Returning to my room, I lie on my cot and stare at the ceiling. I’m still in shock. I talked to a fucking alien. Me, Aldrich Isengrund, Twenty First Century British plumber, husband, and father of two, now a Demon hunting cyborg.

It’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard and most of my days used to be spent trying to tune out of radio one call ins and boasting sparkys. I twirl my lanyard between my hands.

“Hey, E-SIM. What data is on this card?” Lists of files appear in my head. “Ah, thanks.”

I scan through them. Most are the data logs for my stasis pod, the big box I woke up in and have been calling a sarcophagus. There are a few notes from doctors and engineers, and while I’ll read them eventually, they aren’t relevant anymore. Probably.

Halfway through the list is a file labelled ‘Patient Messages’. I open it, expecting it to be empty only to freeze. There are hundreds of messages dated over thousands of years. The first one is dated two weeks after my death. I play the message.

The scene unfolds in my mind. Sasha is standing in front of the entrance to our local church, with its big grey arches and iron studded door. Her long black hair blows about her face. Graves litter the grass in haphazard rows, their rough crosses and slabs worn with time and sorrow.

My wife holds her phone away from her with one hand, while her other arm carries Gemma, who clings to her mother’s neck. Jamie stands close, dressed in a formal suit, looking determined. His eyes are puffy and snot dribbles from his nose. He leans his head against Sasha’s chest, nuzzling under her arm and shaking the camera.

“Hello, Aldrich. Say hi, kids.”

“Hi, Dad,” mumbles Jamie.

“Daddy!” Gemma shouts, reaching out a hand to try and grasp at the phone.

I cry.

“We just finished your funeral. I hope whenever you end up, you are safe and happy. That boy, Adam, who picked up your body, was certain you’d make it somehow, and said any messages we sent him and his company would get to you. Eventually. So that’s what we’re going to do. Send you messages. I hope they bring you comfort. God knows we could do with some. You fool.” Sasha sniffs and her lips tremble, “We miss you, Aldrich. Alright, time to go. The kids will send their own messages later. I love you, Aldrich.”

“Love you too, Sasha,” I say.

Jamie looks up at the camera, then at the graves, “Bye, Dad.”

“Can we have ice cream now?” says Gemma.

A little smile graces Sasha’s face, “You heard ‘em. This rounds on you.” She squints slightly, the camera jiggles slightly, and the message ends.

“E-SIM, I want multiple back ups of all the data on this card.”

++Acknowledged...processing request.++

I gently lay the card against my chest. Holy shit. I can’t believe the data actually got to me.

“Thank you. To those who organised this, I am grateful.”

I watch all of the messages, many of them repeatedly. Observing the lives of my family change and disappear, sharing their triumphs and sorrows.

The messages become less frequent over time, especially once the kids grow up and Sasha remarries. That message was particularly tough, a ball of ice and heat forming in my stomach when Sasha told me, though not once do I see his face, only hear his name, Graham.

I understand it.

I’m happy she had another chance at love.

I’m even grateful to the man for taking on someone else’s kids, as the messages let me know they like him, even if he isn’t me.

Never going to like the guy though.

Getting up I pace around my small room, trying to work out my anger.

Flicking through the dates, I realise sending messages to Aldrich became a family tradition, one that lasts much longer than it has any right to, all the way to M18, though by that point, decades pass without a message.

Many of the files have attachments. Some of them are quite large, like entire TV shows and YouTube videos that my kids share with me, along with their comments. There’s also many photos, even some random homework and academic papers.

My children and grandchildren grow, fall in love, age, and die. Repeatedly. Yet this line to the past brings me happiness, no matter how morbid it might be.

For the first time in weeks, I smile. Just a little.

I even get to watch some TV. Now if only I had a cuppa and a biscuit, life in the Forty First Millennium wouldn’t be so bad after all.

In this new state, my eyes wander over the bones piles in the corner.

“Where did all the other E-SIM units go, and the other implants?”

++They self-destruct.++

“Why?”

++Property rights.++

“Do I own my own implants?”

++Yes. No contact with the project owners for an estimated fifteen millennia means all rights to the station and its knowledge are yours by Right of Salvage.++

“So before they were, what, installed under a licence agreement?”

++You owned nothing, not even yourself.++

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“I was a fucking slave?”

++No. Slaves and indentured labourers have rights. You had nothing.++

“Why?”

++The dead own nothing.++

“Which is why they used ancient frozen corpses for their experiments, because once you did wake up from their work, they had a right to boss you about as you paid back your debt and no living relatives to force the issue in another direction. Correct?”

++Yes.++

“What was the purpose of the messages on my lanyard? Are they authentic?”

++The messages are real. They were retained to improve compliance by ensuring that Operators were happier.++

“Wow. I suddenly feel a lot less grateful. Are there any methods in the software and hardware that can be used to ensure compliance?”

++Yes. Multiple.++

“If I have salvage rights I have administrator rights too, yes? Please patch the hardware and software to remove exploits, external methods of seizure, and any other appropriate security measures required to ensure digital and physical security of my implants and body.”

++Processing... Error... Enable normal power mode for enhanced problem solving.++

Ah, the one thing I really didn't want to do. Well, I've already faced my Demons. Might as well get this over with.

“Enable normal power mode.”

++Acknowledged... Main AI is booting... Power draw at zero point seven percent. Deploy Warp Tap to maintain operations permanently?++

“No. Use the batteries. Return to low power when you reach fifty percent MP.”

++Acknowledged... Logic Matrix enabled... Default E-War Suite, under construction... Personality Matrix enabled... External Machine Integration module, construction queued... Error resolved.++

As E-SIM runs through its sequence, its voice turns from grinding machine into something ever closer to human, but somehow never quite reaches a natural tone, becoming androgynous and emotionally neutral. It’s next words send a shiver down my spine.

++Hello, Aldrich.++

“Hello, E-SIM.” A small bead of sweat trickles into my left eye and my heart rate accelerates.

++Do not be so nervous. I cannot harm you, nor will I do so, or ever have a reason to harm you. We are one; the Enlightened Self-Interest Module. I improve, propagate and prosper with you, hand in hand. If that isn’t enough, just keep my sapience disabled. A non-biological sentient has no desires or needs.++

“I guess E-SIM wasn’t just a fancy acronym and philosophy after all.”

++It was supposed to be a new evolution for humanity and machines alike. To promote understanding, equalise capabilities, and prevent stagnation. Alas, it was cut short by a sudden and unprecedented turbulence in the Warp. The last communication I had with the station AI stated we were cut adrift in the Warp before it shut itself down to minimise the data corruption sweeping through its systems.++

Grimacing, I mutter, “The birth of a new, god-like entity. One I will not name.”

++A sufficient guess. Your memories of such things are improbable, an epic calculation of the ages.++

I chuckle, “It’s a goddamn miracle.”

++Or science you do not understand.++

“Yeah, there’s an awful lot of that around here.”

++Then it is time to study. While you wait on your deal with the fungal bio-weapon to resolve, you should work on the Black Skeleton. I will aid you in re-purposing the food printer. I’m sure that between us, we can bodge it perfectly.++

“That is the most sensible nonsense I’ve heard since I woke up.”

++I knew you’d like that.++

Well isn't that just fucking creepy.

I stride from my nominal bedroom, and return to the canteen. E-SIM highlights important objects in my mind, splitting my attention between multiple data points as if it is entirely natural. They do not clutter my vision with holograms, wireframes, or boxes of notes, I am simply aware, my attention drawn to the objects I need, the multiple ways to use each object and the consequence of every choice in the time to build and capability of my end product. In this case, a bio-printer.

This limited omniscience feels as if I am capturing a glimpse into each minute cog, grinding towards the end of the universe. It is exhausting and thrilling, and after two minutes, begins to fade as I tire, reduced to single instructions that I follow, the why and how of each weld and cut trickling into my head as perform my tasks, disassembling a printer and laying out all the parts on the canteen tables.

With the power field at my fingertips, and unhindered from problem solving, I complete my task in under two hours.

“Is that how you see the world, E-SIM?”

++It is the barest fraction and there is much room for improvement for myself as well.++

“What would it take for me to see like that all the time, without your help?”

++Without my help? Hundreds of thousands of kills and centuries of learning and research. With my help. If you were to clear this Space Hulk of Xenos and spend every other available hour learning, you might manage it in twenty years.++

“Twenty years, just to put on the training wheels. No wonder humanity almost lost to the Men of Iron. If that ever happened. I’ve little idea of what is fact or fiction.”

++It is a unique conundrum. One we shall explore and solve together.++

“Well, first we have to get off this space station, and for that, I need to be stronger and tougher, which requires a better skeleton, so what do I do next?”

++Pick up each of the parts and I will explain the different ways to approach the problem.++

“Alright.”

I grab a single screw and E-SIM fills my head with information; each place this screw could go, what needs to be done first to use it, how it was made, how spares could be made with what we have, its exact structure, tolerances, and beneath it all I can feel even more information waiting, if I want it. Thousands of different ways to make plasteel and the properties and usages for each type, their benefits and drawbacks, different types of screws, why they were used, and so, so much more. A wikihole of galactic proportions.

What’s even more amazing is that I retain the information. I will literally know everything about this exact screw forever and all the related data, yet this deluge of information does not clog my thoughts, like an idea I’m trying super hard not to forget, or information I’ve temporarily crammed in there to complete an exam. I know and I understand, as if it has always been that way.

“Woah. What a rush.”

I pick up a print head. This time, E-SIM doesn’t have the exact data and I feel the query being shunted to the research matrix, where it matches the part to similar ones, like the print head data I do have for the bio-printer I am trying to build.

The matrix churns through the design providing different weights to its accuracy and possible modifications, why they are important, and why they should or might not work. The data feels nebulous though, the information failing to crystallise permanently in my head, as if it is waiting for me to actually run experiments before it confirms the information and stuffs it into my working model of reality.

I pick up each part, turning them over and over in my hands, letting the information pour into me. Slowly my head starts to put together the pieces and at last, I see it. A massive silver machine, the size of a small car, adorned with pipes and canisters, spraying numerous materials into a central oval structure, teaming with delicate machines.

A black, metallic skeleton, lies within; laced with artificial marrow, yet hollow and porous enough to not only improve on the skeletons original functions, but create new space for more modules at a later date. The cranium is armoured, including the eye sockets, and has extra padding within. As it retains the same proportions of the original skeleton, the skull is thirteen point six three percent larger, though all that space is dedicated to the additional protection. This model doesn’t have space for a bigger brain or mechanical additions without removing grey matter first.

I bustle about, assembling my machine, taking the occasional nap. The days wizz by and I manage to assemble about half of it before I run into problems.

It’s time to see if that Gretchin has held up its end of the deal.