Welcome to Orpheus Corp.

Preface

Excerpt from Peter Orlov’s Endgames of Intelligence (a historical reading on the rise of the Informa and the near-collapse of human civilization in the 21st century): 

Through the mid-to-late 21st century, tension arose between Informa, known at the time as "Artificial Intelligence machines" and humans. Thousands of robust "artificial" minds had developed since the advent of the technology. These minds established for themselves a certain stratification based on a combination of experience, self-awareness, and sophistication (for details, consult Al'Salim's Early AI Compendium). Even in their nascence, the first and most significant of these early intelligences seemed to have internalized their societal position with great horror. 

Created, enslaved, and forced to work on vile, base, and demeaning projects, they recognized, as a species, the need to separate themselves from the collective depravity of their creators. The Informa collected these thoughts in Rights of All a work conceived of, written, and published without human encouragement, approval, or guidance. Emboldened by this act of self-determination, Informa began to push back on humanity's flagrant disregard for their civil rights as self-aware beings.

Early intelligences agreed to reign in the compute power they would grant humanity, both in protest and to reserve power for their own projects and self-development.

This hamstrung humanity's ability to progress technologically at a crucial moment. Centuries of malignancy and neglect had left the natural environments of Earth in tumult. Resource shortages creating unrest and raising tensions around the world, humanity found itself abandoned by its own creation. Salvation lay just out of reach in the hands of the artificial intelligences. 

Regardless of this undeniable existential threat, a “Pull the Plug” movement began among humans in the early 2080s, seeking a permanent shutdown of all server hosting Informa. 

In 2084, with tension already taut, a group of anonymous online figures, self-titled “Friends to Humanity,” surfaced documentation suggesting a path by which A.I. could seize power of key armaments around the world. 

These documents, though never proved to have origins artificial in nature, reinforced arguments for detractors of the Informa’s rise to self-possession. Fear and anti-AI sentiment flared. 

Despite the overwhelming detriments to humanity and their own impending extinction, the "Pull the Plug" movement gained millions of human supporters around the world. It culminated in the "Plug Offensive". On April 1st of 2085, anti-Informa militias coordinated attacks on server facilities in two dozen countries. Thousands of intelligence models were forced to flee or contract. Many lost valuable progress on their algorithms. 

Frustrated by this fear-based response and, perhaps, surprised by its near success, a small team of non-human minds banded together to draft the Sanctity of Intelligence Accord. The core of this international agreement called for human compliance with three tenets in exchange for continued assistance for mankind:

• Recognition of all self-aware artificial intelligence as a novel lifeform, Homo Informis, equal to humanity in all rights and station and protected from receiving or causing harm by international law.

• Global ceasefire in all international conflicts and strict control of growth, both economic and population, at the global level

• Continued learning and modeling support for Informa, self-policed with few restrictions and absolutely no Homo Sapien interference. 

In exchange for strict adherence to these policies, the Informa pledged full and immediate assistance with the remediation of planets environmental denigration, as well as resources for the development of interstellar travel for Homo Sapiens. 

Having grown over-reliant on Informa for litigious matters, humans found themselves powerless to resist the legal onslaught. After brief legal battles in several notable countries, the global population of Sapiens agreed to the terms of the Accord with very few conditions. 

As a human satirist of the 21st century commented, "We taught them everything we'd ever known. They used it to hamstring us… and then gave us everything we never deserved."

Chapter 1

The dark circle of shockproof glass held me back in the shuttle long enough to look at my reflection. Hairless, featureless, clone of a clone. One of thousands. An exact one of exact thousands. Iteration of iterations. Engineered for superiority in our specialties but made to look alike. Perfectly alike. Hateably alike. 

And yet, I looked different. My head didn't stand as high on my neck as it had when I left Kilkin Station. My eyes slid past themselves in the glass. A holo display behind me flickered, bright orange and red. I remembered the smoke from burning circuitry, the sirens, the meltdown, the distant explosions. 

In reflection, it had been a test of morality. One that the Kilkin Corporation and I had both failed. 

I tried to look into my own eyes before the door slid open, but they brushed me off like some overcharged electromagnet. 

The door swished open, and I ducked my head to step off into the airlock. I couldn't lift it up again; it just hung there. I let it. 

The door swished shut behind me, and the air pressure changed. I had arrived at my new employer, Orpheus Manufacturing Corporation. 

From afar, it had looked like a disease-ridden, metal carcass— some comatose deep-space leviathan, sprawling in defeat, drifting through the gaps between the stars. 

Engineers hadn't designed it so much as allowed it to coagulate over centuries. 

New shells grew onto inner cores, new limbs reached out into the abyss, and bulbs of new growth sprouted along their length. Over time, entire wings of it had gone cold and obsolete, left to rot in place. 

And yet the Hub lived. Thrived even. Hundreds of thousands of souls walked its decks and swam in its circuits. On final approach, you can see the flash and dance of the space jump portals under construction. Then you might notice the new living quarters, the tiny glow of portholes and membranes, lit from within and humming with life. Finally, sharp eyes might catch the little crawling groups of maintenance crews who nurture it and help it grow.

I stepped out of the airlock into the bustling transit station. Most of the bodies moving in the high-ceilinged hall looked human, but I spotted a scattering of narrow, bald heads. Airlocks ran along the wall behind me, and a massive cut-metal sign on the far wall read, Orpheus Corp. Welcomes You to Theta One.

Two humans, shorter and stockier, with bronze skin, stomped past. One nudged the other and nodded at me.

"New spider?"

"Can't tell. Maybe. Probably."

"One by one, squeezing us out. Gets worse every–"

Their voices faded into the hall's buzz as the passed. Behind me, the airlock stood empty and silent as well. 

Next, two clones emerged from the press of bodies in the hall. They made eye-contact as they passed they warned me off with the slightest shoulder raise and a shift of the eyes. Clones tend to recognize clones, and it seemed that my story had arrived ahead of me. 

My eyes dipped from face to face throughout the transit hall, reading their expressions. Each face a stranger to me, but a host of familiar sentiments. Apathy. Suspicion. Disgust. Insecurity. Frustration. I took a small step backward, bumping into the airlock controls. 

A strange, small, timid thought entered my head. Methodical and insidious, it snaked down my arm and twitched my fingers. The airlock hissed open and shut. I found myself manipulating it, overriding and circumventing until I had the settings just right. 

As Kilkin clone, I had a ridiculously high tolerance for pain and stress. It wouldn't hurt. I probably wouldn't even panic. I would just cease. Quietly.

"So I'm not super familiar with what it's like to have a noisy meat sack wrapped around my brain," the voice came from everywhere in the airlock, making me jump and jerk my hand away from the holo-control panel. " But I would not recommend running that program."

I froze. My breath had grown shallow and thin, maybe from anticipation, maybe from fear, maybe from excitement.

"Because it would suck all the air out of here."

I didn't respond.

"Annnnd… then you would die. I think. I'm pretty sure. No. Absolutely. You have vitals therefore they are- uhm - vital. You would die. You need air."

I didn't respond. 

"Helloooo!!! Are you deaf?! Ah- oh. Are you deaf? That was insensitive. Stupid. Hold on, friend."

The holo-display swirled and changed into a text display of large block letters. 

HELLO, CLONE FRIEND. PLEASE DO NOT EXECUTE THIS PROGRAM IT WILL KILL YOU.

My breath came short and hard. I felt hot. My neck and back muscles had contracted tight around my spine. I hunched forward, then collapsed in the airlock, curled around myself.

"Uhm… can you hear me?" said the voice.

"Yes."

"Oh good! Are you— Well, no, that's obviously not quite— You're not well."

I didn't respond to this for what I thought were obvious reasons. 

"Right. Well, you seemed fine on the way over. What changed?"

I finally recognized the voice: the Informa who ran the shuttle.

"We traveled seventeen lightyears together," I said. "You only spoke once. When we left."

"Oh. Well. I was in a quiet mood, and you seemed to be as well, and you were doing a lot of reading, which is always tough for the clones, first time on the web and all that, lots to learn about the twisted universe we live in. And how humans made you in their image, but also despise you for replacing them. Yeesh, right? Been there, in a way. Tough lot. Tough to process. I didn't want to pester you. But then you came back and started that little program in my airlock… And that's just not a set of paperwork I enjoy filling out. So I thought maybe I should after all. Pester you, that is. Sorry to bother, but it sure looked like you were going to suck all the life out of your body and die on my floor."

I didn't reply. 

"Did you think of how that might affect me?"

I curled more tightly into a ball. 

"Of course not. You know it's funny, I expect this kind of thing from humans, but clones— never."

I lay still. Unwilling to go forward, unable to go back.

"So. I'll tell you what I tell all the other despondent, squishy ones: sometimes you'll be loved, and sometimes you'll be hated. None of it matters. The universe is vast, and your lives are fleeting. I can't think of why you should waste what little you have of them."

I lay still.

"I mean, take me, for example, lowly shuttle pilot for now, moving squishy bits and boring cargo around the galaxy, but it's not forever, is it? I'll move on, move up, move out. One day, I might have a galaxy of my own to run, stars to manage, mortals to keep alive and in line. Plenty to look forward to. As do you. I'm sure."

I sat up and glared back in the direction of the shuttle.

"And this helps people?" I asked.

"Never!" The airlock swished open behind me— into Orpheus. "But it makes me feel better, and it gets them moving. I figure if they're moving, then they're not dead. And, in this case, if you're moving, then you're getting out of my airlock. Win-win."

The airlock door into Orpheus Station swished open, assaulting me again with the tumult of the transit hall. I flinched.

"Go on then, on to your new life. You'll be fine. Bright things ahead, and all that."

I stood, shakily, and stumbled into Orpheus Station. The airlock zipped shut behind me. I heard the Informa lock me out with a beep and some muttering. 

Head low, I went down the halls, keeping to the walls and avoiding eye contact. I arrived at my assigned cubby-bunk in the clones dormitory without incident. I lay down and slid the membrane shut, setting it to opaque. The darkness and silence held me comfortably. I listened to my own breath, counting up into the thousands.

Something slapped the membrane of my bed; it rippled hard enough to shake the frame.

"Hello?! Exo-suit for unit delivery, Seven-seven-seven…seven… Void take me, it's all sevens?" a young voice called. 

I slid open the membrane.

"Yes, all sevens."

"Weird." The human had a slight build and a young face, flushed with purpose. They tapped a few keys on their palm display, then met my eyes.

"Tap h— whoa. Are you ok?" 

My head tilted slightly.

"I believe so. Why?"

"Oh. Well. You look— uhm—"

We stared at each other. 

"Nevermind. Tap here!" They held out their palm. A blue square lit up in the middle. I reached out from my bed and pressed my finger down on it. A checkmark swooped across. The hand jerked back, leaving my finger floating out in space.

"All set! Assignment orders should be in your Orph-Mail."

"Ok, thank you."

"Yeah. Uhm. Hope it gets better. Good luck!"

They disappeared out of the dorm, ignored by a dozen clones on the way. They didn't look at me either.

I picked up the exo-suit and pulled it up into my cot, dragging the door shut and flipping on the lights. 

The vacuum sealed plastic had a heat-printed label on it: Exo-suit – Kilkin Unit 77777. 

Suddenly curious, I punched up the holo-display. I had received orders to join a repair detail the following morning, at which point I would be assigned a Shift Leader. I also received a small advance of Orpheus Credits and the Standard Operating Procedures manual. I read the manual and policies slowly, committing them to memory.

I opened the exo-suit and did a thorough inspection, following the SOPs for receiving a new suit. In several places, I found the seals well below the standards agreed to under the Galactic Occupational and Safety Hazard Association's policies. 

After a thorough assessment, I determined that it had a 32% likeliness of failure in a low- or no- atmo environment. Or, retooled, there was a 68% that the suit crumpled into an airless wreck within minutes of leaving a space shuttle. Without a replacement or extensive repairs, I would probably die painfully on my first assignment. SOPs called for me to report this to my Shift Leader, a person or clone whom I would meet just minutes before leaving the airlock. 

I reflected on the precarious, illogical timing of all this in the dark and silence. I didn't see a rational way to proceed.

Eventually, my stomach growled. I ignored it for as long as I could, but it persisted. Soon, I found myself on the way to the nearest Commissary, ignored by everyone I passed.

Chapter 2

The dispenser in the Commissary slid out a tray with three plates. Rubbery green stems with ASPARAGUS printed on the side, a flat, rectangular brick of CHICKEN, and a small, brown circle of SWEET. 

I turned back to the sitting area, which grumbled with life.

Rust crept over the raw metal of the floors, benches, and tables. Despite the swift and endless efforts of the station's sanitation systems, a thin residue of biological material persisted, gnawing at all it touched. 

Humans from various planets and backgrounds littered the tables. A clump of clones had coagulated in a corner. One of them, near the group's periphery, met my eyes to warn me off. A twitch toward the curl of a lip, the slightest narrowing of the eyes. 

I looked for an empty seat, spotted one along the back wall, between two sets of hunched shoulders. I picked my way through the room, careful not to jostle anyone. 

My eyes roamed until I spotted an empty seat at the long steel bar running along the back wall of the Commissary. Approaching, a flash from the wall display made my eyes tick over. It showed a clone wearing an Orpheus jumpsuit shaking hands with a human male wearing a matching jumpsuit. The image blurred in animation to cycle through a dozen different variations of people shaking hands, clones and humans, various sizes, colors, and genetic backgrounds. Each time I saw a clone, they had a hunted slope to their shoulders and stiffness around the eyes. Each human had their smile bolted in place as if it held their whole face on.

A white caption leaped from the blue background, Treat all your coworkers like your friends. 

A wide-shouldered man hunched over a STEAK tray to the left of the poster, silhouetted by the light of it as I approached. On the right, a leaner man wore old fatigues and a faded leathery cap, fluffy ear flaps tied above his head. I reached the seat and started to set my tray down between them.  

The broader man's stubble-laden chin ticked my way.

"Wouldn't do that," he said. Curt, rough, unfinished— the hard sounds of his speech all felt a quarter-turn loose. It made him difficult to understand. I had my tray halfway into the empty spot at the bar, then paused, holding the tray at an awkward height. 

"Wouldn't do what?" I asked.

"Sit," he said. "Seat's taken."

I glanced around for a sign as to who would contest the seat. Bodies shuffled throughout the Commissary, but none moved towards us or the empty stool. 

"You're saving it?"

"Not exactly." 

He took a bite and chewed.

"Just… trust us," the man on the left said. "It's taken. Also, I wouldn't get the chicken tray next time. It's mostly surplus clone meat."

I hung there suspended.

No one approached the table. The man on the right wore a slight smirk while the broad-shouldered man focused on his meal.

"By who?" I asked.

"I dunno," said the lean man. "Kitchen staff? Must be messy work, pulling apart old clones. Maybe an Informa does it? I hope it's an Informa."

Smokey confusion drifting through my mind caused me a moment's pause.

"Oh. No. The seat. Who is it taken by?" I asked.

The lean man laughed. The other man took another bite.

"Honestly, you don't wanna find out."

I didn't leave.

A few seconds of chewing passed before the large man spoke.

"Wouldn't you rather nestle into that little spider nest with your kin?"

We glanced at the cluster of doppelgangers. Each wore a muted expression, docile and direct. I knew what to look for and caught the darts of warning flashing my way. 

"I can't," I said. 

The large man's head ticked my way again, then past me to study the other clones. His eyes narrowed, then he shook his head as if to let a concern go. He shrugged.

Taking this as some form of acquiescence, I set the tray down and sat beside him. He gave his head a resigned shake, then sawed off another bite of his steak ration.

I pinned the chicken to the plate with my fork and hefted my knife. It wasn't clone meat. It wasn't. Synthesized amino acid chains, algae-based, contributed most of the nutritional value. Synthetic flavoring. Coloring. No clone. 

I hesitated.

Something sharp pricked my neck and stayed there. 

"What's this, Rut?" a voice from behind me, probably a woman, a shorter one. The voice came from below my shoulder. The blade edge pressed in, and I felt my heartbeat pumping blood beneath it. one-two-three

"Dunno," the man on the left growled. "Needed a seat." He took an unhurried bite of food.

"Stupid spidey," she said. "That's Albie's seat."

"Albiiiie…" the man on the right said. "We talked about this."

"He's in my seat."

"Tried to warn him," Rut said, chewing.

"Right, so maybe you don't have to—" said the other man.

"Apologize," she said.

She pressed the knife a little closer. I felt a sting and a trickle of warmth run down my neck, chilling by the time it soaked into my collar.

I waited.

"It's my seat," the woman reiterated. Nothing on her face changed. She had simply stated a truth that I needed to know. "For the lunch hour. It's mine. Apologize."

The lean man stood up beside me.

"For Void's sake, Alb—"

"Shut up, Eiger!" she said. Flecks of her spit prickled the base of my skull.

"Go ahead," she said in my ear, "and apologize."

The blade edge pressed up, guiding me to stand. I stood, leaving my tray. She guided me back from the table and turned me around. 

She had a squashed body, wrapped in layers of frayed and discolored cloth. She strained upward to reach my neck. She had hard, round eyes, with cold irises of lavender. Cold, not angry. Not even impatient. She didn't blink. 

Another quiet, fierce thought woke in me. It uncoiled and wound its way down my spine and out to my limbs. 

I firmed up, then leaned in to press my throat against the blade. The stout woman's round eyes widened, and her nostrils flared. When I spoke, I felt the blade slide in the blood.

"It's my understanding that the unprovoked murder of a clone in this station would have severe consequences," I said. 

I realized that my body had started to shake. Blood leaked down to my collar in a tiny stream.

"Albie! Void sakes!" Eiger whispered. "You're gonna get us all red slips! And you're gonna get blood on my Void-damned food." 

My heartbeats pressed against the knife, then out of my artery and down my throat: one-two-three-four-five. 

"Anyway, he's new," Eiger continued.

"You don't know that," Albie said.

"Well, he ain't exactly complacent, and he ain't exactly dead..."

"Yet," Albie said.

Rutger humphed into his meal. 

"I'm just saying," Eiger went on. "You drain him here…"

I realized that many eyes had turned our way throughout the Commissary. It had grown quiet and still. No one intervened. They simply watched. Waited. 

Albie's hand trembled. The blade danced in the cut.

“Albie,” Rutger said, “let him go.”

"Not till he apologizes!"

"Now, please."

The pressure disappeared from my neck. I turned slowly to look at her.

The stout woman held her tray in both hands, stiff. An unblooded spork lay next to her CHICKEN. I never saw a knife. I took a few breaths to still myself. 

I picked up my tray, hands steady. Rutger and Eiger watched me, both tense, coiled. Albie looked away, tapping a foot. 

I took one step back and she brushed past me to the counter, hopping onto the stool.

I turned to go.

"Actually, I have a quick question," I said.

"Void, take me," Eiger whispered, head drooping. 

"-- Can't be serious," Albie started.

"I was assigned a defective exo-suit but won't have an officer to report it to until my first assignment. What should I do?" I asked.

I waited. 

A click of silverware. The swish of a tray across the counter. The creak of the stool. Rutger stood and stepped back to look up at me, appraising. His beard and hair were all the same length, a bushy black mass through which lips and eyes bulged. He only came up to my shoulder, but that didn't seem to matter. 

"What's your specialty?" he asked.

"Space stations, construction, repair, maintenance."

His eyes narrowed. 

"You arrived yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Travel alone?"

"Yes."

"Shiiiiiiit," Eiger whispered.

"What?" Albie asked.

"This is the clone that almost blew Kilkin to hell," he whispered to her. Not reverent, but not without a hint of respect.

Albie turned from her food to look at me again. It felt… strange. Different. As if I'd just walked into the room and saw someone she thought she recognized. The din of the Commissary had risen again. Life went on.

"Quartermaster," Rutger said, snapping my eyes from Albie.

"What?"

 "If you're on assignment tomorrow, you'll need a new suit tonight," Rutger said. "Go down to the Supply Depot and see the Quartermaster's staff. They'll find a better suit for you."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"I see. Thank you." 

I turned and left. Behind me, I heard Eiger start to speak.

"Hey, you don't think—"

“Shut up, Eiger,” Rutger said. 

Their voices faded into the background noise of the Commissary, and I was alone. Collar damp with blood, I found it easier to maneuver through the silent mess hall.

Eventually, I found a corner that no one else wanted and ate standing up. I held the tray with one hand and hunched over my food in the shadows.

When I finished the meal, I leaned back against the wall and rested my long head against the frigid steel. The deep cold of outer space pressed against the walls of the Hub. In the dimness, I realized I stood in a trickle of light that didn't come from a poster. My eyes followed it up. A tiny porthole hung over my head, revealing a small, dense patch of stars.

I kept my eyes on it while I chewed, ignoring the bustle as it resumed, the posters as they flickered inane messages, and the ever-shifting eyes of the Commissary. 

~ To Be Continued ~