Hawk_Hand of the Machine Page 11

  Raven stood and walked into the main cabin, stretching her still-sore muscles. Remembering her missing pistol, she brushed her fingertips across a blank gray wall panel, causing it to open. A blue-silver weapon extended silently out from its storage recess and she took it, sliding it into the holster that extended automatically out from the hip of her uniform.

  When she returned to the cockpit, bright lights were flaring all across the planet’s surface.

  “This enemy, whether it represents some new threat or the return of our old foe, must be made to understand that this is the greeting it will receive no matter where in this galaxy it goes, no matter what it attempts to do.”

  Raven watched as Armageddon played out beneath her. She realized with a start that she was of two minds about what she was witnessing. A part of her reveled in the thrill of victory. Another part of her, however—a part deep inside, entirely hidden from view—objected somehow. What of the planet’s natives? Did the planet even have natives? She had not bothered to ask, or to find out. Why? Was she so completely task-oriented that such a thought had never occurred to her, until now?

  What did such a thing say about her? About her very humanity?

  “Remote instruments tell only so much,” the voice said then. “I prefer a human interpretation.” It paused, then, “Your biological readings reveal suddenly elevated blood pressure, Raven. I take this to be a result of witnessing our great victory today.”

  “Of—of course,” she answered, sweat forming along her upper lip.

  The voice continued with scarcely a pause. “You are satisfied, then, that the enemy has been destroyed on this world?”

  “Yes,” she answered, her throat suddenly very dry. “Everything has.”

  “Very well. The mission awaits. Get some rest. We will hyper-jump shortly. Your briefing will begin when we reemerge at our destination.”

  Raven heard this only peripherally. Her eyes remained locked on the nuclear explosions continuing to blossom across the planet’s surface—explosions that were still flaring to horrid life when her ship spun about and vanished into the Above.

  4: Hawk

  The heat of a very fast entry into the planet’s atmosphere already dispersed by the ultra-high-tech material of its hull, Hawk’s ship swooped down from the sky and shot toward a broad, forested area dotted with grassy hills. As it drew closer, Hawk could see with his naked eyes a series of explosions alternating with bright gunfire on the ground.

  “Whoever this Falcon is, and whatever he’s doing, he definitely looks like he could use some help,” Hawk observed.

  The ship did not reply. Instead it executed a broad curving sweep over the area of the battle, scanning as it went.

  “Falcon is there,” it said at last, causing the holographic display to come to life in front of Hawk. A flashing blue light appeared at its center, within the trees just beyond a bare hilltop. “His predicament does appear dire—he is surrounded by numerous attackers.”

  “Who’s attacking him?” Hawk wondered aloud.

  “That is unclear as of yet.”

  Before either Hawk or the ship could take any further action, a string of explosions flared below.

  “Zoom in,” Hawk ordered. “Let me see what’s happening.”

  The holographic display switched from a tactical map to a close-up of the action. Hawk could now see that the attackers’ forces included some sort of hovering tank contraptions, each complete with an array of weapons projecting out from a central turret. This Falcon had originally faced as many as a dozen of them, but in the last few seconds, at least three of them had exploded.

  “He is using the classic approach of a Falcon to dealing with this threat,” the ship observed with what almost sounded like admiration in its semi-mechanical voice.

  “And what would that be?” asked Hawk.

  “The approach of a demolitions expert. He is luring them into pre-set traps, and blowing them up.”

  Hawk considered this and realized that there was something to what the ship was saying. He knew he never would have thought of that strategy. His instincts told him he would have sought a way to perhaps commandeer one of the vehicles and use it against the others, or else flee the area and regroup elsewhere, an arsenal of anti-tank weapons in hand.

  Another of the tanks exploded. The enemy continued to advance on Falcon’s location.

  “Who is attacking him?” Hawk wondered out loud. “Whoever they are, he must have done something to really tick them off.”

  Another exploded. Unfortunately for Falcon, that left more than half of the original force still intact and advancing.

  The ship had not said anything for several seconds now, and Hawk had just started to wonder what it was up to when he saw on the display that they had pivoted about and were now streaking down at the enemy’s line, weapons firing into the row of tanks and soldiers.

  As they swooped over the front ranks of attackers, Hawk could see in the close up view the insignia the soldiers wore on their uniforms: a flame within a circle.

  The ship became aware of this at the same moment, and instantly stopped firing.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Their line was about to break! They would have had to fall back!”

  “I am not permitted to harm them,” the ship replied.

  “They don’t appear to have any problem with harming this Falcon,” he growled back. “Or us, for that matter.” On the screen, he could see several of the soldiers firing up into the air, attempting to hit Hawk’s ship. “Who are they, that you’re not able to shoot them?”

  “They are devoted the Machine,” the ship replied. “Their insignia reveal this.”

  Hawk frowned.

  “Devoted? You mean, like they worship it? Like a god?”

  “Precisely.” The ship paused, even as it swooped around above the battlefield again. “The Machine always found such devoted followers to be very useful, from time to time. Thus we are not permitted to harm them.”

  Hawk was incredulous.

  “Even when they’re shooting at our guy down there? At another Hand?”

  “Yes. We will have to rescue him without harming his foes. And we must persuade him to stop attacking them, as well.”

  “You’re able to look at what’s happening down there and say that he’s attacking them?” Hawk found such a concept laughable—though, to be honest, in the last few seconds the momentum definitely seemed to have shifted from the Machine-worshipping army to the lone Falcon.

  As they dropped closer to Falcon’s position, Hawk got a glimpse of him at last. He was a big guy—big and bulky and rugged. His uniform was similar to Hawk’s, but mostly dark red instead of mostly blue. What looked like mechanical components covered part of his face and body, and he carried a weapon in his right hand that was both large and dangerous-looking. He fired off a shot here and there, while with his left hand he drew forth some sort of grenade from a pocket and hurled it at his opponents. Yet another explosion rocked the countryside.

  “That guy is definitely tough,” Hawk observed.

  The ground rushed up and the ship settled onto a grassy hilltop. The outer hatch slid open.

  “Retrieve him!” came the ship’s voice, loudly.

  “I thought I gave the orders here,” Hawk growled back. Receiving no reply, he gritted his teeth and, biting back further arguments, dashed out the doorway onto the thick grass.

  The man called Falcon was about thirty yards away, his eyes flashing from the direction of the enemy to Hawk and back. When he saw Hawk standing there in his blue and red uniform, he started and did a double-take. Then, raising his big gun, he fired again at his pursuers.

  Hawk realized immediately that there was something odd about Falcon’s eyes—he could tell this even from so far away. The next time the man looked his way, he realized what it was: One of Falcon’s eyes was human, but the other was mechanical—a shining jewel, almost—set within a silver metal, skull-like half-face.

  “C
ome on!” Hawk shouted, waving a brown-gloved hand. “Quick!”

  The man in red fired off two more shots before racing through the thick grass towards the ship.

  “Well, well,” the big man growled as he stood before his rescuer, openly staring at him. “A Hawk. To say I wasn’t expecting you…That would be something of an understatement.”

  He moved his right hand then, and Hawk expected that he might be reaching out to shake hands. Instead, he saw that the big man was gripping his bulky weapon more tightly, and moving it up into position so that its massive, gaping barrel aimed directly at Hawk.

  “No,” he continued, “I wasn’t expecting you by a long shot.”

  5: FALCON

  “And yet here I am,” the dark-haired man in blue was saying, his dark, piercing eyes clearly noticing how Falcon had shifted the gun. “Here to help you,” he added, now very plainly indicating the weapon, nodding toward it. “So, no need to shoot me or anything.”

  Falcon was taken aback. “A Hawk,” he repeated, not quite sure he could believe it.

  The other man nodded.

  Falcon frowned. A Hawk, seriously? The guy couldn’t possibly be real.

  His cyborg eye performed a very quick scan of Hawk’s facial features, cross-referencing them with memories from a very long time ago.

  Everything checks out, he realized upon comparing the data. To the tiniest detail, it checks out. Whoever this guy is, he’s definitely not a cheap thug masquerading as a Hand to extort cash, or anything like that. And even if he was—why choose to imitate one of the most hated individuals in history? The very architect of the Great Betrayal and the Shattering? No—something very different, very unexpected is going on here.

  The guy still hadn’t made any hostile moves. He acted totally sincere. Falcon wondered at this. All the while, ancient memories flooded back. The man looked so much like his old friend, it was extremely disconcerting.

  Could he actually be from the same genetic stock? Is that possible?

  No, Falcon told himself. It has to be a ruse—a trick of some kind. It has to be. It can’t actually be Marcus.

  Falcon gripped his weapon more tightly. He had killed false Hands before. None of them had ever looked like a Hawk, though. For that matter, none of them had ever looked this much like any other Hand. If this was a fake, though, why would anyone intentionally choose this particular guise?

  It made no sense at all.

  Another explosion echoed from the distance, and Falcon glanced back. Another hovertank had encountered one of his traps. He chuckled a little at that thought. What a bunch of idiots these Inquisition guys were turning out to be. That’s what they get for worshipping that knucklehead Cardinal as some kind of messiah, he thought. If only every enemy were so stupid. Then he looked back at Hawk again, and reminded himself that not every enemy was stupid—and that some of them were quite formidable.

  Still, the guy wasn’t making any hostile moves. And he wasn’t, after all, pretending to be a Raven—which, arguably, would be worse.

  He had to do something. Shoot the guy? Refuse his help and run him off? Or just play along and see what was really going on?

  He made his decision.

  “So.” The cyborg warrior’s human eye bored in on Hawk. “You picked up my signal, and you’re here to help.”

  Hawk nodded.

  “Alright. Not the reception committee I was expecting, to say the least. But I won’t turn it down, given the situation.”

  As if to punctuate Falcon’s words, an energy blast from one of the remaining hovertanks crackled through the air very near to Hawk’s head.

  “Let’s go, then,” Hawk replied, apparently oblivious to Falcon’s misgivings, or at least unconcerned about them. He gestured with one hand at the ship’s hatch.

  The big cyborg continued to eye him warily, then looked past him at the triangular ship that rested on the grass beyond.

  “Yeah,” he breathed. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  They crossed the short distance to the ship quickly, weapons fire striking all around. Falcon trundled through into the central cabin, Hawk just behind him. The hatch snapped instantly closed and the ship was aloft and zooming away before the encircling army had any real idea what had just happened.

  As they ascended quickly into orbit, Falcon moved to the center of the main cabin and looked around. The human portion of his face twisted slightly in an expression somewhere between condescension and contempt. Dull, bare gray walls. Boring as anything. How could anyone live in an environment like this for any amount of time at all?

  Falcon shook his head at the mere thought.

  Hawk moved past him to the cockpit, watching the tactical display as they moved into higher orbit. Then he turned back, meeting the level gaze of the other.

  Neither man spoke for several seconds. They stood there, taking the measure of one another.

  The silence lingered a few seconds more before being shattered by the mechanical voice of the ship. It said, “Welcome aboard, Falcon.”

  Falcon ignored this. He had no interest in the ship’s artificial intelligence—a glorified cruise control. He continued to study Hawk.

  “Is something wrong?” the man in blue asked at last.

  “Whatever could you mean?”

  “I mean… I have been led to believe that we’re on the same side… And I rescued you—or we did, the ship and myself—and yet you’re staring at me as if I were as much of an enemy as those people we just left behind.”

  Falcon parsed through this unexpected statement, attempting to make sense of it.

  “What do you mean,” he asked, “when you say you have been ‘led to believe’ that we’re on the same side?”

  Hawk stared back, frowning.

  “You’re a Falcon, right? I’m a Hawk. We’re Hands. Hands of the Machine.”

  Falcon squinted at him with his good eye. He pursed his lips.

  “Well, but…” the big man said. “Do you know who I am?” He hesitated, then, “Or who you are?”

  Hawk shrugged.

  “You’re a Falcon. I’m a Hawk. Are we not on the same side?”

  Falcon did something then that threw Hawk for a loop. He laughed. He laughed quite long and quite hard.

  The ship’s voice cut into their awkward conversation. “This is very fortuitous for all concerned, Falcon,” it said. “Your assistance will be most useful, and most appreciated.”

  Falcon’s eyes never left Hawk. “How so?” he called up to the ceiling.

  “As you may have surmised by now, this particular Hawk was somewhat damaged during his recent awakening. He is only beginning to understand who he is, and why he exists.”

  “His awakening?” Falcon repeated, surprised. “As in, his actual legitimate awakening as an honest-to-goodness genetic copy of a Hand of the Machine? Not some con man who somehow acquired the ship and the uniform and…”

  Falcon trailed off, stunned by what he was hearing and thinking. The Machine—or someone else—actually activated and awakened a genuine Hawk, for the first time in a thousand years.

  He shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he continued to study Hawk.

  Why in the name of sanity, he wondered silently, would anyone do that?

  Hawk was just standing there, gazing back at him evenly and patiently.

  “That is…interesting, indeed,” Falcon stated after several seconds of deep thought.

  “And what is more,” the ship continued, its voice sounding almost embarrassed now, “there was a trauma suffered at the moment of awakening. Consequently, he has no memory of his kind’s past.”

  These words registered instantly with Falcon. Involuntarily he moved back a step and actually gasped.

  Hawk wasn’t sure how to react to this. He stood there, waiting.

  “You…you have no memories of your previous life, or lives, as a Hawk?” Falcon asked, his human eye widening.

  Hawk shook his head.

  Falcon was still staring at him
, but now the big man’s rugged face had morphed from cold and hard to expressing a sense of wonder.

  “Then…then you know nothing of the Great Betrayal?”

  “The what?” Hawk shook his head again. “All I know,” he replied, “is what my ship has told me, in the short time since my awakening.”

  Falcon registered this. “Ship,” he said, thinking things through methodically, “why are you speaking to us aloud and not via the Aether?”

  “Hawk’s Aether receptors are not functioning properly,” the ship replied. “He cannot fully access the network.”

  “Huh. That’s actually to the good,” Falcon muttered. Then, louder, “You will not recite any more ancient history to him. Nothing about his previous life.”

  “What?” Hawk asked, puzzled.

  The ship sounded almost indignant. “That is not—”

  “Hand override code omega blue,” Falcon snapped. He added a string of numbers.

  “Acknowledged,” the ship answered in a dull and flattened voice when he was finished.

  “What did you just do?” Hawk asked, growing somewhat angry.

  “Don’t trouble yourself about it right now,” Falcon replied with a half-smile, waving the question away. “You have lots of other things to be more concerned about.”

  The big cyborg turned his attention from Hawk to the ship’s forward console again, as if that was where the artificial intelligence sat.

  “You’re attempting to contact the Machine, aren’t you, ship?” he asked it.

  “I have attempted to do so regularly since my activation,” the voice replied, “but I have been unable to make contact.” The ship paused. “If by some chance the Machine is still functional, I hope to reestablish contact soon—and then we can all report in and receive updated instructions at last.”

  Upon hearing this, Falcon’s reaction was instantaneous. Before Hawk could move a muscle, the big man shoved past him into the cockpit area.

  “What—?” Hawk began.

  Falcon bent over the forward console and his gloved hands moved rapidly from one panel to the next as he studied the displays and controls. Then he nodded and reached out, grasping the small handles on one particular panel tightly. With a savage yank, he pulled the panel out of its housing in the cockpit console and held it before his face, staring at its revealed crystalline components.