Beyond Asimios: Book One Read online

  The droid then turned its attention back down the hall to Graf who had been struggling to get back on his feet. BRRRRRRRRRAAP came the second sonic blast, and again it flattened the doctor and swept his hearing away along with it. Graf felt like he was underwater: sounds were indistinct and muted and only his sense of sight and touch kept him from the thought that he had become a ghost.

  Then a figure emerged from the open panel in the wall.

  It was Oreg, and he leapt out in front of Graf, withdrawing a knife-like weapon from his belt as he moved, and it glowed with sinister glint as he raised it high and then hurled it with a sidearm action so that it glanced off the floor before slicing cleanly through the droid’s right shoulder. The droid’s powerful appendage fell to its side in an ephemeral bloom of sparks and mineral smoke. Then Oreg’s weapon banked behind the droid and was finding its way back to its owner’s hand when the droid stepped forward and released a volley of flechettes from its functioning arm. Oreg attempted to elude the volley. Just as he reached out to intercept his weapon, a number of the steel darts sunk into his flesh; then BRRRRRRRRRAAP came another sonic stun blast and Oreg, already wounded and off balance from the flechettes, was thrown from his feet. A moment later the droid was on him, one of its polymer hooves crushing his foot while a set of claws extended from the droid’s arm and clamped around the Goerathian’s waist. It raised the squirming Oreg aloft.

  —I am here, came Miranda’s voice over Graf’s VI.

  The doctor could hear Miranda—the VI input was bypassing his damaged eardrums.

  —Miranda? Graf called.

  His attempt at speech was an embarrassment at best.

  —I am here. Can I offer assistance?

  Graf didn’t know what to say. His head was swimming.

  —Miranda! he whined in a pitiful tone. Please help. Things aren’t going well.

  Then out of the corner of his eye, her blue and gold body appeared in the doorway, standing above one of the dead guards. Graf threw her a frantic look—the Consortium droid now shifted his attention to Graf—and sizing up the situation, Miranda launched herself like an arrow at the towering droid, scrambling around to its back where she straddled the creature and began dismembering the monster’s head.

  Out of an amplifier behind its visor, the Consortium droid continued to implore the offenders to desist and obey (this was how Graf interpreted the blaring edict), but Miranda paid no heed as she took the droid’s helmet in her hands and twisted it with such force that she dislodged the orb in a fibrous release of effluvium and electric discharge. The head bobbled forward, swinging in an arc by its synthetic ligament, as its torso writhed and convulsed. Oreg, still conscious, powered up his weapon and brought it down against the droid’s claw, and in an electric burst, the claw was severed and Oreg dropped to the floor in a crash of metal and delicate flesh. Miranda slid from the droid’s back and made for safety as the droid careened blindly into a wall and began its death dance. A moment later, the machine expired and the massive beast shook the walls when it struck the ground.

  Graf was in a daze of apprehension and fear as he started toward Oreg. Miranda joined him, and she stood over the doctor as he knelt down to pull the cape and visor away from Oreg’s face.

  Oreg was dead. Graf was certain of it.

  —Orsani, the Goerathian rasped, his large eyes flitting and blinking before they could open and focus on Graf.

  Miranda quickly set to work separating Oreg from the remains of the claw, and once some space was cleared, she and Graf were able to lift the captain to his feet. His one foot was useless, and Oreg stuggled to maintain balance. The pulsing blue light from the dome security system bathed the hall in an icy glow as a penetrating klaxon reverberated deep within the tower. Graf, in his state of muffled isolation, was astonished to see Oreg alive.

  —Oreg, Graf shouted through his own troublesome fog. Two Consortium guards are dead and a Consortium droid has been destroyed. I think we’re in a bit of hot water here. Should we try our luck with the authorities? Maybe we can get this cleared up?

  Oreg looked at him for a moment before straining his neck to look over at Orsani. Then he tore himself from Graf and Miranda and hobbled over to Orsani’s corpse where he fell to his knees. He picked up the Goerathian’s lifeless head and cradled it in his arms.

  —Orsani, Oreg said as he rocked back and forth. My good brother, what has happened to you?

  Oreg was quiet as he closed he eyes.

  —We were never meant to lead long lives on this plane, Oreg said. Goerath shed her light on you, and you shed your light on her. A complete life. We will meet again on the other side of the sun, my brother, where all heroes meet.

  Oreg pulled Orsani’s head to his breast and Oreg’s eyes were soaked with tears. The captain continued to rock back and forth, the lonely face of his borther resting helplessly in his lap, and Oreg mumbled a series of low words, perhaps some sort of benediction, before leaning down and kissing Orsani on the forehead. He then removed a necklace that had been tucked under Orsani’s vest and he wadded it up in his fist. With Graf and Miranda’s help, Oreg stood. Then he pulled Graf toward him and he whispered low and clear:

  —Now you carry him with you, came the translation over Graf’s VI. He died for you. Now he is your brother, as well. Oreg pressed the necklace into the palm of Graf’s hand and he closed Graf’s fingers around it. The echo of approaching boots intensified.

  —What now? Graf said to Miranda.

  —I came on the ship, Miranda replied. Oreg must have called it.

  Oreg pushed past his helpers and staggered for the door to the landing bay, swinging down and to pick up his weapon from out of the debris as he went. Once inside the bay Oreg pulled the Consortium guard through the door and it closed immediately. Then Oreg picked up one of the guard’s plasma guns and he stood back and buried several rounds into the door’s control box.

  They scampered up the cargo ramp and into the ship. Once inside, Oreg was helped over to his seat on the bridge. He drew up the holo and after a short series of inputs, the large doors to the bay opened and the ship lifted up, its engine having already been online, and it rotated toward empty space and prepared to leap out into the black.

  —Hold on, Oreg said as the ship shot forward.

  Once the tower was behind them, Oreg banked the ship into the direction of the torus.

  —You lied to me, Oreg, Graf said.

  Oreg glanced over at Graf.

  —I trusted you. I believed you were my friend. I trusted you and you lied to me.

  On the holo a number of blinking red lights illuminated and seemed poised to converge on their position. Oreg initiated an impulse sequence and he shouted for everyone to strap in. Oreg and Graf both tightened their belts and Miranda took hold of the safety rail behind them. Slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, the lights of the torus began to move toward them. A number of plasma burst sailed past the ship, and the ship rattled and shook. Then the torus began to light up with a violent series of detonations. One, two, three, four, five…the blasts fanned out around the giant ring…and then the ship was through and bathed in the bright light of the Goerathian sun. The ship made several turns and then the holo told the rest of the story.

  Somewhere behind them, the torus consumed itself in a whorl of fire. The portal was sabotaged, completely destroyed, and Oreg, finally allowed a moment to breathe, released his restraints and found his way to his feet and leaned against his chair. He appeared confused. He swayed back and forth as if about to fall.

  —You did this, Graf said as he fought to extricate himself from the seat restraints. You were the one who destroyed the portal. That was what you were doing on Kharmeki Tower.

  Oreg was silent. His gaze was fixed on the holo. Oreg made some adjustments and the ship turned so that the Goerathian star fell away to the stern. Graf then noticed that a dark pool had collected at the base of Oreg’s chair. Oreg’s leg was soaked in blood.

  —You a
re hurt, Graf said.

  His hearing was still muffled, like his ears were plugged with cotton.

  —You’re bleeding heavily, Graf said. You need medical attention.

  —There’s no time, came the translation through Graf’s VI. They will be coming for us.

  Oreg turned and hobbled toward the back of the bridge.

  —Who will be coming for us? Graf said. The Consortium? The Confederacy? And what of this Zarzast fellow you were talking about. The guy at the tower seemed to think you were Zarzast. Is that true? Are you Zarzast? And what was the purpose of you leaving me alone at the tavern, and in a Consortium officer’s coat, for Christ’s sake? Do you realize that I was stalked by an assassin and nearly killed? Do you realize, that if it wasn’t for Orsani, I might not be here right now?

  Graf stipped himself of his coat and threw it on the floor. He followed Oreg as the Goerathian limped to his cabin and began to carefully sort through some of his things. He opened the throat of a small pack and began placing items inside.

  —You were not alone, Oreg said. Orsani was told to keep a watch on you. You had protection.

  —Then why the coat? Someone came after me because of it.

  —I never would have been allowed on the tower without Consortium escort, Oreg said. It purchased the time I needed.

  —So you are Zarzast, Graf said. It makes perfect sense. You’re the one the Consortium is looking for.

  Oreg looked over at Graf, then he turned back to his pack and placed a few more items inside it. Then he closed the bag, pulling tight a pair of thick straps. He pushed past Graf and hobbled back to the bridge.

  —Why destroy the portal? Graf said as he followed Oreg. It’s madness…

  Oreg didn’t answer. He went to his chair and made a few motions with his hand and the holo lit up with a new perspective…a new angle on their present location.

  —It is only temporary, Oreg said. They will rebuild it. Here, Oreg said while motioning in the direction of part of the holo display. He magnified the scene.

  —There were many more battle cruisers moving through the portal, Oreg said. Many hundreds of thousands of droids and consortium regulars were scheduled to go through the gate; a force large enough to bring a planet to submission.

  —Which planet?

  Oreg raised his chin and began to ululate with a barking sound that Graf discerned to be either laughter, or anger, or some sort of combination. Then Oreg heaved his pack up in his arms and started toward the back of the ship, moving past Miranda and hobbling as he went. He came to a door amidships (a door Graf had never paid particular attention to) and it rolled open from bottom to top. Inside was a small space: a chair and not much else. Oreg handed Graf his pack and then he stepped inside, gently handling his crushed leg as he turned to sit down and face Graf.

  —What are you doing? Graf asked.

  —They know who I am, Oreg said. He motioned for Graf to hand over his bag and Graf did.

  —You’re wounded, Oreg…you leg is broken. What are you doing?

  —I’ve given the ship instructions to set down on Goerath. You can find help there. Just remember to put the necklace on.

  Graf realized that he had been clutching the necklace in his hand the entire time. He opened up his fingers and stared at the piece of string that was connected to a mounted black crystal.

  —Wear it, came the voice inside Graf’s head. Honor Orsani.

  Graf draped the necklace around his neck.

  —It seems like Orsani saved your life more than once, Oreg said. Maybe he will again.

  —But why Earth? Graf said as he let the crystal drop to his chest. What does the Consortium want with Earth?

  —Empire, Oreg said.

  —They’re human, Graf said. The Consortium is human?

  Oreg’s mouth formed something close to a smile.

  —The girl, Graf said in thought. The assassin, she was human.

  —Not all humans agree with the Consortium, Oreg said, especially the Kel-n’Haan. Goodbye, doctor. It was enjoyable to have known you. You are my brother now.

  Oreg activated a few buttons on the pod and the console lit up his face in amber and red.

  —Where are you going? You can’t leave us.

  —Be safe, brother, Oreg said. The ship will land you on Goerath. But you must move quickly. You will be hunted.

  —What about your ship?

  —This ship is not mine.

  —What about our last game of zawtek? You were leading.

  But the door closed. A sound of rushing air sounded as the chamber was evacuated. A red light pulsed three times and the pod ejected from the ship.

  Miranda was standing next to Graf and she placed her hand on his shoulder.

  —Come, Avery Graf, Miranda said. You will miss your friend, I know. But come and watch. We are being pursued. There are two ships approaching on the holo display and we have begun our descent toward Goerath.

  Graf turned to Miranda with a look of disbelief.

  —What will we do, Miranda? he said as he clutched Orsani’s necklace. What will we do down there?

  —I do not know, Dr. Graf. Come, let us prepare.

  6

  With the racquetball sim set to medium difficulty, Austin Halpern, ESCOM Project Manager and Asimios Operations Lead, was still having trouble competing against his holo host. Halpern was an excellent racquetball player, but today he was off his game. At the end of a rally, he leaned against the cool wall to catch his breath.

  —The score is fifteen to eight, his opponent said. Host wins. Would you like to play another game, Mr. Halpern?

  —No. That’s it for me.

  —Thank you for the match, sir. It was a pleasure.

  —Yeah, yeah. Whatever…

  The host opponent froze and a couple pixels of dropout were the only indication that the player was artificial. Then the image dissolved, along with the ball that had been slowly rolling toward the far wall, and Halpern trudged to the door, opened it and headed for the locker room.

  After a scalding shower, a shave and change of clothes, Halpern made his way through the fitness center where a trainer was leading an exercise session. The group was probably doing their required workout, shaking off their coldsleep hangovers after a trip from Earth. The trainer was likely Martian and on Phobos to make a few bucks during tourist season. She had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wide shoulders, and that particular Martian olive complexion. She wore a skintight nano jumper that left little to the imagination, and Halpern stood at the back of the class and until she noticed him. When he had her attention, he gave her an approving nod and then turned to go. Under normal circumstances, he’d wait for her to finish with her class and then strike up some kind of conversation. But that would not happen. Today there were more pressing matters. There was a message from his wife on his VI that he had been avoiding, and he had important debriefings with Paul Ness and Dr. Berdinka later in the afternoon. After leaving the center, he walked down a hallway to Skyresh Axis where he would take the lift that would take him up to his office and quarters.

  For many, the Martian moon, Phobos, was a cold reminder of just how far away one was from Earth, for this small, oblong moon orbited Mars twice a day as it hurried toward its Roche limit and inevitable orbital decay forty million years in the future. For some, however, especially those who looked up at the moon from the Martian surface, Phobos held a different meaning. For some, Phobos was a source of inspiration. Emil Vang, a first generation Martian colonist and poet, called Phobos his beacon of hope:

  You have slain the old god, laid him to waste,

  and set the foundation for a new vision.

  Every day, great moon,

  you point me in directions unseen.

  You are the joyful compass of my heart,

  a bright symbol

  of what is yet to be…

  While Abloss Flekc, satirist and notable Martian cultural critic, wrote pessimistically a century later, of how Phobos w
as a constant reminder of the failed Martian experiment:

  Just when I imagine that I might transcend my destitute predicament here on this dusty hell, Phobos emerges to remind me that my thoughts are fantasy. Day after day after day, that cursed eye traverses my consciousness, a cold reminder of everything lost. If I could wipe out this mocking stone, wave my hand and make it disappear, then, perhaps, our collective misery would be reduced by half.

  But while Phobos etched itself on the souls of those who observed its daily sojourn, the Martian moon was a logistical necessity for anything having to do with human expansion in the solar system. For almost a century, while colonization of Mars was at its peak, and before the Federated Star skycrane made Phobos unnecessary, Phobos was considered the Ellis Island of Martian immigration. Everyone, whether paying a visit to the Red Planet, or whether arriving on a one-way ticket for permanent settlement, made a stop on Phobos before boarding a lander and descending to the Martian surface. People called Phobos a heavenly Gard du Nord, O’Hare Mars, or Heathrow Galactic. Others derided the lunar base, calling it The Death Star, or simply, The Rock. If you were coming or going from Mars, you stopped on Phobos. It was an initiation rite; a place to spit and kick your boots before the next leg of your journey.

  Because the satellite was an amalgam of orbital detritus—a rubble pile, more or less—Phobos’s mass was too insignificant for native gravity. A permanent settlement on Phobos was, therefore, never fully conceived. Those on Phobos who operated the landers and freighter docks worked in rotations—two weeks on the moon, two weeks on Mars—but in the last two decades, after investigation of the Asimios wormhole and the development of high quantum science, gravitational generation transformed the bleak satellite into something more accommodating. The old “Phobo-phobia,” the fear of an extended stay on the swiftly transiting moon, was replaced by an appreciation for the dazzling spectacle of being in rapid orbit. Spending time on the Martian moon became fashionable. After ESCOM acquired Hermes and the development rights to Phobos, the company poured trillions of dollars into a lunar makeover—almost as much time and money as was given to Asimios Station—and The Rock was soon beset by builders, architects, and entrepreneurs. It was bored into, excavated, graded, landscaped, and redesigned in preparation for ESCOM’s new extra-Earth headquarters. It eventually boasted full-service spacecraft repair, storage facilities that matched any terrestrial or Martian capacity, an international center, and a luxury hotel with a swimming pool and penthouse suites offering twenty-four hour, thirty-seven minute vistas of the Red Planet below. There were over eleven hundred permanent residents on Phobos, and if you didn’t mind a self-contained environment, the claustrophobia of a tiny community, the small fortune it took to live there, and the stigma of being a luni, life on the moon wasn’t so bad.