Home Planet: Awakening (Part 1)

by T. J. Sedgwick

  A few days later, having settled into the third bedroom of Nikki’s apartment, he’d started with the LAPD. Same job, different city. So similar, but so different. His new partner, Blanco, had shown him the ropes and they’d worked well together sharing a mutual interest in soccer. Blanco enjoyed playing as well as watching LA Galaxy and its bevy of near-retired international greats. Luker hadn’t yet decided whether to join the local amateur team Blanco played for, but he was tempted. When he’d told Blanco that seven years ago he’d trialed at the Arsenal Academy in London, Blanco had almost begged him to join his team. Luker had played since childhood and at six-five, solidly built and faster than many sprinters, the budding center-back could’ve been a dominating force in the Premier League club’s defense. But it wasn’t to be and Luker hadn’t played since it all went wrong for him over in England. He’d torn his anterior cruciate ligament and had to return to Idaho and finish high school a year late. Then, he joined the police and hadn’t looked back. Most people assumed his sport was football—the American variety—on account of his build. He had played for a while, back in junior high, but the research convinced him that all those head impacts caused brain damage. He valued his brain too much to risk it just for sport. He valued his knees too, but they could heal or even be replaced.

  Luker liked Blanco and appreciated his Spanish language skills when dealing with non-English speakers on the streets. Luker was a monoglot—something he needed to change if he was to do his work to the best of his potential. He would take Spanish classes at night school—something he’d always wanted to do, but had never gotten around to.

  Now, it was just before seven on Saturday night as he helped his Mom and Nikki get ready for their soon-to-arrive guests. He laid out the last of the glasses on the dining table next to the wine, spirits, mixers and other assorted drinks and snacks. The party had been Nikki’s doing—a welcome-to-town get-together to help him meet her friends and co-workers from the business. At first, he’d not been keen, never one for wanting a fuss being made about him. But he’d warmed to the idea. It reminded him, once again, how lucky he was to have a little sis like Nikki and a mom like theirs. They’d always been close, but even more so since his dad died when he was fourteen and Nikki was eleven. It had been a devastating blow to the three of them and came completely out of the blue. Although he didn’t talk about it much, Luker still thought of his dad every day. It was a hole in his life that could never truly be filled.

  He put those memories to the back of his mind and started to wonder what Nikki’s friends would be like. TV culture lived large in the public’s imagination and even though he watched little television himself, he had at least some inkling of excitement at meeting them. Some were apparently celebrities, but he wasn’t sure what that meant anymore. It seemed for the longest time that everyone was a self-declared model or socialite. Anyway, perhaps some of Nikki’s friends were hot, being in showbiz and all. He’d see the night through and try to have fun, but wasn’t really one for partying anymore. Truth be told, he just liked going about his life and doing a good job and righting wrongs wherever he found them. White Knight Syndrome, Nikki had called it. Maybe, but so what if he liked helping people? It made him feel good and made others feel good. That’s who he was, take it or leave it.

  The video-entry phone rang.

  Nikki called excitedly from her bedroom, “Someone’s here. Can you get that? Danny, Mom?”

  Luker called back, “Already on it.”

  Mom, Marleen, was pulling something from the oven—finger food apparently.

  A beautiful mid-twenties woman stood alone, smiling into the entry phone camera, her wavy blonde hair falling over her shoulders.

  Luker said, “Hi there, this is Dan, Nikki’s brother.”

  She said, “Oh, hi there! I’m Juliet, here for the party.”

  Her voice was west coast and soft and musical to Luker’s ears. He’d never seen her before, but he buzzed her through.

  “Sure, come on up, Juliet.”

  Great start, he thought, grinning and looking forward to meeting her in person.

  Thirty seconds later, she arrived wearing a little black sequined dress, holding a small matching clutch—classy and sexy at the same time. Nikki arrived from last-minute make-up to introduce Juliet who she’d met at the fitness studio they both attended. Juliet was some tech startup high-flyer that commuted each day by Hyperloop to Silicon Valley—a half an hour trip. She had family and friends in LA and didn’t want to leave. Minutes later two attractive-looking brunette women arrived—actresses in the same show as Nikki he later found out. The one called Elise was apparently a big name, a rising star. Luker had never heard of her, but everyone else had, including his sixty-year-old mom. The other actress was apparently with Elise, as in they were partners. The days when homosexuality was an issue or even a talking point were long gone … in California at least. Luker didn’t really take to Elise—everything was about her, her, her. If her ego was this big now, he wondered how she’d fit her head through the door if she ever became an A-lister.

  Guests started arriving at a dizzying rate and Luker was having trouble keeping up with the whole welcoming routine thing. Eventually, he decided he’d meet people as-and-when and went to the fridge and got his first beer of the evening. He took a swig and got a call. Blanco had to cancel—both his wife and youngest daughter had a fever. A shame, but not like he didn’t see enough of the guy. But he’d need to take him up on those Galaxy tickets next weekend, though.

  The night went on and the music got louder. Wisely, Nikki had invited the neighbors. It was primarily a young-persons’ complex, so they could continue late into the night.

  It was ten o’clock and Luker was in conversation with an older man who’d once played a TV cop. The guy was full of chatter once he’d found out he was a real one. Over by the door, he watched as his sister kissed her first-to-arrive guest, Juliet, goodbye. The middle-aged former-TV cop continued talking as Luker looked on, disappointed she was leaving so early. She went for the door but then turned, looking over her shoulder, searching for a moment. Her eyes fell on Luker and she smiled and came over to say goodbye.

  “Excuse me,” said Luker to the guy and turned to meet Juliet.

  “Sorry, I have to leave—got an early conference call tomorrow.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “Yeah, afraid so—no one else to do it in a little firm like ours. Anyway, it was really nice to meet you, Dan. Sorry we didn’t have longer to talk …”

  I’m sorry too, he thought as she reached up to peck his cheek, her blue eyes not leaving his.

  “See you around, Dan.”

  “Take care, Juliet.”

  The aging actor nodded bye to her too then continued while Luker watched her leave.

  “So, is it true that they banned robot patrols because of the risk of hacking?”

  “Err … yeah, that was one of the reasons …”

  ***

  Luker met a lot of people that night, most of whom he liked, but they were from a different world. While he was out dealing with domestics and shootings, they were getting their hair and make-up done and rehearsing their lines. Not a problem and the world needed people of many talents, but chances were he’d meet closer friends through his work or just organically over time. Still, the party was a sweet gesture by Nikki and he’d met Juliet. She seemed different, special somehow. Sure, she was very attractive, but that was only part of it. She had something intangible and, in time, he hoped to work out what that something was.

  As the crowd starting thinning at around one a.m., Luker drank his fourth and final beer of the night and wondered if he could engineer a way to see Juliet again.

  10

  Present Day, The Juno Ark

  The footfalls outside the ready room stopped and didn’t start again. No sound came from the corridor, only ambient noises of the stricken colony ship filling my ears. I wondered what Reichs was doing. As I sat in the corner, the gunshot woun
d in my arm fed the warm patch of blood soaked up by my fleece top. Drips fell to the deck with a soft patter, creating an expanding red puddle. I held the gun to cover the door and rose to my feet, becoming a bigger target but a more mobile one once Reichs came in. I remained in the corner and waited. Then I waited some more. Whatever this guy Reichs was, I could say one thing about him—he was patient. Maybe he figured time was on his side and I’d need to come out sooner or later through impatience or blood loss. Or just thirst or hunger. He’d have a long wait.

  Ten minutes passed but nothing had changed, so I trod silently over to the corpse sitting in the front row, constantly eyeing the door. I reached the skeleton with the slumped head and crouched down in front of the long-dead crewman. His nametag read, Jaya, and below it was what I’d gone there for—his intercom badge. I removed the badge, keeping my head below chair level in case Reichs decided to burst in. Next, I unzipped my fleece and activated the badge inside, muffling the usual start up tone.

  I whispered, “Intercom, set badge volume to twenty-percent.”

  “Volume at twenty percent,” came the quiet voice.

  “Intercom, locate AD-005 and its distance and bearing from me.”

  “A straight-line distance of one-five feet, bearing one-eight-five degrees referenced to Juno bow north.”

  I switched off the badge and returned to the corner I’d recently left, placing the badge on the floor there. I crept toward the door, then eased myself down until I lay on my side looking under it. The quarter-inch gap revealed what I’d suspected and I wasted no time in padding back to crewman Jaya in the front row. I pulled out a fresh clip, hurriedly replacing the depleted one. Kneeling down behind the chairs, I took aim and fired a double-tap, the muzzle flash lighting up the room and the loud crack filling the space. Then another and another, until sixteen rounds had sliced through the lightweight door at five-thousand feet per second.

  With a ringing in my ears, I stopped and tried to hear past it. I’d heard nothing while shooting—no return fire, no cries of a man hit by high velocity rounds.

  Moments later, the door opened and through came Reichs, his chest peppered with entry wounds, the light blue top covered in blood. He stood in the doorway, gun aloft, sweeping the room, but his face strangely neutral—no signs of pain, whatsoever. My jaw slackened at how little the wounds had affected him. He didn’t spot me at first, still and low profile next to Jaya in the dimness. I adjusted my aim, sighting his forehead. This guy was too dangerous to do anything else.

  Goodnight, you murderous bastard, I thought as I pulled the trigger, almost instantaneously drilling a neat round hole where I’d intended. But Reichs didn’t fall, he just stood there emotionless, eyes facing forward. Then he looked straight at me, readying his aim. I rolled to the side as he fired, all three rounds burying themselves in the chair. Crouching on one knee, I let loose the clip’s last three rounds, the first two hitting the side of his head near the temple. The final shot went inches left of the first two, entering his eye socket, stilling his movement. I watched open mouthed as Reichs simply stood like a statue, blood trickling from his eye, head and chest. Examining the walls both inside and outside the door, I saw no evidence of exit wounds—no blood splatter, no gray matter. Moments later his gun arm fell slack and he toppled, face-forward, to the deck.

  I exhaled deeply, closing my eyes for respite but not wanting to keep them shut for long in case this guy rose from the dead, movie-style. Getting to my feet, I kept my gun trained on him. In hindsight, this guy was unbelievable and on reaching his body, he seemed even more so. Four rounds had entered his cranium, yet there was no gaping exit wound as I’d seen too many times back on Earth. It was possible that all four nine-millimeter rounds went in and stayed there. But taken as a whole—the mere trickles of blood, the clear lack of body-armor, the sheer number of wounds and his lack of reaction—Reichs was an exceptional human being.

  He wasn’t breathing. I leaned down to feel for a pulse, but there was none. In fact, I couldn’t find an artery at all, which was weird. He felt warm to the touch but less so than I’d anticipated. With no exits wound on his back, I rolled him over his body stiff, almost rigid. That too was odd. Rigor mortis could never set in that quickly. Then I saw the wound in Reichs’s forehead. I pulled up his top to clear away the blood, trying to confirm what my eyes saw but my mind wouldn’t believe. Once most the blood was gone, I knew this wasn’t Reichs at all. The shiny metal inside the forehead hole told me this wasn’t even human.

  Back on Earth, I knew of only one case involving an android like the one lying in front of me. Not a case I’d worked on, but one in another country altogether—an assassination in the formerly independent country of Ukraine where anger at Russian occupation still smoldered. That was the killing of nationalist leader, Igor Andropov, back in 2063 while he made a speech in neighboring Poland. As the android had tried to escape, security forces gunned it down, revealing its true nature. The political firestorm it unleashed—in both Europe and the US—was the top story for months since the only manufacturer of such androids was an American company. The whole mystery about how an advanced US-made android found its way into SVR hands then killed a political adversary still hadn’t been solved by the time I’d left Earth. But all the coverage had told a thing or two about the infiltrator androids in question. They were the same type that now lay dead on the Juno Ark. The two things that set them apart from other robots were their AI and their ability to pass for humans. Living human tissue, complete with hair and blood vessels covered their armored endoskeletons making them incredibly lifelike and incredibly tough. Even on infrared they showed up as human and it was rumored they could fool life sign monitoring on things like security panels and computer terminals. I pulled the android’s gun from its hand—a .45 caliber, military issue. I looked to my bloodied upper left arm. Any more than a graze from such a powerful round and I’d have been either seriously wounded or seriously dead.

  I searched the android but found nothing save for two spare clips and the intercom badge. No clues as to who it was working for, or what its mission was—other than to kill unsuspecting survivors without warning. Still devoid of answers, I left the ready room and took a right, back toward the navigation suite, passing through it and making another right toward the bridge.

  Once through the set of jammed-open sliding doors, I cautiously entered the gloomy bridge. Situated at the blunt nose of the ship, the spacious seat of command had an irregular shape with a curved front bulkhead. In the center was a fifteen-foot-wide cupola with the darkness of space beyond. Aura’s light shone at right angles to the dome, illuminating it, but not penetrating far into the room’s interior. Large displays covered the front and side walls. All were dark and inactive. A large, black, leather upholstered chair sat opposite the cupola with a less grand-looking chair flanking it on either side. A once-transparent-now-grimy control screen hung in front of each chair on the end of a thin, articulated arm. And seated in each chair was a body, skeletal just like crewman Jaya’s in the ready room. Closer to where I stood, in the center of the bridge, was a smaller version of the holographic table in the navigation room. Just like there, a number of small stools surrounded the table. This time, though, they came complete with three more bodies in crew uniform, all of them slumped over the table. Four more bodies lay on the deck, beside the wall displays—two on the left, two on the right. A total of ten dead lay in the long-abandoned bridge, the place that once commanded the largest, most technologically advanced ship in history. With my arm aching and hunger growing, I approached the nearest corpse. From the now patchy collar-length hair that still held on, I guessed this was a female officer. Like the other three around the nav table, she wore a blue crew uniform of trousers and long-sleeved shirt. I could see from her epaulets that she was a sergeant. I found her 9mm service pistol still in her belt holster. On ejecting the clip, it was clear that not a single shot had been fired. I took the full clip and replaced the depleted one in my own
gun. The full magazine told me something, but the most striking thing about her was the single bullet hole in the back of her skull. The other crewmembers around the nav table and by the wall displays were the same—all shot in the front or back of the head, all with their side arms still holstered. The fact they actually wore side arms was yet another sign of the strife onboard at the time. Not all of their magazines were full, telling me they’d probably been used in anger at some point. But not on the bridge as there were no other signs of violence—no bullet-riddled wall, no blast damage, not even a chair overturned. Whoever had managed to take out ten crew like that was efficient beyond belief. Only the android could have done it like that.

  I stepped forward and examined the three officers seated at the front. With my back to the cupola, I leaned down and read the nametag on the officer in the blue uniform seated center. It read, Gutiérrez, as in Captain Emilio Gutiérrez, the ship’s captain. His face was once familiar to all on board, but now his skull looked like all the others up to and including the neat hole drilled into his right temple. His distinctive gold crucifix still adorned his neck.

  “I hope you found your peace, Emilio,” I whispered.

  On his left, sat First Officer Fiona Devereux who died the same way, her arm still wrapped across her face as if she knew what was coming. These people had been executed, coldly and efficiently.

  The corpse on the right wore a different uniform—not the blue of the crew, but the green of the marines. The nametag told me this was none other than General James Stewart, in life a tough-looking giant with a booming voice and ruddy face. Cause of death: just like the others.