<u>3</u>
Half a parallax-second was a considerable distance to cross when limited to multi-light speed, but V47 Pilot would not use hyperdrive, ever again. He had two <u>other</u> possibilities, though. The first was obvious; a combination of free, surging manna and primitive space-folding. The second he thought of, later, when circumstance forced him to try something different; to think with his head instead of his weapons, for once.
With patience, power and “a whole lot of stupid”, you could fold space <u>artistically</u>, leaving patterns behind for others to gawk at. (Practically the entire plot of Rogue Flight: season eleven.) V47 Pilot had a real excuse for that big, embossed symbol, though. Maybe he’d promised not to tell anyone which way the masters had gone, but he could certainly leave a bold hint in the wrinkles of spacetime. Tough to miss, and sure to get someone’s attention sooner or later.
Right, so, V47 and Pilot did what they did, quietly taking something away. Next, stamped a big mark to puzzle and delight future wayfarers, causing a series of steep, curving hills in spacetime. Those swirls took the shape of Varda: I perceive. Sliding along fourth-dimensional folds, it took them three days to reach that accumulation of huge, drifting parts. They scanned and recorded the entire process, coming at last to a spherical cloud of evenly spaced giant chunks that tumbled along in Etherion’s wake. The pieces were blocks, spars, gears, antennae and rotors, along with some wire-shot blobs that he couldn’t identify. They were cold, dark, ancient and silent… mostly. Five of the pieces were massive enough to have their own atmosphere, biota and weather. Two of the largest chunks had developed cities, with basic radio and even some space-flight capacity.
The Titan’s wake and its ion-stream triggered a sudden burst of activity on Block World and Long Spar, causing lenses to rise and queries to fly as their inhabitants tried to make contact. Nor was that all. From this vantage point, with Etherion lost in the distance, that string of red, dying stars stood forth like the pins on an enemy-contact chart.
“The slingshot is a murder weapon, Vee,” murmured Pilot, scanning as far as he could along that trail of vampirized suns. “Even if there were no sentient inhabitants on any of those star systems…”
‘There is a .081% probability of encountering intelligent life without making an effort to do so, Pilot,’ sent V47. ‘I do not believe that the presence or absence of life would be a consideration for the masters, however. They would simply power their flight and move on, whatever the cost to others.’
Pilot shook his head, causing the armored Titan he wore to mimic his action.
“I hate them, Vee. For starting a conflict then leaving us to fight it, for enslaving the other races and murdering stars… they deserve to be punished, only… Only, I promised to leave them alone.”
‘We are an onboard system and Pilot,’ sent V47. ‘It is for us to engage in battle, defend the Two Hundred Worlds and record observations. Not to administer justice, even with Left-Hand Protocol. The masters demand solitude, which they have surely found.’Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!
Etherion’s bloody path had taken the wandering planet to the edge of an enormous black void. Here there was manna aplenty, and no stars at all but that string of drained stellar husks. A broad, curving arm of the galaxy glittered behind them like frost on a porthole, while chunks of the slingshot here and there flashed little lights of their own. In desperate pictures and code, they pled: <u>Is anyone there? Can you perceive us, Great Construct?</u> And V47 Pilot did not know how to respond. Just…
“If we assemble and fire the slingshot, Vee, those beings will perish.”
‘Affirmative, Pilot. Scans reveal them to be at a primitive city-state and radio-contact level of development. They have no means of defending themselves or of taking shelter, and no place to go but Etherion.’
“Which is too far away to be reached by chemical rocket, even if refugees would be welcomed there,” finished the pilot, viewing scans of the mutable creatures gathered on ridges and rooftops, searching the skies overhead for an answer.
Pilot retreated to his cockpit, returning his consciousness to a flesh-and-bone body. A warm cocoon of familiar sensations… the hum, whine, vibration and lights of home… surrounded Pilot as his mind readjusted to “little and weak”. Back in his own fragile body, Pilot gazed up at the camera eye that V47 created over his couch. Saw himself through the AI’s feed, then. Just a regular cyborg pilot. A chrome-and-white plated guy, with a very tough decision to make. The frequency shifted again, down below. The message changed, too: <u>This is a historic day for our people, Great Construct. We hope to greet you and learn from our meeting</u>. Meanwhile, the curving Long Spar had launched a flock of slow-moving probes for a closer look at their giant visitor. Their signal strength was pathetic.
“I’ll bet this has happened to them before,” ventured the pilot. “That life <u>always</u> arises on these pieces because of their power core… that most of the time it evolves to some kind of intelligence, only to get scrubbed out whenever the slingshot activates.”
‘That conjecture has a 92.351% probability of correctness, Pilot,’ sent V47.
“And here we are. Just one more cataclysm in a long chain of disasters,” murmured the cyborg. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, then, setting cables and feed-wires swaying all over the cockpit. Felt torn by headache, confusion and stress. “They keep trying to get our attention, Vee… and how different are we from the masters, if we just ignore that and bring down their world, again?”
The AI started a pain-relief drip and soft music, causing the couch to massage the back of his neck. ‘I cannot answer that query,’ V47 responded.
“No… and I guess I can’t either,” said the pilot, rewatching three-hundred-fifty-nine episodes of Rogue Flight at once. (The good ones.) Didn’t ask himself what Ace would have done, nor Icebox, Boomer or Raptor, either. Instead, “What would your <u>real</u> pilot… the one stuck in Etherion’s Haven… what would <u>he</u> do, Vee?”
The reply was a half-tick coming. An eternity, for V47.
‘Responding to query: He would do the right thing, Messenger Pilot. He would stand between those who are helpless and that which threatens them.’
“Uh-huh… Thought so. Answer the Block World and Long Spar transmissions, Vee. Greet them and offer peace. Tell them… say that we’ve come to exchange data and share our technology. Change must start here if anywhere at all, and we’ll find some other way back. We’ll come up with a workaround, Vee. Just like always.”
V47 got right down to business, contacting both of those strangely shaped worlds. Maybe he’d chosen wrongly, but it was the only decision the pilot could make, as anxious small creatures below embraced one another, flashing welcome and peace, in return.