Raddocks Horizon (Godyssey Legacy Book 1) Read online

  The thought gives Caufmann the distinct feeling of indigestion and he hiccups slightly, tasting acid at the back of his throat. He scratches his chest and is reminded of Roths digging at her arm. A realization dawns on him.

  She’s infected.

  He can’t use the treatment on his staff yet as he isn’t sure of what it will actually do. He can’t afford to make things worse at this critical stage. Roths should still have a fortnight before things get really bad, so he decides to make maximum use of her until then.

  Caufmann sighs and estimates that in one month the city will be overrun, but by what is another question. He’s seen this sickness do terrible things. The mutations are grotesque but the effects it has on the mind are as fascinating as they are horrible.

  The treatment is untested and most likely hopeless, but it is literally the city’s only chance. He opens his radio to make his desperate gambit.

  “Attention all Godyssey staff, initiate the closing stage of Project Outreach. I want all shipments of flu vaccinations out by tomorrow morning.”

  ◆◆◆

  Rennin is reclining in his tower thinking through the day’s events, replaying the shots taken at the android intruder. Armour that thick is rare, so rare that Rennin can’t think of a place that would have it available, much less how the progenitor-class could possibly attain such funding.

  What he still can’t understand is why bother upgrading it to combat ready when assassin androids can be built for half the cost and wouldn’t bother making an appearance. It would just kill its mark. Seems overly elaborate.

  Raddocks Horizon is in serious trouble, and for the first time in his long career he considers desertion. If that’s what it is called when one abandons a corporate entity.

  He remains seated for the rest of his shift, occasionally looking out to the streets that are a little busy for this time of night.

  The pub can be seen across the street but the mirrored glass makes seeing into it impossible. He briefly thinks about using his thermal-vision goggles to see if he can make out Carla working at the bar. Since his shift is over in an hour, he decides against wasting the effort.

  His hangover is almost gone now and the more it fades the more desertion is on his mind. Is it desertion? He’s only a security watchman after all, despite his shoot-to-kill orders. He could give notice like a normal person but something inside tells him that if he tells them he’s leaving he’ll be denied and put under observation, or worse: made a permanent resident of Godyssey.

  Eventually, and in painstaking time, his workday is over. He exits the lab into the night, to unintentionally mingle with the crowds of people swirling all around the streets. He wonders if there’s some kind of night festival. Or maybe the Gorai Aurelia Rally is a few days early.

  He paces up and down the street, wondering if he should go into the bar to see Carla or if he’s really going to do a runner. Rennin isn’t accustomed to feeling nervous about anything except when he’s in a crowd unarmed.

  He takes a breath and knows he’s not capable of running away from this or anything else. He despises cowardice, no matter what glib label it’s given, especially pacifism.

  Then again he also hates the military, so much he even shot his superior officer when he made the mistake of forgetting his morals with a prisoner of war.

  He’d also received remands for refusing to be a decoy in the field.

  What kind of idiot would actually follow an order to commit suicide? Suicide sends you to Hell, after all. Not that Rennin’s religious either.

  He should have been kicked out for refusing that order to draw fire. Things were so bad towards the end of the war that they couldn’t afford to. Of course, his superior officer not surviving the subsequent engagement helped.

  Leaving his trip down memory lane where it is, he steps through the doors to the bar. He sees that there are quite a few people out and about this evening. Carla spots him from the bar and she’s smirking at him. He realises he must look like a walking corpse.

  He goes over to the bar and takes the only available stool at the end, the furthest from the door. There are only four bar staff to deal with the onslaught of orders so Carla half swaggers over to him, “You look-”

  “Like shit, yes,” he says before she can.

  “Another Absinthian Siege?”

  Rennin looks at her hard, “Not a chance,” he says slowly.

  “I don’t have a lot of time here, Rennin, as you can see we’re busy.”

  “I’ll have a coffee and an explanation,” he says.

  “Explanation?”

  “What the hell are all these people doing out at this hour on a weeknight? Don’t they know the monsters come out after dark?” despite his sarcasm there’s something dead in his eyes as he says that.

  Carla meets his stare with a mocking glare, “These people are the monsters.”

  Rennin finds a bitter smirk crossing his face, “Aye, madam, how right thee is.”

  “I’ll get your order.”

  “Sharp about it.”

  “Don’t push your luck, Trigger.”

  Next to Rennin sits a Beta HolinMech, the one called Drake as he recalls. Bright Eyes isn’t here with him and this soldier is swaying even though he’s on a stool. Rennin figures since he’s obviously drunk he might be talkative and so nudges him.

  “Where are your buddies?”

  Drake’s glazed eyes struggle to focus on him, “Hey it’s Happy,” he says slapping Rennin on the shoulder. “How’s it going? I see you here a lot.”

  Rennin was wrong, this soldier is not drunk, he’s completely wasted, “Happy?”

  “You know,” Drake does an impression of a sniper holding a gun, “Trigger happy.”

  Rennin glances at Carla who’s serving someone down the bar, “Ah.”

  “I’m Pharaoh Drake, Beta HolinMech S-66-83-49.”

  The name rings a bell. “What’s the ‘S’ stand for?”

  “Standard.”

  Rennin takes a steadying breath. Standard. Again the distinction of expendable troops used as meat-shields slaps him in the face. Rennin does understand in a way. The androids fought because they were hated for being what they are and the humans fighting with them were only fighting to maintain the slavery of machines.

  Though the androids Rennin served under were as brave as any man and never sent their human contingents into conflicts they wouldn’t face themselves. “I didn’t realise the military still used that distinction these days.”

  “They don’t formally, but old habits die hard. Especially since androids are working with us mere mortals again.”

  Rennin quickly scans the nearby patrons. “Are you here by yourself?”

  “Yeah, the others got pulled on mission. I was already drunk so couldn’t join them.”

  Rennin looks at him in surprise. “You get drunk while on call?” he laughs. Godyssey’s standards must really be dropping.

  There’s that word again… pun and all.

  “Oh come on, we were put on standby until further notice so I came for a drink.”

  Something clicks in Rennin’s mind. “Now I know who you are. You’re the heir to one of the largest fortunes in the Western World Remnant. Your father lives in Drake Mansion.”

  “We live there.”

  Rennin laughs again. “Until he kicked you out for having it off with the maid and his mistress,” he laughs louder, “at the same time!”

  Drake does try to look serious but automatically starts grinning. “Yeah well…”

  “So since he owns part of the HolinMech Program, they can’t kick you out for drinking on the job, huh?”

  “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve done to get kicked out of this shit.”

  “Why not quit? Sign that mentally incompetent document.”

  Drake’s face turns rather disturbed. “It’s not as easy as that.”

  “Why not?” asks Rennin, bemused.

  Drake’s eyes take on a renewed focus despite the alcoh
ol and he leans over slightly, “Are you familiar with any of the full android HolinMechs?”

  “No, but I served with androids during the CryoZaiyon Wars.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s one in the Alpha Unit called Mikhail Raddocks.”

  Raddocks? Rennin frowns. “You have my attention, Drake.”

  “Rumour has it that Mikhail Raddocks is the brother of Nyder Raddocks, who made lord mayor of this city years ago. That’s why it’s called Raddocks Horizon instead of just Horizon now.”

  Rennin nods, “Bugger for signage.” He has heard that the androids, whether old or new, were built from converted humans. He’d even heard of some androids going mad because they see themselves and their kind as the walking dead. There was a story in the news about some AWOL HolinMech who disappeared on mission recently.

  “Are you saying he let his brother get converted?”

  Drake smiles as if he’s educating a naïve child about the world, “Not let, donated. Donated alive.”

  Rennin arches an eyebrow, “I beg thy fucking pardon?”

  Drake nods, “I know. His own brother.”

  Rennin doesn’t even notice Carla put his coffee in front of him. “Are you trying to say you’re worried that the same will happen to you?”

  “Nyder’s brother becomes a HolinMech then the man becomes lord mayor. I’m in Beta HolinMech and twice removed from replacing an android called Xannon Janus.”

  “Twice removed?”

  “There are two ahead of me who will take his place before me.”

  Rennin sits still for a moment and decides to see Caufmann in the morning. “I think you need another drink while I Irish up this coffee.”

  ◆◆◆

  Second day hangovers are far worse than just the day after, Rennin has discovered for the umpteenth time. He remembers once issuing orders to himself never to ever let himself try to drink away one hangover with more alcohol. Unfortunately he’ll do almost anything to get information out of someone. Though, Drake was less forthcoming the longer they chatted.

  It’s the next morning and Rennin is in Caufmann’s office waiting for him to come up from the experimental lab area. His codfish water-yeti secretary didn’t want to let him in while the doctor isn’t there. At least she wasn’t about to stand in his way or call security.

  Again.

  Rennin scratches at the Taser burn scar on the left side of his neck remembering the last time that scaly antediluvian called security on him.

  It was about a year ago, when he got into his first fight with Michael Gainsford. The stinking coward ordered the secretary to call security after a well-placed knee to the groin.

  Rennin was put in restraints and you don’t do that to someone who spent three months in a GA war prison. He went berserk and before he knew it there were a crowd of security. In the end the injuries totalled of three broken noses, eighteen fractured ribs, two broken arms and a punctured lung before Rennin took a ten thousand volt Taser round to the neck. It nearly killed him. But he feels it was well worth it for Gainsford to be sent up an octave.

  He’s still pondering that memory when Caufmann enters his office distinctly limping on his right leg. He sits down and faces Rennin directly. “Something you need?” his voice sounds sick. Very sick.

  “I met Pharaoh Drake last night.” Caufmann isn’t about to humour him by feigning curiosity, so Rennin continues. “He told me about Nyder Raddocks donating his brother to the HolinMech Program. Is it true that those androids are built using human bodies?”

  “You really want to live here, don’t you?”

  “I have no intention of living here, I’m not even sure I want to remain here now. Something is seriously screwed up.”

  Caufmann looks distracted. “Have you had your flu shot?”

  Rennin’s panic bell starts ringing at the thought of needles, “I’m busy.”

  “It’s mandatory.”

  “You’ll have to kill me before I let anything produced by this lab into my body.”

  Caufmann isn’t intimidated but his body language certainly indicates a loss of patience, “I don’t have a great deal of time to deal with your petty concerns.”

  “Look, Caufmann, the mayor of this city donated his own brother to the HolinMech Program, I just thought you might be interested in that,” he says standing up.

  Caufmann puts his hand up, “Sit down.”

  Rennin does so automatically before even registering the researcher’s words.

  Caufmann tilts his head slowly to the left making a rumbling noise at the back of his throat. “Drake must have a big mouth.”

  “He was drunk.”

  “It’s a good thing in this case,” Caufmann clenches his right fist while it rests against his desk. “Project Outreach is reaching its final stage and not a moment too soon, seeing as the GA rally is only a couple of days away. I need you at that rally. Prototype knows what Beta HolinMech look like, but it will not know you. I am certain it will be there, I need you to take it out.”

  Prototype? Fair enough. “Exactly how do you want me to do that in a crowd of people?”

  “Don’t miss.”

  “Why not let a proper professional handle this?”

  “I trust your capabilities. The tracking serum I put in its system will still be traceable enough to give you a good direction until you can visually identify it. All other attempts to track it have been disastrous. It’s hiding in the sewer system and there is too much interference to hunt it effectively.”

  “Why would it be at the rally?” asks Rennin.

  “Because it thinks I’m going. I’ve told the local Gorai Aurelia group that I’m going to participate in the debate they’re holding.”

  “Why not lure it outside the city wall to a more isolated place? Non-combatants are taken out of the equation then,” says Rennin.

  “Nothing is getting out of this city for the time being. The only shipments currently leaving are the last consignments of Project Outreach. It’s taking longer than I’d like.”

  “The vaccinations?”

  Caufmann nods. “Travel out is restricted until we get the local nervous system infection under control.”

  This is serious, far more serious than Caufmann is even capable of letting on. “Sir, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Caufmann waves his hand in dismissal. “Thank you for telling me all this, Ren, it’s shed some light on some other problems.”

  “No problem,” Rennin says as he stands up again and heads for the door.

  Caufmann calls after him. “And get yourself vaccinated.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Not a fucking chance.

  4.

  The Rally

  Rennin Farrow feels as obvious as herpes lesions on a porn star.

  It is a minute to midnight on September 23, and it is snowing in Raddocks Horizon. Rennin stands in the miasma of people looking over the general crowd. At this point he’s assessing the threat to his will to live.

  Under his knee length leather coat, he has both his most modified and lethal pistols. Most of his head is covered by a hood, attached to a jacket lined with an armour-weave underlay strong enough to stop an android punch but not a knife or bullet. His overcoat has subtle titanium plates inserted at various points for extra protection. His pants are also armour-weaved with moulded plates over the knees and solid plates over each shin, matched with titanium capped and heeled boots. His entire outfit is black.

  Just for something different.

  He thought he’d be rather inconspicuous in a crowd of a few thousand, but the crowd is tens of thousands strong. They take up the entirety of Main Road for three kilometres. Mostly they are all wearing bright colours bringing a stark contrast to his umbral appearance.

  Rennin still finds it amusing after four hours that in a nearly completely neo-gothic city so many hippies turned up in one place. Someone must have organised a free ultra vegan dolphin friendly tofu hotdog stand.

  The nano-tracker inside the P
rototype is degrading rapidly, according to the display in Rennin’s glasses. Caufmann ensured he was equipped with a pair, modelled on his own, before leaving for the rally. Rennin felt at the time like he was being dressed for his first day of school by a doting parent.

  Although he can’t pinpoint the Prototype’s exact location, he can tell that it’s on ground level straight ahead within the next two hundred metres. Rennin’s head is lowered and his body is perfectly still as he tries to collect himself while the people shuffle and shout all around him.

  He clenches his fists feeling his leather fingerless gloves creak. He gains a mild swelling of confidence because those gloves—with their spurred knuckles—are what he used to wear during the war. He makes a mental note of how odd it is that something so small can make such a large difference. He can almost push away the feeling that he’s going to die tonight.

  The rally has organised five guest speakers from various tree-hugging groups around the country to incite aggression and convince the people to stand against Godyssey and their android slaves. Even though the general masses could not care less, so long as they arrive home in time for the puerile resurgence of Reality TV.

  In fact, a great deal of the local population feel safer thinking a strike team of fully armed androids is waiting to come to the rescue if anything goes horribly wrong.

  As is usual with these situations, a loud-mouthed minority is running around making all the noise, followed by a few morons desperate for a reason to exist jumping on the bandwagon in a misdirected attempt to look cool. Rennin is absolutely convinced most of these people are here trying to find some poor meat-sack with lower intelligence and even lower self esteem to bed for the night.

  The speeches at least provide a distraction so Rennin can locate the Prototype, without being bumped and jostled by the drunken crowd. Despite knowing which direction, the hazy distance reading doesn’t raise his confidence much at all.

  At that moment the music from the rigged-up stage begins, giving Rennin a mild fright. It’s some new age, past century revival or contradiction, based on music from the late 1900s but with less soul and more calculus.