Chaos Cipher

by Den Harrington

  Welcome to the future; they had told Raven. The Kyklos had orbited the super-giant Suntau star, caught in her immense gravity where time moved much slower, they hadn’t had stations like this when he was last in the solar system. They hadn’t the technology to match the Kyklos, at the time it was a spectacle. This was the future, his future. Raven’s powerful feet dredged the floor as he ambled for the kitchen area. He touched several panels on the wall and a cabinet swept quietly open. Arms and platforms unfolded gently, offering thin plates, utensils, glasses and cold beverages, composed of elegant light-weight materials geometrically unfolding without an energy source like some sort of intelligent responsive origami. He sat on a kitchen stool, another unfolding feature, and rubbed the scarred part of his right forearm that ached for his gauntlet again.

  ‘Were they our new crew?’ Raven asked her.

  Avenoir turned to him then bowed her answer. Raven brushed his hand through the bristles on his head. The dry scrape of palm against the short hair vibrated through his skull as he scratched, flaking the skin away. They had been sterilised before even entering The Constella Transit, he was only grateful they didn’t need to go through that again.

  He’d heard about the lice. For some humans, the tardigrades were bothersome. They carried diseases that would kill in a matter of hours, if not treated. The cure wasn’t the problem, identifying the symptoms was the main issue. Since the creation of the nanome industry, diseases had been somewhat altered in their role in human society. Immune systems throughout generations of Titans had been replaced with nanoctor micro-immunities, causing a strong dependence on the industries just to fend off a simple cold. Medicine became a thing of the past, while Micro-Immune-Updates fast became the new treatment. Those not wealthy enough to afford the MIU’s were subject to unethical ends. For Olympians, it wasn’t a necessity. MIU’s were the out-dated technology, synergy was the new evolution. All this had happened in his time, he’d have hoped mankind and the Titans of the Atominii had altered their mode of existence for something more equal and to the benefit of all. But then if that was so, all this vengeance and hatred would be unnecessary. It wasn’t science that was the problem.

  Raven picked his gaze up from the floor and stared out the window where she stood. Avenoir looked at the skin on her hand. It was growing pale and starting to peel. Raven had noticed it too. Even his skin was beginning to flake away for the new cells underneath. But he knew now that these cells would be different. His skin was changing, losing its colour with each shedding layer. Avenoir would stop shedding her skin eventually, but Raven would continue until wasting away, his reliance on the glow of the Elixir had only now demanded its payment, how he missed its healing light. He peeled away a large flake and twisted it into a roll between his fingers.

  ‘I will not weaken my composure’ said Raven, ‘but I will try to be civil. Once we emplane The Griffin’s Claw we must seek a commodious resolve. Whence we are settled will so the genesis of our uprising commence.’

  The girl looked concerned and he felt her worry. ‘What is it?’ he asked over his shoulder. ‘Will they cooperate?’

  Her head nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Raven sighed. ‘Do not allow thy compassion for life to enervate thy resolve. This altruism, young Avenoir, must be supine in the wake of what need be done. The Titans must learn their lesson. I hope only the crew do not impede this plan; it’s not their blood I aim to spill.’

  -39-

  ‘There’s no doubt in my mind that Regallio will help us,’ said the Atominii Lawyer stiffly. ‘He’s under a lot of pressure as it is. What I suggest we do, is show him how much of a threat these two will be to the Omicron station. This is our best tactic.’

  Robert Alker sat opposite the peculiar little man as he clung to his portmanteau and ranted on about his tactics. He stared back at Alker through those big greedy glasses of his, eyes constrained as though to prevent sunlight reaching them, although there was little but soft panel lighting in the shuttle. Alker had selected him carefully from his team of commissioned campaign runners; he was a real persistent son-of-a-bitch and that was his winning characteristic, though he’d been tempted to pick a more suave and charismatic individual simply to show face. But it wasn’t looks he needed for this PR operation, it was skill, and Mr Kintz had just the right gumption at driving people mad with good-cop-bad-cop routines and a subtly threatening vernacular. For this meeting, the station owner had to be convinced that the terrorists they were after are a real danger to the integrity of his orbital station. The politician returned a sanguine smile.

  ‘You’re here to document the conversation for legal purposes, Mr Kintz. We’ve discussed our tactic already and I don’t wish to think on it any further. I.O.W, Mr Kintz, shut up and enjoy the silence.’

  The Lawyer sat back further into his well-padded seat and listened to the droning of the ship’s engines and the occasional hissing as the oxygen tanks were stirred and a new batch was added to the environment through the filters. He scratched his nose irritably. Alker had his head back calmly and his eyes closed.

  ‘It’s a long journey, don’t you think?’

  Alker didn’t reply.

  The Lawyer sniffled and found a pipe running under the mash floor to look at.

  ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Why?’ Alker finally asked with a frustrated sigh.

  ‘It’s the low gravmex-field environments…’

  ‘They call it micro gravity, if you want to be accurate.’

  ‘Yes, well it makes me a little sick.’

  ‘You had your training.’

  ‘I didn’t do well in the training.’

  He wasn’t lying. Alker hadn’t picked him for his gravmex adjustments either. He’d vomited in the centrifuge, he’d vomited on the sky-dives, and he’d even vomited on his way to the parliamentary building and put it down to nerves.

  ‘Is there definitely a gravmex field on the Omicron? I couldn’t stand this for another couple of weeks. I get paranoid.’

  ‘They have a centrifuge.’

  ‘Oh god,’ Kintz uttered, ‘centrifugal motion makes me dizzy.’

  ‘You’re like a baby. Here. Have one of these tablets.’

  Alker popped open a small cartridge and flicked the tablet spinning across the room and it cruised as in slow motion. Mr Kintz made a feeble pop with his jaws and missed, sending the tablet spinning out into the cargo hold.

  ‘I wouldn’t tell the pilots about that, if I were you,’ said Alker, ‘they get pissy about things floating around and clogging up mechanisms.’

  *

  Anton Regallio had the most spectacular view of Jupiter. The red storm blustered and swirled in the gas giant’s eye, millions of kilometres below him, visible through the vestibule’s transparent floor. His sneakers were lined with gecko-tread nanotechnology, keeping his firm hold on the ground and the view transparent and untarnished. The planet passed below him every couple of hours as Omicron rotated in orbit. Every few years, he’d get to see Calisto’s dark spherical silhouette drift close by the station. He could even program the optics to locate and expand the image of the Calisto resource station Archimedes II shining in the Valhalla basin. The light from Jupiter gave the otherwise gloomy room a deep vermilion quality.

  Anton Regallio loved to watch the colours flow through the deadlight floor, imbuing the room with interesting shades, almost mirroring the clouds below him. His station was his home and Jupiter his personal lava lamp. He was wearing his white jumpsuit today. Strict station regulations demanded a shaven head no more than two millimetres in length of hair for all Omicron personnel coming into the station. Today’s guests were, however, an exception. As the solar system’s main system harbour, tardigrades had been a large problem in micro-gravity. Technical problems occurred frequently in the axel docking sphere related to the contamination of delicate communication hardware. Since the introduction of the decontamination unit, the problem had been resolved, the haircut was just a precautionary actio
n. Long hair required a manual cut before entering the decontamination chamber; the radiation particle wash didn’t always catch everything. But he was supposed to be making allowances for these political Earthers from the hardlands. Apparently, humiliating customs like boarding and departure on Omicron was exclusive to such individuals of prestige.

  At the far side of the large vestibule was an elevator. Large silvery pillars stood around it, decorous with small lights resembling the kindle glow like candles stood in gilded, ornate holders. A giant mirror held his reflection on the West Wing wall of the vestibule. Anton stared at his broad shoulders with dignified attention, straightening his posture to suppose his sanguine bravado. He hitched his chest like a rooster as the elevator doors resonated with a gentle, electronic note through the peace.

  ‘Here we go.’

  Several feet shuffled lightly over the floor. Anton Regallio turned from the mirror, his thin lips breaking into a white, toothy smile.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he greeted soberly. ‘Haf-la and welcome to Omicron.’

  Their uniforms draped down to their knees like long sepia togas, padded with two different materials, shaded in burlywood patterns and embroidered with gold. They were high in their roles. Anton hadn’t had many dealings with governmental bodies, since most of Earth’s governments were no longer of state but of a series of corporate oligarchs competing for power, it was only natural that his station was scarcely approached. The show of hardlander government was usually for external regulations in space, however. The Atominii boasted of its free, democratic society, a neurophased interface governed by the invisible will of societies’ virtual consensus. Naturally, Anton didn’t believe the myths that came out of the appeals of the Atominii.

  Omicron had a respectable Archivology in communication and postal services and particle supplies. It was the solar system’s main source of intergalactic imports and exports, as well as antimatter production, and so it was conceived dangerous to challenge their services, not for fear of threats or for fear of even competition: but for fear of them going on strike and bringing the fragile harmony of the whole solar network to a standstill. No company wanted to challenge Omicron’s leadership in political matters such as holding asylum for dubious characters. Its union protected the vested interests of Omicron’s workers in the Valhalla Basin on Calisto’s surface, and the interests of its scientists producing antimatter energy in the particle acceleration tunnels winding the circumference of the habitat’s outer halo. Omicron’s major profits came from antimatter production, its innovative antimatter isolation techniques and sales from its antimatter fusion capacitors. True Anton has never been a man in want for more power, but he has also never desired to abuse a position to his advantage. He was, as he saw it, perfect for the job.

  Omicron’s exclusive arms policy assured him, they weren’t armed, but considering the nature of this meeting he had no reason to be suspicious they were. Anton lifted his head back and the slim looking man smiled respectfully.

  ‘Robert Alker,’ he greeted, with an auspicious and unctuous irie. ‘Haf-lah! And may I say what a fine station you have. This is my first visit, now I can see I’ve perhaps left this experience far too late.’

  Anton smiled warmly, ‘well I hope you enjoy what we have to offer here.’ He quickly judged Alker to be a fawning sycophant for reputable individuals, and made a mental note to watch out for the oleaginous complements that might be directed to smooth over some ulterior motive. Anton, though his past dealings with government officials were limited, was a cautious person when it came to such Titans. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he was hoping this visit would be a brief one. Alker seemed pristine. His skin was fare; his high rounded cheekbones gave him a slightly wide head, a slim nose, which drew his predatory eyes in, giving them a sinister sort of look.

  ‘This way,’ Anton offered, indicating with his hand up to the stairway that led to his office. The two other men assigned to the meeting made the whole thing look like a motley crew. One was naturally bald, with tribal markings on his face. A body guard, he assumed, probably well-travelled and with wide experience in private army ranks established globally; a born killer if ever there was one.

  Anton hadn’t been to Earth much over the years but he knew the tribal marks weren’t the tidy work of some local skin lace-tattoo parlour, but of actual combat affiliated status ranked by the echelons of dangerous hardland clans.

  The other was more uptight, consciously summing up the room and recording the surroundings of the vestibule through an ocular relay. Anton was indifferent about him, some lawyer official who was obviously there for the verbal agreements in light of their conversations. They ascended the steps, leaving the view of Jupiter below their feet and approached the main door to Anton’s office. The stairway began to flow, carrying them along as they ambled. The corridor was long, it reminded Alker of the first time he went through a subway escalator in Neo-London back when he was just a boy.

  ‘We’re very glad you were able to make this meeting,’ Alker said, ‘as you can appreciate Earther hardland types like myself really find it a struggle to get used to space travel. Still, they say those Gravmex-field machines are improving these days.’

  ‘You must mean the gravmex panels?’ said Anton.

  ‘That’s them,’ Alker said. ‘Incredible devices, how can they generate gravity like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anton. ‘We thought about installing some once. But the station here is centrifugal and it works just fine. Our methods may be a little dated, but the gravmex are splendid I agree, we just haven’t updated that technology. Gravito-magnetism research has been pending in our science department for some time, just can’t get the scientists. Not many like Willow Kruger nowadays.’

  ‘She was a great thinker of her time,’ Kintz half smiled. ‘She was a Jew but indeed a great thinker.’

  Alker picked up on the Mr Kintz’s micro aggression and was stunned at Anton’s stoicism; he’d imagined him to be upset. He let it slide. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard Kintz make anti-Semitic allusions.

  ‘Artificial gravity makes possible far reaching journeys, right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Anton said, ‘you know how it works don’t you? They suspend the body in biosynthetic fluids to mitigate the effects of gravity on the body, and then increase gravitational pressures around the ship with the gravmex. It essentially freezes time slippage. The spanner folk call it temporal suspension. Those gravmex panels and a touch of condensed Obsiduranium fuel can make for a hell of a far reaching journey.’

  ‘Obsiduranium is difficult to come by,’ said Kintz, looking over the side of their walkway to the tubular glass below where Jupiter’s clouds turned. ‘High energy fuels like that are not very economic.’

  ‘We’ve never had any,’ Anton smiled confidently. ‘Our starnavis are powered on a variety of energy solutions the spanners call Omnidyne solutions. Everything from pulse fusion aneutronics, micro-fusion cells and ZPE Casmium plates. There are sixty eight saltus-carousels within the station’s ownership, all making velox back and forth between solar systems and they all run on either magnetic coil charged superfluid or EGM, electro-gravitational-magnetism you know more formally as gravmex. The farthest one cycles every two years between here and the Garisk system carrying a ship called The Constella Transit. She’s a long service and successful courier vessel with a dynamic hull that compresses with gravitational duress. There’s not many like her.’

  ‘Actually,’ Kintz nodded, ‘we’ll want to know more about your saltus-carousels and security for sure. Nothing too in depth you understand, we’re trying not to overstep our boundaries.’

  ‘Good,’ Anton deliberated turning around.

  ‘What is the general method of trans-data?’ asked Alker.

  ‘Didn’t you do your research?’ Anton answered, ‘we use Quantics for communication and general data-transfer. Data is usually in qubits.’

  ‘Really? I’m surprised,’ Alker exclaimed. ‘Most you c
elestial settlers were wired up for the convenience of interfacing with commercial space craft. I know for a fact it helps pilots fly…don’t they have those neurosphere sensorium thingies?’

  ‘Some of our pilots are integrated. But even a neurophase requires a quantum network.’

  ‘Wired-up,’ Alker corrected.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘We call it a wire-up,’ Alker smiled, delighted to educate Anton. ‘A colloquial term for neurophasing an individual when neuroptics are grown through an individual’s cerebral paths for computer to brain interface. Incidentally we’re all wired-up. Mr Kintz has a neuro-ligature, as do I. So does my body guard here, Major JD O’Three.’ And Alker looked over his shoulder at the bodyguard.

  ‘As I said,’ Anton repeated, ‘We use Quantic devices on this station, strictly non-invasive models that operate on brainwave training. There’s a basic Nexus server for those who need the interface, mainly cyborgs according to our research. The station is controlled through some crypto-consensus that operates everything from forums to currency.’

  ‘Cyborgs?’ JD O’ Three corrected, ‘they prefer the term transentients.’

  ‘Sure they do,’ Anton smiled casually, ‘and I prefer to call them cyborgs. A transentient is a disabled person with a biomechanical enhancement, cyborgs are sentient machines trained to kill. I know the difference.’ And Anton’s smile lowered to a scathing glare. ‘So, is a wire-up still as dangerous now as when the procedure was first launched?’