Relics, Wrecks and Ruins

The Echo of Love ^{By Marianne de Pierres}

Professor Kyne? The stationmaster would like to see you.

Kyne paused his case book and replayed the message from his Mind-Aide to confirm that he’d heard correctly. With a speech to write, and at least a hundred case files left to review before the official opening of Leto Station’s new science wing, it was both a surprising and unwelcome interruption.

But not one he could ignore. The message had not only cut into his direct private audio feed but was blinking with a priority alert on his virtual eyewall and all his external screens as well.

“In reference to…?” he asked his M-A.

A topic has not been flagged, Professor. But the priority is red.

Kyne pulled the patch from his ears in exasperation. What could Floraboden possibly want with him? The stationmaster usually only deigned to give his time to the physicists and the astronomeins. No one ever took an interest in Kyne’s work. Psycho-realism was seen as the poorest relative of psychiatry and the hard sciences. Fools!

He stood, stretched, and waved his fingers in a practiced pattern. The nano-receptors around his workstation fed the gestures into a decoder, which set the station to lock. The screen, his case books, and documents all turned blank.

He locked his office as he left—even though no one came to Floor 773 unless they were lost—and stalked to the airvator shaft without passing a single person. He knew every ripple in the insulation and every ding on the exposed piping that ran along the ceiling, but today he didn’t pay them mind.

Even when the air-cushioned tube lift opened, he remained deep in contemplation of his research. Maybe this was his opportunity to ask Floraboden for a research grant. Two years into his study, his sample group remained frustratingly limited to station personnel and employees from the Leto–Bellatrix service shuttles. He needed a wider sample to gain credibility.

“Floor 550 on priority,” he told his M-A. It sent his request to station logistics, who rerouted the airvator into an express channel. At least he wouldn’t have to travel with the public.

Ten minutes later, Kyne stepped out.

The lights in the corridors were brighter up here, the smell cleaner. It seemed that the lower in the station you worked or lived, the more the sweet stench of carbon tetrachloride tainted your life.

Kyne waited in front of the security scanner. The stationmaster’s Lostolian valet came out to greet him and ushered him into the screening parlor.

He took care not to touch the creature. Lostolians’ personalities—along with their skin—were too tightly stretched and easily torn. Arrogance seemed to be their species’ default. They made great bureaucrats, always fussing over something.

Not that Space Station Leto was a place for species prejudice. Three hundred and fifty-four different types of sentients resided here. Tolerance was another key parameter for selection, and Kyne had rated highly on the species-empathy scale. He knew how to fudge a test. He’d designed enough of them.

“The stationmaster is waiting for you,” said the valet.

Kyne resisted apologizing. He’d come as quickly as he could. Instead, he walked straight-backed into the chilled inner sanctum.

Stationmaster Floraboden stood in between two nano-generators with his eyes closed. Kyne could see their little winking lights at work.

Other than that, the room was sparse: two kneeling chairs facing each other, a food dispenser, and a multidimensional picture of a cobalt-blue planet.

Please wait while Stationmaster Floraboden disengages from virtual, Kyne’s M-A told him.

Kyne sank onto the cushioned pad of one of the two kneel chairs. A trifle confrontational. Not all the species on this station would be able to fit on, or be appreciative of, the proximity of these chairs. Clearly the ergonomic designers hadn’t consulted a behaviorist.

“Welcome, Professor,” said Floraboden joining him on the opposite chair. “I know you don’t like to be disturbed when you’re working, but I have a unique situation and… an opportunity for you. However, this requires the highest security clearance. I would need certain assurances on your part.”

Kyne experienced an unsettling sensation in his stomach. “Is it dangerous?”

“Not inherently,” said Floraboden evasively.

Kyne observed the man’s movements and replayed the tone of his voice in his mind. The stationmaster was hiding something. “Why would you require me for this high security… situation?”

“Your research and your talent for interpreting voice are uniquely suited to the task.”

“Indeed?” Kyne’s curiosity was piqued, and he relaxed. He’d never had someone of the stationmaster’s status give kudos to his work before. Perhaps an opportunity had finally come his way.

“What’s required for me to gain clearance?” Kyne asked.

“Just a signatory assurance that you’ll abide by our protocols, and of course, a prosecutable declaration you won’t discuss your involvement with anyone.”

“And my recompense for such a commitment?”

Floraboden’s smile crinkled his face all the way to his ears. “I thought you might have some ideas on that. What would you like, Professor Kyne? What would be suitable reparation for assisting us to maintain the safety and wellbeing of your home?”

The stationmaster delivered the veiled rebuke with perfect good humor, as though it wasn’t really one at all.

But Kyne knew exactly what he wanted. “I should like to be moved to an office in the new science wing, next door to Dr. Dente Freeburg.”

Floraboden’s eyebrows shot upward. “Professor Freeburg is our leading physicist and astronomein. The new wing is for the hard sciences.”

“A profoundly ignorant decision, if I may say,” said Kyne.

“Aaah,” said Floraboden nodding his head. “You’re an activist in the war of the sciences?”

“I decry the physicists and astronomeins hegemony’s stranglehold on public perception. Yes.”

“Quite,” said Floraboden. “Well, let me see what’s available.”

He lifted a hand and wove a quick, new pattern with his fingers. His eyes glazed but remained open. The receptor implants across his forehead and down the left side of his face winked in a mesmerizing light pattern.

Most station operators could manage a decent load of procedures from anywhere on the station while still engaged in the real world. Floraboden, however, was renowned for his ability to compartmentalize and endlessly multitask. It was a stationmaster’s lot.

“I can agree to your request,” said Floraboden eventually.

“It must have an external view,” added Kyne. “I want to see outside.”

Floraboden scowled and twitched his fingers. Then he rose and returned to his command field.

The door opened behind Kyne, and Floraboden’s valet entered.

“Your request has been approved. Please follow me to give your signatory,” said the Lostolian.

Kyne glanced back at Floraboden, but the stationmaster had already resubmerged into station space, his eyes shut, and both hands conducting with fervor.

How annoying that the only person Kyne had spoken to in the last month didn’t have the courtesy to say goodbye.

It was a full day before Kyne found out what he’d signed up for. The guard escorts who came for him the following morning wore station insignia and armed-combat suits.

His stomach tightened. “Am I in danger?”

None of them saw fit to reply, other than to insist—with gestures only—that he should don a privacy helmet, so he remained blind in transit.

To allay his jitters, Kyne imagineered himself in his new office with his name plate outside on the wall next to Freeburg’s. He concentrated on picturing the physicists’ faces when a psycho-realist moved in among them. Sometimes, you have to fabricate your own success. Being in the hard-science wing would give his work some solid exposure. For one thing, it meant an automatic invite to the Scientists’ Union tri-cyclic symposium.

The very idea broke a fine sweat on his skin.

So deep were his contemplations that Kyne lost track of direction and time. He only roused from them when a guard tapped his shoulder and removed his helmet.

They’d brought him to a small room, even by station standards, which comprised an armchair, three gray titanium walls, and an interactive screen as the fourth wall. The screen was inactive.

The guard proffered him a tube of water. When Kyne accepted it, the guard left the room. The door shut after him with discernible finality.

Kyne stood, holding the tube. What next?

“Please be seated, Professor Kyne,” said Floraboden’s voice.

The screen flickered alive and the stationmaster’s head and shoulders appeared in sharp definition. The ridge of flesh along his hairline was stained from medical scans from the implants. Stationmasters were prone to cranial bleeds.

“On the other side of this screen we are detaining an A-Class alien. We would like you to begin some preliminary discourse with the creature. As your specialty is psychic interior realism, we believe that you can bring us some insight into the true nature of this creature.”

“That’s it? You want me to just talk to an A-Class?”

“Yes.”

“But I haven’t prepared. I need a profile tracker.”

“We’d prefer you did this on instinct and gave a spontaneous verbal report after every meeting.”

Kyne shook his head. This was most inappropriate. Most unscientific. “What can you tell me about the A-Class?”

“Our forward scout found… her—I use the gender tag in a qualified manner, for ease of discussion—in the brig of a JetShift trader. The humanesque crew were all dead. She seems to be able to communicate in our language and has chosen to be known as Sarin.”

“Sarin is the fourth brightest star in the Hercules constellation.”

“Indeed, Professor.”

“What does she look like?” asked Kyne, stepping closer to the screen.

“It’s unclear. Sarin is encased in an opaque crystalline structure. “She has described it as her cocoon. She chose that description, she said, so that we could conceptualize it.”

“Fascinating,” said Kyne. “Did the JetShift logs explain more?”

“No. You’ll spend an hour with Sarin today, and every day hereafter, until we know enough. The guards will collect you from your rooms every morning and return you afterwards.”

“What if I should like to stay longer with Sarin?”

“That will not be permitted.”

Kyne sucked in a breath. He was not used to such confining parameters when working with test subjects. Still, this could look good on his resume. “Floraboden, is this blindfold nonsense truly necessary?”

“Good luck, Professor,” said the stationmaster, ignoring his question. The image faded out.

The texture and color of the screen changed, and Kyne saw the outline of a sarcophagus-like structure in an otherwise empty space. He seated himself and leaned forward and studied the dimensions. It appeared—if the scale was true—to be a little longer and wider than the dimensions of an average female humanesque.

“Hello, Sarin,” he said, not sure what else to do.

“Hello, Professor Kyne. Stationmaster Floraboden told me to expect you.”

Her tone, though a little husky, was a perfect replication of the Mintakan accent. Humanesques in this sector of Orion clipped the end of their words. It was quite attractive to a Procyonite like Kyne who was used to the sound of his language bubbling like air in a water pipe.

“Are you comfortable with being called Sarin?”

There was a long pause, then she replied, “It’s my name.”

Kyne nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. He felt the mantle of his professional persona slip across him. “You may call me Professor or just Kyne.”

“Just Kyne. That is an unusual name even for your kind.”

That made him smile. “It’s not my name, Sarin. It’s semantics. Calling me Kyne will be sufficient. Our scout found you on board a damaged ship. Do you know what happened to the crew?”

“Interrogatives are not appropriate among my kind until a couple knows each other well.”

Kyne raised his eyebrows at the crystalline structure. “Are we a couple, Sarin?”

The A-Class was silent for a moment. “That was clever of you, Just Kyne. Creating intimacy from nothing.”

Kyne took a moment to consider her response then said, “I apologize if questions make you uncomfortable. It’s an accepted form of communication among humanesques. If you tolerate my lapses, I will attempt to reframe my speech, until we know each other better.”

“Your response is appropriate.”

“Good. Now… you were alone on a deserted JetShift.”

“It was not my choice.”

“Did they capture you? I’m sorry, let me try that again… According to what we could tell, the JetShift had been occupied by pirates.” Kyne made that up. But it seemed a reasonable assumption. Traders and pirates were interchangeable in this sector.

“I appreciate your attempted sensitivity with interrogatives, Just Kyne. However, I am not sure what a pirate is.”

“A vagabond. A scavenger. Pirates operate outside constellation laws.”

“I heard my captives speak of Orion. I believed it to be the name they give this area of space.”

“Place names are only useful if everyone knows their locations.”

“I would agree. Our cluster-space  will not be familiar to you.” The sound she made was utterly strange and discordant.

“Or, it may be familiar, but not as that,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Perhaps I will bring a celestial map on my next visit. We could exchange neighborhoods.”

“You sound coy, Just Kyne.”

“Coy is a very advanced linguistic concept, Sarin. I’m impressed by your command of our language.”

“I have also learned that humanesques use flattery as deception.”

“I had not intended deception. I only seek veracity.”

“My apologies. They used a similar tone to yours. It was followed by either falsehood or demands. It is reasonable that I assume you would do the same.”

A little surge of excitement prickled across his skin. He felt intrigued and unexpectedly aroused. It was a long time since he’d had an interesting and challenging conversation with a female…

A-Class alien female. He frowned. Inside that casing, she could be the shape of a jellypod.

“On my next visit, I’ll bring you some music to listen to,” he said. “I find it soothing and uplifting. Perhaps it will have the same effect on you, Sarin. It also speaks to the nature of our species.”

She didn’t reply immediately, but Kyne noticed the sarcophagus infusing with a rosy color.

“You’ve changed color,” he said, delighted. “I find that hue warm and pleasant. I shall assume that it’s a sign of your approval.”

The color deepened.

Kyne spontaneously reached out to touch the screen between them, but as his fingers contacted the surface it went blank. “Sarin?”

The door in the side wall slid open and one of the guards burst in. He lifted Kyne from his chair and roughly bundled him into the corridor.

“What is this? My hour with the A-Class isn’t finished! And your manner is unacceptable!” protested Kyne. “I’m an esteemed member of the station scientific community. You c-cannot treat me this way!”

He would’ve said a lot more, but a four-guard escort formed around him and began to move. He had to lift his knees and jog to keep from being trampled by them.

The guards maintained a silent and threatening manner on the trip back to his rooms.

Kyne squirmed in their grip. But they held fast, implacable, and unyielding.

Ridiculous! Excessive! He tried to send a complaint to the stationmaster as soon as he was alone again.

Stationmaster Floraboden is engaged in a Level Five scan and unable to be disturbed. His M-A sounded annoyingly prim.

Kyne swore and poured himself a double measure of Mintakan port. The sweet, thick wine coated the raw anger burning his throat, and soon he settled at his desk to select music for Sarin.

His visits to her followed a pattern after that: somber and silent guard escorts, time in the little interview room communing with Sarin, then a somber and silent return. Kyne was careful not to touch the screen in the interview room again, and the guards did not treat him roughly.

Soon he looked forward to the daily visits, and he learned much about Sarin on the strength of his own conversational skill and linguistic savvy. Kyne knew he was doing a good job.

Sarin also seemed to take pleasure in speaking to him, often showing her emotions by changing colors.

He compiled daily verbal reports for Floraboden, pleased that he’d identified that she was from Pleaides, specifically a 4.17-magnitude star she called!, which Kyne believed to be the star they knew as Merope.

The crew of the Jetshift had found her crystalline casing floating in a rocky belt orbiting a one of Alderberan’s planets and thought it might be valuable. They’d held her captive for over a ship year, despite her request to be set free. (He was estimating the length of time based on Sarin’s description of overheard conversations.) How Sarin got to be floating free on the edge of Orion’s boundaries was still not clear.

Kyne needed more time with her, and more music. Sarin appeared to enjoy Reikebord, Isikayao-Wha, and Piaf. Her favorite though, was Vangelis, an old, old song called Damask Rose. Kyne had taken to playing it at night in his rooms while he thought about Sarin and their conversations.

Her wit and her fine tastes suggested a rare kind of woman. What was she like inside her shell? If only he could catch a glimpse of her. Perhaps she possessed beauty of kind to which he could become accustomed? And her to him. They were in every other way in tune.

On his next visit though, Kyne became concerned. As the strains of a Vivaldi concerto faded, Sarin uttered a sound that could have been a sigh.

“You seem sad,” he said, taking care to frame it as a statement.

“I miss .”

Kyne took a moment to consider that. “Your language is quite beautiful. And should I try and guess, I would say that the reason you were found by the pirates so far from your home is because you were on a quest of some kind, perhaps a rite of passage. It’s common among far-traveling species that the young are sent out to find maturity through discovery. I believe your sense of longing is for lost opportunity to return home with some kind of prize.”

Sarin’s crystalline sarcophagus took on the rosy hue he’d grown to understand meant agreement.

“Your insightfulness is outstanding, Just Kyne. You must be from a superior subgroup of your species,” she said.

Kyne’s cheeks warmed. “I am trained in a specific area of social behavior. Internal realities are my special interest area. Understanding external cues allows me to make intuitive conclusions about how humanesques think.”

“But I am not a humanesque,” said Sarin.

“And yet it appears that I understand you. I could share more of my theories with you, Sarin. We could see how closely the architecture of our minds is aligned.”

“I look forward to that, Just Kyne. I look forward to you. Will you come again soon?”

Kyne’s heart tapped a little faster in his chest. The idea that she wanted him brought him unexpected joy.

Later, in his rooms, he lay on his bed thinking about Sarin. Her last words to him had been in the form of an interrogative. Did that signal a shift in their relationship?

His body throbbed in answer and the arousal surprised him. How long since he’d felt so stirred? And how absurd that he’d found intimacy in this situation!

Yet his feelings were as tangible as the bedsheet rubbing against his foreskin. Regardless of how hideous or repulsive Sarin’s real form was, he knew he was losing his heart.

He fell asleep dreaming of her but was woken a few hours later by his M-A.

Professor Kyne, you have a call from Stationmaster Floraboden, it informed him.

He jolted upright. “Yes, Stationmaster?”

“I apologize for interrupting your rest, Professor. Your interviews with the A-Class have been terminated. Thank you for your service,” said Floraboden without preamble.

“What?” exclaimed Kyne. “But I haven’t finished. Sir, you must—!”

“The A-Class has been declared a hostile and is no longer available for study. Please send your final report through in the morning. Good night, Professor. Thank you for your work.”

Thank you for your work?! Kyne sat on the end of his bed, his outrage growing. How dare Floraboden terminate his study!

He paced, fuming over it.

Until, slowly, fear began to replace anger. What had suddenly changed? If Sarin been declared hostile, what was Floraboden planning to do to her?

Kyne knew the regular security protocols. Declared hostiles were ejected from the station into the black.

His stomach lurched. No! He couldn’t let that happen.

He sprang up, hurried into his office, and opened his specimen fridge. On the shelf above the preserved samples lay containers of formalin. He retrieved a couple and two hypodermics patches from his equipment cube.

Sarin, I’m coming!

Wild thoughts swirled in his mind as he ran along the passages to the airvator. He must find her. He must change Floraboden’s mind. She was… they couldn’t… this had to be stopped!

He entered the shaft, panting and trembling, and closed his eyes, taking a moment to recall the sequence. He’d made this trip so many times that he knew exactly how long it took. If he counted, he should be able to locate the correct floor.

Ready… now… 771… 659… 578… 430… 335… 242… 191… stop!

Kyne placed his finger on the emergency tab and the airvator stopped so quickly that he stumbled. He opened his eyes and with shaking hands, loaded the vials into the hypo patches. He had to be quick. Forceful if needed.

“Open,” he told the concierge when he was done.

He walked quietly down the cool, familiar corridor to the interrogation cells, expecting at any moment to be stopped. To his surprise, he found no one guarding them.

Suddenly panicked again, he burst into the interview room. “Sarin! Where are you?”

But the room was also empty, and the viewing window was inactive.

He went over and hammered on it. “Sarin! Sarin! You’re in danger!”

But the window didn’t change, nor did she reply.

The agitation inside him coalesced into something monstrously aggrieved. Where was she? His love… what had they done to her? The pressure in his chest made it hard to breathe. How dare they interfere with his work. His life—

“Professor Kyne,” said a clipped voice from the doorway. “The A-Class is no longer available to you.”

He turned and glared at the soldier. Vaguely, maybe, he recognized him. One who’d been pushy with him in the past.

“Where is she?” Kyne demanded.

The soldier ignored his question. “Place the hypos on the floor in front of you. NOW!” He closed the visor of his helmet and lifted his weapon.

A haze of emotions blinded him. Frightened, he launched at the man, and thrust the hypo against the soft skin under his helmet strap.

A soft gasp escaped the guard’s lips.

They were locked together, for an instant, struggling in a tight circle. Something whirred. The guard’s weapon had activated.

He tried to wrench it away. As he twisted, it discharged a pulse of heat that burned deep into Kyne’s chest. He staggered back, his vision clearing for a moment.

Movement flickered on the viewing window. As if she was watching.

“Sarin!” he choked out and fell.

Floraboden welcomed everyone to the virt-meet; sector stationmasters were present, as were senior members of the Orion League of Sentient Species—OLOSS. He had to play this right. The meet would remain on record for analysis.

“Proceed with your evaluation, Stationmaster Floraboden,” said the OLOSS facilitator’s avatar opposite him.

“We captured an A-Class alien on a JetShift trader close to Bellatrix. It took the form of a crystalline sarcophagus, which protected the actual entity inside.”

“And the traders handed the A-Class over to you without quibble? I’d like to have seen that!” said one of the other stationmasters who favored an avatar with a thick fringe and large ears.

Floraboden glanced at the speaker’s name: Cobb from Cobb-Vermont Station out near Saiph. They were rivals with Leto for the next round of OLOSS maintenance grants. It would suit Cobb well for Floraboden to look bad in this.

“The traders were all dead, S-M Cobb. By murder and suicide, we determined,” he said.

Cobb grunted. “Mutiny then?”

“Of a kind. Yes. We verified the A-Class as a threat, based on the situation we found.”

“Which was?”

“The bodies were within the proximity of the crystal casing. It had shot out crystalline threads to attach to them.”

“Feeding off them?”

“There was evidence to suggest it had absorbed amino acids from the corpses. So, yes.”

“And your response?”

“We employed one of our psycholgeestes to study it. If you have read the report uploaded to your M-As, you will find events logged in chronological order?”

Nods from those who had read it were vehement. Cobb clearly had not and shrugged.

“Just prior to Professor Kyne’s unfortunate psychotic episode, we were able to breach the sarcophagus and identify the true nature of the A-Class,” added Floraboden.

“Breaching an A-Class? That is outside protocol boundaries, Floraboden. Not to say, risky,” said one of the OLOSS members.

“I understand that, Pre-Eminence. But we feared an outcome like the one we found on the JestShift. I decided that we should act in the interest of station security.”

He watched the mixture of reactions. At least half of them approved—better than he’d hoped.

“So, what did you learn? And why was it not included in your report?” asked the Pre-Eminence.

“I thought it better you heard it from me, so there was no misunderstanding. You see… we found nothing,” said Floraboden.

“Explain!” demanded the OLOSS contingent in a synchronous chorus.

“The sarcophagus held only a tiny, tiny creature. Or at least, a part of a creature that we believe to be its detachable projection organism. I oversaw the opening myself.”

“You mean the A-Class had left an echo behind in its shell?” asked Cobb.

“Yes. Years ago, we believe. The projection organism that Kyne interacted with was merely as you say, an echo, left as a guardian against scavengers, in case the A-Class needed to return to use the casing again.”

“You’re saying that your psychologeeste developed a relationship with the echo of the original inhabitant?” asked Cobb, seemingly amused.

Annoying fellow. Floraboden pressed his lips tight. Restating the obvious and asking questions he should already know the answers to. In real time, Floraboden rubbed his throbbing temples, but didn’t allow his avatar to copy the gesture. “So, it seems.”

“And the crew of the JetShift?”

“The same fate, I imagine. After they were dead the sarcophagus harvested the amino acids from the bodies to boost its energy signal—like a location finder.”

“So, you sacrificed one of your own to learn what the A-Class was up to?” Cobb, was openly sticking the needles in now, insinuating that Floraboden had mishandled it.

“Professor Kyne was appraised of the risks and chose to serve his community. By observing his interactions with the echo artifact inside, we were able to deduce how it worked. It is adaptive and responds differently to varying stimuli,” said Floraboden, stiffly.

“So, with your Professor… err… Kyne, it chose seduction.”

“Yes. We think it reacted to his… umm… well… Kyne kept to himself. He was perhaps more vulnerable than we realized. It used his loneliness to form an attachment. Then Kyne became irrational and attacked a guard. Both died during the incident. We believe a similar situation may have occurred on the JetShift. The creature’s echo seems to be able use human emotions as a weapon against us.”

“Ingenious,” said Cobb.

It was not the word Floraboden would have chosen.

“We’d better keep this one under wraps. Wouldn’t want our enemies to know things are so loosey-goosey over Leto way,” Cobb added.

Floraboden enjoyed a momentary image of strangling the man before his M-A registered his spiking blood pressure and flooded his body with a light sedative. “The situation was handled perfectly professionally, S-M Cobb. We suffered no loss of life and followed the OLOSS protocols once we established the A-Class was potentially hostile. The casing is on a trajectory with the Mintakan calcium cloud.”

It was only a half lie. There was no way he was reporting in front of Cobb that they’d found a second guard dead with his hand adhered to the observer’s window. Floraboden would back channel that information later and blame it on an accidental station death.

Eventually, the OLOSS chorus spoke. “Thank you, Stationmaster. We’ll retire to consider the implications of this. Meanwhile, please award Professor Kyne a memorial plaque for services to humanesquekind.”

The meeting adjourned and Floraboden was left alone in his rooms. He let his valet know he was ready for a glass of grape juice and settled himself on one of the kneeling stools to think about Kyne. He recalled the terms of their agreement.

Mount a plaque to honor Professor Kyne in the corridor near Professor Freeburg’s office, he said to his M-A.

At the mention of the dead man’s name, he noticed the normally white lights along his array turn a rosy hue. An anomaly. But after a quick system check, he could determine no issues. Maybe he’d been awake too long and was hallucinating again. He logged a check-up with the station medic and went back to his maintenance schedules.