Project Starfighter

by Stephen J Sweeney

  Chris ignored him, stumbling on. He had no money on him, and little of value other than his phone. Men and women leered at him as he passed them, trying to get his attention. He tried not to draw attention to his injury, in case it should flag him an easy target for a mugging. But then again, maybe the limping was actually helping him to blend in a little more.

  “Hey. Hey!”

  Chris glanced around, thinking that the voice was addressing him. It wasn’t, but he sought a place to hide, nevertheless. The voice belonged to another vagrant, who was attempting to get the attention of two men. They were tall, dressed in red and black robes, with hoods pulled over their heads. One carried a bag over his shoulder, filled with what Chris knew were recruitment scrolls, distributed to the chosen – very nearly anybody, it seemed – to encourage them to become a part of the growing movement. These men were members of the Immortal League. Cultists. They looked around at the vagrant.

  “I want to join,” the vagrant said as the cultists approached. “He’s just come back, right? Mal’s returned.”

  The two cultists took a few moments to appraise the man. “You have fallen upon hard times, brother?” one asked. “This world and its people has rejected you?”

  The drifter nodded. “I used to be an office manager, working for—”

  “Used to be.” The other cultist cut him off. “Your old life no longer matters. You will be lost and wander no more. Mal has shown the path to Heaven, a path that he will soon lead us upon. Read this, and be enlightened.” He took one of the scrolls from the bag he carried and handed it to the man.

  “Thank you! Thank you, sir!” the drifter responded excitedly, grubby hands almost snatching the manuscript from the cultist.

  “Brother,” the first cultist said. “We go now to continue to spread the news of Mal’s return. We will return to collect you soon. Wait for us.” The two cultists turned away and continued their unhurried prowl for new recruits, the vagrant sitting down in the grime to focus on reading the scroll.

  Chris moved from the scene as quickly as he could. He didn’t want to get involved in any of this. To his mind, the Immortal League were just as bad as WEAPCO. Perhaps worse. WEAPCO were, after all, predictable. Mal, less so.

  The Watergardens. Chris knew where that was; he had passed it regularly on the way to his job in the kitchens of Leonardo’s Italian Restaurant. Sid’s current residence was just a short walk from where Chris himself lived. Had Sid been there the whole time? It amused Chris that the anonymous underground tech wizard might have been close by all along. Most likely, Chris had passed him on the streets on a fair number of occasions.

  Leaving the seedier part of the city, Chris moved out into the bright lights of what passed for Tira’s main entertainment hub. A great number of people were there, all milling around, looking for places to eat and drink. The offerings weren’t as grand as they might have been. Much of the city was underdeveloped, as was common with many of the planets and star systems outside of Sol. Here, the shack-like and pop-up food stalls greatly outnumbered the traditional brick-built restaurants. The only buildings that projected any sort of grandeur were the WEAPCO offices, always to be found somewhere in the major cities. They were tall neon needles, reaching skyward and projecting light beams in all directions. Just like the one that dominated the sky above Chris’ head right now.

  Chris had been fortunate to get his job at Leonardo’s, he knew. Most others had little choice but to work for the Corporation, directly or indirectly. In the vast majority of cases that meant restrictions and quotas on what ordinary people were allowed to sell, whether it be livestock, raw materials, or minerals. WEAPCO’s percentages were huge, as were their tax rates for the ‘protection’ they offered. Strangely, this didn’t apply to food or water. But then, Chris had been told, what good are slaves if they’re too weak to work. Break them, but don’t kill them.

  Getting his bearings, Chris started making his way through the crowds, favouring moving around the outskirts of the squares, rather than straight through the middle. With his injury he did not want to invite trouble. It would take a little longer to hobble around, but at least he could spare his foot any further trauma. But his heart almost stopped when he heard the sound of a robotic voice.

  “Good evening, Mr and Mrs Salisbury. I am currently attempting to locate these people. Should you know of their whereabouts, I would be very grateful if you could let me know. The Wade-Ellen Asset Protection Corporation is offering substantial compensation for any information that might lead me to them.”

  Chris immediately ducked down behind a nearby noodle stand, peeping over the top. He could see the drone just a short way off. As with the one that had arrived at the diner, the drone was projecting a holographic image above its head, detailing the people it was looking for.

  Mr and Mrs Salisbury peered at the images before looking at one another and shrugging. “I’m sorry,” Mr Salisbury said, “but I don’t know any of them.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you, anyway,” the drone responded in what Chris had come to recognise as a false, chatty persona. It would revert to the flat, monotone octave of the standard AI system once its tasks were complete. The drone shut off the projection, lifted off the ground and hovered over the crowds for a time before settling down on the ground once more.

  “Good evening, Mr Wallingford ...” it started again.

  “Good evening, Ms McCullen ...” A different voice now.

  Chris sighted a second drone settling down as it began to question another member of the public. Hell! Now he had to pick up the pace. Not only to get to Sid before anyone else did, but also before the drones spotted him.

  He started off as the drones rose once more into the air and disappeared off further into the crowds. Hobbling through the various squares and roads on his way to the Watergardens, Chris hoped not to hear the blare of a siren behind him indicating one of the drones had spotted his uniform. An immediate change of clothes was vital.

  ~

  It did not take Chris much longer to reach the Watergardens. He had anticipated the need to tail one of the other residents into the building but discovered that the main doors were open. Sid’s flat was located on the sixth floor. Chris took the lift up, feeling his heart thumping harder as he made his way down the corridor to 617. The door was open a crack. Too late.

  “Hello?” he asked.

  No response.

  He pushed the door wider, swearing as he came upon the scene in the living room. The body of a man lay face down on the floor, blood from a deep wound in his head seeping into the carpet and staining it a dark red.

  Much too late.

  Regardless, Chris hobbled inside and over to the body, kneeling down next to it and rolling it over. He started. It wasn’t Sid, not unless the man had in fact been a short-haired woman this whole time. He set about inspecting the body, to look for some form of identification, when a loud bang – the sound of the front door slamming shut – came from behind. He turned around just in time for a boot to connect with his stomach, hard.

  Winded, Chris rolled onto his back and tried immediately to stand, putting all his weight on the wrong foot. He went down again and was scrambling to get away from his attacker when a gun was pushed in his face.

  “What do you want? You after the reward money, too?”

  Chris was face to face with a man in his early twenties. Short, black hair, and a mixture of anger and terror in his eyes. This was Sid Wilson, no doubt about it. Chris began raising a hand in a gesture of surrender.

  “Keep your hands on the floor!” Sid shouted.

  “Sid, it’s me; it’s Chris Bainfield,” Chris said, lowering his hands once more.

  “No, you’re not,” Sid said, shaking his hand. He was trembling terribly, the gun jumping all over the place.

  “I am. I’m not lying.”

  “Prove it.”

  Chris glanced at the uniform he still wore. Clearly it wasn’t enough. “I sent you a message from the Morton mo
torway, about nine miles outside the city. You sent me three back.”

  “Uh huh,” Sid nodded. “Why did you take so long to respond?”

  “I told you in my last message,” Chris explained.

  “I never got a message back after I said where I was staying.” Sid was shaking his head. “Chris is dead.”

  “No, I’m not. I stole a hover from outside the diner after the others surrendered Wooding to WEAPCO. I was chased by a drone and some bots. They blasted me off the road. There’s now a huge hole in the barrier of the bridge over the Atlas Gorge where my hover came off the road.”

  “If you were blasted off the road and into the gorge, how come you are still alive?” Sid asked. “Hey! Stay where you are!”

  “I jumped to the underside maintenance platform, just as the hover went over,” Chris said, doing his best to keep his voice steady and even. “I broke my foot in the fall. And I’ve got to tell you, it really, really hurts.” He nodded to his foot. Sid didn’t look.

  “I’m not making this up, Sid,” Chris said. “It’s really me.”

  Sid said nothing, apparently mulling the explanation over. Chris glanced to the body of the woman on the floor. He could well believe that she had come to surrender Sid to the Corporation and claim the reward money. How many more might be on their way up here? he wondered. They shouldn’t waste time finding out. Chris saw a gun still in the woman’s hand.

  “Don’t even think about it!” Sid warned, clasping his own gun firmer and pushing it forward as he saw Chris’ eyes lingering on the weapon.

  “Sid, listen,” Chris began pleading, “we need to leave. There are people looking for you. More people,” he added, his eyes straying once more to the corpse.

  How did you convince someone you’d never met or even spoken to outside of typed characters on a screen that you really were who you said? They had never even seen photographs of one another.

  “We’re both part of the Resistance,” Chris said. “We talk on a chat channel called ‘Pasta Fans’. One of the moderators is a guy called Yuletide14. Your handle is ‘The Doc’. Mine is ‘BiplaneAlpha’.”

  “All those details can be traced,” Sid said, shaking his head. “You’re either a WEAPCO agent or a bounty hunter. I’ll give you one more chance. If the next thing you say isn’t something that only Chris and I would know about, then I’m going to shoot you in the head.”

  Think, Chris, think. Then he had it. “About three years ago, when I first started chatting on the channels, you contacted me privately to tell me that something bad had happened in your life and that you really needed someone to talk to. You had come home one day that week to find that your father had shot your mother before turning the gun on himself.

  “He had been depressed with life and growing more and more angry, arguing with your mother a lot. He blamed WEAPCO for everything but didn’t know what to do about it ... except to take a quick and easy way out. It was part of the reason you joined the Resistance in the first place, because you hated seeing what it was doing to your mum and dad, and wanted to find a way to stop it. But then you came home to that. You’ve told everyone since that it was a breakin that had gone wrong, but at the time you told me, you just needed someone to listen.

  “You had a different handle that day. You normally call yourself ‘The Doc’, but that day you had named yourself ‘Sparkles’. We talked for an hour. I offered for you to come over to my place, if you needed company, but you declined. I never told anyone about that chat and you went back to calling yourself ‘The Doc’ the next time you logged in.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Sid. I still cannot imagine how that must have felt or quite how you found the strength to pick yourself up and carry on.”

  “You helped,” Sid said, lowering the gun. There was a tear running down his cheek.

  Chris wished he could have found a different memory to use to convince Sid of his identify, but at that moment it was all he could recall.

  “Chris. It is you,” Sid said, wiping away the tears that were continuing to fall.

  “Yes, Sid. Yes, it is,” Chris said, smiling sadly.

  “Nice to finally meet you, mate.”

  “You too, Sid. You too.”

  Chapter 3

  [Encrypted Data Transmission]

  [To >> Lance Skillman, CEO]

  [CC >> Erik Overlook, Kline Kethlan]

  [From >> XS-0017811]

  [Subject – re: Security enforcement]

  @XS-0017811 – Reporting four of six targets eliminated. Sweeps continuing for remaining targets.

  @SkillmanL – Who is left?

  @XS-0017811 – Sid Wilson and Tyrone Vin.

  @SkillmanL – Have you searched their registered addresses?

  @XS-0017811 – Neither Wilson nor Vin appear on any official registers, nor do they have any employment or address history within the past six years. All recorded positions prior have been searched, but neither man was found.

  @OverlookE – Should we increase the ‘reward’ money?

  @SkillmanL – Yes, double it. That should loosen some tongues. Lock down the airports and starports, if necessary, to prevent Wilson or Vin from leaving the immediate area, or going off-planet. Also, freeze the assets of any known members of the Resistance.

  @OverlookE – How many of them have been found and dealt with?

  @XS-0017811 – As of now, one-hundred and seventy-three : Ethel Crews, Nicola Beechwood, Juan Acree, Paul Landes, Sarah Fender, Amber Burke, Jacob Worth, Patrick Sanderson, Chris Bainfield, Antonio Kersey, Andrew Linder, Martin Crampton, Janie Haro, Harriet Reams—

  @OverlookE – Pass the names to Commander Kethlan; they are of no use to us.

  @SkillmanL – Report back when you can reliably determine what has happened to Wilson and Vin.

  @XS-0017811 – I am receiving a report of a fatal shooting at the Watergardens residence, in Tira, on Ceradse. I will notify you if it is connected to my investigation.

  @SkillmanL – Good. Is there anything else I should be aware of?

  @OverlookE – We are also still missing the Firefly with the human-AI interface. It is believed that the Resistance may have acquired it.

  @SkillmanL – Can we detonate it remotely?

  @OverlookE – Unfortunately not. It is no longer phoning home or responding to any commands, which leads me to believe that either it has been tampered with, or it isn’t willing to give itself up.

  @SkillmanL – You are not making sense, Erik. What do you mean, ‘it is not willing to give itself up’? It’s a machine.

  @OverlookE – It isn’t any more.

  @SkillmanL – Out with it, man! Stop being so cryptic and explain!

  @OverlookE – We believe it has become sentient; it believes it is alive, and is now trying to protect itself and ... figure out its place in the world.

  @SkillmanL – This bothers me a great deal, Erik. It is imperative that we locate that fighter as soon as possible. AIs should remain AIs; they shouldn’t lose the A and become a straight I!

  @OverlookE – Yes, sir.

  @SkillmanL – And what about the girl? Have you managed to locate Phoebe Lexx?

  @XS-0017811 – XS-0551821 is currently leading the search. There have been no updates on her whereabouts.

  @SkillmanL – Useless, the pair of you! Search harder!

  @XS-0017811 – I will continue to search.

  @OverlookE – My apologies, sir. I was once again focusing my efforts on dealing with the threat of Mal.

  @SkillmanL – Forget about the cult. Discovering the whereabouts of Phoebe Lexx is more important.

  @OverlookE – As you wish. Might I suggest that we eliminate her sister, since we already have her in custody? One twin cannot pose much of a threat on her own.

  @SkillmanL – We made the mistake of killing one too soon the last time. Remember – one twin can lead us to another. And you are also wrong – they are dangerous to us even when not together. Their abilities are significantly magnified in one anoth
er’s presence, but are still deadly when they are alone. We should not eliminate either until we have found them both and confirmed their identities. I will talk to her again and try to convince her to open up. For now, you have your tasks. Get on with it.

  [Transmission Ends]

  ~

  “Ms Lexx?”

  Ursula snapped out of her daydream to see that a man had arrived beside her table. He was smartly dressed, wearing a sharp suit that appeared tailormade, fitting him perfectly. The man looked to be in his early to mid sixties, his hair mostly silver. He was offering Ursula his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I got a little distracted. What did you say?”

  “I said, would you like to dance?” the man repeated himself, smiling warmly at her.

  Ursula glanced about her. She was seated in what appeared to be a ballroom, round tables with bottles of wine dotting them. There were occasional stains on the otherwise pristine white table cloths, indicating that at some point food had been served and consumed, though Ursula could not remember having eaten anything herself.