Of Crimson Indigo: Points of Origin

by Grant Fausey

  “This our ship?” Krydal glanced up at the Hauler

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Rooka. “The Dragon Wing. She’ll get you there and back in one piece, you have my guarantee.”

  “Well––” The young woman pushed a smile; didn’t remember Jake, or loving him. It seemed silly at the time, but she breathed a sigh of relief; it was all too new to her. “Should prove to be an interesting ride.”.

  The pilot pulling a Stetson from the top of Rooka’s tool cart and dawned the wide brim hat,. “Oh, man,” squealed the rodent. “You’re not gonna wear that old thing again, are you?”

  “Why not?” Jake ruffled the Stetson, straightening the edges as he slapped it atop his head rounding the brim with a loving touch. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember––it’s a family heirloom that’s been around these parts since the beginning of time.”

  “You got that right,” laughed the rodent.

  “Better take one of these with me too,” chuckled Jake from the other end of the hanger, as he pulled an old overcoat off the rack. “Never can tell what the weather will be like this time of year.” Rooka smiled, much to his chagrin. “Could be a little chilly, or really hot.”

  Vex shook his head, completely unaware of what was to come. Jake Ramious, however, had just become the spitting image of the bounty hunter, Indigo.

  TWENTY: Living Memoirs

  • • •

  The inherent memory scan was complete, the data displayed. Anion waved her hand through the fog, setting a series of numbered time codes in order to document the simulation. She was trying to reverse engineer the inherent properties present within the aura of the symbiont in her possession. Everything about the entity affected her senses. The simulation looked and felt real, as if she was standing in the middle of an obscure desert boomtown, flanked by an alien landscape of burnt sienna mountains and dark blue-gray skies. Streaks of lightning crossed the heavens, unraveling the foggy remnants of a civilization, which had disappeared eons ago. Yet, in the midst of her digital recreation, displayed with uncanny accuracy was the disrepair, broken scaffolding and rusty pipes of a complex the size of a mountain.

  The boomtown loomed over everything, a hundred stories tall. Anion sat dwarfed beneath its monstrous, foreboding shape, silhouetted against the daunting size and shape of the off-world mining operation. There was more to the complex than planet cropping. She was a witness to a memory, and no longer a simple observer in the service of the Industrials. She was caught in the life cycle of a miracle of life that had vanished as quickly as it appeared. Inevitably, she knew she would have to return to the point of origin, and restart the simulation. Otherwise, she would never peel back the layers of reality and discover the truth of the venture. She had a fifty-fifty shot, the memory scans were unstable, the projection difficult to maintain. Yet, the real world application was astounding. Even Indigo appeared tangible, as if any holographic simulation could make his image flutter in the wake of temporal distortion any better. The reality stored within the symbiont reiterated every impulse of memory recreating the image as close to the original experience as humanly possible. Life as the symbiont knew it was virtually recreated in a database of immeasurable complexity, and left nothing to the imagination.

  The researcher gazed up into the falling rain; feeling the rainfall upon her face; her subject’s body drenched beside her in the same downpour. The water ran off his wide-brim hat in flowing streams of liquid that traced the edges of his trench coat, forming into little rivers of water streaming off his shoulders. Little ringlets of smoke rose from a cigarette, curling around his head in the misty morning air; his appearance more a fifties detective than a futuristic bounty hunter, but there he stood, in all his glory: A master of his trade, until a crack of thunder brought him to life. Oddly, the bounty hunter was alerted to her presence, if that was possible! He looked over at her from where he stood in the pouring rain, his skin moist and warm to the touch, as if the scientist was reliving the memory of him, an interactive participant. She was as much a part of the symbiont’s existence as he was, and that scared the hell out of her.

  Indigo dropped his cigarette, smashed it under his wet, muddy boot, and stepped down a short staircase into a sublevel doorway draped in shadow. The scientist followed, her flowing robes dry, yet her skin damp to the touch. “It’s only a simulation,” she kept reminding herself. She had no problem reaffirming her status as an observer. She had nothing to fear from the bounty hunter. Yet, there was that moment of indecision that thought of second-guessing herself.

  “We could rejuvenate him,” echoed the voice of another from the other side of the entrance. “Eliminate the age factor all together.” The bounty hunter clicked off the safety on his weapon, gently pushed open the door with the barrel of his gun as he stepped inside. “He’d never go for it,” echoed an alien dialect, repeating itself. “Too many memories.” Anion read the sign above the door, paying close attention to the details. Rusty’s bar was filled with a variety of half-drunken patrons, insect species the size of a man, rubble rats scurried across the floor in search of the perfect target, while Tack-tack worms tracked their every move. The place was filled with a host of vermin, interstellar, or otherwise. Some species too many to mention: Lecherous creatures from a thousand worlds. Many straight out of the Researcher’s Databank of Ugliest Beings in the Visual Field, or Darwin’s Alternate Class Manual. The thought was insatiable. Something had prompted her taste buds to over react.

  “Kala Nar,” said the researcher under her breath. She recognized one of the patrons in the simulation: A Kelfin woman with long dreadlocks, beady yellowish-green eyes, and razor sharp fangs for teeth. From where she sat with her back to the door, the translator sphere provided adequate coverage of the room. She could see everything about her place in the scheme of things, as long as it fit within her one hundred and eighty degree field of view. The long tables, and powder booths were packed with Gem-gems, and some variety of Kalniff Grienibac, she wasn’t familiar with. More important, she sensed the need for a particular vendor’s homemade bread and fresh fruit. The smell was intoxicating.

  Salnex, on the other hand, accepted payment for services rendered. But wealth didn’t seem to affect his demeanor. The fuzzy little biped was still a double-dipping two-bit thug. His reputation preceded him, mostly for his involvement with the Industrial’s dirty work. But he was available: one of Rusty’s patrons, visibly detained within the distorted curve of the translator sphere. Of the hoods, Neffum Claris seemed the most prevalent. His body was seated juxtaposed to the others, a big red-skinned humanoid, indirectly visible in the curved surface of the chrome ball. His head was inconceivably larger than the elongated dredge of his companions.

  “Then we won’t tell him,” said the fish-faced dignitary. Claris was out of his league when it came to executing plots. He was much more proficient at hatching them. The Oceanna Sector Assemblyman was doing a very good job of expressing his opinion. “There’s nothing to say it won’t work––after all, he is human.”

  Human, thought Anion. The Assemblyman’s eyes bulged on either side of his slender jaw line, extending just above the thin air gills next to his mouth. He looked more like an evil seastrand than a full-fledged monster, but that’s what he was a braggart and more. Humans, however, were an experimental species. The culmination of flesh and blood mixed with a higher plane generated existence, which could inevitably prove to be the substance powering the essence of living light technology.

  “If he remembers,” whimpered Salnex. “It’ll cost us.” The businessman was three-sheets to the wind; the thug’s glass of brew, tucked nicely between his fingers. But Rusty loathed the man; there was something about the naysayer that made him want to puke. If only he had someone else to clean up after him.

  Indigo was quick to size up the room. The pompous old technocrat had dark inset eyes, the kind that shine at night like a cat; his face was that of a man without heritage, although his loss of hair did give him the confidence t
o belittle others. His balding head gave him a sense of intelligence. The bounty hunter, however, considered the fuzzy peach texture of his skin a real deterrent to any semblance of self-esteem. Anion agreed. The true nature of the industrialist was a little unsettling; she didn’t recognize the real danger he represented. The figure behind him was semi-transparent, as much a mystery as he was obscure. His position was of stature, a rare attribute to see at the rear of Rusty’s tavern. His attire was that him a dignitary, which made him either an outlaw or a bounty hunter. Whatever the case, he was keeping his identity well-hidden beneath the protective robes of a full-length cape. He looked magnificent.

  “Well––I’ll be,” gleaned Rusty. He recognized the old bounty hunter the moment he walked through the door. “As I live and breathe, if it isn’t Indigo!” The bartender let out a belly laugh and plopped a fist full of drinks down on the bar.” The old bounty hunter glanced over at the heavyset barkeep admiring his stringy sideburns and laughed.

  “You still out at the old folks home?

  “Good to see you’re still serving up a cold-hearted jug of foam-topped piss water on a mountain of ice.”

  “So what will it be?” A dirty glass twirled in one hand, a clean one in another. “The usual?”

  “How about a clean glass this time!”

  “It’ll cost you!” laughed Rusty. Indigo shook his head.

  “Freeze program,” said the scientist, studying the scene as she circled the tavern in the background inconspicuously focusing on the well-dressed agent lurking in the shadow by the rear doorway. Interesting enough, he was blocking any route of escape. The image of the tavern distorted in the wake of her movement, rippling as if she had stepped into a pool of calm water. The mysterious man remained perfectly still; his appearance unchanged. The researcher wondered if she was somehow imagining him.

  “So,” asked Rusty. “You still chasing interstellar vermin or just that thing between her legs?” Anion raised an eyebrow. The translator sphere chuckled with a flutter of reddish lights, echoing the last bit of conversation. The computer had obviously not responded to Anion’s command.

  “Vermin …” said the bounty hunter, jabbing a finger. “I’m a professional, and don’t you forget it!”

  “Right,” answered Rusty. The barkeep let out a belly laugh. “Bounty hunters.” Indigo spied a reflection in the translator sphere hovering just above the bar––four newcomers stood in the doorway. The bounty hunter slapped the bar with one hand, immediately dispensing a tiny silver sphere along the underside the metal countertop with the other. Hoodlums, he thought. Thank God no one noticed his slick move under the bar.

  Neffum Claris wrinkled his scaly skin, adding his own brand of gibberish to the conversation. “There’s more at stake than just a little corporate rivalry,” he insisted. “Call it what it is: A hostile corporate takeover.”

  “I say we eliminate the two of them and forget about it,” added Kala Nar. The fish-faced dignitary was right, of course. They each knew the consequences of what they were getting themselves into.

  “If corporate gets involved, there won’t be enough left of any of us to clone,” concluded Claris.

  “Still trying to eliminate the competition?”

  “Not at all,” said the entrepreneur. “You’re the hired gun around these parts, remember? We’re just concerned about your being independent and all.”

  “Right,” said the bounty hunter. The tavern doors slammed shut. Anion took a defensive posture, her image clearly visible in the reflection, an observer. “Let’s face it … you think I’m getting a little too old for this line of work, isn’t that it?”

  “Computer,” said the researcher again, more firmly this time. Her control over the situation was distorted, like her figure in the sphere.

  “We have an unwanted guest,” announced the symbiont as clear as a bell in her head. It was the first time she had interacted with the device. She was experiencing the event first hand.

  The silver ball out of Indigo’s hand ran across the tavern floor keeping to the foot-rail. The bounty hunter caught a glimpse of the corporate types in his periphery and pushed aside the translator sphere in front of Salnex and made for the other side of the room. Something bad was coming. He could feel it. There was uncertainty in the air.

  “Its just business,” continued Salnex, nervously. “You’re still on the payroll, right?” The sphere in front of him liquefied, as if the program was altering itself. “Maybe another job or two, before you retire?”

  “Who said anything about retiring?” Salnex glared at the bounty hunter, scanning the room nervously twitch, noticing the reflection in the translator sphere of the four young hoodlums standing in the entrance.

  “What will it be, boys?” asked the barkeep. The four hoodlums parted like the Red Sea and Rusty’s expression sobered. The big man put the bottle in his hand under the bar.

  “Nothing pops,” said Jemsin, a street-wise, silver-tongue devil of oriental descent, as he came to the front. “We got business.”

  “Then how about a couple of jitter juices on the house?” Salnex relieved himself, stinking up the place. “Nice try pops, but its not quite that easy.” The leader cocked his head and cracked his neck. “It seems someone here has been adjusting history, paving the way for a little corporate takeover.”

  Rusty reached for his shotgun under the bar, but stopped. “I wouldn’t try it, pops!” The leader pointed out the hoods behind him. “The head office says: if there’s any resistance, nobody gets out alive.”

  Jemsin’s posse pulled energy weapons, small switchblade like stilettos shimmering in the dim light. Salnex Panicked. The little fuzzy man batted the translator sphere out of the way, coming over the table with a sizable weapon he pulled from where he kept it tucked under the front of his chest garment. The other patrons scattered in a whirlwind of flying fists, flashing laser bolts, exploding drinks and a host of broken glass.

  Indigo defended himself, blocking a kick, only to come up on the short end of a laser wand. The bounty hunter did a turnabout and ended up leaping over the hoodlum, only to land behind the corporate runner. He immediately brought his weapon to bear on the gangster, wheeling a second laser pistol from its holster under his overcoat. The weapon spiraled into his hand as it fired. The thug’s body shattered in the wake of the pulse canon, unraveling like a thread unwoven from a cloth in a pool of glittery liquid, which formed on the floor. Rusty’s mouth dropped open, awe-struck by the actions of the old friend; his faith restored even though he fumbled with his firearm. The gun went off, clumsily sending a round of buckshot into the wall before splattering across the ceiling. Anion ducked. Indigo spun around in a direct line with the hooligans, but abruptly dropped to the floor subdued by a flash stick smacked against the side of his neck.

  “That should do it,” said the industrialist. He wasn’t taking any chances! “Get him to the lab.” The hoodlums scattered, running for their lives. The neuron-generator flickered with tiny arcs, flicking along the side of the bounty hunter’s head. Salnex stood over him, the culprit in his hand: A riot control device, the kind used by the corporate police during riot control. It was meant to bring down the hoards.

  Anion looked to the barkeeper, the symbiont’s thoughts actively responding in the researcher’s head. “C’mon,” squealed Crimson. “Get up––fight like a man!” Rusty did a double take. “Well––” said the symbiont, annoyed. “Aren’t you going to do something?”

  Anion went wild-eyed. Afraid. All the characters in the inherent memory scan were alive, talking to her directly as if she was a part of some elaborate game of deception. But that wasn’t possible; it was only a simulation. Nothing more. “Damn it,” said the symbiont. “You can’t just let them carrying him out of here.”

  Anion stared at the apparition. The young woman was stunning, staring at her with bright blue-green eyes, as if she half expected an answer but wasn’t getting it. She stood across the tavern, next to where Kala Nar held the ba
rkeeper captive. “Freeze program,” she repeated, much louder this time. Again, the simulation spoke to her. Yet, the computer ignored her voice command.

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” said Claris. “No one else needs to get hurt.”

  “Ah––this is just great,” said the symbiont. Anion shook her head, trying to dislodge whatever it was that was making her a willing participant. She was getting caught up in the game. The researcher had to get the image out of her head, but she couldn’t. The symbiont wasn’t really there; at least, not physically. That’s what she told herself. It wasn’t worth the self-doubt. Especially, when the apparition was standing there right in front of her with her long blonde hair, and perfect body she kept hidden beneath loose-fitting clothes.

  “Never send a clone to do a man’s job,” said Salnex grabbing Indigo by his feet.

  “All right, let’s get this over with,” gestured the fish-faced dignitary. He was counting on his cronies to do the grunt work and drag the bounty hunter out of the pub.

  “Gamy,” cringed the symbiont. “What do these Kaks want with you anyway? It’s not like you’re real to any of them or anything.”

  Kala Nar stepped back, but kept his weapon trained on the bartender.

  “C’mon, Jake,” pleaded the symbiont. “You might want to do something about this, before they …” Crimson waved her hands, in disgust. “Remember last time?” But the liquid metal ball had everything under control. And letting Jake Indigo Ramious out of its sight wasn’t on the menu. “This is just great!” The symbiont wasn’t very encouraging. If noting else, she was persistent. “Some bounty hunter you turned out to be.”

  “Freeze program,” echoed the computer, repeating Anion’s earlier command. But the silver marble continued to stream its way across the floor, under the rounded foot-rail beneath the bar. Finally, the machine had responded to her request, a little out of sync with time zone perhaps, but welcome nonetheless.