The Final Dawn

by T W M Ashford

  "Christ Almighty," said Jack, ducking back into cover. His chest heaved up and down. "Well, at least they're headed away from here."

  "Yes, but did you see where that man was pointing?" hissed Rogan. "They're headed right for the square – to Tuner! That sleaze-bag Kroll double-crossed us!"

  "Or maybe you're worrying over nothing," said Jack, desperate to calm her down. "I mean, ask yourself this… what would this Kroll guy have to gain from turning in one little automata? It's probably just a coincidence they're here… right?"

  "It's not Tuner that Gaskan cares about." Rogan grew even more agitated. "I doubt he cares about getting any of us back, actually. It's the blueprints in Tuner's head that Gaskan's after. Kroll could make a fortune selling them on the black market… but he could continue breathing if he hands them back to Charon."

  She watched the lackey and his ratty, skittish guards march down the street.

  "We've got to get Tuner out of there," she said, pulling Jack to his feet. "They clearly don't know Kroll's exact address yet. Maybe we can get to him before they do."

  "Hold on a damn second." Jack backed away from her. "I'm no hero. You saw those guns, right? You saw the freaks wielding them? No thanks. Besides, you automata are going your own way after this – your captain made that very clear. You go rescue your friend. I'll stay here and try to find a way back home."

  "Don't you dare be such a coward," she snapped.

  Jack was taken aback. He didn't know what to say.

  "My friend – the little box of bolts who saved your life, remember – needs our help. You're going to help me break him out of that trap whether you want to or not. You owe him that. And if you don't, I'll tear out your translator chip and turn off all the power to this place on my way out. Have fun getting back to your planet without a tongue or a map."

  Jack stared at her. Was she joking?

  Rogan glared back at him, so furious he could almost hear the metal plates of her face grinding together.

  He really didn't think she was joking.

  "Okay," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Lead the way."

  9

  Rakletts, Raiders & Rescue

  Tuner waited in Kroll’s office. It was remarkably cozy compared to the scrap heap bustle of Tortaiga Square outside. He was sat in a plush, ruby-coloured armchair in front of a great wooden desk adorned with small, valuable and quite probably illegal artefacts. The dusty cloth of an old tribal banner blanketed one of the walls. An archaic lampshade in the corner of the small room cast everything in a dim orange glow.

  Kroll sat on the other side of the desk. Like the guard who stood outside his door, Kroll was a stout, amphibious, toad-like creature that appeared to melt into his chair as much as sit in it. He wore padded leather clothes and sported a semi-permanent monocular eyepiece with which he could inspect illicit goods.

  He was studying such an item now. The lenses of his eyepiece clicked as they increased their degree of magnification. His fingers holding the small, speckled orb trembled.

  "Not too much longer, I hope," said Tuner, swinging his little metal legs back and forth over the edge of the armchair. It had been twenty minutes already.

  A bead of sweat rolled down from Kroll’s bulbous scalp. He checked the data pad on his forearm and grunted.

  "Yes, my assistant should be back with your codes any minute now." Kroll nodded towards the reinforced door behind him. He looked as anxious to complete the deal as Tuner. "How about you hand over the blueprints while we wait?"

  Tuner shook his head and crossed his arms.

  "Not until I download the codes."

  "Suit yourself," Kroll grumbled. He went back to his inspections.

  Jack and Rogan pushed through the crowded square, trying hard not to spill anybody's drink. A few automata-phobic insults were thrown after them, but most patrons were too drunk to even notice.

  Gaskan Troi and his Raklett troops were nowhere to be seen.

  "Where was the office?" Rogan searched the storeys of bars and brothels above with frightened eyes. "Can you see it?"

  "There," said Jack, pointing at Kroll's establishment. "The one with the black symbol on the wall and the, erm, frog-thing at the door."

  "Come on." Rogan grabbed Jack’s hand and dragged him towards the nearest flight of metal stairs. They rattled like the ladders of a fire escape. Jack tried not to look down and ignored the strange sounds that drifted out from each floor they passed.

  Kroll's guard watched them approach with an ill-tempered look on her face.

  "Let us through," said Rogan, marching up to the door. "Our friend is in there."

  "I'm sure he is," she grunted. "But you ain't going in there. Not 'less the boss says so."

  "We won't be any trouble," said Jack. He reached for the door handle. "We just need to make sure he's—"

  Something hit the side of his head hard. He crashed down on the iron walkway and a metallic taste filled his mouth.

  "What the…?" He raised a finger to his lips. When he pulled it away again, it was speckled with blood. "That green freak hit me!"

  The amphibious guard lowered the muzzle of her rifle so that it pointed directly at Jack's head.

  "This green freak is about to do a whole lot worse than that," she said, aiming down the sights.

  Rogan grabbed the guard’s head and smashed it against the wall of Kroll's office in a single, effortless motion. Jack didn’t even catch a blur, she was so quick. The guard went limp and dropped to the floor. Rogan flexed her double-jointed fingers.

  "Oh, yeah." Jack climbed back onto his feet. "You really needed my help, didn't you?"

  "Shut up," said Rogan, kicking open the front door. "And stay shut up this time," she added.

  A small reception room lay on the other side. Jack expected to find more security, but they only encountered a small, many-armed insectoid who was either Kroll's accountant or personal assistant, judging by the paperwork the poor spectacled creature had piled up on its desk. It shrieked indecipherable protestations at them as they crossed over to the only other door in the room.

  Rogan leaned her head against it, then nodded.

  "Sounds quiet in there," she whispered. "Hopefully that's a good sign. Ready?"

  Jack glanced back at the indignant insectoid glaring at them from behind the reception desk.

  "Absolutely not," he replied.

  "Three… two… one…"

  She threw the door open and charged in. Kroll scrambled back from his desk.

  "Who, in all of Kapamentis, are you?"

  Tuner turned around in his chair. His LED eyes lit up.

  "Rogan? Jack! I thought you were going to wait over in the archive?"

  He started to get off the chair, then hesitated.

  "Sorry for the delay," he added sheepishly. "Mr Kroll's assistant should be here with the codes any time now. I’m not sure what’s taking so long."

  "Come with us, you idiot!" Rogan grabbed Tuner and wrenched him out of his seat. "We're in the middle of a goddamn ambush!"

  "Hurry up, guys," said Jack, darting back to the exit to check it was still clear. "I don't see anyone coming, but…"

  "An ambush?" asked Tuner, confused. He looked back towards Kroll's bulbous expression of panic as Rogan dragged him out the door. "But what about the codes?"

  "Screw the codes," she said, struggling to pull him any further. "We'll find another—"

  The reinforced door behind Len Kroll slammed open, cutting Rogan off.

  Four sets of eyes peered from Kroll's storage room – three sets yellow, and one set twice as black as the gloom from which they glared. The Raklett guards drooled and growled from inside the doorway, but it was the skeletal Gaskan Troi that stepped through first. He pointed a thin, accusatory finger at the two automata.

  "Get them!" he screeched.

  The Raklett guards opened fire. Their plasma rifles tore Kroll's office apart as if its metal walls were made of paper. Gaskan didn't so much as flinch at th
e chaos erupting around him. Kroll, on the other hand, dived under his desk with a wounded howl.

  Rogan had been right. Gaskan didn't care about recapturing the robots, only in making sure the blueprints in Tuner's head didn't fall into the wrong hands.

  Jack was first out the door. Rogan followed with Tuner forcibly in tow. Kroll's terrified accountant tried leaping to freedom, but a stray plasma bolt burst through one wall and splattered it against the other.

  Jack nearly went racing over the walkway's rickety railing when they got outside. Rogan grabbed hold of his spacesuit and threw him in the direction of the stairs.

  "Run!"

  It wasn't as if Jack had much else planned. He swung himself round the corner and leapt down the steps two at a time. When Rogan caught up, she was carrying Tuner in her arms. His little legs weren't fast enough.

  The Rakletts stormed out of the office and stumbled across the toad-guard's unconscious body. One of them peered over the railing and caught sight of the three escapees hurrying down the stairs.

  A plasma round blew apart the sign beside Jack’s head. Sparks fell over him like a golden snowfall. He snapped his head up, saw one of the Rakletts aiming its rifle at him, and dropped to the floor just in time. The drunk patron beside him erupted into a red paste. Rogan and Tuner hurried past without stopping.

  Jack flung himself towards the next flight down. He stopped short as another plasma round burned a hole in the floor by his feet. He peered through it at the level below.

  "Hey, wait up!"

  Rogan and Tuner – now back on his own two feet – were already at the bottom of the stairwell and looking for a way across the square. It was too open to make a run for it, despite the crowds. Rakletts were no sharpshooters, but it isn't hard to hit a moving target when you don't care about the collateral around it.

  Lucky for them – if you need something in Kapamentis, you can always find it.

  Even if what you're looking for is an exit.

  Jack didn’t know if what happened next was the natural evolution of a Tortaiga Square evening or the result of the Rakletts turning one too many regulars into a red mist. Whatever the reason, patron after patron snatched the sidearm from their holster and fired back at the balcony, peppering it with lasers and lead. Many drank from a bottle in their other hand as they did so.

  It sure wasn't in defence of either him or the automata – that much was clear from the corpses of bar brawls and dents in the robotic bartenders. By the bloodthirsty expressions on their scarred faces, Jack reckoned they did it for the hell of it – as if it were a sport that, for just a moment, brought the whole Tortaiga community together.

  Not that he was complaining.

  The Raklett nearest the railing took the brunt of the onslaught, dancing a jitterbug as round after round tore through his scrappy, patchwork armour. He was dead before his matted, furry body hit the floor, by which time the other two had retreated back inside Kroll's office. The only way they were getting out was the same way they came in – the storage room round back.

  "Now!" gasped Jack, catching up with Rogan and Tuner at the bottom of the stairs. "Quickly, while everyone's distracted!"

  The three of them sprinted across the square, ignored by the drinkers still laughing – and shooting – at the dead Raklett lying on the walkway above. Pockets of fist-fights broke out here and there, instigated by those apparently not satisfied by the night's violence thus far. The bars dialled up the volume of their music and went back to business.

  Jack stopped to catch his breath when he reached the dark alley on the other side. Rogan and Tuner continued running past him. They didn't have lungs to refill. He staggered after them, telling himself that he wouldn't be so worn out if it weren't for him wearing such a bulky spacesuit.

  The revelry of Tortaiga Square faded behind them. For a brief while the only sound was of their feet splashing through the puddles of the dark and empty alleys.

  Then, only a couple dozen metres from where the shadows of the alley met the neon circus of the market, Rogan stopped dead in her tracks. Tuner fell onto his side. Jack almost ran into the back of her.

  "What are you doing?" Jack’s words came out in a wheeze. "We're in a bottleneck. This is the absolute worst place to stop!"

  Rogan continued to stare at the darkest, most dingy corner of the passageway.

  "Why don't you tell them that?" she whispered.

  Three lanky figures crept out from the shadows. Jack gasped. For a moment he thought they were human. But then he noticed they had only three fingers and a thumb on each hand, and when they grinned their teeth were sharp and far too numerous. He felt his stomach twist.

  They looked starving, not least because of the hungry look they gave Rogan. They stalked towards her, step by tiny step. The further they left the shadows, the more their scrappy wasteland clothes were revealed. The light from passing cruisers splashed across their chunky black goggles.

  So he had seen eyes in the darkness before.

  Jack looked back the way they came. Nobody was coming after them… yet.

  "What are they?" whispered Jack.

  "Raiders from the Dust Belt," replied Rogan. She didn’t take her eyes off them. "They'll tear out our cores and break our bodies down for scrap."

  There was no other way out the alley. Nor could Jack see anything he could use as a weapon – nothing more effective than a soggy cardboard box, anyway. The only way forward was… well, forward.

  He had an idea. It just wasn't a very good one.

  "How smart are these creeps?" he asked.

  "They know their way around a wrench pretty well." There was a note of concern in her voice. "But in general terms, they're quite thick."

  "Well, it's worth a try."

  "What is?"

  Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle cap he'd pilfered from the Library. He pinched it between his finger and thumb and hesitantly raised it above his head.

  "Stay b-back, or I'll use it," he said, stumbling over his words.

  An alarmed bleeping noise came from beside him.

  "What are you doing, Jack?" said Tuner. "That's a…"

  "I know what it is," Jack hissed out the corner of his mouth. "But they don't."

  The raiders snarled and edged back into the shadow, their hands held out in front and their heads bowed. The path to the market was clear.

  "Come on, guys." Jack ushered the automata towards the exit. "Let's go before they realise what I'm holding."

  "Oh, I think they realise what you're holding just as much as we do," said Rogan, staring at Jack with wide, frightened lenses. They inched towards the sights and sounds of the market. "I'm not running until you either throw that thing or put it away."

  "Throw it?" A cold veil of panic draped over him. "Why would I throw a bottle cap?"

  "Because it's not a bottle cap," said Tuner, "and it is a grenade."

  "What?"

  "Yes! Looks like a small plasma model. Won't do too much damage, but it'll take your arm off easily enough."

  Suddenly Jack’s arm felt incredibly heavy.

  "Like hell am I putting it back in my pocket, then!"

  With their backs to the bustling market stalls, they could barely hear themselves whisper. The raiders, sensing Jack's hesitation, started to creep forward again.

  "Then throw it!" said Tuner, waving his arms around. He hopped from foot to foot. "It goes off when it hits something hard and fast."

  "Where in the world did you find a grenade anyway?" Rogan whacked him in the ribs. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I thought it was a bottle cap!"

  "Throw it!"

  Jack shut his eyes and lobbed it.

  It flew through the air and landed in a puddle by the raiders' feet.

  It fizzled pathetically.

  The raiders looked back up at the automata and grinned.

  "Run?" said Jack.

  "Run!" shouted Rogan.

  They turned and sprinted into the crow
ded market. Jack tried not to lose sight of Rogan. Tuner, because of his smaller size, was too easy to miss. He recognised some of the signs and vendors as he pushed his way through the throng of aliens and automata, but he knew he had no chance of finding his way back to the spaceport without them.

  He also knew he wasn't welcome on the Adeona, but he had nowhere else to go.

  Every now and then he glanced back through the crowd, expecting to see the raiders right behind him. But if they were, he couldn't see them. He guessed they didn't like the bright lights and loud noise of the market. Perhaps that’s why they kept to the dark alleys.

  "Rogan? Tuner?" They heard him and slowed down. "It's all right. I don't think we're being chased anymore."

  Rogan peered above everybody’s heads. She nodded.

  "Okay. The port is that way." She pointed further down the street. "Come on, Tuner. Let's get back to the ship."

  "What about the codes?" Tuner asked. "How will we get through the blockade?"

  "We'll find another way." She shot Jack a sharp look as if to say: don't say a word.

  They went to leave. But before they could, a large and angry grub blocked their path.

  "Well, well, well," it said in a loud, grumbling voice. "Look who it is."

  Jack raised his head towards the Ubekian Cutworm whose daughter he'd insulted. Towards its pair of snapping mandibles, to be exact. Rainwater dripped off them onto Jack’s upturned face.

  "Oh God. Please, not now."

  Rogan and Tuner edged away, leaving Jack to face the giant grub alone. But the Cutworm moved its hindquarters to block them, too.

  "Where do you think you're going?" it said, grinning. "You seem to be in an awful hurry. Two little automata, all on their own…"

  It studied Jack with transparent disgust.

  "Alone except for this ugly creature. Could be that somebody's looking for you, yes? Could even be that there's a reward for bringing you in."

  The Cutworm nodded its corpulent head down a street perpendicular to their own.

  The two surviving Rakletts were headed in their direction, ransacking stalls and harassing their owners. Gaskan Troi followed in their destructive wake. He stopped and asked each of the terrified vendors the same question. A hologram hovered above a small, circular pad in his hand. Jack could guess what it showed: Rogan and Tuner.