Dark Transmissions

by Davila LeBlanc

  Morrigan cranked the safety release to his carbine, while Arturo rose up to his feet, aiming at the airlock Chord was working on. “My motion sensors have not picked up anything.”

  “Machine sensors.” Phaël gave out a disgusted snort over the team’s comm-­link. “I count at least six bodies, behind that door and heavy.”

  Chord paused, looking up to Arturo. “Should this unit continue with its task?”

  “Yes, it should.” Arturo kept his eyes focused forward. “Safeties off and be prepared, Private Brent.”

  “We should get out of here while the chance is still available to us.” Phaël stood up, shaking her head and giving the walls around her an apprehensive glance. “There’ve been eyes watching us since we entered.”

  “Machine eyes?” Morrigan kept his trigger finger ready.

  “You know the answer, Old Pa.” Phaël pulled her fur cloak closer to herself. Chord could tell by her accelerated heartbeat that she was getting nervous.

  Chord was just about to complete the task when the golden numeric code of the station datastream enveloped the airlock door. Seconds later, the airlock slid open as both gravity and atmosphere flooded the hall. Arturo raised his hand to shield his face from the sudden rush of dust and frost. Phaël tucked her head beneath the hood of her cloak. For Chord, the sudden stability of gravity was a welcome and familiar comfort.

  The door opened out into a large storage facility at least six stories high and stretching out further than Chord’s optic array could see. Sixty yards ahead of them was a ser­vice elevator shaft. A quick long-­distance scan indicated to Chord that it was still operational.

  There were intermittent flickers of fluorescent lights on the walls, casting shadows over the hundreds of thousands of crates that were neatly piled up. A heavy cold mist and frost covered both the floor and crates. This created a thick miasma that interfered with Chord’s optics.

  Morrigan let out a sharp whistle when he saw the containers in the facility. “All four of us could retire right now, am I right, Sureblade?”

  Arturo motioned for both Morrigan and Phaël to take point. “Stay behind me, Machina.”

  Morrigan and Phaël moved to the entrance. Morrigan scanned the room, then the two exchanged a quick nod. Morrigan stepped past the airlock first. Phaël followed him, keeping a pace behind and using Morrigan’s armored body as cover. Once in the warehouse, Phaël quickly ducked into a pool of mist, vanishing completely from Chord’s sensors altogether.

  Morrigan tapped the release button of his morph-­shield gauntlet on his right forearm. Multiple layers of reinforced segmented metal unfolded and locked themselves into a heavy rectangular shield that offered protection from his neck all the way to his knees. Morrigan rested the barrel of his carbine on the top flat of his shield as he kept on scanning the room.

  Arturo followed close behind Morrigan, his morph carbine pointed skyward. Once they had all stepped past the door, Arturo waved at Chord, who promptly switched to infravision and looked the room over. Other than the three Humanis present, there were no heat signatures of any kind.

  Something caught Chord’s attention. Nine heavy black spheres, each supported on three arms, all of them no more than twelve steps away from the team. Chord was able to remotely scan them with one look, revealing their incept codes, serial numbers and what must have been their factory inspector names along with the same strange logo that had been scrawled outside the station.

  Again the letters were from the Late Modern alphabet and they read “AstroGeni.”

  Chord pointed to the spheres. “Sergeant Kain, this unit recognizes those black spheres as automated drones. They are simple machines with no intelligence programming, designed for building, repairs and maintenance.”

  Arturo tapped Morrigan on the shoulder. The latter stopped and kept watch, his carbine ready. The lights of Arturo’s suit gleamed off the drones’ shiny black metallic carapaces as he looked them over. “Are they dangerous?”

  “Old Pa! There ain’t any frost on those spheres!” Phaël, who was nowhere to be seen, called out over the team’s comm-­links. Morrigan and Arturo both raised their weapons barrels toward the still-­inert spheres.

  The drones suddenly sprang into motion, rolling toward Arturo, Morrigan and Chord at a surprising speed. Protocol was simple enough. Chord walked over to a nearby crate. There was a loud metallic groan and Chord tore off the crate’s lid as if it were a piece of sheet paper.

  Arturo and Morrigan opened fire on the approaching rolling black spheres. Morrigan’s omnibarrel carbine gave off a high-­pitched purr as he let off a burst of crystal flechettes. Arturo’s rapid blasts of purple heated plasma shells gave off a loud sizzle as they scorched the air.

  Like many a school of fish Chord had observed, the drones spread apart, avoiding the volley of firepower. They now resumed rolling forward in a bid to close the gap between them and the team. Phaël suddenly dove out from a nearby patch of shadows. She dug into her cloak and snapped out one of her vine whips in one hand while holding a long curved knife in the other.

  Two of the drones broke off from the “pack” to fall upon her. Chord could recognize much older versions of the omnitool fingertips mechanizing into razor-­sharp metal cutters on each of their six hands. The air hissed as the first drone spun around itself, becoming a whirlwind of heavy, bone-­crushing fists and flesh-­rending razor-­sharp fingertips.

  With a supple liquid grace, Phaël fearlessly slid beneath the whirling drone’s arms and snared one of its fists with her whip. Not once pausing or losing a beat she drove her long knife all the way to the hilt into its optical lenses.

  The ensnared drone sparked and staggered, trying to break free from the binding, but its efforts were in vain, for Phaël’s vine whips were almost just as strong as diamond-­wire rope and had not been produced by machines.

  Morrigan’s barrel widened as he fired off another round, and this time Chord could make out a blue glow covering the flechettes. The blast blew off one of the attacking drone’s arms and it rolled away from Phaël for a moment.

  The rest of the advancing drones were now upon them. One reached forward with its metallic fingers, snapping at Chord. With one powerful swat of the crate lid Chord batted the drone away. The lid dented in half as Chord’s swing caved in the drone’s circuit board.

  A second drone quickly grabbed on to Chord’s wrist and Chord dropped the cover. The drone used its other two arms to grab on to Chord’s chest, but Chord managed to catch ahold of both of them. Servos wired as the two mechanical bodies struggled with one another. The drone’s third arm savagely slashed at the air. The present struggle was the only thing preventing it from cutting through Chord’s chest plating.

  As durable and versatile as the Pilgrim shell was, combat was not its primary function and the autodrone had enough strength in those arms to significantly damage it. Chord started to scan the drone’s datasphere. There had to be a way to quickly deactivate this opponent.

  Arturo, meanwhile, kept his cool demeanor, not so much as taking a single step back while two drones fell upon him. One prepared to swing and with blinding speed it attacked. Arturo appeared to be even quicker to react, falling onto his back and rolling away, in no small part due to the extra mobility his lifesuit granted him.

  The drone was unable to stop its swing in time and punched right through its partner’s carapace. Sparks flew, and before the attacking drone could even react, Arturo opened fire on it with a controlled barrage. Blue plasma pellets went straight through the drone. Melted inner circuits sparked and hissed as it fell over, motionless.

  Another drone took Chord’s present struggle as an opportunity to attack from behind. It grasped on to Chord’s head with one of its three hands. There was a sudden heavy whir as dark metallic fingers attempted to pry Chord’s head off its shell.

  “The Machina needs help!” Morrigan grunted as
he opened fire on two drones that were beating against his shield. A hail of razor-­sharp flechettes peppered into the two drones and they rolled to the side, no longer operative.

  Arturo responded by spinning around in a smooth motion and drawing a bead with his carbine on Chord. “Machina, be still!” Arturo ordered as he opened fire. The heated plasma beam narrowly missed Chord’s head, destroying the drone on its back.

  Finally free, Chord was now able to access the last autodrone’s datasphere. To Chord’s vision, it was suddenly covered in green holographic coded cubes. From there it was a simple matter of accessing the drone’s power-­down function. Chord triggered it and the drone promptly went limp and heavy. Satisfied that it was no longer active, Chord dropped the inert husk harmlessly onto the floor.

  “Sound off!” Arturo shouted as he looked about their surroundings.

  “Morrigan Brent, no worse for wear. Got myself a drum and a half worth of munitions left.” Morrigan patted the heavy drum ammo barrel at the back of his carbine.

  “Machines have nothing over nature.” Phaël, with no firearms, technology or strong mechanical shell, had managed to ensnare both her foes and driven a long dagger into their optic lenses. Both her drones were now sparking and inoperative.

  She had cut out one of her kill’s optic lenses and was walking over to Chord, slowly sheathing her long sharp knives as she did. “We never needed any fancy guns or tech to take down your ancestors.”

  Phaël tossed the optic lens at Chord, who caught it midair. “This unit must express confusion. What is the meaning of the gesture posed?”

  “A reminder.” Phaël gave one of her knives a sharp slap as she finished sheathing it. “My kind, we’re always watching your kind and waiting.”

  Morrigan interposed himself between Phaël and Chord. “This is far from being either the right time or place, Phaëlita.” He looked down to the crate Chord had torn open. Chunks of unprocessed ore had fallen onto the floor. Morrigan let out a regretful sigh when he saw this.

  “Humping waste.”

  Arturo checked his ammo counter, frowning before getting back up. He nodded approvingly to Morrigan. “Well done . . .” Arturo trailed off as the sound of metal rolling on metal coming from above them cut him off. In unison all four looked up. A swarm of drones was crawling down along the wall toward them.

  “Free us from this prison or die with us.” A woman’s electronic voice seemed to speak out from all of the drones in Late Modern.

  Chord pointed toward the elevator shaft down the warehouse. Arturo looked to the elevator, then to the amassing drones. “Move!” he shouted, and darted toward the elevator. Phaël, Morrigan and Chord fell in behind him as the drones rolled down the wall onto the floor and gave chase.

  “Free me from this prison or die with us. Free me from this prison or die with us,” the swarm chanted over and over in perfect machine unison.

  CHAPTER 13

  MORWYN

  VARIABLES: Two foes, both of equal cunning and skill, meet one another on the field of battle. One is guided by ethics and has the higher ground. The other is guided by righ­teous­ness, possessing numbers and ambition.

  RIDDLE: Who between the two achieves victory? And, more importantly, how?

  —­ Garthem Officer’s Training Manual, “Riddles of Conquest,” SSM-­06 1139 A2E

  10th of SSM–10 1445 A2E

  “I bet you are wishing you had listened to wiser judgment and left that old place alone. Am I right, kiddo?” Lunient Tor’s ink-­black eyes looked for support from everyone else in the mess with him. No one responded to his comment; all attention was now focused on Morwyn. Red emergency lights lit up the ship’s cantina. The atmospheric recyclers were currently inactive, giving the air a stale, closed-­in taste.

  Morwyn had expected as much from Private Lunient Tor. He was glad to see that the rest of the crew was far less resigned to this perceived doom. There was truth to the statement, of course. The current situation was difficult, no doubt. Despite all of this, Morwyn considered them far from being finished and even further from being defeated.

  “Captain, you requested a report when we knew the damage estimate for my baby Jinxie.” Machinist Oran’s sour voice spoke over the ship’s intercom, thankfully interrupting Lunient before he could carry on.

  “I would hear it plainly, Machinist Troy.” Morwyn let out a sigh. Private Beatrix had on several occasions pointed out that if foul moods were a familial trait, Commander Jafahan and Machinist Oran Troy would probably be direct blood relatives.

  “Well, Captain Sir, the Infinite Green shares like levels of hatreds and loves for us at present. My ship’s hull is intact. That would be sign of Her Love. Now as for the Green’s Hate, Jinxie’s portside mobility drive is shot to shite. We would need at least a standard month of repairs just to get her fully operational again. Until then, Jinxie and us, we ain’t moving.” Oran’s voice was almost boiling over with anger and frustration.

  Morwyn pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a short breath before speaking, choosing his words carefully. “Machinists Oran, Kolto, I understand and thank you both for tending to these problems. But I must ask: Is there no way of restoring basic maneuverability?”

  Morwyn could hear Machinist Kolto clearing his throat on the line. His deep Thegran voice almost seemed to boom off the walls as he spoke over the cantina’s speakers. “Well, friends. What my love and starfire might have neglected to mention is that the starboard mobility drive remains undamaged. It just got tangled up with the magnetic tether.”

  Kolto let out deep grunt as if he were tugging at something heavy. “It will take us some time to free it up, but once the task is completed we will be able to move.”

  “How much time will you need to complete this task?” Earlier, Morwyn had ordered Engineers Oran and Kolto outside the ship to assess the damage to the Jinxed Thirteenth. While the duo lacked any real form of military decorum, he trusted that they would be more than capable of getting them moving again.

  Kolto paused, then clicked his teeth heavily. “Two hours. I would stake my ancestors’ names and personal word on it.”

  “Until then, my Jinxie is crippled and humped,” Oran quickly added to Kolto’s estimate.

  “Do what you must.” Morwyn took a deep breath. The situation was far from ideal. The ship’s mobility, however, was a secondary problem.

  Earlier, Pilot Lizbeth Harlowe had made an important point to him. There was no way of knowing if the operating systems had been compromised during the transmission from the station. This was why she had shut down all functions except for gravity, emergency lights and the ship’s photosynth generators. On top of the list of repairs, a full system’s reboot of the onboard computer would also be required.

  Without any operational mainframe, they would have no access to the astrocharts needed to safely plot a course through slipspace. More importantly, they would be unable to get any message to Patrol headquarters, located back at Central Point, light-­years away. This effectively eliminated the possibility of any rescue operation being dispatched.

  Crippled, unable to move or call for backup and with no way of knowing if their fellow crewmates on the station were indeed alive or not. It was now painfully clear to Morwyn that they were at the mercy of an as yet unknown machine Intelligence. The longer they remained inactive, the more time they gave their foe to observe, fortify and prepare itself. They needed to take action. Which was why he had summoned Lucky, Chance, Marla Varsin, Lunient Tor, Beatrix and Commander Jafahan to the cantina for a debriefing.

  “We are presently wingless birds and the cat is licking her chops.” Morwyn spoke one of the first metaphors Commander Jafahan had taught him as a child. At the time, said saying had been used to describe her position over him while demonstrating a strong takedown and using a younger Morwyn as the test subject.

  Morwyn paused, then rested his
hands behind his back, calmly surveying the crew before adding, “I aim to change the situation.”

  “How do you plan on accomplishing this, kiddo?” Lunient’s black eyes darted nervously over toward Jafahan’s corner before he quickly cleared his throat and corrected himself. “I mean, Captain Sir.”

  “It warms an elsewise frigid heart to see one such as you capable of learning, Private Tor.” Jafahan deftly twirled one of her perfectly balanced and laser-­sharpened battle hatchets in her hand. The hatchet, along with her ser­vice dagger, were her preferred weapons in a close encounter.

  “If you kindly grant me a moment, Private Tor. We will achieve victory by removing our opponent’s options and maximizing our own.” Morwyn looked everyone in the eyes. “Make no mistake. This will be a very dangerous gambit. However, the payoff is that we get our ­people back and live to celebrate.”

  To Morwyn’s surprise and satisfaction, Lucky’s long barreled chemical slug rifle was rested across his lap. It had a heavy wooden stock off of which hung what appeared to be a dozen black feathers. A long vapostick hung lazily from his lip as Lucky polished the clear glass lens of his rifle’s scope with a dark rag.

  “With all respect due your rank, sir. It ain’t my first outing. I can’t well remember the one that ever qualified as safe.” Lucky blew out a wisp of vapor, shooting Jafahan a knowing nod. They were both Wolvers who had once, at some time or other, served in the Pax Legion.

  Commander Jafahan and Lucky had been trained by one of the best military machines civilized cosmos had ever known. Yet sadly, there was only one operation Wolvers on notoriously Kelthan-­favoring Pax military missions were ever used for. And that was as cannon fodder.

  Private Chance gave everyone in the room a hesitant glance, her eyes wide, her lips pursed. “Those hands of yours had best be steady when you’re watching my back with that rail rifle of yours, Private.” Jafahan’s words were an intimidating growl. They had the intended effect, as upon hearing them, Chance almost bolted out of her chair, swallowing hard and nervously.