by Isaac Hooke
She heard intermittent clangs above as individuals shoved off or landed against different bulkheads or floor panels. She did not hear any voices, of course—Targon would be wearing his spacesuit, as would any members of the boarding party, if they were human anyway. She wasn’t sure what the protocol would be if the customs personnel were robots, as Horatio was required to wear a suit when transferring between vessels after all. But even if they were unsuited, their voices would have to be transmitted over a comm channel for Targon to hear in his helmet.
She heard nothing for several moments. Then a distant tapping sounded… a repeated staccato, like that of gloved fingers probing somewhere nearby. The sound gradually increased in volume, as if the customs official responsible was slowly getting closer, tapping his, her, or its fingers across the different deck panels.
If she had a human heart, it would have been beating faster. As it was, Rhea couldn’t help the increase in her breathing.
I’m going to be discovered.
She twisted the righthand glove of her spacesuit, opening it. As soon as the seal was broken, her suit’s internal life support system deactivated. She removed the glove and let it float beside her. She did the same with the lefthand glove.
She did this to expose the Ban’Shar, so that if she had to activate the knuckles, she wouldn’t needlessly destroy the gloves in the process.
The intermittent taps continued until they seemed to be coming from directly above her. She had the impression the customs official was trying to discern if the deck was hollow. Then the tapping ceased entirely.
Rhea froze, preparing for the worst. She held her breath. Silence never seemed so loud.
The tense moments ticked past.
One second.
Two.
Three.
And then the tapping came again, sounding softer. It continued to recede in volume—evidently, the customs official had moved on.
She exhaled in relief.
But then a loud thud came from directly above. She activated her LIDAR and white polygons outlined the alcove. A portion of the metal sheet over her head had bent inward, forming fingerlike depressions where strong digits had wrapped into the panel. Apparently at least one of the customs officials had remained behind, and it was a robot, judging from its strength.
The panel jerked upward violently, and she found herself gazing into the featureless face of a machine, as she had guessed. It was only inches from her own. And it was wearing a space suit.
Instinctively her hand shot up. She smashed through the glass composite of its faceplate and wrapped her fingers around its head. She squeezed, hard, and considered crushing its face in her grip, but something stopped her.
She hadn’t realized it, but apparently she’d authorized the release of nano machines well before she raised her hand, because they began flowing from her fingers and onto that metallic head an instant later.
The robot apparently didn’t have weaponry built into its forearms, because it drew a service pistol and attempted to point it down into the alcove at her, but she grabbed the weapon with her other hand and ripped it free.
Meanwhile, her nano machines crawled into its head via tiny openings: the vents comprising the mouth grill; the small gap between the antennae and the forehead.
She heard a muted clang as another robot shoved off from somewhere, likely toward her hiding place.
She threw the current robot back and it hurtled upward to strike the overhead hard. It repositioned its body, as if intending to shove off from the ceiling, but then it simply ceased moving and floated lifelessly in place. Her nano machines had taken effect.
She braced her body against the partitions of her alcove, ducking lower as she waited for the second robot to show itself.
The robot’s suited upper body floated past above her—it had its pistol pointed downward, into her hiding place.
She shoved off from the deck, activating the Ban’Shar knuckle in her left hand in disk mode to protect herself as the robot opened fire. She deactivated the Ban’Shar the instant before colliding with the robot, and gripped its gloved wrist, forcing the aim of the pistol aside.
At the same time her other hand shot up and she punched it through the faceplate. As with the first robot, the nano machines were already waiting on her fingers, and they swarmed the head, entering through the gaps and vents in the metallic skin.
As the robot struggled in her grasp, she spun her gaze about, searching for other opponents, prepared to use the machine as a shield against any customs officials that remained. She was also ready to activate her Ban’Shar. But the corridor proved empty save for Targon, who watched next to the cockpit entrance—it appeared only these two had boarded.
The robot abruptly went still and floated lifelessly in her grasp. She released it, shoving it away from her. She floated backward until she rested against the bulkhead above her former alcove.
She reenabled her comm node.
“What did ye do?” Targon asked, jetting forward.
“There was just the two of them?” Rhea said.
“Just the two,” Targon agreed.
“Let the others out.”
Targon retrieved the necessary rod. “What have ye done? We’ll be hunted all the way to Mars now. And if we somehow manage to reach the planet, Martian security will destroy me engines before we can even land. This isn’t good. Not at all. We’ll have to surrender, ye know.”
Targon used the rod to open the remaining floor panels. The Wardenites activated their comm nodes as they emerged.
Will floated to one of the disabled robots. “What happened?”
“I introduced the robots to my nano machines when they discovered me,” she said.
He glanced at Targon and taunted: “Guess the anti-scan tech these drug smugglers of yours had wasn’t the best in the business after all. Which would explain why the ship was originally impounded.”
Targon conceded the point with a drop of the eyes and a quick nod.
“So, what now?” Renaldo said. “We can’t just leave orbit. Not with a pair of damaged customs robots aboard our vessel. More security vessels will be arriving soon to check on them. We’re going to be arrested.”
“We could run,” Brinks suggested. “Take shelter in the asteroids until we find a different ship.”
“They’ll outrun us,” Miles said.
Targon threw up his arms. “That’s it. I’m ruined.”
And then the robots shifted in their spacesuits.
Rhea spun toward them, prepared to attack again.
The robots turned their heads to her. The movements were synchronized, and almost… expectant.
“What can we do for you, Mistress?” one of the robots asked over an open channel.
Rhea cocked her head and couldn’t help a malicious grin. She looked at Will.
“Did you know this would happen?” Will asked.
“No,” she replied. “I was acting instinctively. Apparently, these nano machines have more abilities than I was aware of. Far more abilities.” She returned her attention to the robots. “Go back to your ship, and report back to your superiors.”
“What shall we say?” the same robot asked.
“Tell your superiors the cargo checks out,” Rhea said. “There are no stowaways aboard. The shuttle was merely delivering supplies. Himalayan sea salt. If they ask you why the delivery shuttle landed near the pipeline, you can say the owner is an ardent collector of light field volumes.” Those were recordings of three-dimensional space that captured all light coming into a given area, so that the scene could be faithfully reproduced in virtual reality. “And he wanted to augment his collection with a view from beneath the pipeline. If your superiors inquire about your faceplates, tell them they were accidentally damaged during exit, due to a pressure mismatch. You will delete the logs of this conversation.”
“Understood,” the robot said.
She added one final instruction. “Once you are aboard your ship, continue o
beying orders from your immediate superiors, until you hear from me again.”
She returned the pistol she had taken from the first robot and the two machines departed. The Wardenites flattened themselves against the bulkheads as the robots passed. It seemed obvious to Rhea that the men didn’t really trust them and didn’t want to allow the machines to get too close.
The hatch closed behind the robots and a moment later she felt the temporary vibrations as their craft broke away.
“Well, that was interesting,” Will said.
“You really think they’re going to follow through with what you told them?” Miles asked.
“Guess we’ll find out,” she replied to the albino. She glanced at Targon. “Set a course for Mars.”
She collected her gloves and entered the cargo hold. She set up her sleeping bag, securing it to the deck between the crates.
The others joined her and followed her example.
Targon jetted inside a short while later. “I set a course for Mars as ye asked. So far, customs is leaving us alone. Whatever ye did to those robots, it seems to be working.”
“Thanks for risking your neck for us,” Rhea told the man.
“And ye better not forget it, Warden!” Targon said. “I’ll be expecting ye to make up for this with many, many Robot Wars sessions.”
“I’m looking forward to it actually,” she said. “However, I have a request. While I’m okay with you recording all of our gaming sessions so you can stream them when you get back, I have to ask that you don’t rebroadcast what happened with the robots just now.”
Targon seemed hesitant. “But that was the best part!”
“Maybe,” she said. “But if people see that, a lot of them won’t understand. They’ll think I’m… I don’t know, an abomination. Dangerous.”
“Well, everyone knows ye are dangerous…” the merchant said. “Ye are the Warden, after all.”
“Please, do this for me,” she said. “I don’t want my enemies to know what I’m capable of.”
Targon sighed. “All right, all right, it’ll be our little secret. But ye are going to have to make up for it with some memorable Robot Wars games, I tell ye!”
“I will,” she promised.
“I want all of yer friends involved, too.” A gleam came to his eye as he ran his gaze across the Wardenites. “Fresh meat.”
“They’re looking forward to playing you,” she lied. “By the way, how did the other rebroadcasts go? You had quite a lot of footage from my last time aboard.”
“Went well,” Targon said. “I made a little money. Not as much as I was hoping, which explains why I’m still in the cargo hauling business. But it was decent. Enough to pay off a few of me monthly loan installments, anyway.”
“Good,” she said.
“So, when are we going to have our first game?” the merchant pressed.
“Later,” she said. “Let me get settled.”
“How about seven o’clock?” Targon asked. “Assuming we haven’t been reboarded by then.”
“We won’t be,” she replied. “And seven is fine.”
“Seven it is.”
“Excuse me,” Renaldo said, raising a tentative hand. “I don’t play VR games.”
“You’re going to play Robot Wars and like it, me boy!” Targon said. He nodded at Will. “Just ask Dirty Hair here.”
Will scowled. “Don’t call me Dirty Hair.”
Targon surveyed the Wardenites. “The entire bloody lot of ye are going to play. And if ye don’t, I’m spacing ye all.” With that, he jetted from the hold and the hatch closed.
“Is he always so… grumpy?” Renaldo asked.
“Only when he nearly loses his ship to customs,” she replied.
When he was gone, she removed her gloves again, and this time the arm assemblies of her suit as well, letting them float in front of her. Then she compared her bare forearms.
“What are you doing?” Will asked.
“Checking something.” She held her arms toward him. “Do you notice how my right forearm is slightly smaller, compared to the left? That’s because its material was used to create the nano machines that entered the robots.”
“Do the nano machines you gave up count toward your iteration limit?” Will asked. “As in, can you make more to replace them, along with the lost material in your forearm?”
“I believe the nano machines permanently integrated themselves with the robots’ AI cores,” she answered. “And thus destroyed themselves in the process. So in theory, those I gave up no longer count toward the iteration limit. But let’s find out.”
She tested the hypothesis by resting a hand on the bulkhead beside her and willing the nano machines to emerge. They did so and began collecting materials. Her forearm enlarged as nano machines returned with those materials, and the limb slowly returned to its previous girth. When her right forearm was the same size as the left, the nano machines abruptly ceased harvesting and retreated inside the vents in her metal skin.
She withdrew the hand, leaving behind a shallow imprint in the bulkhead.
“Theory proved,” she said.
“Your merchant friend isn’t going to be too happy when he sees you’ve left a handprint in his wall,” Will said.
“It’s not very deep,” Brinks said. “I’m sure the merchant won’t mind. He seems fond of the Warden.”
Rhea shrugged, then unstrapped herself from the deck. She repositioned a pile of crates in the zero G, securing them instead in front of the affected bulkhead so that the handprint was hidden from view.
She turned toward Will and smiled. “He can’t be angry about what he can’t see.”
8
Rhea got in trouble the next time Targon visited.
“Why are me crates moved?” the merchant asked. He promptly set about moving them back and discovered the handprint. “What’s this? Are ye eating up my hull with those metal insects of yours?”
“Sorry,” she said. “I wanted to check something.”
“Well, check it when ye are off me ship, please!” Targon said. “I’m granting ye a free ride, and yet ye go about disrespecting the very vessel that carries ye! Insufferable!”
“I’ll play you in Robot Wars now,” she said.
He opened mouth as if to continue to harangue, then his expression softened as the words registered. “Really? Ye intend to play now?”
“I do,” she said. “Let’s start it up!”
He clapped his hands together excitedly. “I’ll get it ready! Thank ye kindly, Warden.”
“We’re good then?” she asked.
“What?” Targon was already on the way out and paused to look over his shoulder at her. “Oh! Yes, yes, it’s just a tiny scratch. Easily repairable. I’m not too fussed about it.”
“You certainly seemed fussed a moment ago,” Miles commented.
Targon ignored him and jetted excitedly from the hold.
Rhea glanced at Will, who shrugged. “Don’t expect me to join you.”
“Come on, you can’t let me face him alone, not in the first game,” she said.
“Actually, I can,” Will said.
“Horatio, will you join me?” she pleaded.
“Of course I will,” Horatio said. “I’ve been pondering my defeat at his hands since our last voyage, and there are several new strategies I’d like to test.”
“Great!” Rhea said. “Anyone else?”
“I’ll give this game of yours a try,” Brinks said.
“I’ll have to pass,” Miles commented.
“Me too,” Renaldo told her. “Like I said, not a big VR gamer. I’m sure the merchant will force me to play eventually, but I’d rather delay that moment for as long as possible.”
“All right,” Rhea said.
And so she played Targon. The merchant teamed with Brinks, while Rhea paired with Horatio. It was one of the best games of her life, with a brilliant stratagem employed midway through by Horatio, but she still lost. It served as a bitter r
eminder that no matter how well-equipped she thought she might be, when she finally faced Khrusos, there was still a chance she might lose.
And so the days passed. She continued to play Robot Wars with Targon to make him happy. The others began to join in, finally caving under the constant goading of the merchant.
“You really think he’ll space me if I don’t play?” Renaldo asked.
“Doubt it,” Will replied. “But then again, you never really know with these merchant types. We’re in interplanetary space, after all. A lawless place. He could get away with it scot free.” Will was being sarcastic, but Renaldo seemed to take him literally, because the Wardenite joined in when Targon started the very next game.
While her days were devoted to the game, at least she had the nights to herself. Often, she couldn’t sleep, and simply stared at the ceiling. The game was partly responsible—it often put her in a hyperactive state—but nerves played a bigger role: what awaited her on Mars always loomed foremost in her thoughts.
During one of those sleepless nights, Horatio floated next to her sleeping bag and strapped himself to the deck.
She turned her head toward him, and said, with a volume loud enough only for his sensitive hearing: “How did you know I was awake?”
He matched her soft volume. “I could see your eyes open in the dark.” He paused. “Your play style has worsened these last few days. That first game you gave it your all. But not so much in subsequent sessions.”
“I’m too distracted,” she said. “I can’t get my mind off what lies ahead. I’m sorry, I’m not the best teammate to have in Robot Wars at the moment”
“Don’t be sorry, I’m sure it’s making our host happy,” he said. “Still, I can understand. You’re only human. Or your mind is, anyway.”
“Was that a compliment or an insult?” she asked.
“A little of both,” Horatio admitted. “You’ve come a long way… becoming so much more than the mind-wiped, helpless cyborg whose torso we found lying atop a rubble pile outside Rust Town.”
“I have, haven’t I?” She gazed at the virtual portrait she’d positioned on the overhead directly above: the heroic painting of her standing atop a bunch of dead Hydras. She’d set the portrait to glow so that she could see it regardless of the actual light levels: one of the benefits of AR tech.