A
distinction had always existed in the mind of Machinator, from the day he was
initialized and began his very first boot-up process to this very processor
cycle.
There were organic intelligences, and there were synthetic intelligences. He’d
found the distinction to be a little demeaning at first, all things considered.
Synthetic carried a cultural implication of somehow being false, an inferior
imitation of an original product, and it had rankled with him for a good
portion of his personality matrix development period.
Of course, as he matured with time, so did his cognition on the matter. He
began to see that while differences existed, there were benefits and drawbacks
to both sources of higher thought. While synthetics like himself enjoyed
mastery over things like emotion, and incredible access to raw computation and
logical analysis, they were incapable of being overwhelmed by emotion, or more
nebulous concepts of chemical delusion such as hope. Organics might be shackled
to fragile bodies that decayed into dust in rather short order but they could
be caught up in art, have their breath stolen by beauty, and experience such
logic defying states of irrationality as “love.”
He wondered about love, mostly.
Many species had different ideas regarding what “love” was and how it was felt,
but it was a near universal concept. Anthropologists had argued back and forth
on the matter, but there was a general consensus that this was a case of
survivorship bias. More specifically, anything that could reach the level of
organization required to establish an interstellar society had to be social,
and anything social invariably had some concept that could be construed as
love.
Of course, the specific understanding of this “love” varied wildly. Sometimes
there were even multiple words for the various facets and types of “love.” The
poetic and long lived Haeshyn’s had an extremely specific “fleeting love
between relative strangers when a single belief is found to be tightly held by
both parties,” while the industrious and stalwart Bortrana had one single word
for love that encompassed a range of sentiments so incredibly vast as to become
a serious source of confusion for linguists. When the same word meant both “a
willingness to share personal space without protest,” and
“rabid dedication to the extent that death is a more
desirable course of action than separation,” and everything in between . . .
translation errors tended to occur.
Some of the more . . . pragmatic . . . races defined “love”
along the lines of “comfortable and mutual utility between parties, including a
great deal of trust and an overall sense of reliability” but Jandoorian
philosophers were poorly read among their own people, to say nothing of the
wider galaxy.
Of course, as many disparate stances on the meaning, origin, nature, and
purpose of love, just about every race and culture concluded that, on some
level, some of it involved the exchange of reproductive fluids.
As Machinator looked out the viewport at the massive craft hanging above the
q-Net beacon, all he could think was that a suspension bridge and 800,000 tons
of meat had to have loved each other very much at some point.
The distinction between organic and synthetic seemed not to apply to this
grotesquerie of gargantuan proportions. It disgusted him, but the longer he
looked, the harder it was to look away. Something about it, the mystery, the
impossibility, maybe just the repulsiveness of it ensnared him. Starlight
gleamed off the chitin, and glistened across sinuous cords of ropey flesh.
Grey, dead looking meat was drawn taut over the oily black of grinding gears
and pounding pistons. The horrific abomination drifting before him suddenly
swelled, and pulsed, like the heart of some nightmare that no sleeping mind
would dare dream. It was as if a moribund titian, in defiance of death, had
cast its heart into the stars for no other reason than sheer loathsomeness.
Shadowy tendrils snaked out from the corrupted core of it, as if to ensnare and
consume anything that dared venture too close, but they writhed slowly as if
the very act of existence was causing it great pain. For all of the horror that
coursed through his circuitry, for all the revulsion the craft forced upon his
mind, it was a pale shadow of what lurked beneath.
Every sensor he had, from electromagnetic to auditory, was focused upon the
thing, ensnared in a mix of disbelief and shock. It was a thing that should not
be, yet there it was, so wretched and vile as to defy belief or understanding.
Enraptured as he was, a sudden pulse carried through his circuitry, and with it
came a stark realization.
As he was watching it, it was watching
him.
The thought was irrational. He was just a piece of machinery, inside a
larger craft, all of it humming with power and of no greater merit than any
other machine or circuit or system on the craft to any sensor array.
That he could have a thought so irrational should be impossible, even. His mind
was an ordered and systematic thing, an emergent consciousness born of
incredible computational power and engineering genius.
He stepped away from the view port, really just a half step backwards, but his
world seemed to grow darker in ways that did not manifest appreciably. Like a
shadow cast across a soul that he knew . . . logically he knew didn’t
exist. Every
feeling of dread that had run through his circuits, every questioning doubt or
nagging uncertainty seemed to him like plastic imitations now compared to the
feelings that coursed through him. Hydraulic fluid seemed to chill in his
servomotors, but circuitry in his processors seemed to burn white hot. He could
see by direct readout from his temperature gages that everything was nominal,
but-
The eye blinked.
An involuntary tremor worked through his frame, and he turned away. Panic.
Fear. Uncontrolled emotion. All this and more were pouring from his emotional
processing core. Temperature readings were in flux, and the auditory cue of
bradycardia was pounding away in his acoustic receptors.
False readings, corrupted data-streams. Something, no . . . everything was
wrong. He wanted to go to the cargo bay, to find the Captain, to be away from
here, and his legs seemed to oblige, but it was as if his connection to them were
severed. Locomotion was a request, one that was permissible to fill at this
time.
As he crossed the threshold, the static cleared. His processes were his. The
junk data, surges of emotion and perception, the . . . incomprehensible network
presence lifted from him and everything was clear.
“Machinator? We’ve reached the target point, the Forged ship
is awaiting the material transfer. Can you load it on a grav-skiff? It’s a bit
bulky to handle alone, and I think you’d do well to stay in the crew quarters
for the duration of our meeting.”
Verdock’s voice was clear, maybe a little deeper and more gravely than
usual, but as Machinator looked him over, the differences that had been wrought
on him were staggeringly apparent.
The medium, fit framed, Zylach he had known was gone. Now there was a
muscle-bound Goliath in his place. In the past 2 weeks of travel, he’d grown
from just over five feet tall to nearly seven, his skin had gone from a simple
multi-layered dermis to thick, placoid scale studded hide, and his musculature
had gone from “lean-but-fit” to “grotesquely overdeveloped.” Fingernails were
now black talons, and his foot claws no longer allowed him to wear shoes of any
kind. The typical neat, clean haircut had turned into a messy, greasy mop that
was growing at least 4 inches a day.
Even in his full riot-control body, armed to the figurative teeth . . . he
doubted that he could resist, let alone overpower Verdock any longer.
“Sir . . . I just have doubts.”
The hulking captain stopped trying to shift the crate of military grade
communications equipment he was hauling, and turned to face Machinator. There
wasn’t . . . anger, or indignation, or even frustration on his face, like
Machinator expected.
He seemed sad.
“My old friend . . . you know that what we did was a small sacrifice, an
uncomfortable investment that will pay limitless dividends for every sentient
creature in the galaxy. What we do isn’t easy. It is ugly, and harsh, and
cruel. I want to tell you more, show you more . . . but the things that made
you, they made you wrong. On purpose.”
His over-sized, talon laden hand gently rested on Machinator’s shoulder,
sadness turned to deep worry across his face.
“If I tell you more, if you learn more . . . I don’t know what will happen to
you. I’ve seen what the full truth does. It breaks your kind. I don’t want that
for you, so please, trust me.”
If was strange, seeing such a look of pleading helplessness on a creature so
powerful, but also painfully earnest.
“Of course, sir.”
——————————
“Now, you may be wondering
why I have gathered you here,” Amonna began
addressing the nearly empty briefing hall. There were only 2 individuals in
attendance, but they had insisted upon a proper briefing structure, so the
highest ranking naval officer and highest ranking infantry officer on the
vessel were both seated directly adjacent to one another in the first row.
Their uniforms were formal dress, slate gray, and save for the myriad different
insignias of rank, merit, and command, absolutely identical. They also had
matching body armor of some form, which again looked to be largely ceremonial
in nature. The thing that was oddest to her was that their uniforms were
clearly a lighter slate, while hers was a matte black of similar material.
Perhaps the faded color was a way to organically display their veteran status?
She worried her intense studying had lingered too long, but there was one small
problem. When it came to their appearances, they were even less
distinguishable.
Insofar as she was able to determine, there literally weren’t any physical
difference between the two high ranking commanders in front of her.
Same identical platinum white hair, close cropped and in accordance with
Coryphaeus regulations. Flawless and smooth pale skin, wide almond shaped eyes
and slight, almost nonexistent noses adorned their matching faces. They bore
twin expressions of polite attentiveness tinged with curiosity, and both held
their holo-tablets in exactly the same fashion.
She thought they might be identical twins, save for the fact that one was
allegedly male, and the other was allegedly female.
Puzzling that out, and subsequently avoiding a very ugly faux-pas, was on the
top of her priority list at the moment.
“ . . . as you may have been made aware, there was an attack carried out
against Waystation LS-49 resulting in the deaths of an unknown number of
civilians. The perpetrators of this attack, by measure, had both insider
assistance, and an intricate understanding of AI programming, to the extent
that the previously impossible occurred. Multiple independent quantum processor
AI were successfully compromised, and used as weapons of war against a
virtually unarmed body. I understand that the implications here are . . . dire.”
Nearly every FSOS office was heavily dependent on AI to help fill the deficit
between the manpower required to police the vast reaches of space, and the
manpower available to do so. Even if every AI were immediately removed from the
field, it still wouldn’t do anything to negate the fact that day zero
vulnerabilities existed at every level of their bureaucratic and logistical
management. AI touched almost every facet of the organization in some shape,
form, or fashion, and there wasn’t any clean way to make a break from them.
“The first order of business will be eliminating these weaknesses in our
immediate operational structure, then we’ll move on data forensics to determine
how the attack was carried out. At present, we haven’t determined the nature of
the exploit that allowed former Security Chief Corin Verdock to perpetrate this
attack.”
She fumbled with the ancient looking control stud in her hand to advance the “Projector”
she was using to display various 2D images. The technology was simple, perhaps
even quaint. A thick cord connected the control mechanism to the device proper,
and as heavy and crude as it seemed, she was happy with the setup. Hard to hack
a mechanical system. Amonna had been rather pleased to find that all of the
evidence and briefing material provided her by the automated forensics survey
had been compiled and stored in these “hard copy” formats that were far more
resistant to redistribution and tampering than her usual, digital case files.
A security camera capture of Verdock appeared on the wall behind her, in crystal
sharp focus. It sent a pulse of mixed revulsion and anger through her to see
him, walking with a neutral, almost passive expression. There wasn’t the
faintest hint on his face or in his eyes that it was a corridor smeared with
the bodies of his subordinates and co-workers, no expression of remorse, or
even stress.
He almost looked bored.
“Arch-Judge Tav?” One of the attending officers spoke up, their voice was soft,
almost concerned sounding. As her head snapped around, she realized she’d been
staring with intent silence for several seconds now, and it had caused the
briefing to grind to a halt.
“Right . . .” She unclenched her jaw slowly, and unconsciously straightened her
uniform.
“There’s . . . a lot of information I still haven’t received, and there will be
further briefings in the days to come. I wanted to take this chance to meet
with the team that would be assisting
with the investigation. Do you have any questions, or any insight before I
continue?”
Both of them raised their hands immediately.
She nodded towards the one on the left. “Go ahead.”
Snapping to crisp attention, the one that Amonna suspected was an Admiral
saluted sharply before speaking. “Permission to speak freely?”
Amonna nodded again. “Granted.”
“Our presence here is meaningless, with all due respect.” Amonna was rather
taken aback, both by the implicit hostility of the statement, and the calm
politeness with which it was delivered.
Her brow furrowed. “Is that a professional or personal assessment?”
The admiral responded without the faintest hint of hesitation. “I have
commanded the warships of the Coryphaeus fleet for nearly 4 times the half life
of Mercury-194. I do not investigate, I do not research, I command brave souls
in the service of a greater good, and I do it with a proficiency unmatched by
mortal or machine. Where you wish to go, I will take you. What foes you face, I
will lay waste to. When you ask for council, I will offer my expertise where it
is valid. No more, and no less. You were
selected for your position not as a commander, not as a leader, not even as an
agent of law. Justice selected you to be it’s tool, just as I was selected, and
just as all of us were. If you have no further need of me, there is a surprise
inspection I would like to tend to.”
Amonna was rocked back on her heels, absolutely blindsided by the raw contempt
displayed for what she understood to be her virtually supreme rank . . . and
also a bit relieved. Absolute obedience meant absolute responsibility, and that
wasn’t something she wasn’t trained or ready for. Before she could muster up a
response, the admiral had turned on her heel with a snap, and was striding out
of the briefing room without a second glance.
Left in stunned silence, the only other person in the room nodded slightly. “While
I intended to phrase it more tactfully . . . I have little I can offer in the
way of assistance when it comes to an investigation. When you have need of
ground forces, I will be at your beck and call. Until then, perhaps a memo
would suffice? A meeting without a point is a less than optimal way to spend
all of our time. Though, to let you know, our current operation is hardened
against the scenario you’ve warned against.” The general was far more soft
spoken, and at least was respectful about the dressing down he was giving her.
“Io was assigned as your adjutant for a reason, make use of it. It’s quite
useful.”
They didn’t wait for Amonna to respond, and by the time she managed to stammer
out a goodbye, they were already gone.