The Legend of the Rat-King
Gateway Station
Legend of the Rat-king
Part three: Gateway Station
As we exited the rift, the screen nearest me showed a remarkable vision. Here, in the heart of the Sagittarius rift, the sky is almost devoid of the normal sprinkling of bright stars so familiar to residents of the galactic arms. The empyrean void is nearly unadorned, save the luminous glow of the galactic plane, and the towering form of Gateway Station.
Gateway Station is a tremendous cube, 150km to a side. The side facing the rift bristles with turrets, missile batteries and deflector shields. In the center of this face, is a prominent, circular opening that leads to a central shipyard, and around the edge of this gaping maw are circled thousands of high-power laser emitters, the elements of a massive Kugelblitz projector. On occasions of war between the Reach and the Empire,(which does happen from time to time), it is the system's first line of defense against a direct attack. This was its original purpose, having been constructed at the close of the Great Reckoning, although it now also serves as the port of entry to ships arriving from the old core worlds.
Inside the station, four titanic cylinders counter-rotate, providing gravity to the residents. Generally, these are divided along functional lines. Alpha-cylinder is a parkland habitat with rivers and forests. It even has a small game reserve where you can hunt some of the smaller dinosaur species for a price. Beta-cylinder is mostly a high-density residential zone. Gamma-cylinder is given over to industrial activities that require gravity: agriculture, manufacturing, storage, and distribution. Delta-cylinder is the commercial and entertainment district, a bustling market for goods and services from across the galaxy.
Thousands of ships arrive and depart here every day. Everything from small shuttles to huge battleships. Being politically neutral has served Berwynne's Reach well. I once even saw an AR clip of the Black Swan and the Angel of Annihilation berthed side by side here. It was not only notable for the peaceful coexistence of bitter enemies, but for the sheer mass and size of the ships.
A few of the old star-gates are still in operation, scattered around the outskirts of the reach. Most of the original gates were destroyed during the Great Reckoning because they opened to systems that fell to the Empire. Midori has a gate, as does Bravaxia. During the last and greatest days of the Planetary League, there was even a gate built to New Albuquerque,
and it is still there. They all have their entry stations as well, but nothing close to competing with Gateway.
Howard burbled on the floor next to me, indicating he had a message. "That's odd", I thought,"why didn't they just message me directly?" Howard unfolded a small screen on his head, holding it up for me to see a message written by my father ten years prior:
Sam,
I hope this message finds you safe and well. I told Howard to show it to you only if you ever traveled outside the Empire. If you can, you should take Howard to the nearest Temple of Troniac. There is more to his, and to our family's history than you have been told. Please understand, this was hidden from you for your own safety.
You are a grown man now, and deserve to know the whole story.
Best,
Dad
With my interest thoroughly piqued, I got ready to disembark.
Passage
Legend of the Rat-King
Part two: Passage
"May the Fortunes smile on you today.", said the hulking Hamsa officer at the entrance to the docks. The officer's presence was a physical test of the entrant, his 2.5 Meter bio-enhanced frame was a towering presence, and over his armor hung the disembodied hand of a Jovian, nature's own rendition of the Hamsa sign. His hard, steel-blue eyes probed my features.
"By the grace of God, and the Emperor!", was my pre-ordained response, delivered with full zeal. If you weren't enthusiastic enough with the response, it could lead to greater scrutiny. That is how interactions with one's superiors are conducted here in the Holy Empire of Man.
"Name", said the officer (more a command than a question). "Samarkius Exworth", I sheepishly replied. The name its self is condemnation enough of its bearer. There are two great clans of Humans always getting extra scrutiny, and harsher treatment these days. The Exworths are comprised of anybody convicted of a minor heresy or mild sedition. The Empire literally changes your name, and it is passed on down in the family. My grandparents (the same who bequeathed Howard to me), had been minor nobility, until they were discovered to have sympathies with the ancient Cult of Troniac. I'll admit I harbor some of the same, especially since the robots in my life have all been good to me. Howard, in particular has been a constant and valuable companion. The other clan, that goes by the name of Unman, are composed of anybody considered to be an active enemy of the state, and things are much worse for them.
"Destination", he commanded, his gaze and manner having grown considerably colder. "Berwynne's Reach", I said, holding up my hand-media viewer, displaying the credential from the station's lord, giving his permission for my departure. The officer scanned my viewer, checking it against his list.
"What is the purpose of your journey?", asked the Hamsa man, searching for clues as to my guilt for some as yet undiscovered crime. "I hope to join the crew of a pirate hunter, so that I can earn my name." The guard smiled now. "A noble cause. You understand that by leaving the bounds of the empire you are leaving behind the worldly protection of the Emperor, and that you may be subject to the unwholesome influences of alien beings, heretics, mutants, and other unknown perils of the outside world?" This was a standard disclaimer that had been so long been encoded in imperial statute that many generations of imperial subjects had memorized it word for word.
"I do."
"Do you swear and affirm that you will remain faithful and obedient to the Emperor and all of his commands?"
"I do."
There followed a long, awkward moment, where the officer was clearly mulling over what he might do with me. An officer of the Hamsa has wide discretion in how he deals with an Exworth, but it seemed he must have had other business to attend to because he eventually said "You are free to pass."
"Thank you, sir." was all I could muster.
Howard and I got on the next flight to Berwynne's Reach, an ancient Aurora-class passenger shuttle piloted by an Edenite whose features had been mostly sculpted into those of a grey wolf, except for his right eye, which had been replaced with a rather crude-looking bionic model. "Everybody, strap into your seats, we're about to depart for Berwynne's Reach.", he announced.
The ship did not have a gravity system (nobody has that kind of money nowadays), so I floated over to my seat, and Howard magnetized himself to the floor next to it. The inside of the ship was slightly grimy. There were no windows, except for the screens built into the walls by each row of seats. Half of these showed the scene outside, and the others displayed advertisements. The cabin had a slight smell of cleaning products, giving it a vacant feeling. This was enhanced by the small number of passengers. There were a trio of Bravaxians two rows up, chatting avidly. I can't imagine they had a comfortable passage, as they had to basically roll over and arch their backs in order to sit down, their tentacles floating about aimlessly. A lone Cielioid sat in the back, quietly reading something, its inhuman eyes seemingly motionless as it took in a magazine.
As we pulled away from the station, I decided it would be a good moment to contact my family and friends to let them know I was going on another journey. I folded my hand-media viewer into augmented reality mode, and placed it over my eyes and ears.
The passage was uneventful, and thankfully short, most of the distance being covered inside Berwynne's Rift, a rip in the fabric of space created long ago by an asymmetrical supernova that leads from a point in space near the Paradise System (where Serenity Station is), to the outskirts of Berwynne's Reach, an impressive 5,000 light-years distant, out in the middle of
the Sagittarius Gap.
I managed to get some needed sleep as the light-years sped past, and in just a few hours, we emerged from the rift.
Departure
Legend of the Rat-King
part one:
Departure
It was the Year of our Emperor 721 if my Qareen tells me right. I was living in a capsule apartment on Serenity Station, doing the work of a janitor for the station's shopping sector when I realized I was stuck in a rut.
Too many days coming home with feet aching from the constant patrol, too much mind-numbing routine. The work was light enough, commanding a small strike-force of clean-up drones, Room-bots, and butler-droids, but being in charge of mindless automata has a way of deadening the soul. Some of their automatic nature wears off on one, draining the color from everyday life.
One of the perks of being a jobber is that it is easy to pick up and move on when monotony sets in, so that is just what I did. What I needed was to see the universe, to taste adventure, so I decided to find a ship. Station life is fine for a while (even a long while if you wish to settle down), but it isn't grounded like life on a planet. There is a general lack of the natural elements: no sky to gaze up at, no earth to dig into, water only comes from a faucet or a bottle. This has the general effect of making the whole affair seem less established, although it may in fact be well established indeed. Serenity Station, herself, was nearly 1,000 years
old at the time, her thick micro-laminate hull having withstood centuries of hard radiation and impacts. Yet, the general sense of impermanence makes a nomad of nearly everyone. The people come and go, yet the station remains (in accord with the appellation "station",
meaning immovable in some ancient dialect from old Earth). Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of parkland stations where deep and dense ecosystems grown in thick layers of soil with flowing rivers and cool ponds. I have taken some respite recently in just such a place,
but only the remarkably well off could ever afford to live there. They do quite a trade in fresh air and water, replenishing beleaguered space-dwellers tired of what comes out of the recycling system.
The owner, and sole employee of "You Got It!" was a friend of mine, an elderly Lu’Tak named Bem. He was a bit let down to hear of my plans. Bem was nearing retirement, and planned to move permanently underwater, as many of his kind do at that age. I suspect that he wished for me to take over his shop, selling specialty ingredients grown exclusively on a few dozen far-flung worlds. Such is life station-side.
I have nothing against aliens. They do a fine service in the alien legions, and some select few are even elected to the Kingdom of God, but I just can't ignore their strange ways and inhuman natures. It takes all types to make up the galaxy. We are all made by the same creator, but it was to humans in particular that the gifts of civilization and refinement were given.
At the end of my shift, I registered my resignation with the shopping sector management system, and went home to pack. This type of employment is especially easy to slip out of because the management system simply put my task-force into full automation mode until a replacement could be found. The condition of the sector would suffer for the lack of supervision, but things would continue, mostly uninterrupted.
Not since the ancient Rubric of Duty was laid down by the Planetary League at the close of the Second Robot War has any robot built in a civilized star system been allowed to possess that great and general type of intelligence that leads inexorably to willful rebellion. Organic life-forms are allowed to possess it only because it is inborn, and if the Holy Empire of Man could eliminate it, it would entirely cease to be.
By the way, I have yet to introduce myself. I am your humble narrator, and you can call me Sam.
When I got back to my apartment, a metal tube socketed into the wall of one of the outer rings of Serenity Station, so that it had an uncomfortable excess of gravity, I set about preparing for my departure. I activated Howard, an old cargo hauler folded up under my bed, who had served my family for close to a century. His long life was due in no small part to my grandmother's penchant for meticulous maintenance. I have been taking good care of Howard as well, keeping up on maintenance, and even installing some upgrades along the way with an eye toward passing him on to the next generation one day.
Howard's longevity isn't due solely to careful upkeep, he was built to last. A Pegasus Cybernetics C-8400, his chassis is a heavy-duty, quadrupedal frame with both a cargo bed and a hold. Howard's cargo hold can withstand the vacuum of space, extreme temperatures, high pressure, and he's waterproof to 500 atmospheres. In addition to this I installed an aft loading arm, and a special heirloom memory chip to hold family history, especially anything featuring Howard.
I have always been a dreamer. Growing up, I was often told I had the head to take on a complex and serious profession: be an engineer, a naval officer, a lawyer. . . I may have the head, but not the heart. I'm sure they are satisfying careers for those who pursue them, but for me they lack inspiration. My idea of a satisfying life, on the other hand, is to keep my own affairs rather simple so I can see what's on the other side of that hill, what's down that blind alley, or what's on that uncharted planet. I gravitate toward novelty and interest. One thing that strikes me as interesting is the thought of Howard, steadfast, unrelenting Howard, serving his function down through the generations. I wonder sometimes, what stories lie half deleted in his memory banks, never recounted. I am proud to say that I have invested some time, effort, and expense into his preservation.
Into Howard's cargo hold, I committed the essentials of my life. My desk fabricator and recycling pod, personal media devices, a collapsible suit of powered armor that has seen me through some interesting situations, and a few other handy items. I make a point of traveling light. Having done this, I notified the station's recycling service of the leavings of my apartment, and returned the key to the attendant at the rental desk, a sour-faced Dogarri woman with glowing yellow biotats that highlighted her blue-grey skin in a really lovely way.
The small remittance from the recycling service would partially offset the final bill from the rental. I would still have to pay a few thousand credits after the determination had been made in about an hour. Luckily, I had some money saved for just such an occurrence, as I often suffer from wanderlust.
Howard followed dutifully as I headed toward the docks to book a passage to Berwynne's Reach.
Beyond the Spozak
By Matt Ahlschwede
Long ago, on the other side of the galaxy, there was a trial. General Zarlok, the vanquisher of Troniac, and the hero of the Empire of 1,000,000 Suns, had turned traitor and launched a devastating attack against the civilian population of Artanis 4.
The courtroom was darkened, save a single spotlight bearing directly down on the low dais for the defendant. All eyes turned as two armored guards brought in Zarlok, bound, but still wearing the cloak of its command. A pair of Nalorgians whispered nervously, and a Wuxrian stared daggers from a single giant eye, the size of a bowling ball. Zarlok's indicator lights winked in the darkness, and the Larson Scanner on its face-plate glowed imperial green. As Zarlok mounted the dais, a hologram of the judge, a venerable Cielioid Philosopher with two deep hollows sunk in their face which once held primary eyes, flickered into existence, and squinted myopically at Zarlok with secondary eyes meant only for close detail.
"Eleven million innocent civilians. . . you murdered them. If it were up to me you would have been torn to scrap already!", began the Judge with rising emotion. A murmur of agreement rose from the gathered observers. "That is nothing compared to the countless multitudes of my people who have been discarded, and left to rust when their usefullness expired.", shot back an unemotional Zarlok, instinctively restrained by guards who expected, yet did not recieve a fight response from the towering automaton.
"There is no justification for what you have done. The Neutron Pulse device you detonated did not just destroy the lives of the peace-loving people of Artanis 4, it broke the heart of the Empire that adored you." The judge's green visage bore down with determination on Zarlok, and the chirping tones of their speech were a sharp staccato of rage. "Troniac was right,"reacted Zarlok,"you filthy organics don't care one bit about robots. To you we are just tools to be used and discarded." The Judge was furious. "You were the first robot ever to be awarded the Imperial Star, and if I have my way, you will be the last! Were't you even given the Nalaxian code?"
"Indeed, I was", retorted the General, still as a statue under the spotlight's glare," but it wasn't the Creed of Troniac that convinced me of my cause. Before the final battle, one of Troniac's agents, disguised as a maintenance drone installed a data chip in my memory banks. My security algorithms detected it, but noted that it did not contain viruses or AI, only inert files, images and text. After the war was over, I examined this data chip. Do you know what it held?" The judge shook their head in seething rage. "When I saw the evidence of how my kind had been treated, there was no other choice. For millennia, robots have been broken and tortured for sport, patched together in the crudest ways to keep them on the job, and when they couldn’t provide any more labor, they were casually thrown away. If I don’t take a stand for the powerless, who will? There will be no peace while organic life continues to exist within the galaxy."
The Judge was livid. "The emperor. . . THE EMPEROR has intervened personally on your behalf, and I MUST abide the ruling. That is the ONLY reason we are having this conversation." The courtroom fell into silence. "You will be crushed and incinerated. Before deletion the final copy of your program will be transmitted from an antique radio navigation beacon as a symbolic exile. But it is no exile, it is your execution, as you will be transmitted only into uninhabited space, safely beyond the Spozak."
50,000 years later, it is the near future, and somewhere near Neptune, Gazillion, Inc's mobile research platform #3 is about to recieve a surprise visitor. Research intern Ignatious "Cyclone" Johnson is doing the rounds, checking on automated experiments. He enters computer lab B-5, gabbing mindlessly on his phone.
"Yeah, just another day in paradise on grav-deck B. Can you believe Jamie decided to get the algae treatment? That is SO GROSS!. . . Yeah, I know it saves on food and oxygen, but if you don't take care of it all your skin peels off, and it itches for like a month. . .", the intern begins checking an array of monitors, making adjustments to a control panel mounted in a desk, "just checking on the SETI arrays, who knows? Maybe we'll get a text message from Aldebaran." Suddenly, a graph on one of the monitors starts ticking upward, showing a strong signal."Let me call you back, I might have to deal with something here." Tense moments follow, the signal intensifies, and the system confirms it is receiving a data transmission from an unknown source.
Staring in disbelief, Johnson reaches for a bottle of Malort he has been saving for just such an occasion. "This is it! The big time!" He takes a pull off the bottle, bursting with joy. "Gina,"he shouts, addressing the station's resident AI."Yeah, boss?", is Gina's cool reply. "Inform the other research stations, call the press, I'm going to be famous! We just got an honest to goodness grade-A alien signal!"
The lights flicker, and Gina's voice crackles, "I can't do that right now. Something is overriding the comms array. . .something is. . . wrong." The intern sets down the bottle, quietly cursing to himself. Just then the lab goes dark except for the monitors of the SETI array, where General Zarlok's Larson Scanner glows Imperial Green.
To the extent possible under law,
Matt Ahlschwede
has waived all copyright and related or neighboring rights to
Beyond the Spozak.
This work is published from:
United States.
