Chapter 11
Itch
DATE:
7088.03.08,
RECON
ERA
CRSS RECKLESS
Oort
Cloud, Gryanke
System
Briefly
checking our trajectory, which I lock-stepped with the orbital speed
of the Oort belt, I limped my way to the med bay.
My insides
felt as if they were both on fire and
on ice.
I had to
put what I witnessed with Forty-Five out of my mind for a minute. Or
two. Or perhaps several hours while I put myself back together.
I settled
on the bed and used the medical scanner. A bit awkward to use alone,
but I didn’t have much of a choice.
I let out a
soundless sigh. A tear in the bronchial cuff explained the oxygenated
blood. The graft where the metal lung met my meat throat had pulled
loose during the escape
from the wreck.
The word
‘smoker’ picked
an itch that I couldn’t scratch, my
hand automatically patting the empty space where my pack used to be.
The
fire suppression system was one thing I couldn't disable. It would
drown me in foam before I got the first drag.
‘The
tear is minor, I’ll
take it easy for now. And
try not to sneeze or cough too hard…’ I
hopped up from the med bed, grabbing an adjustable crutch from behind
one of the panels in the wall. I
ignored the recommendation to administer the
bio-sealant,
knowing it would end up being a waste anyway.
That
wreck really did have similar features to the Reckless… I wonder if
they were made by the same company. I
never found out how old the Reckless really was, she had been
stripped to the hull of all components when
I found her.
The only original parts were the engines, the
generator,
the
decks and the
frame.
Speaking
of…
I thought back to the water recycling
system
flashing at me when I passed by. My
mind briefly flashed to when I had dismissed a couple of warning
windows back on Kelara.
I grimaced
and hobbled over using the crutch to ease my movement. Once I reached
the blinking screen I paused, my hand millimetres away from the
control screen. I could smell something.
he
smell of sewage
my nose.
Flashing
red emergency lights tinting everything in a red hue.
Tubing
coiled like snakes, wrapped around my hands.
Shadowed
figures moving quickly towards me.
My
breathing quickened, becoming a rasping mess. My hand frantically
trying to
bring up diagnostics. The
diagnostic screen ran its analysis, I started
chewing my thumb. I took a quick look at the mess of pipes and tanks
checking for any physical leaks. A
steady drip,
drip, drip of
black liquid sludge was leaking from the black water tank’s intake
pipe. An
ominous scratching
sounded all around me.
The display
flashed again, bringing
back my attention. A warning window
listed a series of contaminants that had entered the system and were
causing internal
damage. I read through the list, coming across a
couple of formulas,
one I didn’t recognise, a long compound chemical not registered in
the system. The other I
had seen just the day
before. Acidic
coolant.
I felt my
entire world narrow around me. I looked back at the closed door to
the galley, breathing deeply. The spill kit. The little bastard must
have auto-docked back under the sink to empty itself... A
water recycling system would have been able to process it.
But.
I clenched
my teeth and hit my head against the support pillar where the screen
was attached, grinding my forehead against it. I cursed
my attempt at efficiency and convenience. I had rigged the spill-kit
dock to drain into the greywater line because I didn't want to empty
the hazardous waste canister manually.
Past-Mel was an idiot.
A
reclamation system graded to only recycle basic greywater wouldn’t
be able to handle it.
Which is what I had installed when I found Reckless,
too in love with the model type to care about
her condition. Back
when I thought this ship would only ever go as far as planet’s
orbit. Not interstellar travel.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
“Fuck.”
I whispered.
The
damaged system couldn’t be replaced outside of a Core Planet or a
Waystation equipped with a
fabrication foundry.
Nothing in the
Gryanke
system we were
still in would
have the parts.
Private antique
spaceships
were a major luxury the system didn’t cater to.
I’d
have to order the parts.
I’d be stuck here until
they arrived. I might get more than I ordered...
The smell
was turning my stomach, my head starting to swim with the memories.
“”
I
shouted louder, slamming my hand against the pillar again, trying
to bring myself back in the present. I
thought more, trying to calculate where the next base for repairs
would be. The next closest system was a month away by hyperdrive.
Impossible.
Dying of dehydration
in
space
would
shame all of my ancestors from the last 13,000 years. They’d shove
me back into the land of the living just out of spite.
Next...
Waystation 85, also
known as ‘Eighty-Dive’.
A grungy fuel stop in the drift, barely held together by Sector Law
and black market tape. That was only a week out.
I
groaned loudly. It was also a known stomping ground for many
of the mercs and pirates.
That meant Dark Lotus, which potentially meant finding out where Az went. I needed to hunt him down and get my Slate back, but trying to track down a mercenary in a station known as 'neutral ground' was suicide. The Lotus ran a third of the bar tabs there; I’d painting a target on my back by everyone. Also tipping off the theiving jerk that I was looking for him.
And
that wasn't even the worst part. Eighty-Dive had a hospital.
A good one. But if
I collapsed out in the street, they’d take me there. One scan would
all it would take for them to know who I was.
The
mercs would be the least of my worries.
I tapped a
shutdown sequence for the recycling tank, then loaded up the levels
for the clean water tank, whispering to myself a soft prayer to the
machine gods.
89% full.
I let out a
sigh of relief. It was enough for a week, enough to reach the
next closest harbour.
I could stretch it to two if I didn’t take any showers.
I digitally
disconnected
the contaminated tank
and the clean one, mentally
figuring out if the hazmat suit would even be
isolating enough or if I should grab the spacesuit again. I
ruffled my hair, then aggressively scratched
my scalp.
I still had
to get us in hyperspace and on our way to the repair station.
A part of
me wished that Forty-Five
was awake right now, I really could use
a second pair of hands. Preferably
so he could pilot while I tackled the mechanical side of things. He
had… been surprisingly useful so far. Versatile.
Adaptable…
I wasn’t
even sure what Combat Protocol Class he was anymore. A unit, no
matter what level, followed protocols. Forty-Five rewrote them.
I coughed
into my hand, the foul stench agitating my lungs. Pink flecks
splattered my palm.
I stared at the blood on my hand for a second too
long. It was bright, oxygenated. I knew the path I had decided
on, but the reality of it still scared me.
I opted to leave the busted system for now, I had
to take it easy. I settled in my fluffy throne after the longest walk
of my life, tempted to pull up the cargo bay cameras. The whole
‘adaptability’ and ‘versatility’ aspects had alarm bells
ringing. Machine Consciousness had always been theorised but never
proven in my years of research.
But there had always been a niggling feeling. A
circle I had been part of briefly had a conspiracy theory that
Awakened units in the Core had been secretly banned and the Central
Robotics Protocol was created to hunt those robots.
I wasn’t sure if I believed it, no matter how
much I wanted it to. My mother’s stories had clashed with the
warnings my grandmother had told me.
Mother had said all robots had souls and to treat
them all like people.
Grandmother had said if robots had souls, it would
be the end of humanity as we knew it.
‘Their fear and jealousy would overwhelm
them, it would kill us all,’ she had said. I thought back to
Twenty-Seven screaming at us.
Maybe Grandmother was right.
At that, I
gave in and
pulled
up
the cargo bay cameras. My
stomach dropped. In my panic to save Forty-Five,
I hadn't secured a single thing. The trolley, the crates,
Twenty-Seven’s torso: it was all loose. If I pulled a hard G with
the weak dampeners,
that bay was going to turn into a blender, and Forty-Five was right
in the danger zone. I
found
an angle where I could
just see Forty-Five’s legs. They were still limp, by the panel
controls. But the feet
looked like they were still mag-locked to the floor.
I bit my
nails, wondering how far I wanted to take this. Either
I go back downstairs,
use the trolley to take
him
upstairs with me…
or...
I tapped
the dashboard with short, sharp strikes.
An alert
came up.
Cargo
Hold
Sealed.
I wasn’t
locking him in because I was afraid of dying. Honestly, at this
point, a quick snap of the neck sounded better than the slow burn of
my condition. But getting killed by a machine you were trying to
fix... that was the ultimate occupational fuck-up; a sign that you
got sloppy, that you underestimated the code. Gran-Gran would be the
one to kick me back down to world of the living, baring the door
until I ‘fixed’ the problem.
And there
was the ship to consider. Sure, he could probably pilot the Reckless
if he killed me. But a rogue war machine with a stolen ship and no
moral compass? That was a disaster waiting to happen. He’d probably
crash into a civilian transport or get flagged by a Core patrol and
start a war. I was checking out soon, fine. But I wasn’t going to
be responsible for unleashing a monster on the rest of the sector. Or
worse, have my death on his head and get him killed for it.
I had to get us to Eighty-Dive. I had to make sure he was stable
before we got there.
I coughed
again, the pink flecks were darker this time.
I kept the
camera feed in a corner of the navigation HUD, encompassing the whole
of the window. I didn't waste time on a new course. I pulled up the
old entry vector and slammed the headset back over my ears. The ship
responded to my touch, groaning as I forced her nose back toward the
wreck. Two proto-moons blocked the path. A rookie would brake. I
tightened my harness.
I traced a
path out of the mess of rocks, having the computer calculate the
electromagnetic fields of the two proto moons. I dove the nose of my
ship down, avoiding a particularly large boulder that zoomed past.
The ship’s dampeners lagged, gravity momentarily reversing in the
bay. On the feed, I watched with
a wince as the
pile in the middle
lifted an inch off the deck before crashing back down. Twenty-Seven’s
severed arm skittered across the floor plates like a hockey puck,
slamming hard into Forty-Five’s legs.
He didn't even flinch.
I eyed what
was left of the wreck and then skimmed
past the asteroid that destroyed the rest of it. In the corner of my
eye, I thought I saw another humanoid shape, this one wearing a long
flowing dress. I blinked and she was gone.
A sudden
burst of the proximity alarm made me snap back to the front. I
levelled out the ship again, the computer also outlining the extent
of the gravity reach of the proto-bodies
in front of us. I flew
the ship along the path I visualised in my head, having the computer
compensate any additional trajectories I couldn’t see.
I blew in through my nose and out through my
mouth, the burning in my chest constant.
I twisted
the ship, belly-to-rock, and dove. The gap was closing. I throttled
to maximum. I let the giant rock's gravity grab us, whipping the
Reckless around the underside like a stone from a sling. I didn't
wait for the exit vector; I punched it. We shot out like a bullet,
beating the moon by seconds.
The
sudden acceleration turned everything in the bay into a projectile. I
winced again
as
the pieces
of wreck, crates
and Twenty-Seven’s heavy chassis slid violently toward the rear
wall,
piling up in a heap of tangled metal.
Forty-Five’s
upper body whipped back, his head cracking against the wall, but his
mag-boots kept him anchored in the sea of sliding debris. The
sounds vibrated
through the floor plates, catching
me off guard and taking my eyes off the trajectory to look at his
still body.
A
cacophony of sliding and scratching echoed
behind me.
I
grimaced
when I would have laughed,
twisting the ship so the top of the
ship
was facing the moon. The HUD showed we were about to graze the outer
edges of the electromagnetic field. I
just wanted us out of this system.
Streaking
towards the edge of the system,
the computer beeped
when we reached the
way-point for the hyperdrive. I tapped twice on the display screen,
and let go of the controls, the autopilot picking up where I left
off.
A warping of the stars beyond the solar system indicated we were
finally on our way.
