Hawk_Hand of the Machine Page 6
Then there was one other type of being he occasionally glimpsed as he walked along with the soldiers through the heart of the station, and this type troubled him deeply. His discomfort with these creatures went beyond mere latent xenophobia over the strangeness of aliens to human eyes. At first Hawk was not sure what to think of them. They were humanoid in form, or at least many of them were. Parts of their bodies were clearly organic, but other parts gleamed metal or glass. A much greater proportion of most of their bodies looked to be mechanical than organic. They worked at their tasks—scrubbing, repairing, trundling along dragging cargo palates in their wakes—with the same single-minded focus as the pure robots, but there was simply no getting around the fact that they had mostly human faces. Blank, mindless human faces. Hawk stared at the first couple but then had to look away; he found them terribly disturbing.
After what seemed like at least half an hour of traveling, the group passed into a much nicer section of the station. The walls were all freshly-painted in a light gray and the floor was covered with a lush, blue-green carpet. At last they arrived at a massive pair of double doors that slid silently into the walls on either side as they drew near.
“Come in! Come in!”
The voice boomed out as Hawk stepped over the threshold and into a broad dining hall. The first thing he noticed was that it was easily the cleanest space he’d encountered on the station thus far. The smooth, spotless white walls curved upward to become an arching ceiling high above. Before him lay a massive table that extended nearly the entire length of the room. It was covered in various dishes; the look and the smell nearly took his feet out from under him. At the far end of the hall, arms raised in welcome, stood what had to be the station’s captain, a very dark-skinned man with a broad smile.
From a distance, Hawk could tell the man was tall and powerfully built, though starting to go a bit flabby around the edges, judging from how his uniform bulged in places. That uniform was a crisp dark blue with lots of gold trim and decorations. It sparkled as the man moved around the table’s corner and approached with a jaunty gait.
“Captain Fomas,” Hawk nodded as the man extended his hand. They shook.
“Welcome aboard my station,” Fomas stated formally, giving a slight bow. Then he gestured toward a seat. “Please, please—join me, if you would. I was just sitting down for a light lunch.”
Hawk glanced again at the dazzling spread of fancy dishes that had been prepared and laid out on the table. A light lunch? Returning the man’s smile then, he nodded. “Thank you, Captain.”
Moments later, an elderly servant had seated Hawk in a high-backed chair that looked to have been formed from white plastic, matching the others around the table—a table that featured golden candlesticks and silver utensils. None of it remotely matched, and it all made for an odd combination of chintz and extravagance.
The captain sat a short distance away, helping himself to a pile of sliced meat of some sort from a massive bowl. Hawk sat back, his senses heightened, watching the man while taking in everything else around him.
Another servant approached and placed a broad, deeply curved plate on the table before him. As the captain had scarcely paused in his eating and was currently working on another helping, Hawk helped himself to a modest selection of items from close by.
After several minutes of silence, Fomas began to speak in formal tones, in between bites.
“It is good, yes?”
Hawk nodded. “Very much so.” He took another bite of a rich casserole.
“I do what I can to provide the comforts of home.”
Hawk looked up at him. “Where is home?”
The captain froze, then smiled his broad smile again.
“Ah—there you have me, I’m afraid.” He spread his arms in a wide gesture to take in everything around them. “I have no home—no real home—other than this station. And so I devote all of my efforts, all of my energies, to its welfare. To making it a real home, for me and for my crew.” He continued to focus intently on Hawk as he shoveled another helping of one of the casseroles onto his plate. “Speaking of which—it was only a short time ago that the last Hand visited our humble facility.”
This interested Hawk greatly.
“Another Hand? Which one?”
“Honestly I don’t recall who he was supposed to be,” Fomas replied somewhat cryptically. “I can have the records examined.”
Hawk nodded, puzzled at this.
“In any case,” the captain went on, “you can see how the timing of your arrival comes as something of a surprise.”
“I suppose,” Hawk replied. He had nothing else to say to that, so instead he took a bite of a succulent red fruit and nodded vaguely.
“Well, given the way these things usually go. Of course, we consider it a high honor that you have come here,” the captain went on—and Hawk noted that he was not eating now, instead staring directly at him, “but—if it is not impertinent of me to ask—what brings you here now?”
“No specific reason,” Hawk replied with a slight shrug. “Just a routine visit.”
“I see. Yes,” Fomas said, appearing somewhat relieved by the answer. He took another bite. “Well, fine. I’m sure you will find whatever it is you’re looking for.”
Hawk frowned slightly at this reply but didn’t say anything. He was trying his best to absorb both what was being said and what was merely being implied, and having a difficult time at both tasks at the moment.
A young woman appeared, clad in servants’ uniform, her curly black hair tied atop her head. She leaned in over Hawk’s left shoulder to place a tall plastic cup before him and fill it with a golden liquid from a pitcher. Hawk nodded once to her, lifted the cup and sipped. Cold. Sweet and tangy. Not bad. He was afraid to ask what it was, for fear it was something he should be quite familiar with. Instead he turned his attention to his plate and took up a fork. Fomas did likewise.
“Yes,” the captain said after a few seconds, “we are but a humble trading center. Little here of any interest here to a Hand. There are so many more places that you are needed. I’m sure your precious time and resources would be better spent elsewhere.” He looked up and smiled. “Not that you are unwelcome, of course.”
Hawk returned the flat, emotionless smile. “Thank you, Captain. That’s appreciated. And I’m sure you’re correct.”
The conversation paused there for a time, as a somewhat uncomfortable silence descended. Both men continued to eat.
“Your station is fascinating,” Hawk said, breaking the silence at last. He was growing full—the food, whatever it was, had turned out to be quite rich—and there was only so much of it he could eat. The beverage had seemed alcoholic at first, giving him a slight buzz, but then his head had suddenly and quite rapidly cleared. He’d begun to suspect that his uniform was administering some sort of agent to his bloodstream to neutralize the alcohol. Yet another amazing thing it could do.
The captain looked up from his plate and smiled. “It is quite a complex facility, yes.”
“It appears to be made up of many different kinds of components.”
“Quite true,” Fomas agreed, even as he resumed eating. He reached for a still-sizzling leg of some sort of animal, dragged it onto his plate, and took a bite. “This station was cobbled together over many centuries,” he said around the food, “as pieces became available. Some parts of it are very old indeed.”
“I see.” Hawk nodded. “And it looked from outside as if other parts are extremely new.”
Fomas shrugged and continued to chew.
They ate for another minute in silence. Servants entered and carried away some of the dishes. Hawk was startled to see them setting down new ones in their place. Just how much did this man eat?
Forcing his attention away from the astonishing display of gluttony, he asked, “How did you acquire them?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The components that go into this station. How did you acquire them?”
Hawk continued to regard Fomas for a moment after the man had concluded his answer, giving no visible indication as to whether he believed him or not. Then he returned his attention to the dinner before him and continued to nibble at the food on his plate.
Slowly the captain’s smile faded, eventually passing all the way into a slight frown.
Hawk was keeping the man in his peripheral vision, affecting an air of nonchalance but inside deeply concerned. Something seemed a bit off about this captain, and about his station. And that sense was only increasing the longer he sat there.
“If I might be permitted to ask you a question or two?” the other man asked suddenly.
Hawk looked up, somewhat surprised. “Certainly,” he said.
“How long have you worn the uniform of a Hand?”
“Not terribly long. Why do you ask?”
“It is just that…” The captain hesitated, took a sip of his drink, and smiled half-heartedly. “If you will forgive my saying so, you do not seem very much like the other Hands I have met during my tenure here.”
The way that Fomas had said the word Hands—the way he had stressed it, almost to the point of sarcasm—struck Hawk as particularly odd. He might as well have wiggled his fingers in the air to make quotation marks as he said it, as if indicating that whatever Hands he had met were not actual Hands.
Hawk gazed back at him levelly. “Are you questioning my legitimacy as a Hand?”
Fomas laughed sharply. “Oh, heavens no,” he said with a grin and a wink. “I’m certain you’re just as much a Hand as all the other Hands that show up at stations like mine, extracting their usual share of the profits in return for…protection.” He sipped at his drink again. “I have been a captain long enough to know how the game is played. And do not doubt that I respect the power you doubtlessly command. However you may have come about it.” He put his fork down and sat back in his seat. “But I must be honest with you, sir. You come to me unexpectedly, with no advance notice, and in this particular guise…” His expression darkened. “Usually I am given some sort of warning before one of you descends upon us here.” He cleared his throat. “It should be quite clear to you that you have made me—and my staff—extremely uncomfortable. And so I must ask myself, ‘What does this man want? Does he want the usual payoff…or something else? Something more?’”
Hawk took all of this in with considerable surprise, and considered it for a moment.
“Let me be sure I follow you,” he said, leaning forward. “You’re saying that other Hands who have visited your station have attempted to extort money from you?”
Fomas stared back at him blankly.
“Is that what you are saying?” Hawk pressed.
Fomas’s eyes narrowed, and then he unleashed a powerful burst of laughter.
“Please, sir,” he, “do me the honor of at least somewhat respecting my intelligence. We are both grown men. We both know how this works.” He placed his hands flat on the table and leaned slightly forward in Hawk’s direction. “I cannot imagine what you think you will gain by playing coy.” He gestured again at Hawk’s uniform. “Or by these scare tactics. A Hawk, of all things!” He shook his head, then leaned back again. “I have placed all my cards on the table for you. Beyond that, I am at a loss.”
Now it was Hawk’s turn to lean forward.
“Captain, I have no idea what these other Hands—false Hands, I assume, based on what you are saying—have done to you and your station in the past. But I assure you, I am not here to extort money. My sole purpose at the moment is to warn the sentient beings of our galaxy that the great Adversary has returned.”
Fomas gazed back at Hawk with a look of perplexity.
“You are telling me you are not here for a payoff?” he asked, his voice filled with incredulity. “Then why are you here?” He frowned, his tone growing defensive. “To take over my station, perhaps?”
Hawk watched as the captain subtly moved one hand down under the table, pressing something; most likely a hidden alarm button.
“You’re not hearing me, Captain. I am here for the reason I stated, as a Hand of the Machine,” Hawk answered in a calm, flat tone. He had not moved a muscle in the past few seconds; his breathing had slowed and his senses had heightened. His entire body was now poised to act as a weapon, should he be attacked.
“You actually believe you are a true Hand?” the captain barked then. “This is not some elaborate ruse with you—you’re serious? And your only concern is about some mythological enemy? You expect me to believe such a thing?” He started to laugh. “What do you take me for?”
Hawk turned his head ever so slightly to one side, allowing himself to see the door behind him in his peripheral vision. Something within his eyes adjusted slightly and in response bright red shapes stood out along the wall, moving from either side. He understood then that he was seeing into the infrared, making out the heat signature forms of soldiers in the corridor outside, on the other side of the wall, closing in on the dining room entrance.
“If you are truly being extorted by impostor Hands,” Hawk said then, his voice sharp, “I believe my business lies with them—tracking them down and eliminating them—rather than with you and your station.”
Fomas blinked at this.
The doors behind Hawk slid open. He didn’t bother to turn around.
The sound of boots on the tile floor. A voice sounded from just behind him in clipped, military tones. The officer in blue, most likely. “Captain?”
Fomas raised one hand. “My mistake, Sergeant,” he said. “All is well, I believe. But—” He looked at Hawk, smiled faintly, and continued, “—stay close, please. Just in case you are needed after all.”
“Sir.”
The sergeant retreated from the room and the doors slid closed behind him.
Fomas stared at Hawk now as if seeing him for the first time.
“I believe you were just saying something about wanting to eliminate the men who extort my station,” he said.
“If there are people pretending to be Hands and engaging in those sorts of activities, then certainly I will do everything in my power to eliminate them.”
“I like the sound of that,” Fomas said with a smile. “I like it very much.” He paused, then, “You are claiming that you are an actual, genuine Hand,” he asked, his tone growing formal, “here on behalf of the great Machine that defends our shattered galaxy. Is this so?”
“It is so.”
The captain laughed now, but for once it was a bemused laugh, touching on wonder, rather than sharp and dismissive.
“Only two possibilities, then,” he said. “You’re either a madman—in which case, you’ll get yourself killed sooner rather than later, on your own, without any help from me or my men…”
Hawk gazed back at him, half-smiling. “Yes? Or?”
“Or else, gods help me, you truly are a Hand. Actually a Hawk, no less! In which case, you have far, far bigger issues to deal with than my lowly operation here.”
Hawk took one last drink from his cup and set it down, then pushed his chair back and stood. “I believe the dinner is concluded,” he said.
“And I believe we understand one another,” Fomas stated, also rising. “Rogue Hands make a far more enticing target for your efforts—whether you’re a divine being or a divine fool—than my modest little station and anything I may be doing here. Yes?”
“That is fair to say, yes,” Hawk replied. “For now.” He moved toward the doors. “But once I’ve disposed of the impostors and I return—should I ever do so—I trust there won’t be anything going on here that a Hand of the Machine would disapprove of.”
“I am,” Hawk stated flatly. “Thank you for your hospitality. The food was quite good.”
He turned on his heel and strode through the open doors, moving calmly past the army of soldiers waiting in the corridor. They all watched him pass them by, their eyes wide.
He moved quickly, his mind instantly recalling the path he had taken to reach the dining hall and working in reverse. Some of the soldiers hurried after him, trailing like a ship’s wake behind him.
Emerging at last onto the reception deck, he almost walked into the middle of a disturbance. Screams and sudden motion broke through his extreme concentration and caused him to halt in mid-step. Looking around quickly, he took in what was happening: A man was holding a woman around the neck and pointing a pistol of some kind at her head. He was backing away from a small group of station guards, none of whom seemed to quite know what to do. The man was shouting something in a language not immediately understandable to Hawk.
Hawk moved to the side of one of the guards and quietly asked, “What is the situation here?”
The guard gave Hawk a quick double-take, then must have decided there was no reason to withhold the information. “That man is a criminal,” he said. “He was traveling on forged documents. We detected his true identity—he’s wanted for multiple counts of murder and other charges across four systems. He’s taken a hostage now, though, so—”