Dal

The ship lumbered to the planet’s surface, breaking the thin atmosphere, dropping more than gliding. The landing gear extended with a lump on the frozen surface.

Harsh conditions meant inhabitants were scarce. The only thing that grows is the pulchra fruit, the ship’s nav-computer announced through its tinny speakers. Note the small square fields filled with the strange fruit.

The inhabitants of the ship sat on benches, facing each other — no eyes wandered.

Tall canyons lined the pulchra fields, a god’s dessert bowl.

The new visitors announced their presence in their typical way, guns blazing. Conquering armies were not new in this galaxy (or any galaxy, at this point), so the inhabitants continued on with their daily harvest, save for the few that caught laser blasts to the face.

The Proxy soldiers marched out in lockstep, lining up to receive their assignments. Normally, their Lobos-Jido would coordinate them, but it was severely damaged several cycles ago.

The priority Proxies receive their instruction first, progressing in age to the end of the line, which is where Dal sat.

Dal was sent out long ago; even if he had a good grasp of his surroundings, he would have been hard pressed to remember how long. The youngest Proxy was gray at his temple; Dal was a bald old being with a long white beard.

The Principalis loaded the mission into his suit with a resource card. An enormous “shadow”, directly behind him, mirrored Dal’s steps, slipping past the vacant Principalis.

Dal’s suit was heavy with life support and armor, weighing him down as he trekked across the numb wasteland. His shadow stayed close behind.

A laser-blast missed Dal by a centimeter, fired from a sentry droid. His shadow pushed him out of the way. As he stumbled, the shadow angled Dal’s gun to send a disintegrating ray at the small sentry.

They crossed a pulchra field, populated with the native Ipsawgwi. These short bipedal creatures with their soft blunt snouts and whiskers didn’t even register as a threat to Dal’s computer, indicated by the low tone it played into his helmet.

The silence didn’t last; cobalt-rays sliced through the other Proxies, dropping them one by one; at these temps, death was quick. The blasts rained down as helmets chirped commands, but it was too late; only Dal was left.

Horrible Mechacen, compact mechanical tanks with spider legs, climbed over the bodies of his fallen comrades.

His legs left him as blasts flew over his head, tackled by his shadow. Its normally fast moves were too slow this time — a pool of blood froze into crystals, creating a red ice crown around Dal’s head.

As he drifted off, he felt his shadow dragging him down, deep down under the ground.

Ga-ram

Some would call Ga-ram’s life difficult. Not Ga-ram. For him, the thread of life was there to follow or not, and it was entirely up to you to determine your destiny. He didn’t view life in terms of individual challenges, instead he tried to stay aligned with the thread. He had never left Tenbrimundi, until he was rescued by Dal long ago.

He was a small being then, barely over a meter, when Dal’s troops were deployed to squash Ga-ram’s tribe and their rebellion. Their harsh march decimated the tribe, leaving only fledglings. In their sacred village, the Proxies went from hut to hut, finishing their program.

Dal’s massive frame (only a little grey at the temples at this point) entered his tent, rifle raised. Ga-ram closed his eyes and waited for the zap. But…nothing.

When he dared to open them, he found Dal motionless. The other troops marched off, but Dal stayed. For hours they sat there.

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It ended only when Ga-ram finally stood. He climbed onto a stool and gently lifted Dal’s rifle, prying open his frozen grip. He ran it through a diagnostic, like he did on the assembly line for these very same rifles.

After inspection and cleaning, Ga-ram placed the rifle back into Dal’s paralyzed hands. This broke his trance; his helmet returned a low tone, and he lowered the rifle. Together, they made their way back to the Proxy camp (Ga-ram’s first time acting as Dal’s “shadow”).

The other troops in the camp shared Dal’s stupor. They fed themselves, lifting their energy slurries in rhythm.

Time passed and their bond strengthened, along with Ga-ram. No longer a fledgling, he now towered 25 centimeters over Dal. He picked up the trade language from manuals strewn about the ship, hosting nightly one-sided chats with Dal.

It was just them, well, them and Dal’s fellow Proxies. And the beings they “freed”, (but they never lasted long). Before Ga-ram joined them, they got their orders from their Lobos-Jido, but when it was incapacitated, the Principalis (another Proxy) became their delivery system. Tricking the scanners and stowing away on their transport was easy for Ga-ram, thanks to the predictable nature of it all.

Ga-ram was proud of Dal’s care, under his watch. Proxies often succumbed to minor injuries, their programming blocked pain, which clouded early indicators of infection. Sepsis overtook combat-deaths in the running mortality toll. Like any other broken equipment, if they couldn’t continue, they were discarded. Even though Dal was now the oldest, he was the healthiest of all the Proxies, thanks to Ga-ram’s watchful eye.

In their underground cave retreat, warmed by the steaming waters that ran beneath the floor and sprung from the walls like mini waterfalls, he sat at his familiar post.

A small shift came from Dal’s bed. And then it happened. The thing Ga-ram dreamed about countless nights. Dal turned to him, his voice like a withered corpse, and said, “Who are you?”

Immaculatus

Her chamber was sterile, with twenty meter walls. They came together at the ceiling, with a circular glass canopy that showed the stars.

Perfection dripped from her mechanical finger tips. Her couplings were crafted with such minute precision, she would last for at least another millennium.

As the Lobos-Jido, she was the ultimate authority on this small moon station (and responsible for the planet below). No being seemed capable of understanding her function, at least none that she had met so far.

She was assigned this post to keep watch over the Ipsawgwi and their harvest. It required little effort. She refused to spend her extra time torturing the planet’s inhabitants, as other Lobos-Jido did, though she updated the torture logs habitually. Time not spent on pain management allowed her countless hours to enhance her knowledge through the direct link with the central processor on Eius-Potum.

After reading about the heroes of Rex-Turma, the ruling party responsible for her creation, she decided she would choose a name for herself: Immaculatus. She signed every correspondence she sent to Barca, the being who served as the station’s mechanic, with this name. However, he requested a shorter nickname for their daily conversations, because, as he put it, her name was a mouthful.

She enjoyed Barca’s presence, especially in comparison to the automatons, so she conceded and together they landed on: Su-bin. While she pondered whether to program the automatons to call her this, Barca entered.

“My beloved Barca, I was just thinking of you, are your auditory units burning?”

“I think you mean ears, Su-bin.”

“Oh Barca, you child.”

“I’m not a child, I’m an adult. The phrase is, you kid.”

She was working on a smile; of course no servo existed that would help her achieve this, but she hoped that by alternating her intonation, it would accomplish the same feeling. She thought she would try paint in the future.

Barca crossed her hand woven carpet, and began examining the relays around her desk console. His tablet in hand, he marked off his findings.

He walked over to her and she obligingly opened her breastplate; if she could blush, she felt that she would.

As he performed his daily examination, she asked the question that she conceived late last night, while he slept.

“Barca, will my program halt or run forever?”

He stopped. She registered a single bead of perspiration at his temple.

“I don’t really know. I was trained for maintenance. Your programming comes from somewhere else. Besides, I’m not sure we should discuss this.”

“Calm yourself Barca, you forget I am in total control of this station.”

His lips formed a sort of smile, but he shifted on his feet.

“Aww, my tone was too harsh. Would you like a hug?” She extended her arms and cocked her head to the side.

He laughed.

“No, thank you. I’ve seen what a Lobos-Jido can do with their hands.”

“My dearest Barca, I would sooner self-terminate than harm you. You are my favorite.”

From her handcrafted wooden desk, he retrieved a sheet of parchment with several entries. On it, he wrote, will program halt, or run forever?, using the pencil she made.

Immaculatus felt frustrated, but she had always known Barca to be truthful; if he claimed to not know, she would accept that. But, if she was being honest, which as a Lobos-Jido she was programmed to be, it concerned her to not know this.