The Hunt for Reduk Topa

by Barry J. Hutchison

  He looked across their faces. Miz, Tyrra, and Mech looked non-committal. Splurt, who was perched on Loren’s shoulder, looked positively crestfallen.

  “OK, good,” said Cal. He wasn’t entirely convinced by their reactions, but didn’t think it’d do much good to press the point. That’d only make them kill someone solely to annoy him. “Then let’s go do our thing.”

  He thrust a hand out in front of him, palm down. “Space Team!”

  The others all regarded his hand, then Mech snorted. “Yeah, that ain’t happening,” he said, walking off. Loren, Miz, and Tyrra started after him.

  “You’re seriously leaving me hanging here?” Cal called after them.

  “We’re delivering boxes,” Loren said, briefly glancing back over her shoulder. “We don’t really need a rallying cry.”

  “They’re not boxes, they’re crates!” Cal countered, his arm still raised.

  He was about to lower it again when a little green hand stretched over on a snaking, elongated arm and rested briefly on the back of his.

  “Thanks, buddy,” Cal said, then he hurried to catch up with the others, weaved past them, and took up his rightful place at the head of the procession.

  Beyond the forcefield, the figure still twirled around inside the hoop of a desk. Now that they were closer, Cal could see that it was definitely silver, and that it had more arms than he could count.

  OK, technically it probably only had six or seven arms, maybe eight at a push, but they moved constantly, and too quickly for Cal to be able to keep track.

  “We should probably let me do the talking,” Cal said.

  “Why?” asked Mech. “When has that ever been a good idea?”

  “Uh, since always,” Cal countered.

  “Bullshizz. No way. I’m doing the talking,” said Mech.

  “You can’t do the talking!”

  “Why can’t Mech do the talking?” Loren interjected.

  “Because that’s my thing! I do the talking!” Cal protested. “Mech does the engines and the, you know… I don’t want to say ‘robot stuff,’ but robot stuff. You do the flying, Miz does the violence and practiced indifference—”

  “Whatever.”

  “Splurt’s adorably psychotic, and I do the talking. That’s how it works!” Cal said.

  “What do I do?” asked Tyrra.

  “You stay quiet and don’t cause any trouble,” Cal told her. “I mean it, one strike and you’re out.”

  Tyrra flashed her teeth at him and snarled. Cal rose above it and led them up to the interior forcefield.

  Mech clenched his jaw and shook his head. “Fine. You do the talking,” he said, in the tone of someone who fully expected this to be a mistake. “But I ain’t bailing you out if you get in trouble.”

  “Ha! As if,” said Cal. “Trust me. I’ve got this.”

  He turned and mimed rapping his knuckles on the shimmering wall. “Knock knock!” he said, then he stepped through, smiled broadly, and was immediately shot in the chest.

  Twenty

  Fonk. That stung.

  Cal moved to sit up, but something wet and knobbly almost fell out of the ragged hole in his sternum, so he lay back down again.

  After some thought, he placed a hand over the knobbly thing and held it in.

  A metal hand caught him by the scruff of the neck and hurriedly dragged him back through the forcefield. Loren dropped to her knees beside him, both her and Splurt’s eyes wide with worry.

  “Cal! Cal! Can you hear me?”

  “L-Loren? Is that you?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper, his expression vague and glassy. He gave himself a shake. “Wait, no, I mean… T-Teela? Is that you?”

  His hand fumbled blindly for her face, but found a boob instead. She gave him the benefit of the doubt for the first five seconds, then slapped his hand away when he showed no intentions of moving it.

  “He’s fine,” she said, rocking back on her heels.

  “Huh? Where am I?” Cal blinked a few times, as if waking from a trance. “Oh, man. That hurt,” he groaned. “The getting shot thing, I mean, not you slapping me on the hand. Although, I’ll be honest, I can’t pretend that didn’t also sting.”

  He coughed quite violently, his whole body flopping around like a dying maggot as he spluttered and retched. After a bit of a struggle, he hacked up something brown and meaty and spat it onto the floor beside him. It wobbled in a way that would almost certainly have made his stomach turn, if he still had one.

  “Jesus. I doubt that thing’s ever supposed to be on the outside,” he mused, eyeing up the lumpy wad. “What the fonk shot me? Did anyone see?”

  “I’m pretty sure it was some kind of, like, gun thing,” said Miz.

  “Oh, really? You think so?” asked Cal, the pitch of his voice rising. He gestured to himself. “You think the thing that shot me could’ve been some kind of gun thing? Great deduction. Let’s go ahead and mark that case closed.”

  Miz shot Loren a sideways look. “Is he being a total shizznod right now?”

  “Pretty much,” said Loren.

  “Well, I am sorry,” said Cal. “But I’m kind of in a tremendous amount of pain here, and currently mourning the loss of…”

  He gestured to himself.

  “…this entire section of my body. So, you’ll forgive me if I come across as a tiny bit tetchy.”

  Miz rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

  Cal groaned. “I fonking knew we should’ve done the hands in a circle thing.”

  “It looks like an automated defense turret,” said Mech, with a glance through the shielding. “The thing that shot you, I mean. Targeted your ass the second you stepped through the shield.”

  Cal explored his chest wound with the tip of one finger. “Well, if it was aiming for my ass it needs some serious target practice.”

  He poked something squidgy that stuck up between two partially destroyed ribs. A gush of blood erupted like a miniature geyser from the same spot on the opposite side of his chest.

  Cal stopped prodding then and let his head fall back onto the floor with a clunk. “My God, this hurts.”

  “What does it feel like?” wondered Tyrra. She was standing on her tiptoes to see over Loren, staring at the wound in rapt fascination.

  “Like I’ve been shot in the chest by a big cannon,” said Cal.

  “No, but what is it like?” Tyrra pressed.

  Cal sighed. “Have you ever had really bad indigestion? Wait, no. Acid reflux? Have you ever had acid reflux?”

  Tyrra shook her head.

  “What am I saying? Of course you haven’t, you lucky bamstom. What are you, six? Trust me, it’ll strike one day, maybe years from now and ooh boy, then you’ll be…”

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Probably not the time. Just try to imagine that your insides are overflowing with stomach acid. Only instead of stomach acid, it’s liquid fire. And instead of a stomach, it’s a giant hole where your stomach used to be.” Cal wrinkled his nose. “It pretty much feels like that. Only, you know, several magnitudes worse.”

  He glanced down at himself, then up at Mech and Loren. “How does it look? Does it look bad?”

  “Well… you’ve looked better,” Loren confessed.

  “You’re basically a paste from your waist to your neck,” said Mech.

  “Shizz, that does sound bad. Is it at least a nice paste?” Cal asked.

  Mech had the decency to at least pretend to give this some thought.

  “No,” he said, after a show of consideration. “No, it ain’t.”

  Cal groaned. “Yeah. I thought not. It doesn’t look great from this angle, either. Still, on the bright side, you guys did want me to lose weight…”

  “That don’t count,” said Mech.

  “Totally counts,” Cal argued. “I am ripped. Ripped open, granted, but still ripped.”

  He raised a shaky hand and pointed to the cyborg. “OK, new plan. Mech, you do the talking. I’ll lie here for a few minutes and
regret my life choices.”

  “Great, so now I’m going to get shot at?” Mech said.

  “Quit whining, you big baby. You’re indestructible.”

  “What? No, I ain’t!”

  “You aren’t?” Cal asked. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fonking certain.”

  Cal pulled a ‘Well, I never,’ sort of face. “Huh. I did not know that,” he said, then he made a dismissive gesture with a blood-soaked hand. “Anyway, you’ll be fine. Just make sure you shoot first.”

  Loren raised an eyebrow. “What about making a good impression?”

  “Yeah, I think we can safely say that ship has sailed,” Cal said. “Anyway, we’re not going in and wrecking the joint, it’s self-defense. The turret shot me, we shoot the turret, we’re square, and we can get back to business.”

  Mech grunted. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

  “You can do it, big guy!” Cal called after him, as Mech padded toward the shielding. “I believe in you. You’re Han Solo, that thing’s Greedo, and this is the original edit before—In fact, know what? That’s too long and complex a metaphor, just go in there with your… aaaand, he’s gone.”

  From beyond the shield there came the sound of blaster fire, then of metal exploding.

  “Did he get it?” asked Cal. “I can’t sit up or everything will fall out. Did he get it?”

  The familiar clank of Mech’s footsteps came in reply. “Yeah. I got it. Y’all coming in, or what?”

  Cal beckoned to Splurt, who was still perched on Loren’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy. Can you come be my chest until I heal up? I wouldn’t normally ask, but…”

  He made a ta-daa gesture to his wound, like a game show host presenting the star prize. Splurt flopped down from Loren’s shoulder, landed on Cal’s face with a splat, then oozed down over his torso, becoming an exact match for Cal’s flesh tones.

  “Thanks, buddy,” Cal said. He gritted his teeth and hissed as Loren and Miz helped him up, but everything that was supposed to be inside him stayed there, so he marked it as a win.

  “OK,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “Let’s go show this fonk who he’s dealing with.”

  He led the way through the shield, glanced warily around to make sure nothing else was going to shoot at him, then marched toward the desk and the elegant silver figure twirling behind it. The blood-soaked remains of his t-shirt hung down from the bottom of his jacket, which was open and showed off his bare chest.

  Cal stopped a few feet from the desk and put his hands on his hips.

  “Hey, there,” he said. He’d chosen the perfect smile from his arsenal. It was six parts threatening to four parts friendly. It was designed to suggest that the next few minutes could go very well, or go very badly, with very little room for anything in between. “It seems we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

  Loren leaned in closer. “Cal.”

  “One sec, honey,” Cal said, adjusting his smile to a much warmer one for just a moment, then dialing it back to its former position. “See, I’m not sure if you noticed, but you shot me.”

  The figure behind the desk glanced at him as it spun, then did a double-take and regarded him with something like fascination on its smooth, liquid metal features.

  “Ah, that got your attention,” Cal said. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. It could be a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

  “Uh, hey, man,” Mech said.

  “Jesus, guys,” Cal whispered. “I’m trying to do business here. Could you give me one minute?”

  Loren leaned in on Cal’s other side. “It’s just…” She flicked her eyes to his chest.

  Cal looked down.

  He looked up.

  He looked down again.

  He was somewhat surprised to find himself the proud owner of an impressive pair of women’s breasts.

  “Uh…” he said, then he pulled his jacket over to hide his nipples. “Is it cold in here, or is just me?” he asked.

  “It’s just you,” Loren told him.

  “This is probably my fault,” Cal explained. “It’s a misunderstanding. Splurt does the mind-reading thing, and I was still thinking about…”

  His eyes went briefly to Loren’s chest, then he gave himself a shake. “Doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.” He zipped his jacket closed over his breasts, and got back down to business.

  “Sorry about that,” he began, then two doors flew open at either side of the sparsely-furnished room and a dozen men and women in uniforms rushed in, six from each side.

  Cal sighed. “God damn it, what now?”

  “Ah, security. Good,” said the figure behind the desk. The voice was male, and as smooth as his liquid metal surface. “Kindly remove these…” He waved one of his many arms. Every one of the hands held a round device like the one the map man had been carrying. Two thumbs on each hand swiped and tapped at the screens, never hesitating or pausing. “…interlopers.”

  “Yes, Controller,” two of the guards answered simultaneously, one on the left, one on the right.

  The Controller went back to spinning around inside his nest-like desk, his eyes flicking across all his screens in turn.

  The guards arrived in a clatter of rushing feet. They all wielded long metal rods, and as they raised them above their heads, they began to vibrate.

  “What the hell are they planning to do with those?” Cal wondered.

  The head guard on his left lunged and swung. Loren stopped him with a kick to the throat, then brought her leg back before driving it into his chest, propelling him backward into the rest of his squad.

  The head guard on the right was not so lucky.

  She roared as she threw herself at Mizette, baton clutched in both hands. Miz’s hand wrapped around the woman’s head, catching her in mid-flight. With a jerk, Miz raised her higher into the air, then introduced her to the floor half a second later with enough force to crack her armor open like an eggshell, and probably a number of bones with it.

  The next guard made contact with the vibrating baton, smashing it hard against Miz’s shoulder. Mizette’s jaw tightened and her hair stood on end, both of which only served to make her look larger and more terrifying. She slashed with her claws, severing the man’s arm below the elbow.

  “Like, ow!” she scowled at him, before Tyrra rammed the top of her head into the entirety of the man’s groin, and he went down in a mess of blood, tears, and regret.

  Back on Cal’s left, Loren dropped into a sweeping spin-kick, taking the legs out from under another of the guards. This one joined the other three she’d already dropped, and the movements of the fifth attacker became hesitant and less certain.

  She drove a finger strike into a seam of his armor, an elbow into his nose, and his testicles into his lower abdomen. This left only one guard on Loren’s side. He was larger than the others, but wiser, too. He’d seen which way the wind was blowing, and it wasn’t in a favorable direction.

  He passed the vibrating baton from hand to hand for a moment, sized Loren up, then jammed it against the side of his own head, instantly rendering himself unconscious.

  Cal turned to his right to see Miz slouching on one hip, picking bits of guard-flesh from under her fingernails. Tyrra stood beside her, growling down at the fallen security forces.

  “Like, what kept you?” Miz asked Loren.

  “Decided to go easy on them,” Loren said.

  One of the men at her feet groaned. She stomped down with the heel of her boot, silencing him.

  Loren shrugged. “Mostly.”

  “Nicely done, ladies,” Cal said.

  The doors opened again. Several more guards appeared. Cal approached the Controller’s desk and leaned on it. For the first time since they’d arrived, the silver figure seemed to be giving them his full, undivided attention.

  “You really want to do this again?” Cal asked. “How many security guys do you have? Because you’ve seen what three of us can do. How do you think your gu
ards are going to fare once me, the robot, and these babies get in on the act?”

  He gestured at his cleavage. The Controller regarded it briefly, but said nothing. The guards activated their batons and broke into a run.

  “Well, suit yourself,” said Cal, straightening. He reached for the zipper of his jacket. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  The footsteps clattered closer. Cal held the Controller’s gaze.

  At last, the silver figure relented.

  “That will be all,” he said. “Thank you, everyone, that will be all.”

  Both security teams clattered to a stop and lowered their weapons.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it. You guys do great work,” said the Controller. He pointed to one of the men at the front. “Rorn, looking good there, pal. Have you been working out?”

  “Yessir! Always, sir!”

  “Well, it shows. Maybe I’ll ditch my trainer and come to you for advice from now on.”

  Another arm gestured to a woman over on Cal’s right. “Ma-reese? How are the kids? Little Do-reese got those teeth yet?”

  “Almost, sir. They’re coming through now.”

  “Well, alright. Send her my love,” the Controller said. He gestured with all his arms at the pile of unconscious bodies on the floor. “Could you maybe…? And there are some parts you’re going to want to reattach before…”

  He nodded gratefully as the new security teams picked up the old security teams and carried them in opposite directions toward the doors.

  “Thank you. You guys are doing a great job,” the Controller said. “You make this place work!” he called after them, just before they finished filing out and the doors closed behind them. “They’re great. Aren’t they great?” he asked, turning to Cal and the others.

  His hands had gone back to work, his multitude of thumbs in constant motion again like they were living entities with their own free will.

  The Controller stood up. This was a slow, graceful process that made it look like he was a plant sprouting from inside a pot.

  When he had finished the standing process, he was a clear head taller than Mech, with most of his height in his spindly silver legs. He was substantially skinnier than Mech—he was substantially skinnier than Cal, in fact, even pre-boobs or travel weight—with his body really just acting as a sort of anchor point for all his arms.