by Jay Allan
“I walked out into the active rebel area. I could hear gunfire all around, the sounds of my soldiers tracking and engaging the various groups of insurgents. I’d already allowed my units to throw themselves on the pacified cities in an orgy of looting and brutality, and the troops assigned to the final operations knew the completion of their pacification would lead at once to the imperial soldier’s greatest joy—the unrestricted rapine and savagery of a sack. It was standard imperial policy; the psychic wounds those days of terror inflicted on the people would endure a lifetime and beyond.”
No one said anything. They sat silently, waiting to hear what he had to say next.
“I walked some distance. I honestly don’t know how far. A kilometer, perhaps.” A pause. “And then I found Blackhawk. The real Blackhawk.”
He paused again, and for a few seconds, his rigidly cold expression softened, displaying a rare touch of empathy.
“He was a rebel, that was obvious, but just as clearly, he’d fled from whatever unit he’d been a part of. He was haggard, crouched with a rifle in his hands. There was a woman with him, and she clutched a child in her arms.”
Blackhawk put his hand out and grabbed the drink, but he didn’t raise it to his lips. “I understood in an instant. He’d left the rebel forces, what remained of them, his only thought at that moment to get his family to safety. I’d ordered all rebels killed on sight, and my hand moved to the sidearm strapped to my side to follow my own command, but I didn’t draw the gun. I didn’t do anything except stand there and watch this man and his wife and child. I can still see the girl’s face and her fear and the tangled red ponytail hanging down over one tiny shoulder. Then the man saw me.”
Blackhawk hesitated again, and it was clear the emotion from the memories was hitting him hard. “I am gifted on the battlefield. My senses are strong, and I can move silently. I’d stood there for a few moments staring at the man before he happened to look my way. Then he did it—he moved to bring his rifle around and shoot me.”
He shook his head and closed his eyes as he continued. “It was child’s play. I was faster than he was, a genetic monstrosity created to kill facing a man who’d worked in a factory, most likely before dreams of freedom and independence turned him into a cog in the rebel machine. My shot was off before he’d even moved his weapon to aim in my direction, and he slumped, grunting hard when the round took him in the abdomen. He fell back and dropped the gun, even as the woman, a streak of the man’s blood splattered on her face, screamed in horror and wild fear.”
The others just looked on, still with no judgment in anyone’s expression. It was starting to anger Blackhawk. He hated himself for the things he’d done, and he’d expected the same from this group of people who had somehow extracted from him secrets he’d never told anyone else.
“I regretted what I’d done immediately. He was a rebel, and my own orders mandated that he die, and yet, looking at him lying on the cold stone floor, blood pouring from his wound, I would have taken it back if I could have.
“It was sympathy I was feeling, and regret, but I didn’t know it then. I’d never felt either emotion before. I stood there and looked down at him even as the woman and child sobbed uncontrollably, then he spoke to me.
“‘Please,’ he said, ‘I don’t care about myself, but let my wife and daughter live.’ He looked up at me and, his voice heavy with pain and anguish, and added one simple word. ‘Please.’
“I’d ignored thousands of pleas for mercy, but this one struck me somehow. I don’t know if it was the sadness in his tone or the fact that his wife and daughter still clung to him, not running away despite what had to seem a virtual certainty I would kill them.”
Blackhawk hesitated again, silently watching the images of the past, the events of twenty years earlier that he remembered as if they had happened the day before.
“Suddenly, I felt as though I was someplace else, falling, slipping into darkness. I could hear his words as he repeated them, but it was as if they were coming from no place in particular. I was lost, and my mind was reeling.
“I turned to the woman and child and screamed at them to run, but they didn’t move. They stayed where they were, the woman holding onto the man’s arm like a vise, defiant of the obvious fact that he was mortally wounded. “Go!” I shouted again, and this time the man added his pleas to my command. He told her to go; begged her to leave him and escape. To save their child. I do not believe she would have left him if it hadn’t been for the little girl, but when his begging turned toward saving the child’s life, the woman rose slowly, her face soaked with tears. She looked down one last time at the man and then at me, her stare a mask of raw hatred. She’d have killed me, or tried at least—I believe that to this day—and she was stayed only by the small girl clinging to her side. ‘Go,’ I screamed again, gesturing to the door of the shattered building. This time she heeded my words and raced out into the street, the child in her arms.”
Blackhawk lifted the glass to his lips again and, as before, he drained it in an instant.
“The man was near death and I knelt beside him, still trying to understand the regret that consumed me. ‘What is your name?’ I asked, suddenly needing to know. ‘Arkarin Blackhawk,’ he answered between shallow, dying breaths, and an instant later he was gone. If there could be such a thing as mercy in so terrible a setting, it was that he died before he found out that his wife and child outlived him only by seconds. I’d let them go, but they had gotten no more than thirty meters before one of my kill squads found them…and carried out its orders.
“When I saw the two of them riddled with bullets, bodies twisted grotesquely on the broken pavement of the street, their open eyes staring up at the gray and smoky sky above, something inside me truly snapped. I went wild, and I turned and shot the soldiers moving toward me. My soldiers, the ones who had just killed the woman and the child.
“I screamed, how loudly I cannot remember, but with such ferocity that my throat felt as though I’d sliced it with a hot blade. I ran through the streets, ignoring the fighting and the fires raging all around. I was uncontrollable, and like an avalanche, images of all I’d done and of all I’d sent my soldiers and spacers to do, poured over me. Wave after wave of nightmares, of atrocities committed at my command, assaulted me, and for the first time, I felt…guilt. I was a monster. I realized that, something I had never seen before, and the horror of it all overwhelmed me.
“I ran out into the maelstrom of my soldiers’ pacification of the city. I passed through ruins, stepped over countless corpses, and as I did, I stripped my imperial uniform from my body. The very cloth of it had begun to feel like fire burning my flesh. I pulled clothes from a body, covering myself in the garb of a dead Deltari factory worker. I ran into another group of my soldiers, and without thought, without hesitation, I killed them all. I pressed on, for days I suspect, hiding and trying to face the flood of memories and the searing regret that had been unleashed on me.”
Blackhawk looked down at his empty glass and then to where the bartender was hovering. The robot quickly refilled it without a word. The rest of the patrons continued to watch him, waiting for the story—confession?—to continue.
Blackhawk threw the drink back.
“I survived the pacification, and later I got off the planet. I wandered for years from one imperial world to another, a wreck, unable to function. Only my genetic gifts—my fighting skills and endurance—allowed me to survive, and finally I found myself on a tramp freighter embarking on the dangerous journey across the Void…to the Far Stars.
“I wandered there for more years, a vagrant and a drifter, surviving any way I could despite lacking any real desire to live. Then I found myself on Celtiboria, and soon after, in the service of Marshal Augustin Lucerne. The Celtiborian warlord was a capable soldier and a good man. He is the only one I have ever told of my past…save now, of course, for all of you. Lucerne helped me find my way back to myself and control the nightmares that lived inside m
e, and when I was able, I left. It was a long road, but I found my way to something I could live with, if not actually believe in. I was a smuggler and a mercenary, and by most standards still a grim presence, but, Frigus Umbra remained caged inside me—always there, but controlled now. Held in check.”
“Your story is a sad one, Arkarin, but we’ve all done things we regret, and it sounds like you have made amends for your past transgressions—or at least tried to,” Amanda offered, her tone serious and her gaze steady.
Blackhawk looked up at the redhead, and for an instant deep sorrow showed in his eyes. “No. There will be no redemption for the things I have done. I do what I can, and I live to ensure the Far Stars remains beyond the grip of the emperor. That its people, as violent and warlike as they often are, never feel the yoke of the empire on their necks. I want no appreciation, and I need none. I am no hero, although some have called me that. I do only what I must, serve those few whom I truly admire and respect, and I stand in the breach, struggling always to hold back the darkness that lies just beyond the Void—the dread empire that would engulf all who live in the Far Stars, given the chance.”
Floribeth looked at Blackhawk, silent for a moment. Then she said, “No one is beyond redemption. You’ve paid your debt, Blackhawk...although I doubt you’ll never truly understand that and give yourself rest. From what I understand, most of what you did—yes, as horrific as it might have been—was under the compulsion of imperial conditioning.
“I’ve never killed a human, so you’re probably going to ignore this, but you’ve got to put it behind you. You escaped the empire, right? Now keep seeing what you can do for the good. Balance the scales. Heck, tip them to the positive. You might go to your grave with your victims’ voices in your head, but go with those who thank the universe for your very existence as well.”
Blackhawk listened, but true to Floribeth’s words, he wrote them off as baseless platitudes. In his mind, the screams were still there, the cries of children pulling at the dead bodies of their parents, the wailing of entire worlds consigned by his forces to hell. She was right about one thing, though, he realized.
He would never forgive himself, and for all he pursued redemption, he knew nothing he ever did would be enough. The imperial scientists who had created him and the emperor who had wielded him as a deadly weapon had stolen what soul he’d ever possessed.
From where he had been, there was no return.
Interlude
“Holy crap! I can’t imagine going through all that,” Cain blurted before the table went silent, drinks forgotten for the moment. Kelsey, who was sitting next to Arkarin, finally reached out and put a hand on his forearm, her eyes sad. He started to flinch away but steadied himself, finally ready to accept this tiny vestige of human comfort.
BOB stood silently, trying to process what it had just heard. It didn’t have the emotional programming to feel what the other humans obviously had, but it could recognize that this was solid data, the kind that the Collector would treasure.
Blackhawk stared at Kelsey’s hand as if he’d never seen one before. With the slightest of shrugs, he nudged his seat back up to the edge of the table.
“That was some serious shit,” Standish stated. “No offense, Blackhawk, but does anyone have something a little more upbeat?”
Everyone turned as one to Artur, who was standing by his glass with the straw in his mouth.
Artur’s First Case
By Barry J. Hutchison
Artur finished slurping his drink through his straw and burped far more loudly than his size suggested should be possible, then kicked his glass a few times, making it ding.
“You would think the belch would be higher-pitched,” BA mused.
“All right, all right, enough of that shoite,” he announced. “Ye want to hear a real story? Sure, I’ve got a tale that’ll blow the bollocks off ye.”
He looked around at the women and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Or in the case of these fine ladies, it’ll give ‘em bollocks and then blow ‘em off. And that’s not a word of exaggeration.”
That earned a head shake and an eye roll from Kelsey.
“I don’t think a tiny robot could do either of those things,” Rika suggested. “Unless you vibrate a lot.”
“I’m not a feckin’ robot!” Artur protested. He frowned, briefly recalling having heard those exact words somewhere recently, then gave a shake of his head.
“I don’t think we have bollocks on my world.” Ridge scratched his jaw, his forehead crinkled.
“What did you say your name was?” asked Cain, ignoring Ridge.
“Artur, now, shut yer cakehole and listen up. I’m gonna tell ye about me very first case.”
“Case?” asked Bethany Anne. “Are you a cop?” She already knew he wasn’t, but she wanted to hear how he’d describe his role to the others.
“Not exactly,” hedged Artur. “I’m more of a private detective. Well, I know a private detective, anyway, and I reckon that’s close enough.”
The others around the table exchanged glances that suggested they probably disagreed.
“So, there I am. Picture the scene,” Artur began. “In me mate’s shoitehole of an office, mindin’ me own business, when I hears a knock. ‘Where’s that comin’ from?’ I asks meself.”
“The door?” guessed Charline.
Artur’s face fell. “Sure, who’s tellin’ this story? I was under the impression it was me,” he said, his beard bristling.
“Sorry I spoke,” muttered Charline.
“Not as feckin’ sorry as I am,” Artur grumbled. He glared at Charline for a moment and shared it around the table in case anyone else was thinking of butting in, then continued.
“Yes. It was a knock at the door. I’m not sure what to do, because me mate’s warned me not to go openin’ the door to nobody. He’s worried it’s dangerous. Not for me, mind, but for any poor bastard that comes ‘round uninvited.”
“But this day I’m in fine fettle, so I am, so I decides to go ahead and see who it is. I can’t reach the old door handle on account of me height—I don’t know if ye noticed, but I’m a tiny bit below average in that regard.”
“Call it a tactical size advantage,” BA suggested, but her comment was lost when the inevitable response burst forth.
“A tiny bit?” Kelsey snorted.
Artur held his arms out to his sides. “Here, sweetheart, it ain’t the size that matters, it’s what ye do with it that counts, ye know? And believe me, I can do a lot. I’ve got me own wetsuit, a vivid imagination, and a strict ‘no questions asked’ policy. Ye know what I’m sayin’?”
“I’m already aroused, so I am,” Amanda commented to Rika with a smirk.
“You into robot girls?” Rika asked. “If you are, you should swing by my neck of the woods. There are a few woman in the Marauders who go that way.”
“Shite, I’m getting offers from all sides!” Amanda exclaimed.
Artur looked at the faces of the women. Technically, he mostly looked at their breasts, but he flicked his eyes up occasionally so as not to be rude.
“Until ye’ve done small, ye ain’t done it all. That’s my motto,” he asserted.
He gazed wistfully at the collective breasts for a few more moments, then gave himself a shake. “Where was I? Oh, aye, the door. I couldn’t reach the handle, so I hops up on the old desk and shouts, ‘Enter.’ Ye know, like I’m Lord of the feckin’ Manor or what have ye?
“The door opens, and in she comes. Holy shoite, sure, I thought she was an angel. White hair, but not like a granny. I don’t mean that. She’s young, like, but her hair’s this silver-white color. Face? First class. Body? Top of the league. And legs that went all the way from her feet to her arse.”
Bethany Anne frowned. “Well, where else would they have gone?”
“Around me neck, if I’d had my way,” Artur clarified.
She shook her head. “I fell into that one.”
He went into another wistf
ul trance for a while. It was only broken when Amanda clicked her fingers in front of his face.
“Hey, lover boy, get yeh mind out o’ the gutter,” Amanda called.
“Sorry. Got distracted for a second, there.” Artur wiped his drooling mouth on his hairy bare arm. He smoothed down his ballgown before continuing.
“So, the woman introduces herself. Her name’s Dauphin Soise. Nice name, I thought. Not as nice as the legs, mind, but nice enough. Suits her. It’s a pulled-together kind of name, and she seemed a pulled-together sort o’ woman.”
Artur shrugged. “At least until she starts cryin’ on me,” he continued. “And no, I don’t mean literally on me, before ye ask, like some kind o’ big weepin’ giant. I just mean she sits across the desk from me and starts bawlin’ her eyes out, talkin’ about how she needs help. Turns out her boyfriend’s a right bastard. Been gettin’ up to all sorts of things with some of the local floozies. Really foul stuff that’d turn yer hair gray and make ye question the very existence of the gods.”
The wistful gaze flitted across his face for a second or two.
“The lucky bastard.”
He shrugged. “Anyway, I can’t really be doin’ wit’ all that bawlin’ stuff, so I asks her if she wants him roughed up or somethin’ along those lines. It’s not really one o’ the services me mate offers, but I thought I’d ask, ye know? Out of politeness or what have ye.
“She says she doesn’t want him messed wi’, though. She just wants proof that he’s been messin’ around with these other women. I get the impression that he’s worth a bob or two and that she’s angling to get her pound o’ flesh out o’ him. Sure, I can’t blame the woman. Ye should’ve heard the things he was gettin’ up to. Oh, just vile, depraved stuff. Pure filth, like, ye know?”
“Sounds like you’ve got fond memories. Or, should that be mammaries?” Amanda said with a smile.
Bethany Anne looked at Amanda and raised an eyebrow.