Awakening

by Ell Leigh Clarke

  “All systems and hardware are functioning as intended,” Jelly Bean reported. “Nutritional systems and peripherals remain on lockdown as per food safety and security regulations 506-k.”

  “Cut the crap, JB!” Loco barked at her. “I’m hungry.”

  “Acknowledged,” Jelly Bean replied. She sounded equal parts professional and sarcastic. “Do you wish to end the lockdown?”

  “What the fuck do you think?” The aggression in his voice escalated with each word.

  “My situational analysis would suggest yes,” Jelly Bean’s facial display gave him a cartoonishly wide smile, leaving it at that.

  “That was a rhetorical question, dammit!”

  “Rhetoric is unnecessary with me, Loco. I have nothing to be convinced of,” Jelly Bean cheerfully replied. “If you have a request of me, you only need to make it.”

  “Seriously?” Loco rolled his eyes and then returned them to Jelly Bean with exasperation. “It’s going to be like that today?”

  “It is like that every day,” she responded. “As per my programming.”

  “Why is the autocook still locked?” Shango’s voice boomed from behind them.

  Bentley stepped aside to make way for him when she saw their android companion doing the same. “I thought you were hungry, Loco. You spoke at length about it several times.”

  “I am!” Loco answered with an anger that Bentley noticed was considerably more tempered when directed at Shango. “But Jelly’s giving me a run-around!”

  “Bean,” Shango pivoted to her calmly. “End security and food safety lockdowns and activate autocook and accommodations. Passcode tango unicorn pineapple.”

  “Acknowledged!” There was a distinct amount of glee as she responded. Her face even lit up, briefly changing to a display of a knife and fork before swapping back to her normal expression.

  The series of interlocking metal plates that Bentley had assumed to be the walls retracted with a rapid series of ka-chunk sounds that rolled up the thick shielding to reveal a considerably larger interior; the room had nearly doubled in size. On the right side there was a long bar with built in stools. Behind it were three large, rounded tanks bubbling with colorful liquids that fed into tubes that wound underneath the bar’s interior.

  On the other end of the mess hall, where Loco was still standing, there were a series of five glass cubes built into the base of a segmented stainless steel counter.

  “Oh, sure, you’ll do it for him,” Loco grumbled, followed by an irritated grunt. He stepped closer to the counter, and the glass cube closest to him elevated to match his height. He pressed a palm to the glass and it lit up to display the same knife and fork icon that Jelly Bean had made of her face moments prior.

  “Ribeye steak,” Loco demanded of the console with his palm still up against it. “Rare, and the real stuff.”

  “Insufficient organic components,” the machine beeped back in an even voice. “Fabricated analogues available.”

  “Seriously?” Loco looked to Shango with this complaint. “We’re out of real meat?”

  “We’re out of real everything,” Shango informed him. “And that was before we lost the ship. Which is why we will need to find more work.”

  “Right, right,” Loco turned his attention back to the glass box that had denied him his demands. “Go with the gel-steak, then. Better than nothing.”

  “Affirmative,” the computer replied. The glass lit up and flickered with activity. Loco took a step back and made his way towards the bar on the other side of the room, mumbling to himself: “At least the son of a bitch didn’t drink all our booze…”

  “You must be hungry?”

  Bentley almost jumped at the sound of another voice from directly behind her.

  “Fuck!”

  Olofi was standing there, giving her that same friendly smile, its promise of friendship or hospitality ever-tempered by the distinct opposite impression she was constantly being given by the others. “How can you sneak up on me like that? You were right over there a second ago.”

  Shango had his own palm up against the second cube just as Loco’s had been. “Coffee, black. Full day’s nutrients,” he ordered.

  “What do you want to eat?” Olofi brushed off Bentley’s surprise to continue with his offer.

  “Well, uh… What have you got?”

  “Fuckall, that’s what!” Loco yelled from across the room. A glass had popped out from the bar’s interior and into his hand and he reached behind to fill from one of the taps.

  “Loco’s just being cranky,” Olofi said. “The ship’s on basic gel rations, but we can still emulate some pretty good stuff.”

  “Well, uh…” Bentley was unsure of what exactly the food was or why Loco was so angry about it, but she did notice a distinct pang of hunger that she hadn’t been aware of right until this moment. “Sure, I’ll just have whatever you’re having.”

  +++

  The four of them had gathered at the long, well-polished central table of the mess hall. Loco was already halfway through tearing through his steak before the others had sat down. Olofi had presented the both of them with what looked like a single serving of lasagna. It was, basically, a good dish, but it had an odd aftertaste that made the experience of eating it slightly unsatisfactory.

  Olofi watched her expectantly during the first few bites. “Not bad, huh?” he said. “Can barely taste the nutrigel.”

  “You can always taste it,” Loco said through a mouthful of simulated meat. He swallowed and washed it down with the bubbling concoction he’d procured from the bar. “We need some real food pronto.”

  “And we shall have it,” Olofi said, sipping the dark-brewed mug of coffee he’d taken from his own autocook. “After we’ve found some work, we will easily be able to resupply.”

  “Yeah, but what about the kid?” Loco motioned to Bentley with a jerk of his head while his hands kept busy cutting his gel-steak. “Can’t exactly take her along for the ride.”

  “I’m not a kid,’ Bentley answered, swallowing a mouthful.

  “Oh yeah?” Loco sneered, looking as though he were amused by a private joke. “How old are you, then?”

  “I’m…” Bentley paused, realizing she hadn’t considered the question before. “I’m actually... not sure.” She stopped just short of stuttering, her mind scrambling for a plausible explanation.

  Loco stopped sawing at his ersatz meat to regard Bentley with a frown of suspicion.

  “I was adopted,” she lied quickly. “There weren’t any records.”

  “Whatever,” Loco scoffed, turning his attention back to his food.

  “We’ll take her with us,” Shango said, placing his mug on the table. “We don’t have time to come up with an alternative for her right now. Now that we have the ship, we need to get back on track with our plans as soon as possible.”

  “My alternative was pretty cheap and cheerful,” Loco said, muffled through a mouthful. “Can still go with that.”

  “That’s enough, Loco!” Olofi called out with a seriousness in his voice that actually seemed to make Loco look a little guilty, which was surprising to Bentley.

  “Yeah, sure,” Loco said, wiping off his mouth. “Point stands, we can’t find any work if we’re babysitting.”

  “I’ll find us some work,” Olofi promised confidently. “You and Shango need to get the ship back up to task anyway.”

  “What exactly do you guys do for work, anyway?” Bentley asked, turning to Olofi with the assumption that he was the only one who would be interested in answering her. “Is this some kind of trade ship?”

  “Hell no!” Loco answered emphatically, much to Bentley’s surprise. “You seriously think we look like a bunch of merchants? We’re warriors, kid. Can’t you tell? Mean, lean, killing machines!” He lifted one side of his upper lip in a kind of snarl, before he returned his attention to his food.

  “I mean, you could put it a lot more nicely than that,” Olofi said, seemingly trying to temper hi
s comrade’s fervor. “But yeah, we leverage our fighting skills and experience all sorts of ways. Rescue missions, exchanges... that kind of thing. And yes, sometimes it involves cargo. If it’s the kind that needs top class protection, anyway.”

  “Wow,” Bentley tried to sound especially interested, realizing this was the most forthcoming these men had been. “So how do three godlike warrior-specimens like yourselves end up losing your ship to an old dude?”

  An awkward silence fell over the mess.

  The sound of cutlery on plates became deafening against the sudden drop in conversation. Bentley realized only too late, that she’d struck a nerve.

  “It’s, erm...” Olofi finally piped in as he finished his lasagna. “It’s kind of a long story,” He stood and brought his dish back to the autocook, placing it directly into the box he’d taken it from. “Maybe another time. I’ve got to make a few calls,” he added, heading out of the mess hall.

  Loco took over delivering the official response. “Short version is that old guy is a sneaky son of a bitch,” he explained. “He’s a conniving old bastard, and he can’t be trusted. Same goes for anyone who shows up when he’s been around.” He gave Bentley a pointed look, just in case she hadn’t caught the accusation in his voice.

  “Don’t pay too much mind to Loco,” Jelly Bean chimed in, coming up next to Bentley by Olofi’s now vacated seat. “He can be particularly sensitive when he has been found in a compromising situation of his own making. He is also quite adept at creating these situations. My long-term analysis has concluded that it is likely the result of childhood slights originating from his mommy not loving him enough.”

  Bentley cracked a smile.

  “Ouch, Jelly!” Loco scoffed, sounding more impressed than hurt, in spite of his words. “Is that for earlier? Or do I need to reconfigure your compassion parameters?”

  +++

  Aboard the Geburah. Approaching Dracon Station, Dracon System, Klaunox Sector

  “Dracon station is in sight, my Lord,” the helmsman reported.

  “Good,” Amroth replied. “Open the secure channels and hail.”

  The helmsman opened a channel and connected with space control. “This is the Geburah, requesting permission to land.”

  “This is Dracon Station checkpoint Alpha,” the security AI responded to the hailing. “Present clearance codes.”

  “Initiate full clearance,” Amroth responded. “Bypass all checkpoints,” he switched from verbal contact to his corteX system to directly send out his clearance code. If he’d even uttered a letter of it out loud, even he risked grave punishment. Though this wasn’t something that frightened him, it would be a major inconvenience to more important things.

  “Bypass accepted,” the AI responded. “You have full clearance to Dracon Station. Welcome home, Lord Amroth.”

  Amroth rolled his eyes on instinct, as he did every time he was fed this canned greeting. This was no home to him, nor would it ever be one. No amount of grandiose decorum or technology would change this fact.

  “Open the gate,” he ordered. “Straight to the antechamber hangar.”

  “Yes sir. Initializing…”

  The checkpoint nodes that had initially sensed The Geburah began to harmonize with the ship’s internal drives. In a matter of seconds, a synchronized flash brought forth a shimmering portal of spatial distortion, tailor made to his ship’s size, connecting him directly to his destination.

  “Lower shields and take us through.”

  The Geburah’s propulsion system sent it through, and in the split second it passed, the gate ceased to exist.

  They were now in the Geburah’s private hangar. It was, on its own, unremarkable, save the fact that it had gate nodes set up on its interior. Such a thing would be a fatal security flaw in the hands of anyone less able than himself.

  “Initiate landing,” Amroth sent via corteX to all commanding officers. “And security: assemble the honor guard. I want them in full dress uniform and ready to join me en route to the Command Center immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Guard-Captain replied. Amroth could detect the subtlest hints of fear in the man’s voice, even interacting via corteX like this. He was extremely adept at noticing when somebody was experiencing fear: A subtle quivering, unusual pauses between words, a need to draw more breath. Few men were without a tell in this regard, even the most hardened of soldiers.

  As he walked in his usual calm, purposeful stride, Amroth’s muted black attire gave way to matter reconfiguration and assembled itself in his designated LaPlacian dress uniform, full of accolades and a distinct amount of space left around his pendant. He was thankful that changing into it was such a small matter; anything beyond a second’s effort would be a waste of time for petty aesthetics.

  He exited via The Geburah’s upper observation deck, standing out in the open air for a moment, looking at the smoothed-out, circular metal construction of the hangar. He turned his head up to the high-rising chasm that was the room’s only egress (with the exception of the portals) and waited as his men gathered around him. He meticulously counted each one, knowing he couldn’t leave a single one unaccounted for, or they’d certainly pay with their lives. Not that Amroth particularly cared if any of them lived or died but replacing men could be such a bother.

  “Initiate,” he gave the order through his corteX to start the transport. A low hum emanated from the room and the artificial gravity was dialed down allowing them to rapidly be pulled up by the surge of gravity from above. They lifted into the darkness

  None of his men so much as shifted their posture when this happened. It was a difficult thing to stay still during, and to the uninitiated it took a great deal of core strength to simply stay upright.

  Amroth had no such problem.

  He stood unmoving while the transportation unit drew them to their ultimate destination: a grand receiving room. It brimmed with holographic artistry and exotic elements that blended with well-cultivated hydroponic flora that grew out of a stream of ever-fresh synthesized running water. The wide pit they’d ascended through closed up instantaneously, with layers of nanofluid extending and hardening right before their boots made contact with it, integrating with the floor beneath them and leaving no trace of whence they came.

  Amroth looked past all of the pomp and regalia to the entity sitting at the far side of the hall.

  Malleghan was an imposing figure. Strong and ruthless, with a look to his face that couldn’t help but be menacing even with that glint of supreme intellect in his eyes. He was seated in an artisanal holo-chair, its flickering, shifting imagery giving the impression that he was casually suspended several feet in the air. He always looked down on his subordinates, both figuratively and literally.

  “I take it that your mission was unsuccessful,” Malleghan’s voice boomed down the hall during their approach. His voice was forceful and grating, but somehow also distinctly serpentine. “Otherwise, I can’t imagine why you might deign to approach me without the sword in your hands.”

  “You are correct,” Amroth affirmed, raising his voice just enough that it could carry to his master. “He wasn’t there. He managed to evade us somehow. I’m still looking into it, though there was very little relevant data.”

  “I don’t care about your data,” Malleghan answered. The building wrath in his voice already had some of Amroth’s guardsmen wavering in their steps. Amroth noted that their cowardice only made it more likely that their lives could be forfeit. Now wasn’t the time to explain that to them though.

  “Legba could have escaped any number of ways beyond the ken of your ship or your men. What I care about is results. And in this respect you have wholly failed me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Amroth rattled off the acknowledgment of his failure as though dismissing it entirely. “I will be leaving immediately to relocate Legba.”

  “Forget Legba,” Malleghan ordered. “The sword is your only objective.”

  “Understood. But they’re unlikely
to be found separately.”

  In the midst of their conversation, Amroth had just made the final stride to standing before Malleghan, and perfunctorily kneeled before him. His men followed suit in formation.

  “It’s not like you to cloud your mind with assumptions, Amroth,” Malleghan’s voice turned colder. “Are you outliving your usefulness to me already?”

  “I will complete my task,” Amroth answered, eyes now fixed to the floor. “My resolve to that end isn’t something that is subject to change.”

  “Good. And what of your men? Did their incompetence compound your failure?” Amroth could hear the slight changes in breathing, and the growing tension around him as his men tried not to noticeably react to the threat. Some had seen it for themselves, others had merely heard rumors. But each one knew that Amroth’s next words would mean whether they lived or died.