Farthest Reach Page 14

  Shakkurru arrived at Galegold in the dark of night. Using the building’s com system he informed Robutler of his late arrival. At so late an hour he would be required to wait until morning to provide his master with a mission report. While waiting for the bot to escort him to the cryo chamber, Shakkurru moved over to stand at the window where his master usually stood. Galegold was almost more beautiful at night; all of the buildings and skytraffic emitted a collective array of multicolored lights. A tear fell from his eye.

  Why had he returned? Could he not be like Owen, a carefree dog, happy to work a simple job. But Shakkurru’s existence was not simple. The only woman he loved in life was taken from him, separated by space and time. The dreams were all he had left. And despite Master Balak’s disregard for him as a person, this was all he knew.

  Eugenic experimentation bred AS-01 for one purpose. Cloning honed that purpose through the incarnations all the way down to AS-04. His emotions were diminished as well to serve that purpose, to make him a living weapon capable of swift destruction. But now years of pent up emotions were surfacing and he did not know how to handle them except for getting a new implant installed. Only then could he return to feeling normal, to hardly feeling at all. Then they would let him return to the cryosleep. He wanted it, needed it bad. Needed her.

  A cane collided with his skull. Sharp pain erupted in his head. Shakkurru fell to the ground.

  “You botched the entire mission.” Balak spat the words out like venom at Shakkurru. “You’re the focal piece of the Strayn IV newsfeeds. You dodged the local authorities trying to apprehend you, and then return here.”

  “I accomplished the mission.”

  “You left a trail of destruction that leads straight back to me.”

  The cane came down hard across Shakkurru’s face again.

  “You’ve ruined everything. Do you know how many credit bribes I’ll have to divvy out? How many blackmail favors are going to be called in at my expense? My competitors will put me out of business. Years of what I’ve built will crumble.”

  He struck Shakkurru again.

  For his part Shakkurru took the beating. He had endured beatings like this before. As had his previous incarnations. If he let Balak get his rage out, then Master would see clearly that the situation was still salvageable. Master could then easily recalibrate him with another dampener implant. The new emotions overwhelmed him, threatened to undo him. He held to a hope that after enduring his punishment, Master Balak would make everything right again, restore his peace.

  “Robutler, the red button please.”

  Robutler emerged from the shadows. His amber eye bulb stared at Shakkurru, not a gig of mercy visible. He held the red button device.

  Deep memories from the recesses of his cloned mind caused trepidation to overcome Shakkurru. He shook with fear. There was no going to the cryo chamber. This was the end of AS-04, and the birth of AS-05. But something in him caused him to lash out. He kicked the remote out of Robutler’s metal hands and wrestled the bot to the ground.

  Shakkurru eyed his master. “Let me go, or Robutler gets terminated.”

  “Stand down, AS-04,” chirped Robutler. “We can come to a compromise.”

  Shakkurru pinned him down under the weight of his armored foot.

  “We’ll have the cryo chamber prepped in no time,” explained the bot. “The cryostasis will make you comfortable again.”

  That struck a nerve. It was all he wanted, to find peace in the cryo chamber. He hesitated.

  Master Balak laughed. Whenever Shakkurru witnessed Balak express a positive emotion, it gave him the chills.

  “You fool. You think I value this bot. Or even you? You’re worthless to me if you can’t function as intended. Goodbye, Star Sleeper.”

  Balak pushed the red button, putting AS-04 out of service.

  Shakkurru flinched, waiting for the eternal sleep to overtake him. In some twisted way, it would be better than cryostasis. He would never have to awaken for another mission again. The next cursed clone, AS-05, would be left to deal with the ramifications, the missions, and the endless tinkering with the dampener.

  Balak jabbed the red button over and over. His eyebrows contorted in anger, then lifted in dismay.

  Eternal slumber did not come for Shakkurru. Balak tried to kill him and failed. He tried to take away the one peaceful aspect of Shakkurru’s life, his dreams. And he did not even give Shakkurru the quick death that was promised.

  White hot rage seared Shakkurru. His fingers formed a fist and he bashed Robutler’s eye bulb over and over. The eye splintered, then shattered altogether. Shakkurru reached into the socket, grabbing a handful of internal wiring and wrenched out essential parts.

  “System failurrre.” Robutler’s mechanical voice slowed and deepened as he powered down.

  Shakkurru hefted the robot corpse above his head and lobbed it out of the window, dashing the glass into a million shards.

  Balak’s mouth hung open, his pearl-white hair blowing wild from the sudden rush of wind. Then he bashed the red button over and over. His scarlet cyborg eye whirled on Shakkurru, scanning him.

  “Your implant is offline.” The words came out of Balak not with the confidence that Shakkurru was used to hearing, but with a hint of dismay.

  For the first time in his recycled life, AS-04 held the upper hand over his former master.

  He reveled in the feeling. Feeling itself was a gift. Sure, grief wracked his soul over his lost Hanae, the life they could never have together. But there were other emotions, feelings he never had the luxury of. Until now.

  AS-04 had died with the implant. Akio Shakkurru never felt more alive.

  He stepped toward Balak and kicked him between the legs. Balak doubled over, all of his weight on the cane. Shakkurr kicked the cane out from under him sending the emasculated entrepreneur sprawling.

  Balak’s voice shook. “I’m your master. I’ve cared for you. Calibrated you. Spent millions of credits to refine you, to remake you, when early iterations failed.”

  Shakkurru approached Balak forcing him to edge along the shard ridden floor toward the broken window.

  “I provided you shelter and peaceful sleep. Kept you safe. You’re mine. I own you.”

  Balak’s face paled as he reached the edge of the window and had no space left to move.

  “Please,” Balak Serbane pled. “Spare me.”

  Akio Shakkurru hated when they pled for mercy.

  The marigold pulse blade ignited in his hand.

  10

  “So you’re a free Terran, and you managed to get past my buddies in the stratos guard again. And all just to see if your good ole pal Owen survived. I’m touched.”

  Shakkurru nodded. “I’ve never been awake this long though. I don’t like it.”

  “You’ll get used to it. The withdrawals will die down eventually.”

  Shakkurru shook his head. He could never get used to it. A part of him, the part that had been suppressed by the dampener knew why he longed for the cryostasis. The dreams, though a pathetic substitute for reality, were his only reality. Or they had been. But even his feeble dreams were taken from him. He was free, but he had nothing.

  Owen slurped another tentacle. “I love these now. They’re the only appetizer I order.” His com link buzzed with an alert.

  “Hey, look at that. Roger got back to me.”

  “Roger who?”

  “You know. The bloodhound.” Owen swiped his com link to display the message from Roger.

  The hologram projected a woman with a heart-shaped face. Goosebumps crawled over Shakkurru’s skin.

  “Is that your girl?”

  She looked different, her pixie bangs streaked with pink highlights. She had aged, but was not as old as Shakkurru assumed. “Hanae,” he whispered.

  Owen barked. “Yes! See, I told you. Roger’s the best.”

  Shakkurru snatched the com link from Owen, continuing to stare.

  “I’ve got some vacation time on the
books I need to use up.”

  “And…”

  “Let’s go find her. She’s only two star systems over. Last seen on planet Widad.”

  Not sixty clicks later, the Terran and his new best friend slid into the cockpit of an emerald Fighter-class mech they picked up at an impound auction.

  The cockpit warmed as the temperature adjusted itself. Shivers still wracked Shakkurru’s body as Owen set a course for Widad. Shakkurru eased himself by remembering he was free. A nearby star basked him in warm light.

  Shakkurru smiled at Owen.

  Now nothing hindered him finding her.

  THE END

  © Copyright 2019 by Dean Floyd

  About the Author

  Dean Floyd

  Dean Floyd remembers his first exposure to animated sci-fi. A sprawling megatropolis torn by riot police battling anarchist biker gangs, and an evil corporation lurking in the shadows. Instantly he fell in love with Akira. But the tragic, nihilistic ending always bothered him. In his own stories, he focuses on interesting characters forced into terrible dilemmas who take action, and whose endings are satisfying but come at a price. If you like tales of comeuppance served by heroes backed into corners, head over to Amazon and read more of his stories, or check out deanfloyd.com.

  Threat

  Cary G Osborne

  Oscar jumped up on the bunk and circled Ceola, his tail caressing her. Purring loudly, he bumped her chin with the top of his head while she checked the day’s schedule on the bedside monitor. She reached over and stroked the ginger tabby, then got up to take her shower.

  Before opening the shower door, she stopped and listened. Ever since she woke, there was a vague feeling something wasn’t right with the ship. The mechanics and electronics were asleep and quiet. Life support was actively working, of course, the fans circulating air quietly, and sensing devices would warn of outside threats. She knew every sound on the ship, and at that moment, nothing sounded amiss. Even Oscar was relaxed, sitting on her bunk and washing himself.

  Grumbling, she stepped into the shower. As the spray of water ran down her body and into the recycler, she considered the myriad of things that could go wrong. There was little externally to worry about, except the possibility of a meteorite striking the ship or the asteroid. But after five weeks, nothing untoward had appeared on the monitors. The rock was stable, or as stable as a large piece of planetary detritus traveling through space at thousands of miles per hour could be. She really didn’t want any unpleasantness now.

  For the first time since prospecting on her own, the mother lode had come along. The test drills indicated rhodium, gold, and iridium in large enough quantities to be worth mining. Records showed the rock orbited the galaxy on a long elliptical path measured in millions of years and was currently positioned a great distance from any settled world, enough so to make it prohibitive for most prospectors, which was why she’d chosen it.

  She was self-sufficient and afraid of very little. However, on some worlds, men saw her as vulnerable, simply because of her gender. It had proved to be a problem in the past and she simply didn’t want to waste time on continually proving she could take care of herself. The few enemies she had wouldn’t find her here, either. Especially the one she feared most.

  She stepped out of the shower and dried off, the silence aboard the ship as profound as before. Yet, there was something—an odor, an echo, perhaps, not present before.

  An echo. But of what?

  Surely no other living being had set foot on the rocky surface. Why would anyone? For the same reason she had. Alien? Not likely, for no alien species had been found over the centuries with a measurable IQ.

  She shook her head. In spite of her imagination, there was little likelihood anything or anyone had landed on the rocky surface without registering on her instruments. If they had, her claim to the mining rights could be in jeopardy. Not to mention her safety. Claim jumpers were numerous, caring little about registrations, but mostly closer to the center of the galaxy.

  She dressed, then toured the ship. It was a regular routine, although today she paid closer attention this time. Living quarters were tight, most of the space in the ship taken up with mining equipment, including analyzers, and storage for processed minerals. She could also carry several tons for further refinement on Primus IV. Afterward, the ores would be shipped on to settled worlds for use in manufacturing, jewelry, and whatever other products were appropriate. In this case, she could either do the mining and refining herself, or find enough of value to interest a potential buyer of the rights. Large mining companies were always looking for rich strikes and they had the means to squeeze this asteroid dry.

  After a few minutes examining the living quarters and bridge of the ship, nothing appeared amiss. Yet something had wakened her. As captain of her own ship—and only crew member—she could sense anything different within its hull. It was part of the skills a captain needed, especially when alone in space, far from any settled world. Intimate familiarity came naturally after several years occupying, guiding, renovating a ship.

  And she was about as far from any settled world as a person could get.

  She eased into the pilot’s seat and began diagnostic checks. It was a day earlier than necessary but it didn’t hurt to make sure. Everything was operational, and she pulled up the security log. The first thing she spotted was a minute loss of air. She delved more deeply, finding the outer hatch had opened for three seconds, then the airlock opened for two-and-a-half seconds, all while she was asleep.

  That was impossible, of course. Unless she walked in her sleep, but the monitors showed no activity on her part. Nor did the motion sensors, which would power up security cameras inside the ship, but they showed nothing.

  She turned in the pilot’s seat and scanned the bridge. Nowhere to hide in the cramped area filled with instruments, readouts, and controls. She flipped a switch on the console to activate the cameras and scanned the whole of the ship. Nothing unusual, inside or outside. Then she ran a test on the security system. No problems found. There was no way someone got on board without the motion sensors, cameras, and other sensors detecting their presence. The only explanation was a glitch in the sensors, which if she couldn’t find and fix, would have to be fixed when she returned to Primus IV.

  With the situation unresolved and not knowing what else to do, she made her way amidships where the controls for the collectors were located. She opened the door into the work room and took the seat in the crowded space. Hell, every space in the ship was crowded. It had taken a while to learn to live with those conditions.

  When she first began prospecting, she was hired by another prospector to put on a suit and go outside to examine and select rocks to bring in for analysis. She’d used power drills to open up holes and break up pieces. She piled them into wire buckets to be hauled inside through an airlock where another crew member chipped off smaller pieces and ground them up for the analyzer. In fifteen years, the technology and mechanics had changed so much one person could do it all without ever leaving the safety of the ship. If the prospector could afford them. She could, but the money wouldn’t last forever. This find would make everything easier financially.

  She powered up the various functions. A low hum penetrated the entire space, giving her butt a sonic massage. The vibrations also settled in her chest and head. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and it was one way to monitor the performance of the equipment. Still, she put on a headset and selected a sonata by Chopin to at least block out the sound.

  The remote arms stretched out and back, the grasping fingers flexed. The drill motor whirred in the bowels of the ship as the drill bit spun silently. The airlock doors, both inner and outer, opened and closed. The safety check completed, she settled in to work. Her concentration was compromised, however, by the gnawing feeling something was out of place.

  For an hour, the mechanics and electronics moved at her command. Rocks were broken up and stowed in the collection airlock. She finishe
d up what she’d drilled out of the surface yesterday. She took a break for breakfast and to feed Oscar. He hissed and wouldn’t eat, disappearing into one of his hidey holes. Oh, well. He was a cat after all.

  After another hour finishing up the last of the drilled pieces, Ceola moved forward to check on conditions outside. She checked every day, although the black rarely changed. The immediate vicinity, lighted by powerful spotlights, stretching for nearly a hundred kilometers, was clear. Then she checked for messages. As far out as she was, any messages received would be months old, in spite of the recent surge in placing repeaters. One message had been captured. When she pulled it up, the voice was garbled.

  “... Flannigan... hunter... month...” was all she could pull out. Even the ID of the sender was garbled. The name was unfamiliar; maybe it was the name of the sender.

  She clicked off the audio and sent the recording through the interpreter, hoping it might pull out more context and spool it to the reader. As it worked, she sat rigid in the pilot’s chair, drumming fingers on the console, careful not to accidentally press any buttons.

  Her eyes half closed, she started thinking about her life, the isolation, the loneliness. If this load paid off as much as she hoped, she could settle somewhere. Have a real life on some world, with comforts, entertainment, breathable air.

  The equipment cabinet she had been looking at with unfocused eyes, shimmered. Sitting up, she blinked and stared at it, focusing hard. Had the shimmering actually happened? Was her eyesight going? Was she losing her mind to space sickness?

  The cabinet shimmered again, then began to coalesce into a shape. A tall, slender figure stood quite still, holding a pistol pointed at her chest.

  She closed her eyes and opened them. The figure—a man—stood there in a red p-suit and no helmet, his dark hair slightly ruffled.