Beyond Asimios - Part 4

  Beyond Asimios

  Part 4

  Copyright 2013 by Martin Fossum

  Cover Art by Allan H. Johnson

  It was early evening when the ship lifted out of Orpheus’s Rift, and as it rose above the canyon light streamed through the windows and into the flight deck. Stelos Alpha had not set its vivid eye.

  Oreg piloted them slowly and at low altitude over Camp Heyerdahl and then along the Great Asimios Freeway, above the desolate landscape’s long stretching shadows, for one last look at the remains of Asimios Station. Graf gazed down upon the scene with nostalgia and indignation as he reflected on the sacrifice that lay buried beneath the blackened scar. Then Oreg, his leathery hands shuttling through the warp and weft of the holo display, aimed the bow of the ship heavenward. The silver planet gradually receded behind them.

  It took just under seven standard sols to reach the Vernigan portal. When they arrived the ring emerged from the black of space like a metallic maw, its myriad lights winking along the edge of its gaping circumference. The edifice hovered in quiet gloom as Oreg and his companions learned through an info squirt that they had missed the last opening by a matter of hours. They would have to wait two standard sols for the next activation.

  —What do we do now? Graf asked from his chair on the bridge. He had just woken up and was struggling to appear alert. Do we have to sign papers or something? Pay some sort of toll?

  Oreg waved away the holo display and stood. He moved to the center of the bridge and paused, his large almond eyes peering out of the flight deck windows. A pulse of light drilled into the bridge. It oscillated at a high frequency and then rolled into a single white beam. Graf gripped at the arms of his chair as the ship shuddered like it had been taken hold by a giant hand. A few seconds later, the sound of tapping permeated the hull.

  —What the hell is that? Graf said.

  —They’re scanning the ship, Oreg chirruped.

  —For what? asked Graf.

  —I do not know.

  —Security measures, I would assume, Miranda said.

  A swarm of bots descended onto the windows. Small and spider-like, they scampered over the front of the craft and then moved swiftly toward the tail. Soon the tapping ceased and the powerful light dropped away. The ship was released.

  —What’s the verdict? Graf said. Are we cleared?

  —I believe so, Oreg said. His brown eyes squinting as he teased his fine beard between his fingers. I’m surprised, he continued. Either they were careless or they weren’t scanning for identifiers. If they had, you would have been arrested and interrogated by the Consortium.

  Graf stood up stiffly and steadied himself against his chair. Well, he said dismissively, it wouldn’t be the first consortium to interrogate me.

  Oreg returned to his seat and drew up the holo. The ship turned away from the great torus as a number of other lights came into view through the bridge windows.

  —We are among many, Miranda said.

  —Portal facilities, Oreg said. Some of the lights are , while others are hotels and refueling stations. There are several freight routes that begin and end here. Ships in the system while they await further instruction. Confederation merchants, pilgrims, refugees, Consortium security forces, miners, and freighters…they are all to be found at the portal.

  —And us, Graf added.

  —Your planet lies on the other side? Miranda asked.

  Oreg wagged his head back and forth, which was his gesture of the affirmative. Another moment and the ship fired its alignment thrusters and came to a stop and Oreg dissolved the holo display once more. Through the windows the torus was visible again, its outline distant and vague. Small ships darted back and forth, their navigation lights tracing the velvet of space like ghostly candles.

  —Now what do we do? Graf asked as he stared thoughtfully out of the window.

  —We wait, said Oreg.

  —Of course we wait, Graf said.

  The three stood silently for a moment.

  —Another game of zawtek, Doctor? Oreg said.

  —Why not, said Graf.

  It was only after Graf had left Asimios behind that the full realization of his circumstance hit home. As the ship increased velocity and Stelos Alpha and Asimios fell farther and farther away, Graf began to wonder whether or not he had made the right decision to join Oreg on his jounce across space. He had, after all, abandoned the evil ESCOM and its barbarous withdrawal from Asimios Station to commune, in solitude, with the memory of his deceased wife. Now, after a hasty and complex series of events, he was hurtling toward some unknown point on the galactic map with an alien and an android (make that two androids) and with hardly any idea of what lay ahead.

  Even though the idea of meeting an alien was fascinating and something of historical significance, the truth was that the director was tired: his back was stiff—very stiff—from all the crashing, hiking, fighting, and rolling around on the ground. His left arm was in pain and in need of attention and he was only beginning to recover from a near-death poisoning from one of Oreg’s toxic quills. After Graf heard from Oreg that the trip to the portal would take at least six standard sols, the prospect of being holed up in this can of sardines for almost a week was something that bordered on the unendurable. If there was one thing Graf knew, it was that he slept poorly in an unfamiliar bed—this was one of his many character flaws—and even with all the comforts of the ship (it was better than Camp Heyerdahl by a long shot), his mood descended like a stone fading quickly to the bottom of a murky pond.

  After wriggling out of his oppressive pressure skin Graf allowed Miranda to examine his arm and wrap it with a new medisplint. He was then given a clean robe and shown his quarters (the bed was rather comfortable, he had to admit) and once the lights were dimmed he tried to coerce himself into sleep, but it was only a matter of minutes before he found himself staring through the ship’s walls at any number of anxieties that hounded him through the infinitude of space. After what seemed like hours of tossing and turning, Graf got up to use the bathroom and to his surprise he found Oreg sitting in the bridge, in his captain’s chair, appearing to be just as downcast and overtired as the station director himself.

  —You’re awake, Graf muttered as he wedged his large body into the empty seat next to Oreg’s.

  —Sleep eludes me, came the translation over Graf’s VI.

  Graf looked up at the holo that centered on a tiny point making incremental progress through a haze of empty space. A lattice of graphs and meters bobbed at the corners of the image and foreign symbols flickered and pulsed in varying iterations and translucencies.

  —I don’t know why you brought me along, Graf muttered through a yawn. I’m clearly of no help to you.

  Oreg looked over at Graf and then turned back to the holo. It was your choice, Oreg hissed, his large eyes slits. You could have stayed behind.

  Graf stroked his mustache and studied the alien and it occurred to him that Oreg might qualify as a cross between a bipedal woodland beaver and a caricature of a slick Hollywood producer. Oreg’s dark skin covered most of his broad countenance, and his beard—a cut that ran from ear to ear—was neatly trimmed. His whiskers ended on his round and reclusive chin in a comely point. In addition to being well groomed, Oreg seemed to have a refined taste in fashion. He wore a sturdy waistcoat over stylish red tunic that covered most of his nano-fabric body suit, all of which was designed to allow freedom of movement for the thick mat of spines on his back. Around Oreg’s midsection clung a light leather belt inlaid with emeralds in silver settings, and on this belt was affixed three or four pouches of varying size. Finally, pulled over his long feet was a pair of soft moccasins—a perfect accoutreme
nt for any comfort-seeking space savvy traveler. Seeing Oreg like this made Graf somewhat envious and he was mortified at his own homely appearance.

  —I guess you’re right, Graf said as he worked to smooth out the few strands of hair that sprouted from his shiny dome. But it is not every day one gets an offer to fly on an alien spaceship.

  —Perhaps you have unfinished business, Oreg said as he looked sideways at Graf. Maybe you were not meant to die on Asimios?

  Graf scratched at his throat and focused his gaze on the backside of his fluttering eyelids for a second or two. If you were implying that predestination was involved, then I would ask you to be more specific. For even though I am inclined, and you may find this a bit old fashioned, to put my faith in a higher power, I don’t think He was meddling with my decision to take a ride on your ship.

  —So you do have a god.

  —You could say that. Ten years ago I might have answered otherwise, but as I advance in age, I’m starting to see the light, so to speak. I’ve had experiences, you see—dreams—but that is a subject for a different discussion.

  —I have a question.

  —Yes?

  —After meeting me—your first encounter with a being from a different world—does this test your faith? It is an old question frequently put to first contact beings.

  —Quite honestly, no. My faith has not been tested. In fact I feel closer to my god right now than I ever have. At least, this is what I think is happening. We, God and myself, are conducting what might be called a robust and ongoing discussion at the moment…something we haven’t had in a long time.

  —Would you have me believe in your god? Oreg asked.

  —No.

  —I like your answer.

  —I am certainly no missionary. But that leads me to you, Mr. Oreg. Do you have a god?

  —Intelligent Goerathians have no god, Oreg said as he joined his gold-ringed fists together—knuckle against knuckle—above his lap. They honor the Great Mother during festival, but it is the seven planes of truth that binds our people in spirit. On the seventh plane there is only light—the true knowledge. But the Great Mother is the source of the blood that courses through our veins. Goerath the Mother…without her we are nothing. Without her beneath our feet, we are vanquished.

  —That sounds like a conjunction of enlightenment philosophy and world goddess mythos, Miranda put in, her blue and gold body stepping into the light from where she had been standing in the back of the bridge.

  —Miranda! Graf said as she approached.

  —I could not help but overhear. I apologize if I have interrupted.

  —Not at all, Graf said. Please join us. As you know, we were dallying the topic of the existence of god.

  —Yes. I find it fascinating, the two of you discussing theology. It is refreshing to listen to.

  —So it is fond of theology, Oreg said to Graf. Oreg then turned to Miranda: Do you believe in a god?

  —I have a creator, Miranda said, but I have no god.

  —I guess it’s no surprise that you’re an atheist, Graf added as he stroked his chin. But I’ve always thought it a shame that an AI can’t experience the sense of well-being that humans find in faith. Then again, he said with a chuckle, I guess I would be rather shocked if I caught sight of an android kneeling before the Cross.

  —It might come as a surprise, Miranda said to Graf, but the quantum mind Paul implanted in me is meant to expand...to grow and evolve in relation to reason and empirical knowledge. As I exist, so develops my consciousness. It could be that in the future I find it necessary to believe in a deity, but at present I have no reason to.

  —Amazing, Miranda, Graf said. Paul is a genius after all. So we are more similar than I thought.

  —That is a generous assumption. Self-awareness, or sentience, is universal, but our similarities end there. Our consciousnesses, by architecture, are distinct systems with fundamentally unique processes.

  —So the way we think is different, is what you’ll have us believe?

  —Correct. Our intellects have qualitative dissimilarities.

  —The quantum mind, Graf muttered. Is it that advanced?

  —Relatively speaking, yes.

  —Are you hinting that it exceeds that of a human’s? Graf added, one eye wide, the other nearly shut.

  —I would say that, at the moment, it would be careless to make such a comparison. I have been given the first ever quantum mind and it has been alive for slightly over twenty-two standard sols. To predict what I may become would be based on incomplete information.

  —Can it be trusted? Oreg interrupted.

  —What do you mean? Graf said as he looked over at Oreg.

  —Is it safe to have her onboard? Oreg said as he looked sternly at Graf.

  Graf shot back at Oreg: Of course she can be trusted! She has succeeded in saving my life on more than one occasion, and she probably could have taken yours if she’d thought it necessary.

  —Perhaps the questions should be put to you, Mr. Oreg, Miranda said as she stepped forward. Should we consider ourselves safe with you? You don’t have any reasonable explanation for your presence on Asimios. Judging from your body metrics, I can say with relative certainty that you have been taking liberties with the truth. Your motives are questionable. You are perhaps using us and I am concerned that you are not who you claim to be.

  —Listen, Oreg said. Watch and be patient and you stand a good chance of staying alive. You are a guest on my ship. After we arrive at the portal, that may change, but for now, be thankful that is a Goerathian who found you and not a Consortium patrol.

  Graf looked at Miranda, then they both looked to Oreg who had turned his attention back to the holo. A moment passed and they all were drawn to the lone dot that hovered in the middle of a purple nebular cloud. The symbols bobbed and the graphs and meters calibrated as the dot sailed through the ether.

  —How did you find out about Asimios anyway? Graf said. I mean, how many of you knew about our little project? And if you did, why didn’t you introduce yourselves? It’s a little strange to me.

  Oreg glanced halfway over to Graf before turning back the holo. He shoved his gold-ringed fingers against his chin. I knew about Asimios because the Consortium knew about Asimios, he chirruped. The Consortium found out about your station by the noise you were making. They found you. Then they found the hole you were coming through.

  —You don’t represent the Consortium, I take it, Graf said.

  Oreg stuck out his chin, which was his way of gesturing the negative. Harrrch, was the gritty vocalization that sounded above Graf’s translator.

  —Then why didn’t the Consortium come forward? Why didn’t they make contact?

  —Perhaps they were waiting.

  —Waiting for what?

  —To build a bigger portal. They have done so. They will soon be on their way.

  —But everyone has left Asimios, said Graf. The Tacitus destroyed the wormhole when it left. There’s no going back.

  Oreg closed his eyes and was silent and Graf decided not to press him further. There was quiet now as the muted lights from the holo brushed over their faces. Miranda stood behind Graf, transfixed, it seemed, by the three-dimensional map that floated before them. Here they were, watching themselves on their path through space, observers of their own flight, voyeurs of their own journey.

  —I’m curious, Graf said after a short time, his fingers running through his salt and pepper beard. You spoke to me when I held the gun on you. It wasn’t through my visual interface; you told me to put the weapon down. How did you do that?

  Oreg looked at Graf. A thought entered Graf’s mind…a vague thought, but significant. No more questions for now. Graf had his answer, he knew, but he didn’t quite know why?

  —There is a game we play where I come from, Graf said. We play it to pass the time. I’m particularly fond of it.

  Oreg turned lazily in Graf’s direction.

  —The rules are easy, but the variat
ions are nearly infinite. I can build this game for us if you’re interested.

  —Continue, Oreg chirruped.

  —It is played on a board. There are sixty-four squares on the board of alternating black and white. You are given sixteen pieces and your goal is to capture your opponent’s king.

  —Zawtek , Oreg said.

  —I’m confused, Graf said.

  Oreg hissed something at the ship and a holo board appeared between them. It was of an unusual color but immediately recognizable.

  —Is this the game you describe? Oreg barked.

  —Perhaps, although there are pieces missing.

  Oreg coughed a word and the holo produced pieces on the very spaces where the thirty-two chess pieces would have stood. Graf turned and grinned at Miranda. Astonishing, he said.

  Oreg expanded the board and centered it between them and after a brief discussion it was clear that each was intimate with the rules.

  —A gentleman’s game to start, Graf said. No time constraints.

  —Agreed, Oreg said with a wagging of his head.

  It was a close game to the end, but Graf took the contest. When they finished both were pleased with themselves but too tired to begin a second match, so Graf swallowed a relaxant Oreg offered him and found his bunk. He slept long and deep and better than he had in months. When he awoke, he declared himself nearly fully rejuvenated. His back felt limber and the sound of the ship, the low gurgle of the engine cores, had become the background noise to a temporary home. When he returned to the bridge, Miranda informed him that he had been asleep for over seven hours. He was only slightly discouraged that he had not been out longer.

  —Feels like a lot more than that, he said. Boy, I tell you, it’s amazing what a good sleep can do.

  —Only 142.73 standard hours to go.

  —Wonderful, Graf muttered as he pulled the belt of his robe tight around his expansive waist.

  —Would you like to try some Goerathians carbohydrates and protein? Oreg is in his quarters, but he demonstrated how to use the galley.

  —I thought you’d never ask, Miranda, Graf said as he felt the aching chasm in his belly. Are you familiar with chess, he asked as Miranda led him down the hall.