Maauro had been the first person to see any value in Wrik Trigardt, even now she was the only one who knew my real name, knew the man who had destroyed himself in the skies over his homeworld. I didn’t kid myself about it. When she first met me as M-7, I was merely useful to her, an unknown alien she threatened into cooperating. Soon the bond between us grew into something unbreakable. How could I become so close to something made when humans lived in caves? Yet there was no denying it.
At first I fought against it – told myself it was only my need for protection, but that period had ended quickly. All company besides hers seemed somehow incomplete. She became friend, sidekick, and little sister. That too passed into something deeper, an identity of souls. We were part of each other, prepared to live and die for each other. Maauro was my first real friend, a position that could never be occupied by any other being,
Still, she had occupied a different place than Jaelle, who I loved as a man loves a woman. With Maauro there was a great depth of feeling, but although it was somewhat possessive, it had never contained passion.
When Maauro broke free of the Predictor, she didn’t even look like Maauro, there was fluidity to her movement, an animation to the grief-stricken face that I didn’t believe she was aware of. Then there were the tears, real tears, in a body wracked by sobs that felt like a woman crying, not like a machine emulating it. Maauro had reached deep into the future and had seen my death. Wrik don’t die, don’t leave me, she’d begged. I hoped it was a long time in the future, but no matter how long it was, I would die before her. I sensed in her a new awareness of life, as well as a depth of emotion that had not been present before. The fact that she had sworn me to secrecy over something so deeply personal to her that she needed time to think it through, spoke volumes.
She looked at me differently since the Predictor and right now she wasn’t looking at me at all, and yet I knew my glance at her was known. She was looking down and her long hair hung in her face. Maauro was hiding.
Maybe she wasn’t alone in that. More than once on this voyage I had looked at her and what had stirred in my heart wasn’t friendship, but something more. With that came guilt and confusion. My feelings for Jaelle had not dulled; they were as sharp and filled with wonder and delight as ever. How then could I have room for an entirely separate set of feelings for Maauro?
Could I love them both? Wasn’t someone always coming out on the short end? Most of the time they were close, even playful, but I couldn’t kid myself that at least on Jaelle’s side there wasn’t an edge to that playfulness.
My mind drifted back to the moment Maauro rose from my bed and let my shirt fall from her perfect, yet sexless body. Has she been trying to tell me something? Did she even know? Had her glimpse into the future changed that?
God, help me, I thought, I’d rather die than hurt either of them. I loved Jaelle with my body and my heart, but something in my soul was only satisfied by Maauro.
The truth now sat staring at me. Somehow I’d have to hold two different loves in my heart for as long as they would stay different and for as long as the three of us could dance our dance this way. I’d have to hope that the music would never stop, because I simply could not see past that point.
For now, it had to be enough that we were alive, and on our way home. There might be time enough ahead for me to learn what I needed to learn.
I looked at Jaelle, who as usual, sensed my regard. She gave me a wink then settled down a little in her seat and closed her eyes.
My eyes drifted to Maauro. I could speak to her head-to-head, but somehow it seemed an invasion and I could not catch even the ghost of a signal from her. Perhaps she had turned off the channel. Perhaps not. Finally her eyes rose to meet mine. Gem-bright, beautiful and deep as an ocean, again came the small, sad smile.
“It’s all right,” she sent as a whisper.
“Okay,” I sent back, relieved.
Then as if imitating Jaelle, she too shut her eyes and the sense of her faded out of my mind, there was something final in it, at least for now.
Behind my closed eyes I consider time and the future possibilities for me and my network. In some, through estrangement, or other change, I go my own way. In others, death, alone or with the others, awaits me. In the one that commands my attention, something that I cannot presently fathom occurs between Wrik and me, changing me forever. I do not know how that came to be, nor do I know what transpired for Jaelle and her own love for Wrik. I am troubled by that, fearing a future dissonance in my network. Yet that future both compels, and I must admit, frightens me, who has never known fear for herself before.
I do not know what to hope for, what star to steer for. Yet, for now I am surrounded by my network and all parts are functional and in harmony. Considering the adventures and enemies we have faced, this is a remarkable achievement in itself. I am determined to savor both our victories and our continued existence. As for that mysterious future with Wrik that beckons, I will put aside for another day when the path becomes clearer.
I have time to hope, to become, and to learn to dream.
The End
Don’t miss Book one of
The Maauro Chronicles
Three alien machines descend to the asteroid base of their enemies. The ensuing battle is short and savage. The lone survivor hopes either for rescue, or for another chance to engage its enemies. It will be a long wait…
Set in the same universe as the Robert Fenaday/Shasti Rainhell stories, but decades later, My Outcast State begins a new cycle of exploration of Confederation Space.
Available now on Amazon and Kindle
About The Author
Edward McKeown is a writer and editor specializing in science fiction and fantasy with occasional forays into literary and nonfiction. Ed escaped from NY, but his old hometown supplies much of the background to his humorous “Lair of the Lesbian Love Goddess” shorts, as his new hometown in Charlotte, North Carolina does for his “Knight Templar” fantasy series. He enjoys a wide variety of interests from ballroom dance to the martial arts. He has also edited five Sha’Daa anthologies of wry tales of the apocalypse and a wide variety of short stories. Find him on Facebook and at edwardmckeown.weebly.com.
Ed is best known for his Robert Fenaday/Shasti Rainhell series of SF novels, set on the Privateer Sidhe, issued by Hellfire Publications.
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An Excerpt from Book one of
The Maauro Chronicles,
My Outcast State
Chapter 1
I attack the enemy base in the company of two older M4 combat androids. We are launched from a Daggerwing assault-ship and shed our mobility capsules as we land on the asteroid. The Infestation claim the base is a lifeboat station but Intel says it is equipped with heavy weapons and sensors.
The weapons are there. A disrupter battery fires on us; another lashes out at the Daggerwing and the ships beyond. As we race across the surface of the iron asteroid, a disrupter hits the lead M4. It staggers and slows. Other weapons switch fire to the slowing android. It is destroyed.
I am an M7, the newest combat android, a prototype, faster and better armored. I duck into a crater and return fire from my armspac. Explosions bloom and the disrupter battery is wiped out. The remaining M4 and I crash through the base airlock. Infestor drone soldiers are inside, clad in vacuum suits. They open fire. There is no room to dodge, so we trade fire from our onboard weapons and armspacs. The Infestors’ small-arms have little effect on the M4 and none on me. We destroy them and race through the rest of the facility, killing I
nfestors as we encounter them. I head for the command center. M4 will attack the long-range disruptors firing on our ships.
Explosion. The corridor I occupy shatters, killing those Infestors I have not already dispatched. A mine, or perhaps my weapon, has set off a secondary explosion. I pause for self-repair. I am made of hyper-alloyed metals, ceramics and polymers. My outer casing has ablative layers and sections made to absorb blast damage. I exchange damaged exterior parts for interior and extrude new material to replace vaporized sections. Fortunately, I have taken no core damage. I waste no time on the aesthetics that make me look like a member of my creator’s race. I carry enough spare material inside to regenerate two legs and an arm so I can get my armspac and reengage the enemy. I am much smaller now, having used up my spare material.
M4 reaches the disrupter battery, sited atop an arsenal. The bulk of the Infestor forces are arrayed around it. We confer for a millisecond. The battery is firing at our ships in the asteroid belt. I am already damaged, as is M4, and additional resistance is possible at the command post. By ourselves we may fail to take the station and suppress its weapons. We agree on a plan of action and M4 self-destructs, detonating its plasma generator. The blast destroys the disrupter battery and its supporting forces.
I continue my attack alone and resistance crumbles. M4 may have killed the unit queen with its explosion. I neutralize the command post and mop up the base. In the process, I take seven prisoners. These I drag to a lower level and interrogate. Little useful intel is gained from these low-level creatures. After the last Infestor expires, I cleanse myself of their fragments. Then I delete the memories of the actual interrogation while saving the intel. This procedure is technically against my programming, but the longer I operate, the more latitude I discover in my behavioral routines. I do not know why I feel the need to do this, save that of late I have found the process of interrogation disturbing. I was created to destroy the Infestation and have done so for the seven years of my existence, yet I find more reasons to delete such information as time passes. I function more efficiently without these memories.
I reach the surface of the asteroid and step out under the stars, triggering my recall signal. No answer. I repeat it several times, then extend my sensor net to maximum and pick up a cloud of ionized gas. M4 did not destroy the disruptors fast enough. The Daggerwing, along with the support and repair staff who care for me, are gone.
I detect flashes of nuclear fire beyond my ship’s remains. Ambush. The base may have been bait in a trap. Our forces are destroyed or driven off.
Since I do not face imminent capture, I delay self-destruct and continue repairs. I am dismayed by my level of damage even though my exterior chassis is mostly restored. Much of the damage can only be repaired at home base, which now I doubt I shall ever see again.
I consider my course of action. If the system has fallen to the Infestation, they will likely return to this asteroid. I should lie in wait to ambush any rescue party.
I turn my scanners to the sky for a last long look at the stars, which now are my only companions, before turning to walk into the silent base. I switch to minimum power settings. My wait may be long.
Chapter 2
I hung around in bars a lot. Not that I’m a drunk. I went through a short spell of drinking after I was cashiered from the service for cowardice. But the bottle is slow suicide and I’m too young and interested in living for that.
No, I hung out in bars because that’s where a human can find work on Kandalor’s Vanceport. The Spacewitch is one of the places expeditions launch from. Not the big government expeditions from the Confederacy or the Combines, which wouldn’t use somebody like me, but the shoestring expeditions from universities or organizations short on cash. I can fly interstellar. Not everyone can handle the hyperspace visualization. I can also fly atmo, which a lot of starjockeys can’t.
So I staked out a small table in the back, away from the long bar with its brass and dark wood where the bad and dangerous hang out. My table sat under a hanging of red-fringed velvet, keeping me in comforting shadow. Square-D, the owner, knew me and would send over people looking for my type of skills. Square-D didn’t care about me one way or another, but pilots brought trade to the Spacewitch and, he got a cut.
Luck was with me. Square-D was talking to a tall, dark-skinned woman in green fatigues. He nodded in my direction and she turned toward me. She was tall, with a pretty, symmetrical face and an overripe figure that strained the fatigues. I guessed her to be older than me, perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties. Her vest hung open and I saw a holster under it. She strode to my table.
“Wrik Trigardt?” The voice matched the body, round and pleasant.
I’d left my real name in the past, with my honor. “Just Wrik.” I neither stood nor extended my hand; manners belonged to another time and place.
She slid into the booth and rested her breasts on the table as she leaned forward on her elbows. I got my eyes back up to her dark brown ones in time to catch the flash of white teeth against her dark skin. OK, she’d caught me looking, one for her.
“I hear you’re a good pilot both on Kandalor and nearspace.”
“Farspace too,” I said. “I have an interstellar rating.”
“Nearspace will meet my needs,” she said. “You look kinda young to me.”
I shrugged. “I’ve been flying since my early teens, military training as well. As they say: ‘It’s not the years, it’s the light years.’”
I studied her. She had a slight accent I couldn’t place. Something about her said Old Colonies or even Home World. “What needs are those, Miss…?
“Name’s Candace Deveraux, out from Earth. Call me Candy and I’ll shoot you in the knee. I’m looking for a private ship and pilot to take my colleagues to a certain riftoid.”
“Treasure hunters.”
She raised an eyebrow at me. “Prospectors and salvagers. You have a problem with that?”
I raised a hand. “No offense. I make a living hauling people around Kandalor and the near-rift looking for Old Empire relics and tech. Sometimes they even find stuff.”
“But for every one who finds something, a thousand go broke,” she quoted, leaning back. “True enough. Before we go much further, I’d like to know a little more about you. I gave you my name and world…”
“My name, you know. I’m out of a Confed colony world, former military pilot.”
Her look said she knew this already. “Some people say you’re out of Retief, a separatist colony. So why are you—?”
“Talking to a darkskin?” I finished for her.
She nodded. “Boers and Trekkers colonized Retief to get away from any contact with blacks. You regard us as inferior.”
“I don’t regard you as anything,” I said, “assuming I was in fact born there. I take people as they are.”
“Yet you fought in the Uprising?”
“As I said, you’re assuming I was there. From what I heard, the Confederacy came in and told them to admit darkskins to Retief. Then they backed it up with force. Retief didn’t last long after the Confederacy got serious.
“If that’s enough ‘get acquainted’ for you,” I said, and then, after sipping my drink, added, “I charge two hundred credits a day with fifty more if I go into vacuum. You pay for port fees and fuel. I get a hundred-credit advance now to reserve my time. You doubtless pulled my flight sheet at the port.”
“Doubtless,” she said, smiling. “I set the schedules and you learn where and when we fly when I decide.”
“Deal.” I tried to conceal my relief and surprise. She’d accepted my opening rates.
“Give me a number where I can reach you. You’ll get twelve hours warning. Tell anybody where we are going and I’ll shoot you in the other knee.”
I passed my card to her and she inserted it into a portacomp. A few keypunches gave her my number and m
e one hundred credits.
She slid my card back to me. “You gonna buy me a drink with any of those credits, spaceman?”
“Uh, sure.”
She laughed. “Just kidding. Next time come up with the idea on your own.” She managed a nice sashay for a big woman as she walked away. I was tempted to whistle but afraid she might take target practice on my knees.
I finished my drink and slipped out the back of the Spacewitch after leaving a healthy tip with Square-D. Distracted a little by my good luck, I failed to do my customary check of the alley before I started down. I caught the heavy, earthy smell just before a thick, furred arm fastened over my throat and arm.
“So, Wrik, what are we up to?” I turned slowly in Truf’s iron grip--there was no point in struggling with the bear-like Okaran--to face Dusko, the tall, Dua-Denlenn who ran a third of Vanceport’s underworld. The Dua-Denlenn looked like a woodland elf gone to seed, with pale skin and blue pupilless eyes.
“Dusko,” I nodded slowly. “I was just coming to see you.”
“Of course, human,” Dusko said, looking me over as if I were edible. “You owe me fifty credits.”
Sweat trickled down my back. “I have it here.”
“How fortunate for you, though perhaps disappointing to Truf here.”
The Okaran whiffed a breath in my ear. “There will be other opportunities.”
“My cardcomp’s in my inside pocket,” I said.
“Let him go, Truf. This youngling’s too prudent to be dangerous.”
I pulled out the cardcomp and handed it to Dusko, who ran his own card- comp over it and made the transfer.
Against That Time Page 33
