by West, Shay
“Have they arrived?” Feeror asked brusquely.
“Actually, they have. I’ve come to help you down.”
Feeror rolled his eyes. The only way to get him down was to hook him up to some sort of contraption the telcor rigged and lower him down to the ground. He stood with his arms raised while Moylir hooked him to the device and lowered him from the platform.
His thick hair did little to protect from the ropes digging into his flesh. Moylir lowered him in rough drops followed by stops so abrupt his teeth knocked together. By the time he reached the ground, he was ready to chew through the ropes and punch anyone who came near him.
When a telcor offered his arm, Feeror glared and stumped off on his own, determined to end his reliance on others. The guide moved in front, glancing over his shoulder as though afraid the stranger was going to hit him.
By the time they got to their destination, Feeror’s leg was throbbing and he could barely stand. When his guide offered to help him sit he accepted, a true testament to how much pain he was in.
“Here is the one I told you about. The one from the future.”
Feeror turned as Thundering Pine approached with one of the ones he called Makers. The newcomer was much taller than the telcor. It was covered in hair from head to toe, longer than that of the telcor and much lighter in color.
“Greetings, strange one. I am told you have questions for me regarding the machines.”
Feeror’s skin crawled at the tone of voice. The Maker was smiling, but with a mouthful of pointy teeth, the smile had a sinister look. And it never reached the Maker’s eyes. They looked angry.
“Yes, that’s true. We need to know how to stop them from digging. I assume Thundering Pine has told you what happened?”
“Yes, he did. But I assure you, the machines can’t be doing what you say they are doing. It isn’t possible.” The Maker looked at Feeror as though speaking to a child.
“And I’m telling you they are. And they don’t remain here on this world. Your precious machines destroyed my planet and everyone on it, except for my comrade and I.”
“They must be something different. They are machines and any machine can be turned off. My associates have traveled to the region where the drones are digging. Most likely there is a faulty connection between the controllers and the processers. We will help you fix the controllers - for a small fee, of course.”
Feeror bristled at the condescending tone in the Maker’s voice. “When your associates return, you will know the truth.”
“I’m sure we will.”
The confidence in the Maker’s voice made Feeror’s blood boil. He watched the Maker as he sauntered away, wishing there were a weapon handy. I could throw a knife so hard, it would bury itself right between his shoulder blades.
“Killing him won’t help things.”
Feeror turned his foul mood on Moylir. “It would make me feel a good deal better.”
“The Makers are treated well on this world. Killing one of them might make the telcor very angry.”
“I wasn’t really going to kill him,” Feeror mumbled.
“The other Makers will return soon and he will have to face the truth.”
“I don’t care that he faces the truth. What good is the truth if he can’t stop the machines?”
“Who says he can’t?” Moylir said, hands on her hips.
“No one has been successful thus far.”
“But these Makers are the ones who created the machines. They must know them better than the telcor, better than we do. I have to believe they can find a way.”
Feeror wanted to believe, wished for that more desperately than he’d wished for anything before. He wasn’t afraid of his own death. But he didn’t want his friends and fellow Chosen to die. If everyone was destroyed by the Mekans, there would be no one around to keep the memory of his little Gwen alive.
Thinking of her stopped his breath cold and constricted his chest so tightly he feared never being able to draw breath again. The tiny girl had defied the odds and found a way to break through a lifetime of prejudice and hate, entwining herself around his heart despite his efforts to keep her away. When he thought of that first time he had seen her true form, when she had nearly killed him, he smiled, a fierce pride swelling in his chest.
“I think the Makers are returning,” Moylir said.
Feeror could see the Makers, as they were much taller than the telcor that surrounded them. The telcor reached out as though they wanted to touch the Makers but withdrew their hands, wringing them for a bit before tentatively reaching out again. The kits giggled and squealed as they ran out in front of the procession. One of the Makers pointed in his direction and said something to his companions.
“They seem a little distraught,” Moylir said.
Feeror nodded and watched the Makers as they walked through the adoring throngs of telcor. The Maker that had spoken to Feeror hurried to his companions, speaking with them in hushed tones, peering over his shoulder at Feeror and Moylir, gesturing wildly when the Makers shook their heads.
Feeror smiled smugly at the look of rage on the Maker’s face. “What did you find?”
“It would appear that you were correct in your assessment of the situation. None of our controllers seem to be able to stop the machines,” the head Maker said through gritted teeth.
“Tell him the rest,” one of his companions urged.
The head Maker rolled his eyes. “It would appear that the machines have gained the ability to alter themselves. They are different from the machines we taught the telcor to build.”
“How is this possible?” Feeror asked.
“I don’t know. Nothing like this has ever happened, and we’ve been building these machines for centuries, expanding our reach to many more worlds.”
“Why do you build them in the first place?”
“They are for mining, nothing more. Mining is a dangerous business. The machines now do the hard work and others reap the benefits.”
“What do the telcor get out of it?” Feeror asked.
“We supply them with food, various other supplies, the weapons they use. In return we get the metal that the machines dig up. It is a situation that benefits both parties,” the head Maker said.
“Except that now your machines are out of control and will soon destroy this world. And others.”
“That isn’t our fault. The telcor must have done something. For all I know, you and your friends changed their programming.”
“That’s ridiculous—”
“None of this is helping. It doesn’t matter why the machines are digging on their own. We need to find a way to stop them,” Moylir said.
Feeror shut his mouth with an audible snap. “Agreed. Any ideas?” He looked to the head Maker.
“We need time to return there with our equipment. There may be a way to bypass the current controllers or interfere with their wireless signals. But we don’t have much in the way of hardware. We didn’t anticipate any problems when we came here. Much of what we may need is still on our home world.”
“There may not be time. My scouts report that the machines have already destroyed one colony and are heading for more as we speak,” Thundering Pine said.
“Why would they be going after the telcor?” Feeror asked.
“I don’t know that they are. They are just digging and don’t seem to care that there are homes or living things in their way. It’s like they’re oblivious to our presence.”
Feeror frowned. He had never before faced an enemy that wasn’t purposefully and willfully attacking. The idea that the machines were merely doing what they were programmed to do and that innocent lives were getting caught in the middle was strange and hard to swallow. Fighting an enemy that fought back on purpose was one thing; fighting one that didn’t even realize what it was doing was another thing altogether.
“Do your people have weapons? Anything that might help the telcor destroy these machines?” Feeror asked of the head Mak
er.
“Destroy them? Are you mad? Do you have any idea how much these machines are worth? The losses to my people would be disastrous.”
“Have you been listening? Your precious machines are going to destroy this world. We’ve seen it. They kill every living thing on this planet and many others, and you’re worried about cost?”
“You obviously don’t understand the finer points of commerce. There’s more at stake here than you can possibly fathom.”
“Yes, there is! The fate of an entire galaxy, as a matter of fact,” Moylir snarled.
“I believe you and your friends have greatly over-exaggerated the danger the machines pose. I will send some of my companions back to our home world and we will get our top minds on this problem. They will find a way past this glitch without resorting to unnecessary destruction,” the head Maker said smugly.
“How long will that take?” Feeror asked.
“I can’t say for certain. It depends on how long it takes the engineers to come up with a workable plan. But I am guessing months to years at best.”
“The telcor may not have that long.”
“They don’t have any choice. They have no way of stopping the machines and neither do you. If you want to stop the machines, you’ll let us handle it,” the head Master said as he turned to walk away.
“Do you use these machines on your world? Or do you just send them to other places to dig?” Feeror asked.
“Of course we use them. Our planet is rich in minerals. The machines dig them up and we sell the minerals to the highest bidder.”
“And they have never gone out of control?”
“Of course not!”
“How long does it take to get to your world from here?”
“Not long. A few weeks.”
“When was the last time you were home?”
“Why does that matter? You are certainly full of questions, aren’t you.”
“Just answer me. How long has it been since you’ve been home? Is it possible that the machines have gone bad since you’ve been gone?”
The head Maker shared a glance with his comrades, who refused to meet Feeror’s eyes.
“We haven’t been home in quite some time actually. We represent our planet’s interests on many worlds and we spend most of our time traveling to those worlds, making sure the machines are working properly, ensuring that the inhabitants have the supplies they need to repair the machines, informing them of new technology and upgrades.”
“So it’s possible that these damn machines have destroyed your world and you wouldn’t even know it,” Feeror said.
“Nonsense. Our world is fine.”
“We have someone here who can contact your world.”
“How is that possible? We don’t possess the technology to communicate with our people from this far away,” the head Maker said.
“One of our friends communicates with its mind. Their kind have a remarkable ability to contact those from worlds far away,” Feeror said.
“Communicates with only its mind? I’d like to see that.”
Feeror asked a young telcor standing nearby to find his strange friend from Kromin. “While you’re at it, bring the one called Lamnor as well.” Feeror called out after the scampering telcor.
When Lamnor and the clone arrived, Feeror asked the clone to speak to the Makers. He knew when the clone was in contact, because the Makers jumped and looked around, seeking the source of the voice and images in their heads.
“Can you contact those on their world?” Feeror asked out loud.
--I have enough information of their brain patterns that I should be able to make contact. I am not certain how long it will take--
“Find out if the machines are behaving strangely on their world.”
The clone stood silently, no expression on its face. Feeror tapped his foot on the ground, eager to hear the news. He breathed slowly and deeply, trying to control his heart rate.
--It appears as though the machines on that world are no longer responding to their controllers--
“That’s impossible! Your friend is only telling you what you want to hear,” the head Maker shouted, moving closer to Feeror.
Feeror, sensing the threat, jumped to his feet, ignoring the pain in his leg. “It isn’t capable of such a thing. It speaks the truth with no assessment, no emotion, no desire to see a certain outcome.”
As the head Maker turned away, Feeror noticed his hands shaking.
--I have managed to contact one of their engineers. They say they have tried everything to stop the machines but nothing is working--
“They just need time. Our engineers are among the best in our region of the galaxy,” the head Master said, as though trying to convince himself.
--The one I contacted said they have tried everything, even trying to remove the processors. The machines have erected a force field that protects their head region from being tampered with--
“Have they tried weapons?” Feeror asked.
--Affirmative. Nothing worked--
The clone’s words echoed in the clearing, their finality bearing down like a great weight. Feeror put his head in his hands, wishing he had been wrong, wishing the clone had come back with better news, wishing he could help the telcor.
“This whole trip was for nothing,” Moylir said, throwing her hands in the air.
“We know more than before we came,” Feeror said.
“And it changes nothing. These people will die, our people will still be dead when we return to our own time, our friends will die.”
“I can’t believe this is happening. Why are the machines no longer responding to our controllers?” one of the Makers asked, wringing his hands.
“Our engineers may figure it out. Don’t count our people lost yet,” the head Maker said.
“I don’t know if it will help or not, but we have some of the processors with us in our craft,” one of the Makers said.
At his words, Feeror remembered his fourth vision, the one he’d had while under the influence of the pain drugs. It had looked like some sort of computer processor. Maybe this is what the vision meant?
“We will gladly take a look at anything you have that may help,” Feeror said.
“The processors are complicated. I doubt you would be able to make sense of them,” the head Maker sneered.
“Then I guess we’re lucky you’re here to explain things,” Feeror said sarcastically.
The head Maker ordered one of his companions to get the processors from their craft. Silence descended over the group while they waited for the Maker to return.
“We won’t be staying long so your time with the processor will need to be quick,” the head Maker said.
“We won’t need much time. Besides, we need to get back to our own time and our friends. We need to tell them we failed,” Feeror said.
“It’s not your fault. Not our fault. Maybe we were never actually Chosen or maybe the prophecy was wrong about us,” Moylir said, moving closer to her comrade.
“Gerok seemed so sure. And we have the mark. Either way, I’ll continue to fight for our friends on Astra until my dying breath.”
“As will I,” Moylir said with a feral grin.
The Maker returned with a shiny silver case, huffing and puffing as he placed the case on the table in front of Feeror. He hit a few buttons on the front of the case and the top slid back and down into a recessed area. There were four green processors nestled inside black velvet. The Maker deftly removed the computer chips and laid them gently on the table.
“This is the processing unit for the Mekans. All of them have identical processors despite their different external appearances and the differences in the jobs they perform. One controller can direct up to four machines,” the Maker explained.
“What happens to the machines if a controller gets broken somehow?” Feeror asked.
“If a controller is damaged or if the machines get out of range, they are supposed to shut down. A new controlle
r is then programmed with the correct frequency.”
“Is there any way for the controller to short out or otherwise cause someone to lose control of the machines?”
The Maker shook his head. “No. We checked the controllers this world uses and they are fully functional. There’s nothing wrong with them. We have plenty of failsafe procedures in place to prevent such things from happening.”
“What about the strange force field the Mekan erected around its head when that telcor attempted to remove the processor?” Moylir said.
“That’s never happened,” the Maker said. “What if we can’t stop them?”
“They will dig until they completely destroy this world. And yours as well,” Feeror said.
“How long do we have?”
“I don’t know. Traveling through the portals as we do, we’ve noticed that time doesn’t pass at an equal rate on every planet. What is days on one world may be years on another. When we left our world the first time the Mekans arrived, we thought we had beaten them,” Feeror snarled, remembering the triumph after the sound weapon brought the hulking metal beasts to their knees. “We took the weapon to another world, Astra, to destroy the machines there. But it didn’t...” Feeror’s voice hitched, images of the Mekan crushing the life out of his little Gwen flashing across his vision.
He took a deep breath. “The sound weapon hadn’t actually destroyed the Mekans. Merely stunned them. Once the machines on Astra woke up, we knew they must have done the same on our world. By the time we returned, everyone was dead.”
“We only made them to reduce the risk of mining. We never thought this would happen,” the Maker said, voice heavy with misery.
“We know it isn’t your fault. If we seem angry, it’s only because of what we’ve witnessed, what we’ve been through. Many of our friends have died. We just need to find a way to stop them,” Moylir said, placing a hand on the Makers arm.
He looked at Moylir, his face stiffening. “We will do whatever it takes to help you.”
The Head Maker strode over to stand between Feeror and his comrade. “Now look here,” he jabbed a finger at the Maker’s chest. “You can’t just go making promises like that. How do we know for sure that this alien creature can actually communicate with our people? How do you know it isn’t all part of some scheme to take us out? Maybe they are the competition,” he finished with a conspiratorial whisper.