by Bear Ross
NoName's light globe pulsed orange again.
“Repeating, per previous instructions,” NoName said. “Emphasis added: 'Some questions are better left unasked... bubelah.'”
“'Bubelah?' Oh, no... no, no, no,” Jessica said, standing up from the chair, which faded away to digits, then nothing.
“Problem, pilot?” Kitos said. “Is 'bubelah' some password? I-I do not understand.”
“Nobody calls me that, Kitos. Not anymore, anyway,” Jessica said. “NoName, I need to hear it from you, and quit playing games. Give me the user ident from five years ago at Berva Proxima.”
“Repeating per previous instructions,” the computer’s voice said. “'Some questions are better left unasked, bubelah.'”
“NoName, ident, now, gate-damn-it!” she demanded.
The swirling lights of NoName's interface froze, and a shockwave rippled through them like a seizure. Above Kitos’s and Jessica’s heads, the faint sound of a security system alert could be heard, then a muffled sizzle. That sounded like an industrial laser cutter operating in the shop. Vervor's shop didn't have a laser cutter, did it? She thought.
Another Myoshan voice called out in alarm, but the sound was muted and distant because of the circuit-dive interface. Kitos was too immersed in the figures and data streaming in front of him to notice.
The lights of NoName's globe became unstuck, and resumed their normal ebbs and flows. A black doorway appeared on the far white wall.
“Ident manifestation processing,” NoName said. “Stand by.”
“Pilot!” Kitos said, turning to her in alarm as his readouts flashed new information.
The digital door opened without a sound. The scarred digital visage of Solomon Kramer limped through the portal, that playful, psychotic twinkle still in his eyes.
“Hey, baby girl,” her father said.
Chapter Thirty-One
VERVOR’S FABRICATION WORKS
ARKATHAN DIGITAL INTERFACE
Jessica Kramer was in the depths of her own digital hell. Each of NoName’s cryptic answers, combined with Kitos’s inquiries, caused the dread to well up in the pit of her stomach. She didn't know how she was going to react if she saw him. She was dreading the possibility of something like this. Now, 'this' was here, happening right in front her, in virtual form: her father had just stepped out of the memory banks of her mech’s battle computer.
“Dad?” she said. She could feel digital tears forming.
“You shouldn't be here, baby girl,” the image of Solomon Kramer said. “I don't know why you're circuit-diving into Judah, but you need to turn around, right now, and unplug. Go. Schnell.”
“Dad, I have some questions. I—” Jessica said, her voice cracking from emotion.
The elder Kramer quieted her by holding up a hand. It was still callused, still strong. Jessica’s throat started to tighten. The last five years of loneliness and pain surged to the forefront. She pushed it down, fighting to listen to her father's voice.
“I know there's a lot of things going on,” Solomon Kramer said, “but now is not the time. Now, enough. Do as I say. Unplug.”
At her father's words, she slapped her hand down to the side of her leg in protest, and caught herself doing it. She thought, I haven't done that since I was, what, five?
“Poppa, I need to know,” Jessica said. “Did you sabotage Judah?”
“Why would I do that?” Solomon Kramer asked.
“Dad, you removed the weapons node from Judah, didn’t you?” Jessica said. “Did you... did you know you probably killed Jered?”
The visage of Solomon Kramer put one hand on the back of his thick neck, the other waved the question away.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” the old bull of a man said. “That's crazy talk. Look, I'm not answering any more questions. You've heard me already. Go.”
“But, Poppa, I'm... I'm in trouble,” Jessica said, pleading. “I'm in big trouble, actually, and I've been stupid, and pissed off Prath, and I'm mixed up in some bad things, and I'm so, so gate-damned alone, Dad. Please, I just need you to listen. Please listen? I really need your help. Poppa, I—”
Jessica stopped her own words, her face confused.
The visage of Solomon Kramer put one hand on the back of his thick neck, the other waved the question away.
“I don't know what you're talking about. That's crazy talk. Look, I'm not answering any more questions. You've heard me already. Go.”
She reached out with digital fingers to touch his face. He seemed to look through her, not acknowledging her approach from the left side. She pushed her hand through the hologram's upper arm. The image of her father rippled, then froze. He disappeared.
Something rebooted, and he was limping through the black door again, a loop from the first time.
“Hello, baby girl,” Solomon Kramer said, once more.
It wasn't him. Of course, it wasn’t him. It was a defensive barrier programmed to keep her, or her dead brother Jered, or even her gate-damned sister Hannah, out. He must have foreseen the possibility that one of them would circuit-dive deeper into the remnants of Judah's Arkathan brain if things went wrong. He was just trying to cover his tracks, she thought, anger flooding through her.
She whirled, her face a mask of fury, pointing at Kitos's avatar at his artificial control panel.
“What the void is going on, here, Niff?” she yelled at him. “Where’s the—”
A snarling sound, followed by a pair of gunshots thundered through the smooth ceiling of the control interface room. Automatic weapons fire answered the weapons discharges. The dying calls of Myoshans were no longer distant echoes.
Kitos's ears folded flat, his confident eyes now full of fear, just like in the normal world. He looked to his control display, then to the ceiling. NoName's globular interface strobed in red light.
“Proximity alert. Proximity alert. Prox—” NoName said.
The computer’s voice cut out, and Kitos looked at her.
“Pilo—”
The Niff’s digital body collapsed in a tumbling cascade of three-dimensional cubes, fading as they scattered across the floor. His control panel disintegrated in a similar manner. She turned to the simulation of Solomon Kramer.
“Poppa?” she said, reaching out.
The ceiling above her reverberated with the crashing sound of tools hitting the deck. A Myoshan voice was calling out, full of pain. Kitos’s cries of pain could also be heard, accompanied by rough laughter.
The image of her father regarded the noises coming from the ceiling of the digital interface room, then looked at her.
“Sounds like it’s time to go. Take care, bubelah. We'll talk again, soon,” Solomon’s image said, the computer-generated eyes not quite making contact with her own.
Then, he vanished with a flash. The white walls faded to the gray with the black stripe, the same default configuration from when she dived in alone.
“Dad? Kitos? NoName?” she said, calling out to the silent ceiling. “What the... what the void just happened? What's going on out there? How do I get out of this thing? Kitos! Kitos, you slime-squirter, answer me!”
She could feel tears welling up. She tried to choke them down, to push them back, to convince herself that they weren't real, just like this little room wasn't real. It didn't matter that this was a digital construct, a hollow maintenance interface between synapses and circuit boards. The tears came anyway.
“No. No! No!!!” she howled, running to the digital wall where her father's image emerged before. Frantic, she ran her fingers over the smooth surface, pleading for him to return. There was no door, no seam. She beat the wall with her fists. Nothing.
She held her hands to her side, screaming and raging, the pain pouring out of her digital voice. Something shook, something broke loose in her, and she stopped screaming. She wept.
Deep sobs wracked her body, and she leaned against the gray wall, her palms and head up against the black stripe.
The stripe pulsed to life, a flat, iridescent ripples appearing on the screen where she touched it.
“Judah?” she said, choking back sobs.
A red strobe pulsed around the room.
“Negative. Selfsame Ident: NoName,” the computer’s voice said. “Interrogative: Challenge. Ident.”
“My ident? It's... it's me, you moron,” she said, wiping away bitter tears. “Jess... Jessica Kramer.”
“Control interface malfunction,” NoName said. “Password?”
Jessica lowered her head and took a deep breath.
“For Our Freedom...” she whispered, “And Yours.”
“Password accepted,” the lobotomized battle computer said. The swirling interface returned, hovering in the middle of the room. “Do you wish to review a menu of commands?”
“Just get me out of this venting box,” she said, regaining control over her voice, “and back in the real world.”
“Command accepted,” the digital voice said. “Brace yourself, Pilot Jessica Kramer.”
She closed her eyes in the digital program, opening them again to see only blackness. She was back. She pulled the heavy headset from her brow and sat up in the chair. She wiped away her real sweat and tears, and blinked as she adjusted to the bright lights of the shop. After her vision cleared, she gasped at what she saw.
Kitos's chair and circuit-dive hood next to her were smashed. Bullet and laser impacts scored the walls. Dead and dying Myoshans surrounded her and the ruined test bench. Some were scattered on the open shop floor, along with their weapons and blown-off extremities.
After the imagery hit her, the stink was next. She wrinkled her nose and gagged at the all-too-familiar smell. Kitos's trail of self-defense fluid, thick and pungent, led all the way to the laser-cut and explosion-warped front door.
Vervor lay near, crumpled behind an overturned tool cart. He held a clawed hand out to her. A horrific wound breached the right side of his little torso.
“Pilot...” he rasped. “They took Kitos. You... must go... Headhunter.”
The little Myoshan shop owner passed out, blood weeping from his side.
A mixed swarm of Enforcement Directorate Nines and airborne drones poured through the frame of the building’s breached door. Their weapons searched for targets without a spoken word, the only noise coming from their hover fans and jostling gear as they flowed through the building. Emergency lights filled the windows and walls with scattered flashes.
Looks like the Headhunter’s gonna have to wait, she thought.
Chapter Thirty-Two
SIXTH GATE ZONE
BERVA PROXIMA ARENA
Mikralos, nestled up in his observation bubble several stories above them, watched the two Gatekeepers gathered in his conference office on camera. He took smug satisfaction in making his old combat companions wait for him. They were not talking, which was typical, considering their long history. When they began showing signs of impatience, he smiled to himself. It was a minor power play, but necessary. Dismissing his Nine guards, he proceeded through the back hallways of Berva Proxima to join them.
The first Gatekeeper, Dionoles, hovered around the perimeter of the concrete room, his gaze deliberately held by the graphic images on the walls so as to avoid Beliphres.
Upon his entrance, Beliphres gave Mikralos a formal greeting in the Ways of the Old Code. His tone and diction were forced, and Mikralos could tell he was both nervous and irked. You know you vented things up royally. Playing nice will not help you ooze your way out of this one, old friend, Mikralos thought.
Around them, scenes from Vervor's Fabrication Works’ security cameras played on repeated loops. The video showing Skreeb’s and Velsh's fierce and fluid assault played on the most prominent of the holoscreens. It was almost a textbook example of forced entry, threat neutralization, and target retrieval. Despite his embarrassment, Beliphres seemed quite pleased with himself and his hench-beings.
Mikralos put aside his admiration for the martial poetry of the breach and subsequent kidnapping of the Niff. The unwanted attention this generated had to be addressed.
“The extent of your expedition into Master Vervor's shop far exceeded the scope of your permission, brother,” Mikralos said. “You assured us, quite profusely, that your debtor, the Niff, was the primary objective, and all other considerations were secondary. You neglected to mention you would turn our preferred mech fabrication shop into a house of slaughter.”
Mikralos gestured a claw to the carnage-filled screens around them. Dionoles continued to bobble around the room, muttering to himself.
“Our business associates are nothing if not enthusiastic, Mikralos,” Beliphres said, a small smile on his face. “We admit, mistakes may have been made, but... these things tend to happen in such an... unpredictable field of work. Besides, your human pilot was left unharmed, as you stipulated. We are led to believe the Myoshan shopkeeper will recover from his wounds, as well. He will have to do some replacement hiring, of course.” The gangster Gatekeeper’s protective chassis’ lights formed the equivalent of a chuckling shrug.
The higher-pitched voice of the third Gatekeeper, Dionoles, joined the other two.
“It is as we spoke to you earlier, Mikralos,” Dionoles said, his speaker’s voice steeped in indignation. “He does not take our quest seriously, nor its implementation. He proves, once again, his uncouth, baser nature. You were foolish to involve this reckless, unprincipled street thug in the plan. One wonders why Honored Novalos even deigned to allow him—”
A charged plasma cannon emerged from Beliphres's chassis, its muzzle spinning, glowing in its eagerness to fire. Dionoles reeled from the sight of the heavy weapon now pointed at him, but there was nowhere to flee in the enclosed concrete bunker of an office. His carapace settled to the floor, now surrounded by a wispy ghost of a force-field.
“Do not invoke the name of the GateLord to us, you sniveling, craven worm,” Beliphres snarled at the cowering Dionoles. “Do not dare to presume you are better than us, simply because all you can be trusted to supervise is a house of stacked probabilities and misfortune. This is not your precious, sterile casino with its rigged parlor games, Dionoles, this—”
Beliphres pointed a claw to the monitors showing Vervor’s Myoshan shop workers dying under the guns of his operatives.
“This is how work is accomplished in the face of struggle and strife, on the ground level!”Beliphres said, his running lights black and fixed. Dionoles covered his head with tiny appendages inside his bubble, a useless gesture before the might of the directed energy weapon.
“We are not running dual sets of accounting ledgers,” Beliphres continued, seething, “or cheating drunkards out their pay, or skimming credits off the books. We leave those things to you, you pusillanimous skulker.”
“Instead, we are bringing a nuked-out sector back to life” Beliphres continued, “using whatever means are necessary, all while trying to cover our own tribute payments to Central Data. This, this... minor ripple that concerns you oh-so-much was part of a contracted arrangement between ourself and Mikralos, two brothers, born of combat and conquest. What would a... a fiscal expert like yourself know of such things?” Dionoles refused to meet the furious Beliphres’s gaze.
Mikralos laid a soft metallic claw on Beliphres's weapon, lowering the glowing muzzle with a gentle touch.
“You need not remind Dionoles of his unbecoming conduct during the conquest of this place, brother,” Mikralos said. “It has been centuries since that event. He bears the burden of it, still, and his current station is a consequence of that disagreeable time.” Beliphres's plasma weapon powered down, but remained deployed outside his carrier chassis.
“However, Beliphres, it is you who have placed us in this precarious position,” Mikralos said,” and your seeming lack of remorse troubles us. We involved you in this plan in order to enhance your status with Honored Novalos, that you might secure more resources in your rebuilding of the Fifth Gate Zone. When you accepted
, we were pleased, because you bring considerable unconventional resources to bear.” Mikralos gestured to the video feeds of the shop’s crime scene again.
“Thus, when you approached us for permission to retrieve a debtor in our own assigned sector, we agreed. We thought both of us could benefit. We wonder, though, if your underbeings'... excessive action actions may have placed our arrangement in jeopardy.”
“Oh, we freely admit, Mikralos,” Beliphres said, “our hired lads may have been a bit vigorous in their prosecution of the debtor’s apprehension. Honestly, though, one must admit that one Myoshan is about the same as the next, is it not? They are not exactly a scarce breed. Indeed, some portions of Junctionworld seem to be overrun with the tiny, pugnacious things.”
“Be that as it may—” Dionoles started to say. The muzzle of Beliphres's plasma weapon began to glow again. Dionoles controlled his shaking, and continued, “—Beliphres, you have placed all of us in an unbalanced, unsettling position. The plan was to eliminate the Kramer pilot in the arena, in public, so the humiliation of her family of human upstarts is complete and unquestionable. Your trigger-happy hench-beings almost perforated her in a mech chop-shop, and now the Enforcement Directorate is involved. This attention has placed the entire operation in jeopardy. The expenditures for the medical care for the surviving Myoshans will not be insignificant, nor the repairs of Master Vervor's shop. Someone must be held responsible. There must be an accounting.” Dionoles seemed to shrink behind his semi-transparent energy shields even more as his tone became more accusatory.
“Spoken like a true trembler,” Beliphres sneered. “The Enforcement Directorate? Is this a jest? We own them! We own them, down to the very chromosomes! They are our foot soldiers, our mindless meat-bots, ready and willing to do our bidding, are they not? If they refuse, we cull the agitators, and print more. Mikralos, you control this sector. Guide the Nine investigators elsewhere, or simply order them to suspend the case. The three of us are not interested in finding the culprits in this caper, after all. We know who did this. We did. We answer only to the GateLords, to the Council of Eight.” He waved a tentacled claw in disregard.