The Tin Soldiers (Final Dawn, Book 5)

by T W M Ashford

  “Thank you very much,” said Tuner, waving goodbye.

  “She won’t see you unless you have an appointment,” the janitor called after them. “You’ll need to…”

  Jack and the rest were already halfway to the door and no longer listening. The janitor went back to scrubbing a Krolak hand print from the wall.

  “Okay, bye.”

  Rogan knocked on the door but received no answer. She looked at Jack, who shrugged. They couldn’t afford to be polite. The LX-14s had left the asteroid long before the Adeona did. That they hadn’t attacked by now meant one of two things: either they were working with borrowed time…

  …or they were trying to warn the wrong place.

  Jack turned the door handle and walked in.

  He didn’t need to have seen a Krolak office before to know that this was one. The heat hit him even before the smell did. No wonder the janitor automata wasn’t allowed to go inside to clean – it would have broken down long before it got the job done. The reception itself was free of the gunk present elsewhere in the station, though the walls were carpeted with moss and vines and other tropical foliage. But the rear wall was a panoramic window through which Jack could see into the administrator’s actual office next door, and there was barely an inch not submerged in brown, swampy drink. He spotted an older, grizzled Krolak taking a soak and consulting what Jack hoped was a waterproof data pad.

  They stepped forward only to be halted by a sharp grunt to their left. A receptionist was watching them from behind a clunky terminal completely encased with mould.

  “Appointment,” he snarled, standing up. “Got one?”

  “Erm, not exactly,” said Jack, taking a quick step backwards and almost tumbling into a decorative pool filled with alien carp. “We’ve got urgent information the Administrator needs to hear. There’s a very real chance your outpost is about to be attacked.”

  The Krolak pulled a revolver out from underneath his desk and eyed their group carefully.

  “Attacked by who? You?”

  “Of course not!” Rogan raised her arms in a bid to calm the Krolak down. They had a reputation for short tempers – even those who worked in clerical jobs, apparently. “There’s a cult on its way with…”

  “Don’t matter, then.” The Krolak stashed the firearm away. If anything, he sounded disappointed. “I don’t see no attack. No appointment, no meeting. Administrator is very busy woman.”

  They all turned to look through the large window. The Administrator had sunk beneath the surface of her pond. Her data pad floated forgotten on the surface.

  “It really is of the upmost urgency,” said Tuner, fidgeting with his stubby metal fingers. “If we could only have five minutes…”

  The Krolak reached down for his gun again.

  “No appointment,” he repeated in a hopeful grumble. “No meeting. You want to speak to someone? Go talk to your own kind.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Jack, hurriedly retreating. “We’re going. We’re… Hold on. What do you mean, our own kind?”

  “Foreigners. Door C, door thirty-and-seven.” The Krolak nodded back towards the lobby. “You got problem? You speak to them, not us. Now go. Take your robots with you.”

  “We’re quite capable of leaving by ourselves, thank you very much.” Rogan escorted Tuner out through the office doors. “Serves you right if an LX-14 blows your head off, if you ask me.”

  Jack quickly followed them into the lobby. He would have preferred it if Rogan had left making any snarky remarks until after he was out of the Krolak’s reach as well.

  “Well that was sure worth the trip,” said Klik, slumping against a hard plastic bench outside.

  “What are we supposed to do now?” said Tuner, hopping up beside her. He dropped his umbrella-tray to the floor with a despondent clang. “I suppose we could try and figure out who or what the Order’s other target is…”

  “I’m no closer to working that out than when we started,” Rogan sighed. “Sorry. I guess coming here was a waste of time.”

  “Hey, come on.” Jack couldn’t believe he was the one still fighting the good fight. Then again, it was hard to care about people when they treated you like walking word processors. “We might as well keep trying while we’re here. What about that office the Krolak mentioned? Maybe they can help.”

  “It’s probably just a visa and requisitions centre, or something,” Tuner replied. “We’ll be in a queue for hours, and then they won’t even look at our forms for weeks. Except they won’t. Because by then they’ll all be dead.”

  “Maybe we could take a look and make sure?” Jack gestured encouragingly towards the door his translator chip told him was marked C. “Let’s at least give your plan a proper go before we give up and try mine instead.”

  Rogan looked confused.

  “Your plan?”

  “Fly to Kapamentis, get drunk, and let everyone else sort it out.”

  “All right.” Rogan smiled and pulled Tuner off the bench. “All options must be explored, I suppose.”

  They squeezed past a visiting Oortilian family to the door marked C. Klik dragged her heels, bored with the lack of drama their visit had so far conjured. Despite Rogan’s best efforts to boost his spirits, even Tuner didn’t seem all that enthusiastic anymore.

  But this was why they’d come to Kagna One in the first place – to prevent an attack that would set back automata rights for decades. They couldn’t let a few bigoted Krolaks knock the wind from their sails.

  Jack pushed the door open and discovered a long, narrow and deserted corridor lined with dozens more offices, each synonymous in design to the last. Every door had a single frosted window built into its white, plastic frame and a large, stencilled number printed in dark grey to one side. Odd numbers ran along the left, even along the right. Jack counted them out loud until they reached office thirty-seven down at the far end.

  He glanced at the others standing behind him. They nodded, so he knocked.

  “Er… come in?” came the surprised reply from inside.

  Jack pushed open the door and froze when he saw who sat behind the desk inside. After a year spent expecting only the unexpected, a familiar face somehow surprised him most.

  “You’re a human?” he spluttered. “Here?”

  The middle-aged gentleman behind the desk appeared just as flabbergasted as Jack did. Quite a bit more dishevelled, though. His dark suit was in desperate need of a dry-clean, his hair flopped down over his ears, and his scratchy black beard was a good couple of inches long. His eyes bulged with horror and disbelief.

  Then he hurried around the desk and shook Jack enthusiastically by the hand.

  “Oh my God, it’s good to see you,” he said, grinning. “Another human, I mean. My name’s Dev. Dev Kapoor. So, so good. Please, sit down,” he added, gesturing to the chairs closest to the door. “Your friends, too. Sorry, what did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t.” Jack laughed nervously as he pulled up a seat. “It’s Jack Bishop. What the hell are you doing all the way out here? The last I heard, humanity was still busy trying to colonise a new world.”

  “Oh believe me, I’ve been asking myself the same question.” Dev sat down on the other side of the desk and leant forwards with his fingers steepled. “When our people first made contact with the Ministerium, they recommended we send representatives to hubs around the galaxy to, you know, integrate with the wider community. I used to be a social support manager, and I guess the powers that be decided they couldn’t have me sitting around on the Uttarajeevita Ark doing nothing forever, so they shipped me off to this dump. Not that the, erm, integration is going particularly well, mind. I’ve been here six months and the other species… they don’t seem to like me much. Your Hindi is very good, by the way.”

  Jack’s forehead creased. Call him ignorant, but he’d barely learned more than a few words of French back at school; he certainly couldn’t speak any Indian languages. Then his face brightened as he figured out Dev
’s mistake.

  “You got given a translator chip too, right?” He chuckled. “It sounds like you’re speaking perfect English to me.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah.” Dev rubbed the back of his neck where the chip had been implanted. “I keep forgetting about that. Heh. I haven’t spoken to another human since I had it done!”

  The two Homo sapiens fell into an awkward silence while Dev stared at each of Jack’s companions in awe. Then he cleared his throat, clasped his hands together and sat up straight.

  “So, what can I do for you?” he asked for what was evidently the first time in his new career. “How can I help?”

  “Oh, of course.” In his shock, Jack had quite forgotten the urgency of their situation. “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed any odd people visiting here recently, have you? Odder than usual, I mean.”

  Dev smiled apologetically. Jack nodded.

  “Okay, let me start again. Have you seen any weirdos hanging about in black cloaks? A gangly creature with a head like a jackal skull, maybe? They might have been buying supplies, or maybe even making deals with some of the other representatives here.”

  Dev shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall anyone like that. I’m not sure I even would notice anyone like that though, if I’m honest. Apologies. What’s this about, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Jack sighed and turned to face Rogan.

  “That’s what I feared,” he said to her. “I was hoping the Order came out here for supplies, but it looks like we were right.”

  He turned back to Dev.

  “We have reason to believe a religious cult of some kind is going to attack Kagna One with a battalion of LX-14s,” he explained. “They’re combat robots. We tried telling this to the station’s Administrator, but we couldn’t get past her receptionist.”

  “Good heavens. Are you sure?” Dev’s eyes grew as wide as when he first saw Jack walk through his door. “Why on earth would anyone want to do that? This station has no military or strategic importance I’m aware of, does it? It’s just stores and services and civilian accommodation. What are we going to do?”

  “Ah.” Jack shifted awkwardly in his chair. “We were hoping you could help with that.”

  “Me? Nobody here listens to me! And certainly not the bloody Administrator! Oh God, I’m going to die in this filthy place…”

  “Then we’ll have to figure it out ourselves,” said Rogan, leaning across the desk. Unaccustomed to automata, Dev instinctively drew back from her. “Are you sure there’s nothing here somebody might want to attack or steal? A somnium deposit, perhaps? A vault, or a special delivery of some kind?”

  “Not that anyone’s told me about!” Dev yelled, running his hands through his hair. “I said this place is just Krolak families and mud baths, didn’t I?”

  “There has to be a reason why they chose this outpost specifically,” said Tuner. “It can’t just be for the sake of violence, not with a whole galaxy of other targets to choose from. And there must be a reason why they haven’t struck yet, too.”

  “Are you saying they’re waiting for something?” asked Klik, clicking her mandibles uneasily.

  Tuner shrugged.

  “So the Administrator is a no-go,” Jack said to Dev. “Surely there’s somebody on this station who’ll take the threat of an attack seriously… right?”

  “Maybe… Oh, I dunno.” Dev fumbled with his cumbersome, old, Earth-built data pad. “Maybe the fish guy over in Imports and Goods will listen to me. He’s always been kind enough whenever—”

  They all jumped as a loud, explosive rumble went off overhead. A thin sheet of dust puffed down from the ceiling.

  “Is that it?” said Klik, climbing up onto her chair. “Has the attack started?”

  “Oh, no, that’s nothing,” Dev said dismissively, returning to his data pad. “That’s just the mudball game kicking off. Big match tonight – Krolaks versus Alpha Rhoden. Everyone in the station will be…”

  His words trailed off. Everyone raised their eyes to the ceiling again.

  “That’s what the acolytes are waiting for,” said Rogan, throwing her chair back. “They’re going to attack the game.”

  16

  March of the Clockwork Soldiers

  The top floor may have been home to all of the outpost’s administrative offices, but the rooftop stadium was the true pinnacle of Kagna One. Its reinforced glass dome bulged out from the narrow space station like the jewel at the end of a mage’s staff and sparkled in the starlight.

  Under its arresting canopy, the final qualifying match of the Ninth Quadrant Mudball Cup was just about to start. Jack had only heard of mudball in passing and hadn’t the slightest clue what the purpose of the sport was, let alone its rules. But he knew it was immensely popular amongst some of the “thicker skinned” species across the galaxy. That the scaly Krolaks and leather-hided Alpha Rhoden were competing that night came as little surprise.

  Jack and the others followed a frantic Dev up the grubby emergency stairwell in the back of the administrative offices. He may have gone largely ignored by all the other species’ representatives, but they had at least given him the appropriate level of security clearance.

  A quiet, muted cheer erupted ahead. Unless the audience thought it was part of the half-time entertainment, Jack guessed the LX-14s hadn’t started shooting yet.

  “We should have seen this coming,” said Tuner, trying his best to keep up. “These games are as crowded as it gets. If it’s chaos those cultists are after, they’re going to get it.”

  “Come on, come on, pick up.” Dev was desperately trying to get through to anyone on the station with the slightest bit of authority. Nobody was answering.

  “We might still be wrong,” said Jack, before ploughing into the back of Dev. He’d stopped to open the heavy security door at the top of the stairwell.

  “But what if we’re not?” Rogan replied. “How in the galaxy are we going to convince anyone to listen to us?”

  “If the LX-14s start shooting,” said Klik, “I don’t really think we’ll need to.”

  “Got it,” said Dev, scanning his keycard against the reader beside the door. It bleeped as the locking bolts slid free from the wall. With a great deal of strain, he pulled the door open.

  The sounds of the stadium rushed in to greet them.

  Close to a hundred thousand spectators stomped their feet. Slogans and jingles blared out from bright, holographic advertisements floating above the players. Violent tides of joyous screams and frustrated boos swept back and forth through the crowd. Some people blew into weird instruments they’d never dream of playing outside of the game.

  Ignoring the growing tremor in his hands, Jack took a deep breath and hurried down a narrow, poorly-lit partition between two sets of spectator stands. Everyone else followed close behind. Nobody in the audience paid them much attention. Compared to what was going down on the pitch, the arrival of a few gatecrashers simply wasn’t very interesting.

  Not that there was much of a pitch, mind. The centre of the stadium was nothing but a giant, turbulent circle of sludge. Jack didn’t know how mudball was played, but there was no question that it contained a lot of mud and a lot of balls. He counted at least eight of them, though most of the players seemed too preoccupied with inflicting grievous bodily harm to bother picking any of them up. At least one member of each team was already face down in the dirt, and according to the scoreboard the game had only started four minutes ago.

  Jack frantically searched the stands for anything out of the ordinary, while Rogan and Klik split up and inched their way around the fence separating the players from the fans. He felt sick. He had no idea who or what he was looking for. Psychotic weirdos in hooded cloaks? Robotic soldiers politely applauding the away team? How the hell was he or anyone else from the Adeona supposed to know what wasn’t normal at a mudball game?

  “There’s the Administrator,” said Dev, pointing up at a small, silver orb floating
high above the pitch – a private viewing pod. “If she’s still here then Station Security can’t suspect anything. Everything seems fine,” he added hopefully. “Maybe you were mistaken.”

  One of the Alpha Rhoden – a lumbering, rhinoceros-like species Jack recognised from the bar-side stools of various Kapamentis nightclubs – punched a Krolak so hard her head and her feet swapped places. Approximately half of the spectators around the stadium whooped with delight. Tuner tugged at Jack’s arm.

  “Erm, Jack?”

  “We can’t have got it wrong,” said Jack. His stomach rolled as he scoured the pristine glass dome for incoming drop ships. “Why else did the cult have this place mapped…”

  “I said, erm, Jack.” Tuner yanked Jack’s arm so hard, it almost popped out of its socket. “Look! They’re coming out through the players’ tunnel!”

  Jack felt his temperature drop in tandem with his stomach. Three long columns of LX-14s were marching out from backstage like a clockwork half-time band. Each stared ahead blankly as if no thought passed through their artificial minds, and each had a blocky, Cyclone Manufacturing-issued laser rifle clutched in its mechanical hands. Jack supposed everyone ought to be thankful they hadn’t been equipped with anything better.

  “Is that them?” asked Dev, scrambling backwards down the maintenance partition. “Oh, good heavens – is that them?”

  Jack looked along the perimeter of the pitch to where Rogan stood. She was shouting something to him, but he couldn’t hear her over the noise of the crowd. It looked like she was mouthing, What do we do?

  He hadn’t the slightest idea. His legs were numb. He turned to Klik as if to ask her the same question, but her only answer was a panicked shrug.

  At first the crowds continued to cheer and boo, either oblivious to the automata strike force or believing them to be a natural escalation of the sport. Then the players stopped playing, and the audience quietened. By the time the last LX-14 finished stomping its way through the mud and all two-hundred-and-fifty of them occupied the arena, there was barely any sound Jack could hear save for the rapid thumping of his own heart beat. Somebody had even cut the power to the holographic billboards overhead.