Liberation's Kiss: A Science Fiction Romance (Robotics Faction Book 1)

by Wendy Lynn Clark

  Xan un-tensed by degrees. “Well, I sure as hell don’t.”

  The guy flashed him a look. “This isn’t your place?”

  “Nah.” Xan cupped the back of his neck, his expression turning boyishly disarming. “We got spooked from the whole invasion, you know? We were out a day or so, and then we found this place. It’s pretty good, right?”

  “You’re lucky the owner isn’t around.” He ducked down the hallway. “Can’t say I blame you, though. I heard the Central Transit Hub’s been down for three days. Nar’s started their witch hunts.”

  “Did they find anyone?” Cressida asked.

  “Huh?” The engineer came back. “I don’t know. We’re from North Continent, not Central.”

  “You didn’t hear anything?” she pressed.

  He shrugged. “We’ve been out doing our jobs. And we’ll keep on doing them until they send in some robots to do them for us.”

  “Forced retirement.” Xan laughed darkly, and the guy joined him.

  “It’ll happen.” His watch beeped. He held it to his lips and said quietly, “Yeah, I got it,” and turned pointedly to the satellite sitting innocently at Xan’s feet. “Well, I’m here for that piece of business.”

  “Oh, this?” Xan pulled Cressida back, putting the satellite subtly between them and the man. “It’s all yours.”

  The engineer knelt to examine it. “Plugged in?”

  “We thought it might have vids or something.” To Cressida, he murmured, “Get your stuff.”

  She ran upstairs, threw on a flight suit, and remembered for the second time that she didn’t have her bag any longer. Her beautiful inks and papers, treasured memoirs, and the bits and pieces she had longed to save had all gone up with the diplomatic residence. No time to grieve. She tidied for the General and put everything back just as she’d found it, minus the flight suit she was borrowing.

  Below her, the conversation continued.

  “Aw, no.” The man laughed, truly amused. “This is a remnant of the SO networks, you know? It searches for pirates and gold, and not too well. It’s about dead.”

  “We tried to plug it in, but it wouldn’t even communicate.”

  She rejoined them downstairs.

  “Yeah, you have to know the codes and shit.” The guy checked his watch again, took another envious look around, and then hitched up his flight suit. “I don’t have to report you right away, but I have to log that I saw this place. If it comes out later, you know, I’ll get docked. Well, who knows what the Nar will do?”

  “Oh, actually, can you give us a ride?” Xan gave a hopeful, full-teeth smile. “Please?”

  The guy raised his brows. “You want to leave a place like this?”

  “It’s not hooked up.”

  “I think that’d be nice.” The guy lifted with his knees, his voice trailing into a strained groan. “Take a break, once in a while.”

  Xan stepped forward and helped, taking some of the satellite’s weight. “Try that after an hour. It’s nothing but wind and trees. We’re about to go crazy.”

  His voice rose as he backed down the steps and through the landscaping onto the beach trail. “I don’t care if you don’t. We’ll have to strap you to the back though. We got no room up front.”

  They emerged onto the beach. By the crater, a boxy construction shuttle parked. It looked like a shipping crate with wings; a bulbous nose with a cockpit bolted on one side like an afterthought. The pilot, an older woman with a perpetual frown, lowered one wall as a ramp for them to stow the satellite. They used the same magnetic tape to strap Cressida and Xan onto hard plastic toolboxes, right behind the pilots’ seats and just within the noise-dampening area, so they could talk without shouting too loud.

  “Coffee?” The woman offered two stained mugs.

  “It’s just our container shit,” the engineer said, strapping himself in with a grin. “Brought from base. Reprocessor’s been broken for half an age.”

  “It’s not bad,” the woman said.

  “It’s not awful,” he agreed.

  They accepted the oil-colored liquid while the woman manipulated the controls. The back door closed, the shipping container shuddered, and they swiftly rose, leaving their tiny island behind. It was easier to rocket upward and then fall to the destination rather than to coast sideways in the uneven winds. Their companions chatted quietly about bullshit regulations, rubilum prices on the intergalactic exchange, and the potential impact of the Nar on upcoming holiday plans.

  She tensed as their talk turned to the recent hostilities.

  Xan threaded his fingers through hers and rested their linked hands on his knee. Silent support. She could cry. Instead, she gave in to her urge and rested her head against his shoulder.

  “They made a right mess of the Central Continent,” the engineer commented, shaking his head at the destruction. “And I heard it’ll get worse if they decide to land troops.”

  “Why should they?” the pilot demanded. “We aren’t resisting.”

  “You tell them that.”

  “I will, won’t I?”

  Xan suddenly leaned forward. “I thought you were going to the North Continent.”

  “Oh, hey.” The engineer frowned. “We are at the wrong entrance angle to hit North.”

  “We got redirected,” the pilot said. “They want to see the satellite at East for some reason.”

  Cressida shifted uncomfortably. But Xan simply closed his eyes and rested his head against the shuddering metal sides. If he was relaxed enough to take a nap, then it couldn’t be anything to worry about. He must have a contingent plan.

  “Whatever.” The guy laughed. “Did they give a reason?”

  She shrugged and tapped the hail light, which was currently covered with a thick wedge of black magnet tape. “They want to talk to us so bad, they can fix the reprocessor. Right? Until then, the comm is broken too. I ain’t taking this bullshit. Next, they’re going to send us out without an engine. Fuck that.”

  “Fuck that.” He nodded and sipped his coffee. “Hey, you think we could hit that fruit market on Upstreet? I want to see if they have any new stuff since the invasion.”

  She shrugged like they might as well.

  He twisted around in his seat and offered the container. “Need a refill?”

  Cressida demurred.

  He shrugged and turned around. Smiling and cheerful about the redirection. Then, they crested the city proper, made their way through the channel to enter the glassed membrane, and hovered down the tracks into the service yard—into the midst of several hundred sentries and drones.

  “What the—?” Both pilot and engineer leaned forward, mouths opening in shock.

  Cressida gripped Xan’s shirt.

  He didn’t wake up.

  “What the hell is this?” the engineer asked his pilot, their passengers forgotten. “You forget to sign us out on the service log?”

  She shook her head wordlessly.

  “Maybe I did something. No, I don’t know.” The engineer ripped off the magnetic tape. An angry red hail light blared at them. “Uh oh.”

  The pilot keyed in her communication code with shaking fingers.

  “Service crew N-88, accept transmission, acknowledge. Service crew N-88, accept transmission—”

  The pilot clipped the announcer as they drifted over the waves of sentries. “Acknowledge base, N-88 ready.”

  “Can you confirm the sighting of the following criminals?” Holographic images of Cressida, with her hair singed, and Xan, with the scar exposing his titanium, appeared on the screen.

  Cressida shook Xan. “Wake up. Please wake up.”

  The pilot and the engineer turned slowly and stared at them. The pilot took her finger off the transmission button. The crate shuttle hovered over its landing area.

  “What the hell did you do?” the engineer asked.

  “Nothing.”

  The pilot narrowed her eyes. “You’re the ones they were looking for at the Central Transit H
ub that other day. They said you killed nineteen people.”

  Oh, no. No, that wasn’t possible. She grasped Xan’s shirt. He had to wake up. “We didn’t kill anyone. They’re trying to kill us.”

  “Who is?”

  “An android woman.”

  The two traded glances.

  They didn’t believe her! She clung to Xan’s limp form. “She killed a miner. She must have killed the others. We didn’t do anything!”

  “Then why is everyone here after you?” the engineer asked.

  She swallowed.

  “N-88 confirm, acknowledge,” the communications unit squawked.

  The pilot hovered her hand over the transmission button.

  “I’m on the Kill List,” Cressida said in a rush. “I don’t know why, but now they’re here, and it’s all happening.”

  “What the hell is a Kill List?” the engineer asked.

  She shook her head, tears fighting against her. “It’s a list of the people the Robotics Faction intends to execute.”

  “Robotics Faction? Honey, the Robotics Faction makes toasters and alarm pets. They don’t go around killing people.”

  “Well, they want to kill me.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head. Her lower lip trembled.

  The engineer and pilot regarded her like she was crazy.

  “I’ve never heard of anything like that before,” the engineer said slowly, nodding to the pilot to snake her hand over the communications button. “I think you’d better tell that to our boss on the ground.”

  Oh, no. “Please wait.”

  “He’s real understanding,” the engineer promised. “He’s got a cousin in the government. Maybe they can work something out.”

  “I’m in the government,” she said, but they had already turned away again.

  The pilot touched the controls. “Base, confirm sighting, acknowledge.”

  “N-88 land and stand by for debriefing.”

  “Base, there’s one more thing—”

  Xan removed her hand from the comm.

  She gasped.

  He had moved so quickly that not even Cressida saw him rise, throw off his magnetic tape, and move. But the tape was hanging off their toolbox, and the pilot and engineer gasped, and Xan was speaking softly. “If they know we’re on here, they’ll frag you from the air and sort through the pieces afterward.”

  The pilot swallowed. “Wh-what do you want me to do?”

  He let go of her hand and sat back next to Cressida. “Land.”

  The two remained rigid at the controls.

  “L-land? Anywhere?”

  “Land where they tell you to.”

  “And then?”

  “Then get off.” He studied the waves of sentries and drones, one hand on Cressida’s knee. “Get debriefed. Leave the welcome party to us.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A couple hundred sentries, he counted, plus more on the rims. Cressida shuddered beside him. He took her hand, threading it with his once again. She looked as if she were about to throw up.

  “They said that someone killed nineteen people,” she said quietly.

  He smoothed her creamy skin. “I have been thinking very hard.”

  Her shoulders buckled in relief. “You have a plan to get us out of here?”

  He scratched his nose. “Eh. More like a ‘working document.’”

  She whitened.

  “Just remember, if we’re separated, you’re still broadcasting. You need to cover that chip up with a helmet or get the hell out of the area.”

  Her eyes widened, luminous. “Why would we be separated?”

  In the front, the engineer’s hand crept toward the lockbox, where Xan assumed he kept a firearm.

  Xan picked up his mug, still half full of coffee, and swirled it. “I’m not sure we can do this without a casualty.”

  Her brows folded together. “Try.”

  Trust her, when landing in the middle of certain death, to worry about him. “Okay.”

  The crate touched ground, and the engine began its cool-down sequence. The pilot and engineer looked at each other, and then began undoing their safety restraints. Cressida fumbled with the tape. Xan remained seated, swirling his coffee.

  Outside, it was impossible to hear over the lowering engines, but he assumed that the sentries were reconfiguring into a hostile welcome party to grill the engineer and pilot.

  But he was more interested in the device emerging from the flight lockbox and centering on his chest.

  The engineer leveled the pellet gun on Xan and fired twice.

  The report roared in the tiny enclosure. Cressida and the pilot both jumped and clapped their hands over their ears.

  Xan tilted his mug so that each inch-long slug of metal alloy lodged in the thickest portion of the handle—careful not to spill the coffee.

  The engineer blinked at him behind his reluctant warrior’s grimace.

  “I wish you hadn’t done that,” Xan said.

  His eyes widened.

  “They definitely heard it outside. I was going to let you walk out by the cargo bay, but I don’t think that’s safe anymore.” He slammed the emergency switch.

  The pilot screamed as safety material foamed around her, smashing her into the seat. It smooshed the engineer too, and shunted them both out the wheel basin. In air, it would eject them toward the nearest gravitational body, since usually one wanted to be closer to earth and not flung into space. But since they were resting on the wheels, it smashed the two of them into the concrete, making a shattering crater.

  With swift medical attention, they should survive.

  He stepped across the gaping floor and gripped the controls. An old Neteor model, built exactly like a shipping crate and with the same commitment to outlast an apocalypse. The engines grated against his hot restart command.

  Outside, the drones and sentries began strafing the solid container. The temperature started rising. And he had two big, gaping holes beneath him—nothing that could be done there. He keyed in the classic overrides. Older than dirt, effective in every model.

  He heard Cressida behind him. “They’re shooting at us!”

  The engines caught.

  “Strap in,” he said over his shoulder. The telemetry controls screamed for coordinates. They rocketed upward.

  Her eyes widened.

  He turned back around in time to catch the other x-class glaring in at him.

  She punched through the cockpit and gripped his throat.

  “Cressida, steer,” he shouted as the other x-class dragged him out the front of the ship.

  ~*~*~*~

  Chunks of clear steel plate as thick as Cressida’s hand bounced past her cheek. Right in front of her, Xan was yanked out the front of the cockpit. Glass shattered and lights flashed. Movements too fast for her eyes to follow. He turned, and both androids disappeared. A metallic thud sounded on the roof above her. Then, silence.

  Wind rushed through the gaping windshield and hissed across the chair-sized holes in the floor. She gripped the magnetic tape belting her to the cargo block.

  What the heck was she supposed to do in an out-of-control ship?

  Cressida, steer.

  The wind made her eyes water.

  Normally, wouldn’t the shuttle seal up when it detected a pressurization failure? But no safety seal covered over the holes. Assumedly, if the pilot and copilot were ejecting, they didn’t care whether it left two gaping chasms in the ship they abandoned. In space, it was always better to remain on the ship. So when someone decided they needed to get off, that usually meant there was nothing left worth holding on to.

  Skyscrapers fell away as their trajectory continued upward.

  Eventually, wouldn’t they hit a ceiling?

  If not a ceiling, would they hit an orbit?

  The shuttle shuddered as though entering one of the thermoclines. The pilot’s forgotten coffee cup jiggled free of its magnetized holder, tipped off the flight panel, and hi
t the floor. It rolled over twice and fell out the open hole.

  No one was coming to save her.

  And still she remained uselessly frozen.

  Xan said she was not useless.

  Cressida unstrapped herself. It felt like swimming without clothes, dangerous and wrong. You never, ever remove your safety harness in a compromised shuttle, the childhood warnings echoed in her head. She clung to the wall, tentatively working her way forward, and eased around the whistling fissures, balancing one foot on the outside and one foot on the remaining strut. The ground below her rapidly shrank into a topographical map.

  The shuttle shuddered again—another thermocline—and she clung to the control panel, releasing the magnetic tape.

  It zipped out the hole, snaking all the way from the cargo bay, looping itself out like a ribbon way below.

  She made a sound sucked away by the wind. Reaching down for the magnetic tape risked her losing her footing or her grip and following it. No ejection foam would shelter her body from the bone-shattering fall.

  Cressida, steer.

  She stared down at the wide panel of buttons, dials, gauges, screens, and flashing readouts. Numbers ticked up on the altimeter—that was their height, she was sure of it—and on their speedometer, suggesting that the speed was increasing as air resistance decreased. Okay, okay. Numbers fluctuated along the x and y axis. Was that bad? Did she need to influence it?

  She held on tight with one hand and waved her other over the grid, but nothing happened.

  Was she supposed to tap it or use one of the six number pads? What should she put in? Was there an instruction manual? Did she have time to find and read it?

  She peered out the opening, squinting at the striated atmosphere. The sun was disappearing around the horizon, and the polarizing glass was changing to allow in the softer planetshine, streaking the skyline with green tendrils like a submerging god. Beautiful. She squeezed the shuddering control panel.

  It would probably be the last thing she would ever see.

  ~*~*~*~

  As Xan was dragged throat-first through the cockpit by the other x-class, his skull and torso crushed against the low-atmosphere-classed plate at the equivalent of three g-forces.