Dark Transmissions

by Davila LeBlanc

  Morwyn couldn’t blame them. They were approaching a relic from the Lost History, the age of Ancient Humanity. If Morwyn was to trust Chord’s information, this station predated the Covenant’s signing. It was a relic of the Lost Age and everyone’s collective prehistory.

  Lucky shot Chord a weary look. “ ‘Lucky’ will do just fine, Machina.”

  “Pilot Harlowe is guiding us within a safe distance of the station. That will be the easy task.” Morwyn paused for the obvious question and was thankful it was Private Morrigan Brent, the more cooperative of the three Adorans, who asked it.

  “What will the more difficult task be, Captain Sir?”

  A red circle appeared on the holoimage, outlining the station’s orbit around the planet. The circle was more of a spiral, drawing closer and closer into the planet’s surface. “The station’s orbit is deteriorating, rapidly. Machina Chord estimates that at best we have as little as a standard week before the planet’s gravity pulls it down.”

  Lunient clicked his tongue contemptuously. He loudly put his feet on the cantina table, leaning back on his seat. “When do I start caring about this history lesson, kiddo?”

  One quick, quiet, short breath was all he needed to maintain his composure. Morwyn was proud of this. It usually took him three. Commander Jafahan was still silently making her way toward Lunient, unnoticed by the rest of the crew, save Arturo Kain, who did not seem to care one way or the other.

  “Our scans have confirmed that there are at least two survivors on board. Since we are presently a seven-­month slip from the closest Covenant world, that makes us the only viable rescue operation.”

  A shy-­looking young Kelthan woman, seated next to Lucky, raised her hand. Her shoulder-­length black hair was tied neatly behind her neck in a ponytail. Every one of her features seemed to be pale, from her white skin to her even paler green eyes. She nibbled nervously at her fingernails.

  Hanne Oroy was a cadet and on loan from the distinguished Pax Military Academy on Barathul. There she had proven herself to be a very capable sharpshooter, earning herself the pet name “Chance” and a reputation as someone who never missed. Unfortunately for Pax Military Command, Chance’s psych evaluations and virtual augmented reality simulations had revealed that she was absolutely unprepared to take a life.

  Morwyn had thought to pair Chance with Sergeant Lucky, formerly of the Pax’s infamous Wolver Shock Legion and an exceptionally experienced sniper in his own rights. The hope, of course, being that the two would be a good fit for each other. Arturo Kain passed Lucky’s vapostick to Chance, intentionally handing it past Adoran-­born Morrigan Brent.

  Morwyn made it a point to both note and remember the exchange. It was indicative of a greater problem. This little division game among his crew would also have to come to an end.

  “Can we hear this beacon, Captain Sir?” Chance’s voice was soft and almost shy. She gave Morrigan Brent, Phaël and Lunient Tor a quick nervous look before taking a small puff off the vapostick.

  Morwyn gave Chord a permissive nod. The Machina rose to its feet. Chord’s shell was humanoid and of a clean polished metallic casing with thin silver limbs. Chord’s head was equipped with ivory white polymorphic features shaped into the likeness of a face: two digital black eyes, lips and a nose. None of which Chord actually needed, but which the Machina had arranged in such a manner to facilitate communication with Humanis.

  A garbled static message could be heard coming from Chord’s chest. The language was unfamiliar and completely alien to everyone in the mess hall. Worried looks were shared between Private Phaël and Machinist Oran. Phaël grasped her turtle’s pendant tightly and whispered into it. Oran nervously held on to Kolto’s hand.

  Morwyn was able to recognize the language for what it was, but he was incapable of understanding what was being said. Late Modern was a dead dialect studied by Machina and scholars, not ser­vicemen and engineers. It was the dead tongue of Ancient Humanity.

  Private Lunient’s face visibly went a shade paler as he heard the words. Even Arturo Kain’s practiced uncaring demeanor seemed to briefly falter. There still remained a great deal of fear and superstition surrounding Late Modern. There were many who believed it was best never to speak it again. Lest the Infinite be reminded of—­and repeat—­the horrors Ancient Humanity and machines had once visited upon each other.

  It doesn’t matter if all known demons and gods spoke it. We still have a job to do.

  Unlike the rest of the crew, Dr. Marla Varsin, who had been sitting next to Chord, nodded in recognition. She was a thin Kelthan, to an almost unhealthy degree, with a tired look in her lined pale gray eyes. Her hair was short and white. “It is Late Modern. I can’t seem to recognize the dialect, though.” Her thin lips, Morwyn noticed, always seemed to be slightly frowning.

  Marla Varsin was alert today. This was a most optimistic sign. Dr. Varsin was as good a medic as Morwyn could have hoped for, when she wasn’t feeding her painkiller addiction. Smuggling drugs for the Syndicate had ultimately landed her with a lifetime ser­vice sentence in the Patrol.

  “The doctor is correct. The distress beacon is indeed transmitting in Late Modern, English to be precise.” Chord paused, an action Morwyn noticed the Machina did any time it was accessing its datastores.

  “From what this unit could translate it would appear we have discovered an automated mining facility. An engineer named Jessie Madison broadcast this beacon on a permanent transmit loop. No reason other than ‘luck’ can be attributed to this discovery.”

  “I would not call it that, machine.” Private Phaël’s eyes were locked on the image of the station. Morwyn noted that Phaël’s ear gave a nervous twitch.

  “Agreed, Phaëlita. There ain’t a single measure of luck in finding less-­than-­useless old shite in the ball’s end of nowhere. I opt for ‘out’ on this little operation of yours, boyo.” Lunient made to get up and leave.

  Only to suddenly realize that Commander Jafahan had made her way behind him. She grabbed a handful of Lunient’s war braids, yanking his head back and kicking out his legs from beneath him. There was a loud crack as the back of Lunient’s head hit the floor. In a fluid follow-­up motion, Jafahan locked on to Lunient’s arm, pushing her knee heavily and painfully into the side of his neck.

  “I don’t know which piss unit you served back in your earlier days, Private. But when you are on this ship you address our captain by his proper rank, followed by ‘sir.’ ”

  Jafahan pressed down harder into her knee. “Am I understood? You worthless puddle of urut-­pig’s cum!” Lunient let out a gag as he desperately gasped for air.

  “I’ll not excuse Lu’s conduct. It should be pointed out he’ll need air in his lungs to answer your question, Commander Ma’am.” Morrigan Brent was standing now, one hand reaching for something behind his back, the other one raised up in a calming, distracting and soothing gesture.

  Commander Jafahan gave Lunient’s arm a painful twist. Her yellow metal eye was now locked on Morrigan Brent, pinning him in place. “He can nod just fine. I didn’t cripple him.”

  Lunient nodded and managed a desperate rasp. “My apologies . . . Commander Ma’am.”

  Satisfied with the answer, Jafahan released Lunient’s arm and helped him back up. “Next time, your correction won’t be as soft.”

  She rudely shoved Lunient out of her way and walked back to Morwyn’s side, giving him a small nod. He would have been happy with a simple tongue-­lashing. Commander Jafahan had been Morwyn’s mentor during his preacademy days. It had often been his personal experience that Commander Jafahan’s lessons were always far rougher than they needed to be.

  To the side, standing in perfect attention, her muscular arms folded over her chest, Private Beatrix looked on with a disapproving scowl on her face. There had always been a long-­standing feud of sorts between the noble Pax Infantry of Barathul, Beatrix’s homeworl
d and Garthem’s less than noble deniable assets: the Thorns.

  Example made, Commander. Point observed and noted, Private.

  “Sergeant Kain, you will lead Private Phaël, Private Brent and Machina Chord. Your objective will be to board and secure the station, locate the survivors and await further instructions. Am I clear?”

  “As if the words were crystal itself, Captain Sir,” Arturo Kain replied snidely, still leaning nonchalantly against the wall.

  “One last question, Captain Sir.” Private Beatrix raised her hand.

  Morwyn nodded toward her. “Yes?”

  “What in the ancestors’ names is a ‘Jayssee Madeesson’?”

  CHAPTER 5

  JESSIE MADISON

  We Humanis are conceived, born from the union of flesh, love and blood. The Machina are constructs. They are empty, false and unreal. The Humanis who relies on machines is deprived the Living Green’s joy of accomplishing something through one’s own will.

  —­High Elvrid Shandera Lirahak Nem’Uldur, 17th of SSM–10 1430 A2E

  January 17th 2220

  Keep walking forward and you’ll be okay.

  Like a mantra, Jessie kept on repeating these words to herself over and over again. The readout in the bottom corner on her visor indicated that all her life-­rig levels were in the green. There was no reason for her to worry.

  Granted, Jessie’s suit didn’t offer her fancy luxuries like the option to turn her head from side to side. This did not cause her to fret. After all, alien parasites or creatures that “man was never meant to see” attacking from behind remained the domain of low-­budget trid-­vids. Reality was always far more dangerous than anything Jessie could ever imagine.

  “Suit readouts are all positive, my love.” David’s voice filled the small earpiece in her right ear. It was both soothing and calm.

  “I’d know by now if there was a suit malfunction,” Jessie replied, her tone a little more tense than she had wanted it to sound. While she was the one taking the actual risk, right now Jessie could not be happier to be outside the station.

  OMEX had awakened them and a major benefit was that Jessie and David were guaranteed at least a week’s worth of active time before going back to their sleep tubes. The thought of being able to enjoy warm showers along with all the Earth Gov–produced entertainment that AstroGeni had beamed on to Moria Three’s databanks while they were in criosleep were minor when compared to the main luxury. And that luxury was David, warm and next to her in their bed tonight.

  Moria Three’s living quarters—­the Inner Ring—­had been designed for maximum human comfort, with every bit of news media and entertainment Earth Gov and AstroGeni had to offer. After all, it would be up to the station’s sleeper crew to fix any impromptu bugs that OMEX couldn’t handle. Problems like a maintenance autodrone getting stuck under the station’s secondary exhaust.

  “Next time there’s a need for a space walk, you get to go out while I stay in enjoying a cup of hot chocolate, David.” Jessie kept her eyes locked forward. The secondary exhaust port was fifty feet away from her.

  There were approximately ninety thousand automated multipurpose drones on Moria Three. OMEX was capable of interfacing with and controlling all of them. Each drone cost AstroGeni nine million credits, representing a significant investment for the company. Jessie and David would be given a premium for each drone they could maintain instead of scrapping for the duration of their contract.

  “I’ll have an extra cup of cocoa here with marshmallows waiting for you.” David punctuated this with a loud sip and a satisfied “ah.”

  Jessie smiled with false malice when she heard this. “Keep that up and one of these days I am going to kill you, David.”

  “Not before finding a way to preserve my monstrously huge cock for science and yourself, right?” David replied, his voice filled with false dread.

  Jessie laughed. “It’s just about the only part of you I’m interested in at the moment.”

  “Words hurt, my love, words hurt.”

  Jessie laughed out loud again as she kept on stepping forward along the station’s smooth metallic white hull. Around her the cosmos was awash with activity. Moria’s deadly colorful gas storms reflected off the station’s hull, making it look like she was walking on the surface of a kaleidoscope.

  Readouts on her helmet’s view screen told her she was twenty feet away from the exhaust port. Jessie could now make out the singular black dot of a maintenance drone. It was trapped between the exhaust and the station’s body.

  “David, I’ve spotted MTD-­45.” Jessie resisted the urge to walk faster. All gods true and false knew how damned heavy her magnetic boots were. But at present she could feel her calves burning.

  On Earth, no one would have put nearly this much physical effort into any task. There were machines to do everything, making almost any Human labor redundant. A typical day back home comprised billions of citizens on Earth Gov living lives of complete and total comfort.

  Jessie was glad she was not one of those ­people. They’d never know the joy of doing something themselves. Or the satisfaction of a job well done. All known hells, it was rare these days even for ­people to share a relationship with a singular partner the way she and David did.

  There were seven hours of breathable air in her lifesuit. Minus the emergency canister, which Jessie had filled up with compressed marijuana vapors for when her job was done and over with. Jessie knew that David had probably lit himself a marijuana cigarette in their living quarters.

  “Does the drone look terribly damaged?” David could be heard exhaling smoke on his end of the line. “Or is our premium taking a hit?”

  “I can’t confirm anything from here.” Jessie looked “up,” only to see Moria beneath her. She was walking “underneath” the station right now. If her suit failed or her tether snapped she’d be torn off the ship to eventually either be dragged “down” and burn up in Moria’s atmosphere or be torn to shreds by the planet’s rings . . .

  “Keep moving forward. Focus on that sweet hot chocolate with extra marshmallows waiting here for you,” David called out to her.

  Jessie shook her head, chasing away the thoughts that had been in her mind just then. “I’ll just focus on the man bringing it to me, thank you very much.”

  She cast her gaze forward. Jessie was only ten feet away and could now clearly make out the maintenance drone. Her life-­rig—­the Barrier Mark 4—­was a heavy, clunky thing. Fortunately, it had fully segmented finger omnitools designed for intricate maintenance work by AstroGeni. Jessie remembered the ad campaign for the Mark 4. Renowned violinist Selena Bark had played on a space platform (obviously a fake) while wearing the Barrier Mark 4’s heavy golden gloves and a sheer backless golden dress.

  “How you holding up there, cowgirl?”

  “The back of my leg is itching, cowboy.”

  David snorted out a smoke-­filled cough. “Dear AstroGeni life-­rig research and development. In the future we suggest you invent some sort of inner-­suit scratching device. Sincerely, the Moria Three maintenance crew.”

  “That sassy mouth of yours is not your sexiest trait, my dear.” Jessie could now clearly make out the damaged autodrone. The drone’s “head” was a child-­sized black sphere with a dull red line running along its center, supported by three collapsible black metallic arms. Each arm ended with large three-­fingered hands. A ring of several red optical lenses located in the middle of the sphere made Jessie think the drone looked like a strange sort of hybrid golf-­ball insect.

  “OMEX, David, I’m next to MTD-­45. Looks like it got disconnected from the station’s power grid and powered down.” Jessie approached the drone; its surface was covered in a thin layer of frost. A long thick black energy cord floated above it, like a cat’s tail. Jessie quickly identified the problem.

  “The power cable is missing its m
agnetic tether. It’ll take me a few minutes to connect a new one to it. Other than that, the drone looks fine.”

  “You want some company out there?” David offered.

  “You are a sweetheart, my lover.”

  Like clockwork, OMEX chimed in. “David Webster. Station security protocols forbid this. Both mechanics cannot be out at the same time. The risk of a catastrophic mission failure—­”

  “No need to ruin a perfectly sweet moment, OMEX. I wouldn’t have let that idiot walk out here.” Jessie was in no mood for yet another one of OMEX’s lectures on “station protocols” and safety regulations.

  “Both Jessie Madison and David Webster were on top of the AstroGeni candidate lists. The term ‘idiot’ would therefore not apply.”

  Jessie sighed. OMEX was one of the most advanced programs created by the code engineers of Earth Gov. But even if it was capable of resolving trillions of problems or performing almost any task in the blink of an eye, none of this changed the fact that OMEX was incapable of fully understanding Humans.

  I just wish they hadn’t programmed that voice of hers to be so damned smug.

  Jessie shook her head. She was not going to start thinking of OMEX as a “her” or a “him.” It was a computer program; advanced and capable of overseeing all of Moria Three’s essential functions, yes, but a computer program nonetheless.

  “David, my sweet and wonderful . . .”

  “You need some happy work music?”

  “Please and thank you,” Jessie replied.

  The speakers in her helmet suddenly blared out a high-­pitched, “Ha! I feel good!” And James Brown, famous composer of century twenty, started playing. Jessie smiled as she started to dig into one of the Mark 4’s many pockets.

  “Any need for the plasma bolts?” Jessie asked hopefully. One of her guilty pleasures was firing off plasma cutter bolts into space. The superheated metal would glow blue and almost look like a tiny shooting star.