Hawk_Hand of the Machine Read online

  Two black insectoid invaders scuttled past, their weapon-arms gleaming in the strobing light.

  He inhaled and exhaled slowly.

  Two more hurried past and continued on.

  He waited, and now sweat began to trail down the side of his face. This base—whatever it was—had indeed been overrun. He had to get out, and get out now.

  Yet another pair of invaders entered the intersection. They slowed, their triangular black heads moving slowly as their glowing red eyes probed here and there.

  Hawk held his breath. He knew somehow that while he was capable of fighting and beating these creatures, they were at least as capable of killing him. There was no doubting that he had been very fortunate in the previous encounter, sustaining only one real injury—an injury that had only now begun to seriously trouble him. His shoulder was throbbing; blood continued to run from the wound. What he could do about it he wasn’t sure, but leaping into combat again was probably not the best way to address it.

  One of the invaders had moved on but the other still stood in the intersection, not moving. Then slowly it turned, its red eyes flashing, to stare directly at him.

  Hawk sprang out, using the wall to propel himself forcefully. He drove the creature hard into the opposite wall and struck down with an open-handed blow at the cylinder arm, understanding that it represented perhaps an even greater danger than the dagger-arm. Then he gripped the enemy’s triangular head and twisted hard. The creature collapsed to the deck.

  Hawk’s victory celebration was short lived. Three of the others that had passed his hiding place by were now hurrying back, their cylinder-arms coming up to level at him.

  He didn’t wait for them to strike first. Leaping forward, blood splattering from his shoulder as he moved, he seized the first invader by the upper portion of the dagger-arm and pulled it toward him, then twisted it about. In the process, Hawk bent and cracked the arm at the elbow. A muffled cry rewarded his efforts.

  One of the three invaders was rushing ahead, its cylinder-arm pointed at him. Hawk twisted his captive’s body around and used it as a shield, uncertain as he did so of precisely what he was blocking.

  Unable to see around the creature he was holding, he could only hear the tack-tack of the attacker’s feet on the hard floor, accompanied by a low buzzing sound. This was followed immediately by a cloud of black particles filling the air; Hawk quickly realized this represented the carapace of his captive as it was being shredded, perhaps at the molecular level.

  The answer came to him quickly. Disintegrators. The creatures’ cylinder-arms were organic disintegrator guns. As crazy as it sounded, it was the only answer that made sense.

  Ragged gasping sounds were coming from the invader he held. Black blood splattered across the floor, followed by the creature’s limbs as they separated from the rest of it. Holding his breath to avoid inhaling the particles, he grasped the main bulk of the quickly-dissolving body in both hands and hurled it into its approaching comrade, sending both of them crashing to the deck.

  The other two invaders had hung back, observing what was happening. Perhaps sensing that this human represented a greater danger than they had expected, they approached very slowly. Hawk could see them further down the corridor, even as the one he’d knocked down sought to extricate itself from what remained of the bleeding carcass of its comrade.

  Hawk spared a second for a quick glance down at his own body—a body not at all familiar to him. He realized once again that he was still naked. Naked, and facing six—now five—deadly attackers.

  As he looked down he spotted one of the severed arms of his “living shield”—the dagger-arm—where it lay near his right foot. He dove for it, snatched it up, rolled, and was flinging it even as he came up from the floor.

  The bloody black bone-blade struck one of the attackers square in the center of the chest and drove it back, staggering and falling. Its partner spared it a brief, seemingly startled glance, then rushed forward with an inhuman cry, brandishing its own weapon-arms.

  The attack was wild. Clearly, this one had been driven into a rage by what it had witnessed. It came at Hawk at a dead run, not even bothering with its ranged weapon, simply going with a straight-ahead bull rush.

  Faster than the eye could see, Hawk side-stepped, twisted, reached out with powerful hands, and grasped the triangular head. Leveraging his weight and momentum, Hawk snapped the head cleanly away. The body continued on in a straight line until it impacted the wall, at which point it collapsed in a twitching heap, oozing dark ichor.

  The blazing-red clusters of eyes dimmed as Hawk gazed down at the severed head. Disgusted, he tossed the thing away and wiped his hands on his bare sides, his victims’ blood mingling with his own.

  He spared no time in celebration. He knew that more of the invaders might well be on their way, and in fact might be waiting for him at the door he’d wanted to open. He sprung forward, panther-like, racing back in the direction he had come from—the direction of the door he’d felt compelled to open.

  To his surprise, only the dead bodies of the invaders he’d killed greeted him.

  He spun about, keen eyes searching. He moved to the intersection and carefully leaned out, checking in every direction.

  Nothing.

  Could that be all of them? Had they brought so few? Or had he so frightened the strange attackers that they had fled back from whence they’d come?

  These scenarios struck him as unlikely.

  A moment later, he had his answer. The sound of an entire battalion of invaders—invaders racing at a dead run down the cross-cutting corridor—came to him.

  They knew about him. They knew exactly where he was. One of his victims must have managed to send a signal to its comrades.

  His head was spinning now, his feet growing unsteady. He understood that his blood loss, combined with his exertions, had pushed him nearly to his physical limit.

  He had no time to contemplate such things. He had to get out—now.

  Returning his attention to the door lock mechanism, he frowned down at it, his fingers brushing lightly across its surface. It was a small box set into the wall just to the right of the gray door. It had no buttons or switches of any kind visible. How did it work?

  His every instinct, and perhaps some portion of his lost memories, told him with great urgency that what he needed lay on the other side of that door.

  But—how to open it?

  The sounds were much louder now. He knew a veritable army was coming, and that there was no way he could defeat so many creatures—particularly in such a weakened state, and in such a confined space, and with no weapons of his own. No clothes, even!

  He wanted to punch the door control box. He wanted to scream at it. Finally, in utter frustration, he shouted, “Open!”

  Nothing happened.

  He touched it with his right hand and shouted again, “Open!”

  Nothing happened.

  The creatures were nearly upon him.

  Did the door know who he was? Did it only allow certain individuals to pass?

  Keeping physical contact with the box, he shouted his name: “Hawk!”

  The device knew him, though he did not know himself. From somewhere deep inside the mechanism, a click sounded, followed immediately by a deep, resounding clang that came from within the wall. As he stared at it, not quite believing what he was seeing, the door began to slide open.

  Hawk wasted no more time. Within half a second he had leapt through the now-open portal and was rushing forward again.

  He covered about fifteen yards of dark corridor in only a few quick strides. Long, narrow, bright lights flared to life around him in rings as he ran. From the sounds, he could tell the pursuing invaders had reached the door as well, and it was still open.

  The buzz of the strange weapons came to his ears again. He felt slashes of pain along his right leg and down his left side.

  He stifled a cry of pain. They were literally disintegrating him!


  At the far end of the now-brightly lit corridor, a smaller hatch stood open.

  Having no real idea what lay beyond, Hawk dived through it. He rolled on the hard surface and came up ready, hands out and prepared to strike.

  “Registering external threat,” came a voice from all around him. “Securing main hatch.”

  The round door snapped closed with a clang. Lights came on, bright at first but then dimming to a tolerable level.

  Shielding his eyes, Hawk stumbled forward, his body wracked with intense pain. He looked up, searching for the source of the voice he’d heard. There was no one else there.

  He slumped against a curved metal wall, nausea rushing over him. Looking down, he saw what looked like broad gouges in his flesh, and realized that blood was rapidly pooling on the dark gray floor, all around his feet. There was no real pain yet, but he knew it was coming and coming soon, if he was still conscious to feel it by then—or still alive.

  “Orders?”

  The voice again. It sounded male, but was silky smooth. Hawk gazed all around, frowning.

  “Who—?”

  “Detecting hostile parties outside main hatch. Shall we launch?”

  He had been right—the pain was coming now, and coming hard.

  “Who are you?” he called out, his vision swimming.

  The voice grew less harsh; it was almost feminine when it came back with, “You have sustained severe trauma, Hawk. Please enter the medical unit immediately.”

  “Who are you?” he demanded again, his voice angry though weak. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Calculating probability of early disconnection from datadump system. Subject is missing vital knowledge. Executing emergency override. Launching now.”

  The room lurched, causing Hawk to stumble again, now away from the wall he’d leaned upon and toward a coffin-shaped box set into the wall—the hull?—just a few feet away. Its broad gray lid was up, open. He collided with it, held on as the room jerked again. He looked inside. For all of its morbid shape, the inside appeared quite comfortable, with thick white cushioned lining. Tubes and wires coiled in the gaps between the cushions, along with rows of lights, all currently dim.

  “Please climb into the medical unit, Hawk.”

  He did want to lie down, he decided. Very much, he wanted to lie down. But—in a coffin?

  The room—the ship?—rocked violently and he fell forward, into the box. The lid slammed down instantly, sealing him inside.

  Gas filled the space. Needles jabbed him all around.

  The universe went away for a time.

  2: FALCON

  Falcon did not look up as the great oaken door to his room creaked slowly open.

  A sliver of white light shone through, penetrating the gloom and crossing the dank stonework. There it fell across his brown-robed and hooded form, seated on the floor in the far corner.

  “He has been with us for over a week,” came the voice of the sister assigned to the housekeeping of this level. “And he hasn’t left this room for three days.” Her voice was shaky, strained with concern as well as something more—perhaps a tinge of fear.

  “Three days,” a deep, rumbling, male voice replied. “Well. And you know without a doubt that he has not left the building in all that time?”

  “He has not, my lord,” the sister replied in a hushed tone. “I am certain of it.”

  The man laughed hollowly.

  “I’m sure you are,” he said.

  He pushed his way roughly past the sister and moved fully into the room. The glare from the hallway framed him in a white halo, revealing a tall, gaunt man clad in the blood-red robes of the Inquisition. Jewels glinted on his fingers and on the golden insignia of office dangling from a chain about his neck. Atop his head rested a broad round hat that obscured his features in shadow, save for a long, beaklike nose. Crossing the room quickly in four long strides, he loomed over the huddled figure, staring down at him, his hard, weathered face betraying scorn and disgust.

  Tentatively the sister crept up behind him, her voice cracking as she managed, “You—you don’t actually believe that he could have had anything to do with the violence, do you, Inquisitor?”

  The inquisitor did not deign to look back at her, or even to reply. All of his intense attention remained focused, laserlike, upon the seemingly pitiful figure at his feet.

  “Your name,” he boomed.

  No reply.

  The inquisitor’s mouth twisted downward in displeasure.

  “Do you know who I am?” he loudly demanded. “You will give me your name. Now!”

  Still nothing.

  The red-robed man glanced back at the sister. “Does he speak?”

  “He does, Inquisitor,” she replied. “I have heard him.” Motioning with a trembling hand, she pointed down at the hooded figure. “Even now, he speaks.”

  “Speaks?”

  Puzzled, the inquisitor knelt before the man, and became aware that indeed he was mumbling something in a low voice.

  “I cannot make out his words.”

  He leaned closer toward the hooded figure.

  This is what he heard:

  “—answer me, you cursed Machine…Are you afraid? Why won’t you answer—“

  “The man is a heretic,” the inquisitor declared, standing up suddenly. “He blasphemes against the God Machine!”

  He brought back his booted foot to deliver a kick.

  “No!” cried the sister, rushing forward. “He’s…confused,” she said, “perhaps even mad, but—”

  “He speaks basest heresy,” the Inquisitor boomed, “and he will answer to the Inquisition!”

  The red-robed man swung his foot forward—but it never impacted the man on the floor. For a split second the Inquisitor wondered just what had happened, as the shock of his leg being forcibly stopped in mid-kick passed up his spine. He blinked and looked down.

  A hand—a rough, thick, scarred hand—had emerged from the brown robe and had caught his lower leg in a viselike grip.

  Rage rushed through his system. He glared down. “You—you dare to—”

  The man on the floor looked up then, his other hand snatching back his hood.

  The Inquisitor gasped.

  “You!”

  A sharp twist to the ankle and the Inquisitor was sent tumbling to the hard stone floor. His broad round hat fell off and landed beside him.

  The sister scrambled back toward the doorway, seeking to get out of the way.

  The Inquisitor rolled onto his back and sat up, brushing his lank black hair from his eyes—eyes that widened as he saw the other man already standing, looming over him.

  “You,” he gasped again, this time in a softer tone—one filled more with wonder than disbelief. “Impossible,” he added, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

  The other man’s robe fluttered open to reveal that he wore a uniform of some sort, mostly of a deep red but with dark blue trim, its texture visible and complex and somehow metallic. His sharp, piercing eyes—one human, one mechanical and softly glowing red—stared down from a heavy-set, rugged face beneath a bald head. And his face—a face as scarred and ragged as his hand—was partly covered by metal components and electronic circuitry.

  “Yes,” Falcon replied. “Me.”

  The sister gawked openly at Falcon, then looked at the Inquisitor. She’d never seen a member of the Holy Order so taken aback, so discomfited.

  “Who—who are you?” she asked in a hushed tone, stumbling backward. Then, looking down at the Inquisitor, in a louder voice: “Who is he?”

  The Inquisitor awkwardly struggled to his feet and stared at Falcon, seemingly uncertain of how to react or respond. He took a tentative step forward, his narrow eyes moving to take in the big, muscular figure that stood revealed.

  “Though his cyborg features obscure it, his vestments are those of a sacred Hand.”

  The sister gasped. Then she gathered herself.

  “But—but t
here are no more Hands!”

  Her eyes moved from Falcon to the Inquisitor.

  “That’s right, isn’t it? We have prayed for so many years, but the Machine has never sent us one. It no longer answers us at all.”

  Now her eyes stared upward, at the room’s ceiling—though her eyes were focused beyond it, as if they could penetrate the surface and see all the way into the heavens beyond. “We had to conclude they’re all gone—all dead!”

  “So we have believed,” the Inquisitor replied. “And so it may yet prove to be.” He continued to study the larger man’s red and blue uniform and mechanical enhancements while the subject of his scrutiny merely glowered back at him.

  “He—he has been conversing with the Machine, then?” The sister’s voice trembled noticeably now. “Or merely trying to?”

  The Inquisitor ignored her, focusing entirely on the man who stood before him.

  “I know this pattern from the ancient records,” he stated. “You wear the uniform of a Falcon.”

  No reply.

  “Many false Hands roam this galaxy now, wearing stolen or copied outfits, engaging in the most disgusting criminal activities. If you are not a Hand—and I see no way that you could be—the repercussions for you will be most severe.”

  No reply.

  The Inquisitor’s impatience grew.

  “What evidence can you offer,” he demanded, “that you are who your appearance would have us believe you are?”

  “I do not answer to you,” Falcon whispered.

  “No, you answer to the God Machine, charlatan, and to his prophet, the great Cardinal—as do we all,” the Inquisitor barked. “And I am one of his holy representatives on this world!” He took one step forward, reaching toward Falcon.

  The gray-gloved hand moved like lightning, catching the Inquisitor’s wrist in an iron grip.

  Crying out, the Inquisitor dropped to one knee.

  Falcon shoved him away.

  “I came here seeking peace,” Falcon said then, his voice rising. “A respite from the noise that rages in every corner of this galaxy, clouding my mind—preventing me from hearing the voice.”

  He glared down at the Inquisitor.