by S. E. Smith
An anomalous, oppressive feeling, almost like guilt, weighed on his shoulders. He wished he could do more, but a warship wasn’t equipped to deal with traumatized civilians. “Take the helm. I’m going to pay them a visit to do what I can to reassure them.”
“Don’t do that,” Brack said sharply.
“Excuse me?” Dante arched his eyebrows. He’d known the lieutenant commander since they were academy cadets, and he’d hand-picked her to be his first officer on the Crimson Hawk. In private, rank relaxed, and they spoke freely to one another. But not on duty while on the bridge.
“I mean, sir, the New Utopian liaison and I have everything under control. There may still be Tyranians in Alliance territory. You have more important matters to deal with. I can handle a few colonists.”
Ah. Now he understood. “I’m not suggesting you’re not up to the task, commander. I have confidence in your abilities. That’s why I put you in charge of the rescue effort.”
Brack had taken a personal interest in the colonists’ well-being, and had asked to be assigned to oversee their care on the ship, which he’d readily granted. She was correct: other duties required Dante’s attention. The captain of the Crimson Hawk wasn’t the best person to manage the day-to-day care of shell-shocked refugees. Besides, he knew his strengths and weaknesses.
His cyborg brain excelled at military strategy, logic, and analysis. Hand-holding and hugs? Not so much. He’d never been a touchy-feely people person, and after his transformation to cyborg following a critical injury early in his military career, the emotions he did have had calcified. Cybermed doctors had assured him the microchip brain implant and the robotic nanocyte infusion wouldn’t change him, but they had. He’d awakened from surgery with memories intact, cognitive function enhanced, but emotions all but erased.
He’d become like his name: Dante Stone.
Focused. Driven. Single-minded in execution of duty.
What friends and civilians perceived as a lack, his military superiors viewed as an asset. He’d quickly risen through the ranks, promoted over those with greater seniority, and now commanded the most powerful warship in the military fleet, with one thousand personnel serving under him.
Normally, after delegating, he wouldn’t get involved hands-on, but this situation was different. The Tyranians were savage killers. The New Utopians had suffered horribly. Even “Cold Stone”—as it was whispered behind his back—couldn’t fail to be moved by their plight. So at least one visit seemed to be in order. Despite his first officer’s recommendation, he would do what he could reassure them they were safe.
“Where did you put the colonists?” he asked.
“They are isolated in crew quarters starboard side over the aft engine bay. Guards are posted to ensure they don’t venture beyond their cabins, the observation deck, or the mess hall.”
“Good choice,” he said. The Crimson Hawk carried the most advanced weaponry in the fleet. Civilians couldn’t be allowed to wander into areas that might be dangerous to themselves or to the crew.
Woof. Woof.
Dante approached the passage where the New Utopians were located and cocked his head. Did he hear barking? Canine barking? Someone had sneaked a dog on board? Good galaxy! Animals, even domesticated ones like dogs, were known carriers of disease. They could easily be infected with alien microbes that could sweep through and decimate a contained population like the crew of a warship. The Crimson Hawk had no animal quarantine facility. Given that Verde Omega had been invaded by Tyranians who carried who-knew-what, this was a serious situation.
He hurried toward the source of the sound.
A half dozen New Utopians congregated outside the observation deck. In the center of the group stood a young woman with a dog. It jumped around, wagging its stubby tail in a fast, perfect rhythm.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, forgetting his good intentions to inquire into their welfare. “Who brought this dog on board? Explain yourself!”
The small group fell away, leaving the woman standing with the canine. “It’s the captain!” someone whispered, but his cyborg ears heard as if they’d shouted it. “Cold Stone,” someone else hissed.
“Sparky, sit!” the woman commanded, and the dog settled on its haunches. She looked like she was in her early twenties. The clean civvies the crew had rustled up hung sacklike on her scrawny frame. Stringy, dull brown hair drooped around a face sunken from malnutrition, but he rocked back on his heels as if he’d been sucker punched. His chest constricted, and his stomach flip-flopped. A heat totally inappropriate for the situation surged through him.
What was wrong with him? Though he called upon his nanos to calm his racing pulse, his heart continued to pound.
“What is your name?” he asked the woman.
“M-Miranda Lowell. I’m the archivist for New Utopia.”
“This dog belongs to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where is the liaison?” He directed his attention away from her, away from his disconcerting physical reaction.
“Here.” A man stepped out of the crowd. “I’m Warren Ochoa.”
“Remove the canine from this ship. Animals are not allowed.”
Miranda Lowell recoiled.
“Captain, we’re a parsec away from the nearest life-sustaining planet,” Ochoa said. “The only way to remove him would be to…airlock him.”
“No! You can’t do that!” The woman rounded on him, horror flickering in eyes too large for her gaunt face. She couldn’t have had much to eat while running from the aliens. Surviving colonists had fled the invading horde with only the clothing on their backs.
Her mongrel appeared in much better shape, healthy and well-fed, its short coat groomed and shiny. Good universe—she hadn’t been giving her limited sustenance to the dog, had she?
Her eyes beseeched. “Please, don’t send Sparky away.”
Her plea shot into him with a sharp stab. Rules were rules, and while he might have been inclined to bend them—especially for her—he had to protect the health of his crew and two-hundred-plus refugees. The latter, physically compromised and half-starved, were in no condition to fight off an alien contagion. Who knew what they might have already been exposed to?
“I wasn’t suggesting airlocking,” he said. “The animal could be placed on a pod and sent on ahead to SSO15.”
She lifted her chin. “No! He stays with me.”
Everyone was watching, taking note. If he allowed even a small insubordination, it would spread. A ship’s captain had to maintain order and control. He looked at the liaison. “Get with Lieutenant Commander Brack and remove the animal. That’s an order.”
Now he had something else to feel guilty about. But what could he do? So much for the ‘let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you’ speech he’d planned. His first officer had been right. He should have let her handle this. Dante turned to leave.
The woman blocked his passage. “I’m keeping my dog with me. You try to take him, and you’ll see what happens!” Anger animated her entire face, giving him a glimpse of what she looked like when she was healthy.
That inappropriate sexual heat flared low in his abdomen. “Do not threaten me.” Dante leveled a stare that caused those under his command to quake in their boots. “My order stands. Now, move out of the way.”
“No.” She planted her feet wide apart.
Gently, he grasped her arms to shift her out of his path.
Behind him, the dog growled.
“Sparky’s not even a real animal! He’s a K9-500 bot!” She wrenched away, the force of the jerk causing her to lose her balance. She started to topple, and he lunged to catch her before she fell.
The mongrel snarled, charged, and latched its teeth onto his ankle.
Two
“Sparky, no!” Miranda grabbed her robotic dog and tried to pull him off the captain. This was awful. Stone would airlock him for sure. “Release, Sparky, release!” she cried, but the companion-mod
el robot hung on. “Let go!”
The captain bent, and gripping the dog’s upper and lower jaws, began to pry its mouth open with his bare hands.
“Don’t hurt Sparky!” He was all she had left, and the captain could break him, dislocate his jaw.
“Hurt him?” He peered up at her. “Might I remind you its teeth are imbedded in my leg?”
She reached under the collar for the power switch on the dog’s nape. He jerked, released the captain’s ankle, and fell over. Still. Silent. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized, wringing her hands. “He’s programmed to protect me, and he perceived you as a threat.” Maybe if she’d explained at the start her dog was a canine artificial intelligence model, all of this could have been avoided—but at the captain’s edict, she had panicked.
She scooped him up and clutched him protectively to her chest, stroking his soft synthetic fur. He looked and acted so lifelike, sometimes she forgot he was a robot. They’d have to eject her from the ship before she’d allow them to remove him. If they put him on a pod, how could she be sure she’d get him back?
He hadn’t been bothering anything.
Well, not until he bit the captain.
If Stone’s eyes had been cold before, they were positively flinty now. She’d never seen such a dark scowl.
Blood stained his pants leg, and he pulled it up to reveal a lacerated ankle. For all its small size, the K9-500 had a jaw like a vise and sharp metal teeth. If the bot had attacked a human, the damage could have been severe. Rumor had it Dante Stone was a cyborg, a computer-enhanced human with biomimetic parts. She’d heard cyborgs were immune to pain and practically indestructible.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “It doesn’t hurt much, though, right?”
“Of course, it hurts!” he snapped. “Why would you think it doesn’t?”
“Don’t you have those nano thingees?”
Her fellow colonists were staring, watching the interchange, waiting to see what would happen. Would the captain toss her into the brig? Airlock poor Sparky?
“All of you, disperse!” He waved at the gawkers. They shuffled away, heading for their shared cabins where space was tight, but safe. Anything beat being hunted by aliens.
She tried to sneak away, but he stopped her. “Not so fast. I’m not done with you yet.” Captain Stone regarded her from his immense height, muscles bunched and corded under his uniform, his stern, masculine features as hard as his name suggested.
Her anger had faded, and without fury to give her courage, her knees shook. Staring eyeball to eyeball with him was almost as bad as facing down the Tyranian in the greenhouse. No—no one was that bad. The alien had been hideous. Its red eyes had glowed with malice. And it stank.
Sparky had saved her. The K9-500 had leaped into the air and attached itself to the creature’s scaly arm. As the Tyranian had attempted to shake off the bot, she’d decapitated the alien with a scythe. Then, she’d grabbed her dog and fled. She’d been on the run for a month, scavenging for whatever native flora she recognized as edible, which wasn’t much, and hid wherever she could, until the Crimson Hawk had arrived, fought off the aliens and rescued the survivors.
She shuddered as remembered terror clogged her throat.
A muscle twitched in the captain’s cheek.
“I did not realize the canine wasn’t a real animal,” he said, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn he sounded apologetic. “But I can’t allow a bot to run amok and attack people.”
“You’re the only one he bit.” Other than the alien who didn’t count. She hugged the robot tighter.
“You’ve only been on the ship since yesterday afternoon.” He raked a hand through hair as black as space and buzzed military short. “If you’ll agree to keep the bot deactivated, I’ll allow you to keep it.”
“I will. I promise,” she said.
“You should have it reprogrammed when we reach SSO15.”
“I’ll take care of it.” She would do no such thing. The aliens had destroyed everything else she owned. The K9-500 had been a gift from her father, who died when she was a teenager, and it was all she had to remember him by. She wouldn’t change so much as one synthetic hair on his little fuzzy doggie body. Forget it. Sparky wouldn’t be Sparky if he was reprogrammed.
She fidgeted and shifted him in her arms. Due to his mechanical and computer innards, the bot was heavier than he looked. She’d never had a real dog, never had seen one other than in vids, but imagined they were just like him, except for his electrically charged metal teeth. He’d probably given the captain a jolt.
“You can set the bot down.” Stone’s mouth twitched. “It’s safe from me.” His token amusement vanished when he asked, “Have you eaten? You’re too thin.”
She blinked at the about-face. “I, um, had breakfast this morning.” After six weeks on the run with little sustenance but a few roots and sour, unripe fruit, she’d lost nearly two stone. Food had been one of the first items the crew had offered the survivors, but she’d been in no condition to eat. The horrors of Verde Omega had left her wary of everyone, even her fellow colonists. She huddled in her quarters for half the night until a restless sleep had claimed her. But in the morning, she’d ventured out and binged until her stomach pooched out, and she couldn’t force down another morsel.
Growing braver, she’d taken Sparky for a walk. And encountered the captain.
“Good. If you require anything else, contact Mr. Ochoa or Lieutenant Commander Brack, my first officer. You’ll see her around the unit. She’s here to make your transition easier.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” she said, feeling an unusual and inappropriate pang of disappointment. No one would expect a warship captain to fetch and carry for a ragtag group of refugees. Besides, why would she want to see him again? She would do better to have a fresh start with someone Sparky hadn’t bitten.
“By your leave, then. Remember, the bot is to remain off for the remainder of the journey.” Captain Stone limped away.
Three
Curled up next to Miranda’s feet, Sparky shot off the bunk. Yip, yip, yip, yip! The K9-500’s shrill bark pierced her ears—and probably the corridor, too.
“Quiet!” she commanded.
He continued barking—and snarling, pawing at the door.
“What is wrong with you? Why are you acting this way? Stop it, immediately!” She pulled on the harness and yanked him away from the door. “Somebody will hear you!” She’d made a promise to the captain—the larger-than-life, muscular captain with chiseled features and a gaze that managed to be both stern and brooding. Were all cyborgs as powerfully built as he? As imposing? His mouth had twitched with amusement at one point, but what would he look like if he gave a real smile?
In the week since the altercation, he’d insinuated himself into her consciousness, and though she tried, she couldn’t scrub his image from her mind. She found herself watching for him in case he paid the New Utopian area another visit, but he never had.
Just as well. The last thing she desired was another confrontation. He might not be so forgiving this time. She’d intended to obey his order, but after the trauma of the Verde Omega tragedy and the austerity of the Crimson Hawk, she longed for familiar company. Everyone she’d known well had been killed. Having her doggie bot activated helped to fulfill her need for companionship and comfort—especially since the New Utopian woman with whom she’d shared a cabin had disappeared two days ago and hadn’t returned.
Damn her luck. Now when she needed Sparky quiet, his barking, which had been a rarity before they boarded the ship, had begun to increase. As soon as they arrived on SSO15, she would have a full diagnostic run. Several times now in the week since he’d bitten the captain, he’d run to the door snapping and snarling for no apparent reason. The only people who moved among these corridors were the New Utopians. He’d never acted this way until the Tyranians had arrived. The attack had triggered some programming, a bad line of code that made him hypersensitive
to stimuli.
“Silence. That’s an order,” she commanded. “Return to your pad.” She pointed to the recharging unit where she kept him when he wasn’t in use. “Sit!” He had no sooner settled on his docking station, when a communication hail sounded. Growling and barking, he charged at the door again.
Her heart thudded. Who would be hailing her? Had somebody heard the noise?
She doubted her fellow New Utopians would turn her in. Now that they’d begun to relax and feel safe, they’d also started to complain. They’d been restricted to three areas: their quarters, the mess hall, and the observation deck. Armed guards barred them from other areas. “We’re like prisoners!” they grumbled. Most likely they’d applaud flouting the captain’s edict as a way to “put one over” on the Crimson Hawk crew.
However, the lieutenant commander who met frequently with the New Utopian liaison would report the violation. Miranda had watched the schedule, and when Brack was due for a visit, she’d switched off the dog.
The hail sounded again. What if the lieutenant commander had dropped in unexpectedly, passed by, and heard barking? Quickly she shut off the bot and plunked him onto his pad before running to the intercom. “Y-yes? Who is it?”
“Althea.”
She sighed in relief that her secret was safe—and that her roommate had returned. She’d begun to worry. Where could she have been for two days? Miranda flung open the door. “What happened? Where did you go?” she said, and then her jaw dropped as she took in the woman’s appearance.
Althea’s eyes were bloodshot, her hair was mussed, and she wore mismatched, rumpled clothing—a man’s shirt with her leggings.
Ah. The walk of shame. No judgments. Stress increased the human need for comfort. That’s why she had activated Sparky against orders. If Althea could find solace in someone’s arms, more power to her.
