Beyond Asimios - Part 4 (2 page)

—Perhaps
the questions should be put to you, Mr. Oreg, Miranda said as she stepped
forward. Should we consider ourselves safe with you? You don’t have any
reasonable explanation for your presence on Asimios. Judging from your body
metrics, I can say with relative certainty that you have been taking liberties
with the truth. Your motives are questionable. You are perhaps using us and I am
concerned that you are not who you claim to be.

—Listen,
Oreg said. Watch and be patient and you stand a good chance of staying alive.
You are a guest on my ship. After we arrive at the portal, that may change, but
for now, be thankful that is a Goerathian who found you and not a Consortium
patrol.

Graf
looked at Miranda, then they both looked to Oreg who had turned his attention back
to the holo. A moment passed and they all were drawn to the lone dot that hovered
in the middle of a purple nebular cloud. The symbols bobbed and the graphs and
meters calibrated as the dot sailed through the ether.

—How
did you find out about Asimios anyway? Graf said. I mean, how many of you knew
about our little project? And if you did, why didn’t you introduce yourselves?
It’s a little strange to me.

Oreg
glanced halfway over to Graf before turning back the holo. He shoved his gold-ringed
fingers against his chin. I knew about Asimios because the Consortium knew
about Asimios, he chirruped. The Consortium found out about your station by the
noise you were making. They found you. Then they found the hole you were coming
through.

—You
don’t represent the Consortium, I take it, Graf said.

Oreg
stuck out his chin, which was his way of gesturing the negative.
Harrrch
, was the gritty vocalization that
sounded above Graf’s translator.

—Then
why didn’t the Consortium come forward? Why didn’t they make contact?

—Perhaps
they were waiting.

—Waiting
for what?

—To
build a bigger portal. They have done so. They will soon be on their way.

—But
everyone has left Asimios, said Graf. The
Tacitus
destroyed the wormhole when it left. There’s no going back.

Oreg
closed his eyes and was silent and Graf decided not to press him further. There
was quiet now as the muted lights from the holo brushed over their faces.
Miranda stood behind Graf, transfixed, it seemed, by the three-dimensional map
that floated before them. Here they were, watching themselves on their path
through space, observers of their own flight, voyeurs of their own journey.

—I’m
curious, Graf said after a short time, his fingers running through his salt and
pepper beard. You spoke to me when I held the gun on you. It wasn’t through my
visual interface; you told me to put the weapon down. How did you do that?

Oreg
looked at Graf. A thought entered Graf’s mind…a vague thought, but significant.
No more questions for now.
Graf had
his answer, he knew, but he didn’t quite know why?

—There
is a game we play where I come from, Graf said. We play it to pass the time.
I’m particularly fond of it.

Oreg
turned lazily in Graf’s direction.

—The
rules are easy, but the variations are nearly infinite. I can build this game
for us if you’re interested.

—Continue,
Oreg chirruped.

—It
is played on a board. There are sixty-four squares on the board of alternating
black and white. You are given sixteen pieces and your goal is to capture your
opponent’s king.

—Zawtek
, Oreg said.

—I’m
confused, Graf said.

Oreg
hissed something at the ship and a holo board appeared between them. It was of
an unusual color but immediately recognizable.

—Is
this the game you describe? Oreg barked.

—Perhaps,
although there are pieces missing.

Oreg
coughed a word and the holo produced pieces on the very spaces where the
thirty-two chess pieces would have stood. Graf turned and grinned at Miranda. Astonishing,
he said.

Oreg
expanded the board and centered it between them and after a brief discussion it
was clear that each was intimate with the rules.

—A
gentleman’s game to start, Graf said. No time constraints.

—Agreed,
Oreg said with a wagging of his head.

It
was a close game to the end, but Graf took the contest. When they finished both
were pleased with themselves but too tired to begin a second match, so Graf
swallowed a relaxant Oreg offered him and found his bunk. He slept long and
deep and better than he had in months. When he awoke, he declared himself nearly
fully rejuvenated. His back felt limber and the sound of the ship, the low
gurgle of the engine cores, had become the background noise to a temporary home.
When he returned to the bridge, Miranda informed him that he had been asleep
for over seven hours. He was only slightly discouraged that he had not been out
longer.

—Feels
like a lot more than that, he said. Boy, I tell you, it’s amazing what a good
sleep can do.

—Only
142.73 standard hours to go.

—Wonderful,
Graf muttered as he pulled the belt of his robe tight around his expansive
waist.

—Would
you like to try some Goerathians carbohydrates and protein? Oreg is in his
quarters, but he demonstrated how to use the galley.

—I
thought you’d never ask, Miranda, Graf said as he felt the aching chasm in his
belly. Are you familiar with chess, he asked as Miranda led him down the hall.

—Of
course, doctor. I can perform at all levels of expertise.

—I’m
sure you can. How about we start with an easy level and see how things progress?

—As
you wish.

—And
also, Miranda, I was wondering…

—Yes?

—Did
Paul transfer any music to your memory?

—I
have several hundred thousand files in memory, as a matter of fact.

—Do
you have any Mahler?

—Yes.

—How
about his fourth symphony?

—I
do, Miranda said. Wait a moment. Yes. Fritz Reiner conducting. 1958.

—Is
it possible for you to send it to my VI?

—I
will.

—Miranda.

—Yes?

—You’ve
just made an old man very happy.

As
they neared the portal, Oreg and Graf had concluded twenty-two games of chess (or
zawtek, as Oreg called it) with Graf holding a slight margin at twelve wins. During
their days of travel, when they were not testing each other’s mental acuity in
“the King’s Game”, they would play against Miranda, and when they were not
losing miserably to Miranda, Graf and the droid would sit and watch Oreg’s collection
of classic Goerathian movies on the bridge holo, fascinating accounts of Oreg’s
people as they struggled for identity, place and security against often violent
and extra-planetary opposition. These films, to Graf’s disappointment, were
fractured—splintered and non-linear, unlike most from his human
experience—but over time he was able to stitch together comprehensible stories,
while Oreg came and went, commenting on this and that and fielding questions to
enlighten the doctor and droid on the nuances of Goerathian culture.

To
Graf’s dismay, Paul had uploaded only three movies to Miranda’s memory. Why
only three was an exercise in luckless speculation, but it was this collection
of films that served as Oreg’s core introduction to Earth and human
civilization. The three films Miranda streamed (the integration of technologies
was difficult at first, but she managed it) were Akira Kurosawa’s
Ran
,
Vittorio De Sica’s
Ladri
di biciclette
(The Bicycle Thieves) and Buster Keaton’s
The General
. Graf, admittedly, had never
seen these films before and after viewing them he praised the works highly, but
it was Oreg who was most affected by them. He was bewildered, at first, with the
human obsession for linear narratives, but he grew accustomed to convention. These
films needed little translation and Oreg watched them again and again, eyes
glued to the screen and ears directed to the beats and turns of dialogue.

Oreg was transfixed by the impassive samurai generals as they
sat in the middle of swirling and billowing clouds of armies. He leaned
forward, quills on end, when the father struck the boy in De Sica’s Italian film,
and he looked on in ecstasy, his brown eyes glossy with laughter as Buster
Keaton scrambled over his steam engine while in pursuit of (or fleeing) Union
troops. Time was in abundant supply on their journey to the portal and more
often than not Oreg found himself in front of one of these three movies, eager
to plumb the depths of the human condition and eager to let his mind meander
through the city streets and mountain valleys of a planet and civilization unspoiled
by forces from without.

—If these movies represent the human experience,
Oreg remarked, then I must say that I envy your world.

—I agree that these are wonderful movies, Graf said,
but they are exceptions. I’d be embarrassed to show you what most of our
entertainment consists of.

—I understand, Oreg said. It is often the case that
when we present ourselves to others we show our achievements before we show our
shortcomings. I’ve spared you the worst of Goerathian culture as well—the
ignorance, the selfishness, the hatred, and cruelty—but I do so to
preserve my optimism.

While the three of them did their best to be amenable and accommodating
travel companions, there were times during their voyage when one desired
solitude, and it was during such a time that a shipmate would retire to his or
her (or its) respective corner to sleep or to simply be alone. Everyone, it
turns out, needs a moment alone, even a droid.

Just what Oreg did after he handed control of the bridge over
to Miranda and slung his lanky frame off to his quarters, was anybody’s guess.
Graf surmised that Oreg’s moments of seclusion consisted of beard trimming, telepathic
training, clandestine plotting and (or) meditation on the
seven planes of truth
, but ultimately, what a Goerathian does on his
own time is his own business. Besides, it was in Miranda that Graf had been
developing a keener interest.

After their exchange about religion and the quantum mind, Graf
now regarded this sleek amalgam of metal, electronics and synthskin as a being
of depth, complexity and moral comportment, and he felt remorse for having treated
her with such impudence back on Asimios. He had taken advantage of Miranda as a
servant droid and never once assumed, even with evidence to the contrary standing
right in front of him, that she was unique—an independent droid, one capable
of higher order thought. But even with this revelation, he found himself uneasy.
He was uneasy because this development brought with it certain implications.
There was another “being” to tiptoe around now; another “person” in need of politeness,
consideration and respect, all measures requiring energy and effort.

Fiddlesticks.

More often than not, Graf found Miranda in the engineering
cubby, at work trying to repair the sentry bot’s basic functions. Oreg had
provided her with toolkits and several replacement component caches and she
spent a good deal of her attention poking and prodding and running tests on the
gray and lifeless hunk of plasteel.

—It is funny, Miranda said, when I try to
cross-apply the alien tech with our own, I find it challenging. The work requires
considerable time and concentration. Before I can use one of the alien
components, it is necessary for me to test it to see what it is.

—Did the bot come with an instruction manual?

—I do not understand, Dr. Graf?

—Are there any embedded schematics? Is there any way
to troubleshoot the problems?

—I’ve been running diagnostics and I believe I’ve
isolated the areas of damage. Extracting and repairing the damaged components
is where the difficulty lies.

—I’m sorry. I guess I’m not of much help here.

—No.

—I was wondering, though, Graf added. Did…er,
does,
the sentry bot also have one of
these quantum minds? Did Paul stick a quantum brain in this guy too?

Miranda looked up at him.

—I mean, is he like you? Can the damned thing think?

—I believe, said Miranda, that Paul Ness installed
quantum integration circuitry in both of us. It is my understanding, however,
that the mind in the sentry bot is of limited capacity. It can adapt and learn,
but that is all I know.

—I see…no crises of conscience from this fellow, eh?

—It is hard to predict. She is a sophisticated AI by
ESCOM standards.

—She?

—Yes, she has first-rate sensors and extraordinary positioning
analytics.

—And yet here she is, the unfortunate victim of a
cargo ramp accident.

—I think you could call this an instance of being in
the wrong place at the wrong time.

Graf raised his eyebrow: True, so very true, he said.