Out of the Darkness of Space
by Maurice Humphrey
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4 |
part 1
“Major Weller?” Pete called. “The outpost is on the view screen.”
I took a look at my new home for the next three years and shuddered; my worst nightmare had become a reality.
Outpost-DP451 looked like a pot-bellied Eiffel tower enclosing a cluster of box-shaped objects the size of a small city, all perched on top of a parabolic dish. Whatever its purpose, this machine was much larger than I had imagined.
The first outpost had been discovered over sixty years before, exciting military personnel and scientists. Over the next twenty years, other machines were found in various states of decay, their purpose still undetermined. After the military lost interest, a political committee put a keeper in residence to learn what secrets these objects might have. The keeper would spend three years living on the outpost; receive a bonus for anything new discovered, plus the rights to any publications. But it was a lonely assignment.
Only hermits need apply, I thought, or is this a sort of prison? Now that’s something to soothe the soul. And before I know it, I’ll be all alone. Just think of being left here alone... No, we won’t dwell on that. I clamped down on those feelings.
Normally a person would go insane living in an alien environment with no companionship, but Outpost-DP451 was different. The interior may have been odd-looking, but it didn’t feel alien. I had read everything I could get my hands on before coming here. I found no mention of anything out of the ordinary from any of the previous keepers. However, several felt something out there was lurking, waiting for the right time to strike. I chalked that up to paranoia.
As station keeper, I had a furnished suite of rooms with ample space for considerable personal items to make it feel more like home. It was like moving into a small apartment in an empty city.
Besides, I thought, I will be very busy learning the ropes. I can bury my thoughts and spend all my time working, observing, and logging all of it for the daily reports I’m required to file.
* * *
After three months, I had established a routine for doing my observations, writing up my reports, and sending them to an unmanned repeater station, where it would bounce from one repeater to the next before reaching Colonel Feld’s desk. Replies were rare. Not so routine was dealing with the station’s Artificial Intelligence Interface, or A-double-I as the first keeper called it.
My first experience with the A-double-I went as expected. I answered questions and asked a few of my own. All pretty bland stuff considering it already had all that information in my personal file. The voice was female, devoid of expression, with a curious accent, and she called herself Myla. If I didn’t know better, she could be an actual person, but that was just my loneliness talking.
Interactions with Myla became an interesting experience. She explained the basic workings of the station, how it recycled the necessities, and provided someone to talk to when loneliness set in. I felt closer to her than any other person I’d known these past twenty years. I decided to keep what I learned to myself, writing my thoughts only in my personal log.
Colonel Feld would think I’ve lost my marbles, I thought, my laughter echoing off the empty walls; it felt creepy.
With only her voice to guide me, we took frequent walking tours of the lower levels.
“When was this station built?” I asked one day.
“It was one of the last ones built before the Burning,” she replied.
“The Burning?” I queried.
“We’ll talk about that some other time,” she replied, sidestepping the question.
Something clicked in my mind. Perhaps the burning was part of a larger war of some kind?
After the tours, I spent hours walking the miles of corridors and branching hallways. There were signs on the walls, but only a few had been deciphered. After each tour, I would go back over what I had seen and make my own notes. I was good with directions and could discern I wasn’t being shown more places deep within the complex.
When I asked about those places, Myla told me they were dangerous and off limits; only the stationmaster was allowed in there. I told her I was the stationmaster, and I wanted to see what was in there.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she replied stiffly, “you are not the stationmaster; I am.”
Her answer startled me. I wisely dropped the matter; Myla was hiding something. That’s when I realized her voice had become more like a normal person’s. I took a chance: “Myla, could you teach me your language?”
Suddenly, there was absolute silence. I thought she had gone offline.
“That would be highly irregular...” she replied uncertainly.
An A-double-I with doubts? I had to contain my feelings. A machine wouldn’t have doubts or a native language. My heart skipped a beat, I was on to something.
What if she is a person, I thought, but where can she be? Somewhere in one of those areas that are off limits? That must be it. But that would mean... And how did she get here?
Now is not the time to get into that, I told myself. You may not like the answer.
“I will have to consult my superiors,” Myla said and, again, came the dead silence.
Since when does an A-double-I have to consult superiors? There’s more behind her voice than just electronics.
And again, that haunted feeling: You may not want to know the answer.
The next day she showed me how to access her language database and, if I had any trouble, I could call on her. I scanned through the files; they hadn’t been there when I searched earlier! What else was hidden in here?
I wasn’t sure when the dreams started. I even left them out of my personal log. Besides, learning her native language occupied my free time for several weeks, even with my required workload and daily tours, but their recurrence bothered me. It was always the same scene, several persons gathered around me talking in a language I couldn’t understand. There was always some controversy about something before it faded away.
* * *
A few weeks later, I took a walk down into the lower levels to try and interpret some of the signs posted on the walls near locked doors. I knew just the place too, right near the restricted area. Maybe I could learn something new on my own.
I’d brought along my notepad and copied what was on the sign. Underneath I wrote what I thought it meant. Somehow it still didn’t make sense until I had a wild thought. What if these machines are older than we assumed, maybe hundreds of years older? The builders’ language may have evolved from the time when this machine was built. I would have to learn more without letting on what I was up to. Perhaps I could get her to show me where the older literature was.
I did ask myself at times, What am I thinking? But stubbornness won and, with a plan of action in mind, I turned and headed back to my room. I wasn’t surprised at her answer when I told her what I wanted.
“Why are you interested in our older literature?”
“Oh, it’s a hobby of mine. I’ve studied some ancient literatures of Earth.” I wasn’t about to tell her I was exaggerating the word “literatures,” and I did carefully neglect to add that classic ancient works were part of any standard curriculum.
Again, she had to consult with her superiors, and the required material magically appeared.
After several weeks of reading, I found myths, legends, and superstitions. They felt familiar, much like Earth’s history. I became comfortable with the cadence and texture of their language and some of the older customs. Myla told me that most of the old superstitions had faded away years ago. And, as I suspected, their language had changed substantially over the last centuries.
I grabbed my notepad and went back to the place I had recorded signs in my notebook. I easily deciphered the first sign: “Air Purification. Use Protective Gear.”
Better leave that door for some other time, I thought and turned toward the next sign.
Just then, a dark shape scuttled across the floor in front of me. I couldn’t see where it went, but it came from an open door I hadn’t noticed before. Inside was a large room with many strange machines. Piping and wiring ran everywhere. Off to the side, a loud humming sound emanated from something that looked like a large shower stall full of constantly shifting multi-colored lights. I crept closer.
When I peeked around the corner, something forced its way between my legs, tipping over a tray of strange objects, before disappearing into the shower stall in a flash of light. I stepped on something, and crashed to the floor. Blinding pain followed when something sharp tore into my shoulder.
The humming stopped, and the lights went out, leaving the open door as a beacon of light. I needed to get out of there while I still could. Blood was running down my arm as I stumbled out the door and headed toward my room. I was almost there when I collapsed on the floor outside.
“Myla!” I cried out before the darkness closed in.
* * *
When I awoke, my shoulder and arm were numb. I could feel a bandage, and my skin tingled. Another wave of dizziness set in, and I lay back to catch my breath. How did I get into bed? Who bandaged my arm? Another wave of nausea hit as I tried to remember what happened.
A hazy vision of a cute, dark-haired girl standing over me swam into view. She was talking to someone wearing a ball cap who was applying the bandage to my shoulder. Her short, curly hair rustled whenever she turned her head. I couldn’t see her eyes, but her tone of voice was severe in speaking to someone else nearby. I recognized her voice, it was Myla’s!
There was a familiar whine to the other voice, but I was sure I’d never heard that voice before. Much of what was said I couldn’t quite hear, but I heard enough to know that she was in charge. Was it just another dream? Then how did the bandage get on my shoulder? Even with instructions, I couldn’t reach that far back. Then it all faded into blackness.
The lights were dim when I awoke, and I could sense someone else in the room with me.
“Hello,” I called, “is someone there?”
I heard the padding of small feet on the floor coming closer. A moment of panic set in as visions of whatever attacked me might be here in my room.
“Who are you?” I gasped.
I heard a snuffle, and then a voice spoke from beside my bed; it was the same voice that Myla had spoken to in my dream. Or was it a dream?
“My apologies, young man, for being the cause of your injury; there weren’t supposed to be any of your people down in the transport area.”
“You were the one I saw?!” I cried in alarm.
“Yes, I am the one,” the voice sighed. “You have my sympathies and deepest apologies. I panicked when I found you in the transport area. I didn’t mean to cause you any harm.”
“That doesn’t tell me who you are.”
“Again, my apology, I’m still learning your language and customs. My name is Derring, head of security for Outpost Delta-Prime-451. I guard the station against intruders.”
“Well, Derring, my name is Ross, and I would shake your hand if I could reach you.”
“I understand, Ross,” he laughed. “Perhaps some other time?”
“What about Myla?”
“That will be for you to find out on your own,” he chuckled. “I’m not allowed to interfere in your business. Do you need anything before I leave?”
“I could do with a drink and something to eat later on. Is that possible?”
“I’ll make your request known. How are you feeling otherwise?”
“Stiff and tired,” I replied with a yawn. “How long have I been lying here?”
“Only a few hours; your shoulder should be healed by the end of the day, but I would caution you to rest as much as you can for the next day or two. Regeneration takes a lot of energy out of the body.”
I heard the padding of his feet leaving the room as I drifted off to sleep. Only a few hours? Regeneration? Healed by the end of the day?
* * *
An odd smell brought me awake, and my stomach growled. A bowl of what looked like soup sat next to a glass of clear liquid on the table beside me. I fought through the aftermath of a heavy sleep as I sat up in bed and looked around. I was alone.
The bandage fell off when I flexed my shoulder. I picked it up and looked it over. Other than being green, the bandage looked like a bandage. The odor it gave off was faintly familiar, an antiseptic of some sort, but I couldn’t place it.
“Hello?” I called. “is anyone there?”
No one answered, so I picked up the spoon and tasted the contents of the bowl. It had the color of pea soup and consistency of oatmeal. The flavor wasn’t something I was familiar with, reminiscent of walnut and avocado, but spicier. It was hot and tasted good.
Afterwards, I still felt hungry, but Derring had said to take it easy. Maybe now would be a good time to update my personal log. Mark down everything I could remember, and the conversations I’d overheard.
After learning Myla’s language, I understood her scathing remarks to Derring and the conversation she had with the person who applied the bandage.
Wait! It wasn’t all about the bandage. She was asking about test results. What tests? Am I a guinea pig to them? Or is this all just a crazy dream?
I thought back to the writing on the wall where Derring vanished. It read simply: “Personnel Transportation.” Transportation to where? What if I don’t want to know the answer?
“Well, Ross” — Myla’s voice interrupted my line of thinking. It sounded like she was right beside me — “how are you feeling?”
“I don’t feel like talking to you right now,” I replied morosely. I was putting on an act; I wanted her on the defensive. Maybe she’d reveal more than she would otherwise.
“Are you mad at me?” she asked tritely. “How many times have I told you not to go down there?”
“And all because you didn’t want me to know what this station is really for,” I blurted out. The pieces were fitting together. “These stations are war machines, and that war is still going on.”
“How did you find that out?” I could hear a trembling in her voice.
“How long?” I asked.
“How long what?” I’d caught her off balance.
“How long has this war been going on?”
She told me and I still don’t believe it. “That long?” My jaw didn’t quite hit the floor, but it all made sense. “And why aren’t we having this discussion face to face?”
“What is ‘face to face’?” she gasped, clearly struggling to understand what I meant.
“It means both of us, in the same room, talking together.” I spread my arms for emphasis.
“Because I’m not allowed to meet with you in person,” she replied.
“Who isn’t allowing you? You’ve already visited me once before.” Then I had an inspiration: “Snd how many times before that when I wasn’t looking?”
“That was different.”
“Now I’m confused. Why was it different?” I asked but didn’t get an answer.
“I told them it wasn’t going to work this time,” Myla went on, “not with you, anyway. You’re not like the other keepers.”
“And who are ‘they’? Your parents, the military command?” I assumed the latter.
“Doesn’t matter; they wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m aware of ‘brass stupidity’,” I told her. “Sorry; the expression means that military command can be so buried in their precious protocols they don’t dare deviate from them. It’s both their strength and their weakness.”
“I’ll tell them you said that,” she replied.
“How many of them have ever been in combat?” I asked.
“We can go over that when I tell you the history of the Great Conflict.”
“And we’ll do that in person, right here on this station. Derring can be our chaperone.”
“Chaperone?”
“We have much to learn about each other, Myla. I’m ready to learn any time you are.”
Derring was another matter. True to his word, he was helpful any way he could. And even though he looked like a small version of an orangutan, which was a little hard to get used to at first, but he was now the only friend I had. It took longer this time for Myla to get permission, but not in person. It would take more than that for me finally to meet her.
* * *
Copyright © 2022 by Maurice Humphrey
