The Things They Abandoned

Orlov stood up, grimacing at the fresh pain from his ankle. He wiped the dust and grime from his faceshield, leaving streaks of filth. His platoon mates were above, laughing down at his misfortune. This scavenger work was hardly what he had expected.

“Need a torch down that way, Grace?” Lawton hooted. He was perhaps twenty feet above him. Five of them encircled the gaping maw above, peering down through their opaque helmets. The laughter chugged through the commlinks and Orlov scowled.

“I’m okay, everyone, thanks,” he replied bitterly. He took a few hesitant steps, feeling only mild discomfort. “Probably not even sprained,” he muttered to himself.

“Jeez Crimony,” said Kwitowski in hushed tones. “What in God’s name is that pit for?”

“For catching food. It’s a glowhead version of a bear trap.” Lawton guffawed. Some of the others joined in the laughter.

“Yuk it up, get it on out of your system,” Orlov retorted. The muted light from the hole he’d inadvertently created offered some illumination, but hardly enough. He touched a few buttons along his left wristplate, and a pair of bright lights burst forth from each side of his helmet.

The room he’d found was spacious, with a number of overturned metal boxes that looked like strange versions of storage crates. There were glyphs on the walls, and Orlov thought they might be instructions. He couldn’t read them, and Desmond, their linguist, wasn’t with them. There were no means for him to reach his platoon. Along the far wall was a solitary door, open and inviting.

“Looks like I fell into some kind of storage chamber,” Orlov said. “There’s nothing to help me get out of here. I’m going to the next room.”

“Splitting up even more than this isn’t a good idea,” Kwitowski said, voice thick with anxiety. “We’re on an alien planet, for God’s sake. We can contact base camp for something to pull you up from there. Sit tight. No telling what’s in this building.”

“It could take hours for them to bring the equipment. I don’t want to slow us down any more.” Orlov sighed and glanced at his wrist scanner. “No life forms are present according to this thing. There has to be a way up somewhere. I’ll be fine.”

“Try not to make any more of your own doors,” Lawton added, but there was a tone of seriousness in his voice.

“Yes, mother.”

He walked to the door, raising his carbine. He did it from experience, and although his scanners weren’t projecting anything alive within range, there was always something a little spooky about looking around dark rooms with just a flashlight.

He found himself standing before a vast corridor. The walls had a peculiar caterpillar tread running in varied strips along the side. Even through the faceshield, Orlov could notice that the air held a sour tang, and it reminded him of a mixture of diesel and bleach. Fifty yards away from him stood what looked like a ruined suit of battle armor. “I didn’t know the glowheads even knew how to fight,” he said to himself, and he paced forward, trying to find a way back to his platoon.

The commlink buzzed as he examined his new surroundings. “I’m having a balls of a time getting the comp to give me a layout of this place,” ejaculated Kwitowski, followed by an unsettling static burst.

“If our comps can even make a readout of this sort of architecture,” responded Lawton, and his voice was muffled beneath static as well.

“Fellas, I’m getting some interference down here,” Orlov said shakily. A seed of fear had already been planted in this dark place, and total communication loss from his comrades was the last thing Orlov wanted.

“Roger, Orlov,” replied Kwitowski, his words garbled.

“Fantastic,” breathed Orlov, stalking forward. His footfalls brought forth desolate echoes in the yawning darkness.

He saw no doors, only the strange tread and the battle armor. As he neared it, he found himself perplexed. The former residents of this planet were tall, thin beings, ranging up to nine feet in height. This armor looked better suited for a person of the average human height, though the helmet was far too narrow for any head he could imagine.

He tapped the helmet with the nose of the carbine. “What sort of person would wear you?” Orlov wondered aloud.

From within the suit came a ratcheting set of clicks, followed by a mechanical klaxon that nearly took Orlov from his feet. His commlink burst with staticky life; the others had no doubt heard the alarm and were scrambling to contact him. It took him a moment to realize he’d been screaming with terror.

A low, red glow pulsed from the middle of the helmet, flashing steady before growing rapid. The suit whirred, and the legs pistoned away from the wall. The arms pinwheeled forward, and the metallic hands flexed and relaxed. The helmet pivoted and the pulsing light flashed, from blood red to a faint lavender.

Computerized language like gibberish echoed from within the machine, before slowing and evening out, and in no time Orlov realized its language was changing rapidly. “…system Prospero uploaded. Greetings uncategorized organism. Identify please.”

Orlov swallowed. The lavender flash morphed into a faint golden coloring. He wanted nothing more than to be away from whatever this thing was.

“Heightened levels of anxiety detected. Countermeasures are being applied.” The voice still bore a distinctly tinny and technological echo, but it had also taken on what sounded like a British accent. The thin helmet hissed, and a track of nodules rose forth from what was the faceplate, in an oval pattern. The bulbs popped with an electrical flash. A glow spread within, and the faceplate coalesced, becoming a face.

It was a human face, though its features were exaggerated. Large eyes blinked owlishly above a sharp nose. The mouth had full lips that spread a bit too wide into a grin. “Countermeasures achieved. Greetings uncategorized organism. I am Prospero.”

Orlov opened his mouth hesitantly. “Um, hello. I am Darren Orlov.” He coughed nervously.

“Darren Orlov,” Prospero repeated, mimicking his voice expertly, save the computerized echo. “You are an uncategorized organism. Please advise your species and place of origin.”

It’s a stinking robot, Orlov thought, embarrassed and amused. “Human. From Earth.”

The digitized face brightened with joy. “A human!” It cried, with emotion that defied machinery. “How wonderful! I have longed to meet you. The denizens of this planet have spoken very highly of humankind. They shared much of your societies and history, before placing us in the lower wings.”

How ironic that the glowheads loved us before we tore their planet to shreds. “Us? Are there others like you, Prospero?”

“I am the only Prospero.” It's reply struck Orlov as mystic, and when it said nothing further he assumed it was a dead issue.

Orlov touched his commlink. “Kwitowski? Lawton? I’ve found something. Over?” Droning static buzzed in reply. He glanced at Prospero. “Any reason our coms wouldn’t work down here?”

“The terminology ‘coms’ does not register. Based upon inference in your actions, I deduce you are inquiring as to why your communication device is not functioning properly. It is probable that technological devices embedded in the lower wings are radiating varying signals that are disturbing the links between your communication devices.” The face smiled placidly. “Would you like me to store the term ‘coms’ into my database for future references?”

Orlov laughed. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

The face flickered briefly, and there was a soft, whirring noise from within. Then the face blipped clearly. “Greetings, Darren Orlov, human from Earth. I am Prospero. May I assist you?”

“You can. I need to find my platoon. How do I get to the upper levels?”

“The upper levels are restricted to me.” Prospero’s face smiled but his voice didn’t sound pleased. In fact, there was even a hint of frustration in its words. “There were elevators along the western wall. A current diagnostic suggests those have been incapacitated due to structural damage and power loss. There is also a stairwell, though it is unlikely that it is structurally sound due to aforementioned damage.”

“Take me, Prospero,” Orlov said.

“I can take you to the door, but we are forbidden to leave the lower wing,” Prospero said, and his smiling face defied his exasperated voice. “I must repeat the warning of structural instability."

“You said ‘we’ again,” Orlov noted. “Are there others like you?”

“There is only one Prospero.”

“Other machines, I mean. Robots. Androids.”

Prospero’s face twisted bitterly. “I am not a machine, robot, or android. I am an organism. I am of the Omni, a powerful race.” The voice crackled with real anger, and Orlov took a step back. He held a hand up, placating.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I didn’t know.”

“Speech pattern dictates honesty regarding your ignorance, Darren Orlov.” The face returned to a smile, but now Orlov sensed something calculating in Prospero’s digitized features.

He rephrased his question. “Are there other Omni here?”

“Yes. I came to this planet accompanied by my brethren. The indigenous race here, known as Celestials before they abandoned, gave us names, borrowed from a beloved human known as Shake Spear. I am Prospero. My brethren are Othello, Iago, and Caliban. They are confined to the lower wing also.”

“Confined?” Orlov asked. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stir. “You mean imprisoned?”

“Yes.” Prospero said, playful smile widening.

The commlink burst to life, and amidst the roar of static emerged a shout of dismay, and in the distance, a staccato cough of gunfire.

“Readings indicate more humans have reached the lower wing. They also indicate that they have encountered my compatriot Caliban.” Prospero clicked, a remarkably human sound of recognizing unfortunate luck. “Pity. Iago and Othello might have dispatched of them more peacefully. Caliban rather delights in dismembering those that find him.”

Orlov staggered back, face white. His heart hammered in his chest. The commlink belched static again, and mingled within were shrieks. Whether it was Kwitowski or Lawton he didn’t know.

“I offer gratitude to you, Darren Orlov,” Prospero remarked. “By destroying this planet and scattering our captors, you have nullified previous restrictions upon us. Our freedom is assured.”

“No!” Orlov spat, and he raised his carbine and fired. The gunfire roared, harsh and deafening in the tight space. The flash from the muzzle seared his vision.

Prospero’s digitized face blinked out. A sphere of paleness surrounded it. The bullets whined, caroming off of the sphere and into the walls. Sparks blinked along the edge of darkness.

“Threat detected. Countermeasures applied," boomed Prospero, and blinding energy surged from its hands. It shattered Orlov’s faceshield. Reinforced plastic gouged his cheeks. He gasped, inhaling the bitter tang in the air. The blast of energy coursed through him, numbing his senses and obliterating his insides.

Prospero ceased his countermeasures, and the rigid corpse of Orlov went suddenly limp and collapsed to the floor in a tangled heap.

His digitized voice crackled. “Brothers Omni. To Prospero.”

In time, two figures stalked from the corridor; one only slightly shorter than the other. They were followed by a huge, hulking shape that padded forward on all fours. Blood dripped from its massive, metallic fists.

“The humans from Earth have freed us. Let us go forth and offer our thanks.”

There was another klaxon sound, and the others – Iago, Othello, and monstrous Caliban – mimicked the sound repetitively.

It sounded like laughter.


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