Corporal Dern stood to attention. “Sergeant.” He hurried away, and Chapman walked over to where the M3 had come to rest against a bulkhead, its upper body largely intact, its arms splayed out as if in a parody of astonishment.
Gently, Chapman guided the bot to the deck, straightening its limbs. A fallen Cutter, he thought. In another life, an officer, maybe someone I’d have served alongside. But how in God’s name had a captain wound up trapped in a metal frame? And how many times had the imprisoned soul been extinguished and resurrected, only to play out the same training exercise over and over again? At some point, it must’ve become aware of its existence, learning from its previous lives. What was it the bot had said? Incipient memory leakage. An image of a broken cog came to Chapman’s mind: a worn out mechanism condemned to turn only so far before it slipped back to where it started.
A shudder ran down Chapman’s spine. He couldn’t let this stand, but what was he going to do about it? He’d have to report the bot’s behavior; he had no choice. And what then? Would the regiment destroy the M3 or simply patch it up and send it back into battle? No. They’d almost certainly pull it apart to discover the cause of its malfunction, subjecting it to endless tests while they probed its neural net. But what would happen to the memories of the soldier who’d come before—the soldier who’d known his sister?
It saved my arm, he thought, and I never even knew its name. Come to that, he didn’t even know whether the bot’s mind had once belonged to a man or a woman. It doesn't matter now.
Dern appeared at his side, an EVA suit draped over his arm. “Found this in a locker, Sergeant. Kind of old, so we should check it over.”
“Thanks.” Chapman took the suit. “Dern, is there some way to shut an M3 right down?”
The corporal frowned. “Take it offline, you mean?”
“No. Something more final. There must be a way to…let it go. So it can’t be brought back. Not ever.”
“Yes, Sergeant. You just have to bypass the—”
Chapman raised a hand to cut him off. “Could you do it to this bot? Right now?”
Dern nodded, but he cast his gaze downward, his tight lips betraying his discomfort with a single twitch.
“You got a problem with that?” Chapman asked.
“Strictly speaking, it’s military property. We don’t have authorization.”
“I’ll take the heat,” Chapman assured him. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a faulty unit, all right? Safer for everyone this way.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Good man.” He slapped Dern on the back then crossed the bridge to check on Wallace’s progress. He cast a brief glance back at the M3, watching as Dern hunched over its frame, then he turned his attention back to Wallace. “How’s it going? Are you getting through?”
She looked up, her brow furrowed in a frown. “I found the jammer and deactivated it. Comms are back online, but I’ve got bad news on the shuttle—it’s gone.”
“Gone? Completely?”
Wallace nodded. “According to the log, it disengaged from the dock just after we disembarked, then it drifted away. I tried to get remote access, but it’s unreachable. There’s no way to get it back.”
Well played, Chapman thought. You almost won. But he was careful to keep his expression neutral. “All right, let’s call for a ride.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Wallace said. “Channel ready for you now.”
But Chapman shook his head. Later, he’d have one hell of a lot to say to the authorities, but right now, talking to the base was the last thing he wanted to do. “I want you to send the message, Wallace, but let’s save the explanations until we get back. Inform them our mission is complete and request emergency exfiltration.”
“Yes, Sergeant.” Wallace hesitated. “But, Sergeant, when I ask for exfil, I’ll need to give them something.”
Chapman ran his hand across his chin. “Tell them The Pride suffered a malfunction in its power grid leading to critical damage. And if they ask for a damage assessment, just say that this ship is no longer viable. Tell them this, Wallace…tell them it’s reached end of life.”
Author Michael Campling
Michael has been a financial systems programmer, a website builder, a full-time dad, and a primary school teacher. As a teacher, his particular interest was in encouraging children to love books, and his lively readings were always popular. His proudest moment was when the parents of a boy with a learning difficulty told him that their son was begging for bedtime stories for the first time.
Today, Michael writes stories with characters you can believe in, and plots you can sink your teeth into. His style is vivid but never flowery; every word packs a punch. His stories are complex, thought-provoking, atmospheric, and grounded in real life.
Michael’s work spans several genres, but if you enjoyed Endpoint, you’ll almost certainly enjoy his sci-fi colonization adventure, Colony B, and you can start for free by searching for the prequel, Skeleton Crew (Colony B Book 0), on all the main retailers.
Whatever the genre, all Michael’s books have one thing in common: respect for the reader. The best way to sample Michael’s work is to sign up for his readers’ group, which is called The Awkward Squad. You’ll receive free books and stories, plus a newsletter that’s actually worth reading. Learn more and start reading today at: mikeycampling.com/freebooks
Unexpected Bounty
A Zag the Bounty Hunter Story
By Terry Mixon
Zag the bounty hunter just wanted a beer. The universe had a different plan.
Once I’d set my ship down in the landing pit and shut her engines down, I carefully extracted myself from the cockpit. The damned thing was way too small for me, even after I’d had a mechanic relocate the overhead controls to the left side of my acceleration couch.
The corridor from the cockpit to the extendable ramp was just as tight. No surprise there. Razor used to be a smuggling ship built for humans, not a 2.5-meter Borelian with meter-long horns spread above his head. Which made maneuvering around this tin can a pain in my furry butt.
The only way I could walk through the ship was to crouch and turn my head a little to the side. Otherwise my horns scraped the bulkheads or ceiling when I walked.
The only concession I’d made to living on this ship was having all the passenger cabins combined into one large one. The mechanic had even managed to get the ceiling high enough for me to fully stand and still have about a third of a meter of space over the tips of my horns.
That was still as cramped as hell, but it saved me from cricks in my neck and back. Working solo, I just dealt with the problems and grumbled to myself. It was what it was, and I wouldn’t be changing anything, so why bitch?
The ship had been payment for one of my first jobs as a bounty hunter. If I’d wanted to, I could’ve traded her in for something more spacious, but I liked the old smuggler. She was extremely fast and well armed for something her size.
I could hear Razor’s hull cooling when I got to the ramp controls, the metal hull making soft ticks. I leaned against a structural stabilizer as I waited for the landing pad to cool enough for me to leave the ship. Ten minutes was usually enough.
The hot metal added a tang to the somewhat sour air inside the ship. I made a mental note to go over the air recyclers once I was done here. The filters needed changing.
One more task on a never-ending list of ship’s maintenance. If I hadn’t hated being around other people so much, I’d have hired a junior engineer to take care of all the crap that needed doing.
Yet another thing I bitched about but never changed.
When the pad was cool enough to walk on without melting my boots, I hit the control, and the small wedge of metal began lowering toward the baked rock of the landing pit. I had to crouch a little to keep an eye on things as the ramp groaned its way down.
The hint of heated metal became a burning stink as the outside air washed over me. It was a mixture of a lot of dust and the smell of peo
ple living nearby in somewhat less-than-hygienic conditions.
Three human males exited the squat tunnel leading out of my pit and stood in what little shade the exterior wall provided from the bluish sun attempting to melt the ground into a puddle around us.
They looked like customs inspectors in their matching white coveralls. Odds were they were exactly what they appeared to be and not an ambush. Seriously, I had something of a reputation, but no one had known I was coming here. Not even me.
If this last job had gone like a regular run, I’d have stayed where I dropped my prisoners off and gotten well and truly hammered, probably for at least a week before I crawled out of whatever hovel I’d rented and got back to work.
Not this time, though. I couldn’t stand Paralz. The smug-beaked bastards living on that planet saw everyone else as beneath them, as if they could still fly millions of years after evolution had bred the ability out of them.
Not that anyone ever told them that. There was no quicker way to piss the sanctimonious chickens off than to remind them what had been taken from them. And that’s how they saw it: as a grand theft.
Well, screw them and their stubby little wings. I’d headed out to the nearest other world to spend my money.
The ramp got to the halfway point and froze, its servos whining in complaint.
With a sigh, I turned and made my way back to the control. I cycled it up and down a few times and got the ramp past the spot where it occasionally hung.
One more thing to fix. Maybe I needed a real list instead of the mental one I kept letting things drop off of.
The three men in dusty white coveralls smirked at me as my boots finally hit the ground. Their expressions became a bit warier as I got close and the size difference became clear.
I towered over them, particularly with my horns angled up like they were. I leaned forward to enhance the impression and snorted as if challenging them.
Humans called my people minotaurs even though the resemblance between us and bovines was superficial at best. And a little insulting.
Though I privately thought the comparison was apt enough. Calling the Paralzians overgrown chickens was far more offensive to them, and I was an enthusiastic advocate of using the name. It was a little hypocritical of me to complain when it was my turn in the barrel.
Curious, I’d done some research on the mythical creatures from Earth. Their story was interesting, and I’d long ago decided to play up the role. It made humans underestimate my intelligence and think I was rash.
Of course, I actually was rash, but I kept that side of my nature to reasonable levels.
Over the years since I’d left Borel and become a bounty hunter, I’d changed my clothing style from the loose robes my people favored to leather pants and a matching harness that showed off my bare chest.
I looked like a barbarian from our deep past and relished playing the role.
And, of course, to humans I looked like a minotaur. It helped that my face was elongated and my horns were very similar to those in pictures I’d seen of Earth Longhorn bulls: curved, wide, and wickedly sharp.
One big difference, though. My people weren’t herbivores. I smiled down at the men in coveralls to make the point clear by displaying my mouthful of sharp teeth, ones well suited to ripping hunks of flesh off anyone that annoyed me.
A bald male with a red, sweaty face stepped back. “Welcome to Norvas, traveler. Anything to declare?”
“It’s too damned hot. And it smells like a cesspit.”
The man cleared his throat. “I meant your weapon. Norvas bans the carry of lethal weapons. You’ll need to leave it on your ship.”
“I’m Zag of Borel, a licensed bounty hunter.” I dug out the permit that allowed me to carry on every member world of the Sovereignty.
“Are you on a job?” one of the others asked. “This permit only allows you to carry a weapon while after a bounty.”
“Of course I am,” I lied, showing him more teeth. “Why else would anyone come to this forsaken rock?”
“Who are you after?” the first man demanded.
I fixed him with a cold stare. That was a bit more aggressively stated than I was prepared to tolerate. It raised my hackles, and I snorted for real at the challenge the man presented.
He quickly backed up even farther and raised his hands slightly.
“Why would I tell you?” I asked in my most arrogant tone. “You’d probably run off and tell him that I’m here. Don’t act stupider than you look. You’ve seen my permit and have my statement that I’m after someone with a Sovereign bounty on his head. We’re done here.”
I hit the ship’s remote in my pocket and watched the ramp rise until it locked into place. Once the remote buzzed to announce that the security system had activated, I walked toward the men as if I’d walk over them.
They scattered, and I bent low enough to get into the tunnel. Why could no one build to my scale? Didn’t they have to move cargo out of these pits? I knew it was easier to use mobile cranes for that, but it didn’t stop me from bitching.
It was noticeably cooler in the tunnel, which wasn’t saying all that much. That brief respite ended the moment I stepped out of the landing pit and into the direct path of the blazing sun.
I felt the nictitating membranes in my eyes snap into place to protect me from the glare and abrasive grit blowing in the stiff breeze. A breeze, I might add, that did little to cool my hide.
My pit was at the edge of the port, but I could see plenty of other pits scattered around me. It looked like a busy place.
The city on the edge of the spaceport was made up of low buildings spread out as far as I could see. The place obviously had access to tech, because I saw a few float cars zipping above the rooftops, but that didn’t seem to carry over to the people on the ground.
Everything within eyeshot was a drab brown, the same color as the dust. Considering the arid climate, they probably never washed anything. The people wandering the winding city streets looked destitute.
Not the kind of place I’d visit by choice for my drinking. I’d really screwed up in my rush to get the hell out of the chicken coop. I should’ve done some actual research before I’d impulsively picked a planet at random.
Well, the only options open to me now were getting smashed as planned or making this a working visit for real. The second option wasn’t all that appealing, so I decided to hold my nose and get drunk. Maybe someone would start some trouble and I could take out my annoyance on them.
Bull in a china shop was an apt metaphor for my people in general and for me in particular.
As I started into the city, I mused about how many people had given me hell about going on benders over the years. It wasn’t safe, they’d told me. As if being a bounty hunter was safe.
People still called me an idiot, but it wasn’t the same set of people anymore. Most of the people I’d known when I’d started the job were dead or locked up somewhere. My line of work wasn’t exactly suited for those wanting a good retirement plan.
The life had killed some of my old friends and gotten others into illegal things that made them the kind of people they’d once hunted. It always made me sad when I had to go after a friend.
I hated doing that, so I charged double. That occasionally put the bond holder off and got me out of the mission, but all too often, they agreed, and I had to imprison someone who’d once been a friend. Or kill them when they resisted.
I loved being a bounty hunter, but it sucked sometimes.
One of the plusses about being much bigger than the other races came into play as I moved into the city. Others instinctively shied away from my kind. Walking through a crowd was rarely a problem. I could always see what was around me, and no one felt comfortable bumping into me.
That let me see everything ahead as I made my way deeper into the city. I had an eye out for a suitable bar, but nothing popped for me. Odd. The areas around spaceports were usually littered with bars, strip clubs, and pawn shops.
There were plenty of strip clubs in sight, but human females shaking their pale, furless bodies wasn’t appealing. They did nothing for me.
The same could be said for the prostitutes calling out raucously from the balconies above the street. The idea of a female Borelian allowing someone she wasn’t bonded with to see her unclothed—much less touch her!—boggled the mind.
The last time a friend had asked about that kind of thing on my world, I’d snorted good alcohol all over the place and fallen out of my chair in spasms of helpless laughter. When I could finally speak again, I’d told him that such wasn’t done and to never ask another Borelian about it. They’d have gored him for sure.
As I walked, I saw a few pawn shops. Not as many as I’d expected, but more than the complete absence of bars. The latter had my hackles rising. It was unnatural.
I could see some kind of bazaar over the people in front of me. Lots of merchants with goods on tables in the square. Perhaps it was the custom of these people to sell their things that way. In any case, someone there would be able to point me toward a bar.
With that in mind, I picked up the pace, but I still kept my head swinging from side to side, watching the crowd around me for threats. That was a basic survival skill for bounty hunters. The prey we chased often hunted us back.
That diligence paid off when I spotted the pickpocket stalking me. The boy was scrawny and dirty, even by local standards, but he had sharp eyes that watched me from my left rear.
Sadly for him, my peripheral vision was far better than a human’s and left him operating under the entirely mistaken impression that he was unobserved.
Where there was one, there were others.
I casually turned my head as I walked around a knot of men haggling around a table at the edge of the bazaar and spotted more of the boy’s team. I was impressed. Really.
There were half a dozen children stalking me, and I’d almost missed them. They had some mad skills at tailing a target and blending into the surrounding crowd without being easily spotted.
The Expanding Universe 4: Space Adventure, Alien Contact, & Military Science Fiction (Science Fiction Anthology) Page 12
