The guard trailed off as Hawk moved away from him and stepped out into the open space surrounding the hostage-taker. The man was tall—at least a foot taller than the woman he was holding in front of him—but was hunched down behind her. His hair was sandy brown and sweat trickled from his face.
“Let her go,” Hawk called to him in a clear, firm voice. “Surrender now.”
The man’s bloodshot eyes focused on Hawk. “Back off! Back off or I’ll blow her away!”
Hawk raised both his hands, fingers spread wide, as if indicating he wasn’t armed.
“This is your only warning,” he called back. “If you harm that woman, you will not live to regret it.”
“Her life means nothing to me!”
“Her life isn’t the one you ought to be concerned about.”
“Back off! Back off or I will kill her!”
Hawk’s holster extended out from his uniform’s leg. Faster than the blink of an eye, he drew the gun and fired it in one smooth motion, then returned it to the holster with hardly a pause in between. The holster retracted and vanished.
The hostage-taker staggered back, his eyes rolling up in his head. A small dark spot shone on his forehead. He collapsed to the deck, even as the woman wrestled herself free of his grasp.
The guards rushed forward. Two of them caught the woman before she could fall, while the others surrounded the criminal. Hawk turned and began to move toward his ship, where it sat on the landing deck a short distance away.
A couple of soldiers who had trailed him moved to intercept.
“How—how did you do that?” one asked, face a mask of amazement.
“I am a Hand of the Machine.”
“What? That’s crazy!”
Hawk ignored him and continued toward his ship.
The other soldier was the sergeant. He moved in front of Hawk and raised a hand. Hawk halted, staring at him with a frown.
“Did you—did you kill him?” the sergeant asked, seemingly unaware of the shocked expression he wore as well.
“He deserved it, but no—he’s only stunned. He’ll be well enough in a couple of hours.” He started to move past the two soldiers, then paused. “You should make certain he’s locked up somewhere securely by then.”
The sergeant worked his jaw silently. In the end he only nodded.
With that, Hawk resumed walking towards his ship.
The guards and the trailing soldiers watched him go with unabashed astonishment.
Once he’d boarded, the sergeant clicked open his communications link and signaled Captain Fomas.
“Sir—did you see that?”
“I was watching over the surveillance channel, yes.”
The sergeant ran a hand over his forehead. It was damp.
“Sir—I think that man actually was a Hand. Actually a Hawk!”
There was a pause, and then Fomas’s voice came back, a slight tremor running through it. “I am increasingly inclined to agree with you, Sergeant,” he said. “And that thought frightens me to death.”
Hawk sat back in the cockpit of his ship and attempted again to mentally interface with the controls. Things clicked for him even easier this time than they had before. Smoothly the ship lifted from the deck and spun about, then shot out into space.
As the black depths embraced him once more, he leaned back against the cushioned head rest and stared up at the ceiling.
“How did I do that?” he asked aloud. “How did I make that shot—without even thinking about it?”
“Your reflexes are built in,” the ship replied. “They are as much a part of you as your face, your hair, your status as a Hand. They are who you are.”
Hawk pondered this for a moment.
“I must admit I was concerned you would get yourself into trouble,” the ship said then, changing the subject. “But here you are, alive and well. My fears were obviously misplaced.”
“Not necessarily,” Hawk replied. “I nearly did.” He laughed. “The station’s captain seemed to have encountered a number of false Hands over the years. Apparently masquerading as a Hand has become quite the ticket to the good life.”
“Given the number of hidden bases the Machine created across the galaxy for his army of enforcers—that would be individuals like you, of course—it is not surprising to think that some of them would be discovered by unscrupulous types, raided, and their contents stolen and used for nefarious purposes.”
Hawk nodded.
“The whole conversation did raise an interesting—and very disturbing—question, though,” he said. “If the Machine is dead, or deactivated, or insane, or whatever, and I am truly alone… then how am I any different from any of these impostor Hands who are using stolen uniforms and technology to pretend to be Hands and engage in extortion?” He lowered his gaze to the black depths that filled the forward view. “Absent the Machine overseeing us all and sending us on missions of critical importance around the galaxy, what makes me—a genuine Hand—any different from the impostors?”
“I find the question insulting,” the ship replied immediately. “But I know that you mean it in earnest, so I will attempt to answer it.” A pause, then, “Two major factors stand out: One, you are not using your abilities and technology to extort money, but for the benefit of others. That makes you different, obviously. You are a true Hand. Your duties and responsibilities are to safeguard the welfare of all. And two, we do not know that the Machine is in any of those conditions you named. It simply may have chosen to keep silent for now, for reasons we cannot guess. We owe it to the galaxy to discover the truth—and, in the meantime, to do our job. If the Machine yet exists, then you are one of its chosen agents, and you are therefore most assuredly different from any shameful impostor.”
Hawk considered this. He stroked his chin absently as he watched the star field outside move as his ship curved around and took up a new heading.
“So, having been awake such a short time, I find myself already burdened with two missions. I must warn of the Adversary’s return, and I must discover what has truly become of the Machine.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And I have no idea how to do either of those things.” He gazed up at the cockpit ceiling. “What do I do?”
The ship said nothing for a moment, and Hawk crossed his arms in frustration. Then its mechanical voice echoed out: “I am able to facilitate your efforts in many ways, Hawk,” it said, “assisting you with transportation and medical care and logistics and resources, and even the occasionally useful bit of information. But,” it cautioned, “I am not capable of actually drawing up your strategic plans. That task falls to you and to you alone.”
Hawk took that in and thought about it.
“No, not necessarily,” he said.
“But, as I said, I cannot—”
“I understand your limitations,” Hawk interrupted. “You’re an artificial intellect—though that same restriction didn’t seem to prevent the Machine itself from ordering us around in days gone by—and cannot help me decide upon my best courses of action.”
“The Machine is far greater than I am,” the ship snapped back. “Such restrictions do not apply to it.”
“Okay.” Hawk leaned forward, peering at the visual display, seeing wrecked planets and shattered stars littering the night sky. “But—my point is that another human—another Hand, perhaps—wouldn’t be limited in the way that you are.”
“Another Hand?” The ship paused for a moment, then, “Hawk,” it replied, “based on everything I have processed since your awakening and my activation, you may need to prepare yourself for the possibility that you are one of the few Hands remaining in this entire, vast galaxy. Perhaps the only one.”
Hawk breathed in and out, nodding. He gestured back toward the station they were streaking away from.
“The captain of that facility seemed to think there are no more Hands. He didn’t even really believe I was one.”
“That may be so,” the ship replied, “though it would represen
t a terrible tragedy for intelligent life forms everywhere.” A pause, then, as the ship seemed to be considering its next words carefully. “We know one thing is true, however. Even if there are no others, you are most assuredly a Hand. I suspect, given the current state of this galaxy, that you will have ample opportunities to demonstrate that fact very soon.”
Hawk snorted humorlessly.
“You may be right. And I might be up to the task. Maybe. But still,” he said, exhaling slowly and gazing at the darkness that lay ahead, “it would be awfully nice to have some help.”
6: RAVEN
Raven’s eyes flickered open.
Deep, dark, nearly black eyes, they moved in quick little jumps, from left to right, up to down. Behind those eyes, however, Raven’s mind was only just awakening, just beginning to try to make sense of the scene before her.
Where am I?
She had scarcely more than two full seconds to study her environment before the assault began.
This is what she saw:
She was in a dank, dimly-lit chamber. A broad, round, open space in the center of the floor and the corresponding wide gap in the ceiling revealed that the entire complex was constructed of multiple levels. She was standing against a metal slab of some sort which projected out very close to the edge of the hole in the floor of her level. Wires and tubes lay coiled all around, ultimately connecting to wall sockets on either side of her. No other living being was visible anywhere. Through the gap in the ceiling, the room appeared to go up and up into the dark distance; as her eyes flickered downward, a similar sense came to her from that direction.
Those impressions were formed quickly; she had no additional time to study her surroundings. For at that moment she was assaulted from within and without.
First came the mental invasion: Information flooded into her mind with the force of a torrent, taking her legs out from under her and sprawling her on the cold metal floor.
Get up, boomed a voice that echoed through her head. Quickly. There is danger here.
Raven wasted no time in questioning the voice—who it was, where it had come from, or why it was speaking to her. She reacted instantly, springing up onto her feet with catlike agility and taking four quick steps forward. As she ran, the wire that had been connected to the back of her head popped loose. She ignored this, though a part of her consciousness noted that the wave of information assaulting her mind ceased.
A second attack came hard on the heels of the first. This one was physical, signaled by metal ringing sounds echoing up from where she had just been standing. Ricochets from gunfire, she knew at once. Someone was shooting at her.
Moving instinctively, she ducked and rolled, sprang upwards, soared out over the abyssal drop-off, and grasped a projecting metal bar with both hands. Continuing her momentum forward, she swung upward, somersaulted, and with all the skills of a great gymnast, landed gracefully on the metal latticework flooring, one level higher and on the opposite side of the chamber.
Surely, she thought, that would throw off the attacker—at least, long enough for her to assess her tactical situation.
And she knew with complete certainty that she was quite adept at assessing tactical situations. The torrent of information that had flooded into her brain in the split second before she’d moved into action was slowly resolving itself into accessible knowledge, and that knowledge included the fact that she was a Raven, an internal affairs operative for the Machine. A quick glance down at her uniform—tight red material with blue trim and a low, green collar—confirmed this. As such, she more than possessed the power and skills to protect herself—and to bring all hell to her enemy, wherever that person might be lurking.
Her supreme confidence served her well, driving her forward with a single-minded determination. She clung to the shadows—the darkest depths of the already dark chamber—and moved quietly, stealthily.
For several moments only a deathly silence reigned; naught but the drip-drip of water from some hidden source far above as it fell down through the openings to land far below, and the soft tinkling of chains that dangled from a piece of heavy machinery set into the wall above and to her left.
Then the enemy struck. A barrage of gunfire from some sort of automatic slug-thrower gun raked the wall just over her head as she crouched in darkness. She sprung out, body extending and then tucking in tight as she landed near the edge of the hole in the floor. Another spray of bullets sent sparks flying past her head and vibrated the floor. She gripped the metal latticework beneath her with both hands and swung out, her back to the void as she pivoted and dropped down.
The blinding flash of laser or energy-beam weaponry dazzled her vision but she held on until her momentum had carried her in a tight arc back over the floor of the section beneath her. Letting go then, she performed a mid-air spin with her arms tight to her body before landing in a crouch.
Silence all around. Silence—but she could feel it now. The enemy was near. Approaching, approaching…
Pitching forward, she caught herself on the floor with her left hand, spun around and lashed out with her right foot, bringing tremendous force to bear.
Her foot struck something—struck it hard—but whatever it was, it did not yield to the force of her blow. Raven staggered back from the force of impact, dropping onto her seat, then sprang upward just before a massive fist from the shadows smashed down onto the spot she had just occupied.
Bullets sprayed out at her again from the darkness, and only her astonishing gymnastic ability prevented her from becoming perforated. She leapt and spun and dived and twisted and somehow managed to stay a half-step ahead of the fearsome attack.
And even as she moved, her eyes snuck occasional quick glances in the direction of her foe. Though he’d never once emerged fully from the shadows, she had gotten the impression that he was big—very big—and covered in some sort of armor. Clearly he was armed with a variety of weapons systems. And he was extremely dangerous.
But so am I, she thought. And, Enough of this.
Even as she sprang from a ledge and soared across the open gap in the floor, her hand reached to her hip, searching for the pistol she knew should be there.
It was not.
Frowning, she hit the opposite deck and rolled to a stop, her hands feeling for any other weapons.
Where are they? Where—?
Her fingers closed around the hilt of a bladed weapon of some kind. The memories injected into her brain instantly cried out, “Katana!”
Her powerfully-muscled legs launched her across the space between her and her enemy even as she drew the sword from its sheath on her back and swung it out in a broad arc.
The blade met something—something big and broad and tough—and slashed it.
An unearthly cry resounded from the darkness.
Bullets sprayed out again, but Raven was no longer where she had landed. Dancing to her right, she crouched and slashed out again.
Another cry, another spray of bullets. Again the target had already moved.
Another slash, followed by a downward stroke.
Now bellowing in rage, the big adversary stumbled forward—into the light. Raven could see him clearly. She leapt upward and caught an exposed piece of pipe, so that now she was hanging out over his head, looking downward.
Standing more than eight feet tall, the muscular behemoth wore rugged black armor trimmed in silver. A faceless helmet jerked from side to side as he searched for her. Guns bracketed onto his forearms cycled and spun, preparing to open fire the instant the target was reacquired.
“Who are you?” Raven whispered to herself as she studied the strange figure.
The helmet jerked upward and he stared straight at her. His arms redirected themselves at her, guns powering up.
Raven dropped onto his back, her sword clutched tightly in her right hand. A sword, her injected memories told her then, that had been constructed of a complex alloy and that could cut through almost anything.
The gunfire
sprayed out, bullets missing her by mere millimeters.
One quick motion with her sword.
She leapt away even as the bullets kept firing. But now, she knew, they were firing through pure reflex alone.
For the attacker’s head had been cleanly separated from his body. It dropped to the deck with a sickening thud.
The big, headless armored body kept firing its weapons for another few seconds—and, ironically, during that time, the bullets came closer to hitting Raven than they had at any point previously—before the ammo ran out and the body slumped lifelessly to the floor, guns still cycling and clicking impotently.
Raven stood over it, breathing heavily, her sword held tightly in her right hand. As she breathed, as she came to be certain her foe had been defeated, she allowed her grip to loosen and the tip of the long blade tilted downward.
She formed the words in her mind, then: Machine. Are you there? Can you hear me?
Silence for two seconds. Three seconds. Then, an almost monotone voice echoed within her head. Excellent, it said. Well-handled. You have the makings of a superb Raven. The voice paused for a moment, then continued. And, at this time, a superb Raven is precisely what is needed.
You are the Machine? she asked the voice.
Alas, no, came the inner reply. I am but an echo of the Machine’s consciousness stored within your ship’s intelligence. I am here to assist you. A pause, then, My first act of assistance was to order the base’s automated systems to move your body, even as you were awakening, out of the recovery room and into a maintenance and utility shaft. My hope was that the invading forces would not find you until you were fully awake and could defend yourself. It was very close, but the stratagem succeeded.
I see, Raven replied. Thank you. She frowned then. And why can I not communicate with the Machine itself?
The Machine remains silent, the voice stated, as it has been for these many centuries. It speaks to no one.
Raven took this in, puzzled.
Hawk: Hand of the Machine (Shattered Galaxy Book 1) Page 7
