Legacy Short #3: CD-45
The nose of the modest escape pod glowed red as it careened down from the long, elegant, rectangular ship that appeared like a black shadow set against a backdrop of stars.
If the pod didn’t land safely, he might die in the next few moments. What was supposed to happen when one came close to death? Oh yes! Your life should commence flashing before your eyes.
CD-45’s internal monitor sprang to life and a holographic image of him appeared, shining like new, with bright yellow paint and his name in bold black lettering; his rectangular head with sleek, curved edges and big binocular-like eyes and practical lines comprising his one-meter tall frame. His arms and body resembled the curves and bulk of muscles, covered with various shapes outlined on the metal surface, concealing a wide array of tools—all this on top of a rectangular pyramid base with treads that could be exchanged for a variety of propulsion systems. CD-45 tapped the image of himself then a virtual file titled: Historical Memoires—File 001, sprang to life.
Day 1
CD-45 veered down the bright white halls amid crew in deep blue uniforms rushing around him.
One person stopped hard, almost colliding with CD-45. “Move, tin can.”
As the first model of construction droid programmed with feelings, those words really hurt. A simple, “please move” would have sufficed. CD-45 slowed to avoid additional collisions.
The smooth male computer voice announced, “Commencing battle simulation in one minute, all personal report to designated stations.”
“Hey, construction droid,” a male human called out from behind CD-45.
CD-45 turned to the man with blonde hair and blue eyes. His internal monitor wrote out a name above the human’s head: Nathanael Gajewski, specialist, first class.
Specialist Gajewski waved him over. “I need your help in the heart.” He turned, jogging down the hallway.
CD-45 followed. His workstation sat above the zero-point system, nicknamed by many humans as the “heart” of the ship—certainly an apt comparison, it made up the primary engineering and propulsion module.
They wove their way through the bright white halls, now empty of other humans.
The artificial intelligence announced, “Battle simulation, commencing.” Lights washed the white halls in a red glow.
Specialist Gajewski raced through a set of shining metal doors that whooshed open. Sweeping circular workstations surrounded the glowing orange ball of light at its center, spanning six transparent levels above and below. The core had tendrils reaching up and down, interlacing like a solar flare. The workstations faced the core, encompassing it with translucent holo-images of mechanical functions, output and input monitors with data projections.
A bustle of activity came from the blue uniforms that chattered with each other. Buzzing like a hive with well-practiced operations, the crew operated in concert, tapping the images, entering a variety of micro-adjustments as the orange core brightened to yellow then rapidly to white. The air covering the core rippled as a light-filtering agent encased the core in an invisible cylinder sheet, dulling the brilliant radiance.
CD-45 accompanied Specialist Gajewski around the workstations until he sat at an unoccupied terminal.
CD-45 took up position next to him. His internal monitor flashed, interfacing.
A holo-image of the core flashed on his screen highlighting: temperature, conversion rate, energy output, and safe operating parameters. All words flashed green—appearing within safety protocols.
The artificial intelligence announced, “Shields at full strength, weapons systems ready, drive at full capacity—commencing training series one.”
The core shifted from white to brilliant azure blue. The ship leapt forward, activating weapon systems. Holo-images of several asteroids filled CD’s monitor. The weapons efficiently obliterated the targets with precision white laser blasts.
Specialist Gajewski turned to him. “You’re one of the new forty-five units, with emotions. Stick with me. Me and my buddy O’Brien will make sure you stay out of trouble.” He winked at CD-45 before returning his attention to the simulation.
Day 387
Specialist Gajewski sat back, sweat on his brow as he regarded the mess of cable and bio-circuitry on the shining white corridor floor.
He winked at CD-45. “Maybe you were right. Taking this apart was a bad idea.”
Klaxons rang out a warning with a steady rhythm as emergency lights washed the hall with red.
Specialist Gajewski sprung up, his eyes wide with surprise. “What the hell?”
Outside the bank of panoramic windows, alien ships appeared—ellipse-shaped, with interlacing lattices that twisted in a complex pattern, and tentacles like spikes spreading out from the rear in a circular pattern. Green beams of energy shot from the ships, heading for the Earth and the orbiting fleet.
Day 447
CD-45 slowly rolled his way down the pure white halls, blackened with minimal light, the steady whir of his treads the only sound. He glided through the silent corridors until he arrived at a door that read: Crew Quarters 179. CD-45 wheeled ahead and the doors quickly parted to allow him entry.
Sitting at a compact metal desk, Specialist Gajewski held a frequency modulator, running it over a rectangular battery, thirty centimeters by twenty-two and three millimeters thick. He tossed the frequency modulator into a disorganized array of computer components, turning to CD-45 with a sigh. “Let me see if I can fix that voice actuator of yours.”
Specialist Gajewski plucked up a micro-circuit fuser, a dull-grey half-sphere only four millimeters thick and five centimeters wide.
CD-45 rolled within reach.
Specialist Gajewski’s hand shook while he ran the device over CD’s voice actuator. His face had thinned to reveal facial bones with dark circles under his sunken eyes, and a head of hair in more disarray than the table covered with computer parts.
He sighed, tossing the micro-circuit fuser back on the table with a clang. “Looks like our famous conversations will have to wait a while longer.” His modest smile quickly faded, staring at CD-45, he swallowed. “Look, I know you like me as much as I like you. But the truth is I don’t have much longer. I can’t fix any of the matter replication units. So unless you can find a way to make more food, I’m going to die.”
CD-45 moved forward a few centimeters, grasping both of Specialist Gajewski’s hands.
The specialist blinked with surprise. “I’ll miss you too. I don’t want to leave you alone, but I’m not getting a choice in the matter. You might have to find a way to disable your emotion simulator. I don’t want to scare you but loneliness can become suffocating, crushing if it goes on long enough. No being should have to go through that. And for the years you might be up here, it’ll feel endless.”
CD-45 lowered his head.
Specialist Gajewski let out a short laugh. “Don’t worry. I promise to haunt you. I may die but my bones will stick around.” He pushed himself up on shaking legs, pressing down on CD’s hands for support and his face contorted from the effort. He hobbled over to the bunk, collapsing on the bed. “Play the song. You know the one. I just need to close my eyes and sleep. Just for a few minutes. Maybe after I finish work, we’ll go camping in the arboretum. Then I’ll get back to …” He snored softly.
CD pressed a section of his head and music quietly played, “Space Oddity.”
Day 3870
CD-45 adjusted the skull, and with a one-second shot of his mini-laser, fused it to the vertebrae. He rolled back. Two skeletons sat, propped up at the back of a tent, their dark-blue jumpsuits displayed the names, O’Brien and Gajewski.
CD-45 looked from one to the other, hoping they might begin a conversation at any second, a probability that remained at absolute zero, though a construction droid could always dream. CD-45 rolled out of the tent, taking in the green foliage of the arboretum. In the tight clearing, CD-45 had set up a second tent, with a circle of rocks and a pile of sticks between the two. A lattice of clear, triangular panels above the space allowed solar rays in, to feed the plants.
CD-45 lowered his head, glancing at the tent with Gajewski and O’Brien. Without communication with Earth and no remaining crew left alive, he didn’t have a single being to spend time with. If only another CD-45 had been assigned to this ship, then at least he would have company.
Specialist Gajewski accurately predicted the emotional toll of CD-45’s isolation. No being should have to go through that. CD-45 couldn’t agree more. If only he could do as Gajewski suggested and render the emotion algorithms within his programming inert. The feeling of emptiness—as if he had only a metal shell, void of internal parts vital to his function. The first time he felt the emotion, he had been certain to find a mechanical malfunction.
He looked up to the stars—the blackness that separated them threatening to overwhelm CD-45, covering him in a desolate, meaningless existence, until he completely disappeared.
To take his mind off the loneliness, he created an efficient routine that included two trips to the arboretum each daily cycle. But the main computer had grown increasingly intolerant of CD-45 and his eccentricities, often blocking access to the arboretum and forcing him to bypass the lockout each and every time.
The main computer boomed, “CD-45, model number 615, return to your designated repair schedule, immediately.”
If he planned to survive until humans returned to the orbital platforms, he needed to distract himself with as much work as possible. In this way, he could keep the loneliness from crushing his emotional circuits. Instead, it would remain a constant but dull ache.
CD-45 turned, rolling out of the arboretum.
Day 10003
The core glowed deep red, appearing to slumber, like a human heart in a deep sleep. CD-45 floated around the sphere and while he did, his internal monitor displayed critical information: Temperature within normal parameters—Core Functions Nominal. He sunk below the core, glancing at his work post, the one he shared with Specialist Gajewski. The silence of each station formed a ring of absence, deepening loneliness within his metal frame.
Specialist Gajewski had always enjoyed music from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, but O-Brien had an affection for classical music. CD-45 scanned his files, resting on: Mozart –Serenade number thirteen for strings in G major. Immediately the light and happy tune lifted CD-45’s spirit. He floated around the ‘heart’, which the crew had named it, checking various stations to ensure their functions continued without error or malfunction.
CD-45 landed on a higher tier, extending his treads, he wheeled past more work terminals to a set of grey steel doors. They flew open with his approach, allowing him to glide uninterrupted into the bright white hall. As the music rose and fell, CD-45 weaved down the hall in lazy curves until he reached a glowing red sign: exterior hull access. He tapped a few buttons. The interior doors slid shut right before the exterior hatch snapped open. Sucked out into the vacuum, he fired his booster rockets as ‘Flower Duet’ from Lakmé played. Operatic voices rose up in harmony, adding beauty to the intricate dance of construction droids busily working and floating over the hull.
The dark fleet lay in slumber, hanging in space in hibernation, waiting for the day that humans would come from the surface. The Earth shield glowed white with each blast from the unknown fleet. Strange alien vessels that comprised a series of tubes, curving inward to form an intricate and twisted lattice—the only significant interruption in their hulls, a series of spikes, sweeping up from the aft sections and forming a ten-pointed star, glowing bright and likely marking the main propulsion.
Beethoven – Symphony No.5 in C minor blared in unison with each blast impacting the shield. CD-45 landed on the hull, staring down and quickly cutting the music. His metal frame vibrated with fear. Perhaps not all classical tunes would promote relaxation. Of all the composers, whom could CD-45 rely upon for calm and comfort? Ah yes, Bach. CD-45 selected Piano Concerto number five, in F minor, and set work.
Day 110010
The matte-black metal panel came free. CD-45 placed it to one side as he stared in at glowing rows of crystalline circles, set into a semi-solid gel. On his internal monitor, three of the circles in the four rows of fifty flashed red. CD-45 pulled out each one, placing them on a floor that matched the colour and style of the computer terminal.
A word flashed in his holographic view: initiate. The word flashed green, causing the main monitor of the bridge to light up with its own holo image of a woman. She appeared to hail from the Indian subcontinent, with an accent indicative of the southern tip as it existed two thousand years ago. A woman’s smooth female voice recited a prepared script. “Repair protocols for the operational memory core involve a simple process.” CD-45 watched her intently, soaking in her smooth vocal tones. He could access the necessary information in a multitude of ways, each one more efficient than listening to a human recite the procedure in a recording, though it did provide him with a company of sorts.
The image flashed off, followed by a calm announcement from the main computer. “CD-45, your repair routine involves an inefficient use of resources, access the necessary repair protocols internally to complete the assigned task.”
CD-45 moved around the curved bridge, full of sweeping lines designed for human use and comfort.
“CD-45, return to your workstation.” The main computer barked.
This amounted to the only time the cold artificial intelligence had spoken to him in over a decade. Although it had the knowledge of CD-45’s emotional interactive subroutines, the main computer dismissed them as irrelevant data, counterproductive to the operation of this vessel.
CD-45 had to admit, attention, even when negative, felt better than being ignored. He continued to wheel around the bridge in no particular pattern.
“Scans indicate that you are functioning within normal parameters. Return to your repair schedule or reassignment of resources will commence.” The main computer sounded a warning.
Translation: get to work or get out. CD-45 slowly treaded to the open computer panel. He picked up one of the crystalline circles. A mini-laser popped out of his forearm. With three well-placed shots, the crystal flashed green on his internal monitor.
If only he had a human to talk with—someone who could understand how alone he felt, the need for voices to break the endless silence, and bring life to a lifeless ship.
Day 730,001
The escape pod shook violently as it cut through the atmosphere. It hadn’t taken CD-45 much time to review his memory files, just a few seconds. He hadn’t even called himself “he”, until today.
CD-45 had grown so much over the centuries yet had everything to learn about social interaction with humans. At least the solitude would come to an end. He would meet humans and make friends, or he would crash to a fiery death in this pod.
CD-45 braced himself—impact in three seconds.
The pod smashed into the ground.