The Final Dawn

by T W M Ashford

  Tuner reached up and squeezed Rogan's hand.

  "Good work." Ode tapped away at his arm-panel again. "If you all do as you're told, there's no reason anyone needs to be hurt."

  The drone above the Adeona dropped down and latched itself onto the ship's hull. A tiny red light on the tip of its antenna began to blink.

  The beacon was active.

  He tapped another combination of keys. Rogan watched in disbelief as the disrupter mine they'd spent so long trying to dislodge disengaged itself from the ship's thrusters and rocketed back into the bounty hunter's hand.

  "I'll take that," said Ode, hooking it onto his belt.

  "What's Gaskan paying you?" said a nervous 11-P-53. "We can beat it."

  "We'll see about that," said Ode, winking at the robot. "Any more of you inside that ship?"

  11-P-53 looked each way down the line of automata, then shook its head.

  "I think this is all of us."

  "For your sake, I hope you're telling me the truth. We've still got a while before this 'Gaskan' of yours gets here. I'd hate to have to kill anything other than time."

  He paused as if he'd heard something nobody else could. Then he sighed.

  "Speaking of which…"

  The proprietor of the general store came barging out through its door. He was older than the other Dryggs in the settlement. His carapace was bleached and scarred. Judging by the ancient rifle in his hands, he hadn't come out to sell Ode a souvenir.

  "Head on back inside, old man," said Ode, sneering. "Before you—"

  The old beetle was quicker than he looked. He fired off a round from his rifle. Unfortunately, his aim wasn't quite as spritely as his reflexes. It missed Ode by a good foot and a half, passed over a surprised automata's head and burned a hole through a giant fern on the other side.

  Ode didn't make that sort of mistake.

  He fired twice, just to be certain. The first round hit the armour on the Drygg's chest, burning a slow hole through the top layer but nothing more. The second was a headshot. It lifted the old man off the ground and carried him halfway down the street. He landed with a heavy thud. His rifle skidded through the dust and dirt.

  "Shame," muttered Ode, growing impatient.

  He spun around and aimed his smoking handgun at the box-shaped automata in the middle of the line.

  "What's so valuable on your ship?" he snapped. "What are you hiding?"

  The cuboid shrank away from the gun.

  "Nothing," it whimpered. "We're—"

  Ode fired. A shrapnel cloud of computer chips exploded out the back of the robot's torso. The other automata screamed and clutched one another. The cuboid crashed to the ground and shut down.

  "Let's hope he wasn't important," said Ode, continuing down the line.

  He stopped at 11-P-53 and levelled his revolver at its head.

  "Ten thousand credits. What have you got worth that much?"

  Jack watched these events unfold from a crouched position behind the bar's most front-facing wall. He hadn't even left the shade of the awning before the bounty hunter fired off his first shot, killing the Drygg administrator.

  Then the store owner had come out… and now there were two dead Dryggs.

  Everything had gotten way out of hand.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The alien couple who'd been drinking together were hiding behind an upturned metal table. The bartender was nowhere to be seen.

  Jack realised that he was instinctively looking around for a telephone with which to call the authorities. He didn't even know if there were authorities on Haldeir-B, or anywhere else in the star system, or the whole damn galaxy for that matter. If there were, he suspected they were the ones already lying dead in the street.

  The best he could do was stay quiet and hope everyone forgot about him. He suspected they already had.

  And yet…

  And yet with each passing second, he felt more sick. More responsible, somehow. As if he had personally put a price on the automata's heads, or pointed the bounty hunter in their direction, or done something for which he could possibly be blamed.

  But he hadn't done anything, except make it abundantly clear that he and the crew of the Adeona were not affiliated in any way. Which was true. In fact, it was more than true – it was what the automata wanted.

  But he hadn't done anything.

  Those words wouldn't budge from Jack's mind. Now he was angry as well as scared.

  What the hell was he supposed to do?

  Yet another gunshot rang out. Jack jerked his head out of cover just in time to witness one of the robots on the landing pad topple over, dead, a visceral hole blown right through its middle.

  His heart threatened to beat right out of his chest. Bile crept up his throat. He dropped back into cover, covered his head with his hands, and started to rock back and forth.

  This was bad. This was so bad.

  He had to do something.

  He peered around the wall again. The bounty hunter walked down the line of automata and paused beside 11-P-53.

  Jack felt his guts twist. As much as he disliked the little twerp, he didn't want to see 11-P-53 blown into a million tiny pieces.

  He had to do something.

  Think!

  The dead Drygg was slumped against the porch of his general store. But his rifle lay in the middle of the deserted street. Nobody was even looking at it.

  Oh, no. That was a terrible idea.

  He'd fired all manner of guns before – it had formed part of his pilot training. From the look of the alien rifle, it followed the same general principles. Pull the trigger, something deadly comes out. How difficult could it really be?

  Jack watched as the bounty hunter pointed his revolver at 11-P-53's head.

  He was right. It was a terrible idea.

  And he was going to do it anyway.

  Jack sprinted out from under the cover of the awning, his head down and his eyes almost closed. His whole body was tense. He expected to be shot and killed at any moment.

  He wasn't.

  He snatched up the rifle, almost crashing through the dirt as he did so, and fumbled with it as he tried to get it pointing in the right direction.

  When he did, he found Ode staring back at him.

  "Are you sure you want to do that?" asked Ode, gritting his teeth.

  "Get your hands up where I can see them!" said Jack, his voice breaking. "Let the automata go, or I'll shoot. I mean it!"

  Ode grinned and raised his hands as if surrendering. The revolver dangled loose from one of his fingers. Then he twisted the buckles that held his cloak around his neck.

  The cloak spilled to the ground and Ode lowered his arms again.

  All four of them.

  "Not a human, then," said Jack, mostly to himself.

  "Not a human," confirmed Ode. His three empty hands each plucked a revolver from the holsters on his hips. "You should have bought yourself that drink, you know."

  "Yeah, probably." His hands were shaking. "Now scram, before things get any worse."

  Ode walked down the steps of the landing pad, laughing and shaking his head.

  "You know, you've made this day much more interesting than it needed to be." He came to a stop at the foot of the street. "How about we make this a fair fight? Shoot on the count of three?"

  Jack wasn't sure how that swung the odds of survival in his favour exactly, but whatever. He already figured his chances were zero either way.

  "Sure," he said, swallowing hard.

  "Good. Three."

  Ode fired a single shot. Jack flew backwards and landed face-down in the dirt.

  Ode holstered all but one of his revolvers.

  "Idiot," he said, shaking his head.

  He started to walk towards the body, then paused. He spun around and glared at the automata.

  "Anyone who moves gets turned into copper confetti," he said.

  The automata continued to whimper and clutch at one another. Tuner hung his head lo
w. Rogan squeezed his hand all the tighter.

  Ode continued slowly down the street. The sound of dirt crunching under his boots rang out loud amongst the silence of the settlement.

  It hadn't been a headshot. He needed to confirm the kill.

  He approached Jack's body. It wasn't moving. He gave it a kick.

  Jack rolled onto his back. His eyes were shut. He didn't appear to be breathing. A small, cindering hole had burned through his spacesuit, just above his heart.

  Still. It didn't hurt to be careful.

  Ode thumbed back the hammer on his revolver.

  A deafening roar caught him by surprise. He spun around to see the Adeona's thrusters erupt in twin jets of blue flame. The automata remained lined up where he'd left them.

  Alarmed, one of his hands darted to the disrupter mine hanging from his belt.

  "You said there weren't any more crew members aboard the ship," he yelled, pointing the gun at 11-P-53 instead.

  11-P-53 raised its hands in the air.

  "There aren't," it replied. "The ship is a crew member."

  "Tell her to stay put!"

  "Oh, she's not going anywhere." 11-P-53 ducked down. "She's just trying to distract you."

  Ode's face fell.

  He spun back around, gun drawn. It was too late. A plasma bolt ploughed through the centre of his chest, leaving behind a smoking hole the size of a tennis ball.

  Ode blinked twice then fell to the dirt, dead.

  Jack dropped the plasma rifle and clawed at the hole in his spacesuit. Whatever he'd been shot with had burned through to his skin. He let out an agonising groan.

  The automata broke from their line the moment the bounty hunter fell. Some fled to the relative safety of the Adeona's loading ramp. Others ran to where Jack lay.

  "That was amazing," said Tuner, the first to arrive by his side. "How did you know he wouldn't shoot you in the head?"

  "I didn’t." Jack gritted his teeth and screamed. "God, I'm starting to wish he had."

  "He used a corrosive round," said Rogan, peering into the jagged, smoking hole. "We need to get the suit off him and treat the wound before it goes any deeper."

  Jack let out another groan.

  "Well, we can't hang around here much longer," said 11-P-53. Dryggs were emerging from the buildings all around. They didn't look pleased. "Get him on the ship, quickly."

  Rogan, Tuner and a chunky robot Jack didn't recognise lifted him off the ground and carried him towards the Adeona. Being carried hurt even more than lying on the ground. It felt as if somebody was putting out a cigarette on his body… only instead of having its embers extinguished, the cigarette was tunnelling through his skin.

  By the time they reached the top of the loading ramp, the pain had grown intolerable. Sweat poured off him in thin tributaries. Screw the cigarette analogy – somebody had tossed him in a bloody furnace.

  The Adeona lurched off the landing pad, leaving a bitter moon behind.

  14

  Surgery

  They carried him into his quarters and dropped him on the bunk. Jack winced and sucked in air through his gritted teeth.

  "We have to get this thing off him," said Rogan, detaching the spacesuit's right arm. "Hurry!"

  Another automata twisted the left arm off, and then Rogan pulled the entire top half of Jack’s spacesuit over his head. Unfortunately, this involved sitting up. Yet another dose of screaming followed.

  "Take the suit to the loading bay," said Rogan, handing the chest plate to Tuner. "See what you can do with it."

  Under his suit Jack wore a thin white undershirt – one half of the thermal set he'd changed into before being fitted into the spacesuit. The cotton was charred and black where the bounty hunter's round had burned through.

  Jack brought his head as far forward as he could. The skin just above his heart was all wrinkled and raw. Blood pulsed out from a deep, open wound.

  Rogan pushed his head back down before he could start to panic.

  The same automata who had detached the left arm of his suit now extended a small, pen-shaped laser from its rotund chest. It cut Jack’s undershirt down the middle. Rogan pulled the two halves apart without hesitation.

  "Tweezers, now," she snapped. Somebody handed her a pair. Another automata extended a long, mechanical arm above the bunk, from which a bright light shone.

  Jack’s vision started to blur. The pain grew too great. He felt his grip on consciousness begin to slip away.

  And then Rogan stuck the tweezers in.

  "What the hell are you doing?" he managed to say between tearful cries.

  "Pulling the round out." Rogan pushed him back down. Two more automata pinned Jack's arms to the bed. "It'll keep eating away at your flesh unless I remove it."

  The tweezers went back inside. Jack screamed again. It was clear Rogan didn't understand human anatomy all too well. It felt as if she was pinching the arteries of his heart… and not in a poetic, romantic sort of way.

  "Got it," she said, raising the tweezers triumphantly. Even Jack lifted his head to take a look.

  The projectile looked like a shotgun slug, only much smaller. A noxious green substance oozed out from holes along its serrated edge.

  "Get it off the ship," she said, handing the offending item to somebody else. She brought her face closer to Jack's and smiled. "You're going to be fine, but we have to clean the wound up. This may sting a bit."

  "Painkillers, please." He swatted listlessly at her shoulder. "Or alcohol. Lots of alcohol."

  She nodded at an automata he couldn’t see. It hurriedly rolled out of the room in the direction of the pantry.

  "We'll see what we have." Rogan picked up a long hose with a tall, metal canister at one end and a suction cup at the other. "Half the booze in this galaxy would be worse for you than the bullet."

  "Not right now they wouldn't. What is that?"

  "This? This is what we're going to clean the wound with. There's still acid to suck out. It's normally used for unblocking the intake manifolds, but don't worry. It's sanitary."

  "I'm going to die," Jack groaned.

  "Probably not," replied Rogan, switching it on.

  The pain was indescribable. A cold, grey cloud enveloped him, and then he passed out.

  When Jack woke again, he did so from a cold and dreamless sleep. The pain had knocked him out – he suspected it was the throbbing ache that had brought him back around again.

  He gritted his teeth and propped himself up on his elbows. This did not help alleviate the discomfort. A bolt of hot pain shot through his shoulder and across his chest. He collapsed back onto the mattress with a yelp.

  Scared of what he might see, Jack peered down at the spot where he'd been shot.

  He let out a whimper.

  A two-inch scar ran lengthways across his bare chest, only a hair's breadth above his heart. It was thick, pink and a little gnarly – as if the wound had been cauterised rather than sewn shut. There were patches that looked unnervingly smooth and raw.

  He prodded the scar with his finger and immediately wished he hadn’t. Yet despite the searing pain, he felt an almost hysterical sense of relief.

  He was still alive.

  He'd stood up against an intergalactic bounty hunter, and somehow he was still alive!

  A short-lived smile flashed across his face before he remembered he was still a few trillion miles from home… and had probably just added his name to a homicidal warlord's naughty book.

  He rolled over as much as his protesting scar would allow and stared out the window of his quarters.

  There were no planets, no stars, no crimson nebulas. Only a flat and absolute darkness punctuated by the pulsing of midnight blue waves.

  The Adeona was on the move through subspace. The question was: where was she headed?

  Jack jumped as the chair beside the window spun around. A pair of glowing yellow eyes bloomed in the darkness.

  "Oh good," said Tuner. "You're awake."

  "Appar
ently so," said Jack, taking great effort to sit up. "How long was I out for?"

  "A few hours. You passed out during the cleaning. I wanted to wake you up but Rogan told me not to. She said it meant you wouldn't feel the rest of the procedure."

  "How on earth did she get it to heal so quick?" Jack caught himself before he could give the scar another prod. "I would have thought there'd be stitches at least."

  "Ah, Rogan is plenty used to putting fleshies back together. Her old owner was always getting himself into accidents." He pointed at the scar. "It may not be pretty but, erm, the prognosis is good."

  "Well, it sure beats having a bullet burn through my chest cavity." Jack shivered and crossed his arms, despite the ache. "I guess I need to find a new shirt."

  Tuner bleeped and hopped off the chair. He hurried over to the other end of the bunk and picked something up.

  "That cloth thing you had on was covered in blood, so we threw it out the airlock. But a couple of us had a go at fixing your spacesuit."

  He handed the torso of Jack's spacesuit over.

  Most of it looked exactly the same, plus or minus a few extra scratches. But the section of thick plastic through which the slug had burned a hole was patched up with two square pieces of scrap metal hastily soldered together.

  "I know it doesn't look great, but it should keep the air in if you find yourself floating out in space again," said Tuner, sheepishly. "Though I suppose without a helmet you won’t notice much of a difference."

  Jack slipped the suit over his head and smiled.

  "It's wonderful. Thank you."

  Then his smile vanished.

  "What happened to the photograph in the pocket?" He patted and pried at where the compartment on the chest plate had been. "Where did you put it?"

  Tuner bowed his head and held out a scrap of paper.

  "There was nothing we could do," he said.

  Jack took the photograph and, as delicately as he could with trembling fingers, unfolded it.

  What was left of it, at least.

  "No no no," he groaned, turning it over and over.