by Nick Cole
But, here’s the thing about them all getting sick. Because of the copying issue, it seems the treatments are kind of like a cancer. They work, but… over time it’s caught up to them. By which I mean it’s slowly killing them. The docs have addressed that by administering cellular regeneratives, which hurt like a bitch, in order to restart their systems. Then they’ll be good to go until the next time. No telling how long. A year. A decade… a century? Nobody knows.
So, good news: [redacted] will be back in the field after he goes through the treatment process. Bad news: this will happen again. Probably lots of times. But on the bright side, if he ever goes rogue, without the project docs he’s gonna die eventually.
Oh, unrelated but are we playing a round this weekend? My calendar still says 0900 but I heard a rumor you and [redacted] were going to be off planet?
[redacted]
13
“Again?” asked G232 as it followed Rechs down the boarding ramp of the Obsidian Crow.
Rechs was jocked up in his Mark I armor and carrying at port arms a heavy automatic blaster cannon that was nearly three quarters his own height. It had a low cycle of fire but packed a powerful punch. He’d modified it to switch over to high cycle, but the barrel had a tendency to get too hot in that firing mode. Just in case, he had a backup barrel he could swap out if a firefight with station security erupted.
He was hoping that wouldn’t happen. Hoping he could get G232 in and out without detection. The war machines that did sentry duty for the station were designed to stand up to boarding parties using overpowered weapons with reckless and violent abandon. A typical salvage pirate tactic.
“Right now seems to be a good time to review our plan, Three-Two.”
“I understand, Captain,” said G232. “However, the plan is yours alone. I have lodged my disapproval for the record. And I assure you that my memory banks are not faulty. I can recall your plan with perfect clarity.”
Rechs grunted.
The pad was little more than a circle connected to one of the two main memory modules that were in constant motion across the rings. Gravity decking kept Rechs from flying away as the massive beam of the memory module traversed the station’s three interconnecting rings. The constantly interlocking and shifting machinery created a weird and unstable sight line if one relied on it for visual reference. It was like being inside an alien clock.
A blast door hissed open, and out rolled two massive war machines—sentry variants on the old light mech tanks that had been developed by the Repub Marines for ground assault support. They were like large, squat, gleaming metal giants, each rolling on three titanium omni-balls. The mechs’ optical sensors scanned the pad, panning back and forth as they approached Rechs and G232.
Rechs fought the urge to take a step back and assume a fighting stance. If anything, he should act a little frightened, a little uneasy right now. The arms of the mechs were mounted with linked N-50s, and with two of them coming out, it meant the station had sent a total of forty-eight heavy blasters to meet a simple maintenance crew.
When it came to protecting their secrets, the Republic wasn’t messing around.
Rechs approached the machines all the same.
“Proceed no farther!” warned the war machine on the right. “Biologics are not permitted off the pad.”
“Just making sure my repair unit makes it into the station. Been acting up lately,” said Rechs in a soothing tone, as though he were not holding his own death machine in his hands.
The blaster cannon didn’t go unnoticed by the bots.
“Why are you armed?”
Before Rechs could reply, the other machine said, “Your maintenance bot is a sub-performing unit for a critical repair order.”
Rechs’s bucket bobbed once as though he approved of both questions. He knew a few things about bot psychology, including that bots tended to react well to body language that reinforced the narrative one wanted to sell them. It was how they were programmed.
“Reports of salvage pirates,” said Rechs, unsure if he sounded tersely bored, or just terse. “And this one is all we had. Code said urgent so we came right out.”
“This one,” said one of the war machines in a hollow electronic rumble tinged with disdain. “Indeed.”
A one-legged circular bot bounced between the two war machines to arrive front and center. It barked something in Digita.
But G232 didn’t translate for the little bot. “This is the station major-domo,” G232 informed Rechs. “It is telling me that I should follow it to the repair station node, mas—”
Rechs held up his hand, cutting G232 off before he could finish saying the word “master.” That would’ve tipped the mechs off to the fact that he was a private owner instead of an authorized member of the government.
“Be quick about it, Oh-Eight,” growled Rechs. “I’m in a hurry.”
G232 looked quizzically at Rechs, haltingly blinking its optical sensors and clearly not remembering that they’d had to forge a new identity for it for the operation. So much for all G232’s talk about perfect recall of the plan.
Rechs nodded once, hoping that the gesture would somehow jar something within G232’s circuits and remind him that they were now supposed to be lying to the bots on the station. Rechs had had to refresh the bot on the concept of “lying” on the jump out. It had taken the better part of a day’s ship time. And it had been a long day at that.
“Oh, yes,” said G232. “That’s right. I am FRO8. That is my correct and valid identifier. I repair… er… things.”
Rechs moved his finger to the heavy blaster’s trigger, hoping that the mechs wouldn’t pick up on it and classify him as hostile.
“Gravometric compensators,” said Rechs in one last attempt to keep the deception going before he had to start blasting.
“Correct!” announced G232, subtly shuttering one optical assembly to let Rechs know that it was now engaging in lying. “Take me to your gravometric compensators!”
The bot made the demand with a confidence and exuberance no bot had likely ever exhibited in setting off to repair such a system.
The circular major-domo bot jumped, pivoted to a new course in midair, and came down with a shock-absorbed hiss that made the whole ball bounce up and down. Various lights and diagnostics blinked angrily across its arcane control interfaces. Then it once again spoke to G232 in Digita.
“It repeats that I should follow,” G232 translated.
As the station major-domo led away the admin bot, Rechs wondered how many minutes it would take for G232 to completely derail the whole plan. Which was an outcome Rechs had incorporated into his plan all along, if he was being honest with himself. He was prepared to blast his way in, hard-hack the memory cores, and get the files he needed, leaving smoking holes everywhere, and in everything.
Rechs was a realist.
But maybe the bot would surprise him.
14
Rechs hung out near the portside landing gear pretending to lock down a hydraulic line leak that didn’t actually need fixing. At first he half expected the two mechs to suddenly spool up their N-50s and start shooting at any moment. But as time passed, he began almost to believe it wouldn’t happen.
Until, after about twenty minutes of this, the mechs began to roll toward him.
As they crossed the slender bridge that connected the pad to the station, and their targeting lasers danced across Rechs’s ship, seeking him specifically under the shadows of the gear and the open hatch in the belly of the Crow, the bounty hunter decided G232 had finally done something that had tipped off the station that they were not a licensed and bonded Republic Navy repair team after all.
He pretended not to notice the mechs’ advance. “Lyra,” he said softly into his bucket’s comm.
“Here, Captain.”
“Deploy the ALM-108 anti-personnel gun. Target the wa
r machines and eliminate.”
There was a pause as a small hidden hatch popped open and a mounted heavy blaster drone dropped away.
“Engaging,” said Lyra dispassionately.
As Rechs reached for the heavy blaster he’d brought to the party, using the landing gear as cover, the ALM-108 targeted the leading mech and spat forth hot blaster fire like a stream of angry wasps.
Thirty-three blaster shots connected within seconds, smashing the war machine to pieces. Ceramic armor exploded in sudden sprays as internal components were shot through, lanced by gaping red holes of fused metal and circuits.
But still the thing stubbornly came on.
As Rechs steadied the barrel of his own weapon on the landing gear’s main pylon bracket, Lyra instructed the drone gun to intensify fire, targeting critical systems. The drone blaster complied, tearing away the leading war machine’s processor and optical units. And finally some kind of fatal error must have occurred within the thing’s runtime. All the blasters on one arm went off as the thing flailed wildly and died, sending a hot stream of blaster fire off into the galaxy.
The other war machine had taken this time to activate its powerful defensive screens. Rechs couldn’t help but think those should have already been up the moment the mechs’ processors decided to roll up on the Crow. A flaw in their programming.
Rechs sent forth a burst from his powerful heavy blaster, managing to put shots center mass and climbing to the right of the advancing killer mech’s torso. But every shot was deflected off into the nether by the defense screens.
Rechs pulled longer on the trigger with the next burst.
But now the bot was firing back. Bolts from all its heavy blasters smashed into the Crow in sudden sprays of sparks and electrical discharge explosions. Other bolts slammed into the deck of the landing pad and skipped off into space.
That could cause some real damage, thought Rechs. Maybe I should have put shields up myself.
Lyra retargeted the ship’s anti-personnel blaster and acquired the bot. A blur of hot fire spat forth, easily overpowering the defensive screen before scoring fatal internals. The bot exploded, and its head left a trail of smoke as it disappeared over the side of the pad.
“Combat units terminated,” Lyra said quietly—with just a small trace of pride in her voice.
“I’m going in,” said Rechs. He hefted the weapon off its steadied position and ran forward toward the station, boots pounding on the deck.
Unfortunately, the blast doors wouldn’t open. And the station’s shielding and heavy armor would prevent Rechs from blasting his way in. He ran back to the ship.
“Omni-cannon!”
The little Nubarian bot waiting inside the gun cupola blew a massive hole in both doors. Molten slag flung itself all over the bay, causing damage control alarms to wail as emergency lighting took over. It had been an overpowered shot, with energy from the engines rerouted to the weapon’s charging capacitors. The barrels of the omni-cannon smoked, sending vapor up into the atmospheric bubble.
It was a nice trick.
Rechs stepped gingerly through the hot gap in the doors, avoiding the still-molten metal at the edges. He was greeted by a surprised crew of variously configured damage control bots. He raked through their ranks, drawing a line of fire that cut each and every one of them down, flinging their spindly mechanical bodies in all directions across the pristinely maintained hangar.
“G232!” called Rechs over the comm.
He received no response.
“G232, come in!”
Two more war machines rolled into the bay from an access corridor that led deeper into the memory beam. The station’s automated AI was announcing that the facility was under attack.
No doubt, thought Rechs.
“If it’s a fight you want…” Rechs growled. He grabbed a pair of bot-poppers designed to stun and disable. The big mechs would require more than one.
The station AI announced, “Warning: self-destruct sequence initiated. Eight minutes to station self-destruct.”
“Great.” Rechs covered behind some kind of external maintenance vehicle and tossed the bot-poppers forward.
The war machines rolled over them just as they detonated. A soft crinkle sounded inside Rechs’s bucket as his own armor was disabled by the explosion. It rebooted only a second later.
The mechs, on the other hand, were now defenseless and struggling to come back online. That usually took these models at least forty-five seconds. In the interim, Rechs filled each hulking torso with blaster fire. With no return fire, he was able to target critical systems and hardware with precision accuracy.
Both were dead before their reboot cycle could complete.
Rechs scanned the area and found what he was looking for. A control panel that ran docking operations. It wasn’t everything, but it would give him access to the station’s systems.
He found the data socket and depressed a small panel on the side of his bucket. A moment later he had a fiber-wire connection and was interfacing with the station.
He scanned the station’s internal message files.
G232 was active and being taken to detention.
Rechs ran the map of the station and found where to intercept the security team escorting G232. Then he was running, heading deeper into the station.
“Warning: five minutes to station self-destruct.”
Less than a minute later and approaching from the rear down a softly blue-lit ceramic white corridor, Rechs fired at the four armed bots escorting G232.
He dusted the first machine on surprise alone.
Number two pivoted to engage, arming its deflectors as it did so. The other two machines continued their progress toward the detention center with their charge.
The absurdity of the machines making sure G232 was incarcerated even though the station was set to explode in the next few minutes wasn’t lost on Rechs. But the sizzling blaster bolts streaking by his head kept that thought in a recessed corner of his mind where it belonged.
Ducking into an alcove in the white ceramic wall, Rechs waited for a pause in the return fire. The second it came, he leaned out and opened up, flipping to full cycle. His blaster fire deflected off the bot’s screens, but finally punched through once the available energy could no longer handle the barrage. Seeing direct hits being scored, Rechs yanked the barrel up onto the bot’s processor housing and fired a nice short burst that tore the thing’s head off.
Then he ran past its immobile body in pursuit of G232.
Both the other armed bots now turned to fire while still moving backward in a continued withdrawal. The docile G232 wasn’t resisting them in the slightest.
“Warning: one minute to station self-destruct,” announced the automated AI calmly.
“Lyra, lift off.”
Rechs had eyes on G232. He connected via comm laser.
“G232, did you get the file?”
“Oh, yes, master. I did. But I’m afraid that in getting it I alerted them to the fact that you are my master. That seemed to make them suspicious. They threatened to end my runtime. So in an effort to avoid such a fate, I told them everything. I have failed you, master, and I am deeply sorry that your illustrious career is about to be blown to smithereens across this forsaken dust ring.”
Rechs fired hot short bursts into the retreating escort bots. His heavy blaster’s barrel was glowing red. It would be dangerous to fire much more with it.
“Three-Two,” began Rechs as he ducked into another data access alcove, closer now.
“Yes… Captain? I did get it right that time. For what remains of our runtime, I will never again make the same mistake.”
“Is there an escape pod near your location?” Rechs cast his weapon’s old barrel aside and slotted in the new one. The two bots were dispensing a storm of blaster fire across the corridor, centere
d on the walls surrounding the alcove. Massive glowing red smoking holes were chewed into every surface of the once-pristine corridor.
There was a slight pause before G232 replied. “Yes, master. Right across the corridor.”
“Good. Enter it now.”
“But master, I’m being escorted to prison!”
“They’re too busy to stop you!” Rechs screamed, unloosing another burst at the bots.
“Captain.” It was Lyra. “I’m detecting a surge in power to the station’s reactor. This is dangerous and will cause—”
“Lift off, Lyra! We’re ejecting in an escape pod. Get clear now or my ship is going to go up along with the station.”
Rechs slapped in a new charge pack, tapped it, and left the heavy blaster on over-cycle. He corner-peeked to make sure G232 had gotten to the escape pod. The bot had, and was waiting patiently inside for Rechs to join it.
“Warning: thirty seconds to station self-destruct,” announced the station AI calmly. “Please make sure to defragment and upload your last work to the station’s final packet transmission. It has been an honor serving with you all.”
Rechs popped out of the alcove—only to take a shot right in the chest plate. It felt like someone had swung a sledgehammer into his chest, and he was fairly sure his sternum was broken. His mind screamed in a primal fear—the fear that he couldn’t get air. But he knew better. His rational mind—and his many experiences of having been shot before—told him that he was, in fact, breathing.
It just didn’t feel like it.
He snapped off the mind-killing fear and engaged the bots, stumbling toward them as he unloaded with the cannon. Then he activated the armor’s personal shield, dropped his blaster to move more quickly, and ran.
The bots poured hot blue fire into the shield as he ran past them. Stumbled past them, really.