Relic Tech (Crax War Chronicles) (6 page)

We exited the hangar and took several turns down long corridors. Each appeared similar to the previous. Numbers identifying location were carved into the gray stone walls. The tunneled complex and lighting reminded me more of an ancient earth cave than a modern space colony. The place seemed deserted. I guessed we were following an ancient lava tube. I wondered how they kept the complex intact with the gravitational forces of the nearby gas giant, Jupiter.

The marines escorted with automatic MP rifles held ready. Dr. Goldsen strove to keep pace. “Can we slow down just a little?” I asked.

Sergeant Fitch nodded and slowed our march. Soon we entered a large freight elevator.

“Normally,” said Dr. Goldsen, “we use electric carts to move about. But Captain Hollaway did not think it was wise. Not much further to my laboratory facilities.” She sounded a little winded, but more agitated by the silence. “This route is seldom used and more secure.”

About fifty paces from the elevator we came to a set of double doors guarded by two alert marines. They were almost as intimidating as Fitch and Neville. It was warm, but the two guards showed no discomfort.

With a nod the guards stepped aside and the steel doors slid open.

Dr. Goldsen’s laboratory facility was a stark contrast to the dark, endless corridors. It was large, two-tiered, with an arched ceiling. Lights and computers filled every nook and cranny. Some areas had been partitioned off, but for the most part it was open. At least two dozen men and women in white lab coats, with computer clips in hand, moved swiftly about. Several looked up to see who’d entered before refocusing on their assigned task. Specialized sound dampeners kept the noise level far lower than it would have been.

Dr. Goldsen directed Agent Vingee to wheel my bed into a small alcove. Even its walls were lined with computer hardware and other equipment. Fitch and Neville stood at attention just outside the small area while Vingee remained next to me. I felt the wooden carving under the blankets. I thought about giving it to Vingee. She could get it to Silvre’s family. What they might do with it was unknown. After reconsidering why the Umbelgarri representative gave it to me, I decided to try something else.

I was getting warm. “Agent Vingee, could you please fold down one of my blankets?”

She was observing the activity in the lab. “Sure.” She folded one down to the foot of the bed without disturbing my tubing or my bandaged leg.

Some people entered the lab that I recognized from my pretrial. An anxious looking Mr. Hawks was first. A new assistant wearing a matching yellow tie with more black in it than Loams’s followed him. Behind came the admiral, general, and CJO, followed by an older man with a thick gray mustache, an intelligence official. The last two were discussing some matter. I didn’t see an Umbelgarri representative.

“Do you know the intelligence man?”

“Yes,” said Agent Vingee. “Deputy Director Cavelvar. He doesn’t travel willingly or often.”

“An associate?”

“Hardly. He is number three.”

“And what are you ranked?” I asked.

“About forty-thousand.”

“Really? Did you actually look that up?”

“Recently?” she said. “Would you like an exact figure?”

“Do you have time?”

“Do you?”

“That depends,” I said. “But first I need to know something.”

She looked at me with head tilted and one eye squinted. “And what would that be?”

“How fast can you count?”

She suppressed a grin.

“I know, that was a little anemic,” I admitted. “But hey, I’m under a little pressure.”

Her mirth faded.

“Glad you didn’t have to use your pistol,” I said. “Of course, the evening is still young.”

“It’s midmorning on this region of Io,” she corrected.

“Thanks for the tip. And thanks for taking responsibility for Director Simms’ semi-automatic antique.”

“No problem,” she said. “I cleaned it for you. But that’s okay, you’d had a long day.”

“It was night, but who’s watching the clock?”

She laughed. “I think you might’ve gotten a smile out of Sergeant Fitch.”

A quick glance and a wink from the marine indicated it was true.

“Sergeant Fitch,” I asked. “Did you see a representative of the Umbelgarri enter?”

“Affirmative,” he said quietly. “He was already here. Near the back of the lab.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And thank you, Special Agent Vingee. I wanted to sleep away my last hours. I am glad I didn’t.”

“Chin up, Security Specialist 4th Class Keesay. Remember, get through this and I’ll have a story for you.”

Dr. Goldsen and two assistants approached our alcove.

I sighed. “Looks like it’s about time.” I knew that if I survived, memory wouldn’t be my strong suit. But there was no sense rubbing that in. “Think I’ll get a chance to say anything to Hawks?”

“
Possibly,” Vingee replied.

The two assistants started to move my bed.

“I know, you’re information and records, not legal affairs.” My wide smile increased the pain around my injured eye, but I held it.

She responded with a weak grin and concerned eyes.

All things considered, I was feeling pretty confident. For some reason, Hawks and his yellow tie inspired me.

The assistants wheeled me to a side area where a large lift that looked like a giant pancake flipper hung attached to the wall. Sergeant Fitch followed.

“We have to switch you to another platform,” apologized Dr. Goldsen. “It won’t be as comfortable, at first. It will undoubtedly hurt to be moved.”

“I think I’m beginning to form bed sores,” I said as I motioned for Dr. Goldsen. “Will that make a difference?”

When she stepped near me, I discretely handed her the little carving. “Would you pass this on to the Umbelgarri?” I whispered, “They can forward it to Diplomat Silvre’s family.”

Not looking at it, she slipped the bust into a lab coat pocket. “I’ll see what I can do about those bed sores after the procedure.”

I was right. There was some form of surveillance. Not surprising, but whose? Possibly the sound dampeners helped. If there were the cameras I hoped they didn’t have a good angle. I was sure Fitch had observed the handoff.

Dr. Goldsen was correct. The switching didn’t take long, and it was exceptionally painful. My new bed, if it could be called that, was hard. And I did have a few bedsores forming.

My new mode of transportation didn’t have wheels. It used a reverse gravity plate, offering a far smoother ride.

Dr. Goldsen had gone on ahead. Sergeant Fitch nodded and remained behind. I couldn’t see Allison Vingee. Besides Dr. Goldsen, his would be the last friendly face I’d ever see.

In the age of interstellar space travel communication is much akin to the American West’s 1860’s Pony Express. Information distribution is limited to the routes and timing of vessels traveling to and from a world, space colony, or outpost. Electronic transmission remains limited to the speed of light and is acceptable within a solar system. But the vast distance between the interstellar colonies means reception of a radio transmission could take decades or longer. Utilizing the condensation of space circumvents the speed of light limitation, keeping distant colonies reasonably informed, if they are common destinations. If not, message rockets launched through a con-gate are used to transmit vital information.

Dr. Goldsen explained the details of the Cranaltar and what to expect. To the best of my understanding, my memories and associated knowledge would be delivered to the Cranaltar IV along the lines of a class-one message rocket: expensive to me, not totally reliable, and definitely one way. My intellect would be expended like so much rocket fuel.

The Cranaltar didn’t look technologically impressive. Most of its functioning and hardware was housed behind walls, out of sight. All I saw was a small, well-lit area with a large silvery parabolic overhead dome. A thick cable extended down and divided into several hundred somewhat frayed endings, each tipped with a long slender needle. Dr. Goldsen explained that once in the brain each needle would further divide much like the needles on a pine tree’s branch. Those would split off multiple times as well, seeking prearranged destinations before the actual operation would commence.

While a med tech shaved my scalp with a sonic depilator, Dr. Goldsen traveled in and out, giving assistants whispered directives. I would’ve preferred my straight razor but, like everything else, that too was lost.

At last Dr. Goldsen walked back to me. “Mr. Keesay, we are going to perform a brain scan now.”

I gave her a puzzled look. She caught on that it had been a long time since I’d been addressed as Mister.

“You are under my care now. No formal, militaristic titles or classifications are necessary.” She smiled and read the monitors. “You will be presented images, pictures, words and other sensations such as cold and warmth. You will be asked to perform some simple mental tasks. During this time your brain will be monitored and mapped. After that is finished, you will feel a tingling sensation. Once that ends, your cranium will have been marked for insertion by the Cranaltar probes.”

“You mean the needles over there?” I asked, pointing at the apparatus under the silver dome.

“Yes. It won’t hurt. We will see to that. Before the actual scanning and recording begins you will be partially submerged in a gel to keep you from moving, and to insulate you from outside interference.” Dr. Goldsen continued explaining while checking my tubes. “The brain
lacks nerve cells to indicate pain. When the Cranaltar receptor probes radiate through your cerebral cortex, and to a lesser extent the cerebellum, you won’t feel it.” She checked some readings while an assistant moved me toward the scanning tube. “Do you understand?”

I wanted to ask her about the tampering with my brain and if they had figured out how to deal with that, but I didn’t. I figured everything was being recorded for my trial, so I simply answered, “I do.”

The med tech replaced my eye bandaging with a thin patch that itched. Even though I was getting used to the pain, I was thankful for the added distraction as the grav-bed slowly traversed the tube.

Just before reaching the end of the tube, the bed stopped. Holographic images began to appear in front of me. At first they were simple shapes like squares, triangles, and cubes with solid colors followed by varying patterns. This went on for several minutes. Next, I was shown multiple shapes. A synthesized voice asked me to picture each in my mind after they were taken away.

Soon I graduated to pictures. At first simple ones, like a ball, a dog, a building, a space dock while visualization and verbal tasks were asked of me. Later, letters, words, sentences, and numbers were presented. I was asked to read silently. Then, I was asked to recite from memory and read orally. I was asked to perform simple and complex math problems. I’d never studied much beyond algebra and trigonometry, so that section of mapping took much less time than the reading and verbal.

I was asked to move certain parts of my body, to focus on breathing, and to listen to various words, sounds and tones. I was asked to identify verbally and mentally some of them. The process became tedious. At least two hours must have passed, maybe more.

Whenever I asked a question, I was directed by the synthetic voice to refocus and perform as requested. A short section introduced cold, warm, hot, tickling and painful sensations. I wondered how they intended to accomplish taste until the voice directed me to imagine the taste of common foods while presented with an array of scents and odors.

Next, I was shown images of familiar people. They must have really gone back into my file. I saw my mother’s and father’s images at various ages along with their voices. An image of our old apartment flashed past. Famous generals, political figures and alien species paraded by. I recognized many of them. Then some images of my equipment were brought to my attention. Boots, revolver, helmet, my bayonet. Surveillance recordings of me on duty, moving about in the warehouse on Pluto. I was really becoming fatigued.

The scanner or the operator must have sensed this as I was given a break. Maybe he simply scanned normal brain activity because the harmonic humming sounds continued. I almost fell asleep.

Finally, I was shown images of unfamiliar people. One I recognized as the
Kalavar
’s captain. I’d seen her image prior to boarding. Images zipped in and out in rapid succession with little time to focus or comprehend, including corridors, people, a moon and planets. I saw an image of Maximar Jr., possibly from the evidence Silvre had shown me. They presented random snippets of voices and sounds. Most were unrecognizable, especially in isolation. I lost all track of time.

The grav-bed shifted back slightly and I felt the tingling begin. It reminded me of flimsy wires brushing across my scalp. I felt a small prick under the skin. Then another, and more. As the pricking sensation became more frequent, the brushing sensation lessened, until only pricking occurred, which abruptly ended. I rested for several minutes until my bed exited.

I was just beginning to relax again when I heard a clicking and scraping noise on the hard floor. I tilted my head and looked toward the source. It was a Bahklack! An Umbelgarri thrall. I’d never actually seen one, only holographic images.

The alien, less than ten feet away, approached Dr. Goldsen. It resembled a fiddler crab except that it was as tall as the doctor’s waist. The thrall’s exoskeleton was a dull blue color, speckled with greens and browns. Its eerie black eyes rested on the end of 12-inch stalks that independently surveyed the room. The three-foot claw was the alien’s most notable feature. Unlike the rest the Bahklack’s body, the oversized appendage appeared to shift in coloration. I’d read changing color patterns are a major communication component between the
Umbelgarri and their thralls. They use chromatophores much like squid native to Earth’s oceans.

I watched the complex patterns of stripes, blotches and mosaic patterns form and reform.

In addition to its oversized claw and its smaller counterpart, the Bahklack had two small grasping appendages, each with three prongs. It used them to communicate with Dr. Goldsen. Without an appropriate computer to translate, gesturing with hand-like appendages is how many aliens converse with other intelligent species. I recalled my sketchy training in the Official Galactic Sign Language, but my angle was poor and each alien species tends to have a unique gesturing dialect. Some aliens are said to communicate through outright bizarre thought patterns. Galactic signing is a very complex skill to master and I was definitely a neophyte.

Dr. Goldsen was facing away, so I couldn’t view her initiations and responses. The conversation lasted about a minute. “Done, good, and go,” were the only words I managed to pick out with some measure of certainty.

The Bahklack clattered toward me. Although I’d never encountered an alien species before, I couldn’t imagine how an intelligent creature could be more odd. It examined me with its stalked eyes. I followed suit. I wanted to reach out and touch the large claw even though it had taken on a pattern matching the rest of its exoskeleton. Instead, I signed, “All good?” flinching at the painful movements.

The Bahklack rose to present its motioning arms. I think it responded, “Yes.” Then it clicked its way out of the room, through a concealed exit. It was fortunate the creature walked sideways, as the opening wasn’t very wide.

Dr. Goldsen stepped closer. “We are confident that all will proceed without hindrance.”

“That’s good,” I said. “The less trouble the better.”

“We are almost ready to begin.”

“Where are my inquisitors?” I asked, hoping I’d still get a chance to address them.

“They’re in a room nearby,” she said. “One level up. From there they will be able to view the initial results of the Cranaltar procedure almost as fast as the transcribed information can be processed. Initially there should be less than a minute delay.”

“Nobody has been willing to tell me the extent of my memory lapse.”

Dr. Goldsen looked at me over the rims of her glasses.

“You know,” I said. “How long?”

“Well, I can’t state it exactly. I do not know all of the facts. And the less said to influence any memories the better. Let’s just say that viewers will require more than one restroom break.”

“Thanks for your honesty. I’ve been able to piece together through clues, distances, the war, scars and healing, the fact that my fingernails have been trimmed, that it’s been several months at least.” I nodded and licked my lips. “Will I survive that long? It’d be pointless to die of my injuries half way through the procedure.”

“As the Cranaltar interacts with your memories, it should become more and more familiar with your pathways. We have never tested it that extensively.” She glanced up as if calculating in her head. “I estimate that at top efficiency, ten hours of conscious memories can be transcribed in a little less than twenty minutes.”

I did the math in my head. “Are they going to watch in shifts or what?”

“That is up to them. Complete copies of the transcription will be made available to the relevant parties after completion. They will see it in sequence, without leaps. The intelligence agency insisted every concerned party be on equal footing.”

“I’d imagine that Hawks will have somebody watching at all times. Will my dreams be recorded?”

“No, only your conscious memories will be accessed.”

I could guess why. Instead I asked Dr. Goldsen, “What will the presentation look like? I read that the Cranaltar’s transcription was best suited for a flat screen monitor.”

“It will definitely be first person point of view. They will see and hear what you saw and heard. In most cases even your thoughts will be added. It will be set up on a large sphere screen. The presentation will be limited to just under 180 degrees horizontally and less vertically. One of my assistants has the exact figures, but equal to your field of vision.”

I smiled. “Good thing I’m not a Bahklack. With those stalk eyes, everyone would get sick after five minutes.”

Dr. Goldsen nodded with eyebrows raised before checking the monitors. “True. The perspective of a horse was disorienting enough. Nearly 360 degrees vision. Except directly to the front and rear.”

“Do I get copyrights to the transcription?”

“I do not know if that is possible with court materials.”

“Will I get to address the admirals, generals and others before it begins?”

“Yes, you will,” she said. “In fact, Mr. Hawks has requested it.”

“Really? When?”

“Quite soon.”

“Where is Agent Vingee?”

“She has left the area. I do not know if her assignment is to remain on Io.”

“Up to her superiors,” I agreed. “How about Sergeant Fitch?”

“I believe he returned to his ship.” She turned from the monitors and looked directly at me. “I will be back before the procedure starts. If you have not noticed, the grav-bed will not allow you to get up and wander around.”

“Or leave?”

“Or leave.” She rechecked the equipment and left.

I closed my eye and listened. The sound dampeners muffled already distant conversations and the hum of cooling fans. I was very fatigued and eventually dozed off.

A technician disrupted my slumber, setting up three recording cameras, some transmitting equipment, and a large holographic display.

“Almost show time,” I remarked.

The technician smiled and went about her work. It looked like top of the line equipment. It was a modular setup so she completed her task and tested the equipment within four minutes.

She spoke into her collar. “All set up in here.” She must’ve heard a response through an imbedded chip in her ear. Most I-Tech had them. She cupped her hand while listening to the reply. She nodded. “Okay.”