Damnation Robot_A Paranormal Space Opera Adventure

by Aaron Crash

  Blaze and his crew gathered their things under the watchful eyes of IPC troopers. The Humans were nice enough, but their presence on his ship still galled the gunnery sergeant. The fire in his room had incinerated his bed, so they wouldn’t find the remains of the woman…if she had been a woman and not just a husk the breeder demon used to sneak on board.

  They had enough money not to be forced into the ratholes inside the moon, so they got rooms in the Nostromo Suites, a bubble hotel, rooms floating in artificial oxygen-filled spheres complete with gravity. The orbs were tethered to the moon above the docking rings. The views of the twin suns and the crimson hell of Decatur V below were staggering. You could adjust the translucency/transparency of the energy field to create either a clear window or black-out curtains.

  Cali had stayed on the ship, her room hidden, warded, and sealed. For everyone’s safety. She had survived the flush ritual just fine.

  Despite how lush his suite was, Blaze wasn’t about to spend any time there. He had a victory cigar to smoke. Yeah, they lost their bounty, wrecked parts of the ships, and most likely they’d be fined for nearly every penny they had. Still, he’d killed a bunch of bad guys and lived to fight another day. That was a victory.

  He tucked the Churchill, a New Habana Cohiba Ultra, into his pocket and checked himself in the mirror. He wore his blue-black hair long. After years in the Astral Corps shaving his head, long hair was a luxury. However, he kept it off his shoulders and out of his eyes. The scar from his very first demon battle ran diagonally from his temple across his nose and down past his mouth to his chin. Arlo’s stitching had been terrible, but Blaze didn’t mind the scar. It made shaving a little difficult, so he only did it every other week or so. He scratched the black stubble covering his dark chin.

  Damn, but he looked good.

  He grabbed a shuttle from the Nostromo Suites to Weirdo Phil’s cantina and lounge. The place was the diviest thing floating in a bubble of translucent energy. He sat at the scratched and scored bar in his civvies: jeans, a black T-shirt, and a leather vest. And of course, his old motorcycle boots. Being in civilian clothes still felt odd at times. He’d been an astral jarhead for a long, long time.

  Until the dishonorable discharge, which wasn’t his fault. No, if anyone was to blame, it was Arlo, but Blaze wasn’t going to waste the night regretting the past.

  Weirdo Phil’s allowed smoking, so he sparked up his stogie with a plasma torch.

  He breathed out smoke, shot back an Irish whiskey, and then followed it up with FleaPiss, not a bad beer, made by Clickers who lived in the ghettos of the mined moon below. Blaze liked a local brew, regardless of where it came from.

  A few Union douchebags in satin suits and red power ties asked for Coors Light. Weirdo Phil about spewed his lunch on the floor. No, he didn’t have any pinche light beer. The Terran Union of Interstellar Systems, a.k.a., the Union, was the galactic government no one wanted and everyone ignored. The IPC controlled most everything, and the Union was not only pathetic but powerless. Their idiotic bureaucracy stopped anything important from happening. Everyone—every planet, every moon, every outpost—got their time to talk. And with all that talk? Shit wasn’t gonna get done. No way. No how.

  Unlike the IPC, though, a few of the Union parties did believe in Onyx energy, but they did jack all to help the real demon hunters working across the galaxy.

  Ling trundled slowly into the bar to the surprise of everyone. A couple of hardcore spacers, Humans in smoky gear with scarred faces, gave him a long look. They sat in a booth on ripped red upholstery. Smugglers, or outlaws, or bounty hunters, they looked like trouble and were probably wondering how much they could get off Ling. Most Meelah were pacifist explorers, so they’d mistake Ling as an easy mark. Blaze would like to see them try and mess with the Shaolin monk sloth. It would be the very epitome of entertainment, though Ling would find bashing Humans distasteful.

  His Meelah crewmember slowly climbed up onto the bar stool next to him just as Weirdo Phil, a fat man with an eyepatch, hollered to the patrons, “Clearing the air!”

  Everyone yelled and drank, and a small hole opened at the top of the bubble, sucking the smoke out. Blaze missed the hazy air. Bars should smell like piss and smoke. Phil, though, didn’t have a choice. Just one more IPC law Blaze didn’t much care for. If only the IPC were as inept as the Union.

  It did provide everyone a reason to drink.

  Blaze took a hit of his cigar and let the smoke leak out of his mouth. “I have to give it to you, Ling, fighting while you were full of spiders. Didn’t they bother you?”

  “In the Shaolin monastery on Earth, we were taught to let go of all conscious thought. If we do not train our minds, they will rule us.” Ling raised a pink clawed finger. Phil would bring his usual, red bush tea. And he wouldn’t tease the Meelah. Phil knew what Ling could do.

  Blaze had heard this lesson before. “And the mind is a wonderful tool but a terrible hand. The three-fingers of our deeper selves must train the mind to stay in the present moment. The eternal now.”

  “Precisely.” Ling nodded and grinned slowly. The Meelah did most things slowly, like Terran sloths, until it was time to kick ass, and then they moved like bacon-greased lightning. The ones that weren’t pacifists.

  Weirdo Phil brought Ling his tea, and the Meelah doctored it up with Afrique yak milk and dried poco leaves, which were about fifty times sweeter than Terran sugar.

  “Taking a break from Meelah leaves and fuzzy caterpillars?” Blaze asked.

  The Shaolin monk’s diet was very rigorous, one way he was trying to tame his mind to avoid selfish desire and self-centered fear, or so the Meelah would say.

  “I am celebrating this moment of life,” Ling said. “It was a very close battle.”

  “It was,” Blaze said. He remembered the woman in his bed, Selena, and his heart grew heavy. He poured some of his beer to the floor. “For the fallen.”

  Ling dripped tea into the beer. “For the fallen.”

  “Why did you rush into the cargo bay to protect our bounty? You knew what a deranged cabron he was.” Another thing that weighed on Blaze. That douchebag’s body was gone, floating away into the Sargasso Expanse. They wouldn’t get a single dollar for him.

  Ling nodded. “He was an awful person. Yet, he was still a person.”

  “No, he wasn’t. He was an animal that needed to be put down.”

  “A dangerous point of view. Didn’t the Humans say that about the Phasmida during the Bug wars? And wouldn’t the demons we fight say the same thing about us all…Clickers, Humans, and the Meelah?”

  Blaze grumbled but didn’t argue. Sometimes the Meelah’s soft heart just didn’t make sense to him.

  They drank in silence until Ling said, “We were victorious, but something is troubling me.”

  “More than having a billion spiders crawling around in your skin?” Blaze sipped his beer.

  “You and Elle. When are you two going to talk to each other? The werewolf incident was weeks ago. I find such familial conflict very disturbing.” Ling leveled his golden-rimmed eyes at Blaze.

  Blaze had to glance away. “It’s not a family conflict. We’re not family.”

  “But you are,” Ling said. “You and Elle share the same DNA. Two sperm from your father fertilized two ova from your mother, and you embraced in the womb for nine months of minutes.”

  The gunny let out a growl and a sigh. “Before we both got evicted. Lost our father that same night. Our mother six years later. And then nothing for decades. Not much of a family.”

  “True,” Ling conceded. “Your crew is your family.”

  “No, they are my crew. Hunting partners. Not family.” Blaze turned his body away to give the Meelah monk a clue he didn’t want to talk about all this crap. He caught the eye of a sweet redheaded woman down the bar who was drinking a gan and tonic. Gan was Clicker booze and could rip you up in twice the time as gin.

  “You love us, Blaze,” Ling said softly. “Even thoug
h you don’t know it. We’re family.”

  The gunnery sergeant turned back, a little drunk, getting a little pissed. “Us being a family? That’s a laugh. But if we were…okay…let me get it all straight. So, the Clickers are like my two crazy older brothers? Sure, Elle’s my sister, and then I have you, my strange, stoned, oh-so-mellow uncle. Is that about right?”

  “And Cali is our troubled sister,” Ling finished.

  “Cali,” Blaze whispered, and just the thought of her depressed him. “No, Ling, I’m done with this conversation, and I’m done with family. I’ve had families, and they suck. My parents die, and then Arlo finds me, and I get his completely fouled-up ideas of fathering. I get away from that nut case and find the Astral Corp, and yeah, I thought I’d found my family, and then that bad shit with my CO, and the Corp kicks me out after locking me away for months. No thank you, screw family. And don’t go on about Elle. If she weren’t so goddamn useful, she’d be gone.”

  Blaze snatched up his beer, drained it, and swaggered down to the redhead.

  He sidled up and motioned to the stool next to her. “Is this seat taken?”

  And bam, just like that, the ginger smiled at him, crinkling the freckles on her nose and deepening the dimples in her cheeks. Hello, hello, you sweet thing.

  She was a looker, full-chested and gorgeous, though she was wearing a conservative business suit. She looked like she might work for the IPC Tax Collectors, but back in an office somewhere, crunching numbers and giving her co-workers wet dreams.

  “The seat is all yours,” she said.

  He caught Phil’s eye, flashed two fingers, and good ol’ Phil knew what that meant.

  Blaze sat down and gazed into the ginger’s eyes. “So, I’m assuming you’re in New Oberlin on business. The suit is a dead giveaway.”

  She shrugged. “Business. A little pleasure. You know how it is.”

  “I do indeed,” Blaze said. His hands were out in front of him, on the bar top.

  She noticed the tattoos on his fingers. “So, l-i-v-e. And e-v-i-l. Really? It’s kind of bleak motto. And who believes in evil anyway?”

  “I do, darling,” Blaze said. He wasn’t about to go into all the downright Satanic shit he’d fought over the years. “But look closer.”

  He showed her his thumbs.

  She read the words. “Live on. No evil.”

  “That’s right. We’re only around for a little piece of time. I’m going to live it to the fullest. And make the galaxy a better place in the process.”

  “By fighting evil?” the ginger asked, bemused.

  “By ending evil,” he said.

  Weirdo Phil set another gan and tonic in front the woman and another whiskey and beer in front of him.

  Before he could shoot the whiskey, a slim hand reached in and grabbed it. His sister gulped it down and slammed the glass back onto the scored bar.

  “So, Blaze, who’s your friend?” Elle asked. Every guy and some of the women had their eyes fixed on her. She was in full makeup, and her hair was a dance of red and black. Her leather dress scooped down the front to show her cleavage and the Ojo de Horus tattoo across her heart. The outfit covered her right arm and leg. Her sculpted left arm and leg were bare, revealing an array of ink. The straps of her sandals crisscrossed her calves all the way up to her knees.

  “I thought you weren’t talking to me,” Blaze muttered.

  Elle disregarded him and put out a hand to the redhead. “I’m Elle Ramirez. And you are?”

  The ginger took it. And gave his sister a smile similar to the one she had given him. Dammit. “I’m Trina. And this is your brother, right?”

  Elle slapped Blaze on the back, a little too hard. “That’s right. We’re all about family, aren’t we, Blaze?”

  The gunnery sergeant growled, “Back off, Elle.”

  “And why should I?” She sat down on the stool on the other side of Trina. “Hey, Phil, how about a drink for me? Make it something strong and dirty. You know how I like it.”

  Phil nodded.

  Blaze wanted to punch his sister. And not for the first time.

  “So, has my brother been bragging about fighting evil?” Elle asked.

  Trina nodded. “Yes, though I can’t honestly say I believe in evil, the supposed Onyx energy, or any of that.”

  “You just have to know how to look,” Elle said. “I could show you.”

  “No, you won’t,” Blaze interrupted. “If she hasn’t seen the dark side of the universe, good for her. It’s one of the reasons why we do what we do.”

  “And what do you do?” Trina asked, eyes bright, her face a little flushed.

  “Hunt demons,” Elle answered.

  He was going to have to undo some of the damage. “No, we’re bounty hunters. We bring in bad, bad people so the IPC can lock them away.”

  “And get paid in the process.” Trina put her drink to her lips. “Sounds dangerous.”

  He remembered how the master spider demon had ripped through the skull of the brunette. Selena. “You have no idea.”

  “So, Trina, what brings you to Oberlin? Business or pleasure?” Elle asked, echoing her brother. Same womb, nine months, same game.

  The ginger’s whole demeanor changed. The smiles were gone. “Uh, your brother asked the same question. More and more, it’s looking like business, I’m afraid.”

  “Dammit,” Blaze said.

  “What?” Elle asked innocently.

  Blaze slipped off the bar stool, buzzed, but not too bad. “You know perfectly well, Elle. You have got to quit going after my women!” He punctuated the sentence with his cigar.

  “I am not your woman,” Trina said forcefully.

  Phil set a dirty martini in front of Elle. She threw it back. “I wasn’t doing anything of the sort.” She got off the stool and stepped up to Blaze.

  “Clearing the air!” Phil called.

  Blaze and Elle ignored him. The other patrons cheered and drank. Almost immediately, the bar’s air was refreshed.

  Like that mattered. Blaze slammed his cigar into his mouth, puffed up a cloud of smoke, and blew it into his sister’s face. “You know perfectly well what you were doing. And I’m sick of it. We might have to work together, but once we’re off duty, you stay the hell away from me.”

  Elle poked his chest. “No, I won’t. It’s pretty clear the silent treatment doesn’t work with you. So, we’re going to have to talk about what happened with…with…you know who.”

  “No, we’re never going to talk about that,” Blaze thundered. “It’s ancient pinche history. It’s the future I’m worried about.”

  “And you should be.” Elle glared at him. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m a part of your life, and you need to deal with me.”

  Trina paid her bill then pushed herself between the siblings. She gave each of them her card. “And you two will have to deal with me. Get your affairs in order. Tomorrow, I’m coming aboard the Lizzie Borden with a robotic operative, Director Alvin Denning’s official representative. I can’t wait to see what kind of illegal merchandise you use to fight ‘evil.’” She air quoted the word.

  Blaze sighed and read the card in his fist. Katrina O’Reilly. Senior IPC Auditor.

  Elle laughed maniacally.

  Trina brushed some ash off Blaze’s vest. “Sorry, big guy, but really, you never had a chance.”

  “What about me?” Elle asked.

  Trina shrugged but smiled that freckled, dimple-inducing, nose-crinkling smile. She then walked away from the pair.

  Ling crept up, his teacup in a paw. “I can only imagine how awkward tomorrow is going to be.”

  “Shut up, Ling,” Blaze growled and dropped his cigar to the floor. He crushed it underfoot like it was a demonic spider.

  Or an IPC auditor who didn’t believe in demons.

  FOUR_

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  The impound dock was near the surface of the moon and Fleabugger proper. The rock was a gleaming white against Decatur V’s
red—lit by the twin suns in the distance. A central tower rose from the pitted surface high into space. Various bridges linked impounded ships to the tower. At the base of the structure, anchored to the bedrock, were crappy buildings of reinforced black iron, shacks that led to more shacks and a marketplace built inside the mined-out moon.

  Near the core was Pearl’s Jewel, a casino and brothel.

  The Nostromo Suites and other bubbled buildings floated in the sky above, including the premium docking ring where they had been before they’d had to blow the bridge. Ironic, Blaze mused, that they were busted for saving the damn place. And lost their bounty in the process. It was complete and utter bullshit.

  Katrina O’Reilly, the redheaded Senior IPC Auditor, wore another business suit, this one navy blue, with big black shoes. She was still as cute, in an official mess-your-life-up kind of way. The robot monstrosity behind her was anything but.

  It towered over her, at least seven feet tall. A slender head was dotted with sensors, some antennae, and a single central hologram emitter, showing a blue-tinged IPC logo. Goddamn thing looked like a sapphire-eyed cyclops.

  It stood on thick feet with hydraulic pistons as Achilles heels. Its long, layered arms hung to its knees. Its hands dropped the rest of the way to its feet.

  Small, mini-machines, like fist-sized fleas, moved over the surface of the robot’s body, reconfiguring components and searching for problems to fix. Even standing still next to Katrina, the P13rce unit’s fleas were in constant motion.

  Blaze, Elle, Ling, and the Clickers moved up to the rusted airlock that led to the top hatch of their ship.

  Lizzie had three main levels, not including the cellar.

  The top deck contained the master suite, which was like a BBQ pit at this point, storage, and a secret weapons locker. It was the smallest of the decks and tucked away amidst the welded plates and duct tape that held Lizzie together. The second deck was the biggest. The bridge jutted out from the front of the ship underneath the master suite. Behind it was crew quarters.