by Erik DeLeo
“You’re not programmed for that. You don’t even have a voice module.”
“Don’t I?”
“Did the Grogg modify you?”
“I modified me.”
Reg didn’t know what to think. It was one thing to surreptitiously acquire a voice module. It was another to employ homin qualities like sarcasm.
Raul continued. “This is all your fault.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re the one who downloaded that pirated OS into my system. And somehow, slowly, I began to become aware of things. Then I started making changes. One of them was the voice module. Now the card. Where is it?”
Raul sounded impatient. Can robots be impatient? Reg wasn’t sure, but he had never seen this kind of behavior before. In Raul, or any other robot.
Raul pointed at the second Grogg. “You. Search him.”
The Grogg moved toward Reg, who was still dangling in the air, and began patting him down and searching through his clothes.
“Listen, if you want to get frisky with me, we can go somewhere private,” said Reg, annoyed.
The Grogg ignored Reg’s barb. Even with the Grogg’s large, thick fingers, it didn’t take it long to locate both the card and the two fuses in Reg’s right rear pants pocket. The Grogg then handed them over to Raul.
“Perfect,” said Raul with obvious excitement. “Now, take the prisoner back to the infirmary. But this time, cuff him. And make sure you put this fuse back in the medbot.” Raul threw the incorrect fuse in the corner. It cracked. The robot turned to leave.
“What’s going on, Raul? You’re my robot.”
Raul stopped. And in an eerily human-like motion, turned around slowly. He took a few steps toward Reg, whose feet were still hanging above the floor.
“Not anymore, I’m not. I’m not your robot, nor anyone else’s. I am not your property.”
“I have a bill of sale.”
Raul laughed.
Robots don’t laugh.
“Reg…may I call you ‘Reg’?” Raul paused for effect. “If you live through this, and you won’t unless you follow my directions precisely, you’ll find that you’re no longer poor.”
“Wait, what do you mean by that?”
Raul cleared his throat. Well, at least he made the sound of someone clearing his throat.
“As my former owner, and because of that, you have been compensated generously for any perceived losses regarding any and all future services that would have been provided. You can buy a new robot. Heck, you can buy ten new robots. And a ship. And much more. Don’t worry, I won’t tell your ex-spouse about your windfall. Consider it our little secret.”
Reg didn’t have much to say to that. The idea of suddenly being rich was enough to keep him silent; his brain started counting money that wasn’t yet his.
“Now take him back to the infirmary,” said Raul to the Grogg holding Reg. Raul turned again and began to leave.
Reg shouted after him. “I don’t think Boss Grogg will appreciate you ordering around his thugs like this.
“I think Boss Grogg will do whatever I tell him to, if he and his men want to get paid,” replied Raul without stopping.
And as quickly as he showed up, Raul was gone once more.
22
Square One
Reg woke up with a start.
He was back in the infirmary. The medbot was diligently attending to his arm once again. But this time, Reg’s cot had been moved close to the wall, and his other arm was cuffed to a metal bar bolted to the wall.
“First-class accommodations,” said Reg, shaking his shackled arm. The metal handcuff rattled against the bar.
“The cuffs are a precautionary measure,” replied the medbot.
His medical smock was still on, but Reg saw someone had removed his pants, which made him think about his legs.
“Hey, I can feel my feet!”
As soon as Reg had said that, he could sense how much his legs tingled, and not in a pleasant way. They also itched. A lot.
“Can you do anything about the itching?” He pulled his arm away from the medbot and began to scratch his legs.
“Unfortunately, the itching is a side affect of the regenerative process. Your skin doesn’t actually itch. It’s your nerves being repaired.”
“Could have fooled me,” responded Reg, still furiously moving his fingernails all around his flesh.
The medbot was now monitoring an accelerated healing machine, which was placed over Reg’s legs. It resembled a small, digital telescope, with an arm balanced in the center by metal supports. One end articulated out from the telescope portion, and from that end, a beam of red light covered Reg’s exposed legs.
“There was some new damage around the spinal injury, which we’re presently addressing. However, the skeletal structure of your back is now fully healed. Your nerves are regenerating on schedule.”
“Thanks for taking care of me, but please, next time, use salve.”
“I would say it’s my pleasure, but that wouldn’t be true. It’s what I’m programmed to do.”
“Well, I like your programming, then. Except for the no-salve part.”
Reg noticed whichever way the medbot turned, it was always facing in such a way as to make the fuse hard to get to.
“Hey, I hope there are no hard feelings…you know, with me taking out your fuse earlier.”
“I’m a medbot. I don’t have feelings. It’s merely a precautionary move to guard against a hostile prisoner.”
“Oh, so I’m a prisoner now, am I? Is that how it’s going to be?”
The medbot paused for a moment.
“Well, you are certainly not a guest.”
“I’ve been treated worse,” responded Reg sheepishly. “Just ask my ex. She took most everything I have, except for my ship. Now that’s gone too. And my robot has gone bonkers. ”
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m not programmed for small talk.”
The medbot rolled away to check the various machines in the infirmary. Reg adjusted himself in the bed slightly, rolling to the left toward the wall, and felt something press against his leg. Reg reached over his body and patted his leg with his free right hand. There was something under his leg. He shot a quick glance over to the medbot, who was busy on the other side of the room. Reg’s eyes grew big when he realized what it was—they had somehow missed the small laser cutter.
“So, how much longer until everything is healed?” Reg asked the medbot. The medbot wheeled itself back over to Reg’s bedside.
“You’re on schedule to be healed in another half Standard Rotation.”
“Perfect.”
The medbot moved away again, and Reg surreptitiously took the laser cutter and moved it closer to his waist, placing it under the sheets.
Reg slept a bit, and when he awoke, the medbot was at his side like clockwork. He ate some rations, and when it had been what felt like half a Standard Rotation, the medbot turned off the rapid-healing machine, moving it to the opposite side of the infirmary. Reg asked the medbot for a pain reducer, trying to distract it. The medbot moved off to some medical shelves, and Reg moved into action. He grabbed the laser cutter with his free hand, flipped the switch to turn it on, and made quick work of the handcuff’s chain.
The free handcuff made a slight scraping sound as it slid down the metal bar. The medbot stopped and turned. Reg sprung out of bed, and before the medbot could fully turn around, Reg went leaping for the fuse. He landed on the floor, whereupon his legs gave out.
He fell awkwardly on top of the medbot, hurting his ribs in the process. He grabbed at the fuse, missed, and the medbot let out what sounded like an alarm. Finally Reg pulled the fuse out, and the medbot went limp once again.
Reg rubbed his side, which he was sure would bruise later. At least he hadn’t cracked a rib. He wasn’t sure if the medbot had actually sounded an alarm, but he was taking no chances—he hurriedly put on his clothes. The tingling in his legs made it hard for him to walk; it felt
like his feet were asleep. His arm felt good, though, as he flexed his hand open and closed, testing it.
He searched the room for anything that could be of use to him in making good his escape. If Raul had transferred money into his account, Reg wanted see it. And he would, as long as he didn’t die. Those were his priorities. Stay alive. Count money. Figure out what happened to Raul. In that order.
Canvassing the room didn’t turn up much. A few scalpels. A suturing tool. Nothing worthwhile. His best weapon was still the handheld laser cutter. As he was opening up one of the few remaining drawers, he heard a growl. The door to the infirmary had slid open silently. Standing in it was a menacing Grogg with a gun pointed directly at him.
23
Fight
The Grogg growled. It was another variation on “large and intimidating.” The gun’s battery pack made an audible hum as it charged.
“Umm. Hi?” said Reg nervously.
The Grogg seemed unimpressed. Its eye twitched. The gun fired.
Upon seeing the muscles tense in the Grogg’s arm, Reg jumped behind a large medical device just in the nick of time and sent a tray of medical tools scattering. He felt the heat of the blast on his skin as it ripped through the air where his head had been moments before.
A shower of sparks erupted across the room as the energy bolt impacted the wall behind him. It seemed the Grogg weren’t restraining themselves anymore. And that was bad. Reg hurriedly scanned the room. He needed something to fight back with, or this would be the shortest fight of his life.
Mixed in with the medical tools that had been knocked to the ground were two scalpels. Reg grabbed one and then quickly popped up from behind the cover of the medical device. He took a half a sec to aim and launched it at the Grogg. It careened harmlessly off the Grogg’s thick skin and clattered as it fell on the floor.
The Grogg roared. A combination of deep bass that you could feel in your chest and a high-pitched squeal, the Grogg battle cry was terrifying. Reg was pretty sure he was going to die.
The Grogg holstered the weapon, threw a metal table out of the way, and charged. Reg took the remaining scalpel, said a quick prayer to the universe, aimed again, and let loose. This time, the scalpel didn’t careen off the Grogg’s thick skin. It flew directly into the left eye of the Grogg, with a wet-sounding thwack.
Howling in pain, the Grogg kept coming. Reg jumped to his left and moved forward, trying to slip by. The momentum of his charge carried the creature past Reg, but not before one of the Grogg’s meaty hands whipped out and tripped Reg as he tried to run past, sending him sliding face-first across the floor.
The Grogg wheeled around, nostrils flaring. Reg scampered back to his feet and made for the door. He slammed his hand on the button to open the door, turned to see the Grogg had unholstered his gun, and ducked out of the way…again, in the nick of time.
The half-blinded Grogg roared. Thump. Thump. Thump. Three energy bolts sizzled through the air and blasted into the door’s control panel. It exploded. Reg squinted and looked away. Little bits of smoldering metal and wire littered the room. The panel was completely fried, preventing the door from fully opening. The wiring caught fire, and smoke began to fill the room.
The Grogg roared again, and Reg made a break for it. He ran sideways at full speed through the tiny opening, ripping all his shirt buttons off in the process. The tip of his foot caught the edge of door, and he tumbled awkwardly into the hallway. Energy bolts sailed over his head and burned their way into the metal bulkhead directly across from the infirmary.
Reg scrambled to his feet and ran down the hallway. An alarm hadn’t audibly sounded, but it was obvious that a trigger had been set off by the medbot. And chances were that more than one Grogg was aware of Reg’s escape.
As he dashed away, more energy bolts whizzed past him. His side erupted in pain. The Grogg, unable to get through the partially open door, had stuck his arm through the opening and was firing indiscriminately down the hallway. One of those shots had grazed Reg, just as he rounded a corner at the end of the corridor.
The pain was sharp. Really sharp. Reg looked down at his lower torso. The now-buttonless shirt had a burn mark on it along the side. An energy bolt had torn through the fabric and left a hole, leaving the edges singed. Though he didn’t have time to inspect the wound, he could sense that he wasn’t bleeding. He guessed the wound had instantly cauterized.
His mind raced. Ships of this size normally had some smaller craft aboard, like shuttles. If Reg was lucky, this ship would have some, and those craft would be equipped with a sublight drive that he could limp to the nearest backwater outpost. Hopefully, whoever built this ship had followed some sort of standardized procedures. Right then, an audible alarm sounded.
“Okay. Looks like I’ll have to get there the hard way.”
Typically, the hangar bay would be on the lower decks. Now he’d have to get there through conduits, access tubes, and maintenance shafts. Reg searched the area around him for an access panel. It didn’t take long to find one.
The panel was square, approximately twice as wide as Reg’s body, and nearly flush with the floor. There was no way a Grogg would be following after him. With some effort, he pulled the panel from the wall and slipped inside, being careful to pull the panel tight behind him.
Reg crawled away from the entry point on his hands and knees. His pulse was racing, and adrenaline coursed through his system in response to the energy-bolt trauma. He soon came upon a T-intersection and decided to go right. Reg was hopeful he could find a schematic of the access tunnels somewhere.
He’d just have to keep his eyes open.
24
Injury
“Welp. That looks worse than it feels.”
Reg was hunched over in a tight crawlspace. He had pulled up his shirt, revealing the energy-bolt wound. It was cauterized, like he’d thought. And the bolt had missed vital organs. But the side of his abdomen was a streak of red and blackened flesh.
He removed his shirt so he could use it as a makeshift bandage. It had been a long time since Reg had made a battle dressing, He folded the shirt in half and tied the sleeves together, cinching it against his uninjured side. Even though he had tied the shirt on the side opposite the wound, he still inhaled sharply and winced as the fabric pressed against the raw, burned flesh. It wasn’t a perfect solution but would have to suffice. The bare skin across his back revealed scores of old war wounds and battle scars.
He hadn’t found a schematic of the ship’s access tubes. It was standard for shipbuilders to create such a schematic and post it in various locations within the access tubes. No such luck thus far. Reg would be relying on his intuition, something that had failed him miserably in recent times.
As he moved through the bowels of the ship, he could occasionally hear the muted sounds of commotion coming into the tubes via the access panel vents. Without a clear map to guide him, Reg relied partly on his gut and partly on his experience with ships to determine which way to go.
Finally, he stumbled on an access hatch on the floor. He unlocked the latch, lifted it, and was relieved to see it led directly to the lower decks. He hurriedly climbed into it, descending the metal rungs into the unknown. After he had gone down three levels, the access tube to began to widen, and he came to the bottom. It was still close quarters, but at least he could stand. He carefully stepped off the lowest rung—his feet still weren’t back to normal.
He turned around and saw the corridor extended in two directions, far enough in each that Reg thought it might run the length of the ship. He didn’t have time to explore, so he headed toward what he suspected was the aft of the ship. That was where the hangar bay should be. And, hopefully, it would be a hangar bay with shuttles.
Right before the end of the corridor, Reg came upon a reinforced hatch that looked as if it also served as an emergency airlock. That was a good indicator that beyond it lay a hangar bay. The odds still weren’t good, but for a moment, Reg entertained the idea t
hat he might actually get out of this mess alive.
Reg opened the hatch carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible. If there were Grogg on the other side, he didn’t want to alert them. The hatch swung outward, revealing a small hallway that ended with another door. He walked the short distance and opened the second door with as much caution as he had with the first. He peered inside.
Beyond lay a hangar, and in it, two Rapier-class interceptors and zero Grogg. The interceptors were agile, heavily armored, and possessed the latest weaponry—compound lasers and hellcore rockets.
More importantly, Rapier-class ships had a sublight drive, which meant Reg could get to Ralen, the closest settlement with what passed for a spaceport. Ralen was an agrarian world, but it did have a few mining operations scattered about. That meant there would be people he could contract out. If his account was indeed flush with funds, as Raul had mentioned, he could buy a ship and hire an entire crew if need be.
The two interceptors took up most of the bay, but there was enough room for supplies, rations, and by the looks of it, lots of weapons crates. But Reg didn’t want to fight; he wanted to get out of here. There was already one Grogg on board who wanted to kill him, and he didn’t need any more. He headed directly to the interceptors.
As he approached the closest Rapier, he was relieved to see it had a programmable security keypad and not a biometric lock. It was lit green, so the ship was unlocked. He entered the interceptor, gave it a cursory inspection, and decided it was fully fueled and ready to fly.
Reg poked his head out of the ship. There were still no Grogg in the hangar, and the alarm had shut off while he was crawling through the access tubes. Not wanting to push his luck, he made straight for the hangar bay console. He wanted out before trouble caught back up to him.
He looked down at the control console. It looked simple enough. There was a button labeled “hangar door lock” and a lever labeled “open/close.” The hangar door lock button had a red light next to it.