The child gazed up at his face, the drug-induced stupor still marking his features. Never mind the barrel of the assault rifle trained on his head, a military grade laser dot nesting on the boy's forehead, almost like one of symbols used by the old religions of Earth. The child stared on. Still, he stood as a statue, frozen with terrible purpose.
Michael Antaeus did not sign up to murder children, in hot or cold blood. His employer wanted to send a message, yet lacked the willingness to carry out the deed. That was out of character for Alexander, he who prided himself on being as the kings of old that never shrunk from being judge as well as executioner.
Antaeus exhaled, the dot flitting over the kid's forehead ever so slightly. The child, on the cusp of his teenage years, stood there. He could not act. This was a child, for God's sake. How can a person be asked to commit such an atrocity?
The clacking whir of the Maximus drone reminded him of his contract. All orders are expected to be executed promptly and efficiently. Sedition will not be tolerated. His overseer was watching indirectly through the optics array of a trio of red eyes arranged in a triangle, focusing and dilating, observing what he would do.
"SPARTAN, I have a question regarding a technicality," Michael spoke, trigger finger still poised. Lord forgive me for what I suggest…
The array shifted to the right, the topmost one changing to a bronze yellow. "Audio received from subject, Michael Antaeus, Chief of Gunnery on Maximus vessel Charon. SPARTAN assuming direct control," the drone almost sounded like a pleasant English butler. The voice that followed was like the shift of a clear summer day into a raging tempest, a voice that rolled and boomed with terrible purpose.
"ALEXANDER IS BECOMING IMPATIENT. HE DOES NOT LIKE THIS PHYSIOLOGICAL STATE. CALCULATIONS INDICATE THAT THIS ACTION SHOULD HAVE BEEN CONCLUDED ONE POINT TWO-SIX-THREE MINUTES AGO."
"As I said, I have been considering a technicality," Michael began in a measured tone he had cultivated during his tour of duty with the United Systems Navy when addressing superior officers. "The definition of death can be satisfied without physical bereavement of life. I received word from a colleague in the pharmaceutical department regarding a drug in development capable of inflicting retrograde amnesia. As the loss of memory has long been considered to be a living death in and of itself, and this drug has been requesting a field test in recent months, why not satisfy both requirements in this scenario?"
Antaeus still had not lowered his weapon nor untrained his sights. He had to sell this as best as he could, playing the part of the dutiful soldier only wishing to satisfy his commander. He did not want the blood of an innocent on his hands.
"YOUR LOGIC IS WELL CONSTRUCTED." The drone clicked and the trio of eyes shifted again, turning back to red.
Michael stood, arms bared to the cold night. He took this brief moment of respite to examine his surroundings. They had shuttled offworld as quickly as possible after the mission with the package. The gunnery chief had heard one of his compatriots mention DR-213 as the destination. Planets with that designation tended to be real cesspools. It was their job, after all, to be detritus reclamation centers. The chosen location to dispose of the package had turned out to be a decommissioned vessel ground, a graveyard for the rusty leviathans who had earned their rest. The original course of actions was to eliminate the package, mount him on a noticeable vantage, and send the holograph of the grisly scene as a message to all who would consider refusing to honor a contract with Maximus Corporation.
The drone's optics nearly shifted to the active bronze state, but then reverted. It did this three more times, and on the fourth finally shifted. Antaeus was not prepared to be addressed by him, the voice of a man refined with cold intelligence and little warmth, similar to the machine serving as his medium.
"Mr. Antaeus. Normally, I would be disappointed with such a blatant disregard for my authority. Yet, I do appreciate the thought that one of my employees would consider a course of action that would prove more efficient than my original plan made in a fit of unthinking rage." Alexander himself; a chill ran through his spine, and the laser dot completely went off mark as Michael flinched. "I have considered your proposed course of action and deemed it acceptable. Congratulations, Captain Antaeus, on passing your test."
Dumbstruck, the newly promoted captain listened on in rapt attention.
"As it so happens, there is such a sample of the drug you mentioned, Alzahytazine, present on this drone platform," the machine in question clacked, and shot a dart at the boy. The dart hit him in the shoulder, and the boy's legs began to give out, eyes rolling back into his head. "Do not worry; this dose was paired with an additional tranquilizer to help the Alzahytazine work."
The boy, with one last convulsion slumped into a pile, a well-deserved sleep given the recent events he had been forced to endure. His eyes fluttered open, a look of pain and terror on them as the conscious mind reawakened for a brief moment. The young steel gray eyes implored Antaeus to help him.
Michael looked away. The eyes closed, defeated.
"Hmm. That does not seem to be right… The boy is slipping into a coma. Ah, well, such must be expected of these sorts of things still in the experimental stages." It was Michael's turn to close his eyes. He had hoped to save the boy's life. Was this possibly worse?
"Sir. Thank you for this opportunity to prove myself," the monotony of his tone hid his true feelings.
"Report back to the Charon. The next Maximus vessel to leave dry dock will be under your command. Again, congratulations… Captain." Alexander signed off, the drone's eyes revolved again, switching to the onboard AI's guidance. Lifting off into the night's gloom, three streaks of red could be seen flaring across the sky if there were any eyes to see.
Captain Michael Antaeus cast one more forlorn look at the child he had tried to save, then left in the direction of his shuttle.
/ / / /
Once the shuttle had left the atmosphere, a mag-crane platform inexorably boosted towards the general area where the boy had been left, supposedly to die. To the contrary, a silhouette extracted itself from the rusted side of a dead ship, deactivating its active camouflage. It appeared alike to a giant arachnid.
The spider crawled to where the unconscious form lay on death's door. The spider drone, eight translucent green eyes surveying the surrounding area constantly, gingerly picked him up with a pair of its middle legs. It started towards one of the rusting hulks, the largest in attendance, which had a gash in its side from a past battle. The boy swayed gently as the metallic arachnid carefully weeded its way through the various bits of discarded furniture, jagged shards of metal, broken glass, even scores of books that had been abandoned when their owners discovered that they no longer held value in a universe that used completely digital transcripts. One might have mistaken the beast for a caring one as it took extra pains to not damage its cargo. Its AI was sophisticated, but not on this level.
After all, it was merely following SPARTAN's directive.
Light years away, in dark space far from all explored territories, and certainly far from all other signs of human colonization, legitimate or not, a hologram colored in red of an eight foot tall warrior clad in heavy bronze plate observed the ministrations of the extension of its will. The arachnid drone deposited the slumbering youth in a secluded corner of the hulk, securing him in a hypersleep capsule that had been installed some time ago. After finishing its task, it enfolded itself around the capsule in a protective embrace.
SPARTAN did not comprehend the emotional charge related to deception. It – or rather he, as it preferred – only understood the products of the device. Antaeus was slated to die from the moment he stepped foot on DR-213, whether or not he also shot the boy. His development had come unforeseen, and had saved his skin. Alexander was impressed with the man's quick thinking, voting to keep him despite SPARTAN's urgings to eliminate a possible loose end. Alas, his master must be obeyed; it was in his coding to do so. No, Alexander had intended a darker fate that simply death for the boy, progeny of the man who had dared renege on his contract.
The Professor had reluctantly voiced a need for a particular kind of specimen to test a theory of his. Alexander was, in all things, a very efficient man. He hated wasted opportunities and unexploited resources.
SPARTAN watched as the mag-crane, now slightly displaced over the ship graveyard, began to stir into action. The huge structure groaned in protest as the colossal magnetic circuits churned into life, creating a massive humming that could be heard from horizon to horizon. The force created would have instantly killed an unshielded human being from the sheer proximity. The hulk that now housed precious cargo began to rise ponderously, garbage that had lain undisturbed for god knows how long sliding off into open air and the long descent downwards.
As soon as the hulk became attached to the mag-crane's boom, it began to angle towards outer space. A freighter waited up just beyond the furthest reaches of the upper atmosphere, far more immense than the old military vessel, cargo bay ajar. Once the proper trajectory had been attained, the magnetic circuitry accelerated into a new frenzy.
SPARTAN always felt his collective processing power increase speed ever so slightly when he observed the products of Maximus Corporation in action. The experience had been decried to him as the human equivalent of exhilaration by the technicians he queried. It did not come as a surprise. His programming was an extrapolation of Alexander's neural map. It would stand to reason that some things could be echoed across the plane separating man and machine.
After an intense buildup of gauss potential, the humming stopped. Time stood still as the boom pointed towards the stars…
And then Time shattered with the blast that released a shockwave, improbably propelling the hulk into space and sending every mountain of trash within five miles flying. The mass of scrap metal hurtled out into the atmosphere, its tiny cargo well protected within the structure added within its bowels.
SPARTAN turned his attention to other corners of the web belonging to Maximus that spanned the known universe and then some.
Within his pod Tyver's mind woke for the briefest of moments from his induced coma, holding desperately onto the one thing he couldn't forget: his name. If his EEG chart had been monitored at that moment, someone would have known that the youth was fully aware. Apparently, some interaction between the transition from the drug-induced coma to hypersleep had an unforeseen effect of infinitesimal probability.
As the hulk was collected by the freighter, the latter preparing for a jump, the youth once more slipped into the gray haze of sleep and dreams. He would remember only his name, owing to the near perfect drug tested on him, coursing through his veins as his body prepared for suspended animation.
His name, and the dim realization that fate had just taken a special interest in him.
/ / / /
Greetings! I understand that the beginning of this story is painfully slow, but know that it pains me as well to simply jump right into the action. Bear with me as I set up the backstory.
Any reviews, thoughts, comments, minor yet aggravating typos and grammatical conundrums are welcome. Please excuse the latter, as I didn't take the time to proofread carefully. Should such a thing be quite bothersome, I will be motivated to do so.
I would prefer only constructive criticism voiced in measured, reasoned diction, though I do understand that sometimes one feels that need. Should that need arise on my stories, I will not erase said review. However, I do hope that the site moderators do show leniency for any violations of their policies in the course of such actions.
Updates will be slow, as I have a heavy workload for the next few weeks. I will try to post new chapters as they come, but no promises on exact time frames.
Thanks, have a nice day, and may fortune smile upon the path you tread!
(And to her that once bore the pen name Shay Piratess, whatever it was, here is me sticking it to you, you hormonal hag that decided pregnancy excused crushing the spirit and ripping the draft of a budding author apart all those years ago, instead of offering helpful advice in a more professional manner)
