It is a similar sickness, we can suppose. When he starts to laugh, it is hard and wheezing, with tears streaming down his cheeks. Then, it is almost impossible for him to breathe.

  I warned you. I warned you about this madness.

  Let us step back now, lest we catch this malady of the mind. We’ll reconvene once he has it together again.

  2

  The massive ship hasn’t yawed, rolled, or pitched any more. It has continued forward at its same lazy speed, the magnetic cannons still clearing a path through the asteroid field. The smaller asteroids jump out of the ship’s way, and a faraway observer might’ve thought it looked a great spearhead cutting a V through black waters.

  The Conductor now stands near the largest screen on the bridge, drinking in the datafeed, which comes streaming in smoothly as ever. To his left and his right, holographic monitors show rotating displays of the area all around the ship. Everyone is in search mode now, all Observer-Manager teams have been re-tasked to find their quarry. The Conductor can sense that others are disbelieving. Many don’t believe him, despite his superior cognitive capacities, but they will never question him.

  It is him, he thinks. There is no room for argument, not even from one brain to the other. Though his logic tells him there ought to be a margin for error in this, he does not listen. It is him.

  The Conductor knows it is him. He knows it deep in the marrow of his bones. It is him. The last human being in the universe, last spotted in this sector ten years ago. The last confirmed sighting, anyway. Others have claimed to detect similar gravitic distortions in this sector and other exhaust clouds that spoke of this revenant, but many believe he has to be long dead by now.

  But the Conductor knows. He knows, even if he does not know how he knows. It’s him.

  The Phantom in the Deep.

  A moniker mentioned here and there throughout the end of the War, when all things were coming to a close, when there had been a paucity of humans left on any world, any moon, any space station. Back when the mass burnings had been ordered, many of which the Conductor carried out personally, including right here in this sector.

  The world that the humans called Shiva 154e was nearly ideal for all humanoid life. It didn’t take the humans much terraforming to make it habitable, and it didn’t take the Conductor long to obliterate it. It was done in a single afternoon, while many of their species were attending their own meditations in a sacred church. A day they called Sunday. As the Conductor opened up the napalm cannons and set fire to the air, he wondered how many of them would believe it was the day foretold in their various prophecies, specifically the one from the book called Revelations.

  The human race built itself up over a hundred thousand years, and was utterly annihilated in less than a year. They fought bravely, and proved most industrious when trying to coordinate and focus their efforts on building bigger ships and better weapons. There was even evidence that they had set up labs for captured Cereb skirmishers, and tried to reverse engineer the technology of the Conductor’s people. Industrious, competent, technologically savvy, but wholly unwise.

  Unwise, because they expanded too far, too soon, and with too little resources to fend off the Conductor and his people. Rather than remain inside their own solar system and learn to harvest the materials from the various planets, moons, and gas giants, they had reached for other stars.

  The Conductor remembers first hearing about the sightings. His people began detecting the emissions from the human’s pycnodeuterium-fueled drives (similar to Cereb drives, though less efficient), saw their influences on the Bleed, and tracked disturbances along that quantum slipstream. The Calculators collated the data, and confirmed that a new spacefaring race had emerged in the galaxy. The Conductor was the first to act, getting permission from the Elders to take aggressive action, to ensure that their harmony was not compromised. An extermination job, conducted well before these newcomers’ expansion could become an infestation.

  The Conductor opted to strike first at the home world. Since he was the senior general, the Elders bowed to his expertise. He was, after all, engineered for just such tactical and strategic decisions.

  Encountering their species for the first time, the Conductor wasn’t surprised at all to find that humans shared certain physical similarities to his own people. Of the other seventeen spacefaring races his people had exterminated throughout their time in the universe, all have appeared roughly the same. There are differences, of course, but the differences are minor. The Cerebs, for example, stand an average of two feet taller than the humans, are more angular and slim, with a uniform charcoal flesh, with the occasional albino, such as the Conductor, the like of which possess the highly coveted seven-tiered brains. But the rest of the requisites for life—hearts, lungs, brains, livers, kidneys—are relatively close in size and function between the two species.

  Many of his people believe that there are very clear, logical reasons as to why so many intelligent races appear the same, why so many lived and evolved around G-type main-sequence stars, like Earth’s sun, and the sun of the Conductor’s home world. The reason so many sentient creatures look very much alike was because, according to most modern biologists and anthropologists, there has always been a clear sign of favor in Nature for bipeds and creatures that walk upright.

  It is well known that tool usage prompts brains to grow, and creatures that walk upright can use their upper limbs for manipulating tools. The more one learns about using a fork, or a drill, or a computer, or a knife, or a weapon, the more one’s brain is fed neuron-stimulating hormones, thus promoting even more creative thinking, which also feeds into the neuron stimulation, and the cycle continues as long as a person keeps learning with tools.

  Gravity is also a key component in growing resilient, intelligent life. Gravity accounts for height, weight, and cranial similarities between all sentient races. Many Cereb Researchers have found that life tends to grow best on planets with gravity close to Earth-like—too heavy and life is crushed or smothered out, too light and the proteins usually don’t form strong enough chemical bonds, and even if they do, the bones, muscle and ligaments don’t have enough resistance to grow strong, and so only microbial life may exist. In order for strong, intelligent life to rise, conditions must be just right.

  To some Researchers, this reveals a brotherhood amongst all sentient species, a thing that bound them together as a celestial family. Some of the Conductor’s people believe this process, seemingly shared by all sentient beings, make all sentient creatures everywhere a part of a great fraternal cosmic order, and often speak at length to have their voices heard in debates. Those that subscribe to this philosophy argued that they ought not to exterminate the humans, just as they argued for all of the others before them.

  But preservation of species always wins out. Always. And when it became clear that each of these species had no intention of settling down, and were only interested in expanding, it didn’t take long for the rest of the Elder Collective to see the Conductor’s point.

  So war it was.

  But whereas so many other species had taken several years to exterminate, the humans had gone out the quickest, yet also the most heatedly. No other species that the Conductor has ever gone up against was ever so ready to use nuclear weapons, or so ready to sacrifice themselves in suicide missions, or so eager to enlist in the military effort to fight back. Well, none besides the Ianeth, but we’ll get to that. In his experience, th
ere was always a carefully made caste system, a social order that put certain privileged people at the top of any people, and certain inferior sorts at the bottom, usually as slaves. Human were the first species the Conductor encountered that had completely eradicated slavery before heading for the stars, and yet, volunteers to fight against the “Cerebrals” (the human name given to them, a Latin word for “brain”) were so numerous that it boggled the minds.

  In the end, though, it only helped to accelerate their extinction. By and large, human beings were incredibly eager to die for culture, and so they had. It was the briefest campaign the Conductor, and all the other Conductors before him, ever launched.

  And yet, it left a permanent mark on him.

  Silk.

  The humans had so much to offer, at least in the form of unique resources. Had, he thought. Obliterating the Earth got rid of the unique creatures, known as spiders to the humans, that produced the fine material. Try as they might to recreate it in their fabricators, nothing else could compare to—

  No, I will not become lost again, he thinks presently. The Conductor knows about his own weaknesses, and that of his people. Very sensitive to touch, a thousand times more than the humans. At times, it could create sensory overload, which is why their culture developed with clear social and physical barriers. It is the reason that an unwanted touch of the skin is enough to be considered assault. It is the reason this entire bridge has been homogenized, with carefully laid soundproofing panels controlling the acoustics, and the seat covers made of a bland texture. Sometimes the Conductor wonders, if the humans had lasted long enough to exploit this hypersensitivity in their enemies, what might they have come up with?

  “Sir?”

  It took him a moment to realize that the Manager had been trying to contact him via their linked nodes for a minute now. The Conductor became aware of more than a few stares coming from Observers and Managers all around him. “Report,” he finally says.

  “We have identified exactly 4,608 priority asteroids prime for future mining, and 137 asteroids we may accept into our fabricators now and begin basic maintenance.”

  Another Manager chimes in, “I have cleared the excess from our fabricator bays. We have room to accept new stores.”

  “Open the bays, begin the harvest.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about the skirmishers?”

  Another Manager sends the answer along the datafeed. “Sir, the first skirmishers are away. The anomaly had started to move. They report picking up strange sounds. They’re activating sound-suppression—”

  “Bring it up on speaker.”

  The Manager looks at him for a moment. Then, he turns to look at all the others on the bridge. “Sir?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Sir, do you think it wise to listen—”

  “Bring it up on speaker,” he commands testily. “I won’t say it again.”

  A second’s worth of hesitation from the Manager, but he finally does as he’s bidden. The speakers activate, and everyone in the room winces. Even with their protective sound-suppression cochlear implants, it isn’t quite enough to keep the garish yet compelling waves from tickling the tympanic nerves deep, deep within of each of them. This is another dangerous stimulation of a commonly off-limits erogenous zone—off-limits, at least, in public.

  The music starts off with a hard bass, with subtle yet determined drums. Then, all at once, a loud, blaring organ—a Hammond B-3 organ, if the Conductor’s files on Earth and its culture are correct. As soon as he hears the music, any doubts he has about the nature of this anomaly immediately evaporate, as do the doubts of every Observer and Manager surrounding him.

  The Conductor feels vindicated. The information scrolls holographically in front of him, and he imbibes it, as he does the music itself.

  Of their late twentieth century. The Spencer Davis Group. A musical group from Birmingham, England. The Conductor recalls England. He recalls the streets, the tall buildings, the sky traffic, and the structure known as London Bridge. The Conductor remembers it well. He also recalls setting fire to the air, to the land, to the flesh. He remembers the devastation…

  The name of the song is “Gimme Some Lovin,” a song that brought some small success to The Spencer Davis Group, apparently. The Conductor wonders if those artists ever had any inkling that their song would be the last representation of human culture in the universe. It certainly seems that it is, for the Phantom in the Deep is never known to play any other music in a skirmish.

  The last man in the universe, playing the last song of mankind.

  And then, something occurs to the Conductor. Does he know? Did he actually figure it? It was possible that, in the last moments of humanity, they had discovered a weakness in the Cerebrals, what humans might have called an “Achilles heel,” yet hadn’t had time to act on it. Does he know what allure it has for us, what affect it has?

  “Sir,” says a Manager, “I would recommend we discontinue listening.”

  The Conductor glances at his assembled minds, and finally nods. “I just needed to be sure,” he tells them. They all accept this explanation, though he can sense that not all of them believe. His seven-tiered brain misses nothing, it was why he was selected to absorb and collate such colossal loads of data. And also why he is the most at risk of sensory overload. Pushed to their limits, Cerebs can achieve great calculations, or fall into a well of immense madness.

  I must retire for the moment, he thinks. I must meditate, cleanse my minds. “I will be in my quarters,” he tells the teams of his bridge.

  “Sir, don’t you wish to—”

  “He’s finished. Surely he knows it already. It is the last attempt of a madman. Why else come to us, when he could have remained hidden? Why else hide just beneath us, when he surely knows it means death?” The Conductor has long suspected other motives in the Phantom, but he keeps them to himself for now.

  Confidently, he strides right off the bridge and into the lift that will take him many levels up, up, up into the safety of his quarters, and the tranquility of his meditation chambers.

  What the Conductor couldn’t know when he said those words, and what you and I can be absolutely sure of, is that his enemy is at the very limits of his sanity. Had he known that, he might’ve extrapolated enough from the available data to predict what was going to happen next.

  Or perhaps not. Because madness knows no logic. It doesn’t recognize defeat, nor does it recognize victory, nor doom. Not even when they’re inches or seconds away.

  As we slip away from this bridge once more, we teleport at breakneck speeds across that gulf, passing enormous hunks of carbonaceous asteroids, space dust forming a scattered, translucent light-years-long wheel across this sector of the galaxy. We don’t have to go very far into the asteroid field, not far at all. For as easy as it would be to follow the comet that left the immense trail of space dust, it is just as easy to follow the trail of madness. We can smell it; it smells like old shoes and fading memories. We can see it; it looks like the no-color of space debris and despair. We can hear it; it sounds like laughter and The Spencer Davis Group.

  “Well my temperature’s risin’ and my feet left the floor,

  Crazy people rockin’ cause they want to go more,

  Let me in baby I don’t know what you got,

  But ya better take it easy, this place is hot!

  And I’m so glad we made it!

  So glad we made it!

  You gotta…gimme some lovin’!

  Gimme gimme some lovin!”

  Rook is screaming the lyrics to the top of his lungs. He’s also trying to do it while laughing. Laughing so hard he’s tearing up and his visor is getting fogged. His temperature is rising, after all, just like the song says.

  They are closing in, no less than sixteen of them. Their skirmisher squadrons are always comprised of four groups of four, he’s noted. Five minutes, and they will be within visual range of the Sidewinder. Others will be fanning out
across the asteroid field, probably two or three thousand if he knew their tactics, and by now he should. They would create a sensor net to ensure he can’t exit without them knowing. Invisible tendrils are already probing the field, lasers and radio waves trying to touch him, get a fix on him.

  He smiles. The sensor shroud is top of the line, and one of the reasons they haven’t been able to find him for more than a decade now. This ship is one of stealth, meant for relaying messages and supplies with only nominal exterior weaponry. The sensor shroud is a package that consists of a short-range sensor jammer, as well as a DERP (Dedicated Energy Receptor/Projector), which not only soaks up energy at long range, but also links up to the sensor analysis grid. That grid is made up of tiny steel orbs; satellites that orbit some of the larger asteroids, giving him greater radar, infrared, and 3D renderings of his substantial battlefield. The ship’s sensor shroud package also consists of an OPG (outward plasma generator) that produces an effect of plasma stealth—it emits ionized gases to reduce the RCS (radar cross section) of a spacecraft. And finally, there is an active jammer in the form of a full-spectrum distortion projector, which not only scrambles incoming signals, but can also “paint” a target and then jam its outgoing transmissions.

  The sensor shroud will keep Rook off their sensors directly, but the Cerebs can easily track his engine’s ionic exhaust now that he’s moving at top speeds. They will move carefully along that trail like a hunter following the beaten path of a deer’s feeding trail. It is only a matter of time before they close in.

  Rook will have to take preventative measures. Tapping a few keys, he activates the chaff emitters. From the tail of his ship, a cloud blooms, one made of aluminum shards, and on his enemies’ screens they will soon see the crosshairs (or whatever they used for targeting) aiming at anything and everything, trying to lock on to phantoms. His people hadn’t found out everything there was to know about the Cerebs, but they did know that as far as radar, sonar, infrared scanning, and sensors in general, it all seems to be universal in tracking and targeting.