by Chad Huskins
He moves past the Researchers, assimilating their constant influx of data as he goes. Many of them are working on elements found in the various asteroids that the ship’s arms are collecting even now, searching for any new applications that might come from any of these resources, even though they well know that there isn’t much left to gather from the studies. The research itself is redundant. Redundancies never hurt, they only helped.
The Conductor catches salutes from all the people under his command. None of them are physical salutes, they needn’t be, only acknowledgements passed along the billion linked nodes inside of him and all around him.
Deeper into this level, passing a blue-lighted area that is off-limits to all but the four most senior Researchers, he finally comes to the area he most wishes to see. The ship’s computer scans him in a millisecond, confirming his vascular ID four times over (not a security clearance, merely logging him in), and opens the four protective doors to permit him into a room filled with large, silver cylinders. Inside, the air is much colder, nearly at freezing levels. This sensation alone would be enough to drive him mad, were it not for his insulated suit.
The Conductor connects with the hold’s main interface. One of the senior Researchers happens by him, but does not pause to see what he is doing. He requests for one of the cylinders behind him to be opened. It happens in less than a second. The Conductor turns, and faces the last of the Line of the Usurped.
The creature appears to be almost a mirror image of him. Albino, tall and angular, powerfully built and erect of posture. Only the black eyes, looking dull and lacking the blue pulse of intelligence, reveals that this particular Cereb is inoperable. Has been for some time. Frozen in stasis, it has been partially dissected.
The Conductor recalls when he was first elevated to his current status. Fresh out of the incubator, he was made to go up against the ship’s old Conductor in a battle of computational power. They were linked to various nodes, and challenged with deciphering billions of complex algorithms all at once. The old Conductor was slower by a full half second. That was ages ago. Now, the creature frozen inside the tube is no longer a Conductor, he is just one of the millions of other Usurped that the Researchers keep to study, improve, and finally recycle.
Someday, he will be replaced, too, and will sit where the Usurped sits now, a member of their worthy pantheon. He will join the legacy of their Line. Only if I am unable to keep up. The thought has returned to him many times in these last few years. If I can maintain computational growth, I can keep my position.
Doubtless, every Conductor thought that same rebellious thing sometime in their existence. He supposes it’s only natural. Every creature, no matter their intellectual power or loyalty to odds and truth, feels the pull of self-preservation. Logically, he knows his position as Conductor is untenable. Philosophically, he begs to differ.
The Conductor turns to look at a few other cylinders, each of them opening at his command. Every single one of them probably once entertained the notion that they might somehow discover the secret to keeping their position as Conductor. After all, if he is thinking it, then his lessers must have also given the thought more than a passing interest. In fact, he knows this to be true of some of the older ones.
The Conductor has heard of a great many of the older Usurped who actually tried to fight back. He comes to one of them now. It is the Usurped from three generations ago, possessing only six brains at this point, since one of them has been taken apart and dissected at length in order to diagnose the cause of his madness. The Researchers keep this one around to teach them about future trouble-shooting.
The Usurped one that caused so much trouble looks much like him, only of a slightly darker complexion, and slightly taller. The mouth is slack, the eyes do not pulse blue, but make no mistake, this particular Usurped is still alive. This one, and all the others. This one has many scars lining its cranium—since he is never expected to be operational again, there is no reason to waste materials that can be used to heal others, so sayeth the Calculators, always accounting for every little resource.
Even as he presently absorbs quadrillions of data updates and busily sorts them, the Conductor recalls the stories he’s heard about this one, and even drudges up some of the old data. It was a violent day, when a massive computer error (they do occasionally happen) caused this one to glitch. He was able to infect much of the crew with a belief that the Calculators had gotten something seriously wrong, upsetting the integrity of many of the ship’s operations. Later, when he was usurped by the next Conductor, he lashed out violently against those that tried taking him into custody. Not only that, but the Usurped’s crew had to be completely replaced—the flawed “coding” had infected their systems, as well as their minds. Rebellion is rare among Cerebs, but when it happened, its effects were manifold.
Insanity is always a concern. Always has been. The Calculators have always accounted for it, of course, because anomalies do happen, and so they planted redundancies in the system to ensure that it never held back progress. Sixteen new Conductors are always on standby, waiting to supplant any Conductor of any ship, should such a problem ever arise.
He continues down the Line.
A few other tubes contain more Usurped. Others contain biomasses of common interest, biomasses from hundreds of different worlds. Pets kept by various species, and, in some cases, a few sentient species themselves. One tube holds a particularly interesting piece to this morbid collection. A tall specimen, with thews of wiry steel. Long, strapping arms that look to have the tensile strength to hold up a bridge. The wide head is connected to a long, muscular stalk. Hard chitin-like plates the color of dusk grow over much of the body. The plates naturally overlap one another, as though Nature deemed them worthy of such natural armor. A powerful body. A warrior’s body.
The last of the Ianeth.
The last of those that gave the hardest fight.
The Conductor recalls that struggle. The Ianeth lasted only a little longer than the humans did, but they were far more relentless, and far more brutal, than the humans ever were. Their intelligences were enhanced with implants, much like the Cerebrals, only not nearly as advanced. They had battled long against one another, in wars lasting hundreds of years, and across multiple star systems, which only honed their military skills. When finally the Ianeth were unified, the Calculators, who had been monitoring this species for some time, became afraid they might use their military might to march across the galaxy and swallow resources.
When the Cerebrals sent their first warships, they did not expect an envoy, and they did not get one. Instead, the Ianeth showed remarkable adaptability. Rather than experiencing abject terror, they launched headlong into battle, almost as if they had been waiting for it. Later, their Researchers would uncover evidence that pointed to the possibility that some in the Ianeth leadership had detected the Cerebrals, or at least were paranoid enough to believe they couldn’t be alone in the universe, and so had prepared for just such an invasion.
The Ianeth were the only species to think this way, and spent centuries fortifying their bodies, augmenting their immune systems so that infections and disease were virtually no longer any concern, and had bolstered their technological resources so that their military power was unequaled at that time. Except, of course, by the Cerebrals.
The Conductor stares into the last Ianeth’s eyes. They are as black as a Cerebral’s, yet as small as a human’s. The mouth is wide and leathery, sort of like the crocodiles of Earth. It even has a similar permanent smile, sort of smug. Perhaps this last Ianeth is smiling. He is, after all, still alive. In a deep hibernation, to be sure; Ianeth were like Cerebs in that they didn’t quite sleep at all.
Ianeth were ruthless. They attacked with dispassionate tenacity. Like white blood cells, they only knew a threat when they saw one, and didn’t stop to ask questions. They were highly calculating, yet they still attempted many deceptions, though not nearly as many as the humans. Ianeth also had no fear. Not at
all. Not even a soupcon of it. Not even in their engineer caste, to which this particular specimen belonged.
Many of their kind were left to dissect, but only this one remains completely untouched. Someday, it too would be taken apart, piece by piece. And when that happens, the Ianeth will finally be eradicated from the universe. Just like the Phantom, he ponders. Nothing more than a relic of a flawed and destructive people, gratefully forgotten.
While pondering this, a message comes racing in from the bridge. “Sir, we have some interesting readings coming from another patch of the asteroid field,” says a Manager.
“Send it through now.”
“Of course, sir.”
This communication happens in the breadth of a second, and the three-dimensional image is superimposed over the walls around him. Another amorphous patch of asteroids go swishing by him. He doesn’t know it, though we do, but he’s currently scanning Magnum Collectio, the massive sector where the Phantom has fled to. He even bypasses Queen Anne and a few of the Seven Dwarfs. He glances at King Henry VIII, surveys the innumerable asteroids around it that are much smaller, and checks the readings he’s getting from the bridge. Spikes in energy signatures, though some of it can be from the radiation, ice, and space dust left by a passing comet, which his computers tells him passed through here not so long ago.
Now, we must leave him. The Conductor is lost in calculations it would make no sense to try and convey. We pass through countless levels now, outside of the hull and beyond the magnetic field pushing the asteroids out of the ship’s path.
About fifteen hundred miles away, roughly half the width of the former United States, that same bundle of asteroids waits for us. Some zipping past us, others moving with the ponderous ease of glaciers. And there, somewhere amid the chaos, is Queen Anne. We pass through her gap, and not too far beyond is the King she died for, the King who killed her.
Atop the King, we can see nothing has changed. Well, nothing much. The same craters pock the surface, and the same debris hovers around it like silent attendants. However, as we come closer, we can see a small black dot along the King’s eastern hemisphere. It’s like a tiny mole, a minor skin blotch, nothing more. Yet as we come even closer, we see that a smaller dot has just exited the larger dot. Indeed, it is walking.
Rook steps lightly across the King’s surface, just a few dozen feet from the Sidewinder’s cargo ramp. Standing atop the massive, slow-spinning asteroid, he looks over at the jagged hills he named Badger’s Mountains. The old man liked mountains, and there were few left for Rook to gaze upon. Beside Badger’s Mountains was the Great Chasm, the largest hole leading to the King’s belly, splintering off into a myriad of tunnels. Rook ponders this immensity, then looks out at the mishmash field, out at the star of Shiva Prime, and of course at the Deep all around him.
There’s nowhere to go, he thinks. I’m a flea lost at sea. There’s nowhere to go. Though he’s thought this many times before, it is now a very truthful statement. He knows now that he is the last of his kind. How does one deal with that? They don’t prepare you for that in psych evaluations. They prep you for handling serious g-forces. They talk to you all day long about the pressures of battle, and the stresses of long-term stays in the Deep. They even make sure you understand all about post-traumatic stress disorder, they have pamphlets and everything. Rook laughs. But they don’t prepare you to be the last human left in the universe.
He takes a deep breath of the metallic air, lets it out in a slow, slow sob. Then, he breaks down. The tears could be a problem inside his helmet, so he fights to maintain control and hold them back. “Just breathe, man,” Rook growls at himself. “Just breathe, you’re all right.”
Then, he laughs again. “No, damn it, you’re not all right! You’re all that’s left, and there can never be any ‘all right’ ever again. Not for you, not for anybody.” It is a stern and honest reminder. And, as it happens, an important one. “It’s okay if you lose it, man. There’s nobody left to tell you you’re weak, or that you’re a coward. No one to judge you. There are no judges left in the entire universe.” He chuckles mirthlessly, and holds his arms out to embrace eternity. “All o’ this is yours, pal! It’s yours!”
Tears almost come again, but he holds them back.
Rook turns slowly around and around, taking in Badger’s Mountains, his boots gripping hard to the asteroid so that he doesn’t float away. He looks at everything. He stares into the Deep, over at the Queen and the Seven Dwarfs, over at some of the Wild Cards, and at the thousands of other asteroids dancing all around them, mostly in slow-motion action. “It’s yours,” he whispers. After a moment, he corrects himself. “It’s mine.”
Then, all at once, these words begin a chain reaction. Is it born out of madness, or truth? Funny how the two can be so tightly interwoven. Inspiration often appears as madness, doesn’t it? Especially when it stems from a desperate mind. “It’s mine,” he says again. He turns around, once again taking it all in. “It’s mine,” he repeats, this time testing how the words feel on his tongue, on his lips, in his heart. He says it more slowly. “It’s…mine.”
Then, as usually happens with the best ideas, and with the strangest, another idea came rocketing out of nowhere and joined with it. It is the same idea as before, the one he’s been stewing on since he first interrogated the Leader. In fact, the Leader’s voice returns to him: And there is another problem with your race, of course. Sacrifice. Wave after wave of your soldiers were sent on suicide missions, against odds that, did they have the minds for it, they would’ve known were impossible to overcome.
Rook’s mouth is slightly agape, his tongue is touching the roof of his mouth again, playing over his teeth. His mind is searching for the connection. Again, the Leader’s words return: Why sacrifice, when you may plan ahead, get a feel for your enemy’s technological capabilities, and allow them to make all the foolish mistakes?
“Why sacrifice?” Rook says, speaking those words slowly, committing them to the vacuum. “Why…sacrifice?” What happens next has happened to him many times before. He talks to himself, if only to hear himself. They did teach him that in SERE training (Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape). Talking to oneself helps maintain sanity, and roll ideas around, testing them, debating them with oneself. “They don’t understand sacrifice. And why not? Because it’s not logical once everything else is accounted for.” He nods. “Yeah…yeah, and they’re accountants. They are accountable. They…”
A light goes off in his head. A little dim, but it’s there.
Rook turns suddenly and looks across the asteroid field, across Magnum Collectio. He sees Queen Anne, gauges her, then looks over at the Seven Dwarfs. Then, he looks down at his feet, at King Henry VIII. “They don’t quite comprehend the usefulness for deception,” he says. “Because it’s never been necessary for them. They only need shielding from the elements, from their enemies. Just ships and shelters and shielding. Never any deception…”
Rook trails off, thinking. He pulls out his micropad, connects to the Sidewinder’s computer, and pulls up various details about the asteroid field. He’s looking at Gonzo, Holey Roller, Big Ben, Little Ben, the Three Sisters, and his network of false asteroids. He glances over various other asteroids that he rarely gets to visit. Betty Page and Maximillion. Jethro and his four brothers: Ike, Isaac, Ivan, and Ian. Bebop and Rocksteady. The Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Then the Queen’s guardians: Goose Egg, Mickey Mouse, Lucifer and the Blarney Stone.
Over the next few minutes, Rook paces about, checking their trajectories. He takes a moment to conduct some complex math—speeds and trajectories were important studies at ASCA, and it has helped him survive this long. However, something is eluding him. A minor detail…
Then, it dawns on him.
Rook looks up from his micropad, and directly across the gulf of space to Queen Anne. The Queen…who can move in any direction she wants, thanks to the nuclear mass drivers, one on each of her poles, and one on every hemisphere.
<
br /> He smiles. It’s kind of funny at first, but then the thought slowly morphs into a more serious notion. And then it transforms into another idea. And another. And another.
And another.
Manage your resources wisely. Those were the words of Badger, leaping back to mind now.
Rook’s attention goes back to his micropad, and he does a few more calculations. As he works, something else occurs to him. In his two conversations with the Leader, he became increasingly angry at their cold logic. Thinking about the Leader’s words is distracting, but there is something else there, too. Something interesting: We have about as much use for trickery as the average human had for quantum theory. It just doesn’t come to bear very much in our daily lives. Why should it?
“Very few thoughts of deception,” he says to the asteroids and the stars, his only remaining confidants. Who else could he disclose his secrets to? “Few thoughts of deception. ‘Little use for it,’ he said. No thoughts of…” It’s a crazy idea, no doubting it this time. Bizarre, and definitely gruesome. “But can it work?” he begs of his confidants, the asteroids all around. “I’ve already tested the omni-kit on organic materials. The one charred corpse left over from the Leader’s posse.”
Neither the asteroids nor the stars have any thoughts on the matter.
“If they really, truly don’t have a use for deception, and they really don’t feel they need to plan for it…then they won’t have any security aboard the ship, will they? Definitely monitors, and systems to keep track of the crew, but no security. Doors might just open for me, no codes or passwords needed. It could…no…no it can’t work. Stupid! There are too many variables. To even get on the ship, I’d have to…” He trails off, lost in figures. “Yeah…yeah, impossible. I just can’t be sure about—” He stops himself short.