Origin Fortress R-26, Department of the Outside
>To Royal Fleetpart Commander Victory, Gracious Kia, Ninth House Rank Eight
The subject requested appears indeed to be a machine, despite a highly sophisticated and life-like appearance. Further inspection has confirmed a complete lack of madwork traces, in itself puzzling as an internal processor should betray signs of its presence. Our only conclusion is that the device must be a robot, of sorts, its thinking capacity held elsewhere (although where this elsewhere may be is another question altogether, as, indeed, is the mechanism which permits operation at such distance. It would be easier to say that its mind is self-contained, but unless its makers have devised a madwork-free method of computation, and one capable of such intelligence, this cannot be so. There are no traces. None at all).
It appears to operate on a type of programming, or at least a set of triggers, one of which we suspect to have precipitated such belligerence as we have reported. As it remained largely motionless during transit from the discovery point to this Fortress, we speculate that these triggers may operate on basis of place, or, perhaps, on a timer, if they are not activated by direct interaction with the robot itself. Since the initial incident it has shown little inclination towards violence; this may be due to lack of contact with researchers or the provided deterrent or some other motive as yet unknown. It seemed damaged upon retrieval and the aforementioned deterrent may have aggravated this condition (any cause of prior damage remains unknown; it may be simply due to age and associated corrosion, although it was found in, by all appearances, one of our own drop-pods of recent make; where and when it acquired one is yet another mystery which has withstood probing).
The robot-- we have tentatively classed it as part of or a representative of a new race, SAI-17 by administrative categorization, though most of our staff refer to it as “Blackscale” due to the 25 Cutter marks slashed into its sides or, simply, as mekoven [“old robot,” “Sir Robot,” “mystery”]-- has taken an intense interest in our language programming and has, as of this writing, disassembled the projector twice, although it continues to refuse any overtures of inquiry or offerings of what we have determined to be suitable fuel (a slurry of hydrides and toxic heavy metal compounds). We are by now reasonably confident that it can understand us, at least partially, judging from the speed it goes through the reels and the fact that it never revisited the same one twice, but when it talks it does so only its own language, which has thus far defied translation.
While your interest in this specimen is understandable, we do not recommend moving it from this facility or attempting to either convince or coerce it into performing the sort of tasks you indicated. As you have seen, this device is extraordinarily dangerous and must be handled with care; a care we are not certain can be afforded aboard a spacefaring plate, Royal or not. Give us time and we will divine its secrets as we have done with all other species discovered within our jurisdiction.
Enclosed is a record of all activity performed by the subject over the past three octaves. While this is not a particularly entertaining or edifying document, we hope its occasional disturbing note will convince you to leave this SAI-17 to our watch.
Particularly:
Date 3-15, 374 Kia, 2306 Central
Subject has spent all day turning in circles, lashing its tentacles, vocalizing to itself with its usual thunderous bent, and several times has dashed itself against walls and ceiling, though never the door. These episodes have left marks in said surfaces which cannot be repaired until subject is removed.
Date 3-18, 374 Kia, 2306 Central
Subject has not moved for three days. As it does not respire, its eyes are closed, and it lacks a madwork signature, it is difficult to tell if it is still operating.
Date 3-20, 374 Kia, 2306 Central
Subject has scratched thousands of intricate symbols into all surfaces of the holding chamber. Whether this is an attempt to to communicate in a more comfortable fashion, a record of its travels, an indication of malfunction, or some sort of programmed ceremony is as yet unknown. The linguistics department is attacking the problem with enthusiasm; the engineering department is wondering why the subject hasn't yet simply knocked the door down and walked out as before, if its claws can make such deep impressions.
Date 3-26, 374 Kia, 2306 Central
Subject has finally accepted a bowl, only to dump its contents back into the meal-slot, tear the metal apart, and affix the pieces to its head and limbs. Bowls in future will be constructed of different materials.
Date 3-31, 374 Kia, 2306 Central
Subject has just reassembled the projector; it now functions on constant playback:
“Hwi mashato-te raken, hwi mashato-te raken, hwi mashato-te raken.”
[Your work will burn, your work will burn, your work will burn]
>Filed and Authorized by Fortress Major-Administrator Honvan, Calm Goshar, Fourth House Rank Twelve
> Response (2), Date 3-39, 374 Kia, 2306 Central
Origin BattleSail Fiery Justice
>To Fortress Major-Administrator Honvan, Calm Goshar, Fourth House Rank Twelve
I will be arriving in two days. Have the Blackscale ready for transport.
>Filed and Authorized by Royal Fleetpart Commander Victory, Gracious Kia, Ninth House Rank Eight
"Hello, mekoven. Food for you. The geshrana-hwa says it's safe."
A bowl appears behind the food slot, lowered through a chute from the upper levels. Since that first incident I have been moved to a high-security area, walls thicker than my body, doors mounted on armored rails, and have not met again with another creature; Glass-Hide or Sheen-Mane or otherwise. Beside the food slot is a grille, from which the sound emanates.
I don't respond.
I don't take the bowl, either.
The cell has been fitted with a small projector— a machine that throws colored light onto another surface, forming pictures— and a number of instructional programs evidently intended for my use. I have taken full advantage. I don't have time to eat. Besides, their offerings are not proper food and they've probably done something to it. Something to make me more docile, or something to erase my memory, or something to otherwise bring me under control.
Wonder-Conquerors love their control. Every word in the language reaches back to it, loops around it, pays homage to right and rule and order. I don't know if they themselves notice this, or that they find it odd that all of their idioms emphasize instead the whim of fate. That they are, in fact, undermining themselves— indicating that their will to power is, ultimately, an illusion, destroyed in the greater design.
Raka. Power. Ne-raka. Will to power. Go-raka. Taking of power.
Go is negative, and yet there is no way to say "lack of power." If something is missing, it is taken by an outside force. A greater force.
This explained, I thought, why the inhabitants of this new place had never reached our level. How can a culture achieve true control when every action is taken by others? The monsters could hurt us, yes, kill us, yes, but never be us. They simply didn't have the mindset for it. They were destroyers, not creators, and simply spent eternity waiting for the more accomplished to tumble into their trap.
You laugh and correct me.
I didn't know.
"Nari," says the projector. It flashes an image of a mountain. "Gashke ne-nari hwandi." There exists a lone mountain.
More information to commit to memory. More syllables. More words. Each part analyzed, parsed into its simplest components, compared to others to discover relationships, and then rebuilt to form phrases, augmented nouns, a fragmented understanding.
Gashka = permission. Ne = positive, directional. Nari = mountain. Hwandi = leader.
The leading mountain has been granted permission to exist.
“Leader” because there are only two types of people, leaders and followers, and if it were a follower there would be others like it. Therefore, the mountain is alone because it is a leader and it is a leader because it is alone. This peculiar logic is possible because the the concept of “alone” denotes uniqueness, pride, and power rather than desolation and despair.
We hate to be alone; the Wonder-Conquerors hate to be unremarkable. Our worst punishment is exile; theirs is to be forced into sameness. We are eternal; they exist by sufferance.
All this and more from a mountain. I cannot even say “this mountain is mine” without implying “for the moment.”
“Mekoven?” the voice continues when I still make no move to accept the bowl, newly plastic as all now are, “Even though you have never taken our food, we know you are listening. We know you understand. We have something important to tell you.”
I click the projection dial for the next display. The mechanism is a circle, half inside and half outside the chassis, which spins and tells the machine what to do through a collection of wires. This is much more complicated than our system, where a machine simply does, and I have concluded that this is merely another part of the ruse: anyone seeking to understand the native “culture” will find themselves so bogged down in extraneous contrivance that they will never discover its true purpose.
So I have decided.
Still I turn the dial; there is no other way to change sound and picture.
“Tenchi kari-ne vimu go-nari—”
“Someone is coming for you, mekoven. Someone very important.”
The next picture is a panorama of grass and plain, pale green, wispy clouds scudding overhead. Each part has its own name and its own false equivalent. I mutter the words to myself: aka, chinu, deshgoni.
“We're going to take you out of your holding chamber, very soon. When we do this, you must not cause problems. Understand? No problems.”
Must not cause problems.
Must not draw the gaze of fate.
Planning to remove me, are they? Take me to another Fortress perhaps, larger and with thicker walls? I haven't tried to leave this place, have I? Damaged it, certainly, but leave?
Why leave? Where is there to go? If I tried to get out again, they would only shoot me and put me back in the cell. And even if I could avoid such an outcome, either through clever planning or bravado, what would I do?
Here, at least, is the projector. Here, at least, is something to occupy my mind. Here, at least, is reason not to claw the walls and cry and incite alien laughter.
< Now they're going to kill you> says Smooth-Stones.
< They've been waiting for you to learn> says Crackling-Wind.
< Now that you can understand, they're going to take you to a special facility that can cut through your plates and taunt you for days on end>
“Your silence is enormously reassuring,” says the grille. “Let us remind you that there will be guards, as usual. Armed. They will escort you to one of the bays.”
The door creaks.
“We're going to open the door now. The guards will take you out of the holding area and to an elevator, which will eventually bring you to Docking 44. There you will stay until our guest arrives. While we understand that these past few octaves may have been stressful to you, we do ask that you be at least mildly deferential to—”
A pause.
I stop clicking through the pictures.
“What?” asks the grille. “But isn't that—”
“Vrata no-gana cheko,” says the projector.
< Oh, change of plans> says Smooth-Stones. < They're going to just leave you here. And talk at you. Forever>
< Forever?>
< Until you catch the sickness, too>
I stare at the floor. I need to re-scratch some of the designs. They're fading.
The grille crackles. “Yes. Understood.” More quietly: “Royals.”
I wedge a claw into one of the marks and pull.
Skkeeeek
Skrrreek
“Well. Looks like you'll be staying put, mekoven.”
Skrik. Skrik.
“Her Royal Fleetpart Commander Victory will be there to see you shortly. With guards. We expect that you will be both courteous and nonviolent, and you will address her as Royal Ninth House.”
A click. A brief tone. I am once more left to my own devices.
A visitor? For truth?
I haven't had a visitor for a long time. Such a long time. Will this new one be as infuriating as the others, as transparent, as weak? Either a solid block of ice-cold murder or a white-clad sycophant; there seems to be no alternative, no happy medium.
No comments:
Post a Comment