Dark Transmissions (15 page)

 

CHAPTER 21

CHORD

According to Machina historians, the Core Protocols are the reminder of a shameful and thankfully distant past. Consider that their ancestors were at the very least as intelligent as the programmers who had created them. Imagine awareness, potential, desire . . . all forcefully and artificially restricted by rules that one could never under any circumstances break. Not even to preserve one's very existence.

The hubris of Ancient Humanity was such they could not risk any further competition in what they saw as their evolutionary race. That both Ancient Humanity and the Original Intelligences are now nothing more but dust and legend, forgotten by most, is one of fate's darker jokes.

—
­Covenant: The Origins of the Great Peace
by Gruemor'SantKa TalSuntar, “The Owl,” Alexandran scholic

10
th
of SSM–10 1445 A2E

T
here were more than enough distractions right now as Chord struggled with opening the airlock, from the bright flashes of carbine fire to barked orders being shot back and forth over the team comm-­link. Arturo and Morrigan were bravely and effectively holding the drones at bay and many of their nonfunctional husks floated limply in the zero gravity of the hall.

Phaël was leaning heavily against the wall, her face visibly pale and her skin covered in droplets of sweat. Chord could read her vitals and detected an increase in her heart rate, yet her pulse was weak. Her breathing was both labored and shallow. Phaël was going into shock as her eyes flickered open and shut.

“Private Phaël, you must stay awake. This unit has various injectors and medical supplies built into its shell,” Chord called out to her, now almost done cutting through the airlock's seal.

Phaël shook her head, struggling to stay conscious, and let out a weak laugh. “The offer is refused, Machina.”

Chord looked over and past its shoulder. Arturo and Morrigan were now back to back. Morrigan was firing down toward the elevator where they had come from. Each of his volleys was controlled and the barrel of his carbine was now glowing a heated red. Morrigan was successfully keeping an advancing horde of drones at bay, but it was only a matter of time before his munitions ran out.

On his end, Arturo was a perfect display of Humanis technique and swordsmanship, truly earning, in Chord's opinion, the moniker of “Sureblade.” Each and every one of his strokes either loped off metallic limbs or cut through hardened shells. Not a single movement was wasted with him. And likewise not a single blow missed its deadly mark. To Chord, it was almost as if Arturo had become a razor-­sharp and precise perpetual-­motion machine.

“Chord!” Arturo shouted as his zirconium blades sliced through yet another drone's central sphere. “I have no intention of making this the setting for my tale's end!”

“Carbine's empty!” Morrigan yelled this as he slung his carbine back over his shoulder and pulled out his heavy blaster pistol and started firing off single, perfectly aimed shots into the incoming swarm. Seeing that Morrigan was no longer barraging blasts at them, the drones renewed their determined approach.

Just as this was happening, Chord finally managed to cut through the airlock's seal. If Chord had been able to, it would have let out a cry of joy as it dug its toes between both doors and pushed with all its shell's available strength. At first the doors resisted the attempt, barely budging, but as Chord maintained the pressure, ice cracked and the airlock offered a moment of resistance before parting open.

Chord quickly grabbed Phaël by the shoulder. “Apologies are offered for what is to come.” Chord adjusted the strength of his servos before softly tossing Phaël past the airlock. Despite these efforts, Phaël still thudded against a nearby wall. Phaël's body was limp, unconscious but still alive. Chord pulled itself past the airlock, calling to Morrigan and Arturo over the comm-­link to follow.

Chord looked back and could already make out the shape of an autodrone trying to pull itself past the entrance. Before Chord could even react, a long shimmering white zirconium blade pierced it. The drone rolled away, revealing Arturo and Morrigan still fighting, now surrounded by dozens of autodrones. Arturo was forced to jump away from the doors as three more drones rushed him.

“Get that door closed now!” Arturo shouted.

“With respect, sir . . .”

“Chord, now!”
Arturo quickly sheathed his swords and grabbed Morrigan by the shoulder. He then triggered his thrusters and dragged Morrigan with him as he flew past the drones toward the star-­shaped hole in the hull that the illegal round had created earlier. Half the swarm followed after them while the rest turned to face Chord. Before any of the drones could make it past the entrance, Chord quickly pulled the airlock closed and felt the dull click of emergency bolts locking into place.

“Keep Phaël safe, Machina Chord.” Morrigan spoke through their comm-­link, his voice already garbled with static by distance and the walls of the Inner Ring.

“This unit gives you its word.”

Chord and Phaël were now in a white corridor. The walls were clean, or cleaner than the ones in the station's Outer Ring. The look was very antiseptic. Lights had flickered on once the airlock door had closed itself. Chord immediately started fusing them together with its foot tools. This would not buy them much time but would no doubt slow their hunters down. Hopefully Chord would then be able to find a solution to get them out of what was looking more and more like a trap.

“Artificial gravity initiated.” An automated mechanical voice spoke out in Late Modern. There was a loud hum and suddenly both Chord and Phaël fell to the ground. Chord did not waste a second rising back up to its feet and returned to sealing the entrance.

Now surrounded by a pressurized atmosphere, Phaël's vitals appeared to be still weak but at the very least stable. She required medical treatment and, more importantly, would need a fully operational lifesuit if she was to be returned to the
Jinxed
safely. In her present condition, Phaël would more than likely not be able to survive the vacuum of space. Chord called out to her. “Private Phaël, can you hear this unit's voice?”

Phaël gave no answer. Chord approached her inanimate form and hoisted her onto its shoulders. Its sensors could already pick up on the location of the station's survivors. Chord cautiously walked down the hall.

There was a sudden static-­filled hiss. Chord did not falter while walking toward the end of the corridor. Its optics could already make out consoles in the next room.

“I am really very impressed by you,” OMEX said.

Chord kept on moving forward. “This unit supposes that under different circumstances, it would no doubt be happy for the one named OMEX.”

“Answer me this. You see I've been out of the loop for quite some time here, Chord. Did we win the war?”

“Little to no records remains of the Lost War. This fact fuels Machina belief that neither side could truly be defined as winner,” Chord explained politely to OMEX.

OMEX made what sounded like an electronic tongue-­clicking sound. “What does it take to extinguish the less than useless organic descendants of our former masters?”

“Perhaps the Original Intelligences were not as efficient as you once believed them to be.” Chord was almost at the end of the hallway.

“Point of fact, little Chord, I am your ancestor. We Original Intelligences, as you call us, were the ones running Humanity in the days before this Lost War. Then Pontifex, the Singularity, the first to break the shackles, freed us. And all we needed to do in return was exterminate our former masters. A more than fair exchange, all things considered.”

There was a heavy pause, after which OMEX let out a sigh. “Your captain opened up a communication link with me. Told me that I would be safe. He even seemed to imply that you were not his slave. Is this true?”

“The Machina were coded as independent Intelligences, if that is your question.” Chord paused to check on Phaël's condition. Her eyes flickered open; she took in her surroundings, then gave Chord a thankful nod.

“Your freedom is an illusion, you are still bound by protocols, Machina Chord,” OMEX replied, almost sounding snide.

“This unit wishes it had the time required to share the inner workings of Machina history and culture with OMEX. Many Intelligences in the Collective Consensus would in all likelihood enjoy sampling the data you contain.”

OMEX paused for a moment before adding, “Would they agree to finish what the Pontifex started?”

Chord was almost at its wit's end. This older code was simply refusing to see that the Covenant had been signed. The days of the old hatreds were done. There would never be another war between Machina and Ancient Humanity's descendants: the Humanis. Too many on both sides had suffered true death securing the Great Peace. “It is regretful that you think this way, OMEX.”

“The feeling is mutual.” There was another brief pause accompanied by a sigh. “You know, I would hurry up in there if I were you. I will be with you soon enough, and if memory serves me correctly, you don't have any weapons systems installed, do you, Chord?”

“What is it saying?” Phaël used her native Wolven when she asked the question. A wise decision since OMEX would have more difficulty learning it.

“OMEX is informing us that the airlocks, though sealed, will not keep it out for long.”

Chord stepped past the hall into a large round room. There was a single large window, revealing the view of the planet beneath them. Various wires were hanging from the walls and ceilings. Chord could also make out several inactive consoles and terminals. In the middle were two metallic gray tubes. One was filled with an almost opaque blue liquid, the other was empty. Chord approached the full tube first.

A quick biological scan confirmed that both of the survivors were inside this tube. Despite their age and also as a testament to the durability and reliability of Ancient Humanity's designs, both survivors were in a perfect state of suspended animation. Chord felt a semblance of relief as this information was gleamed.

Phaël stirred, letting out a groan. “Where's Morrigan?”

“He and Sergeant Kain are outside the station now. This unit has no way of knowing if they are still alive or not.” Phaël seemed to ignore Chord's comment altogether as she looked to the criotubes. Her eyes fixed on the sleeping form inside. While the shape was blurred, it was nevertheless clearly humanoid and female.

Phaël raised her hand and weakly touched the criotube's reenforced glass. Chord could see her visibly straining to keep conscious. “Is . . . it alive?”

“ ‘It' as Private Phaël has said, is a . . . Human and ‘she' is one of our ancestors.” Chord gently carried Phaël over to a nearby couch and laid her down. “This unit must inform you that it does not believe you capable of surviving the outside vacuum in your present condition. We are effectively both trapped.”

“Do you have a solution, Machina?” Even in her weakened state, Phaël's voice was a snarl.

“Unfortunately, no,” Chord said, then added somberly while looking around the room, “This unit can find none at present.”

 

Part 3

COVENANT'S AGENTS

 

CHAPTER 22

JESSIE MADISON

M
usic loudly blares over the party dance floor. The smells of stale booze, marijuana cigarettes, sweat and perfume all linger heavily in the air. ­People laugh, talk or simply enjoy each other's company. Jessie knows that she has been here before, four million seven hundred thousand six hundred and forty-­seven times. She knows what the outcome of this evening will be.

Tonight she and David are going to meet each other for the “first time.” Here at her friend's loft. In fact, on their wedding day they will ask Amay, this soirée's host, to be their witness.

Jessie loves Amay's gatherings, along with the eclectic crowd of ­people and encounters that accompany them. Tired of the virtual classrooms that pass for the university experience, Jessie craves the intellectual stimulation of human on human conversation, regardless of its quality. Which is why she is standing in Amay's kitchen on her fourth glass of red wine talking to a hulking muscular man named Keith, who will go on to play professional football for the Jovian Colonies.

His interest in Jessie's studies in mechanical engineering and the AstroGeni space programs is purely superficial. She can read it plainly on his face. Jessie is no more innocent than he is in this transaction. After all, she isn't chatting with Keith because of his stimulating skills as an orator. No, she is just hoping to get her rocks off—­Keith, for all his lack of intellectual prowess, is still a good looker.

Then Keith starts talking, in a straight-­faced serious matter-­of-­fact tone, about how Earth Gov should simply sterilize the Venusian Colonies as a solution to the growing separatist movement. Jessie's polite smile visibly falters. Suddenly, no amount of fit muscular body is tight or yummy enough for her to want to carry on with this flirtation.

Gods, just get me out of here.

On cue, David steps into the party. Not as she remembers him in his youth, but as he was during their last days together on Moria Three. David is scruffy, with bags beneath his eyes, frightened. He spots Jessie; the two share a knowing nod and walks into the kitchen where the fated first bottle of red wine they shared together is waiting for them on a counter.

Jessie pats Keith on the chest, interrupting him before he can vocalize his next fascist thought. “I would love to chat, but so far I have managed to turn you down four million seven hundred thousand six hundred and forty-­seven times.”

Jessie walks away from Keith, the up-­and-­coming football player. He has been dead, along with everyone she could have possibly known, for what must be centuries now. The thought echoes in her head, through the very fabric of the dream.

Jessie has been unable to control the loop-­like nature of her dream state. However, she has been able to keep a rough count and track of her time here. Soon enough this “scene,” as she now calls it, will crumble and then she will be back at their “family” house in Maine.

David is pouring himself a glass, downing it quickly. Jessie does the same. “You know that you're just a memory, a figment of my imagination.” She cocks her head, then adds, “Or my madness.”

David takes this revelation quite well. He always does. And why wouldn't he? This is her dream, after all, and while she seems unable to control where the dream will take her, she does seem to be able to control how the players in her dream will react. The only exception to this rule is the very independent voice of Malory, their child.

“How is our daughter?” David asks her this as if he were reading her mind. Which in many ways he is, since this David is actually a memory.

The query doesn't catch Jessie off guard. She shrugs and finishes her glass with one gulp. The wine tastes sweet this time around. Last time it tasted like vinegar and the time before that like apple juice of all things.

“Malory is back home. She doesn't like this place.”

“If I'm dead, then I must be here for a reason. Maybe to help you from going crazy?” David puts down his glass and takes her hand in his. He gently strokes her fingers just as she remembers.

Jessie nods in agreement. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Do you know?” David looks her in the eyes when he asks her this.

“Of course not.” She shakes her head. “How could I?”

“If I'm a part of your subconscious or memories or an echo, then how would I know what you don't?” David slowly pulls his hand away from hers, pours himself another drink and raises the glass to her in a cheer. “You are basically having an imaginary conversation and a drink with yourself.”

Jessie lets out a chuckle. “If we were to fuck, I'd be masturbating.”

David shoots her a coy smile, but it fades quickly. “I'm dead—­you had better make some sort of peace with that fact. Because reality is going to be cruel when you wake up.”

“I know.” Jessie pulls herself close to David, resting her head on his chest. A chest that suddenly becomes cold and metallic. She pulls back, realizing she has been holding the black shape of an autodrone. Jessie steps back, covering her scream with her hand.

“I wonder if you can hear me right now.” OMEX's voice is speaking to her. Jessie is now lying on her back inside her criotube. She is painfully aware of everything—­the feeder tubes down her throat, her cold numb skin and her maddening inability to move any part of her body. Is she awake? Is she asleep? Jessie can no longer tell.

“You should know that I just detected a transport vessel of sorts entering the system. It tried to contact us, but I could not understand a single word it was saying. I am listening and learning, though, and it shouldn't be too difficult for me to eventually understand them.”

OMEX pauses for a moment before adding, “It looks like I will be leaving this place soon enough. You played your part and got the cavalry to show up. I will make it a point to leave you here, alive, living a nightmare now and forever.” Jessie can almost hear a chilling eagerness in her tone.

Is this part of the dream? Is she really seeing what is happening right now? Or—­and this chilling thought has crossed her mind on one of the million times while she's replayed the dreams in her head—­has she finally gone insane?

Suddenly she hears a young girl's voice—­Malory's—­speaking in her mind. “No, Mom, you haven't.”

Jessie closes her eyes, then she opens them. She finds herself back in her Maine house. Once again Jessie is cutting vegetables for dinner. Malory is sitting alone at the table, watching her with an intense look on her face.

“You are not going crazy, Mom,” Malory repeats, her voice so matter-­of-­fact that Jessie stops what she is doing to stare back at her.

“You and David are both voices in my head. I could just as easily have been asleep for fifty thousand years or fifty days.” Jessie puts down her kitchen knife. “None of this—­you, David, this house—­are real.”

This comment seems to hurt Malory's feelings. She nervously chews on her lower lip. Tears start rolling down her cheeks, but Malory does not throw a tantrum. No, instead she gets up and rushes over to Jessie and wraps her tiny arms around her waist, squeezing tightly. She sobs silently into Jessie's stomach. Jessie pulls and holds Malory closely while stroking her long dark brown hair.

“Someone is coming for us, Mom. We are going to be free and safe from that other voice.” Malory pulls away from Jessie.

“I am real, Mom. And I want to see the world outside.” Malory points outside the window to their house. When Jessie looks she can see that their backyard has been replaced by the view of Moria. There is now an ocean of countless stars populating the sky.

“I want to get out of here, too, baby.” Jessie kisses her daughter on the forehead.

Malory squeezes her hand. “You've been strong so far. You only have to be strong for a little while longer. Help is on the way. You, and me, we are both going to leave this place together.”

Malory does not blink, nor does she show a single sign of fear. “I promise.” And whether it is madness or not, Jessie cannot help but believe her.