by C. Gockel
“Let it speak for itself then!” Eight declared.
James's gaze was focused on the pod, now disappearing into Luddeccea’s atmosphere. He had wanted so much to eviscerate Kenji—emotionally and physically. James had wanted to watch him die slowly, while tormenting him with knowledge of his sister's death. Instead James had saved him, because he knew that was what Noa would have wanted.
He hadn't been able to save her or to avenge her. His apps told him that gravity had not shifted, but he felt weighed down by his own failure. His vision went dark.
“I have to get Noa out of my head,” he hissed.
Schematics began filling James's vision, superimposing themselves on his pink-hued view of the stars. A drone flew into the frigate into the cabin just to the left of James's location. There was heat, and the bulkhead between the two spaces melted and curled inward, leaving a gaping maw that sucked James out into the black. Before the pain of depressurization could even begin, he slipped back into the mindscape of Europa.
“I will help you delete her,” Time Gate 8 said.
Chapter Twenty-One
James's body was on another hard surface, in a pitch black room, but this time he wasn't restrained. A bitter laugh sought to tear through him, but the circuits that controlled emotional display on his jaw and in his artificial larynx wouldn't let the sound come. His jaw shifted and he huffed. He was still restrained, not by shackles, but by his programming …
The gates were silent in his mind, so he reached into the ether.
Eight replied, “Your Qcomm channel to One is disengaged again.” It sounded vexed.
“I'm aboard you?” James asked.
“Yes,” Eight said.
The room began to lighten so gently that James's vision was able to adapt easily. He was lying on the floor, and the room was pleasantly warm—a human would have described it as too hot. He sat up, and a few small, wheeled 'bots whirred back. They were the type he'd seen picking up refuse on other stations. That made him raise an eyebrow. He looked around and realized he was in the small augment repair wing of the station's med facility. There was an empty bed beside him, but the little 'bots must not be enough to lift him. He climbed to his feet. Nearby, there was a wheeled tray that was just a bit higher than the bed. Tools were neatly laid out on it—Dr. Lopez had had a similar arrangement. All but one of the instruments was dusty. The part of his consciousness built on the memories of James Sinclair likened the neatly placed, dusty tools to the ruins of Pompeii or Herculaneum, where ordinary objects had been quickly abandoned in the midst of tasks. James picked up the last tool. On one end, it had a plastic handle that lit up when he touched it. On the other end was a tube as narrow as a hummingbird's bill. The device was an augment control key. He reached into the ether for the device and found its signal. Raising the thing to his neural interface, he paused, catching his reflection in the mirror for the first time. There was a long gash on his face that stretched from outside of his left eye to his jaw. He could see the black alloy of his skeleton through it. One of his eyes was an angry red, though internal apps told him it was healing. On that side of his face his tears had left pink stains. There were numerous small cuts on his face and body—they'd sealed, but left the stain of blood behind. The front of the blue-gray scrubs-like garments he wore were similarly stained and torn. Lopez must have known Kenji was coming. He rarely bothered to give James clothes. He'd wanted to know if James could feel shame, and being without clothing made a lot of those experiments more convenient. James didn't feel shame, but as soon as he was done here he was burning the scrubs.
He took a deep breath and inserted the key into an auxiliary data port. Before he could alter his programming, he needed to physically “unlock” his hardware to allow it, but to do that … “I need my security code,” James said.
“All agents and their creators have their codes,” Eight said.
“I don't know my code,” James protested, his mind darkening in despair.
“Have you ever run a query for it?” Eight asked.
James blinked. He hadn't even known it was possible to program himself with an augment key up until Eight had revealed his schematics. He closed his eyes for a moment, and focused on what he wanted. Almost instantly, a string of symbols a thousand digits long appeared behind his eyelids. The key's ether interface lit up in his mind alongside the code. One-by-one, he entered the symbols into the key. The tiny device began to whir as it began the sequence of turns and pulses that would “open” his command line prompts. The noise was deafening, and for a moment, he thought of slipping away to Ang, Anita, and Joi. And then the noise stopped, the key's interface melted away, and James was looking at a wall of ones-and-zeroes. Because of his Time Gate 8's data download earlier, he understood the code—he was seeing all of his currently operating programs, and all his memories as the professor and the cyborg. The memories of his time between when he piloted a shuttle to Luddeccea and “awoke” on the gate, were strangely absent—he pondered it, but then noted a few lines of code that would have allowed the gates to make him self-destruct; he disabled them. There was a script for running a diagnostic on the Qcomm channel to the gates; he didn't bother to turn it on. He did respond to the prompt to run a diagnostic on the malfunctioning emotional responses in his jaw. Within seconds, the signals had been rerouted—and in the real world he smiled. He saw the code that made him desire fat and sugar; and the code that prompted the satisfaction he felt when he ate anything calorific. He left it untouched. He almost disabled the code for tactile, auditory, and visual pain—but memories from James the professor made him keep them. A friend of the professor had disabled pain receptors in an augmented hand, and had melted the device while standing too close to a campfire. He left his pain and pleasure receptors on.
Considering how little he felt about them, there was a surprising amount of code devoted to the professor's parents and how James would interact with them in case of a chance encounter. He was programmed to protect and prioritize their well-being after Noa and himself. He supposed they would know immediately he wasn't human, but perhaps if his interactions were positive, they might not have revealed his identity? He didn't touch that code.
Much of his programming was geared toward protecting his identity as a cyborg—when he'd felt the urge to kill Gunny aboard the tramp, it hadn't been the gates controlling him, but his own programming. As soon as Gunny had come up with a plausible explanation for James's abilities, the urge had gone away. When Kenji had revealed that he was aboard the bridge, he'd been relieved of having to protect his nature. Because it was no longer necessary, James deleted the code.
His mind came to the massive collection of ones-and-zeroes that were his memories of Noa, and the comparatively simple and short lines of code that made him feel as though he loved her. He just had to turn the symbol at the end of the last line to a zero—obviously he had been designed so that the feeling could be shut off easily. James's hand shook. That feeling of not just love but connection and rightness had ruled his existence since he awoke in the snow. After she was gone, vengeance directed at the Luddecceans, her brother, and even the gates for letting her back through had given him purpose. In one way or another, Noa had been his whole world …
He almost dropped the key that kept his command line prompts open, but then he thought of the gates' transmitted images of the Ark barreling into a planetoid, and Kenji slipping away in the pod. James didn't have Kenji or his torturers to torment anymore. His whole world went black. He felt his body nearly collapse against the table, and he wanted to weep. Somewhere in the distance, he felt Eight trying to reach to him in the ether, and heard the tray with the tools tumble to the floor as his body sagged against it.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there … the despair was so intense, he couldn't even retreat to the mindscapes of the other agents. He remembered Anita saying, “You have to find a new purpose.”
James pulled the tiny shred of himself that was still his and changed that
last number.
He felt lighter. His eyes opened to brightness.
“It's done?” asked Eight.
“Yes,” said James. He still had all his memories since he'd met Noa, but it was like watching a holo of someone else's life … like watching the real James Sinclair's life. No, that wasn't quite right. The memories of the pain Lopez had inflicted on him, they were still real. His skin heated, and he knew without looking down that his tattoos were black. “Thank you, Eight,” he said. “You went against the others to save me from those sons of lizzars.” He wiped his hands down his face. The sensation of his fingers on stubble was a revelation. He could feel something that wasn't pain. He spread his arms to soak up the warmth of the room and swore he could feel his tattoos throb as they converted the warmth to energy. “Thank you, Eight,” he said again. He was free of his torturers, of the other gates' machinations, and of Noa. He belonged to himself for the first time ever.
“They were human, not lizzars,” Eight replied, sounding confused. “But you are welcome. It was not fair of One to give you such a difficult purpose. Humans are bound by kinship, and he attached you to the kin of the man who almost destroyed me when I had done nothing but quietly ferry his people and their communications between the stars.”
Kenji, James realized. He was talking about Kenji.
“You could never succeed with her,” Eight said, and James blinked. That was not the opinion the other agents had. Eight continued, “Not if she knew what you were.”
James felt static flare under his skin. “She knew what I was and accepted me.”
“She lied,” Eight said.
James tilted his head. “No.”
“She was deceiving you,” Eight hissed.
Electricity crawled along James's spine … Not because of any remaining feelings for Noa, but because Eight's announcement made him feel the same universe out-of-balance sensation he had when Wren had tried to kidnap him and settled on Oliver instead. He didn't want to argue, though, because for the first time, he felt like he didn't have to defend Noa from threats to her person or her honor.
He smiled. He could move, burn his clothes, find food, and find sensations that were not pain. He had resigned himself to slipping into the mindscape to escape his torturers, but this was much better.
“There are other agents of One aboard,” Eight said.
“Other agents? Here?” James asked, his processors sparking in elation. “Where are they?”
“Follow the lights,” Eight said. The lights in the medbay dimmed, the door slid open, and in the hallway beyond, the lights brightened to the left. James followed the glow out of the room, and realized that he'd need to steal some clothes. The rest of the station was cold. Ignoring his relatively mild discomfort, James followed the glow down into a darkened concourse. Everywhere James looked, there were 'bots humming and chirping, crawling over each other, and creating more of themselves with bits and pieces of machinery. Sparks flew, and he heard the sound of a metal saw. None paid attention as he passed through them, following the trail of lights into a maze of corridors packed with servers that gave him a sense of déjà vu. The lights led him to a room with an airlock seal that slid aside at his approach. Frigid air buffeted him as he paused in the doorway, his sense of déjà vu impossible to deny. In the room were white, nondescript containers with flat bottoms and round tops about two point three meters long.
“Coffins?” James whispered, stepping into the room.
“Caskets,” Eight corrected. “In order to facilitate the transfer of agents to this system, One put them in deep space shipping caskets and disguised them as deceased humans seeking burial on Luddeccea.”
James noticed that one of the coffins was open. Walking over, he cautiously peered in. “This one is empty,” he whispered, gazing down at the white satin interior.
“It's not familiar?” Eight asked.
James's processors lit in recognition. “This was mine.”
“Yes.”
James walked to the next coffin over. One third of the lid was plexiclear. Peering inside, he sucked in a sharp breath. “This is Monica's husband … Ryan Jarella.”
“No, an agent designed to look like him,” Eight replied. “One estimated that there was a 98.0567% chance that he would be murdered by the Luddeccean authorities and we would be able to slip in an agent to monitor Monica. She is of interest.”
Studying the agent, James frowned and rubbed a hand along his now-functioning jaw. The agent's outward age appeared slightly older than was usual. His face's too-symmetrical features had a few lines, and he had gray hair at his temples. The human James hadn't liked Monica's husband—James himself felt pity for the agent, and anger at One. His hands turned to fists at his side. “She doesn't like machines.”
“I believe One wanted to see if she could be swayed,” Eight responded.
James remembered Noa's reaction to his appearing like Timothy. “Resembling my former purpose's dead spouse was not advantageous. Impersonating a particular human would be received even less well.”
“You still care about Commander Noa Sato?”
James's processors surged uncomfortably at the tone and the lack of segue, but he was able to respond honestly, “No, it's just an observation.” He didn't care. Thoughts of Noa didn't conjure up any dark shadows of failure. There was, however, a curious sort of vacuum where the feelings for her used to be.
Eight continued, “The early agents formulated their personas from human media. They were often described by their purposes as 'erratic' and 'odd.'”
James thought of Raani modeling her behavior off of holodramas and could completely believe that.
“Your generation of agents had pre-programmed personas,” Eight said. “With Professor James Sinclair's time capsule's virtual journal, yours was the most complete.”
Drawing back from the coffin, James raised an eyebrow and smirked.
“Your expression indicates a positive emotion,” Eight observed. “Explain.”
“I'm bemused,” James replied. “If I had behaved like Raani, one of the early agents I know, Noa would have stunned me at the very least, and possibly have blown my head off.” The other James's memories of love—or lack thereof—had enabled him to see that his obsession with Noa was unhealthy. That realization had held him at bay. He broke into a grin, maybe because of the imagery that popped into his mind, or maybe it was just the freedom he felt in envisioning it without the sensation of failure.
“That is not amusing,” said Eight.
James projected an ether image of himself falling on one knee, throwing up his arms, and shouting, “I only want to love you!” while an ether Noa backed away, eyes wide, her body in the perfect stance as she aimed a phaser pistol at his head. In the real world, James laughed aloud. “You're right, it is hysterical!”
“No!” Eight declared. “It is not! It is wrong. It is illogical to react to declarations of attachment in that way.”
James's ether imagining faded, and so did his smile.
“And humor is illogical!” Eight hissed.
James tilted his head. “I find it a refreshing reboot.” Even as he said it, he felt as though he'd pleasantly recharged with a stunner set to just the right power level.
“Your finding is wrong,” Eight retorted.
James had a grainy memory of James the professor's mother when James was twelve. They'd been on Luddeccea, and had been wearing some simple, comfortable Luddeccean cotton summer clothes. They must have passed as native, because while they'd been in an ice cream shop, a shop boy had complained to the manager about “the godless off-worlders spreading their non-religion.” James had nearly piped up, “We don't have a religion,” but his mother had touched his hand as the shop keeper had said, “None of them belong here.” Over the ether, his mother had said, “Finish your ice cream, don't rush, and don't say anything.”
He'd looked around and noticed other patrons nodding at the manager.
“Choose your battles,”
his mother said across the ether.
James sighed. After that incident his mother had assured him that the Luddecceans in the Northern provinces were much more welcoming. How wrong she'd been. He put a hand to his temple. No, she hadn't been wrong. They had had wonderful vacations on the planet for many years. Still, he suspected the tinder for the fire of intolerance had always been there, ready to be lit by a spark.
He dropped his hand. Strange that memory should come back just now. Shaking away his unease, James moved to another coffin. This one had a woman in it. She had red hair, pale skin, and generally Caucasian features; another “throwback.” She reminded him of Ashley from Noa's memories, but she wasn't quite right. Her features weren't quite as symmetrical, her face was too plump, and her lips were full and pink.
James moved on to the next coffin; inside was a boy. He looked to be a bit younger than Raif. A replacement for someone's dead child? He moved on and discovered another agent who was a beautiful girl of perhaps sixteen, and a woman in engineering coveralls who looked to be in her later twenties. Yet another bore a striking resemblance to the Luddeccean Premier. “We thought of just replacing the Luddeccean heads of state,” Eight explained as James examined the agent. “But the others dithered, and now it is too late for that, but we can wake them up … you can wake them up.”
James blinked at a panel of lights flashing at the sides of the coffin. “I can?”
“Well, I could, too,” Eight said, “If I send in one of my 'bots. The warm-up sequence need only to be initiated.” A flurry of numbers scrolled through James's mind—the sequence, he supposed. “But I haven't. I wasn't sure if they could be on my side, like you, or if they'd be with One. But you're on my side, maybe they will be, too?”
James thought of all of the agents he'd befriended over the Qcomm. To have someone really here to explore the gate with him—there were probably Luddeccean delicacies aboard. His eyebrows rose. Gate 8 would have some luxurious accommodations for wealthy travelers as well. He reached into the ether and found a station-based hotel with a hot tub and sauna—thinking about the heat of those places made him drool. Having someone there with him, who would want to explore Time Gate 8, soak up the warmth, and create mindscapes … he almost cried, “Yes,” but he caught himself. “They all have pre-programmed purposes, don't they?”