Hawk_Hand of the Machine

by Van Allen Plexico

  Outside stood Hawk—cleaned and pressed, too, it appeared—accompanied by a half-dozen of Condor’s brown-suited soldiers.

  Falcon raised one eyebrow at this sight. “Yeah?”

  “Time for dinner,” the other Hand told him. “Condor beckons us.”

  Falcon shrugged. “Lead on, then.”

  They made their way along endless corridors of dull gray, occasionally streaked with discoloration. Odd smells wafted through the air. In some areas, the lights flickered or didn’t work at all. Their boots encountered grainy deposits here and there, punctuated by sticky spots.

  “This vessel isn’t in the best of shape, to put it mildly,” Hawk said to the nearest soldier. “How long have you occupied it?”

  The man looked at him as they all walked and appeared to consider answering, but then turned his head back to the front as if he hadn’t heard the question.

  “We are Hands of the Machine!” growled Falcon in a slightly loud and very gruff voice. “You will answer him!”

  The soldier looked back at them again, and this time his face revealed severe conflict and consternation. Before Falcon could say anything further, however, the man replied in a shaky voice, “Nearly three years, Lord Hawk.”

  The two Hands exchanged knowing glances: This supposed Condor had allowed his ship to remain in such a state for that long? A proper Condor, Falcon knew, would have had the entire place scrubbed down so that even the rust spots shone within a week.

  And even beyond that, the soldiers themselves scarcely appeared to Falcon as proper servants of a Hand—certainly not a high-ranking Hand like Condor. Their uniforms were nice and fancy, sure; but one had but to look only a tiny way below the surface to realize they were nothing more than dressed-up mercenaries and pirates.

  But he looks like a Condor, right? Hawk managed to convey via the subtle movement code. You said we’re each made from the same template, over and over—so does this Condor physically look like the others—like he came from that template, that genetic sample?

  For the most part, Falcon replied. But there are little things. Things I didn’t notice at first, but which stand out now.

  At last they reached a broad, tall set of double-doors and, passing through, emerged into another long, high-ceilinged room. A long table filled the center and, at the far end, Condor stood from an ornate chair as they approached.

  “My new friends,” he greeted them as they were shown around the table to their places, on Condor’s either hand. “Fate has brought us together at this critical juncture, and I embrace you, my brothers, with open arms.” He raised a glass of something—wine, Falcon wondered? And then servants approached with full glasses for the two Hands.

  “A toast,” Condor went on, “to our successful alliance!”

  Hawk and Falcon glanced at one another, took the glasses, and all three of them drank.

  “By ‘critical juncture,’” Hawk said then, “I take it you mean the return of the Adversary.”

  Condor looked at him, a touch of confusion momentarily flickering across his features. He blinked and pursed his thin, bloodless lips.

  “The Adversary. Yes, of course,” the blond man said after a moment. “Yes, in part. That is certainly something that we must look into.” He smiled then. “But it is not the only situation that demands our attention.”

  Falcon contained a laugh. The guy clearly had no idea that the Adversary had returned—not until Hawk mentioned it. He started to communicate that to Hawk, then thought better of it and remained still, holding his half-empty glass and waiting.

  Condor gestured at them. “Please, have a seat, gentlemen. We will eat, and then I will lay out for you my vision of the galaxy that is to come.”

  This ought to be good, Falcon thought, settling into an ornately-carved wooden chair. He glanced over and saw that Hawk looked as if he was about to say something else, but then stopped himself. He’s learning quickly, Falcon thought. Especially when to keep his mouth shut. Maybe the kid’s not a complete impediment.

  Several courses were served, and Falcon was certain that he could identify only a small percentage of what he ate—but he didn’t let that stop him. He hadn’t eaten very well in a long time; wandering across mostly Medieval-tech worlds was not a lifestyle that lent itself to fine dining.

  As the last few of the plates were carried away, Condor favored them with another smile—a particularly reptilian smile, to Falcon’s thinking—and laid his hands flat on the table surface.

  “And now,” he said, “I’m sure you would both like to know more about what I have in mind.”

  “You mean other than absolute loyalty and obedience to the Machine?” Hawk asked—and as he did so, Falcon glanced over at him, only to see a sort of mischief dancing in the man’s eyes.

  Okay, Falcon thought. He knows what he’s doing now. That was deliberate.

  Condor frowned at Hawk.

  Hawk returned the look with an expression of utter innocence.

  Condor’s face darkened. A chill seemed to fill the room.

  “Why this pretense?” the blond man asked finally, breaking the tension. “You are both aware by now that the Machine exerts no hold over me.”

  Falcon snorted. “I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anyone left in the galaxy that cares about it, or even remembers it,” he muttered. “Aside from some very misguided inquisitors.”

  “The answer to that might well be, ‘No,’” Condor snapped. “As you two surely know very well, whatever peace exists today in this shattered galaxy is not enforced by some ancient computer mind. It’s enforced by people like you and me—free agents—those with the power to make a difference, and the willingness to use that power.”

  “I’ve been from one side of the galaxy to the other in the last thousand years, and I haven’t found much peace anywhere,” Falcon commented.

  “Precisely,” Condor stated.

  “Wait. Free agents?” Hawk asked, leaning forward. “You see us as free agents?”

  Condor smiled thinly. “Let us be candid with one another,” he said, sitting back, his blue eyes flickering from one of them to the other. He spread his hands wide. “Loyalty to the Machine was a fine thing, during the days it was reciprocated. But now—now it’s silent, perhaps dead and gone, and new forces must emerge to replace it. To fill the power vacuum.” He smiled.

  “You’re saying you feel no loyalty to the Machine any longer?” Hawk asked.

  “As if you two do,” Condor replied.

  Hawk and Falcon both frowned, then glanced at one another.

  “Oh, come now, gentlemen,” Condor said with a sly smile. “I understand what you are doing here—feeling me out, testing my reactions, my loyalties—making it seem as if you two are loyal soldiers and I might be some sort of rebel. But you have no secrets from me.” His gaze shifted from one of them to the other. “You cannot imagine that I did not have surveillance cameras in your quarters, or that I do not understand the secret movement code you have been employing.”

  Hawk looked to Falcon again, concerned.

  Falcon shrugged.

  “I suspected you’d see us,” the cyborg casually stated, “and figure out what we were saying.”

  “You did?” Hawk asked, still somewhat wide-eyed.

  “Sure. But I knew by then that Condor was a free agent, and wouldn’t be turning us in, any more than we would him. None of us feels any particular loyalty to the Machine—if it even exists anymore.”

  Condor’s smile widened.

  “Ah, wonderful. So we are, all three of us, free agents. And that gives me hope—hope that the three of us may yet salvage this relationship, and indeed make it into a profitable one for us all.” He spread his hands. “Being free, we are free to work together—to work for interests other than those laid down so very long ago by the Machine.”

  “Which interests would those be?” Hawk asked, still trying to get a handle on the situation.

  “He means our own interests, of course,”
answered Falcon.

  “Precisely,” said Condor.

  Hawk took this in, his dark eyes moving from Condor to Falcon.

  Condor watched him closely for a few moments as silence reigned. Then he turned toward Falcon.

  “I have to confess,” he said, “I wonder about your friend—about this Hawk.”

  “Why is that?” asked the cyborg.

  “He seems to lack a certain…enthusiasm.”

  Hawk stared back at Condor, still saying nothing.

  “Hawk is fine,” Falcon said. “Not a problem at all. Don’t concern yourself.”

  Condor turned back to stare at Hawk while continuing. “Are we certain his loyalties no longer lie with any other organization—or entity?”

  Falcon scoffed. “Hawk can’t even remember the Machine, much less be compelled by any leftover programming from it.”

  Condor nodded, then looked back sharply at Falcon.

  “What about you?”

  Falcon waved a dismissive hand.

  “Oh, I remember it very well.” He rubbed at his chin. “But like I said a minute ago, I’ve crossed the galaxy and back, and never once in all that time did I hear a peep from our old lord and master, the Machine.”

  Condor continued to stare at him for a few moments, then nodded. “Very well. The two of you only confirm what I have long suspected: that the Machine’s power and influence are virtually nil. Even if it still exists, it cannot control its main servants, the Hands, any longer. Thus we are free to do for ourselves, as we please.”

  He raised his right hand, palm upward.

  “And free to modify ourselves—to find new realms and reserves of power.”

  Suddenly rays of colorful light emerged from his hand as if shining directly up through the skin itself. The light grew in intensity, filling the room, becoming blinding, and shifting through all the colors of the spectrum before fading to nothingness.

  Condor lowered his hand. He looked at the other two as if expecting them to fall over in amazement.

  Falcon stifled a yawn, though he definitely took note of what he had just seen, and filed the information away for future reference.

  Hawk continued to look on in silence.

  Exhaling slowly, Condor appeared to accept that his demonstration had had little effect on the others. He sat back, regarding them through narrowed eyes.

  “That all sounds well and good,” Hawk said, speaking up at last. “But there’s one big problem.”

  “What do you mean?” Condor asked.

  “The Adversary has returned.”

  Condor’s eyes widened slightly. “You were serious about that?”

  “Very much so,” Hawk answered.

  Condor considered this for a few moments.

  “I cannot see how that is a concern of ours,” he said at length. “Even if it is true—even if the great Adversary has returned with his hordes of warriors—we three cannot begin to hold back such an assault.”

  “Not just the three of us,” Hawk agreed. “But with the Machine on our side—”

  “The Machine?” Condor all-but-shouted. “I thought we just agreed it’s asleep—or dead. Or whatever giant computer brains do when they wear out.”

  “Then maybe we will have to wake it up, or fix it.”

  “Whoa—wait a minute,” Condor said, his hand slicing through the air in front of him. “What exactly are you saying here?”

  “I’m saying that we will need the Machine,” Hawk replied, “and we will need it back at its full strength, functioning properly, coordinating attacks and defenses and creating new soldiers and ships and weapons.”

  Condor was still staring at him blankly, as if not remotely comprehending what he was talking about.

  “I told you,” Hawk continued, urgency creeping into his voice. “The Adversary has returned. You just saw one of their ships—fought it—saw how tough they are to kill. We have to prepare. Every resource must be marshaled.”

  Falcon eyed his comrade with curiosity. He’d heard Hawk’s tale about the black, insect-like creatures he’d fought upon awakening, but somehow it hadn’t seemed entirely real. This Condor, on the other hand—he was quite real, and quite dangerous. And Falcon could reach right out and touch him if he wanted to. This, to Falcon’s way of thinking, made Condor the more immediate threat—and thus that was where he was directing most of his concern and his attention.

  Condor’s puzzled look slowly transformed into a smile. He regarded Hawk with what looked to be barely-veiled contempt and condescension. “This is a big galaxy, my friend,” he said. “You say that the single warship we encountered earlier had some connection to the old Enemy. While this is good intelligence to have—if it proves true—and I appreciate you giving it to me…” He shrugged. “I find it difficult to believe that this foe represents such a clear and present threat to—”

  An alarm had begun to blare throughout the ship. Condor frowned and turned to one of his aides, demanding to know what the trouble was.

  “A squadron of spacecraft approaching fast,” the brown-uniformed woman replied, after listening to a voice over her earpiece.

  “Who are they?”

  “Unknown as of yet. But they are taking an attack vector in approach.”

  Condor at first appeared concerned, but then he looked back at Hawk and Falcon and his old, arrogant smile flashed across his face.

  “Gentlemen! Perhaps now you will have the opportunity to witness the effectiveness of my flagship’s weapons and defenses firsthand.”

  He stood, followed by the other two, and issued quick orders to the nearest crewman to take the food away and save it for later. Then he led the two Hands out of the dining hall and back along a series of twists and turns until they emerged onto the ship’s bridge.

  The holographic display hovered in midair just ahead of them as they walked out onto the circular command platform. Condor cast only a quick glance at it before turning to the nearest officer.

  “Situation?” he demanded.

  “Pretty obvious,” Falcon observed, staring at the tactical hologram. “Four ships approaching fast.”

  “Their weapons are active, according to our sensors,” the officer told Condor.

  “Who are they?” asked Hawk.

  “Dead is who they’re about to be,” Condor snapped.

  “Configuration unknown,” the officer stated, “but they’re very similar to the ship we destroyed that was attacking these Hands.”

  Now they were close enough for a long-range visual image: conical in shape, they streaked through space; their splotchy black hulls, streaked in red, were jagged along the surface as if covered in horn or bone, with an ugly, organic look that somehow sent chills up the spine.

  “You want to tell me those aren’t the same guys we just fought?” Falcon demanded of their host.

  Condor appeared troubled but said nothing.

  “Hawk was right,” Falcon continued. “The ancient enemy is back. I know those ships from my implanted memories of the Shattering. They belong to one of the major races that served the Adversary.”

  Condor still didn’t move or say anything, and the other two Hands glanced at one another, growing concerned. Finally, the blond man turned back to them, his easy bravado reasserting itself. “Perfect,” he said. “Then I will be making Hawk quite happy by destroying them.”

  The two Hands stood aside as Condor assumed the central position on the raised dais and barked out orders to his crew. In response, the big ship’s weapons opened fire. From their positions, Hawk and Falcon could see blazing blasts of red and green energy streaking away into the void.

  A few seconds later, and confirming what they had all seen with their own eyes through the ports and via the holo display, an officer informed them, “No hits, sir. All four ships are unharmed.”

  “How can that be?” Condor demanded, scowling.

  “Shielding, deflection, stealth tech—who knows?” Falcon said. “The point is, you’re going to have to do b
etter if you’re going to take them out. Otherwise…”

  Condor shook his head in annoyance and turned back to the display. Even as he did so, the first two ships shot past, their own weapons striking Condor’s ship’s hull with resounding force. The artificial gravity clicked off for an instant and everyone floated an inch or so above the deck before it switched back on and yanked them back down; two technicians tumbled awkwardly across the floor.

  “Divert power to our defenses,” Condor demanded. “Now!”

  The second of the two pairs of attackers streaked by, weapons blazing. Again the gravity flickered—this time for several seconds.

  “Defensive screens are holding,” one technician shouted over the din of explosions and the jumble of status reports echoing from the internal communications system. “But just barely. And we’re losing gravity.”

  “I think we already figured that out,” Falcon observed, hooking one foot around a slender column to brace himself in case it happened again.

  “They’re coming around for another pass,” the tactical officer reported loudly.

  “Fire everything we have as they approach,” Condor ordered. “Blasters, missiles, mines—everything!”

  All along the scorched and pitted hull of Condor’s ship, weapons pods popped out from their housings. Blast-cannons extended. Racks of rockets slid out.

  The attacking ships drew closer, preparing to fire.

  Condor’s ship unleashed everything from its mighty arsenal.

  The light from the viewports washed across the Hands and the crew, nearly blinding them all despite the massive filters in place. The holo display crackled and disappeared for a few seconds.

  When the brightness faded and something approaching normal vision returned, they all looked out and saw two of the ships shooting past, very close. Both were clearly dead now—burnt-out cinders retaining the massive velocity they’d had before. They whizzed past Condor’s big cylinder of a ship, moving purely on momentum, and disappeared into the blackness.

  “What about the other two?” Condor demanded of his tactical officer and techs.

  Before anyone could answer, two more black cones tumbled by, also clearly dead.

  Condor hesitated for a moment, then turned and regarded his two visitors. His arrogant grin was much diminished, but he still preserved a bit of his bravado.