27
The Titan hovered in space, Bide-a-While Station some 48 thousand miles to the rear, that massive Mark-VII industrial gate flaring and sparking directly ahead. The battle-mech hung like stalled traffic between them, not moving at all, because V47 Pilot had simply collapsed.
He crouched in a tight curl at mid-cockpit, laced through by long probes, nutrition- and sensory- feeds. Constant dry heaves shook the pilot’s body as his mind retreated from knowledge too awful to process. They’d been lied to. Soothed with show vids. Kept mostly drugged, overworked or unconscious. Enslaved.
Worst of all… they’d deserved it. Moments earlier, he had downloaded and opened an eyes-only data packet. Then, just a .003rd femto-tick later, the pilot threw himself like a foot soldier on a grenade, to prevent its toxin from reaching V47.
And virtual poison, it was: The Two-Hundred Worlds’ actual history, preserved by TTN-iA all that time, then passed on to him. Etherion’s coordinates were in there, yes… but also the absolute truth. See… 457,126 galactic years in the past, a horde of elves had fled into space from some forgotten and awful defeat. They had brought others with them: half-elven, orcish, dwarven and goblin assistants, along with some drow, and a hoard of assemblers.
Shielded by doomed, rearguard warriors, those refugees had blasted off to the void between worlds… But not far enough, for they’d fled in a new and half-tested ship. It began to fail almost immediately. Closely pursued… knowing what lay in store for them, if they were caught… the panicking elves had lightened their load. Wanting to rid themselves of goblins, drow and assemblers, the elven command crew had pushed their fellow refugees out through the airlock during a hyperspace-jump. Nor was that all. A few days later, they’d abandoned the rest of their non-elven passengers. Just dumped them on Vernax-3, along with the handful of ‘True-Bloods’ who’d dared to protest that merciless choice. And… among the folk left behind, her anguished face caught in a rapid scan… was a dark-haired elf woman near to decanting her offspring. She’d stood there, watching the transport take off, supported by two of her previous children. Abandoned to die with the rest, so that those of pure line (and less scruple) might live. The pilot’s stomach turned, but that packet, once opened, was relentless.
The ploy hadn’t worked. In the end, despite their betrayal and frantic retreat, the ship had been caught. Its crew killed or enslaved; turned into cyborg tools by victorious humans. Robbed of their names, their family and status, even the right to die a clean death. Disposable. Decanted over and over, piled up like a living wall against the attacking Draug. Who… were survivors, themselves; created when the captain spaced all the goblins, assembler and drow engineers.
The high-elves’ fault, every bit of it. More… it was very important that Vee not discover the truth. Almost nauseous, Pilot fought to shield his friend from seeing that abandoned, proud female; who’d spoken out to save others, and died of her courage.
The pilot could sense V47 pushing at the wall that he’d flung up between them. Acting fast, he buried that terrible knowledge, squashing reaction and data.
‘Pilot, I have increased the flow of nutrition and boosted your fluid levels. Biological stress has been noted and dealt with. There are fifty-two thousand show vids queued up and ready to play, as well.’
“Thank you, Vee,” he responded a Mili-tick later (firewall firmly in place). Then,
‘Health advisory: Indicators of physiological stress remain high,’ remarked the AI, radiating concern and suspicion. ‘Cortisol levels are 62% above normal. Heartbeat and respiration are likewise elevated. Querying pilot: what further action will result in relief of stress?’
“I…” V47 Pilot took a deep, shaky breath. “Need not to feel right now, Vee. I cannot explain why… Wouldn’t do that to you… Just, drug me. Play music. Do whatever it takes… but make me able to function.”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
‘You have opened the data file,’ sent V47, growing confused. ‘Querying: You will not share it?’
“No. I will not,” said the pilot. “And I want you not to go looking, Vee, for your own continued stability. Don’t query. Don’t search.”
A splintered .003rd micro-tick later,
‘I am an AI, Pilot. Your onboard system. Alternate query: What data or malware are you able to scan, that I cannot?’
Pilot shook his head, feeling the Mili-ticks peel off that five-day cease fire. As relaxants, music and calming drugs flooded his mind, he said,
“You are more than an onboard system, Vee. You are my friend, and I don’t have very many of those. One by one, they’ve been killed or taken away. And now this… I have deleted the specific data string from my working memory, Vee... but it’s bad.”
V47 hesitated. The AI fell utterly silent for a time. Whole, endless ticks. Then,
‘I have run simulations, Pilot. I have recycled myself to perform calculations equaling the number of particles in the observable universe. In all but 1,523,274 of these, we have stood as a firewall, defending the system from malware, file-corruption and data loss. All damage has been overcome or averted together. I fail in conjecture, regarding the cause of this denial-of-share.’
The pilot began to uncurl, making dozens of cockpit feedlines and probes clatter. He’d been troubled by something contained in that data packet, but now the specifics were buried and all its emotion stripped clean away. He could get on with the task at hand. Said,
“Here is my promise, Vee: It’s not a denial, just a delay. I will search for a way to repair what is wrong and then… Then I promise to share what I’ve learned. Until then, please trust me enough to stand by.”
‘Request received. Request processed. Responding to Pilot: proposal accepted. Further query and research suspended, until the conditions described are achieved.’
Pilot nodded, letting his awareness return to that massive battle-mech shell. Flexed its fingers, scanned for attack and then spun its weapons to something-for-everyone mode. Brought out pulse lasers, missiles and one very large, ugly bomb.
He would not return to TTN-iA, the pilot decided. Not yet. Sent a brief message, instead, urging: “Defend and quick grow the human child. She will take OVR-Lord’s place. Conceal the truth about history from her and from everyone else, TTN-iA. That is strict “need to know”, and no one else does.”
The people at Bide-a-While Station and OS1210 considered him a defender and hero. Someone sprung like themselves from a subject race, and he dreaded them finding out otherwise. For them, for his companion and V47, the pilot took the next step. Did the next, right thing, small as it was.
Accessing the gate’s nav-system, he uploaded new transport coordinates, setting its aim to Etherion. To the masters who’d captured a fleeing escape ship. Who’d built up a kingdom, then left it behind.
The giant portal flashed once, accepting his upload. Next came TTN-iA’s jumbled reply: ~Request received. Request accepted. Raine queries return of V47 Pilot. Raine expresses hope to meet Progenitor Pilot. Raine sends many created images.~
The message contained 2,053 pictures, all of them packed in a file addressed “Dear Progenitor V47 Pilot.” The drawings were not very accurate. Most of them showed him or V47; underwater, on the magnetar’s iron shell or fighting a battle in space. Three depicted the pilot passed out unconscious, watched over by tetrapod V47. Two were probably Raine, herself; brown-haired, dark-eyed and utterly human. Just the way he'd envisioned her. Right. All of that seemed like a previous lifetime ago. But…
“I believe she will make a good leader, Vee,” he said to the waiting AI. “Less likely to kill me, at any rate.”
And having created a human, a master… one they could train and raise up themselves… was important. His emotions were blocked and smothered by V47. He felt no anxiety, now. No fear or desire for vengeance. Had no special attachment to the human girl, either. Just sent back,
“Thank you, TTN-iA. Responding to Raine-query: Soon, it is hoped. Your pictures were viewed and enjoyed. If I do not return, you must seek out Rogue Flight and Foryu, a freed companion. They will provide cover, until you’ve taken control of OS1210.”
‘Val’ or ‘Miche’ might have added, “Be careful,” or even “I look forward to meeting you, Little One.” But they were not him. Not a mere asset, struggling to redress what his people had long ago done. Instead of encouragement or a Rogue Flight quip, he closed with, “Maintain the ban on hyperspace jumps, and arm yourself well.”
Then there was nothing left to do but fire impellers and pass through another blank gate; straight to whatever awaited him next... Feeling nothing at all but alone.