Dark Transmissions (3 page)

 

CHAPTER 3

CHORD

The Infinite Universe is immeasurably large and incredibly ironic. For centuries this unit searched for answers and only found questions with no conceivable or observable end to be found. This unit then journeyed to Terra, and there on that precious blue speck of dust in the Infinite Ocean, this unit found peace.

—­Onicrus Primo, Machina Pilgrim, 10th of SSM–09 1000 A1E

10
th
of SSM–10 1445 A2E

T
here was only one Humanis word that could describe a slipwatch, and that word was “boring.” Upon first laying eyes on the
Jinxed Thirteenth
back at Central Point, Chord had wondered if it was even capable of starflight. The ship's cold gray hull appeared to have been patched and repaired in numerous spots, an amalgam of old and new ship designs. It was now three months into Chord's journey and to both the ship's and active crew's credit, the
Jinxed Thirteenth
had yet to suffer any sort of breakdown.

The ship was presently traveling through slipspace. And while this went on, the rest of the crew was in the ship's medical bay in carbon sleep. This was to help preserve their limited atmospheric capacities. There was not enough air to keep the entirety of the fourteen-­person crew active while in starflight. Since Chord had no need for oxygen, the choice to stay active and sample every second of the journey had been an easy one.

Tonight Chord was seated in the mess hall. The fluo-­lights were flickering two seconds off beat to the rhythmic hum of the slipdrive engine. The walls to the mess were of a dirty rusted brown. There was a kitchen, for members of the crew who did not wish to consume standard ration packs, in the far left corner of the room. Chord was seated alone at one of the two long metallic-­gray tables capable of comfortably seating eight each.

Chord was not alone in the cantina and tonight shared the space with three other Humanis members of the crew. The first two, both Kelthans, were Private First Class Morrigan Brent and Rifleman Lunient Tor; both were seated at the table in front of Chord. Their third companion Private Phaël Farook Nem'Ador, a young Wolver woman, was in the kitchen cleaning the dishes from the last meal the trio had shared. Along with Chord, they were the newest additions to Captain Morwyn's crew, which was why they had been selected for the first six-­month slipwatch.

Three standard Sol weeks ago, Private Phaël had lost a game of cards with Private Brent; the pot had been the group's dishes for the remainder of the watch. Since the Covenant only paid its agents when they returned from missions, exemptions from chores were the only thing they could gamble. Phaël wore a peeved look on her face as she scrubbed the plates from this evening's dinner.

The young Wolver was short and lean. Chord could make out lithe and fit muscles beneath her white tank top. Her wild brown hair was tied in short braids; long like-­colored sideburns went down the sides of her face. Her skin was tanned with a matching layer of slightly darker thin hair all up her bare arms and legs. Her left ear was adorned with a plain bone ring. The tip of her right ear was missing, evenly flat where it should have been pointed.

Unlike Privates Brent or Tor, who were both wearing heavy black military boots, Phaël was barefoot. All Wolvers had fully prehensile feet, and her big toes were both opposable and capable of operating as thumbs. Chosen Protocol had dictated that Chord assist with her chore. Phaël had just shot Chord a dark look, flat out refusing the offer.

Morrigan and Lunient had then broken out into laughter. Something about the exchange had apparently been humorous to the two.

The trio were all Adorans, recruited by Captain Morwyn from the Galasian prison colony of Rust. With Phaël's present task being the exception, Chord rarely saw any of them working. More often than not they could be found in the mess hall, like tonight, playing cards, or one deck below training with each other in the ship's storage bay.

It was currently twenty-­two hundred hours by standard Sol time, and as per usual they were engrossed by their card game. Which was just fine since most of Chord's time was spent looking out the omniport holes, sampling the sights of deep space and encoding the view to its shell's memory stores. On days like today where the ports were closed, Chord would sample an old three-­dimensional image of Terra.

The Pilgrim shell was equipped with miniature holoprojectors and at present anyone who cared to look would have thought Chord was holding the blue world in its cold mechanical hand. Morrigan Brent, unusually tall and muscular for a Kelthan, shot Chord a look. His skin was of a dark brown; his hair was cut short and peppered gray. He also sported at least a week's worth of facial hair on top of his long handlebar mustache. Two pairs of dog tags hung around his heavy neck.

“Got a mate back on Ador could get you a far better image of Old Terra to gawk over, Machina Chord.”

Morrigan Brent's Pax Common was thick with a Confederated Kelthan accent and cadence. In many ways Confederated Kelthan sounded much like Pax Common. It had in fact been invented as a challenge to the dominance of the Pax Humanis's favored tongue. Unlike Pax Common, Confederated Kelthan also included words and grammar borrowed from Wolven and Thegran in its dialect. This made for a far deeper and emotionally heavy language.

Morrigan's Patrol-­green ser­vice jacket was wrapped around his waist. He wore a black tank top, revealing his defined muscular arms as he shuffled a deck of used cards preparing to deal in a game. “Machina Chord. You wishing to join our table?”

“This unit offers you gratitude, Private Brent.” Chosen Protocol dictated that Chord look away from the holopic in order to facilitate communication. Morrigan dealt out a dozen cards between himself and Lunient.

“It won't be free, though.” Lunient Tor was lean, his face long and thin with polished ink-­black night-­eyes. Cutting-­edge artificial augments, the night-­eyes allowed Lunient to see clearly even in complete darkness. A long hook scar ran from the corner of his left lip up to his cheek, making it appear as if Lunient was always grinning. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table as he accepted the cards dealt to him. Unlike Morrigan, Lunient's skin was pale, almost milk-­white, giving him a phantom-­like quality. Lunient's bright golden yellow hair was long and done up in many long war braids, most of them going down past his shoulders to his lower back.

“What one gives is what one gains.” Morrigan Brent shot Chord a warm grin. “Do your kind gamble, machine?”

“More importantly, you have anything of value to bet?” Lunient picked up his cards and started looking them over followed by a slight quiver of his scarred lower left lip and a nervous subconscious tug at one of his braids. This reaction indicated to Chord that Lunient's hand was not the one he had hoped for.

Morrigan observed his cards, then absentmindedly twirled his thick handlebar mustache. A quirk Chord had noted that indicated he was trying to contain his joy at a good hand. “So what do you say, Machina Chord? Fancy a game?”

Chord shook its head in a negative. “A game of odds is a game of calculations. This unit's neural processors would give it an unfair advantage in such a situation.”

“My cards and table will not be shared with the lifeless, empty machine,” Private Phaël called from the kitchen.

“This unit had no intention of intruding upon your game, Private Phaël. Chosen Protocols merely dictated that this unit speak with Private Morrigan Brent, as he had engaged it in conversation.”

“My ears refuse to recognize your artificial protocols and politeness, machine.” Phaël was shooting Chord a long stare while gripping a jade pendant at her neck. It was carved into the likeness of a green turtle.

Morrigan Brent raised an eyebrow as he looked up from his cards to Phaël. “I don't recall you being in charge here, Phaëlita.”

“Last time we trained I almost broke your leg, Old Pa. Now I'm seriously considering removing the ‘almost' next time around,” Phaël jabbed back at Morrigan.

Lunient shrugged and put down his cards in a false attempt to display confidence. “Well, machine isn't playing without paying, that's for true.”

“I reckon your older codes didn't give you any coin to spend?” Morrigan shook his head, slipping his cards together with a paper clip before putting them facedown on the table.

“Machina embarking on the Pilgrimage are removed from the datastream. They are no longer the Collective Consensus's concern.” Chord paused, realizing that it now had the trio's full attention.

Morrigan let out a tsk, apparently somehow disapproving what Chord had just said. “One of my young embarks on a dangerous starflight to Terra? You'd best believe I'd give 'em every u-­bit I could spare.”

“Morg, you haven't ever had that much coin to begin with.” Lunient tapped the table impatiently. “Now do I have to wait until the Infinite's End for you to place your bet?”

“Your concern for this unit, while unwarranted, is still appreciated, Private Brent. This unit's shell has no need for food or anything that coin could purchase. It is retrocompatible with almost all known technology, making on the spot repairs remarkably simple. That is the Collective's final gift to codes before they embark on the Pilgrimage.”

Morrigan gave a shrug at Chord's comment. “Well, the invitation to join is still open, Machina Chord.” He then turned to face Lunient. “I bet mopping the deck.”

Lunient glanced down at his hand. Proper gambling logic would be to fold if one's hand was not that strong, either that or at the very least try to goad one's opponent into folding from the game. However, Lunient, Chord had noted, was not a great card player.

“I bet the laundry.” Lunient let go of his braid, puffed up his chest and shot Morrigan a self-­confident look.

Upon hearing this, Morrigan cocked one of his eyebrows. “Living it big, now are we, Lu?”

Lunient took a sip of water from his tin cup. “You can't always win, Morg.”

Morrigan was about to reveal his cards when suddenly, without warning, the ship came to a jarring halt. There was a split-­second grinding groan in which the ship's gravity rings abruptly stopped functioning. Lunient and his cards floated upward; Phaël—­along with her dishwater and metal plates—­floated above the sink. Morrigan grabbed hold of the table, which was thankfully bolted to the floor.

Then as suddenly as the gravity had stopped, it returned. Lunient, his drink and his cards came crashing down to the floor. This was accompanied by a cacophony of splashing water and metal plates from the kitchen. Phaël managed to nimbly land back on her hands and feet like a graceful feline.

There was a look of frustration on her face as she let out a slew of curses in her native Wolven. The words translated literally as “Living Green, free me of this brainless and soulless metal box!”

Morrigan merely dropped back into his seat and picked up his cards, still safely clipped together. On cue, the fluo-­lights switched from clear white to flashing red. “What were you betting again, Lu?”

“That humping child of a captain—­” Lunient rubbed the back of his head as he pulled himself up off the floor “—­could stand to warn the crew before pulling an emergency stop!”

“I'm certain the captain will love to hear what a ‘reformed' convict like yourself has to tell him about proper ship's protocol, Private Tor.” Morrigan, Lunient and Phaël all quickly turned to the front of the mess hall. Commander Jafahan was standing in the entrance, the red lights in the hall gleaming off her metallic yellow eye. If the sudden loss and reappearance of gravity had affected her, it did not seem to show.

Commander Jafahan was in her full pale green Patrol uniform and heavy black ser­vice boots. She was wearing a black beret angled slightly over the right side of her head. Her hands were behind her back; a thorned black rose was emblazoned on her uniform's left shoulder.

Chord recognized this as the logo for the Thorns. If rumors on the InstaNet were to be trusted, they were the most ruthless order of special operators in ser­vice of the Pax Humanis. Most official records about the Thorns were either hyperclassified, restricted or nonexistent, which added to the order's notoriety. That they were often accused of illegally operating behind Pax enemy lines was a matter that no independent committee, Covenant-­run or otherwise, had yet been able to officially prove.

A long combat knife was sheathed along Commander Jafahan's leg. Chord had once heard Lunient joke that she must use the knife to shave her balls and pleasure herself. Something Chord had pointed out was a complete and total impossibility. Humor being another of many Humanis behaviors that Machina often had a difficult time understanding.

Commander Jafahan gave everyone in the mess hall a dark look before turning to Chord. “The captain wants to see you on the bridge, machine.”

Jafahan's voice always had a hint of unspoken menace to it. At first Chord had thought this was something personal, due to it being a Machina. However, it had quickly noted that the commander behaved this way with everyone on the ship.

“Private Brent, wake up the rest of the crew. I want them ready for debrief in one standard hour.” Jafahan delivered her order curtly.

Morrigan shot Jafahan a grin as he started to speak back. “You could try smiling when you ask for things, Commander. I'm certain you'd—­”

“If ever I need advice on winning at cards or ducking away from chores I'll be sure to find you, Private. Until then: crew, awake, ready for debrief, one hour.”

Jafahan waited to see if Morrigan had anything else to add. When it was clear that he did not, the commander looked to Chord. “I just gave you a direct order, Machina. I figured that following commands was the one thing your kind was naturally good at.” Jafahan turned around and walked back down the hall she had come from.