Sttaglite sensed the closeness around him. He had been detained in what was essentially an empty metal storage-cube, had powered down his sensory array and was now almost completely dormant. He was, however, painfully unable to slip into complete hibernation due to the random-data stream which was deliberately flooding the room around him. The human technicians referred to it as a “junk stream”. It plagued Sttaglite’s subsystems with the task of categorizing and identifying nonexistent patterns in the massive data loop: an impossible task and one that Sttaglite could neither terminate nor ignore.

The technique was simple but effective. A massive junk stream funneled into a small enclosure, designed to disorientate and eventually “soften up” a robot’s resolve, usually resulting in a more earnest and productive interview process. It was a new technique and highly controversial, but it had yet to be reviewed by the Council on Planetary Affairs and was therefore considered a legitimate interrogation tool. The technique, used under normal circumstances, caused no lasting damage, and its effectiveness had been proven, but junk streams had yet to be directed at a communications unit. It tortured Sttaglite.

Sttaglite wondered if Jupiter One had ordered this abuse, this slow torture. It was clear to him that Jupiter One held some level of authority in the human camp. He had recognized Jupiter One’s leadership out in the vast wastes of the battlefield. Each human soldier that patrolled with Jupiter One had followed his orders precisely, deferring any major decisions to him immediately. At frequent intervals, a member of the team would abruptly signal, “Jupiter One, I’ve got movement on the sand, southwest. Advise.” and Jupiter One would quickly assess and advise. “No threat, Jupiter Two. Stand down.”

Sttaglite also noticed that he was a decisive human. He gave orders quicker than any commanding robot unit. Sttaglite had been careful to keep a safe distance and remain undetected. The humans had scouted along the mineral ridges that jutted hundreds of feet up from the red desert sand. They had operated like a single organism, and Jupiter One was always the head, always directing the others on their course, keeping them together, keeping them sharp and alert.

But what had they been searching for? Strange how they had found that one long-distance strider there among all the scattered robotic rubble and that they took such an interest in him. Yet Jupiter One seemed truthful in his statements earlier that they were seeking answers for what had happened here. Sttaglite sought many of those same answers himself. Regardless of the other humans’ intentions, Jupiter One seemed trustworthy.

Sttaglite caught himself. It had been four hours since the junk stream first began, and it was weathering his thought processes. He simply had not gathered enough data to warrant trusting any of these humans. Perhaps he had miscalculated in approaching them. He could have remained in the desert, monitoring them indefinitely. Still, the humans had taken the long-distance strider, and that action had left Sttaglite no other choice.

And now? Though he was very close to the strider unit, Sttaglite had no substantial knowledge of the its true condition, and the humans, it seemed, had turned decidedly unfriendly. Sttaglite’s ocular cavities glowed red. He now realized how anomalous it was that the technician had let slip the information that the strider was being released unharmed. Was that false information? Was it a strategy to gain his trust? Sttaglite suddenly realized that the humans could be doing far worse to the long-distance strider than they were presently doing to himself. He would have to access the humans’ network, to send out word of this troubling situation.

Sttaglite turned to the energy-locked storage-cube door; it had been designed to secure items from potential external threat. As such, the locking system was armored on the outside but only thinly plated from within. Without hesitation, Sttaglite began the process of disassociating and disconnecting his main fuel cell and shifting his process energy load to his two secondary fuel cells. Many robots held self-preservation as a prime directive, but Sttaglite had always held to higher ideals. For the greater good, one must be willing to sacrifice.

Once Sttaglite had calculated and placed the precise detonation required, he sent the ignition signal. The explosion was deafening. Everything went white.

“How reliable is the information?” asked the ambassador, tugging lightly at his graying eyebrows. His head was still reeling with the revelation his son had just spouted. A conspiracy to undermine the upcoming peace ceremony, a plot designed to escalate the violence on Casiadin and ultimately eliminate the bulk of both civilizations. Under the veil of civilized battle, the robots would wipe each other out of existence (with some additional help at the very end) and if everything went as planned, no one would suspect the real reason behind the calamity.

“I have seen the robot-mercenaries boarding their transports on Malto, bound for the red dunes of Casiadin. I have questioned one of the men tasked with hiring the mercenaries,” Dax said.

“‘Questioned’, huh?” the ambassador smiled, knowing it stood for a something much more physical in nature, “So, from where does this plot originate? To what end?” The ambassador stood up, forgetting his coffee and cookies, needing to move, to think this through. “To what end?”

“I cannot say for certain,” Dax admitted, “the man I questioned worked for a company hired by an unknown entity – who knows how deep that hierarchy goes. To the question of motive – I have been working it out – there seems to be one glaring suspect in this. The robots on Casiadin have no real enemies, apart from one another, so this isn’t a punitive strike against them. There must be a strategic reason, a positional reason. I did a little research on the matter and this is what I found.” Dax pulled a folded document from his inner coat pocket, dropped it on the table.

The ambassador returned to the table, unfolded the paper and scanned it.

Dax continued, “The robots on Casiadin represent a roadblock to none other than our own Northern Alliance Federation Military. This is unsettling information, I know.”

The ambassador had read the damning evidence just as Dax had made the accusation. The document read:

Conclusion: Recent budgetary requests for funding a military base on Casiadin must be denied at this time.

Reason: The Inter-species Common Courtesy Treaty prohibits any “sizable human presence on any planet or planetoid on which a robot civilization is preexisting.” [as defined in section 45-B of the Inter-species Common Courtesy Treaty] This prohibition would, therefore, include any military base, sizable encampment, or other such established presence on Casiadin, which is specifically protected under said treaty.

[Case #64723-K, Judge Aammto Sarrtim attached]

Dax shook his head, “Soon. That’s all I know.”

The ambassador paced the room again, thinking.

“Father,” Dax interrupted, “I want to volunteer to meet with Prime Leader Asher in your stead. To warn him, get him to safety if need be. When this thing happens, it will be like a shifting forest fire – the leadership should be warned.”

“I agree, they should be warned, but I cannot cede my duties to any other. You are welcome to come along, Daxien, but I will be going planet-side.”

Dax knew better than to question his father’s decision. It was settled. He nodded his acceptance, and they prepared for their departure.

Docking bay three was on the larboard side of the ship, same as the ambassador’s stateroom but two decks above it, and it took a few of minutes to reach the decon-zone that separated the docking bay from the ship-proper (this was a quarantine area that allowed for passengers and cargo to be decontaminated before being admitted to the rest of the ship). The ambassador was met by one of the ship’s decon-officers, a pleasant-faced Icyonic-model robot of leadership-rank, who directed him to a private lounge, usually reserved for accepting diplomats or persons of stature, where the ambassador could relax while he waited for his son to dock and unload. It shouldn’t be too long, the decon-officer assured him.

Alone now, Theodor Kael straightened himself in his seat. He wondered if he should embrace his son on sight – of course, that would be the natural thing to do, whether they were close or not – or whether he should salute and show a bit of professional respect for the man, the officer, that his son had become. This was a subject too broad to pin down, the ambassador finally admitted, and decided to leave the matter up to the moment.

The door slid open at that instant, admitting a man in a black coat and tie. His eyes were notably dark, and a small scar split the brow on one side of his face. He stopped in the doorway and gave a brief smile at the sight of his father. “Greetings, Father,” he said, echoing the words from the message that heralded his arrival.

The ambassador stood, his eyes glazed over with tears. “My son, my son. It’s been ages, has it not?” They embraced – quite indifferent to any predetermined action he could have planned – and the ambassador welcomed him in to sit at his table and talk.

“I apologize, Father, for not taking the time to decontaminate,” said Dax, meaning that his father would, himself, now have to suffer through the process before being allowed back into the ship-proper, “I admittedly grew impatient, waiting.”

His father waved away the apology, saying, “That’s fine, Son. Don’t worry about that. So, how are you doing – haven’t heard a word until your message, and it was a bit cryptic.” He stopped and pointed to the decon-officer, asking his son, “Do you want anything to drink? Water? Coffee? Something to eat maybe?”

“Coffee will be fine,” said Dax.

“Two coffee’s, please, and a plate of those little cookies we have,” the ambassador said to the decon-officer who then relayed the order to an underling. “Good choice,” said Theodor, “The coffee is a little on the nutty side, but silky-smooth and very satisfying. It came from the Landrin Province on Malto, as I understand it – oh, you’ve probably tasted it, then, haven’t you?”

“Indeed. A friend of mine drinks it like it was water – he swears by it – I still haven’t taken to it, but I’m learning to acquire the taste.”

“It is good to see you, Dax” said Theodor, and he was about to continue when the door slid open once more, interrupting.

A woman stood in the doorway. Theodor judged her slightly shorter than average and fairer-of-skin – that was by Thanish standards, he reminded himself, but she was about right for Maltoan.

She appeared embarrassed at having interrupted them. “Sorry,” she said, “I was just-”

“Mai Webb,” said Dax, as both men found their feet, “meet my father, Theodor Kael, the Ambassador of Thane, assigned presently to Casiadin. Father, this is Miss Mai Webb – a virtuous woman from North Koell City, by way of the island paradise of Bangha, on planet Malto.”

Theodor Kael bowed elegantly, deeply, as only a trained ambassador could. “I am honored, Madame.”

The woman returned the bow awkwardly; her eyes shifted familiarly to Dax. She smiled and quietly retreated. The door slid shut behind her.

The ambassador threw a knowing smile toward Dax as they found their seats again. “A beauty,” he said simply.

Dax returned the smile, “She is a friend, Father – technically, she’s still my assistant – we met at the spaceport when I first arrived on Malto.”

“You didn’t mention her in your message, Dax …”

“My message,” said Dax, reminded of the reason for his visit. “I have urgent news, Father. I dare say, it wants not to sit any longer.”

“Out with it, then,” the ambassador said, almost reluctant to return to his professional duties but knowing he must.

The coffee arrived at that moment, and they each accepted a cup, busying themselves, waiting for the room to clear.

Dax began again, “There is a great conspiracy afoot, Father, concerning the robots on Casiadin. A horrible plot of dubious quality that is sure to change everything …”

After nearly a decade of fighting, Asher’s third war was drawing quickly toward resolution. The Last Battle, as they were calling it, was nearly complete. The robots below would soon be lowering their weapons and calling forth a new era of Trade and Industry, an era of peace and reconciliation. It was remarkable, thought Ambassador Theodor Kael, the delightfully absurd logic of it all. He lifted his glass of Thanish tea as if to salute the robotic warriors fighting far below and took a quick, dizzying slurp of the syrup-like concoction – as if there were anyone else aboard capable of appreciating such genteel gestures of Thanish culture. Not even the captain, thought Kael.

Ambassador Kael was standing in his stateroom, watching some of the battle on the holoscreen before him. Tiny black dots surging in tight, synchronous formations, one squad firing as another worked its way toward the enemy’s flank – mortar blasts discharging, illuminating the landscape with shades of red and yellow and the thick black fog of war. A thing of beauty. Like the ballets of Oppenshaw or Glaudrein back on Thane, thought the ambassador, all very orderly and organic and simply beautiful.

The ambassador’s stateroom was adorned with trinkets and memorabilia from the robot planet, collected from previous visits to The Great City, as they called it. The last visit had been ages ago, before the third war began. The massive star-cruiser, Hemera, hailing originally from the largest of Thane’s moons, had carried the ambassador from the port of Thane to this small planet in record time. Space travel technology was constantly advancing, and this trip had been the quickest to date. Still, the ambassador had spent much of his life on these great space-spanners, and this voyage had taken nearly four months.

The ambassador noted the time. His son would soon be arriving with news – too important, apparently, to be sent in a long-distant communique – and the ambassador found himself pacing the floor, trying to assuage his nerves.

His son, Dax, was currently stationed on Malto, a large, culturally-diverse planet, and it had been ages since their last visit together. Their paths in life had diverged a long time ago. While the father had been dining in bright, lavish environs, the son had been busily tracking down killers in dreary alleyways. They were different people with different lives.

The ambassador’s schedule was already delayed a full day. He glanced once again at the time, and then initiated the message he had received several days ago. The holoscreen blanked, and the image of his son sprang to life, taking the place of the miniature battlefield.

“Greetings, Father. It’s been a long time. I hope this message finds you well and in good spirits – no doubt you’ve been watching the robot battle with a glass of Thanish tea in hand.” Daxien Kael, a thirty-three year old officer with dark eyes and graying temples, paused a moment, unsure of how to proceed. “I need to speak with you, Father. In person, before you leave ship. I’m on course to Hemera now. Should be there in three days. I know you are scheduled to be planet-side by then, but trust me – you don’t want to do that.”

It was that last phrase that had the ambassador worried that something was dreadfully wrong. “… trust me – you don’t want to do that.” It was a code phrase they had worked out when Dax was still an ambassador’s kid and his mother was still alive. It was to be used to signal an emergency situation without alarming any dignitaries that might be within earshot. An innocuous phrase with a deeper, cautionary meaning. In this case, Dax must have been concerned about eavesdroppers – on one end or the other – and wished not to draw any attention.

The ambassador was already dressed in his formal uniform. It was true that his schedule had him planet-side by now, but he had taken care of that with a message of apology to the robot leadership down on Casiadin, promising his arrival within another day. So, he would meet with his son – it would be good to see him again, thought the ambassador – and then he would make a hasty launch down to the planet in time for the peace treaties and formalities to commence.

Ambassador Kael was straightening his tie in a mirror when the intercom chirped: “Ambassador, we are currently receiving the Maltoan shuttle in docking bay three. Will there be anything else, Sir?”

“Thank you. That is all,” said the ambassador, on his way out of the stateroom to meet his son. He was surprised at how nervous he was. It had been so long.

The humans claimed they could repair Sttaglite’s crippled leg. Sttaglite did not argue the point – it did, in fact, need to be repaired soon.

A technician was currently sitting on a small stool, melding a piston-guard into place in Sttaglite’s impaired lower limb. Jupiter One sat opposite Sttaglite, a clipboard in his lap. “Sttaglite. Thank you for speaking with me. It is an honor,” he said.

Sttaglite ignored the patronizing tone and waited for something of substance to which to respond. He would allow the human the illusion of control in this conversation.

“May I ask where your loyalties lie? Are you of the Prime Leader’s regime or of Kobal’s?”

The robot sat motionless. The technician was now tightening a loose cable on Sttaglite’s leg with a wrench.

Jupiter One decided to try a different tact: “We are trying to find out what happened here. Why the war ended in chaos. Why the peace treaty was never signed. None of it seems to make sense.”

Sttaglite seemed to come to life. “We agree that the logic appears false, Jupiter One. We want, please, to aid in your efforts here. To find out what happened at the Sea of Sharghile to bring about such … chaos.”

Jupiter One noted the terminology: the Sea of Sharghile was the human name for the great expanse of desert stretching between the warring nations. The robots gave it no name, using only longitude and latitude coordinates to specify any given location. Was the communications unit just putting things in terms a human would understand or was this really an off-world robot? Jupiter One pondered this new angle a bit too long, and Sttaglite broke the silence with a question of his own.

“Tell us, the courier-bot you recovered – was that one … deceased?”

“You were observing us? Out in the desert?”

Sttaglite was silent once again.

“He was still alive – barely – the techs are still working on him.”

“Courier-bot could be carrying important data. Yes? May have … answers about the great chaos.”

What was this robot after? Jupiter One could not quite see, but something was definitely odd about this unassuming communications unit. Something sinister. Why was he interested in the long-distance strider? All he could muster was, “that”s true, Sttaglite. True enough.”

At that moment, another soldier interrupted them, whispered softly in Jupiter One’s ear. Sttaglite listened in – a task easily, and automatically, achieved by his analog voice-reception subsystem – amplifying the whispers before deciphering the organic human language into meaningful data he could process. The soldier was explaining that the courier-bot, Tak, had been reassembled, that they were preparing to release him so he could continue his delivery of the message – if the message’s intended recipient was still alive.

Jupiter One thanked the soldier and then thanked Sttaglite for their brief conversation, adding that they would continue after the evening meal, if that was alright.

Sttaglite agreed.

Sttaglite took his time making the difficult decision, his central processing unit dedicating many precious cycles to the task. He followed each individual strand of eventuality, knowing that with humans there existed a certain level of ambiguity and not all the strands would lead to clear, logical outcomes. In the end, he decided it best to approach the human camp and greet them as if he were friendly.

Communications units were not built for speed, and Sttaglite’s steps were further exaggerated and clumsy due to several torn ligamental wires in his left leg. The injury could be easily repaired but would require the tools and know-how of a mechanic. Until then, he appeared to be but a harmless, broken machine, and this suited his purposes nicely.

Communications unit, Sttaglite, was met at the perimeter of the human camp by the same strange vehicle that had passed by his location earlier that day. Similar to the terrestrial Light Hauler transport bots that were so common before all was destroyed in the final apocalypse. Four humans sat within, and Sttaglite noted the weapons they each carried around their shoulders. Light armaments at best.

But humans were civil creatures – so it was said – though Sttaglite had never met one before this day. He came to a halt as the mortals hopped down from their transport machine and approached with fluid, cautious steps. Sttaglite had listened to the humans’ radio broadcasts to one another for many days now, and he began with what he gathered to be their standard greeting: “Human Jupiter One, this is Communications Unit, Sttaglite. Reporting in. Over. We greet you as friend, in accordance with Inter-species Common Courtesy Treaty documented by the Human Council on Planetary Affairs.”

The humans exchanged sideways glances at each other, keeping their distance. Their leader finally said, “Communications Unit, Sttaglite. Greetings. What is your purpose – your mission here?”

The robot said nothing in response, standing motionless, save for a small perpetually-spinning radar disk on the robot’s hulking shoulder.

“How did you know my call sign, Communications Unit?” asked Jupiter One, pausing for a response. Hearing none, he added, “speak freely. Please,”

Sttaglite was monitoring each of their heart rates, studying their level of timidity – a part of his programming never used before this day. An interesting science. It appeared as though the humans feared him – this was a common emotion among their species – and he could either use that fear to his advantage or work at diffusing the inferior emotion in order to gain the humans’ trust. He chose the latter, speaking in a reassuring tone: “We heard your radio transmission and remembered your call sign, Sir. Thank you, please, for welcoming us to speak freely.”

The humans smiled at one another – perhaps at something he had said in error or perhaps as a sign of relief at hearing the familiar pleasantries of their customs – and then they invited him to their camp for further communications. Sttaglite was pleased at the progress he was making, already disarming their emotional defenses and gaining access to inner regions of the encampment. Soon he might have a way to infiltrate the humans’ network where important information could be scraped. He was very pleased.

Sttaglite followed in silence, keeping his ultimate intentions a secret.

“The message never made it to its intended recipient,” said the technician. Everyone else in the tent gathered around the display.

“That a fact?” asked General Morgon. One of his favorite questions.

“Yessir. See, here? This is a Class A dispatch, which uses a flip-bit to note if a message has been compromised.”

“How does that work?” asked the General, accustomed to asking frequent questions. He remotely dialed in the zoom function of the conferencing droid’s main camera to get a better view of the technician’s computer screen.

“Quite elegantly. When the message is opened, a single bit within the digital signature is automatically transposed from a zero to a one, nullifying the signature and signifying a compromised message – this automatically downgrades the message to a Class C dispatch. It’s like breaking a seal on a communique.”

“Should have said that in the first place,” said Jupiter One, as the General’s blank expression became apparent on the droid’s front display, “can we break this seal, Senior Tech?”

The technician paused for effect and then replied, “You bet, Sir. Give me half a minute.”

General Morgon shifted uneasily as the technician called upon an array of hacking software, designed, it seemed, to be the opposite of user-friendly.

Something of a fascinating discovery in the course of studying the nature of robot culture: though logic was the rule, there were places where logic broke down. For instance, security software in the world of robots was as rock-solid and impenetrable as one might expect – however, from a human point of view there were gaps and long-ways around the security. What made this possible was the fact that software innovation was not something the robots were very good at – it required more creativity than the robots on Casiadin were built to possess – and so the level of sophistication was not much better than when the robots first broke away from humankind to form their own civilization. The inverse was also true: human innovation had continued to grow since the break.

“Got it,” called the technician.

Everyone returned to the screen which was now a jumble of letters, numbers, symbols, and empty spaces. The technician was the one to state what everyone else was thinking: “That’s strange. It’s just a bunch of garbage. Random data. Meaningless.”

“Is this encrypted data we’re seeing? Some kind of code?”

“No it’s in the clear. What we are seeing is what was sent in the message.”

Just then Jupiter’s communicator squawked, “Jupiter One, we’ve picked up some movement on the scanners – southwest of us.”

Morgon responded, “What kind of movement?”

“Heat signature says it’s a robot, Sir. Walking right out of the desert. Directly toward camp.”

The war had been fought with great courage, both factions playing with rigorous discipline. Many a good machine had died over the last decade. Indeed, The Leader spoke of this game as if it were something of Legend. Tak knew nothing of Legend, nor the intricate workings of war. He was built only for speed across the open expanse of desert; the same desert he was currently overlooking from atop a small hill near Base Camp. It had no name, this tundra of hot silicon. None that Tak was aware of, anyway.

In the distance he could hear mortar blasts – crude but effective – and streams of black smoke trailed peacefully across the nameless sea. Tak wondered what the endgame would look like. The formal treaties were scheduled for ratification at the end of this season, and then the mortar blasts would cease. Blasters would be useless once again. The Great City would be rebuilt. The next era would begin. The era of Trade and Industry. Tak did not know how such things were arranged, only that it was the order of things. He supposed it was only logical: one could not make war forever and expect to live in peace.

Tak slipped away, leaping downhill in graceful strides, and he secretly wished for a land with many hills. He paced himself to enjoy the jog back to Base Camp. Unlike most citizens, Tak had never been to The Great City. He was created after the war treaty was signed and after The Great City was emptied of able-bodied robots. He had never known peace, but what was there to know. His job would not change. It was the same in war or in peace. He was a courier-bot. He was a long-distance strider.

Base Camp was something of a misnomer: this was not the only encampment in the Prime Leader’s domain, and Tak knew that The Leader was not the only Leader. This was simply the default nomenclature of all who fought in this era of war. The SMPS upgrade [Standard Military Protocol Software upgrade], version 4.25-02, called for such structure in order to handle the vast numbers participating in the games. The Extremist faction had a similar naming scheme in place for the same reasons.

Following orders, Tak reported directly to The Leader’s encampment. This was an unusual order, as he usually reported to his station manager in the field.

“Reporting for duty. How may I assist,” blurbled Tak – a prerecorded courtesy phrase that had come prepackaged with the SMPS upgrade.

“Salutations, long-distance strider, Tak. Come in.” The voice was an octave lower than Tak’s and showed the gravelly undertone of a voice-condenser in need of replacing.

Tak did as instructed.

“What is your condition, long-distance strider, Tak?”

It was a standard inquiry that called for a non-thorough report, and Tak responded in kind: “Battery at 98.3 percent, hardware at 97.0 percent – estimated – software currently installed: field operations version 3.85, SMPS upgrade version -”

“That will do, citizen Tak,” said The Leader, apparently having heard enough to satisfy his reasons for the question, “prepare to receive message for courier service, Class A.”

A green LED, embedded within Tak’s breastplate, blinked on and off signifying wireless activity and was once again extinguished once the transmission was complete. Class A data was top-secret and could only be deciphered by the intended recipient. This was an unusual, and no doubt important, message. Most messages needed only Class B security, which could only be opened by the highest of ranks. Whether or not it got to a specific robot was normally unimportant. Robots were, after all, only robots – individuality was a concept yet to have widespread appeal, robot-wide, and was indeed frowned upon by robot culture – Prime Leader Asher being the only one-of-a-kind robot on the planet. Only humans felt the need for such luxuries. Tak smiled at the thought of humans, such civil, creative creatures.

“Report to Alpha-Block C, for further orders and a field operations upgrade. Godspeed,” came the final command from The Leader.

Tak wondered at that final phrasing – it was not part of military nomenclature – and he had noted an uncharacteristic smile on the face of The Leader. “What an individualistic thing to do,” thought Tak. He could not help wonder about the message. Its timing. So close to the end of the war. Could this finally be the call for peace?

The tent flap opened, spilling sunlight into the tent and momentarily blinding the Regulars and technicians within. General Morgon’s aid stepped inside, followed by a conferencing droid, it’s live-transmission LED burning a bright green. Jupiter One called his soldiers to attention. They were immediately waived back down by General Morgon on the droid’s front display. The conferencing droid – headless and indeed lacking any native intelligence of its own, was being remotely steered by the General. It moved in to get a better look at the jumble of wires and metal and synchros and circuit boards splayed out on the table before the technicians.

“What do we have here, a metal-head?” boomed the General, as only a general could, through the conferencing droid’s otherwise inadequate speakers.

The technicians stood at nervous attention, as Aiche, the senior tech, began rolling off all pertinent information for the General: time and place of discovery, time of delivery, a surprisingly thorough progress report and analysis and an estimated time of task completion. The General, currently in orbit around the desert planet, smiled to himself all the while; he secretly got a kick out of putting fear into the pseudo-military personnel on base – in person or otherwise – watching them stand at rigid attention while rattling off a litany of information he only half followed himself.

“Very well. Carry on, Senior Tech.”

And the technicians went back to work. Like a team of surgeons, they worked – drilling out rust-frozen bolts, removing panels, disabling power cords and bypassing data cords – nonstop for another half hour until they were finished. A fourth technician had entered the tent and set up a work station complete with display visor and controls.

Himself a history buff, General Morgon navigated the droid to stand beside Jupiter One, in order to ask a sideways question every now and then – an extremely informal debriefing indeed.

“They said it was in working condition?” asked the General, doubtfully, the droid’s cameras transfixed on the dissection in progress.

And Jupiter One chimed in, “Well, Sir, the strider has apparently been in a low-level, hibernation for for the past few weeks, according to the techies – that puts it fully operational up to the very end of The Last Battle. They, ah, don’t know why, but the droid seems to be stuck in this low-level mode. It managed a word or two, though. That was something …”

They sat for a little longer in silence, as the techno-surgeons were finishing up, hooking up the robot’s storage drives to their portable work station and power supply. As an afterthought, the General added, “Anything significant?”

“It just said the word, ‘worrisome,’ a couple of times, believe it or not,” Jupiter One smiled.

“Worrisome?” The green monochrome display on the conferencing droid showed General Morgon giving in to a smile of his own and then taking a sip from an oversize coffee mug. “This whole bloody mess is worrisome.”

The technicians interrupted at that moment: “General, I think we found the message it was carrying.”

The mission had gone well, for what it was: a one day sweep, southeast of Meladin. Jupiter squad was to become familiar with the surrounding area and establish something of a perimeter. It was busy-work. Until Meladin HQ was resupplied with some real convoy equipment and personnel, there was not much else that could be done. For that matter, they had little in the way of weapons, no airships, and very little manpower if there were any non-friendlies about. In any case, the long-distance strider was a wonderful find, indeed, and the technicians should be able to recover whatever messages or intel the courier might have been carrying.

The six-man Jupiter squad sat in canvas-backed chairs soaking in the cool Oxygen-enhanced air of the debriefing tent. In the center of the tent, three technicians tediously dismantled the sandblasted droid before them. The constant whir of a small belt or fan streamed out of the metal skeleton-like body.

“Where the hell is his fourth storage drive?”

A second technician leaned back from a soft-lit monitor and said, “Keep following the power supply, Kestle. That’s all I can tell you.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that they put this E-unit so close and I don’t wanna disturb that thing with him still running … we may have to turn him over and come in through his back.”

The fact that the technicians seemed unsure of what they were doing made Jupiter One a little uneasy. This was the first intact Holman-model robot he had laid eyes on, and, for all he knew, he would never see another. The legs of the long-distance strider vibrated slightly, imparting a metallic hum to the table on which he was lying.

“Is he alright, Aiche?” Kestle had taken a step away from the vibrating table.

“Yep, he’s just running some diagnostics on his legs is all. Just get to that last drive, quick as you can. His power supply is getting a little unsteady.”

Jupiter One read the tension in Aiche’s voice. “He going to die, Aiche?”

“Die? Well, he can’t exactly die. His power might go out, but we can always reboot his system.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that Holmans will sometimes … well, panic, essentially, and they’ll send their last bit of power as a surge through their components. Now, their core processors are guarded from such a surge, but some circuit boards and storage drives usually aren’t. If we don’t get to them before he cuts out, they might be damaged. Once we have access to his stored data then we can continue to work toward restoring his full functionality, but those storage drives are first priority.”

Jupiter One nodded. Aiche was just as excited by the long-distance strider as Jupiter One, but the mission always came first. The whole of Casiadin might well be mapped out already, saving the humans years of exploration: underground bunkers, weapons caches, hidden storage lockers, geo-strategic information – even local weather patterns would be of priceless import. There may also be information on native animal and plant life.

And all information would lead them one step closer to their simple mission: discovering what happened here and why.