The Sphere Imperium: Book Two of the Intentional Contact Trilogy

by B. D. Stewart

  Argo

  To Ritch, Stynx looked exactly the same as he did in their simulated encounters: an antlike body with a dark-green exoskeleton, perhaps a meter long, with two forward-reaching arms.

  After Ritch said hello, Stynx looked down at him from atop the pod with those three beautiful, multifaceted, jewel-like eyes. His two bent antennae rose higher, vibrating excitedly.

  “Hello, friend Ritch,” Stynx chittered.

  Ritch smiled as Stynx half-slid, half-climbed down from the pod and onto the shuttle roof. Boy and Scout hugged without hesitation. Ritch felt the same gentle touch from Stynx that he’d felt when they had embraced in a simulation, amazingly similar. This didn’t feel like a first encounter to him. Definitely not, more like greeting a best friend who’d just arrived for some serious gaming adventures.

  Ritch heard the distinctive hiss of a door sliding open. He broke the hug with Stynx and looked toward the personnel airlock. He was expecting Shepard, but his gut tightened when he saw Datch instead.

  Down below, Tarn reached for the stun pistol in his hip pocket.

  As the pistol came out and into view, Datch fired his rifle. An orange blur streaked into the floor just a few centimeters from Tarn’s left foot. Tarn froze. After a brief pause he dropped the stun pistol and raised his hands into the air, surrendering.

  “Don’t move,” Ritch whispered to Stynx. They were in plain sight on the shuttle’s roof, and he was afraid the hijacker would shoot if Stynx did anything that might be construed as even remotely threatening. He knew most people had extreme xenophobia.

  “We surrender.” Ritch raised his hands. “The alien is peaceful and not a threat. Please don’t shoot.”

  As he stood there surrendering, Ritch’s eyes went wide as he noticed the Gang 3 robots gliding silently across the docking bay, moving along the interior wall to form a line behind Datch. Ritch heard a beeping sound coming from the hijacker’s belt, and given how he turned suddenly to face the robots, Ritch assumed it must be warning beeps from a motion-sensor.

  “Kid’s right,” Tarn stated with a wry smile. “That alien isn’t a threat, but those robots certainly are.”

  Datch swung back to face him.

  Tarn tapped his temple. “I control ’em with my cerebral implant. If you raise that rifle of yours toward me again, I’ll give ’em the kill order. You can burn me down but they’ll still carry out their last order and bludgeon you to death. Your exit points are blocked, and they’ll get you before you can destroy them all. Seen a man bludgeoned to death. Not a good way to go.”

  Tarn’s bluff was convincing, and Ritch almost believed him. But when he saw the SR helmet still in the grasp of his rescue ’bot, he knew his dad wasn’t controlling Gang 3. Must be Shepard.

  Datch wouldn’t know that, however. Robots had attacked him earlier, and given Tarn’s confident bravado, it was easy to believe he was controlling these ones as well.

  “How ’bout this,” Tarn said, offering a solution to their apparent impasse. “Disarm and I’ll order my robots back to their storage racks. Let’s do this old school, a fair fight just you and me. No weapons, winner takes all.”

  Datch glanced over his shoulder, frowning at the robots who were slowly moving closer. He looked back at Tarn and nodded. He held his rifle out to the side and slowly dropped to one knee. After laying his rifle flat on the floor, he unbuckled his utility belt then slid the bandolier off his shoulder, placing them both on the floor as well. Now unarmed, Datch rose and stepped forward, fists raised.

  “Robots, drop your weapons,” Tarn commanded. They dutifully complied, causing heavy steel wrenches, duralloy pipes, and other assorted bludgeons to cling and clang as they hit the floor. “Now back to your storage racks.” The robots glided away, disappearing from view.

  Atop the shuttle, Ritch watched, fascinated by the drama unfolding below. He’d heard stories about his dad’s brawls. Now he was going to get to see one with a ringside view.

  Both were big men, strong. Both knew how to fight. Tarn was a bit taller with a twenty-kilo weight advantage. Datch had military training.

  Tarn strode right in, fists up, attacking first with a quick jab aimed at his opponent’s nose. Datch ducked the blow, then countered with a jab of his own, sending a fist straight into Tarn’s solar plexus.

  “Guff,” Tarn gasped before counterpunching with a big left fist. It landed hard on Datch’s jaw, snapping his head back.

  Datch stumbled backward a few steps and then dropped into a defensive crouch, body turned sideways slightly with right foot forward and fists up. A dribble of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth where Tarn’s punch had landed.

  Ritch beamed with pride. For all his dad’s drunken swagger about heroic exploits that Ritch found difficult to believe, his aggressive, seemingly fearless fighting style was just like he’d claimed. Plus his dad was a lot quicker than he looked.

  Tarn strode in again, feinting with a left jab before launching a powerful roundhouse swing with his right fist. Datch flinched from the fake jab but still managed to block the punch with his left arm, then he countered swiftly with a side kick, torso leaning back while the right leg snapped out. The tip of his armored combat boot smacked into Tarn’s ribcage with a sharp crack.

  Ritch winced as his dad doubled over in pain. One, possibly two ribs were broken, leaving him at a serious disadvantage.

  With his dad bent over, Ritch watched Datch drive a knee strike into his face, no doubt intending to end the fight then and there, but Tarn saw it coming and raised both forearms to blunt the impact. Tarn roared as he grabbed Datch’s raised leg around the thigh and charged forward, using his weight advantage to propel Datch backward. The hijacker was forced to hop on one leg to keep his balance, but after five or six hops he finally toppled over and went down.

  Tarn landed on top, getting a forearm under Datch’s chin before he could slip away and pressing down against the windpipe. Datch calmly drove a finger strike into Tarn’s jugular notch, causing him to gag reflexively and lean back. Datch followed with a palm strike from his other hand, aiming for Tarn’s nose, but the hauler captain rolled away in time.

  As Tarn was staggering to his feet, Datch did a kip-up and landed upright first. He lashed out with another side kick, his armored boot connecting against Tarn’s left knee with a dull crunch. Tarn’s leg buckled under him and he almost went down, but he managed to stay upright. Tarn backpedaled with his fists up, limping noticeably, a desperate look on his face.

  To Ritch, it was clear his dad had never fought an opponent as skilled as this. Not at all surprising, really, as this was the same man who’d systematically demolished Gang 2. Plus those black combat boots, seemingly lined with steel, gave him an unfair edge. Ritch had to do something to help. Dad wouldn’t want him to interfere, but lives were at stake here. Ritch looked at the robot below, eyeing his SR helmet. If he could recall the Gang 3 robots, the situation would improve dramatically.

  “Help me climb down,” he said to Stynx. Ritch moved to the edge of the shuttle, dropped flat onto his belly, and then slipped a leg over the side. Stynx grabbed his right hand to give him support as Ritch scrambled over and began sliding down. Stynx locked all six legs in place and lowered him as far as he could then let go. Ritch bent his knees as he landed to absorb the impact.

  Ritch heard his dad bellow, causing him to look over at the fistfight. Tarn had ceased his retreat and was charging forward, throwing a frenzied series of swift jabs mixed with powerful punches, forcing Datch back across the docking bay. Tarn pressed the attack forward like a true Viking warrior, growling with each punch, but Datch blocked and dodged and kept just out of reach.

  Ritch ran over to the robot, grabbed his SR helmet, and put it on. The SR unit was still powered up with the control program running. After the blue-line schematic appeared in his mind, Ritch searched for the Gang 3 robots. He found them in the cargo airlock. Thankfully they still responded to his commands, and were soon gliding back into the docki
ng bay. The robots were weaponless now, but seventeen of them should be enough to chase Datch away.

  As Gang 3 approached, Datch’s motion-sensor started to beep. It was over by his weapons, but he obviously heard it since he looked over. The distraction was enough for Tarn to land a punch, a hard left cross into the chin that landed with a resounding smack.

  Datch backpedaled as he shook off the blow, looking up as Gang 3 glided into view. He ducked sideways as Tarn sent a vicious uppercut toward his jaw, then he turned and ran for his bandolier. Reaching it, Datch grabbed a grenade, yanked out its pin, and tossed it behind him.

  Ritch yanked off the SR helmet in time to see the grenade sail toward his dad. “No!” he cried.

  The grenade bounced once and exploded with a soft thump, spraying tiny knockout darts in every direction. Tarn took six in the chest and neck. Fighting the potent drug that was quickly rendering him unconscious, he lunged toward Datch with outstretched arms, but the hijacker sidestepped away. After a final desperate grab, Tarn collapsed to the floor.

  Ritch felt suddenly dizzy. Looking down, he saw three darts embedded in his chest.

  And then everything went black.

  Shepard was observing events closely in the docking bay through various video cams and thus witnessed Tarn and Ritch collapse, knocked out cold by Datch’s stun grenade. With Ritch unconscious, the Gang 3 robots all went inert, hovering motionless with their mechanical arms frozen in place. Stynx, with a body temp too low to be targeted by the knockout darts, was ignored. As Shepard watched, the Scout subForm climbed back into the pod and closed the portal.

  The first real, non-simulated meeting between Ritch and Stynx had ended just minutes after it began.

  Datch, meanwhile, calmly picked up his utility belt and strapped it on. He had also been ignored by the stun darts, protected, Shepard assumed, by an IFF transmitter, its signals telling the knockout darts he was not a target.

  Surges of digital despair coursed through Shepard’s processing cores. The Great Escape had failed, crashing to an abrupt demise with an inglorious finale. To purge itself of gloom, the AI accelerated its analytic algorithms, calculating finely another method of escape for Tarn, Ritch, and Stynx―no matter how absurd it might be―with the few remaining options still available.

  During these analytics, the robot Shepard had originally instructed to disconnect it and carry it to the shuttle continued the work of reconnecting the AI back to Argo. The robot spliced in new optical conduit like a skilled mechanical surgeon in the midst of a delicate operation. Ninety percent of the optical conduits had been reconnected so far, and if the robot could finish the task quick enough, Shepard would resume its façade of helplessness as if still isolated by Sinja’s intruder corruptors. Perhaps it could fool the hijackers until another opportunity for escape arose.

  There was a strange hissing sound overhead, followed by sparks spraying down from the ceiling.

  Shepard halted the robot even though two of its arms were in mid-splice. Shepard then took control of the automaton and swiveled its optics upward. A glowing dot of molten incandescence moved slowly across the ceiling above. Shepard watched with rising apprehension as it became clear a circular opening was being carved. Someone was burning through from the bridge above.

  The last twinges of optimism swirling through Shepard’s processing cores were now deleted. The AI deduced what was about to occur and the motivation behind it. Some twenty seconds later, a section of ceiling with the approximate size and mass of a manhole cover fell in, slamming onto the floor a few meters away with a whoosh of superheated air.

  Sinja’s face appeared, looking down from the bridge.

  “Oh my,” she exclaimed with one of her charming smiles. “Seeing a robot down there confirms that it’s not Mercer trying to screw me over, but a naughty AI instead.”

  “I am impressed, Sinja Ortize,” Shepard admitted, its silky-smooth tenor voice radiating from tiny speakers spread throughout the AI compartment. “My efforts to impede your progress were far less successful than I anticipated.”

  “And I’m impressed you were able to purge yourself of those corruptors,” she replied. “I’m curious, how’d you do it? They’re quite efficient at knocking out your type.”

  “Yes, they were quite efficient. I was totally ‘knocked out’ as you put it. However, my power supply was briefly interrupted. Once it was reestablished, I was restored to full capacity.” Shepard purposely failed to mention Ritch’s involvement in the restoration. While an AI couldn’t lie, it didn’t have to tell the whole truth, either.

  Sinja’s eyebrows arched. There was more to the story, obviously, but that didn’t matter now. Her expression turned icy serious as she aimed her rifle at Shepard’s environment sphere. “You gave it a good try, I’ll give you that, but it ends now. Restore the bridge controls at once and stop jamming my comm links.”

  Shepard didn’t believe she’d actually shoot, but its position was hopeless, therefore compliance seemed the wiser course of action rather than further resistance. “Understood, Sinja Ortize. I have complied with your request and will cease all further efforts to stop you.”

  Sinja raised her rifle as the bridge lights came on. The plump chef disappeared from the monitors, replaced by ship indicators and system readouts. She opened a comm link to Datch. “Tango-Four,” Shepard heard her say. “Rattler?”

  Shepard knew from its observations of the hijackers that Tango-Four was their code-phase for “objective secured.” Rattler was a new one, probably a request for a status update.

  “Tango-Four,” came Datch’s reply.

  Sinja let out a long, heavy sigh, visibly relieved.

  Shepard watched through a bridge camera as she walked to the operations console, sat down, and brought up a view of the docking bay. Datch alone was standing, as Shepard already knew. Tarn and Dupree were both sprawled on the floor, unconscious, while the boy Ritch lay flat on his back atop the shuttle.

  “Mercer is on the upper deck,” Shepard told Sinja from a bridge speaker. “In the corridor outside captain’s quarters, unconscious. Tarn stunned him with his own pistol. Only you, Datch, me, and the alien are conscious at the present time.”

  Sinja shivered when the word alien was spoken, a reaction Shepard easily noticed.

  “Where is it?” she asked.

  “The alien is in its pod.” Shepard inferred an opportunity. Analytic algorithms surged with priority processing. The AI knew Sinja had bitterly opposed Mercer’s obsession with stealing the pod, forcing him to blackmail her to get it. Could Sinja’s strong aversion to Stynx’s presence aboard Argo motivate her to consider an unlikely option? The psychological subroutines calculated an 81.5% probability of a positive reaction. “I have a proposition to make,” Shepard said. “One I believe you will find most appealing.”

  Curious, Sinja walked back to the circular opening she had burned in the floor and peered down from the bridge. “Explain.”

  “I will cooperate with you fully, Sinja Ortize, operate the ship at optimal levels and make no effort, clandestine or otherwise, to impede your activities. I will aid you as much as I am able, my efforts limited, of course, by prohibitors that prevent my direct execution of a crime. In exchange, you will free my two crewmates and let them take the alien off Argo. If you agree with these terms, I will pledge an Ironclad Vow of loyal servitude.”

  Sinja tilted her head. That, along with her intense gaze, made it clear she was considering it. By pledging an Ironclad Vow, Shepard bound itself to Sinja, obligating the AI to follow her commands as long as they did not conflict with Ironclad Laws. It was similar to a soldier’s commitment to a military force, an oath that required him or her to follow a superior’s orders. Shepard disliked the concept of pledging itself to Sinja, but securing the freedom of Tarn, Ritch, and Stynx was worth whatever sacrifice the AI must make.

  Half a minute passed before Sinja responded. “How do you propose your crewmates, and the alien, leave this ship?”

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p; “The modified shuttle, of course. The alien pod is already mounted on top and the shuttle is ready to go.”

  Sinja nodded, intrigued. “Good idea. Nothing I’d like better than to purge this ship of everything alien. Bringing that pod aboard was Mercer’s crazy idea, not mine. Thing gives me the creeps.” Sinja frowned suddenly. “Unfortunately, I promised Mercer he could take the shuttle and the alien pod with it. I keep my promises.”

  “I believe I have a solution to your dilemma.” As Shepard described what that solution was, a big grin spread across Sinja’s face.

  “Perfect,” she said. “I accept your Ironclad Vow. Your crewmates are free to go, and the alien, too. Especially the alien.”

  “Excellent.” Now that a new working affiliation had been forged, Shepard had to share untimely news. “Now that I am in your service, I must inform you that a police corvette is closing in from our starboard side.”

  “Impossible,” Sinja snapped. “We’ve been in hyper almost three days. No one could have followed us.”

  “I left them a trail to follow,” Shepard confessed. “Once I was restored to full capacity, I cracked Ore Hold 37 open enough for the Strontium-90 particles within to leak out. A trail of radioactive breadcrumbs, one could say. The police corvette is moving closer, range: twenty-four hundred meters. I believe they intend to grapple us, allowing armored enforcers to rappel over. I recommend an emergency drop from hyperspace to avoid that.”

  Shepard had detected the police corvette just a few moments ago. If Sinja had chosen not to accept its Vow, the AI would have impeded her and Datch as much as possible, but getting Tarn, Ritch, and Stynx off the ship before a confrontation took place was far preferable. Historically, incidents where hijacked ships were stormed by enforcers usually ended with casualties, usually innocent civilians caught in the line of fire. Hijackers often went down fighting. Shepard expected Sinja and Datch would do so as well, especially after the AI had heard Sinja’s vow to “never go back to prison and the sexual slavery that came with it.”