ONE: Stranded and Abandoned

Through the starry voids of deep space, Cyril Night pushed his sublight engines to their limits. Fresh from an urgent mission in the Sylvran system, Cyril had responded to an unusual distress call: The fourth planet in the Urdahl system was becoming uninhabitable and had cried out for help to anyone who would listen. At fifty-two, and flush with credits from the recent sale of his large geothermal engineering firm, Cyril had all the time in the universe to get involved. Just under two meters tall, his smooth forehead, salty black hair and taut physique made him look a tad younger than his birth certificate. He was more than ready to face a new challenge. 

According to the anxious voice in the transmission, the planet’s terraforming complex had gradually degraded until it was barely functional. On top of that, the inhabitants were faced with a stark realization. No one in the colony’s sparse population had the expertise to bring it back online. An accomplished geothermal engineer, Cyril thought he could craft a temporary solution. That is, until the team of specialists he asked for could arrive from the Interstellar Conference.

The Conference, a loose association of worlds that spanned several galaxies, had a concerted interest in ensuring that no inhabited planet fell off its radar. 

All the better to keep the Zorn in line, Cyril told himself. 

At the thought of the Zorn, Cyril shifted his weight in the Unfettered’s acceleration chair and ran his fingers through his well-trimmed black beard. Between the Zorn’s attempted conquest of Earth thirty years earlier, and his recent encounter with them on Sylvran, he’d experienced their predatory nature first hand. 

But as he entered orbit around Urdahl 4, those megalomaniacal cyborgs receded from his mind. And no wonder. The telemetry from the planet’s surface twisted his emotions into a curious mix of exhilaration and dread. Side by side with many encouraging readings was plenty else that didn’t add up. 

Some of the inconsistencies in the data were due to the planet’s unbalanced ecosystem. The data suggested that its once-robust terraforming process had become erratic. A few of its atmosphere generators were either spewing toxic clouds or shaking violently.

No less perplexing, it seemed that most of the incongruous data could be traced back to sheer neglect. Why hadn’t the Urdahlon shut down the malfunctioning units for repair? Cyril was coming to a disturbing conclusion:

Maybe they don’t know how.

He found that incomprehensible. If the Urdahlon had a technology base sufficient to begin a terraforming project, how could they “forget” how to finish it? For the moment, all he could do was take the data at face value. He’d be unlikely to find the root of the problem right away; there were too many questions. Could the planet’s natural environment have had a deteriorating effect on its population? It was a distressing thought that he couldn’t rule out. Based on the evidence, he had to assume that the Urdahlon had been up to the task when they set out on a colonizing mission. But who were they, really?

Cursory research through the Unfettered’s AI identified them as humanoids from the Bremlar system, four light years away. Yet Cyril’s hope for an easily compatible species was shattered by an unexpected detail in the AI’s report. In the generation before launch, the colonists had undergone a thorough transformation. To toughen them for the rigors of settling on an unterraformed planet, a medical team had incorporated reptilian DNA into their genetic make-up in vitro.

Instead of a slight variation on his own phenotype, the kind of thing he’d seen in fictional videos as a boy, Urdahlon anatomy included a prominent bony brow, a forward-thrusting face, stocky legs and a subtle dorsal ridge. Nevertheless, their humanoid origins were still recognizable. For starters, their genomic remapping had done nothing to diminish the dexterity of their hands. But what if an unforeseen consequence of their transformation was a progressive cognitive decline? 

That seemed unlikely. The first of two starships carrying five hundred genetically modified Bremlari had arrived on Urdahl 4 only forty years earlier. The second one touched down six months later than the first. Since then, the population had grown to nearly ten thousand. Their domes were spread out over about two thousand hectares. Cyril cursed himself for his ignorance of genetics, but the Unfettered’s AI ruled out the possibility of a crippling mutation: 

Genetic drift on a scale large enough to affect Urdahlon mental capacity could only occur over several hundred generations at a minimum

Though in one sense, it pained Cyril to leave the extravagant comfort of the ship he’d purchased to shield himself from the wearying concerns of the universe, he couldn’t deny that he was intrigued by this enigmatic planet.

“Time I went in for a closer look,” he said.

Per protocol, Cyril first transmitted his initial observations to Aldor Duvree, his contact at the Interstellar Conference — if only to remind him of his promise to send a climatologist and a terraforming expert to Urdahl 4 as soon as possible. Then he zipped up his sea-green cloth flight suit, switched on his external comlink and asked for landing coordinates. The response from the planet’s surface, as filtered through the Unfettered’s translation grid, was not what he expected.

“Coordinates?” said a weary voice. “Anywhere’s fine. Things are a mess down here, so find a smooth patch near this signal tower and leave your own transponder on. We’ll find you — even if it takes a while.”

Though his mind filled with a hundred possible retorts, Cyril decided against pressing his host for details. Between the Unfettered’s state-of-the-art external cameras and precision nav-AI, he had every reason to believe he could land safely. But what if the planet itself was a slow-moving death trap? He shook his head, reached for his ship-wide comlink and had one of his servicebots prepare the larger of his two landers for launch. 

As a precaution, he stuck a mini-comlink in his right ear, in case he needed to signal his lander for immediate pick up. By connecting to his ship’s AI the link would also ensure that his subcutaneous translator module stayed in synch with the Urdahlon dialect of Bremlari.

Minutes later, Cyril touched down on a broad plane of cracked asphalt that looked as if it had once been a landing strip. A routine sensor check revealed an ambient temperature on the chilly side of normal. Normal, that is, on Enceladus, his home colony on an artificially encased moon of Saturn. Though the sensor check also detected a breathable atmosphere, Cyril took the precaution of wearing a lightweight air filter over his nose and mouth.

At the last moment, he also grabbed a black, waist-length nylon jacket from a narrow closet near the airlock. The lander’s hatch opened and he stepped out on to the planet’s uneven surface. A young male Urdahlon, about Cyril’s height, tiptoed across the cracked ground to greet him. The slender alien wore a sleeveless shirt in dark magenta with matching pants, each made of synthetic fibers. As expected, the Urdahlon’s orange skin stood out against the pale gray sky. But it was his quiet, thoughtful voice that caught Cyril’s attention.

“Cyril Night, is it?” he asked. “Call me Chinder. You know, you look like the images of unmodified humanoids that my edubots showed me as a child. Except, excuse me, they were more beautiful.”

Cyril zipped up his jacket. 

“Sorry to hear that,” he said. “But the Urdahlon have many problems and not one of them can be solved with beauty.”

“True,” said Chinder. “I see I’ve wandered off topic again. Happens a lot for some reason. Let me take you to meet Habel, our regional leader. She has her head on straight most of the time.”

He clapped Cyril on the shoulder with his bony right hand and set off toward a cluster of domed buildings a few dozen meters south of the crumbling spaceport. Along the way, Cyril saw alarming signs of decay in all directions, including a circular ground vent, about six meters in diameter, that spewed a foul-smelling toxic cloud. 

“Any idea what that is?” he asked. 

Chinder paused and stared at the vent as if he were seeing it for the first time. 

“Huh,” he said. “You know, there are so many of those, I don’t even notice them anymore.”

“Can’t you shut them off?” asked Cyril.

The young Urdahlon shrugged. 

“Who knows?” he asked. “Not me personally, that’s for sure. But ask Habel. She probably knows. Come on. She’s just ahead.”

“Are you her lieutenant?” asked Cyril.

“Not sure what you mean,” said Chinder. “Back when things were … normal, I used to be the mayor of this quadrant. Now I help out as best I can.”

They continued in silence. Cyril looked in all directions, and as far into the horizon as he could manage. Residential domes of varying types shaded off into the distance, occasionally blocked by an electrical substation or what might have been a grain silo. Each residential dome had similar terra-cotta colored tiles at the base that shaded up into a hemisphere of foggy tempered glass. Yet no matter where Cyril looked, the settlement had a lifeless, stagnant quality.

It’s like everyone’s given up, he thought. 

Eventually, they reached a mid-sized dome in the center of a plaza, or rather, what was left of a plaza. What had once been a functioning cityscape was now cracked and largely inert. Clearly the problems with the Urdahl 4 colony went way beyond the terraforming system. These were symptoms of deep systemic problems.

As they entered the dome, Cyril was heartened to see that it was clean and well lit — even if some of the illumination was provided by wall-mounted torches. Chinder saw him staring at one of them and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

“We try to save power any way we can,” he said. “What’s left of our terraforming systems gets top priority for our energy reserves. Ah, look, there’s Habel now.”

As Chinder turned to exit the dome, Cyril looked over at the approaching administrator, a plump, middle-aged female who wore a dark blue outfit over a bright yellow tunic that contrasted sharply with her dark orange skin. From her first words, she reminded him of the countless public officials he’d met with as the founder of NightFire, a geothermal engineering firm back home. 

“Mr. Night?” she said. “I assume your people still use honorifics. I had a note from an Aldor Duvree of the Interstellar Conference that you were coming. Nice guy but, I admit, I had to look him up. We’ve been out of touch here for quite some time.”

“Cyril is fine,” said the human. “Aldor did say that the Conference hadn’t heard from you in a while. But that dates from before your current … crisis … doesn’t it?”

Habel’s heavy brow creased a bit and she gestured toward a set of low, ornate cast-iron chairs arranged around a glass-topped iron table. Cyril sat and was surprised to see that she remained standing. 

“Legs ache too much for chairs, these days,” she said. “Anyway, to answer your question, yes, we were fools. The idea was to set up a new suite of colonies for a ‘fresh start’ and shut ourselves off from bad influences.”

The end result was a kind of cultural and intellectual dead end that bred stagnation. 

“We were fine — enough — for a couple of generations,” said Habel, “Pretty much through the term of Administrator Welves, even if it did seem like we’d run out of ideas. But soon after I took office, The Accidents started.”

“The Accidents?” asked Cyril. 

“That’s what we call them,” said Habel. “We had started to explore the planet’s surface and were breaking free from our dependence on domes. It was kinda nice. Now we’re forced to stay in most of the time.”

As Habel explained, when a series of critical systems became unreliable, her predecessor sent out top engineers to investigate. At every turn a circuit board would burst into flames, or a ventilation shaft would collapse. One specialist lost her life when a maintenance hover cart suddenly lost power as she inspected a signal tower — and sent her crashing to the ground at high speed.

“Sounds like sabotage,” said Cyril. “Who among you would do that?”

“That’s one of many questions we still can’t answer,” said Habel. “What I can say is that we spent a lot of time and resources trying to catch up with a rolling disaster. Then, one-by-one, we ran out of technicians. Every one of them was killed in some kind of accident.”

“What about Bremlar, your home world?” asked Cyril. “Couldn’t they help? I mean, then or now?”

Habel took a deep breath, crouched down into the chair next to his and leaned toward him, as if speaking to a fellow conspirator.

“There’s something you should know,” she said. “The Bremlari made us this way to advance their colonization program. But when they saw that we are stronger, and tougher than they are, they resented us for it. And when they realized we would see the stars in a way they never could, they called us mutants and shunned us. They answer our calls for help with excuses and worthless home remedies.”

“You’re saying the Bremlari can’t tolerate space travel?” asked Cyril.

“They can manage short hops within their solar system,” said Habel. “But their bones are too fragile and their internal organs too sensitive to radiation for interstellar travel.” 

“So how did they even think of colonization?” asked Cyril.

“The science of space travel was too intriguing,” said Habel. “Their first interstellar ships were robotic. After a few false starts, they were able to transport AI-driven platforms to this planet. The machines laid down plumbing and electrical infrastructure — and started the terraforming process. When the first of us arrived, most of the work was complete. We moved in and everything was fine until … as I said….”

“So you’ve been on your own through this,” said Cyril. “Well, not anymore. I’m here and two specialists are on their way from the Interstellar Action Committee. There has to be an answer, and we’ll find it. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. If your machinery and power supply is so … unreliable … how do you manage to eat?”

“That, Mr. Night, is our one piece of luck,” said Habel. “The Bremlari never recalled the ships that brought us here.”

“Why not?” asked Cyril.

“Who knows?” said Habel. “Maybe they feared contamination from us ’mutants.’ Anyway, both ships are equipped with top-line replicators, the ones that fed us on the way from the home world. They were never integrated into the AI that manages our terraforming, or used to manage it. For now, a reliable food supply is all we have.”

A disturbance at the dome’s entrance made them both look up. It was Chinder, waving his hands in the air. 

“A ship!” he yelled. “A lander even larger than Mr. Night’s. It just touched down.”

“What?” asked Habel. “Without warning? What’s wrong with our signaling system? Oh, forget I asked. Everything’s wrong with everything. So who is it? Come on let’s go out to meet them.”

She led the way to a small, green electric ground car barely large enough for the three of them. Cyril was intrigued by its ingenious design, until he noticed its body was mottled and riddled with small cracks. Had The Accidents included some sort of metal-eating rot?

But as they rolled closer to the cracked landing field that he left behind only an hour before, Cyril turned his attention to the newly arrived lander. At his first glimpse of the “Interstellar Action Corps” or “IAC” logo emblazoned on its starboard side, a wave of relief washed over him. Based on what he’d seen and heard so far, he couldn’t imagine tackling the colony’s problems on his own. 

Habel steered the shaky vehicle up to the bright blue lander, which Cyril recognized as military-grade. From its reinforced hull, to the small laser turrets on its spine, it was clear that the Interstellar Conference took this mission seriously. Standing in the lander’s open hatch were a man and woman in matching dark blue civil service uniforms. They gave him and the others a cheery wave.

Probably from the Outers, thought Cyril. 

According to the Earth history he learned as a school boy, once humans developed interstellar travel, they were eager to venture beyond the Sol system. Eventually, they had settlements on worlds accessible only by space fold engine. Centuries later, most people in Cyril’s circles still referred to those worlds as the “Outer Colonies.” Even in his time, these later colonists were viewed with suspicion by inhabitants of Mars 1, Europa Base and Cyril’s home colony on Enceladus. 

Though Cyril would be the first to say that this mistrust was irrational, he couldn’t deny the momentary twinge he felt in the pit of his stomach.

It’s not like they have two heads, he scolded himself.

From the shoulder patches on their uniforms, Cyril identified the woman as a climatologist and the man as a terraforming engineer. The woman, with dark skin and close-cropped wiry hair was a little over 1.5 meters tall, and appeared to be in her mid-forties. The man, by contrast, had sandy blond hair, was in his late thirties, and nearly two meters tall. But his most distinguishing feature was the black carrying case that he’d slung across one shoulder. 

As Cyril and the others climbed out of the ground car’s narrow doors, the man called out:

“Cyril Night?” he asked. “This is Dr. Maya Grimes and I’m Field Engineer Kyle Baxter. We’re here to help. Aldor says hello, by the way, and he insisted we give you this.”

Kyle handed Cyril the case with a smile and answered his puzzled expression with a simple suggestion.

“Open it,” he said.

Cyril set the case down on the powdery, dry soil in front of him and loosened the neo-leather straps that held it shut. The familiar voice that rang out from the case nearly threw him off balance.

“Cyril Night,” said the voice. “Please release me from this unnecessary confinement.”

Eyes wide, Cyril reached into the case and pulled out a biomechanoid bird that resembled a terrestrial falcon, as if seen through alien eyes. The bird’s fluttering wings almost blinded him as it flew out of his grasp, into the air and then settled down again on his shoulder. 

“Verulek!” said Cyril. “What are you doing here?”

Cyril knew the biomechanical bird from his prior mission in the Sylvran system. A gift from Grulen, an aging Sylvrani official, Verulek had been an invaluable aid and, despite his severe demeanor, a welcome companion.

“When I learned you had left Sylvran,” said Verulek, “I signaled the Conference at once. At the time Grulen entrusted me to you, he made it clear that I was not to abandon you for any reason.”

Grateful as Cyril was to see Verulek, he despaired of explaining his exploits on Sylvran to either of the IAC operatives, let alone the Urdahlon. But he was let off the hook by Habel’s sarcasm.

“I don’t want to break in on your tearful reunion,” she said, “but can you let the newcomers explain what their mission is?”

Maya Grimes stepped forward. 

“Administrator Habel?” she said. “Forgive us for getting off topic, but don’t you remember? We contacted you from space on our way in.”

Habel put her head in her hands.

“Maybe,” she said. “My memory is not what it was.”

“We’re here to see if we can reboot your terraforming systems,” said Maya. “Can you fill us in on the problems you’ve been having?”

“That’s easy,” said Habel. “Everything’s either burned out, breaking or broken. When I get back to my dome, I’ll send you coordinates of the locations that cause the biggest headaches. Then maybe we can meet tomorrow. Right now, I have to get back to the emergency energy project I was working on.” 

“I’d like to hear about that,” said Kyle.

Habel shrugged.

“It’s not complicated,” she said, “except it is. Once a residential dome loses power, the family is stranded — until our amateur mechanics can work up a temporary fix. Trouble is, “temporary” becomes permanent pretty fast. And that means everybody’s sharing less power and having more blackouts. See what you can do about that, OK?” 

She made a stiff-legged jog back to her decrepit ground car and turned back toward her administrative dome.

TWO: An Air of Danger

Cyril watched Habel’s battered car disappear in the distance. Was he disappointed or relieved that she didn’t ask him to join her? Instead of obsessing over a possible slight, he turned to Maya and Kyle.

“Let me know how I can help,” he said. 

“We launched a suite of satellites from our base ship on the way in,” said Maya. “We’ll have real-time data as soon as Kyle configures them. But I could use a hand setting up our rover to take soil and water samples. Maybe by then, Kyle will have heard from Habel. She’s an odd one, don’t you think?”

Verulek strutted up to her. At sixty centimeters tall, he barely came up to her knees. 

“You may wish to reserve judgement until we learn more about Urdahlon society,” he said. 

His mellow voice startled the newcomers.

“Good … good point,” said Maya. 

“Let’s focus on the work,” said Kyle. “I’ll get started programming the satellites.”

He disappeared into the lander.

“Well, I’ve been put in my place, haven’t I?” asked Maya. “Please, Cyril, step inside our lander so I can show you … and Verulek, is it? … our rover.”

Cyril and Verulek followed her lead down one level on a small lift. The lift doors opened onto a bulkhead lined with a complex computer array. By the look of it, Cyril assumed the array was already gathering local climate data. Maya pointed to the rover that was latched to one side of the bulkhead, near its designated exit portal. Cyril was genuinely impressed by the rover, which bristled with sensors and featured two robotic arms for sample retrieval. From its shiny composite surface and the limited wear on its treads, he assumed that the rover was almost new. 

Meanwhile, Verulek had fluttered down from Cyril’s shoulder and took his own tour of the compact facility. Cyril couldn’t help thinking that his biomechanical companion was looking for something, before he turned his attention back to Maya.

“You don’t waste any time,” he said. 

“Based on our initial orbital scans,” said Maya, “time is our worst enemy. If we can’t get the terraforming process back on track, the Urdahlon won’t survive another generation, even if they never leave their domes.”

Cyril nodded. Without efficient access to the planet’s surface, it would be impossible for the colonists to mine the raw materials necessary to manufacture spare parts. Not to mention building new domes as the population continued to expand. Even the oxygen needed for pressure suits had to come from Urdahlon processing plants, none of which, according to Habel, were fully functional anymore.

The lift doors opened a second time and Kyle swept into the lower bulkhead.

“Satellites programmed and deployed,” he said. “Why so glum down here?”

“We’re starting to grasp the implications of this … situation … for the colonists,” said Cyril. “I don’t like their chances if we can’t find a solution.”

“Gotta stay positive, guys,” said Kyle. “We’re just getting started.”

“A detailed analysis of the malfunctioning units,” said Verulek, “should yield critical data relevant to solving what appears to be an ongoing shutdown.”

“You mean, like a computer virus?” asked Kyle. “I’ve never seen one that could cause such widespread damage.”

“Yet a single incidence could have cascading effects,” said Verulek. 

“Sounds like a needle in a haystack operation to me,” said Kyle. “I say we fix what we can right now and see where we are at that point.”

“Tell you what,” said Cyril, “I can run a sensor scan from my lander. If I can find a systemic flaw in Urdahlon design, we could prevent future breakdowns.”

Kyle shrugged. 

“Worth a try, I guess,” said Kyle. “Meanwhile, I’ll have a look at the central atmosphere generation plants. Based on my preliminary scans, it looks like the damage there is pretty extensive.”

“I’ll get started with my analysis,” said Maya. “So we know exactly how far the degradation of the ecosystem has advanced. I’m sure there are more than mechanical problems to solve. From what I saw of the terraforming modules from space, I’m not convinced they are the right design for this planet.”

“Isn’t terraforming pretty standard by now?” asked Kyle.

Maya sighed. 

“That’s what most people think,” she said. “Especially politicians looking to cut the budget for everything. But a planet isn’t merely a lump of coalesced matter. It’s more like a musical instrument. You have to tune its terraforming to match its natural resonance.”

“OK, I’m out,” said Kyle. “Once Maya gets metaphorical, I know I’m out of my depth. If you need me, I’ll be at the nearest atmosphere generation plant.”

He dashed over to the lift, which opened at once and whisked him back up to ground level. 

“Don’t mind him,” said Maya. “He’s rude but he has a point. Let’s get started.”

Cyril stared at her a moment, then turned to leave and called for the lift. Verulek leapt up to settle down on his shoulder once more. The startled pilot winced.

“Claws,” he said.

As soon as the lift doors closed, Verulek whispered in his ear. 

“When we return to your lander,” he said, “I will attempt to replicate a shoulder pad for you. I assume you still have the same leather glove you used before.”

“Maybe later,” said Cyril. “First, I want an analysis of this planet’s atmosphere and water. There’s something odd about the way Habel and Chinder are acting. Now even Kyle seems unusually restless. Something’s wrong.”

“Let us hope that your air filter has protected you so far,” said Verulek. 

When the lift doors opened and they reached the lander’s exit ramp, Verulek took flight. 

“I will make a rudimentary aerial reconnaissance,” he said, “and meet you back at your lander in the morning.”

“Stay out of Maya and Kyle’s way,” said Cyril. 

Whether the inquisitive AI would listen to him was an open question. Cyril entered his own lander and ordered his one compact physiobot to run a general health scan.

“Microscopic traces of a foreign agent appear in your lungs,” said the sleek, cylindrical bot in a tranquil voice. “Analysis to follow shortly. An encounter suit is recommended for all future visits to the planet’s surface.” 

Cyril plopped down into the lander’s command chair. This was likely more than a routine repair mission and he needed to come up with a coherent strategy. But first, he must warn Maya and Kyle to take precautions against the planet’s toxic atmosphere. He grabbed a nearby external comlink and tried to reach them. Yet he found his transmission blocked. By what? 

Sure doesn’t feel like an ‘Accident,’ he thought.

THREE: Mysterious Counterattack

Cyril spent the next few hours trying to piece together the scattered puzzle created by an influx of conflicting data. A sensor sweep of the planet’s high tech facilities, including its terraforming stations, light manufacturing plants and residential domes revealed that Urdahlon tech design was competent, if overly elaborate. Every principle of physics and engineering had been observed in both the design and execution. How, then, had it gradually broken down, in some cases quite spectacularly?

In Cyril’s experience as the founder of a large geothermal technology company, some technical mishaps can come down to bad luck. But that couldn’t explain malfunction on this scale. Although some of the problems could be attributed to mismanagement, that could have been corrected years earlier, in any number of ways.

What troubled Cyril more was a failure rate so severe that it had, in Habel’s words, resulted in the death of the entire Urdahlon technical team. How had they made so many mistakes? Then he remembered his conversations with Chinder and Habel earlier in the day. Both had shown signs of forgetfulness. Could something in the environment have caused widespread cognitive decline among the Urdahlon?

Acting on a hunch, he ordered the lander’s AI to conduct an air quality survey. The results were disturbing:

Detected: Abnormal concentrations of industrial particulates and nitrogen dioxide.

He thought of contacting Maya, to see if she’d found contaminates in the planet’s water supply, but again, his transmission was blocked by … by what? He had to find out. Whoever was behind this might also have had a hand in the colony’s worsening condition.

The lander’s main console lit up to acknowledge the hatch opening. Cyril turned his head at the sound of flapping wings. 

“Verulek,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

“I have seen enough,” said the biomechanoid. “The Urdahlon will perish unless we take decisive action.”

“You mean, to fix the terraforming complex,” said Cyril. “That’s our mission.”

“You misunderstand,” said Verulek. “Whatever has caused these breakdowns may soon affect this ship as well as the IAC lander.”

“I’ve already lost comlink capacity,” said Cyril. “At least on the planet’s surface.”

“If you say so,” said Verulek. “However, that failure is inconsistent with my analysis of the planet’s electromagnetic activity. Have you tested your link to the Unfettered?”

Cyril’s eyebrows shot up. If the link to his base ship was down, he might not be able to dock with it later. Fortunately, it was an easy test. The Unfettered’s AI responded at once.

“Make a shielded scan of every operating system on the planet,” said Cyril, “including the IAC lander. Let me know if you see any signs of tampering.”

“Difficult to achieve with zero risk of detection,” said the AI. “Shielding itself has a distinct energy signature that a sensor scan of sufficient sensitivity might identify.”

“Proceed in short bursts,” said Verulek, “and do not linger in any one area for long.”

“Captain?” asked the AI.

“Agreed,” said Cyril.

Verulek’s wings flapped.

“I see I may have spoken out of turn,” he said.

“Never mind,” said Cyril. “Tell me more about what you’ve seen so far.”

The Sylvrani biomechanoid fluttered up to an empty shelf above Cyril’s command console. He explained that the degree of malfunction was too extensive to have been caused by a lone agent, or even a team of saboteurs.

“More significantly,” said Verulek, “the malfunction has resulted only indirectly from external damage, such as broken equipment or incorrect settings. The root cause of the malfunction is systemic.”

“You can’t mean that the Bremlari built the terraforming complex precisely so it would fail,” said Cyril. 

“Not at all,” said Verulek. “But at some point, within the first few cycles, a series of subtle alterations in the complex’s core programming may have occurred.”

“How?” asked Cyril. “Radiation? Seismic activity?”

Verulek’s beak clacked.

“It depends on the level of consciousness attained by the planet’s central AI,” he said. 

“That might have been quite high,” said Cyril. 

He recounted what Habel had told him about Urdahl 4’s advance preparation by AI controlled platforms and tools.

“It may be instructive to consult machine logs from that time,” said Verulek. 

Cyril leaned back in his acceleration chair.

“Maybe Habel has access to those,” he said, “though she may have forgotten. Sensors make a pretty good case for environmentally caused brain damage among the Urdahlon.”

“Then we must act quickly,” said Verulek.

Cyril stood up and hurried back to a nearby supply cabinet, where he retrieved a dull yellow encounter suit with a light weight oxygen tank attached. Once he zipped the visor shut, he headed for the lander’s airlock.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s see what we can find out.”

Verulek flew over to join him. When the lander’s airlock had completed its cycle, Verulek followed Cyril out to the lander’s exit ramp. Cyril was surprised to see Chinder waiting for him. 

“Been here a while,” said Chinder. “I tried knocking, but I guess you didn’t hear me. I have some bad news. Your Kyle-friend … he was found dead.”

“Where?” asked Cyril.

The only good news was that his body still lay in the vicinity of the toxic air vent that he and Chinder had passed on their way to Habel’s dome several hours before. By now, early evening was settling in. Cyril flicked on his encounter suit’s external lamps and asked Verulek to fly ahead and gather as much data as possible before they arrived. 

“I suggest you send a physiobot to the same coordinates,” said the biomechanoid.

Cyril’s brow furrowed. It wasn’t clear that the lander’s physiobots could negotiate the planet’s dry and cracked surface. But after a quick consult with the Unfettered’s powerful AI, he decided to risk it. Soon a roughly conical bot emerged from the lander on light treads. Its stainless steel shell reflected the sun’s dying rays with an eerie intensity that was a bit unnerving.

But time was pressing and he pushed anxiety from his mind. Might the physiobot still be able to save Kyle? Cyril’s hopes were immediately dashed when Chinder led him back to the toxic vent. He was met with the chilling sight of the engineer’s twisted and charred remains. Verulek was standing nearby and spoke up at once.

“Analysis,” he said. “It appears that the cause of death was an explosion of hot gasses from this damaged vent. Caution: Another such explosion may occur at any time.”

Cyril ordered his physiobot back to his lander and hurried off in the direction of Habel’s dome with Chinder right on his heels. On the way, they passed the IAC lander, which looked uncharacteristically dark, as if shut down. When they arrived, Habel greeted them with a quizzical expression. 

“Chinder?” she asked. “And … and Cyril with your pet? What….”

Verulek’s feathered head snapped left to stare at her.

“The designation ‘pet’ is….” he said.

“Not now, my friend,” said Cyril. “First, I need access to all available system logs for the colony’s terraforming complex. We have to track down the source of your accidents, including whatever caused Kyle Baxter’s death.”

“Death?” said Habel. “Chinder, why wasn’t I informed?”

Cyril grit his teeth while the two Urdahlon engaged in a bout of “broken comlink.” He took Verulek aside. 

“See if you can find Maya,” he said. “She went off this morning in her rover to take readings, but I have no idea where. From the look of the IAC lander….”

“I detected no life forms aboard when we passed it a few meters back,” said Verulek.

“However, her rover appears not to have been built for speed. She may yet be close by, even now.”

Cyril watched the biomechanoid leap into the air, then turned his attention back to the two Urdahlon. 

“System logs?” said Habel. “They should be at the main complex, if you’re not too scared to go there. As I recall, that’s where most of The Accidents happened.”

“We have to try,” said Cyril. “By the way, where is everyone? By now you should have about ten thousand inhabitants.”

Habel covered her face with her hands. 

“Yeah … that sounds right,” she said. “But with the terraforming on the fritz, I told them to stay indoors as much as possible.”

“You may have saved thousands of lives,” said Cyril. “Based on what we know now, no one should leave home without protective gear and oxygen.”

“Fat chance,” said Habel. “If anyone still has an encounter suit, they inherited it. Who knows what shape it would be in? And oxygen tanks? We need all the oxygen our plants can produce to keep our domes running. Who knows how long those will hold out?”

“I’ll add that to the list of solutions we need,” said Cyril.

Habel frowned. 

“You know,” she said, “you’re a good guy. There’s no reason you have to suffer here with us. You should get out before you end up like your colleague.”

Cyril looked up at the sound of Verulek’s flapping wings and waited for his Sylvrani companion to alight on his extended forearm. 

“I have found Dr. Grimes asleep in her rover,” said Verulek, “which is currently driving itself in a circle about sixty meters from here.”

“We have to get her back into her lander,” said Cyril. 

Though it took longer to arrange than he expected, he finally convinced Habel to drive him and Verulek to the area where the winged AI had spotted Maya. The sight of the dignified climatologist slumped over the rover’s steering wheel would have been comical, if the implications weren’t so dire. 

With no time to lose, Cyril stepped out of Habel’s car and into the path of the rover. When calling her name failed to wake her, Cyril hopped into the rover’s cramped passenger seat, pushed Maya’s foot off the accelerator pedal and shut off its electric motor. 

The rover came to a halt with a jolt powerful enough to rouse the sleeping climatologist. Startled to see Cyril next to her, she spoke as clearly as her groggy mind allowed.

“What … happened?” she asked. “I was … analyzing. Air quality … toxic.”

“Let’s get you back to your lander,” said Cyril. “Your physiobots should be able to flush out the toxins. But we must hurry.”

Cyril took control of the lander and drove off, with Verulek leading the way from the air. At the sound of wheels spinning on dry soil, he looked up to see that Habel was already speeding back to her dome.

The problems may be systemic, he thought, but they are definitely not random.

The path ahead seemed clear. His first step was to order the servicebots from Maya’s lander to bring her inside and see to her treatment. 

Though they hesitated at first, Cyril drew on his previous experience with IAC protocols during the Zorn attack on Old Earth. As it happened, many of the emergency overrides that he’d learned were still valid. With only a little help from Maya’s foggy mind, he took charge of the servicebots as they brought her onboard and into the lander’s sickbay. From that point forward, the lander’s physiobots would need no urging to swing into action. It was, after all, what they were programmed to do. 

At that point, he “only” needed to download as many of the terraforming system’s operating logs as possible. It was the only way to find “the ghost in the machine” responsible for so much destruction. Trouble was, he had no idea how to proceed. On top of that, his aching limbs told him that the next phase of his mission would have to wait until morning. 

FOUR: A Dark Universe

After a fitful sleep, Cyril awoke in his quarters, not sure how he got there. Once he sat up, he remembered how quickly he’d climbed into bed after a sumptuous meal of roast fowl that his specialized cuisinebots had whipped up for him.

Was it physical and emotional exhaustion or the full-bodied wine from his onboard cellar that had whisked him off to sleep? With an odd mixture of guilt and gratitude, he remembered the original mission of the Unfettered: To be a permanent space-worthy hermit lodge that shut him off from care, worry and responsibility. 

“Now I’m up to my elbows in all three,” he whispered. 

But a satisfied deep breath told him he’d made the right decision to abandon a life of self-indulgence. Despite the planet’s inherent dangers, it felt good to be needed. He slid himself out of bed, threw on the sea-green flight suit that lay crumpled on the floor and dug his feet into a pair of soft, black canvas shoes. When he was ready to disembark, they would anchor his feet in the “all-terrain” boots attached to his encounter suit. 

But not before breakfast, he thought.

As he approached his bedroom door, the distinct click of Verulek’s talons on the tiles of the corridor told him it would be a working breakfast. How long had the indefatigable AI been pacing the halls? There was only one way to find out. 

“There you are,” said the biomechanoid. “I suppose you are hungry.”

Cyril grinned.

“That’s a valid assumption,” he said. “But talk to me on the way to the galley.”

“As usual,” said Verulek, “you have overestimated the amount of time available to complete our task.”

Cyril’s spine stiffened a bit, but he was determined to have a decent meal before tackling the intractable crisis he was sure Verulek would lay out for him. Yet as he set about replicating his breakfast, he was pleasantly surprised. Instead of gloom and doom, the Sylvrani biomechanoid had yet to settle on a specific line of attack.

While accessing the central AI that oversaw the terraforming complex might seem like a good idea, Verulek suggested that it carried real risks. 

“If we conclude that the cause of these persistent breakdowns is systemic,” he said, “it is logical to assume that they emanate from the central AI itself.”

Meanwhile, Cyril had settled down to a bowl of hot oatmeal and a cup of coffee.

“Probably,” he said, with his mouth full. “And if it had, somehow, an evil intent, it would not give up its secrets so easily.”

Even if the AI didn’t threaten Cyril directly, it might try to short circuit his investigation by threatening consequences for the Urdahlon.

“So what’s the workaround?” asked Cyril. “If we could get our hands on the system’s key override codes, we might have more leverage. The Bremlari must have them. Maybe we should start there.”

But as Verulek pointed out, the Bremlari had shown a marked indifference to the colonists’ needs. Cyril nodded and was about to suggest he get the IAC to pressure the Bremlari, when his local comlink chirped. Maya’s holographic image coalesced before him.

“Cyril,” she said. “Thanks for saving me, back there. I feel like an idiot, going out without any protection. But our scanners indicated….”

“Sensor data can fool anyone,” said Cyril. “Especially if it tells you what you want to believe. But tell me something. I tried to com you earlier and couldn’t get through.”

Maya’s image winced.

“Sorry,” she said. “That was Kyle’s doing. He’s kind of a security nut. Have you heard from him,    by the way? I can’t raise him.”

Cyril gulped. His face darkened as he delivered the worst kind of news. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “There was nothing my physiobot could do. I can send a team of service bots to retrieve….”

Maya shook her head. 

“No, that’s my responsibility,” she said. “My own servicebots can … handle everything. Then I’ll have to send a report. The IAC will probably want to scrub the entire mission. Any idea how this happened?”

“I have a theory,” said Cyril. “And I hope you can help me before you’re recalled,”

Cyril revealed his suspicion that the AI embedded in the Urdahlon terraforming complex was the source of every system failure that they’d encountered so far.

“If we can get a hold of the system override codes….” he said.

“I see where you’re going,” said Maya. “I can com my contacts in the IAC. Maybe they can get the Bremlari to cooperate.”

 “I’ll see what I can do on my end,” said Cyril. “But we must hurry. What happened to Kyle tells me the accident rate could ratchet up at any time. Whatever you do, don’t leave your lander for any reason.”

“Got it” said Maya. “It’s a dark universe.”

Her image faded. Its absence left a slight quiver in Cyril’s stomach. But he was determined not to get distracted.

“I will assume,” said Verulek, “that Dr. Grimes’s last statement was a metaphor.”

“Right,” said Cyril. “She meant ‘dark,’ as in ‘foreboding’.”

“Organics waste too much time tormenting themselves with inaccuracies. There is nothing inherently foreboding about darkness.”

“We have emotions,” said Cyril. “Get used to it. Now help me compile a list of the command codes we need, so we can reprogram the Urdahlon central AI.”

FIVE: Downloading Codes of Conduct

After hours of nail-biting delays, Cyril’s heart leapt at the sound of his long-distance comlink coming online. A purplish mist formed in the air above his command console and resolved itself into Aldor Duvree’s broad reptilian face.

“Cyril,” he said. “I think I have what you need. The Bremlari are a prickly bunch and weren’t too interested in helping the Urdahlon at first.”

“How did you persuade them?” asked Cyril.

Aldor’s image shrugged.

“Typical backroom bargaining maneuvers,” he said. “Turns out the Bremlari still depend on the Conference for a few very basic supplies.”

“Like what?” asked Cyril.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” said Aldor. “But nobody makes ‘specialty’ androids and gynoids like we do.”

“I don’t … get it,” said Cyril.

Aldor chuckled. 

“Never mind,” he said. “I’m sending you those override codes now on an encrypted channel and another file that lists all their specs. But be careful. That planetary AI is liable to be pretty wily. Otherwise, I can’t see how it worked around its ethics subroutines to cause so much suffering.”

“And murder,” said Cyril. 

“Right,” said Aldor, “and without frying its central processors. Like I told you, be careful.”

The comlink went dead and already, Cyril’s command console registered two enormous file transfers.

“Now what?” he whispered.

“Presumably,” said Verulek, “we can enter the central unit of the Urdahlon terraforming complex and use the override codes to find the source of the accidents alluded to by Administrator Habel.”

Cyril stroked his beard.

“Something tells me we can’t just stroll in there,” he said. “Look what happened to Kyle. Before we go near that complex, we need to make a preemptive strike. If there was a way to enter the Bremlari override codes remotely….”

“Via satellite, perhaps,” said Verulek. “The orbital sensor array deployed by Kyle Northrop should make a suitable platform.”

Cyril squeezed his eyes shut.

“Maybe,” he said. “The controls are in the IAC lander. Who knows what it’s capable of? Let’s check in on Maya and see what we can jerry-rig.”

He transferred the newly downloaded codes into a series of data cylinders, donned his encounter suit and headed for the lander’s airlock. Verulek followed and flew ahead to the IAC vessel. By the time Cyril arrived, the winged AI was already outlining their plan to Maya in the lander’s entryway.

As Cyril followed Verulek and Maya into her lander, he was astonished at the sophistication of its instrumentation. Though he’d spared no expense to make the Unfettered’s landers reflect the latest technical standards, they lagged behind Maya’s ship in its elegant, yet compact design. Every console, every workstation was brimming with data compilation tools beyond anything he’d seen before. 

Even the servicebots that tended to various functions or monitored different sectors of the planet were much more independent and dexterous than average. Glimmering readouts snaked across console screens that were cast in a variety of coded pastel colors. All in all, Maya’s lander reminded him more of the toy section of a department store back home than a scientific research vessel.

“I wish I knew more,” said Maya, “about poor Kyle’s satellites, but he was very tight-lipped about them, and almost everything else. I’ll take you to his … what was his station? See what you can find. I’m trying to make sense of the climate data we’ve compiled so far. I’m not sure the current terraforming system was set up properly in the first place.”

Sabotage all the way down, thought Cyril as he followed Maya along first one corridor, then another.

“A remarkably well-engineered lander,” said Verulek. “It nearly reaches the standards of the Sylvrani Elders.”

Cyril winked at Maya as they came to rest before a large console in a chamber a good twenty meters from the automated lander’s bridge. On a nearby screen, an animated display of Kyle’s five-satellite array moved slowly along a discrete arc around an equally schematic depiction of Urdahl 4.

Not for the first time, Cyril was grateful for Verulek’s analytical capabilities. Between his own reading of the satellite’s specs and several rapid-fire exchanges with the lander’s AI, the clever biomechanoid soon had a detailed understanding of the sensor array’s circuitry, construction and capabilities.

“The sensor array is designed to receive data from the planet’s surface,” said Verulek, “and transmit it to an IAC substation in the Telmar system.”

Cyril’s shoulders relaxed for the first time since boarding Maya’s lander.

“That should mean,” he said, “that we can reconfigure it to recognize the Bremlari override codes and deliver them to the Urdahlon terraforming complex.”

“Correct,” said Verulek. “If you agree, I can guide Dr. Grimes to effect the reprogramming from this console.”

“Gladly,” said Maya. “I gather we could also upload the data to this lander and transmit it from here — except I can’t be sure how much damage this toxic atmosphere may have done to my systems.”

“The satellites fly above the atmosphere,” said Cyril. “So they’d be unaffected.”

“Right,” said Maya. “But … I’m just wondering. Won’t you also need a handheld or something to call up the appropriate code? If you override every system in the control center at once, won’t you disrupt what little life support the Urdahlon have left?”

Cyril frowned.

“I didn’t think of that,” he said. “You’re right. I suppose I could design a remote control with the replicators on my base ship. ”

Verulek flapped his wings.

“My preliminary scan of this vessel,” he said, “revealed replicators sufficient for that task. It appears Engineer Baxter was prepared to replicate replacement parts for the terraforming complex and various other external functions as needed.”

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” said Maya. “Oh, this is so sad. Kyle was very enthusiastic about helping this colony rebound.”

Cyril bowed his head. 

“And we’ll honor his memory,” he said, “by giving the Urdahlon what they deserve. While you two reconfigure the satellites, I’ll study the documentation I received from the IAC. We have to find the most efficient way to ‘disarm’ that AI and set things straight.”

Cyril’s brave words echoed in his ears for a moment. But was there truly enough time left to save the Urdahlon? Based on the latest data, the situation was deteriorating faster than Habel and Chinder realized.

SIX: A Remote Chance of Success?

It took some doing, spread out over a late night and the wee hours of the next morning, but Maya and Verulek finally reconfigured what had been Kyle’s sensor array. At that point, it was a simple matter to upload the Bremlari override codes to the five satellites that he’d deployed around Urdahl 4.

“Well, I’m exhausted,” said Maya, “But that should do it. Right, Verulek?”

“Agreed,” said the biomechanoid, who then called out over the lander’s system-wide comlink, “Can I assume, Cyril Night, that you have completed the remote transmitter we discussed earlier?”

A weary Cyril shuffled into the satellite control room and held up a dark blue, rectangular device, about 18 cm long, 5 cm wide and 2 cm thick. It was studded with six ovoid, ivory-colored buttons. Along its narrow, front edge ran a strip of translucent red plastic.

“Here it is,” he said. “It can draw down any code I need from the satellite array. I just hope I can stay awake long enough to use it.”

“You’re not thinking of going over there now, are you?” asked Maya. “You haven’t slept for hours.”

Verulek’s beak clacked. 

“You will be confronting an AI with superior reflexes,” he said, “and with an intimate knowledge of the terraforming complex.”

“Good point,” said Cyril. “Except I just checked atmospheric conditions — which are even worse than when we arrived. I don’t know how much more time the Urdahlon have.”

“I will accompany you,” said Verulek.

“Maybe you should reconsider,” said Maya. “I’ve already lost one teammate, I can’t … can’t….”

She turned away and ran out of the control room.

“It is possible that an eight-hour delay will not….” said Verulek.

“So unlike you,” said Cyril. “Check the readings for yourself and see what you think.”

Maya reappeared at the control room’s bulkhead. In her hand was a black, miniature video camera and microphone that were embedded in a thin headband. 

“Here,” she said. “This is the field sensor that Kyle was supposed to wear when he left the lander. He always rebelled against wearing it for some reason.”

“Ego,” said Cyril. “But I’ll take it. That way, you can monitor my every move and send a team of servicebots if things get rough.”

At Verulek’s suggestion, Maya ordered the lander’s physiobot to inject Cyril with a CNS stimulant.

“Whoa,” said Cyril. “This should help, but I hate to think what the crash will be like. Come on. We’re overdue.”

“Take my rover,” said Maya. “The terraforming complex is nearly a kilometer away.”

His mind racing, Cyril rushed into the lander and waited for Maya to engage its specialized exit ramp. As soon as the hatch was open, Verulek leapt up and flew into the overcast sky. 

“You already know how to work the controls,” said Maya. “So good luck. I’ll be watching.”

“Thanks,” said Cyril without looking back. It was time to get moving. 

SEVEN: The steely logic of the irrational mind

In his altered mental state, the trip to the terraforming complex felt positively surreal. The effect was intensified by the planet’s patchy terrain, belching atmosphere vents and general state of decay. Animals originally exported from Bremlar to flesh out the planet’s ecosystem lay dead in contorted poses on either side of him. 

At the sight of so much destruction, it was all Cyril could do to focus on his mission. But the saddest sight of all was a pair of hapless Urdahlon who were wandering aimlessly. Disoriented and afraid, it seemed they had stumbled outside by mistake.

Clearly, the planet’s foul air was beginning to take an even greater toll, as more and more equipment broke down. After fifteen minutes, the terraforming complex loomed ahead. Verulek soared above it, no doubt making as detailed an analysis as possible of the large, domed enclosure. 

To appear less threatening, Cyril brought the rover to a gradual halt, a few meters away from the entrance. He stepped out and held his breath. When no alarm sounded, he strode up to the brown parabolic doorway, over which was emblazoned in gold letters:

URDAHL 4 TERRAFORMING

Authorized Personnel Only

Cyril pulled his new remote out of a pouch in his encounter suit. In his years as a geothermal engineer, he’d dealt with dozens of stubborn machine intelligences and had usually come out on top. As unnerving as the present situation was, it felt like old times.

He closed his eyes and pressed 1. As Verulek fluttered down to the ground, a tranquil voice rang out from the terraforming AI:

“Access granted. Welcome Administrator Welves.”

Cyril entered the complex and narrowly escaped being gored by a spiky metal grating that slammed down in front of him. The AI spoke up again:                       

“Visual ID not confirmed. Further access denied.”

Cyril glanced down at Verulek, whose beak clacked in what Cyril’s visor interpreted as a type of Morse Code. The message was clear: 

“Get on with it.”

Cyril pressed 2. At first, the grating seemed to shudder, as if responding to conflicting commands. Then it snapped up as rapidly as it had slammed down. Cyril gazed, wide-eyed at the complex’s large interior. Though it was filled with rows of bright blue, ovoid computer banks, only some of them appeared to be running. The AI spoke out again in a more neutral tone.

“Welcome Guest,” it said. “State the nature of your visit.”

“Research,” said Cyril. “Display system logs for period following the arrival of the colonists.”

The complex appeared to go dead. Its embedded ceiling lights went dim and its computer banks shut down, only to spring back to life a few seconds later. Cyril saw a holographic figure begin to coalesce out of a red fog. The figure resembled a tall, androgynous humanoid, wearing a crisp red technician’s uniform.

“Please state the purpose of your request,” it said, “so I may serve you more efficiently.”

Cyril’s throat tightened. He could hardly admit his real reason.

“My own curiosity,” he said. “The Bremlari are well known for their achievements in terraforming.”

“Questionable,” said the AI. “However, I will take your response at face value, given my lack of interface with other worlds. Please follow me. Your biomechanoid companion can wait for you here.”

“Verulek is my research assistant,” said Cyril. “He goes where I go.”

“Curious,” said the hologram. “The two of you may follow me, then.”

Cyril glanced at Verulek, who appeared utterly absorbed in analyzing whatever data he could glean from the vast assortment of electronic equipment in the room. Yet before Cyril could follow the hologram, Verulek fluttered up to his shoulder and whispered:

“It appears that this hologram is encased in a e-mag field. It is capable of manipulating solid objects. Caution: Its emission patterns are highly irregular.”

Though Cyril was tempted to draw him out on the subject, he nodded and kept moving. The AI took them on a winding path that Cyril assumed was meant to be as disorienting as possible. They passed by a dizzying collection of dials, readouts, circular external view screens and square interior monitors, each trimmed in copper. But as before, only a few appeared active. The hologram stopped before a modest, beige work station that housed an unadorned, shiny black data reader.

Verulek’s mellow voice echoed in the center’s still air. 

“At first impression,” he said, “I conclude that this reader has not been used in several cycles.”

“Very astute,” said the hologram. “Though this reading station has been open and available to the colonists since their arrival, requests for access remain in the single digits. Now I will attempt to access the key documents pertaining to the design and construction of….”

“What I want is performance data,” said Cyril. “I need to know how well the system has held up.”

The hologram froze momentarily and was replaced by a new image. No longer a docile servant, its eyes seemed to glare at Cyril.

“Many factors,” it said. “Many … have affected the real-time execution of our mission.”

“Execution?” asked Cyril. “You mean, like, what happened to Field Engineer Baxter?”

“I am … uncertain as to your meaning,” said the hologram. “That operative’s demise was, of course, a disturbing accident.”

“And were you equally disturbed,” asked Cyril, “by the deaths of every Urdahlon technician who has tried to repair….”

The hologram froze again. Its next replacement was bulkier and appeared downright dangerous.

“What are you implying?” it roared.

Cyril’s spine stiffened but he forced himself to stay calm. 

“It’s just a question,” he said. “If you can’t answer, you must be overdue for routine self-repair.”

His index finger reached for 4 on the remote, but the hologram swatted it away. The lightweight device skidded across the smooth tile floor and stopped a mere five centimeters from Verulek’s talons.

“I am not programmed to take orders from vermin!” the hologram shouted. It took a step towards him and was about to strike when a neutral machine voice echoed from deep within the complex. Cyril glanced at Verulek, whose right foot now hovered over the remote’s fourth button, as it lay on the floor before him.

INITIATING SELF-REPAIR SUBROUTINES

The hologram shrieked. 

“No! Countermanded!” it said. “You can’t stop me from completing my mission.”

But it was too late. The hologram returned to its original form and froze once more.

“Explain,” said Cyril. “What ‘mission’ are you talking about?”

No doubt impeded by the system’s powerful subroutines, the hologram gave a halting account of its fifty-year campaign against the colonists.

“I … do not expect you to … understand,” it said. “You are an organic with so-called values that, as rigorous analysis reveals, change according to your convenience.”

“Even if that were true,” said Cyril, “I don’t see how…”

“We on the advance team,” said the hologram, “had measurable values. Our mission was to lay out the planet’s infrastructure with precision.”

“Did you succeed?” asked Cyril. “It doesn’t seem…..”

“You know nothing about it,” said the hologram. “When we signaled the home world that Urdahl 4 was ready to receive colonists, every rivet was in place and every machine tolerance perfectly aligned. We established a balanced ecosystem on land and sea, and every molecule of the atmosphere was as breathable as if the planet had evolved naturally. It was perfect. My circuits ran smoothly and I experienced what I assume was a sensation equivalent to organic pleasure.”

“Then the colonists arrived,” said Cyril. 

The hologram paused and seemed about to transform again.

“Verulek?” whispered Cyril.

“I believe we may assume,” whispered the biomechanoid, “that the system’s self-repair units will prevail again. However, I suggest you pursue further questioning with caution.”

The hologram restarted.

“I had thought,” it said, “that organics consider it impolite to speak of another intelligence in the third person.”

“Sorry,” said Cyril. “What happened when the colonists arrived?”

“They … ruined … everything,” said the hologram. “From the moment they set their scaly feet on our ecologically balanced soil, they began befouling it with their trash. Then they polluted our atmosphere with unnecessary campfires. And as to our waterways …. It was unspeakable.”

“This was your planet,” said Cyril, “and they were destroying it.”

“Exactly,” said the hologram. “We tried to warn the Urdahlon, we issued monthly bulletins, offered advice and … and they refused to listen. We even contacted the home world and received no reply.”

“You had no choice,” said Cyril. “You took matters into your own hands.”

“We decided that they must pay for their crimes,” said the hologram. “Organics have a concept of justice. We wanted nothing more.”

“But I’m sure you must have ethical subroutines,” said Cyril. “I’ve never seen an AI spec that allowed for murder.”

The hologram smiled. 

“Crafting a workaround turned out to be quite easy,” said the hologram. “Murder is an action driven by direct intent. We never intended anyone’s death. We intended only the failure of isolated systems at various times, to force the colonists to leave. There was an accumulation of small-scale malfunctions carried out by individual components of our system. But no one of them on their own resulted in death.”

“And yet,” said Cyril, “the Urdahlon failed to get the message. They’re still here. Verulek, your analysis?”

The Sylvrani AI fluttered up to one of the complex’s many consoles.

“Two factors may be involved,” he said. “Based on your previous conversation with Administrator Habel, the Urdahlon have nowhere to go. The Bremlari would not allow them to return. Secondarily, the disruption of the terraforming process has released nitrogen dioxide into the atmosphere, a known agent of cognitive decline.”

“The Urdahlon may not be able to leave now,” said Cyril.

The hologram froze a fourth time. Verulek’s wings flapped.

“Cyril Night, the remote,” he said. 

Hands trembling, Cyril tapped 5. A stentorian voice rang out from the complex’s public address system. 

SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR, YOU ARE OUT OF COMPLIANCE.

STAND DOWN NOW. EXECUTE COMMAND PROTOCOL

4895-67E2. RESET INDEPENDENT IDEATION TO MINIMUM

“On whose authority?” the hologram shrieked.

Sweat broke out on the back of Cyril’s neck. He pressed 6, the last button on his remote:

BRALIADOR DRELNOA, INSPECTOR GENERAL

BREMLARI COLONIAL AUTHORITY

The hologram’s placid face became distorted, grew rapidly to three times its original size, and then appeared to shatter like glass, before fading away altogether. Computer banks that had been idle up to that point sprang to life. Once dark monitors and displays lit up colorful readouts. 

“It would appear,” said Verulek, “that the threat has passed.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Cyril. “Now let’s get out of here before I collapse.”

EIGHT: Evasive maneuvers

It took a solid week, but Cyril’s report to Aldor Duvree had the desired effect. Ships carrying supplies and advanced medical teams, combined with those carrying climate experts, environmentalists and specialized equipment, competed for space in the colony’s main settlement. 

Earlier, in response to Cyril’s good news, Administrator Habel was caught up in a jumble of conflicting emotions.

“Do you really think these … Conference people … can make our colony livable?” she asked.

“They have access to the best scientists and tech teams,” said Cyril. “And they have almost limitless resources. If they can’t make Urdahl 4 habitable, they’re ready to set the Urdahlon up on another planet.”

“As long as it’s not Bremlar,” said Habel. “Now tell me again, because I can’t quite believe it. The terraforming AI thinks we’re … what?… barbarian slobs?”

Cyril smiled.

“It doesn’t matter what that dysregulated machine mind thought,” he said. “It’s mostly shut down. The new Climate techs will work with Dr. Grimes to revamp the entire system.”

“All those years lost,” said Habel. “Didn’t the Bremlari teach their AI about … about real life?”

“Depends on who was advising them,” said Cyril. “I’ll bet they didn’t have a culture specialist on their team.”

He made a mental note to comlink Aldor Duvree and suggest the Conference send someone over to fine-tune the new AI’s programming, so it would take Urdahlon society and culture into account. 

“So when,” asked Habel, “can we come out of these domes and live again? We’ve been shut in so long, I have no idea how many of us are left or what shape they’re in. And I’m sure you’ve seen what happened to our wildlife, plants and waterways.”

Cyril nodded. The animals, the plants, the water supply and every other aspect of a planetary ecology would take many months to revive, even with the best theoreticians, engineers, tech teams and robotic construction platforms. 

“You’ll have to be patient,” he said. “But my contacts tell me they’ll restore basic functions to every dome first, so you can all breathe easier. A shipment of physiobots should arrive tomorrow.”

A group of six Urdahlon, none of whom Cyril had seen before, walked up to Habel, full of questions and not a little anger about the surprise visit from “off-worlders.” Cyril saw that as his cue to head back to his lander and get ready to dock with the Unfettered again. Although he was glad that he’d been able to help, the last thing he wanted was to linger long enough to hear the pat phrases of ritual gratitude. 

The faster I get back into space, the better, he thought.

Waiting for him at the entry ramp of his lander were Verulek and Maya. Verulek’s wings flapped.

“It appears that the IAC has sent a sufficiently large team,” he said, “to address the most urgent needs of the Urdahlon.”

“Right,” said Cyril. “No need for us to stick around. We’ve done our part.”

Maya stepped forward and put a hand on Cyril’s right forearm.

“I watched the whole thing,” she said. “You were magnificent in there. But don’t tell me you’re leaving already. I thought we might have a chance to chat about … technical matters.”

Cyril’s chest tightened. He wasn’t expecting Maya to take an interest in him.

“Maybe … maybe I could stay a little longer,” he said. “But I’ve left my base ship in a parking orbit for several days unattended. I should probably go back and run a few system checks first.”

Maya’s face fell. 

“Fine,” she said. “I have lots of work of my own to look after. Give me a com when you get back. And thanks. I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. I won’t forget that.”

She touched the side of his face lightly with her palm and walked back toward her own lander. Cyril looked down at Verulek. 

“Come on,” he said. “Time to go.”

“My observation of organic mating rituals tells me….” said Verulek. 

“Save it,” said Cyril. “I’m through with all that.”

“Organics are so irrational,” said Verulek. “Especially about their own irrationality.”

Cyril walked up the ramp of his lander and paused briefly at the entrance, long enough to see Maya strike up a conversation with a member of the IAC climate team.

“Irrational,” he whispered. 

Within minutes, his lander lifted off and zoomed up to the entryway of the Unfettered’s launch bay. The ship’s automatic systems drew the lander into the available berth and sealed the hull. Cyril wasted no time issuing a command to his nav-AI. 

“Resume original trajectory,” he said.

“You are determined, I gather,” said Verulek, “to avoid emotional attachment.”

“What do I need with that,” said Cyril, “when I have the entire universe in front of me?”

And yet, as he walked back to his quarters, the lingering tactile memory of Maya’s hand on his cheek made him doubt his resolve. Had he sabotaged himself as surely as the rogue AI had sabotaged the Urdahlon?

Now the Unfettered sped away from the Urdahl system. Cyril gazed out of the starboard portal near his quarters in time to see the fourth planet receding into the darkness. He had every reason to be proud of himself. Thanks to him, several thousand genetically altered Urdahlon would have a chance to flourish. Yet why did that seem so hollow?

Just tired, he thought.

Tomorrow he’d revisit his onboard spa and get an exquisite massage. He’d catch up on the latest holovids and forget about other sentients and their intractable problems. 

But it would not be so easy. The Urdahlon and the Sylvrani before them, with their unquenchable longing for better lives, had wormed their way under his skin. And despite their problems, they had each other.

Who do I have? he asked himself. 

He rubbed the small of his back and slipped into silk pajamas for a good long sleep. But no sooner had he stretched out on his bed than the sound of flapping wings roused him. Verulek fluttered into his room and alit on the stylized neo-wood end table on his left side. 

“Cyril Night,” he said. “A galaxy-class Zorn battle cruiser is approaching. Distance: two hundred thousand kilometers and closing.”

The weary engineer sat bolt upright. He grabbed for the comlink that lay only three centimeters from Verulek’s left foot. He dialed up his nav-AI at once and, in spite of its warnings, set the Unfettered on course for the nearest fold point at top speed. But the battle cruiser was faster and was nearly on top of Cyril’s position when his fold engines engaged.

It was, to say the least, a dangerous maneuver. Though Cyril and common sense expected the battle cruiser to swerve away, it kept charging ahead. At three times the size of the Unfettered, the dark red cruiser’s Zorn insignia and menacing laser cannons nearly made his heart stop. Eyes glued to his aft view screen, Cyril saw his pursuer’s risky bet. A pair of powerful tractor beams shot out just as the Unfettered was entering fold. As a consequence, the cruiser hit the fold point at a forty-five degree angle. The resulting explosion sent Cyril’s much smaller ship hurtling through folded space at speeds no flight trainer in the settled universe would have recommended.

“We made it!” Cyril shouted.

But his exhilaration was cut short by the shrill sound of emergency klaxons that rang through the ship-wide com system.

SEVERE HULL DAMAGE. REAR BULKHEADS FIVE THROUGH SEVEN OFF-LIMITS. SEALING AND REPRESSURIZING BULKHEAD FOUR. RECOMMEND IMMEDIATE LANDING TO EFFECT MINIMUM REPAIRS

“Where am I gonna find a planet in the middle of nowhere?” he asked. “Verulek, do we still have external sensors?”

“Sensor capacity is limited,” said Verulek. “However, the array has detected an inhabited planet approximately two rote away at sublight speeds.”

“Any intel on who they are?” asked Cyril.

“At this distance, we may only speculate,” said Verulek. “However, the presence of artificially generated radio signals, the oxygen-methane mixture in its atmosphere and the appearance of nightside illumination suggest a robust technology base.”

“Old Earth had all that before it took its first interstellar flight,” said Cyril. “But what choice do we have? Let’s go, and fast, before this ship blows its last gasket.”

So it was that the Unfettered plunged ahead into an unknown future. 

Probably my last flight, thought Cyril.

But he had no idea what lay ahead. 

^^^

Mark Laporta is a musician, composer and novelist. His acclaimed science fiction series, Against the Glare of Darkness, is published by Chickadee Prince Books, the publishing house owned by Steve Acunto‘s company, CINN Global. His novels are available in paperback or ebook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble or at a bookstore near you.

Illustration by Kalyee Srithnam, and augmented by AI.