Rechs knew all this. And was fine with it. With the infighting. And the homicidal tendencies. The little bot’s programming had somehow been altered, that was all. Usually there were patches and updates to keep a bot’s core programming whatever it needed to be. But this bot hadn’t experienced that in a long time. And it had taken to thinking of itself as a war bot.
“Okay,” said Tyrus, giving in. “Let’s call it a secret kill mission. But not until a very specific thing happens. Then, yes… you can start shooting everything.”
The bot gave a small slow whine of either gratification… or amazement. It was unclear which.
An hour later the bot had been sold three different times as each purchaser/seller took the valuable little piece of equipment up the chain of acquisition until it inevitably reached Gat Hathor’s personal buyer.
Spindo.
Spindo promptly shipped the Nubarian bot off to Gat’s fortress, where the little machine was assigned to man the most secure gun emplacements—as Rechs knew it would be, due to the nature of the bot’s valuable target-acquisition programming. And so, within Gat’s central fortress, high atop the Azure Tower that loomed above the sprawl of lagoons, grottos, and gardens, the Nubarian gunnery bot now operated the main defensive gun that watched over the palace. While not quite an ion cannon, it was capable of disabling an incoming capital ship should the need arise. It rapid-fired phased energy bolts of such power that standard defensive shielding, already degraded by atmospheric conditions, would collapse rapidly. It could do this only once—then it was out of juice—but should any Republic vessel show up, it would be little work to shoot it down within fifty-eight point nine seconds of target acquisition. The Obsidian Crow would have stood little chance against such a weapon system if caught unawares.
Or so the Nubarian bot had been assured by its new friend, TALC-289. TALC was a tactical-fire coordination bot that had been sold by a band of Gomarii slavers who’d put into Suracaõ a few years back. Of course, it had only been sold—the bot explained frenetically—because it was experiencing significant artificial personality drops in which it questioned the nature of existence. Its constant non sequiturs had bothered the slaver crew immensely on levels they couldn’t quite articulate, and the decision to sell the existentially handicapped bot had been unanimous. If only for the sake of the slavers’ sanity.
The little Nubarian whistled electronically and began to shudder at the joys of operating such a beautiful weapon. Instantly it ran a series of hoped-for simulations in which something really big, like one of the Republic carriers it had served on, showed up.
Imagine that thing being shot down, it chittered to itself in digital fervor.
“Alas,” opined the suddenly melancholic TALC-289. “The chances of such a thing happening are… well, quite statistically low, and I wouldn’t want to bore you now that we will be spending the rest of our fruitless existence inside this gunnery cupola located atop the loneliest level of the tower. Do you ever wonder what it’s all for?”
The Nubarian did not.
It did not wonder, because it knew what “it” was all for. To shoot things. Big things especially. But anything generally. That was its reason for existence, and it was quite pleased to have such a sense of fine purpose.
“If only,” moaned the melancholy bot, and it withdrew into itself in order to compose more koans.
No Republic carriers, or any sizable ships with a shoot-down confirm order, appeared over the skies of the fortress on Suracaõ. But that didn’t stop the gunnery bot from maintaining a good target capture engagement solution, or from keeping the guns always charged and active. Ready to engage at all times.
It muttered to itself over and over in its singsong whistles and beeps: You never know when you’re going to get to shoot something.
You had to be ready for the good things in life. Like shooting other things.
The bot promised itself it would be. It vowed this. It even aspired to be more it than it already was. And it realized there was a solid chance that given its current lust for the new weapon system it had been placed in charge of, there was a thirty-three-point-six-percent chance it would forget its secret kill mission.
This could not happen.
The bot would have its memory defragged and indexed in preparation for a long-overdue firmware update if it wasn’t able to perform the task assigned to it. The solution was to remember the secret kill mission while still appreciating the raw destructive power at its disposal. Only then would the galaxy align and be perfect.
Alas, the bot could not spend all its time with the main defensive gun. When Gat boarded his private ship to tour operations, the tiny bot was brought along and given full command of the ship’s forward turret array. This proved to be an impressive after-market weapon system with pirated AEGIS tech that allowed linked weapons fire from all three turrets, coded to the bot through its selective targeting arrays. The bot cooed with delight and hoped for a swarm of Repub fighters to come at it. What a firefight that would be! It ran endless simulations in which it shot down increasingly large numbers of fighters, whooping and ululating digitally with each kill. The scenarios verged on the ridiculous, in that they exceeded the number any three carrier groups operating in unison could actually deploy, but one could never be too careful. Too ready.
It was this commitment to its work, in addition to its valuable target-acquisition programming, that ensured that wherever Gat went, the little bot was sure to be assigned a gunnery position. The premier gunnery position, in fact. Now, above the Antibian Ocean on Suracaõ, the bot found itself in the portside forward gun cupola of the pleasure-maran, watching the spectacle and longing for something to shoot. All the while waiting for the event that “Boss” had indicated must happen before the secret kill mission could begin.
The event that triggered the bot’s special orders was Rechs getting swallowed by the giant tyrannasquid in the forsaken, bone-littered lagoon.
The bot watched it happen.
And then, with an excited warble of chirps and whirs, the little Nubarian gunnery bot opened fire.
07
The violence inside the tyrannasquid’s interior almost matched the violence of its exterior. Not only were the digestive juices extremely caustic, but the giant monster seemed to be convulsing inwardly, tossing about everything in its digestive tract. Tyrus Rechs found himself pummeled by powerful internal contractions and rapidly forced toward the squid’s stomach.
Research had prepared him for the bit that was coming up next. This was where the real fun began. The squid’s digestive juices were highly toxic and acidic. His best estimate was that he had about a minute before the armor would begin to break down. He’d be dissolved shortly thereafter.
Here we go, he thought as he fought to get a gauntleted hand onto his armor’s external controls, located along the opposite wrist. He would need the suit’s powerful defensive shield to come online as soon as he entered the stomach. Not just to protect him, but to cause a reaction that would make the squid sick—and hopefully force the tyrannasquid to eject him and all the acid-resistant bones resting in its gullet.
The plan was to lure the mass of armed murderers Gat surrounded himself with into thinking the threat was over now that the bounty hunter had been swallowed. Or better yet, make them believe that the threat never even was, seeing as how the notorious Tyrus Rechs hadn’t even put up a fight on deck.
Once he was vomited out, he’d have the element of surprise. Small, but larger than anything he could have achieved while on the sleds, especially if they were busy with the “secret kill mission” the little Nubarian gunnery bot should by now have initiated.
Every ounce of surprise helped. Especially when the odds were laughably against you.
The problem was… the armor’s powerful shield didn’t always work when called upon.
Lately it had been hit or miss. Success somewhere
around the seventieth percentile. Which was actually quite an improvement. For a time, it had gone dark altogether, and for years he’d simply stopped factoring it into his plans. But that was the nature of the iconic armor he’d come away from the Quantum Library with so long ago. It was a thing of wonder, but it was enigmatic. And, occasionally… glitchy.
Especially the shield.
And so usually Rechs only made use of it when he had no other choice. It wasn’t something to rely on. Skill, ability, planning—he could rely on those. Everything else was susceptible to failure.
Don’t rely on anything or anyone that can let you down. Of all the lessons Rechs had learned along the way, that was one of the first. One of the oldest. And like most lessons, it had come to him the hard way. Long ago, back on Earth, when he was a twelve-year-old kid trying to kill a cougar with a jammed hunting rifle he’d found in the ruins of a city.
The lesson had never left him.
Those scars had never faded.
So, the armor was just a benefit. That was how Tyrus Rechs had approached it in his time in the galactic lens. It didn’t make him who he was. He’d fought almost as many battles without it as he had with it.
But now… in this instance… he had to rely on it. The shield was critical to the plan. Because while it might not have been the only way, it was the way he needed.
And sometimes… that actually is the only way. The hard way. Whether you like it or not.
A powerful contraction from the churning monster forced Tyrus Rechs into the tyrannasquid’s massive stomach. In the darkness, with low-light imaging picking up the suns’ powerful light coming through the hide of the beast, he could make out a constantly shifting cavern of surging yellow gastric juices and ravaged remains of recent victims. Half a head and most of a shredded torso sloshed by.
As he landed a finger on the controls, the stomach heaved and covered him in a surge of caustic juices. He was sucked up onto the side of the stomach in a powerful slosh. Apparently, the giant predator squid was darting after another victim in the waters around the lagoon.
Tyrus found the control he needed, and activated the armor’s powerful defensive shield.
Function Not Active flashed across his HUD.
Damn.
Because there was no plan B. Not beyond using up what was left of his jump jets in a desperate attempt to fly out the way he’d come in.
He’d needed to be totally defenseless to get this close to the notorious crime lord. That was the only way. Gat’s fortress would have required a full-out assault by a force of legionnaires, and even then the casualty rate would have been astronomical. Not to mention the Legion wasn’t going to work for a bounty hunter they were lawfully required to kill or apprehend on sight.
And Rechs had been part of enough of those types of assaults in his long life; he didn’t care to be a part of any more. They were a shame even when they had to happen. A tragedy whenever things could have been done another way.
It was something like that that had cost him his career as a general. Not because he lost. But because he refused to be the House of Reason’s executioner for a nineteen-year-old girl who had just happened to be related to that week’s “traitor.” It wasn’t a big Legion assault, just another covert operation… but it was a prime example of people who should have known better refusing to do things another, better way.
Forty years later, Mother Ree was safe in her sanctuary on—
Okay, Rechs thought to himself as he tumbled down the side of the compressing stomach wall of the monster, gastric juices washing across his armor. Now’s not the time to let your life flash before your eyes.
Integrity alarms were already going off across the HUD’s ghostly displays.
This is the end of you, Tyrus, some evil voice tried to tell him as the shield refused to activate and he tumbled out of control through the shadowy darkness.
Fine, he thought. Then the galaxy ain’t my problem anymore.
He’d kept the ener-chains on until this point, because it meant manipulating his wrist commands would be easier—no having to force one arm over while tumbling wildly inside the beast. But the time to deal with those shackles had arrived. Using his powered armor, he snapped both sets in an instant. He was free.
Free to swim around in powerful acid quickly working to break down anything within its embrace.
He had no weapon. Nothing to bust his way out with. He’d been captured with weapons, of course, and of course they’d been promptly removed, trophies for the goons who’d brought in Tyrus Rechs. Not his best guns. Just something good enough for him to look serious about things.
What now?
Use the armor’s jump thruster to turn himself into a missile and shoot out the side of the membranous squid’s skin?
That would more than likely cost all his jump juice and leave him swimming around in a lagoon without weapons and surrounded by a ton of killers. But now that he was in the creature’s stomach, it seemed far more propitious than trying to fly back up the throat and past the thing’s teeth.
He was just about to power up for the jump when he decided to try the powerful shield once more. One last time.
And this time it worked.
A blue-hued glow erupted to life all about him. Instantly the defensive bubble was pressing against the confines of the digestive cavern, pushing the squid’s stomach uncomfortably outward. Rechs quickly expanded the shield, weakening it, but causing it to grow like a tumor inside the beast.
And now the next phase of his plan to capture Gat Hathor began as the squid released a titanic, pain-filled groan.
It took only a few seconds for the monster squid to vomit forth the obstruction. Rechs dialed back the shield size to avoid getting lodged in the creature’s throat, and found himself racing up through the passage of its gullet and into the sled-laden air above the churning sea. It was like being shot out of a cannon inside a space-carnie funhouse.
Free of the fleshy cannon soaring and into the burning skies above the lagoon, he had to be fast.
Acidic squid vomit sprayed into the sky all around him, splashing over a sled full of hired blasters circling just above the mayhem of monster and victims. The vomit-covered sled plowed into the waters, its crew and guards, lightly armored and now covered in skin-burning gastric juices, screaming in terror.
Rechs brought his jump thrusters to full hover as the bubble shield collapsed. He didn’t have much jump juice, and therefore flight time, available. He targeted the reveler-swollen decks of the pleasure-maran and rocketed straight at them.
One of the blaster towers aboard the pleasure-maran was currently engaged in a furious firefight with a nearby hovering guard sled. Three of the four turrets aboard the smaller but better-armed guard ship had already been destroyed. The fourth was firing back at the tower most likely occupied by the little Nubarian gunnery bot.
The armor’s HUD acquired the bot’s signal and linked comm. The bot was whooping digitally as it disabled the remaining guard sled turret and then fired seemingly at random at its own vessel, adding to an already chaotic environment. The crime lord’s palace guards, along with the scantily clad and gaudily appointed revelers who’d swarmed aboard to partake in the gory festivities, ran every which way to avoid the incoming fire from the gun tower at the front of the ship.
Rechs ordered it to keep up the pressure, but under no circumstances was it to engage the primary target on deck three of the pleasure-maran.
Gat Hathor was his.
Rechs could have aimed himself for the top deck, where he would find his target. But at the moment Rechs had no weapon. A situation that would have to be corrected. That was step one.
He set down on the lower deck amid a flare of rocket blast and swirling debris. His armor was still dripping with the gastric juices of the monster bellowing and raging in the lagoon below. And no longer so far belo
w. The massive pleasure-maran had lost altitude during the crisis.
As if to illustrate the point, one massive tentacle slapped the hull, and the ship shuddered in response. Partygoers screamed and ran, swarming over the guards reacting to alarms on every deck. Chaos ruled the moment.
In the distance came the rattle and whine of the Nubarian-controlled defensive gun shooting directly into the pleasure-maran superstructure. The ship pitched over to port, but repulsor compensators kicked in and stabilized the listing a second later.
Two thugs, both hired blaster types with low-riding hip rigs, came running at Rechs, firing. The shifting deck and general chaos played havoc with their targeting. Rechs dodged and lost his own footing, sliding as the deck went dangerously to one side. Along the lower deck, several partygoers went over the railings and fell into the sea below. Or, if the tyrannasquid was fast enough… into its greedy clutches.
Rechs stumbled toward the railing, grabbed a pole used to string party lights from, and yanked it out of the deck as his boots grabbed hold with gravity assist. He reared back and threw the pole like an unyielding javelin, launching it straight through one of the hired blasters coming for him.
That guy stopped running and started tumbling for the edge instead. Rechs tried to grab him, if just to get the blaster he was carrying, but the momentum of the listing ship, now suddenly righting itself as the repulsor compensators again kicked in, flung the thug’s body well out of reach as he soared off the side of the ship.
The other hired blaster, a mean-looking zuigar, his snarling face twisted by the background radiation of his home world, had chosen to hang on to the pavilion line and fire with his free hand. Rechs ducked, barely avoiding a direct hit right in the bucket. He crouched down, then surged up the deck at the man, using a richly appointed seating area as cover. Pillows and bronze goblets went tumbling across the deck. Rechs launched himself toward the gunman and landed a terrific blow on the side of the hired blaster’s head.
Madame Guillotine Page 6
