by Tripp Ellis
“Do you think that's going to work?"
"Only one way to find out,” Matsuda said. “His neural processing core seems to be intact and undamaged. It's the power regulating chip that got fried, which is a pretty standard part.”
Matsuda replaced the circuit board, and rewired the battery connections. Once he reattached the body panels, he powered Winston on. The robot’s eyes came alive, and his appendages flexed, like an involuntary response. Winston stared like a zombie into space for a moment until his boot sequence completed. His eyes flicked from Matsuda to Max. “I see that the surgery was successful. I am relieved. I was worried about you.”
Max smiled at him. "I was worried about you too.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Matsuda asked.
“Two," Winston replied, correctly.
“Hold out both of your arms.”
Winston did as he asked.
“Open and close your hands.”
Winston's mechanical fingers extended and contracted. He appeared to be functioning properly.
Matsuda handed him a glass beaker.
Winston clasped it without shattering the glass. “My self diagnostics indicate that I am operating at full capacity—although my power management system is operating inefficiently, and my response time is slower than normal. Perhaps due to replaced circuit board. It's an older model. I'm also detecting irregularities in my power supply. Other than that, I'm fine."
“Is your memory intact?" Max asked. "Do you still have all of the incriminating data against Thornton?”
34
Winston searched his data storage device with a worried look on his face. “I have full access to my short and long-term memory. But I cannot seem to access my data storage. I'm sorry, but the data appears to be lost.”
Max frowned.
“I know this is a major disappointment to you." Max forced a smile. “No. The important thing is that you're alive.”
“As I’ve said before, I am not actually alive.”
“You know what I mean.” Max pondered the situation. Without any hard evidence, Thornton was going to get away with his weapons trafficking. Weapons of mass destruction would fall into the hands of terrorists, and countless innocent civilians could die. But Max wasn't about to let any of that happen. “Maybe the data is corrupted? Perhaps you just can't access it?” Max was hopeful.
Winston shrugged.
Max pulled her mobile from her pocket and called Dylan—a strange woman answered.
“I'm looking for Dylan," Max said. "Who is this?"
"It doesn't matter who this is. If you ever want to see Dylan alive again, you'll bring us the robot. You've got an hour to comply. If you've made copies of the robot’s data, Dylan dies.”
“What if I just take the robot straight to the FCIS?” Max was bluffing.
“You don't want to do that.”
“Why not? You, and your boss, and everyone else involved in this little scheme is going to go down.”
“Go ahead, do that—your boyfriend dies.”
“Whoever said he was my boyfriend?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I doubt you're going to let an innocent person go to the grave over a robot.”
“You clearly don't know the first thing about me," Max said. "If you did, you wouldn’t be threatening me. I'm the last person in the galaxy that you want to piss off. I mean, how many people did you send after me? At least a dozen? And what happened to them? Oh, yeah, that's right… they're all dead now. So why don’t you tell your boss that I'm coming for him. And if you ass-clowns hurt Dylan, I'm not just going to kill you, I'm going to make sure each and every last one of you knows the meaning of suffering."
There was a long pause. “Are you done talking tough?” the woman said. “Now it's my turn. Bring the robot to docking Bay 72. Come alone.” The woman chuckled. “You Ultra punks always were full of yourselves."
“You're the shooter. You killed Chace.”
Max could almost hear the woman grin. There was a silent acknowledgment.
“I'm looking forward to meeting you, face-to-face," the woman said. She ended the call.
Max didn't know who this woman was, or how she knew about project SW Ultra. She was probably some type of special forces. Max would find out soon enough.
“There's no harm in turning me over," Winston said. "Without my data, I am useless."
“Yeah, but they don’t know that,” Max said. "And I'm not handing you over to anybody."
“What are you planning on doing?" Winston asked.
“Just what I said I was going to do. They want a fight, they're going to get it.”
“You are in no condition," Matsuda said.
“Where's my pistol?"
Matsuda gave her a look like she was crazy. He shook his head and ambled to a drawer, pulling out her holster and Bösch-Hauer RK-229 pistol, as well as the Krüger-Schmitt P-385 pistol she had taken from the goon in the hotel suite. The Bösch-Hauer was empty, and the magazine for the Krüger-Schmitt was less than half-full.
Max strapped the holster around her waist, checked over the P-385, and holstered it. The 229 wasn't going to do her any good. She could set the 229’s plasma generator to overload and use the weapon as a time delayed grenade. But she wasn't exactly going into this thing with an awesome array of firepower. Outnumbered, outgunned, and in a weakened physical condition—in Max's mind, that was a level playing field.
Doctor Matsuda took a deep breath. He had a look on his face like he was about to do something he shouldn't. He ambled over to a medicine cabinet, grabbed a few vials and the injection gun, and strolled back to Max. He held up one of the vials and loaded it into the injector. “This is a local anesthetic. I can numb the area to the point you won't feel a thing. It should last a few hours.”
Max gave him a nod of approval, and Matsuda injected the anesthetic directly into the affected area. The initial shot stung like hell, but soon, her entire thoracic cavity grew numb.
Matsuda held up another vile. “This one is a neuro-stimulant. You’ll have more energy, quicker reaction times, and enhanced endurance. But the crash is severe.”
“How long will it last?”
“An hour. Maybe two?”
“And what's the crash like?"
“Brain fog, lethargy, poor neuromuscular coordination. You'll be worthless."
“Well, I better get this over with quick, then.”
Matsuda injected Max. A warm tingling sensation flowed through her body. It ran down her arms and legs and extended to the tips of her fingers and toes. Max already had enhanced reflexes, superior strength and endurance, and increased visual acuity—but this drug was insane. It gave her laser-like focus. It was like somebody had turned up the detail on every aspect of life. She could read the serial number on a piece of equipment from across the room. It was like she had mainlined a pot of coffee. But this was all going to come at a price.
“I got something else you might find useful,” Matsuda said.
35
Max slammed the magazine into the chamber, then pulled the slide back, loading the antique weapon. It was an old Bösch-Hauer .45mm pistol. It had been Matsuda’s father’s sidearm during the Second Galactic War. The good doctor had fired it a few times at the range since inheriting the weapon, and he had kept it in meticulous condition. It was clean and well oiled, and the ammunition was fresh. Matsuda liked to keep the weapon handy in case any of his clients got out of hand—he didn't strictly make a living treating dogs and cats. On Orion Station, there was a large underground market for medical care among organized crime types. They couldn't exactly walk into a legitimate med center with a plasma wound without getting asked a ton of unwanted questions.
It wasn’t a plasma pistol, but a .45 caliber handgun still packed a hell of a punch. And Max was happy to have received it from Matsuda. This particular model held 17 in the magazine, and one in the pipe. Max had two extra magazines. That was potentially 52 bad gu
ys she could take out.
Max had snaked her way through a cramped air duct that led to docking Bay 72. It was a cavernous space with a flight deck large enough to accommodate a medium-sized transport. It was several stories high, and the length of a football field. An electromagnetically shielded portal remained open to space, offering an up close and personal view of the cosmos. Cargo containers and storage crates were stacked atop one another, forming dozens of rows. Several of Thornton's goons were stationed at various positions throughout the compartment. A small dropship was on the flight deck. It looked prepped and ready to go, in case of emergency.
The space was dimly lit. Work crews had long clocked out for the day, and the high-powered stadium lights were off. Instead, the area was lit by smaller sconces affixed to the bulkheads. They didn't have a lot of throw and left the majority of the bay in darkness. Aisles in between the crates and containers were bathed in shadow—plenty of space to move about undetected.
With eyes like a hawk, Max could see Thornton standing by the dropship, along with Dylan, who was bound and gagged. Max was going to have to get through a dozen goons to get to Dylan.
Winston was behind her in the shaft.
Max holstered the .45 pistol. Then she pried open the vent to the air shaft, careful not to make a sound and give away her position. Once she had removed the vent from its attachments, she pulled it back into the shaft and set it aside. She inched her head out of the passageway. She was two stories above the deck. She reached out and grabbed a maintenance rung affixed to the bulkhead, and pulled herself out of the narrow shaft. “Try not to make too much noise,” she whispered to Winston.
“I won't make a sound.”
Max dangled above the deck, and used the rungs to lower herself down without making a sound.
Max crept through the shadows like a phantom. The light from one of the bulkhead sconces glimmered off the razor-sharp blade of the surgical scalpel she had taken from Matsuda’s operating room. It was a tool that had been used countless times to save lives. Now, Max was going to use it to take them.
She crept up behind one of the goons as he guarded the area with a plasma rifle. In a flash, the palm of Max’s hand wrapped around his mouth, while the blade pressed against his neck. A quick slice opened his flesh, and rivers of blood poured from his carotid arteries. Max kept any sound from escaping his lips as his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground. He gurgled slightly, then the last breath slipped from his lungs. A pool of blood oozed onto the deck, surrounding his carcass.
Max reached down and grabbed his plasma rifle and slung the strap over her shoulder. She slipped back into the shadows and slid between two massive crates. She waited for a guard to stroll past and eased into the aisle behind him. She tiptoed through the darkness, like a cat stalking its prey. Another glimmer of light flickered across the razor-sharp blade. Crimson blood flowed as Max severed arteries. Another goon went down.
But another guard saw her.
A flurry of plasma bolts streaked in her direction. Max ducked for cover behind one of the containers and returned fire. The goon’s head exploded, slathering a container with gooey chunks of charred flesh.
So much for the element of surprise.
Thornton's men converged on Max's position. More plasma bolts blazed at her from across a clearing. Max ducked behind a crate for cover. Sparks showered as the projectiles impacted the crate, leaving charred, smoldering pits. Wisps of smoke wafted into the air. Max angled the barrel of her newly acquired plasma rifle around the corner of the crate and unleashed a torrent of weapons fire. The gleaming projectiles raced across the compartment, incinerating an attacker.
Two more scurried down the aisle across from her. A chaotic flurry of plasma bolts erupted. Sizzling beams blazed inches away from Max. She lined the creeps up in the reticle of her sights and squeezed the trigger. Two more bodies hit the deck.
Max—5, bad guys—0.
A goon atop one of the containers blasted at her.
Max angled her weapon up and fired two shots, piercing the man's chest. He tumbled forward and cracked the deck, snapping his neck on impact.
Another attacker rounded the corner at the end of the aisle and opened fire.
Max tumbled to the ground, rolling to avoid the blistering projectiles whizzing all around her. She rolled onto her knee and brought the weapon into the firing position. With the quick squeeze of the trigger, several bolts raced down the aisle, dropping the assailant to the ground.
More plasma bolts rocketed at her from behind. They lit up the containers around her, showering sparks.
Max spun around 180° and squeezed off several rounds, then slipped in between the containers, taking cover. Glowing plasma bolts blazed down the aisle. She angled her weapon around the container and squeezed off a few more rounds. Several more plasma bolts peppered the container she was hiding behind. She ducked back, avoiding the blasts.
Max edged around the corner and lined the creep up in her sights. A scorching exchange of weapons fire filled the aisle with chaos. A plasma bolt slammed into the barrel of Max's weapon, shredding it to pieces. The remains clattered to the deck in a twisted heap of smoldering debris. Blistering shrapnel tore into her hand and face.
Goddamnit! The old scars were just starting to heal, Max thought.
36
Max's flesh crackled and popped from the heat, like a steak on the grill. Wisps of smoke wafted from her flesh—a shard of scalding metal embedded into the fleshy pad between her thumb and forefinger. The pain radiated up her arm. Another piece had punctured her cheek, and she could feel the tip of it scratching against the enamel of her molars.
The first rule of shrapnel wounds is to leave them in place until you can get to a proper medical facility. Sometimes the embedded object is the only thing keeping you alive. But, for the most part, the heat tends to cauterize the wound and prevent excessive bleeding. Right now, Max just wanted these blistering pieces of metal out of her skin. But that was going to have to wait. It was time for a little payback.
Max unholstered the .45 caliber pistol and angled the barrel around the corner of the container. She hadn’t fired a weapon's like this in a long time. She waited for the thug to pop his head around the corner, then lined him up in her sights. Her finger squeezed the trigger. It was a heavier draw than a standard plasma pistol, or rifle. The hammer slammed down, capping off a round. Muzzle flash lit up her face. Smoke wafted from the end of the barrel as the old-fashioned copper round rocketed down the aisle. The thunderous boom echoed off the bulkheads, and the recoil kicked the weapon back, angling her arm up a few degrees. The blast was so loud, her ears instantly rang. The energy of the weapon filled her entire body. It felt good to squeeze the trigger. It felt even better to watch the goon’s head splatter, leaving a crimson mist hanging in the air. His body flopped to the deck, and pinkish-grey chunks of his brain dripped down a nearby container.
Max liked this weapon. She liked it a lot.
She used her shirtsleeve as a pad to grasp the stinging shrapnel and yank it from her hand. Her jaw clenched as the pain shot up her arm. Then she pulled the other piece from her cheek. The bloody fragments of metal clattered as she tossed them on the deck.
Max climbed up a stack of cargo containers to get a better view of the area. It hurt like hell to grip anything with her hand, but she muscled through it, shoving the pain into the far corner of her mind. She much preferred to fight from the high ground.
Several thugs approached from various rows, showering steady streams of plasma bolts in her direction. She crouched low as the plasma bolts zipped overhead. The elevation made her a difficult target, with the rim of the container offering a degree of protection.
She angled over the edge and squeezed the trigger.
BAM!
BAM!
BAM!
Another deafening cacophony of sound emanated from the weapon. Another one of Thornton's men lay flat on the deck, oozing blood from a fatal gunshot wound. His che
st turned into ground hamburger meat by the hollow-point copper bullet.
Max rolled to the other side of the container and took aim at another goon that was approaching up the aisle. Max squeezed off another several rounds. The sharp smell of gunpowder filled her nose. The ringing in her ears grew louder. Shell casings pinged off the deck below. The bullets peppered the assailant, stopping his forward progression. This weapon definitely had old-school charm. She could see why some special forces units preferred them to plasma weapons. The only drawback was that she was less accurate on the second and third shots when fired in quick succession due to the recoil of the pistol.
The weapon had a big unmistakable bang that struck fear into the hearts of the enemy. There was something raw and primitive about it. She felt like a predator in the jungle, stalking its prey.
Another flurry of plasma bolts streamed past her.
Max angled her weapon around and took aim at her new attacker. She blasted off another double tap—the slide locked forward on the weapon—the magazine empty.
It didn't matter much. Her attacker was writhing on the deck with a sucking chest wound. He suffocated in a matter of moments, drowning in his own blood that was gurgling in his throat.
Max pressed the mag release button, dropped the magazine out, and smacked in another one. She pulled the slide back, loading another round into the chamber. 17 round magazines were a little limiting. They were a far cry from the higher capacity magazines of plasma rifles. The weapon definitely had logistical shortcomings, but so far it hadn’t been much of an issue. Perhaps the novelty would wear off after a while.
Max cautiously climbed to her feet, scanning the area. Bodies lay strewn about, and a disconcerting quiet filled the chamber. There were no more blazing beams of plasma. No more goons were coming. Had she taken them all out?
She scanned the compartment, looking for Thornton and Dylan, but from this angle it was hard to see. And her enhanced vision seemed to be dulling. Her muscles went weak, and her energy level plummeted. Her head throbbed, and her pulse pounded in her ears. It was some kind of wicked crazy hangover. Max couldn't figure out what was happening, then she remembered Matsuda’s admonition—the injection he had given her was wearing off.