The Memory of War
Proxima hurried through the main hall, aiming at the airduct grates as he passed them. Considering what the enemy was capable of, a semi-automatic pistol and a knife weren't enough. Tactical analysis placed his chance of survival at less than 25 percent. Attack dogs might not perceive an android as threatening, but he couldn't afford that risk.
The weapons locker was on deck 2, but he had to assume the enemy had gotten there first. He could only hope other crewmembers were careless in storing their weapons. To that end he returned to check the remaining lockers.
The late Dr. Crease had some medical credentials and family pictures posted. Proxima scrupulously avoided those. Wallace's locker contained some engineering journals and spare tools, but no weapons. The Captain might have left his sidearm on the bridge, but he was ill-equipped to confront the sentry gun. That left the officer's quarters. He recalled seeing Lt. Hagen with an assault rifle, so he went straight to hers.
Proxima was not assigned quarters, having no need for relaxation or diversion. So he had no idea of what to expect. Unlike the rest of the ship, lighting was softer and the hallway was decorated with an indoor garden. The water fountain was currently shut down and the plants were artificial though. As expected Hagen's quarters were locked. He didn't have time for an electronic bypass, so he burned through the lock.
He was surprised to find Hagen's quarters almost as impersonal as the rest of the ship. There were no decorative features or family pictures. There was an empty dining table, a small couch, a terminal, and a kitchenette. It was all very clean and orderly, not unlike the auxiliary control room. A translucent partition led to what he assumed was the bedroom.
There was no sign of any weapons here, so he reluctantly checked the bedroom. A large picture dominated one of the walls, bearing the caption "19th Colonial Marine Corps". Sure enough, one of the soldiers in the picture was a much younger Janet Hagen. So she was ex-military. Given her posture and verbal mannerisms, that was hardly surprising.
Another picture caught his attention, a smaller one on the nightstand. The woman in the picture didn't look like family, at least not immediate. She was also in a marine's uniform, and looked roughly the same age as Hagen in the squad photo. There was no name, but the words "Via con Dios" were scribbled. Spanish for "Go with God"… a deceased friend?
He then checked her closet. Pushing aside some extra jumpsuits, he found a military dress uniform hung in the back. There were two medals attached: a purple heart and a bronze star. Not only had Hagen been in combat, she had shown exceptional valor and been severely wounded during her tour of duty. There were also lieutenant's insignia on the lapel. Hagen was a former officer? She appeared to be in her mid-thirties now, so she couldn't have been an officer for long. What was she doing on a commercial mining freighter?
He set aside his questions and continued searching. At first he didn't find any weapons, but he found something almost as good: an empty hip holster. Gratefully he clipped it onto his belt and sheathed his pistol for now. He noticed the bottom of the closet seemed uncharacteristically cluttered. Buried under various clothing articles, he found a plasteel case marked "HANDLE WITH CARE". It wasn't very large, but it was very heavy. It was also locked.
This lock required both a keycard and a fingerprint scan. The scanner was also sensitive to body heat and pulse rate, making it very difficult to trick. He couldn't use the torch safely here, with so much flammable material close by. Outside the bedroom was equally unsuitable, with its carpeted floors and upholstered furniture. The dining table was the least flammable surface he could find. Nevertheless, he took a fire extinguisher from the kitchenette and kept it close by.
Proxima tossed the case onto the table and fired up his torch. But again he was stymied; the case proved highly heat-resistant. Even if his torch didn't run out of fuel, it would take a long time to burn through. He powered down and puzzled over the problem, as his photoreceptors automatically adjusted to the lack of torch-glare.
There were stronger welders located in the robotics facility, but all available intelligence made deck 2 out to be enemy territory. He couldn't risk the journey so poorly armed, especially not with an additional burden. Without a functional backpack, the case could easily get lost in the chaos of a firefight.
He suddenly frowned. Available intelligence? Enemy territory? Firefight? When did he start thinking in such terminology?
Discarding that thought, he considered using his pistol. One shot wouldn't be enough to crack open the case, and he only had 12 bullets. Then there was the risk of damaging or destroying the contents, and possibly him as well, should the contents be volatile.
He decided to try burning the hinges along the side of the case. If he didn't make any appreciable progress within 5 minutes, he would try the pistol. He glanced at the extinguisher to make sure it was within easy reach, when something about it caught his attention. Unlike the other chemical and gas-based extinguishers on board, this one was designed for simple wood or paper fires. It used a mix of compressed gas and water chemically cooled to -25 degrees Celsius. Compression and molecular anti-crystallizing agents kept the liquid from freezing solid.
An idea suddenly came to him. He applied the torch to the hinges for about a minute, until they glowed red. Quickly he stopped and sprayed the burnt hinges with short pulses from the extinguisher. The water vaporized almost instantly, but it had an effect. The alternating heat and cold caused the plasteel to become brittle. He cycled through the torch and extinguisher a few more times, and the hinges finally cracked. He used one of his tools to wedge the crack open. He slipped his hands into the crack preparing to force it open, when a sudden worry gripped him.
What if the BIOS codes he'd read were wrong? What if his main servo motor wasn't capable of giving him the strength specified in his brain? If so he could cause irreparable damage to his motor. At worst, his body could be disabled.
He had come too far to turn back now, but he would exercise caution. Gripping the edges firmly, he began to pull. Steadily he increased his power by increments. The case did not yield, but that wasn't his objective for the moment. He continued increasing power, while keeping focus on his motor heat level. His breathing became increasingly laboured.
Suddenly he realized he had reached his former maximum power threshold. His motors were running hot, but showed no sign of shutting down. The case had also yielded by several millimeters. Gingerly he continued increasing the force. His arms began to tremble. He could almost hear the din of his internal motors, yet still no symptoms of overheat shutdown. He pulled even harder.
The plasteel screamed in protest as he tore the edges apart. At this point his entire body was shaking, so he decided not to press his luck. Except for his rapid breathing, his body ceased trembling quickly. His hands remained curled tightly around the edges. He slowly relaxed his fingers; the mechanism still worked.
Proxima sat down in one of the chairs, though there was no unsteadiness in his legs at all. He stared at the twisted and gaping case while waiting for his body to cool down. The level of force he'd just used was beyond human strength, even for a multi-world class athlete. It took less than a minute for his motors to cool down completely. He tested them; apart from a scant millisecond response delay, they functioned as before. There could be no doubting his enhancements now. Odd that he should find relief that, given their lethal purpose.
There was a rifle inside the case, along with a harness, three ammo clips, and an attachment. Setting aside his other equipment, he picked up the rifle tentatively. It looked well maintained and recently cleaned, so he needn't bother. A strange sense of disorientation came over him… at the same time he took one of the helical clips and loaded the weapon in the proper manner. Insert clip, interlock set to "load", toggle the pump, and safety off. As expected a small display lit up, showing an ammo count and a temperature gauge.
It was a M35-D "Dragon" laser rifle, designed for combat on starships and in space. In both form and function, it vaguely resembled a traditional Italian combat shotgun. But unlike a shotgun the power capsules were housed inside clips, for safety reasons. The weapon had 3 firing modes: full-load, half-load, and manual-load. Full-load expended the entire cap to produce a constant 1.5-second burst. Half-load could be fired twice in 0.75-second bursts before reloading. On manual-load, the duration of a trigger-pull determined burst time. Latter methods were generally not recommended, as once fired the cap would become extremely hot. Wait - how did he know that?
Slowly he put the rifle back down. Obviously this knowledge had been uploaded from his clandestine tactical module, but it was more than just abstract data. Regardless of how well he studied a subject, even he had to face a learning curve when applying that knowledge. Yet despite his sense of disorientation, he'd handled the rifle in a swift and efficient manner. He now realized he'd handled Yun's pistol the same way, without even thinking about it. Was it possible he'd handled weapons before?
Since discovery, he'd avoided thinking about his enhancements. But there was no turning back; he had to know. So he did a swift audit of his memory banks. He found several memory fragments scattered throughout. Upon accessing one, he found himself in a firing range shooting at simulated human targets – using live rounds. Gunfire thundered in his ears. He also heard a distorted voice:
"Targeting accuracy is inadequate, we need to increase the unit's processing speed."
To his surprise, recalling the memory fragment had somehow caused his body to crouch into a fighting posture. He relaxed and continued searching.
There were other memories of combat exercises, along with infiltration and stealth techniques. But they were all isolated fragments. If he really had trained at a firing range, all of the associated memories were missing. Things as simple as walking through the doors, greeting the instructor if there was one, the layout of the building, were all gone. The fragments themselves appeared edited, such that all identifying features were gone. No names or faces, voices altered, no way to track down the location where he had been trained to kill. His malefactors had covered their tracks with precision.
So he had trained with weapons somewhere, then his memories were erased for normal duty, and then reloaded for a time of crisis? Erasing android core memories was a delicate, expensive procedure. It didn't seem logical that his malefactors would go to such lengths. Unless…
A frown creased Proxima's forehead. He was still thinking like a scientist. For the sake of the crew, he had to start thinking like a soldier. Correction; since he had no backup for the moment, a commando. So he swiftly donned the harness. The rifle's unusual weight didn't bother him, but the harness had pouches for carrying extra ammunition. As for the attachment, it was a tactical motion sensor. Excellent! The model wasn't top of the line, but it was still better than anything on board.
Proxima assessed his assets. His strength and possibly speed was superior to any human. He had functional knowledge of infiltration and combat techniques, roughly equivalent to Colonial Marine Special Operations training. And now in addition to Yun's 12-round pistol, he had a powerful military-grade assault weapon with 30 variable-round capsules. His chances of survival were now considerably improved.
As for liabilities, he still had little intelligence on the enemy's capabilities or numbers. The crew's specific whereabouts remained unknown. The main computer was still unresponsive. None of his clandestine training exercises included anything of teamwork, or emergency field medicine. Those omissions spoke volumes.
He spared a moment to look at the table. It now bore residual burn marks from his use of the torch. The main door was similarly discoloured. He reluctantly turned to assess the mess he'd made of Hagen's room, when something unknown caught his eye. Instantly his body snapped into combat-ready stance, rifle brought to bear.
Proxima stood completely still for a long moment, his trigger-finger tightening ever so slightly. This wasn't logical… yet he slowly edged forward, staring intently. His behavior was unwarranted, it was only his –
Something crashed next to him. Again he spun to face the disturbance, coming dangerously close to firing. It was the plasteel rifle case that had clattered noisily to the ground. He must've bumped into Hagen's table. Quickly he turned to his original target, and blinked in surprise.
It was the bedroom mirror. Somehow, he had taken a few milliseconds longer than normal to recognize his own reflection. Yet even now he remained tense, as if he didn't completely trust his own photoreceptors. Why?
After spending another moment staring at the mirror, he slowly lowered his weapon. It would seem he had developed an absurd preoccupation with mirrors of late. Perhaps it was just the highly unusual sight of an android equipped for war that had startled him.
He jogged out of Hagen's room, formulating a plan of action on the way. There were many places on deck 2 the crew could be hidden, and he had less than 3 hours to search. He had to hurry.