First Interlude - Hot Water
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The corporate agent carefully closed the flap protecting the access to the ThunderChief cooling system. Wiping a drop of sweat from the corner of his synthetic lips—as black as his unfathomable glasses—he stood up and left the room after locking the door behind him. With a heavy step, he reached the rungs leading to the first level of his skiff.
The mechanical carcass of a MK laid at the porthole’s edge, its lone eye cracked and a myriad of colorful wires were hanging from its open throat. Large-caliber bullets had ripped its armored torso to shreds, and a fall of several meters had pulverized its back radio box.
As the android moved brusquely, the man hoped to see it work again. Unfortunately, the jolt has been caused by another robot the size of a softball. Dismayed, it rose into the air, retracting its telescopic micro-arms armed with pliers and other mechanical tools. On its metallic surface, tiny LEDs formed a pair of tired eyes which stared back at the man with a yellow turban.
“TK-421 will not get up, sir…” the robot complained as it flew away from the lifeless wreck.
The corpo crouched down. Sighing, he firmly grasped the MK’s battered skull between the fingers. When he stood up, he lifted the body as if it weighed nothing; and, at arm’s length, crushed its head without any effort.
What was left of the MK fell heavily to the ground and slid through the porthole to loudly smash further down. The meager gravity accompanied the fragments of glass and steel that slipped from the man’s invulnerable grip.
“This unit cost two hundred thousand dollar-credits, not including rampant inflation due to the incoming conflict,” the little robot whined.
“Ah! What about you?”
“I’m priceless, sir.”
The cyborg held back a laugh. “You can’t remind me enough, Globule.” Cracking his mechanical knuckles, he then moved to the cockpit to restart the reactor cycle; the Mercury-made ThunderChiefs roared even smoother than the Baltimore engines.
Twirling in the air thanks to the small propeller on the back of his apple-shaped hull, Globule accompanied him. All along the corridor slept the remains of the MKs platoon. The restarted nuclear reactor refilled the batteries of the survivors from the assault on Enceladus.
“We have an incoming communication,” Globule said when his human companion finally reached the sliding door.
“Ah? From the Moon,” the turbaned man deduced from his assistant’s concerned tone.
“Yes and no. The emitter just left Jupiter’s orbit,” Globule replied as he flew over his shoulder. Like the vast majority of ships’ AIs deployed by lunar-owned megacorporations, Globule appeared to be still very much on top of coupled astronomical semantic details. “I would still suggest you not to let them wait another minute.”
The door opened and the corporate agent stepped into the two-seat cockpit. On the left, his wired chair swiveled to accommodate him. Seated, he turned around and moved closer to the wakening controls.
“Plug us in,” the man sighed. On the other side of the main multi-colored screen next to the gray ashtray, a button with an LED kept flashing. This one illuminated the portrait of a middle-aged woman in a lab coat with long curly hair the color of the skies.“I’ll turn on the holo.”
Reading his anxiety through all his sensors, Globule offered him a cigarette, which he took from a pack held by an elastic band near the radio. “It is actually a tele-request, sir.” Once the smoke stuck to the corner of his charcoal lips, the man with no name lit it while the little robot activated the ultra-secure communication system by pressing the flashing button.
Brownish static invaded the multi-colored screen. Distorted shadows located at a few meters of distance from their camera lens slowly appeared. The image became clearer as first words were heard, drowned in sinister interferences reminiscent of eerie whispers.
The agent took a drag on his cigarette. The tip burnt like a glittering opal. The screen drowned beneath an ink-black smoke when he finally exhaled. The humming air conditioning swallowed the thick smoke. He reverently uttered: “Arch-Duchess Belisama.”
The Arch-Duchess Belisama of the Lunar Metactaste of the Awen took center stage of a white marble room of immense proportions guessed by the echo. He sat on a throne with finishes as morbid as they were nauseating. For the backrest as well as the seat and the base were in reality an assembly of twisted bodies, held together with white steel chains. Completely naked and with his legs spread in a sign of dominance, the wealthy oligarch wore only a heavy gold-enriched iridium anvil-shaped mask resting on his fragile shoulders. Cut like bramble thorns, diamond inlays studded his skin, which appeared so sick and thin that he looked like a dug-up corpse.
“My good sub-serf…” croaked the stereo headphones built into the man’s headrest. The Lunar God’s voice was firm yet ethereal.
The turbaned man went on right after: “Madam Sirona.” This time he was addressing a woman to the right of the throne, further back under the white silver canopy. Dressed in a cream combat suit, she hid her face behind the crimson faceplate of her silver helmet bearing the official sigil of a Techno-government secret agency. He didn’t know her history, just her name and her important place in the well-oiled hierarchy of the Lunar oligarchs; a place far above his own.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
She replied sharply, as if addressing her directly was an insult.
“Don’t you want to use a hologram, Arch-Duchess?” the man surprised himself saying, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray.
The God bulged his chest, and the splinters on his pectorals glistened. “The holograms appeared to be unpleasantly vulgar. A projection would make me share the same physical space as a sub-human. I leave such inappropriate frivolities to Taranis. By the way, don’t you think my skin tone comes out better on a color screen?”
The agent bowed his head. “That would be stating the obvious.”
“Anyway. Who should we congratulate for this nonsense on Saturn II?” the anvil-headed man resumed. Tired of carrying on such a trivial conversation, he leaned his left cheek against his fist, sinking into the humanoid armrest. A chain hanging from his right ankle clanked.
“No apology is valid regarding this hiccup,” the cyborg apologized.
“Hiccup?” Sirona interjected. “The entire orbital station almost exploded due to a sudden torpedo-induced decompression! We had to use our wallets to conceal the presence of your frigate on the frozen moon. And all because this ungrateful chrome-witch slipped through your scissorhands!”
The God chided her as static invaded the screen. “My dear. Please don’t talk about money. It’s extremely vulgar.”
The agent glanced briefly at Globule who stabilized the connection thanks to her rotative micro-pins. “I intend to rectify this error,” he replied once the connection stabilized again.
“That goes without saying. You’re a fast learner, unlike your old CEO. This dear Mrs. Dassault-Wegmann begins to weary me,” Belisama resumed.
From the chainring on his ankle emerged a pair of insect legs that climbed up his skinny leg, groin and hips, then the armrest to place the chains in the hand which used to hold his cheek. Pulling on the chain with a sharp stroke, the anvil-headed man pulled a naked, curled old woman from the human armrest. The throne, for its part, had immediately straightened up so as not to let its twisted master fall.
From her shaking and moaning, the man with no name realized that the old businesswoman appeared to be still alive despite her twisted bruised limbs and deep scratches which have left purulent scars on her skin. With a snap of his skeletal finger, Belisama commanded the chain to tighten its grip around her neck and pelvis; breaking the latter. She silently cried.
“I will find her, Arc-Duchess.”
“Will you? Your lack of infatuation is palpable through the electrons!” Belisama snapped his fingers again, and the chain slowly choked, then decapitated the former CEO. Her blueish head bounced on the floor.
“It is not the case, Arch-Duchess.” Resolute, the man did not bat an eye at such an absurd display of violence.
A brief glance at the photo of his wife had given him courage. A glance which, in spite of its dark glasses and a definition parasitized by both the long distance and the encoding, appeared to have been guessed by the God.
“Do you remember why this operation is of crucial importance to the Metacaste of the Awen? And, by extension, to all humankind from Solaris to Planet Nine. Do you remember the importance of your role? For a sub-serf serving once the Ohm, you’re supposed to be clever,” Belisama said, letting go of the chain that fell heavily to the white marble floor. He straightened up, wiping the drop of blood that had spattered on his pubis with his index finger. “Your gametes-lacking coital concubine—the award-winning scientist—is also very clever. You two will breed clever offspring, one day. However, it would be a shame to picture a much darker and scarier future. Wouldn’t it?”
“There is no need to picture it, indeed.”
Tired from his plea, Belisama sighed feverishly. He brought his trembling, stained finger up to his eyes concealed by the golden mask. Meanwhile, a stream of blood dripped from the decapitated body onto the marble steps. The red liquid reached the oligarch’s toes. On contact with them, crimson wisps rose and vanished.
Seeing the God absorbed in his macabre delirium, Sirona went on: “According to our contacts in the Separatist militia’s super-radar control, your target is approaching Saturn I on an old mining spacecraft registered on Hyperion.”
“They’re not going to Titan anymore?” The corpo straightened up in his pilot seat. Pressing a few keys on the dashboard, he commanded the opening of a folder he just received. It contained a list of names. The latter flashed on one of the three monitors above the windshield. “The Techno blockade would thus already be effective. She’s looking for an astroport to Jupiter. Mimas would indeed do—interesting. I have an agent capable of reaching Nouvelle Patrie quickly. He’s already doing a contract for me near Albiorix, but he can take care of this job right after.”
“That won’t be necessary. The Moon has a team ready to act once they step out of the Customs area on Mimas.”
Heavily breathing, Belisama returned to the conversation that his tortured mind didn’t seem to have fully left: “Sirona will put you in touch with our sub-humans on Saturn I, and you’re in charge of finishing the work. We are not interested in the vulgar details, nor are we concerned with them. Only the result counts in our divine eyes.”
“Namely, the delivery of the traitorous parcel,” Sirona completed. “And if the newt witch gives you trouble. Tear off her limbs. One by one. By the time you reach Uranus, they will have grown back.”
“I will. And what about the man? Red Swan.”
“With her or not, kill him.”
An orgasmic shudder ran through the oligarch’s cadaverous body, making his diamond spines glisten. “My good sub-serf…” His voice floated through the air and became only a whisper.
“Arch-Duchess?”
“You deserve the gifts we gave you. You have never disappointed us.”
Readjusting his turban, the cyborg understood the subtle threat. “And I intend to continue.”
The answer satisfied Belisama. “As I was saying earlier, you will certainly have a formidable, highly clever offspring,” he resumed. “The Metacaste of the Awen will see to that. As promised when you joined us, and the WarTech-IHI Corporation.”
“I know why I’m doing this,” the turbaned man replied firmly.
“Splendid.”
And Globule cut off the communication.