Galaxy's Edge: Takeover: Season Two: Book One

by Jason Anspach

  Something ancient.

  Bowie stood, EM blaster ready, and moved cautiously into the clean room. It wasn’t until his foot stepped over the threshold and into the startlingly sterile space that two massive war bots decloaked and appeared.

  Reiser swore over the comm as it began to fritz out and fill with static. Bowie moved to dodge a sudden array of targeting lasers dancing out from the ancient war machines’ deadly weapon systems, thinking that Reiser must’ve been watching the feed through the HUD lens. But those thoughts were far away in a distant part of his mind as he ran to avoid getting killed a hundred times over.

  “Those are HHK-103s!” shouted Reiser.

  Everyone who’d ever been a boy growing up in the Galactic Republic and who loved war had studied the weapons and weapon systems of that long-ago conflict that enveloped the galaxy.

  The Savage Wars.

  103s had been heavy bot warfighting systems fielded by the Republic in the days of the Syneron and Agalates campaigns deep in the Orion cluster worlds. Without a doubt some of the most violent battles legionnaires and Savage Marines had ever fought. 103s had been designed to go into the maelstrom and kill everything until they’d been turned offline. Heavy armor. Light Refractive Ambush Cloaking Technology. No munitions. Only energy weapons and onboard reactors made them near-undefeatable. One had supposedly broken the Savage line at Tu-Caar Gap when the Legion had been surrounded at twenty-to-one odds in a steaming jungle hellhole they called the Death Paddies.

  Now, right in front of Jack Bowie, two of those fabled death machines were spinning up heavy blaster cannons on six different arms and powering up to unload a fury of high powered blaster fire on him.

  Bowie fell back while firing the EM blaster. Watching as the targeting spam attempted to scramble their systems while the weapon fired short but powerful EM bursts. Turning to run for cover as he fired EM blasts at the nearest one, his weapon made a weird, otherworldly sound. Like a koob croaking underwater, electronically. The blasts nailed some of the components of the nearest 103 and shut down some of its systems, but a moment later a torrent of lasers began to tear up the heavy shipping containers Bowie had just barely gotten behind, slicing cleanly through and leaving charred lines and licking flames.

  But Bowie was still alive. The targeting spam was having some effect on their ability to acquire. Team Nilo made nice toys. That was for sure.

  From his cover, Bowie couldn’t see the bots directly, but he could hear the screech of the ancient ceramic tracks dragging the towering death machines across the clean room floor toward him. Once they got close it wouldn’t matter if they could target or not. They’d mutilate him through sheer firepower. They sounded like ancient battle tanks as they rumbled closer.

  Not one of Reiser’s contingency plans had ever anticipated the fabled 103s, and there wasn’t much a single EM blaster, no matter how fancy it was, was going to do against these monsters. The Savages had only managed to render them obsolete by some super-weapon that shut down all technology on a planetary scale. Black Leaf probably didn’t have anything like that.

  Most likely he was dead. That much was clear to Jack Bowie.

  Don’t be a lamb.

  He shucked the bando of bot-poppers over his neck, daisy-chained them, and tossed them at the approaching machines.

  Like a sudden string of bombastic firecrackers going off inside tin cans filled with aluminum strips, the explosives detonated, sending powerful electromagnetic explosions out across the room.

  Bowie’s suit went dead, his HUD useless.

  Both bots went haywire and started engaging anything and everything. Shooting up walls and shipping containers across the depths of the lower basement. Destroying priceless artifacts that lay outside the vault, stored down here until a display could be set up.

  The air was a deadly crisscross of fire until one of the machines fried its targeting programming and decided to engage the other as an enemy. Within seconds both fearsome warbots had shot each other to ruined metal.

  Lasers left graffiti on walls. Bolts whined and zinged by him. The death machines exploded in sudden fusillades of pyrotechnic destruction. The building’s fire system blinked to life, but quickly retracted. Reiser must’ve shut it off. Smoke and burnt ozone filled the air and both giants fell silent seconds after their violent duel.

  When it was over, Jack Bowie stood, EM blaster again ready to engage whatever came next.

  They could be rerouting and rebooting… powering back up. Warbots had capabilities that allowed them to seem destroyed, and then suddenly come back as an IED, or a suicide attack. But these looked pretty well wrecked.

  Still, it paid to be cautious.

  Bowie aimed at one, targeting the thick processor banks that had been exposed via damage beneath the sensor housing acting as the machine’s head. He pulled the EM blaster’s trigger and got nothing.

  He realized that the blast from the bot-poppers had fried everything. Not just his HUD and suit. His blaster and even the comm were offline.

  A second later Reiser was back in his ear.

  “… worry, Jack. The suit will reset. If you can hear me acknowledge. Say again…”

  “I read you,” muttered Bowie.

  In his hands the EM blaster came back to life, its digital readouts and charge loads displaying along the lower receiver. In his HUD lens he got a weapons synch indicator.

  “Damn that was close,” said Reiser over the comm.

  That was the understatement of the year, thought Bowie.

  “Hopefully that’s all, Jack. But be on your guard when you get in there. Can’t see the owner exposing something as valuable as your objective to that sort of destruction. And do this quick. Dawn is an hour away and I’d like to be gone by the time the sun rises.”

  Bowie acknowledged and entered the inner sanctum of the private collection of Savage artifacts just as he lost comm with Reiser again. Something in the construction of the vault was interfering. But they’d established that the mission continued in that event.

  Bowie passed down a long corridor beyond the clean room, just as pristine as what he’d passed. Along the corridor were various windows that looked down into small rooms where some artifact or another was on display. At times the artifacts seemed strange and mysterious. At others they were easily identifiable.

  It was a museum inside a museum. Holographic digital lettering in ghostly blue, the font always linked to the Savage style that was now as iconic and enigmatic as all the other symbols of hate that had surfaced in humanity’s cultural swamps, appeared as Bowie neared the observation glass of the first room. The holographic font appeared and described what the artifact inside was.

  The battered remains of a GHK were displayed on a pristine white pedestal. Like some museum piece in the floors above. The GHK was the standard battle rifle for early era Savage Marines. Nothing worth the type of security Jack had gotten past, though. In the next room lay a section of circuitry board for a Savage lighthugger’s lift system waiting under glass like the lost fragments of some ancient civilization’s holy text.

  Jack read the placards labels as he moved by.

  Nano-Injector Tubes that once contained longevity treatments from the Savage lighthugger Quest for Oblivion, lost at the Battle of Andalore, were in the next room. Strange crowns, slender and delicate, made of bronze and adorned with scrolling circuity, were identified as interfaces for a virtual world the Savages of The Id Confederacy used to access a private world of fantastic wonders only they knew. Perhaps it was still out there. Hidden on some lost planetoid and running on some ancient server.

  Bowie passed a window that was completely dark. The ghostly Savage lettering indicated inside was the last remaining Savage OS-ENDGAME Cyberworm still running something called the Unity Virus. Discovered on the ruined world of Britannia.

  Bowie had never heard of the place. But the des
cription sounded like a textbook banned cyber weapon. And then suddenly realized he might be dealing with some very deep, dark, and scary stuff. Mass-extinction stuff.

  And then, for a second, it was clear why Team Nilo, or just Nilo himself, wanted this Savage tech.

  He wanted to tell Reiser that this was stuff no one should be messing with. But he passed other wonders which distracted him from the larger issue at hand. The things he was seeing were the stuff of legend and rumors, lost treasures of a fantastic civilization the galaxy had simply called Savages when they’d come out of the stellar dark.

  Come to exterminate so they could make the galaxy over in their image.

  “Welcome, human,” said a bot’s synthesized voice.

  Bowie froze.

  “Do not worry, human. I can see you. You’re currently within the outer displays area of the master’s exhibit. I have alerted the system defenses to your presence and you will be terminated shortly.”

  Silence.

  Bowie looked around. No visible cameras or sensors. But the place was sophisticated enough, and it had obviously been designed with the latest in secure technology.

  And, he had to admit to himself, he had that trapped feeling sinking in his gut.

  Now he could hear the metallic steps of a bot coming closer along the halls. In another direction he could hear small metallic skittering across the floor. And then the heavy tread of some machine. Not quite as heavy as the 103s at the front entrance. But similar. And that probably meant some other form of warbot that had been purchased and hidden down here to guard this fantastic and highly illegal collection.

  “Who are you?” asked Bowie, his voice falling flat against the sound-deadening surfaces of the place.

  “An irrelevant interrogative but one I will answer, nonetheless. My proper identifier is THK-Alpha Eight. You may not realize with whom you are dealing, but yes, if you know your history, I am indeed one of those.”

  Bowie knew enough of history to know exactly what the bot meant by its identifier.

  The Alpha Eight Series of THKs were the infamously homicidal psychological warfare specialists who’d started the Sayed Massacre of legend.

  “So of course,” continued the bot, “you realize you have no chance against me. I have already killed directly in combat one thousand seven hundred and eighty-three humans—note that I say humans, like you, and am not counting other biologics in that sum. Indirectly, I am responsible for the death of four million humanoids, though most of those were accomplished when I deployed a tactical nuclear weapon against the refugee center on Sorrab Nine. Not my preferred weapon of warfare, but one I am nonetheless competent with. The rest of my kills were acquired through ship-to-ship combat where internal explosions, radiation leaks, and hull breaches were used to great effect. Some may argue that though it was I who fired the SSMs and led the bot strike teams, I should not take credit for the subsequent damage that killed so many crew. But I disagree. Though I am willing to accept debate on these numbers if you wish to spend your last moments arguing with me over them. I must warn you that I do have very compelling arguments.”

  “Good for you,” muttered Bowie as he scanned the halls with the targeting scope of the EM blaster.

  THKs were not to be trifled with. He’d never met one. But the rumors of the demise of others who had were enough to make one suddenly sober about what they intended to do. Still, it was old. Perhaps old enough that its systems might not be able to deal with Team Nilo’s new device.

  Perhaps.

  But then, what other chance do you have? he asked himself.

  From down the hall a small blast door whooshed open like a guillotine retracting and a humanoid bot skinned in carbon black stepped through. The blast door sliced shut a second later and the bot canted its insectile head at Bowie, studying him for the half moment before it began shooting.

  Bowie instinctively dove for cover.

  “There’s no use in running,” reminded the THK as the bot advanced, laying down a sudden blue streak of fire where Bowie should have been. “You’re already quite dead. I can assure you of that, human.”

  Bowie had slammed one gloved palm against a display room door access he landed in front of and flung himself through the door the second it opened. Blaster fire melted into the ceramic walls, and now he lay on the floor of the display room which housed another weird piece of Savage tech that looked like a telescope with tentacles.

  Bowie had nowhere to go. There was no exit from the small room.

  He got to one knee and aimed the EM blaster at the opening to the room just as the bot stepped into it. Squeezing once, the EM blaster spat out a series of powerful pulses that rocked the humanoid bot’s frame. Systems were scrambled, components offlined. Processors collapsed as the bot seemed to be physically struck by invisible jackhammer blows from the powerful weapon. Targeting spam washed across the room like mad ghosts revealing ancient holographic runes in bloody half-light. The blue holographic letters highlighting each display stretched and warped from the assault, blinking in static-filled binary and then returning to their set text.

  It wasn’t enough to put the bot down. It regained its composure after a second and fired wildly. One shot struck Bowie in the thigh as he raced forward, dumping everything he had in the hopes of shutting his foe off. Knowing there was no other way than this.

  Charging down that blind alley like that bull he’d sworn he would be.

  Something searing and hot tore the flesh of his leg apart and he yelled ferociously as he closed to within striking range of the bot, refusing to fall. Willing himself to keep moving. He sent more blasts into the upper torso of the robotic thing. It did not die. It would not die.

  The EM blaster failed and in one swift motion, never mind the fact that his leg felt like it was on fire, Jack Bowie grabbed its barrel and swung the weapon like a club at the bot’s processor node. The machine stumbled away, steadying itself along one pristine white ceramic wall as it tried to distance itself from the assault.

  This is my only chance, thought Jack Bowie and lunged at it. Kicking it first with his good leg, roaring with pain as the other went out from under him.

  The bot likewise sensed its own opportunity to regain momentum and in turn lunged for Bowie who was now lying on the floor, his battered leg finally having failed him. The machine pounced like a lunatic nightmare out of the nether of the galaxy, firing its primary weapons as it did so. But all of them missed Bowie.

  The kill would be close, then. And now the metallic monster was on top of him and as Jack struggled he was wondered where the skittering he attributed to some kind of mechanical “spiders” and the other treaded warbot were. He could hear them just beyond the blood rushing through his ears and to be honest…

  … Jack Bowie was pretty sure he was going to die before those things got to him.

  The bot released its grapple on his chest and flung its metallic claws around his neck in an instant. It was toying with him. Slowly sapping the life out of him rather than pulverizing his neck with one powerful squeeze.

  But it meant Bowie still had a few precious seconds left to fight. To be the bull.

  Bowie released his hold on the bot, knowing it was doing nothing, and flailed for the Nine on his arm. He pulled the weapon as his vision shrank down to a small pinhole of darkness and emptied the entire magazine into the bot on top of him.

  He heard the sounds of the spiders and the warbot trundling along suddenly cease like sound effects interrupted by feedback.

  And then there was nothing but darkness.

  Quiet. Deep. Darkness as the metal nightmare squeezed the life out of him.

  36

  Jack Bowie gasped and rolled over, pushing the shattered metallic corpse of the dead bot off of him. Rounds from the Nine had ruined its processor housing. The thing’s head was literally smoking as components lay like metal blood splat
ter along the floor nearby.

  It dawned on Bowie that this humanoid bot with the insectile head had been the THK. The fearsome, legendary THK. And in the end, it wasn’t high-tech EM blasts that brought it down… it was a few 9mm bullets. It seemed so cosmically stupid that Bowie might have laughed had his throat not throbbed so severely.

  His leg felt on fire.

  Bowie curled into a ball in order to look down along his leg, hearing himself groan in titanic pain as he did so. Feeling a sharp pain from the involuntary effort.

  Burnt flesh and exposed bone was what he saw. The bot had hit him solidly and good.

  The smartsuit was rebooting and suddenly he was being advised to stand by for combat medicine. Please lie still, flashed across his HUD.

  Assessing…

  Assessing…

  Assessing…

  The messaged appeared again and again as Jack tried to breathe. Tried to control the overwhelming pain. There was nerve damage. And the unbidden thoughts he would lose the leg for a cybernetic.

  Then the meds kicked in as the smartsuit synthesized what was needed to knock the top off the wild pain gone runaway. Below, where the wound in his leg was, Jack could see the edges of the smartsuit, burnt and fried by the blaster shot, crawling together over the wound.

  It was sealing. Probably cleaning the wound.

  That’s good, Jack thought as he fumbled for a new magazine from off his belt. Not wanting to speak. Throat and larynx in too much pain to speak. He still held the Nine but his grip—his whole body—felt sweaty and uncertain.

  He lay there and waited as the pain miraculously faded.

  Bowie knew he needed to get up. He tried to get to his feet but there was no way the leg would support him. It was probably broken. And that was most likely not the worst of the damage. He managed to get upright, supporting his weight on one leg and leaning against the wall.

  Spiders, he thought and felt cold ice water rushing along his spine and sweating head. The smartsuit covered his head like a hood. He pulled it off, feeling he needed the air. Removing the comm from the hood, he leaned his head against the wall and activated it.