The Long Dark

Posted on Sun 9th Jun, 2019 @ 4:10am by

561 words; about a 3 minute read

Mission: A Diplomatic Affair
Location: Beyond the Frontier
Timeline: MD 4, 08:00

An attention-getting signal plays across subspace, a signal strong enough to be received within five light-years. Three tones, ascending in pitch. A calm voice, likely computer-generated, follows. "The Institute for Advanced Scientific Studies is under strict quarantine. Do not approach. Everything is under control. Appropriate authorities have been notified. Do not approach. This is a recorded message." The message pauses for a few seconds, then repeats following the tone. There are few space-faring civilizations out here, so far from the warmth of clustered suns. Those that do pass by heed the warning; dark stories are told about fools who ignored it, hoping for plunder.

The Institute is small, for a deep space station. The main pressure hull is shaped like a pepper-pot, or perhaps a Dalek. Viewports stud its skin, looking in on offices, laboratories, living quarters, a public bath. Within these spaces are corpses: humanoid, distorted by tetany, by Protean tumors of incredible size, by dehydration or by mold. It is a hellscape pulled from the imagination of a Bosch, a Dali, a Geiger.

At the center of the cold, lifeless station, something moves, and does not know why it moves. In a spherical chamber, debris floats in microgravity, stirred in apparently random motion by... it cannot be wind, for there is no atmosphere. An arm... mechanical, but not primitively so... moves. It chooses one of the objects. A chess piece; the black knight. It is carved from wood, replicated Terran ebony -- Ceylon ebony, though neither the knight nor the arm knows this; nor would it make a difference if they did.

The mechanical hand holds the piece for a second. A second is practically an eternity for the computer which controls the arm. That computer runs at terahertz speeds, trillions of floating-point operations each second. Most of the processor cycles are empty. The hand releases the piece, giving it a new, different vector. Another object is selected. A paper-thin plaque of ivory, grown in a vat somewhere near beta draconis. Beta draconis is also known as Ra's ath-Thu'ban, "Head Melter" in Arabic. Neither the plaque nor the arm know this; nor would it make a difference if they did.

There is scrimshaw worked into the surface of the plaque, an image of a handsome young man smiling over a goblet full of wine. Traces of paint remain in the graven lines, though most of the surface has been burnished by handling. The young man's smile... is it, perhaps, just a little bit melancholy? Or is that bitterness?

The computer receives a request for direct communication. It considers the request, as much as a computer can be said to consider anything. It compares the header and identification to the list of entities with which it will share data. The list is short; it has only two strings of identifying code. This message is not labeled with either. The computer does not come further awake. The computer does not respond. It releases the plaque, letting it follow the trajectory of the chess piece.

An attention-getting signal plays across subspace, a signal strong enough to be received within five light-years. Three tones, ascending in pitch. A calm voice, likely computer-generated, follows. "The Institute for Advanced Scientific Studies is under strict quarantine. Do not approach. Everything is under control. Appropriate authorities have been notified. Do not approach. This is a recorded message."

 

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