Hunter Killers

2003 short story by Jonathan Hicks

Six years after Episode IV – A New Hope

Like waking in a strange place, only longer.

Pain behind the eyes, burning like ice, sending waves of nausea into the stomach, bouncing into the limbs, threatening to stop them working, a warning that falling down is a real possibility.

Then sight, a white nightmare at first, but images blur into being and then he sees the alley. An alley, like the ones in the movies, with big bins and steaming grates in the walls and ground. There’s rain, lots of rain, but there’s no fire escape, and that makes the whole scene seem a little strange.

A weight in the hand, but he can’t look down because movement hurts and makes him want to vomit. Then he realises he’s on his knees and hunched over slightly and he knows why. Sick stains the dark shirt he wears, bright colours but mixed with red, and that sends momentary panic when he sees it and the blaster that weighs his hand down. Fingers stiffen in response to the weapon, which seems familiar but is more repellent to him than comfortable. It drops with a sound that bounces around the inside of his head like it has gone off in his ear.

One eye is out of focus and that sends fresh feelings of nausea, which results in a horrible retching, but whatever was in his body is out now. He clutches his head and his stomach with senseless hands, each heave making his head split and eyes bulge inside his eyelids. His back arches in more pain.

She has to know.

Unbidden question. Unknown reference. Momentary confusion washed away by another retch that fetches up some bile and rancid acidic liquid. He spits and hopes steady breathing will help him make sense of where he is.

The rain washes down the back of his neck and he welcomes the sensation. He lifts his head up and opens his mouth to receive the water.

The alley focuses more as the pain begins to subside somewhat, and the bins, grates and bodies all become clearer. Bodies, lots of bodies. For whatever reason he knows there are fifteen dead beings of varying species, all with holes in chests and heads and limbs, their blood running in small tributaries to the steaming grates. Each has a weapon, still gripped in dead hands or lying next to them. He stares and tries to place their faces, those that still have faces, and then the retching begins again. Like wanting sleep so bad that you don’t mind leaving the light on and the book lying on your chest. Like a long journey you want to be over.

I never got the chance to tell her.

Who? Where? Tell her what? It’s like someone else is having these thoughts for him, the references meaning nothing but strangely familiar like a predictable script. He shakes his head. Too much pain, too much to see, too much to think and too little to make sense of any of it.

He breathes hard, the acid taste in his mouth and the smell of sick and blood and burning overpowering all other senses. His eyes water, not from rain, and he opens his mouth to see if he even recognises his own voice.

Ask her, talk to her, tell her you love her. It happens in that order.

“Freck off!” he shouts to his head. “Freck off! Freck off! Freck off!”

Alley.

Bodies.

Rain.

Blaster.

Making sense of it seems like too much hard work and he so wants to sleep but his head won’t let him and his need for answers drags him from his warm bed and slaps him awake.

Bodies. Gaping, steaming wounds. He panics again and wonders if there are any holes in his body he hasn’t noticed because the pain in his torso and limbs and head is so great. Is this what it’s like to be shot? Is the blood his? Is he dead?

I haven’t got the guts; she’ll tell me I’m an idiot.

Gritted teeth, fisted hands to temples, but the pain makes him want to breath deeper and try to relax his body into…

He stands. He knows the adrenalin booster in his left shoulder has started pumping the sub-dermal injector. He surveys his work. All fifteen are dead. He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out his comlink.

“HK Ten here.”

“Go ahead, HK Ten.”

“Situation controlled. All fifteen terminated. Need cleanup crew and medvan for possible civilian casualties. Awaiting further instructions.”

“Remain on scene, HK Ten. Crews are on their way. Implant scanner shows heightened cerebral activity. Are you injured?”

“No.”

He notices he has dropped his blaster. Strange. He does not remember doing that. He retrieves it.

“Understood. ETA teams, eight minutes. Are you going to tell her?”

“Say again, control?”

“ETA teams, eight minutes. Can you positively identify Targo?”

“Yes.”

“Problem?”

HK Team Supervisor Yullm looks up from his screen and watches as his superior, Shadow Warrior Three (they were not allowed to know their real names), walks down to his station. He rubs his tired eyes, itchy and irritable after three hours staring into the monitor in the close confines of the field hovertruck. A hazy line of smoke hovers just above his eye level and he takes a deep breath but fails to find any pure air to make himself feel better. He taps the monitor with a thin bony finger.

“HK Ten has accomplished his mission parameters, but there was a momentary spike in his cerebral scanner. I thought he might have been shot because his adrenalin booster kicked in but he says he’s okay.”

Three looks at his subordinate’s dishevelled appearance. He doesn’t like Yullm, he’s never trusted techheads or intelligence officers, so he shrugs and takes another sip of his cold chav.

“Glitch?”

“Nothing came up.”

“Then don’t worry about it. If it’s been hit the medboys’ll sew it up. What?”

Yullm must be tired as he finds himself frowning at his superior.

“Is that all you can say?”

“Watch who you’re talking to. The HK is a zombie, there’s plenty more where it came from. The only reason I put up with the thing is because this is a fast track for me.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“You know, it surprises me why you techheads get so involved with the product.”

“It’s my job.”

“Yeah, well my holoviewer went nuts last week and I binned it. Same with zombie boy. When the teams get there, call it in, shut it off and get it back to the den. If there is a problem then fix it or treat it like my holoviewer.”

Yullm sighs.

“A very expensive holoviewer.”

“I’m aware of the costs, Yullm.”

The Shadow Warrior walks to the other end of the truck and Yullm knows for sure that he is aware of the costs, and he also knows that’s all he’s aware of. A low-ranking Shadow Warrior, probably fresh from filing some other more important man’s paperwork, looks for an easy assignment, lands this job. As long as he gets the results the boss asks for and keeps those results within budget he’ll get his re-assignment and leave his seat warm for the next guy with a calculator.

Zombies. They always call them frecking zombies.

“You are aware you’re talking out loud, Yullm?”

Yullm looks over at the white eyes of his partner and smiles, quickly looking down the truck to see if his superior is still in earshot.

“I’m tired, Lawgad,” he says with a deep sigh. “I just want to get to bed.”

“Got to download Ten’s mission record but I can take care of that, mate. Go home and get some sleep, this is the eighth op in a row for you.” Lawgad’s ebony skin is shining with sweat.

Yullm yawns and leans back in his chair, stretching his arms and arching his back, waiting for something to crack or pop.

“I guess. Been a busy couple of months.”

“Well, we’re both off tonight so how about a blowout up Zythlies?”

“You might be off, you lucky man, but I’m… hold on…”

Pain again. Nausea. Disorientation.

Are you scared of her?

“Freck… what?”

The rain beats his skull, now, and he longs for somewhere warm.

“What is it?” Lawgad rolls his chair down the long bank of monitors that line the one wall of the truck.

“Cerebral scanner just spiked again, but it’s stopped.” The monitor is split up into several squares of data, one box with a series of lines faintly vibrating. They settle and return to their previous gentle trembling.

“Could it be the transmission? Weather’s a bit rough.”

“No, we’re only half a klick away, and the stream says it’s a clean signal. It’s like his head has just gone into serious activity… HK Ten, come in.”

“HK Ten, receiving.”

Yullm holds the mike of his headset as he speaks.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, area secured. No activity. Is there a problem, control?”

“No, no problem. Can you check for damage?”

“Hold on, control.”

Lawgad watches the monitors. The cerebral scanner’s lines waver slightly more than usual and then settle again.

“Control, no damage found.”

“Okay, HK Ten, stay on station and return to control when the teams arrive.”

“Got it.”

Fingers blur over keyboard as Yullm asks the databanks several questions and the databanks answer with another box on the screen filled with code. He stares at it intently, tapping a single key to scroll down.

“What do you think?” Lawgad asks, knowing what Yullm is looking at.

“I can’t see any malfunction messages, no interruption to the cerebral implant.”

“Blow to the head?”

“He says he’s fine.”

“If his implant’s damaged he might not be aware of it.”

“Damn,” Yullm slams his finger on the exit key and closes the three-dimensional box on the monitor, sits back in his chair with a groan. “I’d better call the lab and have them set up a chair. No early night for me.”

Lawgad smiles.

“I’ve got a bottle of twenty-twenty in my desk…”

“Save it.” Spinning in his chair he rolls over to the other side of the narrow space, unplugging his headset from the main bank and plugging it into a large bulky wall unit with a stained keypad and monitor. He presses three keys simultaneously and waits. There is no image but a thin voice speaks through his earpiece.

“Lab.”

“Harrys, its Yullm.”

“Hi, Yullm.” Harrys’s voice is mocking and he can hear laughter in the background. He shakes his head and smiles. “How’s the brown nosing going?” More laughter.

“I was assigned, I didn’t volunteer.”

“There must be something dodgy going on if you have to do five shifts in a row. Are you seeing the boss’s wife?”

“Eight ops, Harrys, eight.”

“Wow, are you seeing his daughter, as well?”

“Will you shut up?” Yullm looks at Lawgad, still smiling, and shakes his head in mock impatience. Lawgad guesses what the conversation is about and chuckles. “We’ve got a possible glitch in HK Ten, need a chair set up.”

“Okay. Who do want on it?”

“The usual guys. Get someone down from medical, Ten might be injured.”

“What do the stats say?”

“Heightened cerebral activity indicating trauma but Ten says he hasn’t been hit or injured.”

“If his implant is damaged he might not know for sure.”

Yullm nods to Lawgad who raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“That’s what Lawgad said. He’s probably okay, but I want to be sure.”

There is a slight pause as Harrys enters Yullm’s requests into the system.

“No problem. Actually, I need a pay rise, do you think the boss’s wife might be up for a change?”

“Yeah, ‘bye, Harrys,” Yullm pulls the plug and the line goes dead. He rolls back over to the bank of monitors and plugs himself back in.

“Harrys still giving you grief over your extra hours?” Lawgad asks, knowing the answer as he himself had goaded Harrys into making the comments. Yullm sighs but doesn’t answer.

“Is that what everyone thinks?” Yullm asks with a slight smile but serious eyes. He casts a quick glance over HK Ten’s stats but sees no problem. Heart rate normal, brain activity normal. Swirls of data scroll across the screen and is gone in a few confusing seconds. Yullm can make sense of the coding. Numbers and lines and words and symbols denoting scanning and system monitoring. Three screens, twelve boxes of info. HK Ten in data form. His body in a dark alley, his brain at the end of another man’s fingertips.

“What do you mean?” Lawgad has uncorked the bottle of twenty-twenty and pours himself a healthy measure in a stained mug. Yullm declines the offer of a share of the dead brown liquid.

“I’ve been assigned, I’ve not volunteered, I’m not looking for special treatment.”

“We know, we’re just messing you around. Yullm, cool out, no-one means anything by it… what the freck…”

The screens all blur for a moment and then flicker, the room vibrates as the engine of the long control hovertruck roars and snarls into life.

“Why the hell doesn’t he warn us before he turns the thing over?” Lawgad snaps. He holds the mug tentatively and waves his free hand to help remove the sticky brown alcohol that has spilled over the rim.

Yullm smiles. He leans forward and taps his earpiece. He opens his mouth to speak but Lawgad says, “Are you worried the others are a little concerned about your extra duty?”

Yullm shrugs, leans back in his chair, which creaks like old damp wood.

“I know they’re messing, but they must be concerned that I’m pulling the extra shifts. Why are HK Ten and I always out? I’ve heard it asked. I’m raking in the overtime. No one else is getting the option.”

“No one’s going to begrudge you extra work, Yullm.”

“And I’m not going to whinge, it’s creds at the end of the day. But hell, Lawgad, eight shifts? No wonder we’re seeing abnormalities in Ten’s patterns, the zombie…” Yullm catches himself. “The HK must need some downtime. The cerebral implant needs some downtime.”

“You need some downtime.”

“I need to get drunk, eat greasy food and get a good night’s sleep.”

There’s a moment of introspection. Lawgad wonders if he really is jealous of Yullm’s overtime. Yullm wonders if he actually cares what other people think one way or the other.

“Freck it. If you’re that bothered, sign yourself off. You’ve got free time coming.” Lawgad drinks his brown liquid and wipes his hand on his brown trousers. “Lucky I wore these.”

“Control?”

Yullm leans forward.

“Control here.”

“This is the cleanup. We’re at the alley, quite a mess, two civilian casualties. Have you recalled the HK already?”

A concerned frown.

“No, he was to stay on station until you guys turned up.”

“Well, it’s not here.”

A moment of confusion, followed by indecision, then action. Yullm disconnects from the cleanup crew and taps the key for HK Ten’s receiver.

“HK Ten, come in.”

Nothing.

“HK Ten, respond.”

The line hums softly but no answer.

Then a large red message appears over all the boxes open, imposing and coloured for trouble.

SYSTEM INTERRUPTED

“Oh, no!” Yullm starts jabbing keys, closing the warning text and trying an auxiliary program.

SYSTEM INTERUPPTED

“Damn, Lawgad, check signal clarity and connection relays.”

Lawgad’s hands fly over the keyboard, glances from the keys to the screen, then over at Yullm as he waits for the data core to spit out an answer. Yullm is questioning the system, asking coded questions the data core mulls over for a few seconds before answering in the negative.

“Signal’s clean,” Lawgad reports.

“Call the implant,” Yullm orders and rolls his chair down to the end of the bank of monitors and awakens a dedicated mainframe to scan the system for bugs and errors. Huge amounts of data are wrung through an electronic mangler and interrogated. The system comes out clean.

“No answer from the implant,” Lawgad reports. “I’m scanning for the beacon.”

He taps the code. The screen goes blank except for a line of dots slowly appearing across the screen. Then the answer.

NO REPLY

“The implant and beacon are not responding,” Lawgad says. “The signal is clean but there’s nothing for the transmission to bounce off. It’s gone.”

Yullm shakes his head and continues to punch keys.

“HK’s don’t just turn off,” he murmurs. His hands fly over the keyboard as he tries to re-start the link to the HK and find out from the last recorded signals what might have happened. He can hear footsteps approaching from the end of the truck, through the door that separates the work area from the HK staging area. Shadow Warrior Three.

“Yullm, where’s the zombie?”

“Not now.”

“What?”

“Not now. Lawgad, shut off our connection to the network in case it’s viral. Call Doc Harrys on a non-data line and see if he’s having problems.”

“On it.”

The Shadow Warrior looks from one man to the other, his face a mask of anger and concern. He’s not a techie so the words are alien to him. All he’s used to are the phrases ‘mission on’ and ‘mission off’, coupled with the odd ‘how many sweeteners?’

“Yullm?”

“We’ve lost connection with HK Ten. Trying to re-establish.” Yullm considers a re-boot but with the system down for too long the HK would suffer permanent brain death and the computer did not control neural motor functions. He decides to re-start each system one at a time so that the brain of the distant HK was still active doing something or another, even if it was lying in a gutter unconscious. He taps keys and every now and then his eyes stray to the cerebral scanner but the lines are straight and dead. Not even the slight waver of passive activity. It’s then he becomes aware of a voice.

“Yullm, tell me what the hell is going on.” Three is still here.

“Wait,” Yullm says sharply, trying to multitask and keep an eye on the cerebral scanner at the time. His fingers fly with ease and repetition. Boxes close and then restart but each time they open they have the red stencil over them.

SYSTEM INTERUPPTED

“Harrys is reporting no failure. They’re running diagnostics over the network and mainframe.” Lawgad has left his station and is now standing over Yullm shoulder, the activity on the screens making his sweat shine. Yullm doesn’t notice him. Doesn’t notice Three. Just sees boxes opening and closing rapidly, red messages flashing on and off as fast as he can open new systems. Implant scanners, mission parameter downloads, hardware monitors, software diagnostics, neural link routers… every system that connects HK Ten to the computer system in the truck, every system that controls his thoughts and his mission co-ordinator drive and his response actuator and his nervous system acceleration implants and spinal wire-cord. Every internal system is scanned, transmitted and ultimately denied access to Ten’s internal system.

“Damn.”

Three looks at Yullm with a blank face.

“What?”

Lawgad leans in.

“What?”

Yullm leans back in his chair as the last of the system boxes flash that red, unavoidable phrase at him, dying the room in scarlet.

“Damn,” Yullm says again, and wonders if he should have turned down tonight’s offer for more overtime.

The six-wheeled transport slews around the corner on the wet road, trying to control a hasty retreat yet not give away the fact the occupants were trying to get somewhere fast. The van bounces over a crumbling gap in the road. Buildings, tall and clawing a way into the dark damp smog-covered sky, fly past as streaks of lights and colours. Other sparse road vehicles sound their horns and sirens. The six-wheeler answers with a tuneful blare of its own.

Litter in the streets. Dead speeders on their sides. Buildings half-filled with the decaying dredges of those not worthy of living on the outskirts of Amagad City. Steel and glass and concrete all mixed in a pot labelled ‘Lack of Forethought’ and deposited to house the people the higher echelons would rather forget about.

Skirters, all of them. Living on the outskirts of the larger, cleaner, wealthier parts of the city. Jammed between the mountains and the sea. Streets straight, intersected by small growths of sentient beings clawing their way through existence, waiting for drops from aid speeders or raiding underground un-manned transport pods. Every now and then a delicacy destined for the high tables of the rich, sometimes real meat or vegetables cooked in rusted cylinders.

Homemade vehicles, fossil fuel powered or run on the smallest amount of energy, rumble through the streets on wheels and repulsor fields. The six-wheeled van is a treasure to its owner. Running on electric, the parts easy to replace or manufacture, the power sucked through a splice into the city’s grid. No external locks, no unprotected windows, the hard-rubber wheels covered in grating and metal. A moving prize for any Scavengers or Street Raiders who might want their own transport at no cost.

Hence the speed. That, and the new passenger.

Mooto drives, a huge man with a wide neck and a thin mohican haircut. His necklace and long dangling earrings swing this way and that as he takes corners. The van bounces up and then slams down and he whoops his delight at the movement, the speed, the adrenalin. He slams the steering wheel and nods his head to the track on the M-disc player, Gotta Speed by Gulag. Whoever the freck they are.

Red hair appears between the oversized headrests and Suselow slaps him on the shoulder.

“Can you possibly try not to hit every single frecking bump?” she shouts over the noise of the screaming singer and the pounding drums.

“You wanted us out of here, quick,” Mooto shouts back, his smile child-like, his eyes bright with activity.

Suselow slaps him again.

“The catch is useless if you freck it up. Slow down!”

“Aw, Suselow…”

“Slow the freck down!”

Pouting like a rebuked teenager, Mooto eases off the charge. The six-wheeled van starts to slow but keeps a speed that pleases both man and woman. The bumps are less violent and Suselow reaches over and flicks off the M-player.

“Suselow…”

“Brackli’s trying to concentrate, you’ve had your fun.”

Mooto pouts again and murmers under his breath. All Suselow catches are the words ‘frecking’ and ‘fun’. She shakes her head and returns to the back of the van.

Two men are in the back. One is taking a capacitor magazine out of a bulky tube he handles. His shock of yellow hair is greased with whatever Mooto uses on the engine and his face is thin and shadowed by lack of decent food and booster abuse, highlighted by a shock of yellow lipstick. He shakes his head.

“Don’t read it, just don’t.”

Suselow adjusts her synthleather pants before kneeling down in front of him.

“What’s up, Brackli?”

“Three charges to bring ‘im down. I scope true he’s wired, but can’t logic three blasts, Suselow. He’s rock to sand, y’know?”

Suselow shakes her head with mild confusion.

“Talk straight, Brackli, drop the gutterspeak.”

“I’m tricked to the bone, Suselow, thing has caned my tool. This is gone. Needs new capacitors. Just fried.”

“Are you saying the stun gun’s broken?”

“You not scopin’, bint?”

“Call me that again and I will freck you up, Brackli, I’m not kidding. Grin?” She turns to the other man. “How’s our catch?”

The other being looks up from the covered form on the floor of the six-wheeled van. He is small and has scaly skin and a lipless mouth. He shrugs, sitting back and kicking out the long torn ends of his black armoured overcoat from his feet.

“I’ve put the scrambler over the implant I can see but I’m not sure if it’s blocking the signal to his control truck.”

“If it ain’t wallin’ we’re street stains,” Brackli says.

Suselow gives him a dirty look.

“Will you guys cool the freck out? This is our ticket out of this damn drain. Think positive. We’ve got the catch of the year here. We’ll get him to Blinkers, get him cut open or whatever he has to do, get the tech, get loaded with cred. Worth the risk.”

“Man, what if Glann sends out more HK’s to get him? Get us?” Grin places his hands against his cheeks and stares at the covered form.

Suselow sits back against the hump in the back of the van that covers a spare wheel. “Glann won’t waste the time. Rarely sends anyone into the Skirt…”

“But this is different, Suselow. One of their own HK’s gone. They’ll want it back.”

“By the time they find it it’ll be a corpse with a missing implant. Look, we knew the risk when we set this up, what, are you getting cold feet?”

Brackli drops the stun gun to the floor and sits back himself.

“No joy in scazzin’ over road gone, hose. Light a spark…”

“Brackli, will you frecking talk properly?” Suselow chops her hand in Brackli’s direction to emphasise her point. “You sound like a moron when you talk like that.”

“Cool out, bint, grow a frost.”

“I’m gonna beat you to death with that fried gun in a minute.”

Nerves are frayed, Suselow knows that. They’re small time scavengers usually, travelling where the action is, getting paid for the odd job or chewing on what’s left of a hit or gang. All they own has been scavenged and foraged from the streets. The van was a recent lucky break. The clothes are only one of three or four outfits they own. Water tanks are filled whenever they can, food and items and ammo taken in payment for jobs done or contracts completed. They’d even done a little work for Cipple’s men, tracking down their corporation escapees in the Skirt so that they didn’t have to waste time or HK’s on what they considered to be a trivial matter. Men running with secrets to sell them to the highest bidder. They usually tried to make contact with the gangs on Chancai, so they were easy to nail at the docking bays on the coast. Good money on Chancai, good money. Better than this hole. This stain on the map of the galaxy, like the man rendering a beautiful piece of stellar art had spilled his chav on his work.

In reality the rest of the suburban cities across Amagad were no better, but if she could pass herself off as someone important, flash the creds, she’d get into one of the central locations and mix with the money.

Anything. Anything to get away from the fear that the next day would be the last. Chewing slowly in case the next meal was a long time coming. Dreaming of being able to gulp water down, without having to pass the flask on or spitting out the taste of bleach and chlorine.

All this for credits. Risking instant execution. Hunted by other HK’s. Hated by everyone. Never, ever being able to return to the planet of her birth.

Freck ‘em. They can keep it.

“It moved,” Grin says sharply, pushing himself back against the side of the van. Brackli grabs the broken stun gun and holds it like a club, waving it at shoulder height ready to strike. Suselow sits up, leans forward, leans back.

“It’s just the van bouncing. We’re nearly there.”

“No, it’s hand flexed, I saw.”

“Hit it with a sedative.”

Grin purses his lips and shakes his head.

“It’s taken three vials. We’ve got no more. I’m not going near it.”

“I’ll bang it down, dazed to morn,” Brackli blurts, leaning forward, but Suselow grabs his arm and forces him back.

“You are not smacking it over the head, you stupid idiot. That’s our ticket. It’s not far. Blinker will know what to do with it. If there’s any major problems you can mash his head up, Brackli, but until then we leave it alone.”

“We’re here!” Mooto shouts, and everyone relaxes.

The huge muscular form of Mooto carries the limp form of the HK over his shoulder and takes the steps up to Blinker’s secure room above the old warehouse two at a time. Silver moonlight filters through the smog cloud and turns the dark stairwell into alternating bands of black and white with small motes of disturbed dust and asbestos drifting lazily through the thick air. Suselow follows, sawn-off single shot at the ready, with Grin and Brackli bringing up the rear. They know the cargo they have is important and dangerous and the faster they get to Blinkers secure room, the faster they can unload it.

A heavy blast door blocks their way and a small camera spins to look down on them. The lens swivels and extends several times and Mooto shakes his head with frustration.

“Blinkers, for…”

“Making sure you’re not a ghost image in my system.”

“It’s us, moron!”

“That won’t get you in.”

Suselow waves her hand at the camera.

“Blinkers, open the frecking door!”

Silence. The camera swivels and focuses on her.

“Blinkers!”

“Okay, calm it down. And ease off the profanities.”

The lock on the door hisses and rattles as a huge hydraulic bar behind it slides back. Mooto kicks the door and it swings open, and before everyone is in room he runs in and deposits the HK on the clear table in the middle of the room.

Great skylights above, reinforced with steel cables and mesh. Old but clean walls covered in drab grey paint. Tables strewn with electronics and boxes of wires and items unrecognisable in broken-down form. A sofa, covered in paraphernalia, sits by a small kitchenette and a curtained-off toilet gleams white in the far corner. Everything is spotless but for the items piled haphazardly.

A man sits by a huge bank of monitors, processors and data boxes. A large keyboard and an assortment of wires cover the desk. He has thin hair in a ponytail and a rough white beard. His skin is pale and his blind eyes are hollow and ringed with shadow. Thin gangly limbs in white pyjamas move like an insect as the man stands to his full two-metre height.

“You got it,” he says. A small camera is in his hand which he holds at his temple, a wire trailing from the back of it into the computer system and then into a small port in the left part of his skull. There are several ports in his skull of varying size, covering his head like tumourous growths, oblong ports, circular ports, square ports. pink scar tissue highlighting the surgery. “Wow, you got it.” He walks over, the long wire trailing out behind him. He stands over the HK and waves the camera over him, his head not moving, taking in everything the camera transmits into his optic nerves. “He is bald,” he says with a smile.

Suselow appears confused.

“So what?”

Blinkers does not share the joke.

“Turn him over.”

As Mooto obliges, Blinkers holds the camera so it is viewing Suselow.

“I scoped the airwaves but there is no obvious alert, yet. No squads have been assigned to this area and no alarms have been sounded. They are probably still trying to figure out what has happened and are just looking for the unit.”

“Good,” Suselow sighs and flops down onto the only space on the sofa. “It was harder than we figured.”

“How so?”

“Well, Brackli hid in the big bin and zapped the HK after it had downed the dealers and Targo. He had to hit him three times! Three times, Blinkers!”

“He set the stun gun on the charge I said, yes?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if it fried the HK’s circuits. The first time he just dropped to his knees, puked down himself and kept shouting ‘freck’, or something. Then he just got up as if nothing had happened and reported in.”

“Shivered m’spine, hose, hairs up and legs primed for go,” Brackli interrupts. “Had to zap him twice more…”

“What?” Blinkers frowns. “You are not still trying to speak that awful gutter stuff, are you?”

“What’s the klax, hose?” Brackli said.

“Anyway,” Suselow continues, staring down Brackli, “he hit the deck, lay still, and we stuck the scrambler over the implant. Job done. Hopefully, we severed the link to his control truck.”

“And hopefully have induced brain death so we do not have to worry about it waking up when I am taking the implant out. Do you know how much Dressel will pay for neural control technology? They are way behind. We’ll make a killing…”

“I saw him move in the van,” Grin puts in. He’s biting his fingernails on one hand and has his other hand tucked under his armpit. His nervousness has not abated.

Blinkers sweeps the camera up and views him.

“What? You did?”

“Ah, it was just the bumps in the road, Blinkers,” Suselow says.

“No, he flexed his hand,” Grin insists, his voice sharp, jabbing a finger at the clean tiled floor.

There is a pause as Blinkers regards the HK, and he shakes his head.

“It must have been a reflex action, or something the internal systems did whilst they were trying to sort out why they were cut from the control truck.”

“Either way, Blinkers, get the stuff out of him and we can get out of here,” Suselow walks over to the kitchenette and raids the refrigerator for a drink. “You’ve only got brown water,” she hisses and unscrews the bottle top.

Blinkers leans over the HK and takes in a deep breath. He is staring at the scrambler unit, a small box with several flashing lights on its surface, and he takes it off. Grin starts.

“Blinkers, that’s the jammer…!”

“The room is fully transmission shielded, Grin, do not concern yourself. I will just…” He too does not complete his sentence and he simply stares at the form on the table, taking an involuntary step back and allowing his features to morph into an expression of concern that everyone sees.

“Blinkers,” Mooto says, stepping forward.

“It moved,” Blinkers says.

Everyone is moving. Suselow drops her bottle and draws her single shot, Mooto moves up to stand beside Blinkers, Grin makes sure he is standing as close to the door as possible and Brackli joins him. The HK moves again. The left hand balls into a fist and then extends into a star.

“I’ll shoot it,” Suselow shouts as she levels the single shot. Mooto leans in and grabs the HK’s weapon from where it is stored in a belt holster, flicking off the catch of the bulky blaster and levelling it at the head of the unit.

“I’ll shoot it, too,” he says. The handgun whines, the cylindrical magazine in the back of it turns slowly and clicks into place.

Blinkers steps forward.

“No, wait!”

“What, you zimmin’ to blow patterns?” Brackli snaps. “Vape it!”

“If the implants are operational… Dressel will pay more for a fully operational unit!” Blinkers holds the camera at arm’s length as he observes the movement. Then it stops.

Silence, like the pause before a play begins, and all that is heard is the whirring of the HK’s bulky handgun.

“Shall I?” Mooto motions with the gun’s barrel, obviously eager to try out the weapon. Blinkers waves his hand in the negative and steps closer.

Suselow’s eyes widen at the movement. “Blinkers!”

“I’m going to keep it complete. Mooto, go and contact your fence and tell him we have the merchandise. The faster we can close this deal the faster we can get this HK out of our hair.”

Mooto appears unsure and looks to Suselow for confirmation. She looks from him to the HK to Blinkers.

“You’d better be sure about this, man, Mooto, go. Leave the gun.”

“Suselow, I might need this.” Mooto is obviously reluctant to give up the exotic weapon.

“Yeah, turning up to a meeting with a fence carrying a weapon, Mooto, that’s real smart. If zombie boy here goes loco we’ll need some firepower and this popgun sucks. Swap you.”

Mooto appears confused.

“But you said no guns…”

“This isn’t a gun, it’s tube with a loud noise. Look, just give me the piece and take off. The faster we unload this thing the faster we can count the creds and skip the planet.”

Mooto pauses, his mouth a thin line, and he hands over the weapon, taking the rusty tube in return. He quickly exits the room and Brackli watches him descend the stairs to the secure garage below on the monitors over Blinkers’ desk.

“What now?” Suselow asks.

Blinkers approaches the HK and examines the implant. Lower part of the skull, just behind the left earlobe, is a small circular port raised a little from the level of the skin. The skin has the rough pink of surgery but it is much more haphazard than Blinkers own attachments, like the unit has been placed in with a kitchen knife and a hammer. Wiring raises thin lines under the skin but smoothes as it goes deeper into the body. Blinkers reaches out and places his fingers against the neck.

Suselow steps forward, raising the heavy weapon with both hands.

“Blinkers!”

“It is alive,” Blinkers whispers, a huge smile across his face. “Separation from the mainframe must have sent the implant into a kind of standby mode. This is better than I expected! If only Targo could see this…”

“Yeah, well, Targo knew the risks and now he’s toast,” Suselow lowers the gun and tentatively steps forward, “because of that frecking thing. Look, this doesn’t feel right, and it’s not what we agreed.”

Blinkers is hardly listening.

“If only I had the equipment. I would love to see how this works.”

“You’ve got your own implants, take a guess.”

“No, my implants allow me direct mental access to computer systems, but this enables control over the individual via a control system. Memory downloads, information access, even bodily functions to some degree. It is quite amazing.”

Suselow is not impressed.

“Yeah, if I wasn’t wetting myself I’d do cartwheels.”

Brackli laughs, but Suselow doesn’t.

Then the HK moves again.

This time it jerks upwards, hands flailing out as if fighting flying insects. A hand connects with Blinkers’ head and he falls back from his bent-knee position, camera flying out of hand, rump connecting sharply with the floor eliciting a cry of surprise. Brackli screams pitifully, diving for the door but the HK has rolled off the table and staggered into that direction. Brackli screams again, shock of yellow hair gliding through the air for safety behind the sofa.

Everything happens so fast Suselow barely reacts. She tries to lift the gun but her fingers are nerveless. The HK stands to his full height, head spinning this way and that. Hands balled as if ready for action, eyes scanning the whole room, perhaps looking for tactical advantage or signs of escape.

But when it turns to look at her she sees it’s face and, for some reason she cannot fathom, shooting it appears to be the best course of action.

The HK’s face is a contorted mess of pain and sheer terror. Eyes wide, the eyebrow-less forehead creased into lines of fear and confusion, the mouth parted in a silent scream, the nostrils flaring.

Suselow levels the weapon and pulls the trigger.

“At some point you’re gonna have to explain how you managed to lose a fully functional Hunter Killer,” Three says with drawl. “I’m not the one whose gonna get shafted for this mess, Yullm.”

The Shadow Warrior, Yullm and Lawgad stand at the mouth of the alleyway as the cleanup crew move back and forth, bagging bodies and tying tags. The control truck steams as the thinning rain lands on it’s heated engine bay, the same for the three other vehicles and the Skyhoppers hovering just above the scene illuminating the area with trembling light. Armed and armoured Lawkeepers stand about the area with heavy blasters at the ready, but the local Skirters don’t appear too interested in the scene. They’ve seen enough violence to make the incident routine. Plastic coats and torn umbrellas pass by with hardly a glance.

“We still haven’t ascertained the reason,” Yullm says in his own defence. “Software crash, hardware failure. If the implant shorted for whatever reason the unit might be running round in it’s underwear doing impressions of a duck.”

Lawgad looks at Yullm quizzically, but before he can ask ‘what’s a duck?’ Three turns, flicks his nixstix into the darkness and jabs a finger into Yullm’ face.

“Don’t start acting like this is something that happens every shift, you cocky frecker,” he barks. “A unit has decided to take a midnight walk on my watch. If someone is going to pay for this screw-up…”

“Shadow Warrior Three!”

The man turns at the sound of his voice, face still glaring with anger. When he sees the three men approaching from a landed Hoverskipper, blue and red lights strobing across the street, his face changes from rage to worry and he stands to attention, saluting smartly.

“Shadow Melm, sir!”

A silver haired man with prominent crows feet by the eyes walks up to so that he stands almost nose to nose with his subordinate. His black hat shines with silver badges of rank, the dark uniform darker at the shoulders as the rain begins to soak in. The two men following are dressed much like Shadow Warrior Three, but their glass-shaded eyes scan the street, wary of trouble.

“Tell me this is some kind of joke, Shadow Warrior Three,” Melm says with a snarl. “Tell me the HK is on it’s way in.”

“I… I can’t tell you that, sir,” Three says, stepping back and relaxing his stance in submission, his eyes looking anywhere but at his superior officer.

“I’m on my way home when Lab calls and tells me HK Ten has suffered a malfunction. I’m told by despatch that the unit has gone missing. I think to myself,” Melm produces a cold smile, showing yellow teeth, “’That can’t be right. HK’s do not go missing.’ But then I realised, ‘I’ve got a board dinner tonight. Of course something’s going to mess up.’”

“Sir,” Three can hardly speak, “HK Ten had completed the mission when the controller monitored a system failure. He failed to re-establish contact with the HK.”

“Where’s the controller?”

Three motions to Yullm.

“Yullm and Lawgad Greeny.” He takes a step back, hoping that the leader of the Shadow Warriors will focus his anger on a new target.

Melm steps forward.

“What the hell happened,” he pauses for a second as he looks the two men up and down, and then finally settles on Yullm.

Yullm swallows nervously.

“We had three short interruptions in the system, sir. We checked but everything seemed fine. The cleanup crew arrived here, but the HK had already gone. Then the system failed.”

“And it never occurred to you call the malfunction in?” Melm questions.

“Sir, we get slight interruptions from time to time, especially in this weather. I did call in and prepared Lab to go over the hard and software of the unit. But after that, we lost contact.”

“And the beacon?” Melm looks from Yullm to Lawgad.

“Nothing. No response, sir,” Lawgad says, but declines from adding anything further.

“And it’s nothing viral?”

“No, sir.”

“So the HK has walked off and no-one can tell me why?”

Silence.

“No, sir,” Yullm finally says.

“Marvellous.” Melm throws his hands into the air and appears as if he is about to walk away, but then he suddenly turns and encompasses the three men with his glare. “Do you know where I’m going tonight?” he asks, not expecting an answer. “I’m dining with Chairman Gree. Do you know who Chairman Gree is? He’s the head of the Setnin Justice Department. On the very night you lose one of our HK’s, I’m about to start talks with the S.J.D on a HK supply contract. Do you know what this will do?” Melm puts on a whiney voice. “Ooh, you can have the HK’s, Chairman Gree. Hope you have better luck in running them than we did.” He ends the sentence in a growl and pumps his fist in anger. “Well, you’d better find that unit and figure out what’s wrong with it, or you’ll be scraping crap out of vent tubes at the edge of the galaxy by the end of the week.” Melm gives them all a long, hard stare and then turns to head back to his Hoverskipper. “Keep me informed.”

He walks away and all three men watch him go in silence.

Then Lawgad says.

“He was upset.”

Shadow Warrior Three slowly turns to look at Lawgad with a face of incredulity. “That wasn’t frecking funny! Get on it!”

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” Yullm has taken a pill and a gulp of the freshest water he can find. The atmosphere in the truck is chilly with a hint of haze, clearer now that the door to the outside has been open for a few minutes. The monitor’s no longer blur and the humming of the data servers don’t grate his nerves. Fresh, reprocessed air. “I’m running a scan to check for possible software failure. It’ll take a few minutes. Lawgad, you check the signal and make sure it’s not something simple like a whiteout or a cross-link.”

“I’ll need access to the mainframe and a few moments to pull the situation time index.”

“I’ll open you up.”

“Glad of the overtime now, mate?”

Yullm smiles and shakes his head as he starts tapping keys. He had the chance to have port surgery, once, but the thought of a direct neural link to a computer seemed nightmarish to him. He had heard of the surgery making people different, a form of schizophrenia still being checked by doctors who were apparently in the know. He once knew a man who had the operation and refused to open his eyes ever again – the vision of streams of data and graphic representations superimposed over reality had threatened to drive him insane.

Tapping keys is natural to him. He did it, his father had done it, his friends do it. Ports are for geeks.

Tap tap tappety tap.

“I’m not getting anything from the scan that we don’t already know,” Yullm said after a while. “This is bollocks.”

Tap tappety tap tap.

“Hell.”

Yullm turns in his seat and stares at Lawgad, wondering at his exclamation.

“What’s up?”

Lawgad sits back.

“Look at this.”

Yullm crosses over to Lawgad’s bank of monitors. Lawgad is running a recording of data, time indexed at exactly the same moment as the first slight interruption they experienced before they lost the HK. The long bars of wavering light and the slide-rule type representations on the screen move at their own pace until they all move with an urgency and violence that make Yullm blink rapidly for a few seconds before asking, “What the freck was that?”

“Something jumped on the signal. The readings here and here are indicative of a power surge.”

“From the implant?”

“Not a chance. The implant doesn’t carry that much power. It happens so fast. I must have turned away for a second and just…” he shrugs, “… missed it.”

Yullm pulls his seat over and taps the screen.

“Run a shot of the readings during the second interruption and the final loss of signal.”

Lawgad taps keys. The readings seem to speed up as they are cycled through and then settle at the request of the program to slow time so the viewers can watch the second interruption.

The same.

“Holy damn,” Lawgad scans the second readings so they overlay the first ones. “They’re almost exactly the same.”

“And the third?”

A few moments pass. The program cycles. The results appear.

“This ain’t no coincidence,” Lawgad says with a drawl, mimicking a well-known holovid show. “The readings share the pattern, from what looks like an electrical source. Look, the synaptic kinetics go flying off the scale. That kicks from a power surge.”

“How the hell did we miss that during monitoring?”

“Because it was a long day, we’re tired, you’re on your eighth shift, and the mission was over and we were talking. Either that or we’re just bad at our jobs.”

“Whatever, but all I can see is failures in the HK’s design. Taking half-dead men and giving them implants? What about tissue rejection, nerve damage? Hell, what happens if they remember their old lives?” Yullm shrugs and rolls back to his own bank of monitors. “Ah, well, I’ll match the time indexes and see what I’ve got…”

Melm stares at Glann Cipple and waits for his response.

“So, I spend hundreds of thousands of credits on a HK system which has flaws and doesn’t work?” he asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“And it fails on the evening you were about to close the deal with the Chairman.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now the S.J.D will go somewhere else for their automated Lawkeepers.”

“Yes, sir. But we now know the HK program is flawed. Professor Harrys requests to continue research on the Galletti Combine Project.”

A long pause.

“Melm… I’m very disappointed.”

Suselow sighs heavily, watches the planet of Amagad fall away below her.

I got the creds, and I’m going home.

She smiles at Mooto and cradles the circular bag on her lap, about the size of a human head.

Lots and lots of creds.

Grin looks at the body of Blinkers, torn apart by the wildly thrashing HK, and takes a long hard look at the warehouse home that Blinkers owned.

Not a bad place, and transmission shielded, he thinks. Bit of paint. Fix up nice.

And Brackli? Oh, he went back to work with Ranjid as an outlaw engineer. “You were right,” he said on his return. “All those underworld guys are psychos!”

Hunter Killers

2003 short story by Jonathan Hicks

Six years after Episode IV – A New Hope

Histories – Preceding directly the story Testing, this Jonathan Hicks tale brings together some familiar characters, such as Grin, an unusually agitated Melm, and Yullm, we are also introduced to lesser-used characters such as Trace Dallagra’s assistant Suselow, Glann Cipples weapons desk officer Lawgad Greeny and Star Spares tech Brackli. We also learn more the extent of Cipples genetics and cybernetic divisions under the control of Professor `Doc’ Harrys, a roleplay-era character designed by Darren Houghton, and the levels upon which Cipple and Melm operate.

Cast of Characters

Blinkers

Brackli

Chairman Gree

Glann Cipple

Grin

HK Ten Hunter Killer

Lawgad Greeny

Melm

Mooto

Professor Jenner `Doc’ Harrys

Suselow

Targo

Yullm