STAR HOUNDS -- OMNIBUS

by David Bischoff

He saw it not as some inspiration or mysterious apparition. He saw it as a wash of equations, a twisting helix of mathematics.

  However, the only thing the crew saw was a shock wave of hellfire filling their vu-screens. It was so bright that they all held their palms up defensively in a futile attempt to impede the blinding glare.

  “Insanity!” cried a voice from the ranks.

  “We’ll all die!” shrieked another.

  Brilliantine looked on, his rigid face obscuring all the anxiety that tormented the crew. But he waited for Zox’s orders. Seconds went by, so slowly it seemed as though time was coming to an end. Every moment the wave approached more closely. Brilliantine was a good soldier, but even he could bear it no longer.

  “Mon capitan!” cried Number One.

  But the objection never registered with Zox. A snap of neurons and all voices were finally still. All of them! Like the bliss of the meditation tanks, his mind was overtaken by the light and its fury.

  The sentient mind of Starship Prometheus then pointed his ship toward the destruction that he had sowed, the destruction that now bloomed toward him like the grasping claws of a vengeful new sun.

  Wasn’t it beautiful? thought Dr. Harla Zox, grinning amidst his own synapse arrays. He adjusted his vector straight for the heart, a maneuver never before attempted throughout the history of man. This was not the suicidal lurch of insanity but something greater, a calling of Prometheus, forged by fury and hate.

  They plunged into the unknown …

  Chapter Four

  So, there was this cherry tree …

  There it grew, arrayed in a nimbus of sunshine. A flag bearing thirteen stripes and stars fluttered in vesper breezes, and the sweet scent of fruit and honey filled the air.

  Then, suddenly, a heavily armored tank trundled up above the horizon, its antennae bristling as though it were a sea anemone. Within nanoseconds its turret whirred around, locked on to a target, shuddered faintly and fired. A ragged gash of blue-red energy pulsed from its gunmetal end, hissing through alien air. It connected with the base of the tree and—SLASH!—sliced though the soft wood like a Rigellan energy sword though Turg yogurt.

  The tree shivered.

  Then it fell over, dislodging hundreds of ripe cherries and thrashed its leafy way deep into the grass.

  The turret whisked around, and focused.

  “Well, I certainly didn’t cut THAT one down!” said Washington, looking through his binoculars.

  General George Washington always wondered about that cherry tree story. Now, though, he was more concerned about the kill tank than with his archaic reputation.

  He’d been stationed outside the Starbow’s defense perimeter by Dr. Mish. Not so much standing guard, per se. There wasn’t all that much to guard against, Dr. Mish had said. But robots had to have something to do, claimed Dr. Mish. Yes, they did, or they’d get rusty and break down, wouldn’t they?

  Upon hearing this, the young human named Calspar Shemzak laughed and then displayed to their group—consisting of Dr. Mish, Admiral Nelson, General Robert E. Lee and Julius Caesar—a picture showing a caricature of a robot. The fellow, Shemzak claimed, was the Tin Woodman from a movie called The Wizard of Oz. The robot stood frozen in a copse of trees as a young girl and a scarecrow capered up to him. “A rusty robot indeed,” said Cal. “Just needs a squirt or three from his oil can!”

  It was all very odd. A great deal had been odd of late for General George Washington, robotic simulacrum.

  Up until then he’d simply followed orders: done his job, hauled pi-merc loot, swabbed the deck. Whatever was asked of him. Now, though, he’d been troubled … troubled by unusual thoughts that manifested themselves from somewhere deep within. Their exact origin was a mystery. To him, anyway.

  The tank’s cannon turned crimson. Coughed. It wobbled and then it drew a bead.

  Aiming directly at General George Washington.

  The General stared right back, straight into the gun’s black bore. He had fought in many battles, in line with his historic namesake. He was also a proud and noble pi-merc simulacrum. He was a robot, after all, and robots had no fear.

  But that was the odd thing. Something strange trembled at the base of his neck. Something … uneasy.

  What was it?

  The tank rumbled. Jagged electricity trembled at the lip of its cannon. For a moment it flailed about, like crooked drool caught in a fitful wind.

  And then—General George Washington realized the significance of it all. Could it be? But even as he pondered its meaning, he knew he should not be feeling such …

  Fear.

  With an explosion, the bolt left the barrel of the gun. Like a demon arrow it raced toward General George Washington. The horizon melted. The Starbow, off to the left of him, danced a jig. A moon rose up from a frazzled horizon, bleeding. The smell of ozone and burning daffodils erupted all around.

  And then, the bolt struck.

  General George Washington woke up, expecting … well, if not death, at least some type of discontinuation. Oblivion. A smidgen of nothingness. After all, the bolt from the cannon of a huge tank, an alien behemoth of strange technology, had just potted him with all of its ample power.

  He should have been pulverized. Blown up. Incinerated into micro-particles of dust. Instead, General George Washington discovered himself blinking his optics with ferocious puzzlement.

  There before him was the frizzing landscape with its shifting chiaroscuro patterns; there was only Omega Space. And yes, there was the grounded Starbow, hulking up from its landing pad. Peering off to the left … no sign of a cherry tree. And further off to the extreme left there was no sign of the armored fighting tank, ready to fire or otherwise.

  General George Washington realized suddenly that he was sitting on the ground. He effortlessly rose, without even a whisper of servomotors. He examined himself. Yes, epaulets rested neatly on his shoulders, and his smooth white breaches, his boiled leather boots, his waistcoat, his fine woolen regimental coat—all seemed in place. And there, upon his head, was his dear, dear tri-cornered hat. What was odd, however, was that once more all seemed different in his head.

  A dream? A dream? Robots weren’t supposed to have dreams!

  He’d had a dream even though he knew he was a mere robot. Identity-matrix aside, there was a quadrant of his electronic brain that knew he was just a simulacrum of the original Washington composed of non-organic components. And he knew that robot simulacra did not dream.

  Something rippled. Something waffled and unpinned itself inside of him, slanting his point of view into a knotty manifestation of newly born self-awareness.

  Then, like a wisp of ghostly haze … it vanished.

  A tremble went through General George Washington, as though it were trying to eliminate his experience. He’d had it before. Deja vu.

  Something was struggling inside of him to become alive.

  And then, with a transfiguration of time and space, all seemed normal. It was as though nothing had ever happened to begin with.

  All at once, a communication rattled on his interior comband. “Unit 58, report!” came a voice in monotone staccato.

  Yes, General George Washington had always wondered about that cherry tree story. Now, though, he was more concerned about that tank than about any lingering remnants of his namesake’s historical reputation. He shook off the improbable dream. The strange cherry tree had disappeared and the robot had found itself once more in the strange and dreary landscape of Omega Space.

  And the tank. What had happened to the tank?

  “We repeat: Unit 58, report!” blared the inner voice again.

  “General George Washington,” said the robot. “Reporting.”

  A frisson passed through General George even as he reported his routine communication.

  Wait, he thought. It would be improper fo
r a robot to have frisson’s. Well, maybe General Lafayette suffered them …

  “We have not yet received your status report due at 4700 hours.”

  “Apologies, gentlemen. Unscheduled downtime.” Quickly, his oculars and the rest of his sensory array surveyed his immediate surroundings. “Nothing much to report. Events: static. Territory: as before.”

  “We’ve got some odd readings up here. And they seem to be emanating partially from your location.”

  “I repeat,” said General Washington. “At this time, I register nothing unusual at my station.”

  That was a lie. There was something going on inside of General Washington himself, something weird. But there was no way he could report on those events even if he wanted to. Sometime soon, perhaps, he would take Dr. Mish aside and discuss it. But now was not the time.

  “Very well. Stay alert and report on schedule.”

  “Yes.” He paused for a moment. “I would like to be relieved, when convenient.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No. However, I am uncertain about some readings from my forward ancillary sensors, and would like to go off-line for more diagnostics.”

  “Very well. That could be why our sensors fluctuated.”

  “Yes. That indeed could be the case.”

  “We’ll send Unit 78 to relieve you at 4900.”

  “I roger that, and am indebted to you, good sir.”

  General George Washington straightened up and performed a quick survey of himself and his surroundings. What could be happening? he wondered. What unimaginable internal changes are taking place? Within his core memory, anomalous concepts began emerging like bubbles atop a muddied puddle. Self-awareness … sentience … soul …

  And then, from out of nowhere, there came something quite extraordinary:

  “PREMONITION”

  As though drawn by a magnet, his face turned up to the frizzy gray sky of Omega Space. Somehow, he knew what was about to take place.

  And then a hole—one spanning infinitely more than mundane space and time—ripped through the fabric of reality like a surgeon’s knife engaged in a Caesarean section.

  Chapter Five

  The loud boom emanating from somewhere above distracted them for only a few brief moments. Everyone in the meeting peered up into the sky, but only Dr. Mish—Tars Northern’s physician, secretary, and general assistant—looked deeply troubled.

  “What is it?” asked Tars Northern, captain of the Starbow.

  “Uncertain,” Mish replied. “Just now … I had the oddest sensation, something I haven’t felt since I reunited with my … ”

  “Yes?”

  “—my … my Aspach brethren.”

  Northern glanced at the audience, then back at Mish. “What does that mean?”

  Mish looked to the side, disturbed. “I’m … uncertain. But let us not dwell upon it now, Captain. We should focus on the meeting at hand.”

  Mish was right. The meeting they were having was important. And negotiations with the Frin’ral were too critical to be derailed by something like strange sounds.

  Strange, however, was also a good description of the meeting. In fact, it might just have been one of the strangest meetings that Captain Tars Northern had ever been involved in.

  But then again, all of Northern’s meetings tended toward the unusual.

  “It’s very simple,” Northern said, feigning a casual mood to the Frin’ral leadership. “What we want is to get the hell out of this place.”

  The Frin’ral sat, placid. They always seemed calm and uncaring. Perhaps it was the non-confrontational state of affairs in Omega Space. Or maybe it was just that they weren’t overly concerned. Did it matter? The moods of the Frin’ral were sometimes hard to read for humans like Northern.

  Dr. Mish turned to Shontill. “So Shontill,” he said. “You’re a Frin’ral here in good standing.”

  “I … am,” intoned the alien. His face wiggled.

  “But you’ve also been aboard the Starbow, our ship, for a long time.”

  “Yes. That is true. You saved me. I searched for my people. And now I have found them here in Omega Space, where they had retreated from the forces of the Jaxdron.”

  Dr. Mish looked over to the Frin’ral and then back to Shontill. “Perhaps, Shontill, in that case you might explain why we’re having difficulties making our case at this moment.”

  “Right, old boy,” added Tars Northern. “We helped out. So why can’t you now get your people to help us?”

  Shontill’s face wavered. His body quivered with what seemed to be a Frin’ral version of a shrug.

  Northern leaned back in his form-fitting amoeboid chair and simply stared at him with a grimace pasted on his face. Things weren’t working out well. And without the aid of the Frin’ral, their chances of returning home seemed to shrink further away.

  Gods, he could use a drink!

  And not just sham-booze, either. What Tars needed was a good shot of pure Scotch. Yes, just the thing! Some strong single malt, tasting of the highlands and the heather …

  But no. He was off the bottle, leading a sober, happier, cleaner life. Maybe that was the problem, he thought, with this whole business. When he drank alcohol, there was some kind of metaphysical alchemy that occurred, one that connected him with some greater Self, a Self of power, a Self of decisiveness and brilliance. And that was the reason he was such a suitable captain for the remarkable starship called the Starbow. Well, for that and other reasons …

  Now, though, he was dry. Not because of Dr. Mish, who was his monitor, but because of himself.

  True, he felt better. He was exercising and eating well here on the seemingly infinite plain of Omega Space. His muscles were toning up, and he was sleeping well at night. But still, he was simply at a loss on how the hell he’d pulled off what he’d pulled off. Now he did not feel at all inspired with the flame of the cosmos. No, he felt like a normal human stuck in the middle of the sublimely abnormal.

  Shontill shivered a bit more, like a dog having just left the water, and then slowly reformed into the semblance of humanity that he’d established for his association with the crew of the Starbow.

  “Forgive me, Captain. Part of the difficulty is that I am not yet fully at peace with my people.” The alien sighed. A shift of mauve and gentle green passed over his face. “There are issues unresolved as of yet.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Northern in a soft voice. “I know those matters are of great importance to you. We’ve spent a long time with you and have learned much. You’ve given us a lot, Shontill.” His voice tightened. “However, you’ve got to make them understand us. You know our mission. And the mission of this crew is not being carried out here in a place other than … this nowhere reality that we’re stuck in.”

  Shontill nodded and glanced briefly at the members of his people. The Frin’ral, with their moist slimy features and almost-humanoid bodies. As a group they weren’t much to look at. But they were all that Northern and his crew had at that moment. Shontill would just have to do whatever he could with his members.

  Members? Yes, Northern thought. That was the word for it. They seemed to stick up from the ground like parts of an organism. Fingers? Toes? Tentacles? They wavered in place like spikes atop a sea urchin. Twenty, thirty, or perhaps even more? The thing was, you really couldn’t count them because the number seemed always to be changing. While there seemed to be just one during any single moment, a shift in Omega Space-Time could manifest three or four. Conversely, when there were five, they suddenly converged into one bulbous mass—or perhaps into a mass from which five sets of eyes stared out.

  It was queasy-making, to say the least.

  That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Often there were smells involved! From puckers and orifices and fissures, the creatures gave forth an array of gases. Not al
l seemed unpleasant, but there were enough obnoxious odors in the mix to give the miasma that they exuded a swampy texture. What could a human do other than endure? Occasional notes of cinnamon and raspberries passed the Captain’s attention. Or was that the bitter smell of hops? The thought of beer did little good to allay his simple desire for a drink.

  “I well know the mission of the Starbow,” pronounced Shontill in a droney approximation of a human voice. “It was a mission I supported for quite some time, a good mission. To combat an evil tyranny over a people, to oppose a malicious government that stains the galaxy—the government that controls your Federation.” He nodded. “But now that the primary threat is abated—and I speak of course of the Jaxdron—my primary mission here is to convince my people to emerge from their hideaway here in Omega Space and take their rightful place back in their own universe. This is no simple matter. I am not yet … assimilated. Indeed, I am excluded from major decisions. Still … this is my home now.”

  Northern could see signs of despair in Shontill. Old signs from his time on the Starbow, which made him worry that the creature was going to commit suicide. But as before, suicide having been averted when it had seemed imminent, he could be misreading the creature, and projecting his own troubled psyche onto Shontill. Maybe all his worry was for nothing. Northern couldn’t help himself. He was the Captain, after all. The welfare of Shontill, as with any member of his crew, was a matter of concern.

  He placed a comforting hand on Shontill’s back, patted it. “Just remember, fellow. Whatever happens here, you’ll still have a home aboard the Starbow.”

  Shontill looked at the starship Captain blankly. “I sense your sincerity, Tars Northern.”

  “So remember, when you get us out of here—you can always come with us.”

  “I wonder, Captain,” said Dr. Mish, “if that is the appropriate thing to say at this moment?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean—you hardly can comprehend a psychology that’s alien to you. Just because you find so much purpose and meaning in belonging to the Starbow community—and, I might add, in being its leader—doesn’t mean that Shontill does.”