Hawk: Hand of the Machine (Shattered Galaxy Book 1) Read online

  “Alright,” he declared after bringing this bit of reflection to its conclusion. “So, if we proceed from the assumption that the Machine needs us to help it, just about as much as we need it to help us…Then I believe our first order of business should be to locate it.”

  If the ship had possessed the ability to laugh, it probably would have.

  “You propose to attempt to solve the greatest mystery in all the ages of the galaxy, as our first mission?” it asked, sounding as astonished as a ship’s AI could sound.

  Hawk ignored this.

  “If the Machine were still intact and still able to communicate with its agents,” he continued, “how would it do so?”

  “You would feel a sort of sensation within your mind,” the ship replied. “A tickling…an itching that could only be remedied by quiet meditation. During that meditation, the Machine would speak to you, loudly and clearly, over what we call the Aether connection—a communications beam that can travel through subspace or through the Above, crossing vast distances nearly instantaneously.”

  Hawk considered this.

  “You said something earlier,” he remembered. “That my Aether receptors weren’t functioning—right?”

  “That has been my suspicion, yes,” the ship replied. “I have been unable to communicate with you in that manner, despite repeated attempts. I believe those functions were damaged during your excessively violent and hasty awakening.”

  “I would hear you in my head, then?” Hawk asked, tapping the side of his skull. “If my receptors worked properly?”

  “Yes.”

  Hawk snorted. “It was bad enough when I first heard you speak out loud. That alone nearly made me think I’d gone mad.” He looked up at the ceiling, in the direction of the main speaker. “So, even if the Machine did try to contact me, I wouldn’t be able to hear it.”

  “I fear not.”

  “So—it might still be out there, trying to talk to me, and I’m just not able to hear it.” He frowned, thinking. “But what about you? You haven’t heard anything from the Machine in all the time since you were…” He sought the right word. “…Activated?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “But you would, though—if the Machine was still functioning, right?”

  “I would hear it, yes,” the ship stated, “if it chose to communicate with me. My receptors are not damaged, nor is my transmitter.”

  “And it hasn’t.”

  “I am not a Hand,” it said, “merely a tool—a servant—of one. It might not consider me worthy of direct communication.”

  Hawk thought about this but didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t have known what to say.

  The ship didn’t speak for several seconds, either, until, “Though the historical records in my databases contain the information I have relayed to you, even so I had hoped the Machine’s silence represented some temporary situation that had been remedied in the time since my programming. But now I fear it has truly and perhaps permanently gone silent.” The ship paused, then, “I fear some terrible fate has befallen it.”

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Hawk said. “And—if this Adversary you spoke of has indeed returned—we don’t have much choice in the matter. We need allies—and I can’t think of a better one.” He looked up at the speaker. “Can you?”

  The ship did not reply. Another long and oddly uncomfortable silence ensued.

  After a while, Hawk grew frustrated with his mechanical associate’s reticence to continue the conversation and stood, moving about the ship’s central cabin. His muscles were still stiff from the medical treatments he’d undergone, and he engaged in a series of exercises, each of which seemed to come naturally to him as he moved. That part of his memory, at least, was intact.

  As he considered his physical muscles, he realized that his subconscious was nagging at him about some other set of muscles—perhaps metaphorical, he decided after a moment’s wondering. Those “muscles” were the ones he used to pilot the ship. It came to him then that he had no idea how to do such a thing.

  “Ship,” he called. “There has to be a way that I can actually fly…um…you. As opposed to just asking you to take me places. But I don’t know what that way might be.”

  The ship did not reply for several seconds, and Hawk’s ire began to rise again. Then, “Yes,” it said, its mechanical tone indicating reluctance, “that is correct. Unfortunately,” it continued, “to do so you must mentally interface with my systems, and this is done via the Aether connection. Which you are unable to access.”

  “Oh,” Hawk sighed, disappointed. Then he brightened. “Maybe we should try it anyway. We can’t be sure that just because one part doesn’t work…”

  The ship might have been considering this for as much as two seconds before it replied, “Highly unlikely. The Aether receptors within your brain that are unable to access the network connection are the same ones that interface with my navigation systems and—”

  “Let’s try it anyway,” Hawk insisted. “What have we got to lose?”

  The ship held out for another few back-and-forth exchanges before at last relenting.

  “Very well,” it said. “We will attempt something very basic to begin with. Please take your position in the pilot’s seat and concentrate on altering the course we are traveling.”

  Hawk climbed into the pilot’s seat and sat back, making himself as comfortable as possible. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the ship around him, and on the limitless space beyond.

  He felt it then—the slightest twinge, as though sensing other limbs attached to his body; limbs that had been paralyzed for a seeming eternity but were now working again. He opened his eyes.

  The ship was curving around, the stars streaming past gracefully in the forward view. As he watched, the ship’s course settled back into a straight line again.

  “Did I do that, or did you?” Hawk asked, now very wide-eyed.

  “You did,” the ship replied. “Well. How…extraordinary.”

  Hawk grinned. He was ecstatic—this represented perhaps his most positive accomplishment yet.

  “Maybe the receptors in my head aren’t dead,” he speculated as he spun the ship about and increased its speed. “Maybe they’re just… rusty or something. Atrophied. Needing a little more exercise.”

  “Perhaps,” the ship replied.

  “In any case,” Hawk added, “it’s a start.”

  At that moment a series of alarms resounded throughout the cabin.

  Hawk almost leapt out of the seat in reaction, but quickly settled his emotions and frowned out at the starfield in front of his ship. Far in the distance, but growing perceptibly larger by the moment, loomed an artificial construct of vast size and complexity. Quickly it resolved into a conglomeration of very different shapes and colors, as though its builders had cobbled it together from whatever pieces were available; from the leftovers and castoffs of a hundred different worlds and space fleets. Squared-off boxes and rectangles connected almost awkwardly to smooth cylinders and spheres, mixed in among even more complex components. Clearly it was some sort of stationary base; Hawk could not imagine something of such awkward shape and size moving terribly easily through the void at any real speed.

  “Is all that noise necessary?” he called out over the cacophony. He started to verbally order the ship to shut the alarms off, but then he reconsidered and attempted instead to concentrate on the alarms, ordering them to mute themselves.

  Instantly the raucous sounds ceased.

  “Apologies,” the ship’s voice said, “and very well done.” It paused, then, “We are approaching a major facility of the local political entity—the Hanrilite Empire. They have detected our presence. You will be expected.”

  Hawk frowned at this. “Expected? Expected for what?”

  “For dinner, I would imagine,” the ship replied.

  “Dinner?”

  “As well as for a general inspection. That has been the usual protocol.”

/>   “Inspection? I’m to be inspected?”

  “You are to do the inspecting, Hawk. You are, after all, a Hand of the Machine.”

  “They can tell this already? Without having met me, or even spoken with me?”

  “They probably feel they should give you the benefit of the doubt, at least to start with.”

  Hawk grunted an acknowledgement.

  “They are hailing you now,” the ship added. “Shall I put it on speaker?”

  “Sure,” Hawk said distractedly, standing next to his seat and clasping one hand in the other behind his back. It was a stance he moved into smoothly and easily, without thinking, as if it were second nature to him.

  A crackling sound filled the cockpit area for an instant, followed by a woman’s voice, clear and crisp.

  “Welcome, Hand,” the voice said. “On behalf of the Captain, I offer greetings and the hospitality of our station to you.” The words were spoken perfunctorily, as though she were reading them off a note card.

  “You have my thanks for your kind welcome,” Hawk replied automatically and with genuine warmth, the words falling into place effortlessly and seeming correct enough. As the ship didn’t instantly contradict or cut him off, he continued. “May I ask the name of your captain?”

  “Our station commander is Captain Katar Fomas,” the woman answered. “He invites you to come aboard at your leisure, and dine with him.”

  All of this puzzled Hawk greatly. He scarcely knew himself—his abilities, his duties—at all, and yet others clearly respected him, or at least his office and position. Better, he thought, to allow that to continue, than to say anything that might damage his standing in their eyes before he’d even met them. As well, the ship seemed both demanding and somewhat reluctant to fill him in on everything he needed to know. Perhaps getting away from it for a while, and meeting other individuals, might help knock a few cobwebs loose.

  “Thank you,” he said aloud. “I would be honored.”

  “Excellent. Please proceed to landing bay delta. Navigational data is being transmitted to your ship’s intelligence now.”

  “Very well.”

  “And if you would wait there, a welcoming party will arrive shortly.”

  After a couple of seconds, the ship chimed in, “The data has been received and the communications link severed.”

  Hawk sat back on the cushioned seat and rubbed his chin. “This could be interesting,” he said, more to himself than to the ship. “I have no real idea what I’m going to say or do.”

  “You can keep our audio link open if you need to consult with me,” the ship stated. “I can provide you with an earpiece…”

  “That’s okay,” Hawk said quickly. “I’ll contact you if I have any questions.”

  “As you wish.”

  Hawk’s sleek, triangular ship slid easily into the massive station’s docking bay. A few moments later, his sidearm in place in its holster, Hawk crossed the interior cabin.

  “The official asked you to wait here for the welcoming party.”

  Hawk raised one eyebrow.

  “And a Hand is expected to do as he is told? To meekly wait for them to be ready for me?”

  The ship said nothing for a moment. Then, “You are becoming more a Hand with every passing moment.”

  The hatch slid silently open.

  Hawk smiled grimly and stepped through.

  The station may have been vast on the outside, but the interior spaces felt extremely cramped—not to mention dark, musty, and cold. There was a slight smell of decay in the air and the dim lighting only served to somehow heighten that impression. Hawk frowned as he looked about the reception area beyond the bay. A couple dozen humans and a scattering of alien life forms milled about in clumps here and there, some of them accompanied by floating palates of what must have been their luggage. Visitors, probably, to be down here in the landing facility—vacationers, business people, diplomats, and so forth. One or two of them cast glances at him before looking quickly away.

  He became conscious of his rather unique clothing. A nearly skin-tight, bright blue and red metallic uniform scarcely blended in with all the dark business suits. Idly he wished he’d changed into something more nondescript—assuming there were any other clothes for him aboard the ship.

  Instantly his uniform shimmered, the feeling like tiny insects crawling over his skin. Looking down, he saw that the vibrant red and blue had faded to dark gray. A slight smile crept across his lips. Then he realized that his pistol had disappeared entirely; even the holster was gone. A sense of panic struck him. He wondered—had it been taken from him somehow? Had it simply dissolved, teleported away, become invisible? He reached down and felt for it. Nothing. It wasn’t just invisible, it was entirely gone. He grew increasingly concerned and started to contact the ship to ask about this, only to feel a blocky shape extruding from the side of his gray uniform. The holster was there again now. His fingers quickly reached down and confirmed that the pistol was still inside. He blinked; it had been extremely disconcerting to see the holster simply take shape as if from nothing. He relaxed about it, and the sidearm and holster vanished again, reabsorbed into his uniform.

  So. His technology was even more advanced than he’d already guessed. Very well.

  Since no welcoming party had been waiting to greet him—or whatever they had in mind—he started forward, then paused as he noticed an open entrance to a dimly lit room off to one side. He headed over for it and saw that it was just what he had suspected at first glance: a bar.

  It might be useful, he thought, to gather a little informal information before the local authorities arrived to lead him off to whatever official functions he was expected to take part in.

  He slipped through the doors, moved between a few lightly-occupied tables, and leaned against the broad, gleaming metal bar. An old guy straight out of central casting approached from the other side, wiping his hands on a tattered apron. He was heavyset, with a thick mustache and balding head. Tattoos covered his left arm. Barely glancing at Hawk, he asked what he’d have.

  Hawk wasn’t entirely sure how to respond.

  “What’s the local favorite?” he asked after a couple of seconds of thought.

  The bartender narrowed his eyes, actually focusing them on Hawk for an instant, then nodded once and reached under the bar, producing a mostly-empty bottle and a narrow glass. He filled the glass halfway and slid it across.

  Hawk lifted the glass, held it up, and gazed at it. He brought it to his lips.

  “Hi.”

  He blinked and looked to his right. A young woman had silently slipped onto the barstool next to him. She had short, very light blonde hair and large, green eyes. Her shimmering red dress, such as it was, was tight enough to make his uniform seem baggy by comparison.

  “Hi,” he returned, nodding.

  “What’re you drinking?” she asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  She started to laugh at this, then hesitated as she met his eyes. She looked from them down to his uniform; even though it was now dark gray, its shape remained the same, and the feather-motif areas along the sleeves still stood out as a darker gray. Then her eyes flashed back up to his face and her smile faded as she took in his appearance.

  “Excuse me, officer,” she said, sliding quickly off the stool. Before he could reply, she had zipped out the exit.

  The bartender had witnessed this exchange; now he approached again, his expression much more earnest. He nodded to the drink Hawk was still holding. “That’s on the house…officer,” he said in a quiet voice. “And if you need to inspect the—”

  “No, no,” Hawk replied, frowning. “That’s not necessary.” It was slowly dawning on him that, even in his somewhat camouflaged state, he still stood out to the inhabitants of this station. They could tell that he was a…a whatever he was. An authority figure, at any rate. And they clearly respected that. Or feared it. Or some combination.

  “But I am curious,” he continued i
n a lower voice, while he had the bartender’s attention. “Is there anything I should know—anything the local authorities might not want to volunteer to me?”

  The bartender hesitated, perhaps simply unsure, perhaps weighing the advantages of divulging information against keeping quiet. After a few seconds, he moved in closer. “There are rumors,” he said in almost a whisper. “Some say the Captain is—”

  Whatever the man was about to say, Hawk would never know, for at that instant a small crowd passed through the entrance. They were clad in dark green military uniforms with black leather trim, and they moved in a clipped and precise motion. As they approached the bar, Hawk could see that there were six of them. They took up position with half on either side of him, standing at attention.

  Hawk turned his back to the bar and waited, unsure of exactly what was happening.

  Another figure, taller and clad in dark blue, walked through the entrance and strode directly up to Hawk, standing at the center of the formation. He nodded formally.

  “Our apologies for the delay, sir,” he said. “If you are refreshed now, the Captain respectfully requests your presence.”

  The little army led Hawk on a winding journey back across the landing bay reception area and through a large metal door set into the far bulkhead. From there, they passed along what seemed like miles of nondescript corridors. Along the way, the officer in blue offered the occasional additional apology for not having been waiting for Hawk when he arrived. Hawk waved these away as unnecessary. Meanwhile, he wondered exactly what was going on. He had the nagging sense, paradoxically, of being treated as both an honored guest and a prisoner—though why that should be, he couldn’t guess. So he kept his thoughts to himself and his gun hand at the ready as he continued on with the others.

  As they traveled through the poorly-illuminated corridors, Hawk began to realize that several very distinct types of inhabitants dwelled aboard the station. There were humans, such as the soldiers who were escorting him along. They seemed to occupy the upper reaches of the local social class system, based on the way they acted toward and spoke with the others. Then he would see the occasional alien beings of various species, some appearing insectoid in form, some mammalian, some completely unrecognizable, but nearly all of them utterly and completely different from human beings. In larger numbers than either of these, however, were the outright robots—totally mechanical constructs of gleaming alloy and crystal—tasked with various menial-labor jobs such as construction and repair. Hawk noted that the entire station looked to be in a perpetual cycle of construction and repair, and to desperately need even more of both.