by Kelly Gay
Niko edged his way in front of Rion and knelt to get a better look. “Holy hell. Would you look at this?”
Rion nudged the figure’s metal foot. The thing was a loose collection of humanoid metal parts: legs, feet, torso, arms, hands, head. Made of some type of black metal alloy, it was weathered and damaged in places, and unlike anything she’d seen before. The pieces had an elegant and sleek design to them, but there was nothing else around that showed how those pieces fit together. She had to agree with Niko. It was fascinating. Though the head was a little disconcerting with its angles and lines, which seemed to carve out a somewhat sinister-looking humanoid face.
“Could it be experimental?” Niko asked. “How much you think something like this is worth?” He shined his light over the thing. “It looks human . . . yet more advanced than anything I’ve ever seen. Maybe this is like some next-gen Spartan android or something? Like a prototype?” He swung his head around and met Rion’s gaze. “This could be the asset, what ONI is after.”
Lessa remained quiet through Niko’s assessment. But when he paused, she asked, “You don’t think this is the thing that made all this . . . the antenna, the grave? Do you?”
They stared at it, wondering. Lessa might be right. From what Rion had seen so far, the Rubicon had entered the atmosphere and crashed at a very high rate of speed. That a human could survive that, and then survive here for years with no air, no food . . .
Niko turned over the torso to check out the back. “I don’t see a power source or anything that connects the pieces.”
The cloth flapped outside. Sand pinged the fuselage like gentle rain, and the wind rocked sections of the hull. And still it felt too quiet. “Put it in the cart,” Rion told Niko. “And then dismantle the antenna. While you do that, we’ll keep looking around.”
A few hours later, they’d explored the main wreck and the surrounding dunes. They were sweaty and tired, and made slow work of pushing the grav carts over the sand to the ship. Rion said a grateful prayer to Lady Luck. If not for the weak gravity, this day would have been rough.
When they reached the ship, she waited until Niko and Lessa were inside with their gear, then hit the airlock. Once through, they proceeded into the cargo hold, where Ram was waiting. He’d also brought cold drinks. “You’re a saint. Thanks.” Rion removed her mask and drank deep before issuing everyone’s favorite order: “All right, kids, let get this haul unloaded.”
CHAPTER 17
* * *
They are fascinating, these humans, much different than the crew of the Rubicon with their military protocols and professional distance. There is very little protocol here. And very little distance. They are driven by emotion, their actions dictated by their feelings for one another.
This is strangely unsettling.
The bickering between the younger two, relatives to be sure—obvious by their accents, features, and mannerisms—is hypnotic. The older female is their captain, but I perceive she is much more than that. The crew views her as a mother figure, a protector, and a friend.
I absorb every word, every move, and as I am transported into the hold of their ship, I realize that they are, much to my surprise, thieves, salvagers, opportunists.
This is altogether unexpected.
I find myself . . . excited.
A sudden rush of warmth fills me. Thievery and opportunity are old friends indeed, and I recognize them with much fondness.
As they argue and laugh and talk, I am reminded quite clearly—perhaps more clearly than ever before—of my past, my human life, my relationships and friends. . . .
I see memories.
The brim of a palm-leaf hat hanging over my eyes as my calloused feet walk on soft sand. I see bronze, work-worn hands, dirt beneath the nails, as I push through jungle. Bright white flashes of sunshine through green. Chuffing laughter ahead of me. Complaints behind me. And the joy of hunting, and scheming, and thieving . . .
I am jarred suddenly from this memory as my parts are placed in a large metal storage bin. There are several of these along the walls of the cargo hold. Once this is achieved, the captain says they will continue looking around the wreckage for a datacore.
They won’t find one.
They leave, and soon the hold grows quiet. I power my visual components and examine my surroundings. Nearby on a bulkhead wall is a systems panel. I engage my hard light, assemble, and climb out of the bin to access the ship’s systems.
Without one of the humans’ AIs on board, everything is open to me without resistance. Information floods in.
Details about humanity and the current time period flow in at a rapid rate. The data is full and robust and varied. I see we have a common hindrance in the Office of Naval Intelligence. The office, ONI, as it is called, has left a few surveillance filaments threaded into the ship’s fiber optics and communications cables. These I untangle and gladly destroy.
I see that a navigational and communication-wide cleanse was recently implemented. This, however, does not hinder my ability to delve into the personal files and messages and other detritus of the crew’s lives, even using the displays in their quarters as viewports to observe their personal spaces. I run free through filaments brimming with code, with life and pictures and history.
Lucy Orion Forge. Ramsey Chalva. Lessa and Niko, siblings and orphans without a surname.
The captain’s past gives me pause as a name I find, Spirit of Fire, rings like an echo through the damaged halls of my memory. It is a ghost, a vague and sudden skip, and then it is gone, too quick to capture. I move on, certain that the knowledge is there and will reveal itself in time. And when it does, I will coax it into place, letting it settle where it was meant to.
Once I glean every fragment of data there is, I turn my attention to the complete and utter lack of ship’s systems. It is extraordinary that these humans have made it through space with such rudimentary functions. Awareness of all the things that can and will go wrong because of such simplicity creates a surprising sense of protectiveness in me. They are vulnerable without an ancilla, without advanced shields and weapons and drives.
For expedience’s sake, I simply must repair these issues.
This is not out of line with my original objective with the Rubicon. My ship must have the capability to travel over great distances, quickly and accurately. Therefore, upgrades must be implemented.
And I certainly do not want to lose another crew.
There are enough cryopods on the ship to suspend them while I resume my work. However, this may not be the best option. The last time such a thing was attempted, the result was not exemplary.
I find I am hesitant.
I will ponder my choices carefully.
While the pull is strong to begin administering aid to the ship’s systems, I retreat to my storage cart. They are returning.
CHAPTER 18
* * *
Back from their second canvass of the wreck site, Niko began unloading the carts as Rion headed out for one last attempt at finding a datacore. Lessa went up to the lounge to make a quick meal for everyone while Ram remained on the bridge, monitoring Rion’s movements.
Besides the humanoid metal thing, they hadn’t found much of note.
Normally, sorting salvage into bins wasn’t Niko’s favorite job. But in this case, he would have volunteered. He couldn’t seem to stop arguing with Lessa, and he continued to say the rudest things to his sister.
Annoyed and on edge, he turned the volume up on his music until the cargo hold vibrated, and began sorting the tangle of cables and metal from the grav carts, tossing pieces into the appropriate bins. It took nearly an hour to work through the mess.
After a quick drink, he decided a break from cables was in order, and went for the bin with the humanoid thing.
The metal pieces were surprisingly light, the alloy worn and pitted by the sand, perhaps by the crash. Niko placed each piece on the floor to roughly make its intended shape. Head. Torso. Arms. Legs. Hands. Feet . . .
&n
bsp; He stood back and stared down, scratching his jaw. There was nothing to connect the pieces. No cables, wires, or internal structures that he could see. So how did the thing fit together?
He continued staring at it for a while, then decided to rummage through the cart of smaller salvage they’d taken from the worktable. He heaped small optics, busted circuit panels, and more cables onto his workstation. A few pieces caught his interest, but there was nothing that looked like it might belong to their resident robotic construct.
A scrape of metal sounded above the loud music.
Niko stilled. That was odd.
Another soft clang echoed behind him.
A slow shiver started down his spine, and the hairs on his arms lifted. Pulse leaping, he casually reached over and turned his music down, feeling completely freaked out because he could swear someone was standing behind him.
But that would be silly. Right? The airlock was engaged. No one should be back here. He took in a few steadying breaths and hoped to hell that he was just imagining things.
In seconds there was another soft scrape, followed by a smooth whirring sound.
Oh God. There was something behind him.
Hands shaking, he scanned the table and grabbed a metal bar from the salvage, swallowed, said a prayer, and slowly turned around.
Oh shit.
The thing was up. The robot was up.
Adrenaline raced beneath his skin, lighting electric chills through his nerves. Niko stepped back, hitting the table and dropping the metal bar. It clanged loudly, echoing in the silence.
Blue light glowed in between the dull, weathered plates and up through its head, carving out sharp, sinister cheekbones, a mouth, and large, slanted blue eyes.
It had to be nearly three meters tall and was held together by nothing, just . . . magnetism, maybe?
Niko’s thoughts were racing; it seemed to be staring at him.
His heart hammered hard in his chest and his throat had gone bone dry. That’s what lack of sleep did to you, messed with your mind, screwed reality right the hell up. He rubbed his eyes, blinked hard a few times—but the thing was still there, still staring.
Guess I don’t need to look for those missing parts.
The thought caused a nervous laugh to spurt from his mouth. The thing tilted its head in response, and Niko almost fainted.
It felt like hours before he found his voice, managing a few intelligent words. “Holy shit.”
He swallowed again, uncertain whether the thing was sentient or not, but it sure seemed to be studying him. Okay, let’s try this again. . . . “Um . . . hey?”
Its head tilted again, and then it repeated, “Hey.”
“Oh, dear God.” Niko had never fainted in his life, but he was pretty sure this was how it felt, all the blood just collapsing out of your body, the whole universe tilting.
Despite his fear, another nervous laugh popped out of his mouth. He dragged his fingers nervously through his hair, a thread of excitement finding its way past his panic. “Um . . . okay,” he said to himself. “Yeah, so . . .” He could barely hear himself speak through the pounding of his heart. He searched for something to say as he hit his commpad. “Well . . . you’re taller than I thought you’d be.”
No response.
“Right. Okay. I’m Niko. You’re on a ship, the Ace of Spades. We rescued you. From out there . . . the surface of that place—that planet.”
It dipped its head. “My thanks, Niko.”
Niko scrubbed a hand down his face and let out a shaky breath. He wasn’t sure whether to just give in and collapse in shock or clap his hands in demented glee. He was caught somewhere between fear and amazement. He’d never seen anything like it. And it was definitely sentient, its voice an octave higher than his, with a strange resonance, and a little scratchy.
Then it moved. And Niko was pretty sure he might actually die.
It leaned toward him. Niko leaned back, his hands gripping the worktable behind to steady himself. But the thing reached past him into the salvage bin next to the table, from which it retrieved a long metal piece. It straightened and set the end of the piece on the ground, holding it like a cane to support the damage on one of its metal calves.
“What are you?” Niko released his death grip on the table.
It cocked its head again, then seemed to look down at its collection of metal and blue light. “I am . . .”
It paused, as if it either had forgotten what it was or simply couldn’t decide.
“Hey, it’s okay—maybe something easier. What’s that light? Is it what’s holding you together?”
“The Forerunners refer to it as hard light.” It straightened and turned its head slightly as though listening. “Your friends are coming.”
The metallic clang of footsteps sounded above him. But all Niko could process was the word “Forerunner.”
It said “Forerunner.”
He glanced over his shoulder to see Lessa hurrying down the stairs and stopping halfway at the sight. Her face was pale and horrified as she lifted the barrel of the assault rifle over the railing.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Niko shouted, leaping in front of the construct. Above them, Ram was on the catwalk with his own heavy assault rifle. “Don’t you dare shoot!” he yelled. “Please!”
For a moment, no one seemed sure what to do next. Then the thing spoke again.
“Hello, Lessa.” It dipped its chin to acknowledge her before looking up to the catwalk. “Ram Chalva.”
“It knows our names,” Niko said in awe. He turned around and faced it again with an odd mix of horror and delight.
“Niko, what did you do?” Lessa snapped.
“Nothing. I swear.”
“He is correct,” the construct said, surprising him.
“Niko, move away.” Rion was standing inside, the airlock door closed behind her, her helmet falling to the floor, her rifle aimed, her breathing rapid. She must have heard the comm as well and hightailed it back to the ship. The deadly glint in her eyes as she sighted down the barrel of her weapon magnified Niko’s fear exponentially. Time slowed and he couldn’t seem to find his voice. But then he didn’t have to.
“Captain Forge,” the thing said from behind him. “I have awaited rescue from this planet for quite some time. You have my thanks.”
The crew exchanged bewildered glances, all concerned and unsure how to proceed.
“You’re welcome,” Rion replied slowly.
“Guys . . .” Niko managed finally. “I think it’s Forerunner. It’s a Forerunner robot.”
Niko turned around as the thing let out an odd strangled sound. “Goodness. I am not a robot.” It stood straighter. “This form is a sniper-class combat armiger. I have adopted this construct out of necessity. It is not my original form, nor my previous form.”
“Then what was?” Ram asked, eyes narrow with suspicion from the catwalk above.
It paused.
“Maybe he doesn’t know what he is,” Niko offered.
“Or maybe this is what ONI was creating on that wrecked ship,” Lessa said. “This could be what they’re now looking for.”
The armiger seemed to bristle at that. “The Office of Naval Intelligence does not have the technology capable of creating me, child.”
Niko’s eyes went wide, and he saw that Rion’s did as well. They weren’t sure what to make of that, but he felt like bursting. The thing obviously possessed emotion, and his all-time favorite: sarcasm. He wanted to laugh out loud, but bit his tongue instead.
“I did not want to frighten you out there on the surface. I have been delayed. My ship and my humans gone. . . . Therefore I require—”
“The Rubicon was your ship?” Rion stepped forward, motioning with her rifle for Niko to move away. He edged to the side, creating an option to run if necessary, but not so far away to prevent him from protecting the armiger once again if need be.
“No. I simply had need of it.”
“So you hijacked it.”
“In a manner of speaking. . . .”
The cap’s mouth went tight. When she looked like that, shit was about to get serious. Niko prayed that things weren’t about to take a nosedive. “Yes or no,” she said. “It’s a simple question.”
“Then yes, if you insist on defining my actions in such a manner.”
“And the crew? Did you kill them?”
“Of course not.” It was said with enough surprise and indignation that Niko believed him. “They were human. I needed them.”
“So you kidnapped them.”
“Also true, in a manner of speaking. I find your mode of questioning quite . . . annoying.”
“Why did you kidnap them?”
Silence.
“Okay. Let me get this straight. You stole an ONI vessel and kidnapped its crew. And then crashed the ship. Everyone died except you. Does that about sum it up?”
“That is correct. But the crash and their deaths were not my intention. I strove to protect them. As I said, I needed them. Soon after I took control, there were . . . complications. By my calculations, I am only sixty-two-point-three five percent culpable in the tragedy.”
“How did you survive the crash?” Niko interrupted.
“It was a simple matter of moving from one data stream to another, readjusting as things burned and broke. There was salvage in one of the science bays. These parts, recovered from the Ar—from the same place I was recovered.”
“Jesus. It’s only sixty-two-point-three-five percent culpable.” Ram sat down on the catwalk, legs hanging over and rifle resting across his legs.
“I am not an it, Ram Chalva. I am . . . human. Like you. Only . . . far superior. And I do not appreciate your impertinence.”
Niko clutched his heart and spun around to face the crew. “It doesn’t appreciate his impertinence,” he repeated, barely able to contain his excitement. Then he swung back around. “Wait—what do you mean, you’re human?”
CHAPTER 19
* * *
They stare at me as though I am mad or in jest, which I find highly irritating. I certainly am not jesting.
