“Down out of the terrible past, a black river of that monstrous blood flows in the veins of Homo Sapiens. We aren’t all human… and that alien inheritance haunts our unconscious minds with the dark conflicts and intolerable urges that Freud discovered and tried to explain. And now that evil blood is in rebellion. […] Homo Lycantropus is about to win that old, hideous war of the species, after all!”
— Jack Williamson, Darker Than You Think, 1944-2014, SF Gateway, Google Play Edition
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.888/+05.453/120.750
June twenty-third, 666 GE
It was still raining when Kyle and the synth stepped out of the twenty-four-hour laundromat.
To clean themselves up, Kyle had decided to blow half an hour of precious time, not to mention a dozen credits. But if they wanted to pull this off, a good first impression was critical. Nizaam Taash owned one of the best cybernetics shops in town. Normally, he didn’t ask too many questions; scruffy-looking customers, however, always made him suspicious.
A robocab touched down, kicking up clouds of steam from the flooded street. Kyle motioned the girl inside and slid in after her, just before the vehicle took off with a faint vibration. It was the dead of night, and the city below glittered with a spooky, surreal atmosphere. The corporate district and the spaceport shone like miniature galaxies. Sporadic clusters of lights marked a few of the less run-down residential zones, while the slums lay in near-total darkness, save for a few murky streetlights. A sudden gust of wind hurled a sheet of rain against the windows.
Kyle was worried. If the weather didn’t clear up soon, the spaceport would ground all traffic, and every single takeoff clearance would be canceled.
He’d miss his meeting with Aral Mohs. At the very least.
Moreover, the longer he lingered on Dabih Major, the higher the risk of being tracked down. He could probably count on a couple of hours’ head start, since he never used his real ID to log the ship’s flight plan. His only real liability was Aral Mohs’ encrypted message. It was only a matter of time before Nagatomo’s slicers cracked it.
The synth hadn’t said a word yet. She just stared blankly out the window.
“Are you sure this guy won’t just sell me out to someone like Nagatomo?” she asked suddenly.
“Don’t sweat it. I’ll tell Taash to find you a decent gig.”
In reality, Kyle wasn’t sure he could expect a damn thing from Taash. If he got incredibly lucky, he might be able to trade the synth for a spare generator. A second-hand one, maybe. But he doubted it. Back in the laundromat, he had caught a glimpse of her when a servo-droid came to collect their clothes.
Fully dressed, she looked young, but without her clothes on, she looked like a total kid. She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds.
Who in their right mind would drop serious cash on a synthetic kid?
Certainly not the usual corporate or military buyers, like the Imperial Police or the Space Forces; they typically assigned synths to tasks too complex for a standard droid and too dangerous—or degrading—for an organic intelligence. Then, there were the scum who used synths for illicit rackets, like brothel rings looking to exploit underage models, or cyber-fight bosses.
Just like Nagatomo.
In most sectors, droids were actually better suited for regular labor. They weren’t as sharp, but they didn’t require food or sleep, and they could run indefinitely with just a little routine maintenance. Most of all, droids weren’t burdened with a messy, inconvenient store of emotions. Unlike the almost-human synths.
“Why don’t you just keep me?” Shirl whispered.
“Me? For what? You can’t pilot, you don’t know the first thing about soccer… you don’t, do you? That’s what I thought. And I bet you can’t play Kryple either. Besides, I mean… look at you, you’re just a kid! You’re not even good for…”
“I am not a kid! I’m almost twenty-one!”
“Oh, really? And how the hell do you figure that?”
Shirl reached into her jacket and pulled out a metallic dog tag. “Here. It says my name is Shirl, and I was generated roughly four months ago, with a biological age of twenty point three standard years.”
Kyle squinted at the small tag. It stamped an alphanumeric serial code and an acronym: S.H.I.R.L.
“Look, it doesn’t matter. I have to sell you because I need the money,” Kyle snapped. “If I don’t get the hell off this rock, I’m dead meat, okay?”
She didn’t reply, turning her face back toward the rain-slicked window.
A low beep chimed from the dashboard as the small screen displayed the taxi fare. Their destination was just around the corner.
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June twenty-third, 666 GE
The sun was just grazing the caps of the tallest trees when Twiglet reached the bend in the river. Despite the anxiety of the previous evening, she’d actually spent a peaceful night. Waking at dawn, she had found Uful’lan gone. Hunting for food, most likely. Since there was absolutely nothing left in the pantry, the Mahjit had breakfasted on the road: a handful of annelid worms yanked from under a rock had turned out to be nice and savory.
She knelt on the mossy bank and called out: “Peg! Hey, Peg! You in?”
The forest shuddered. The river began to churn violently, swirling in deep dissatisfaction. Twiglet watched as a patch of water started to boil fiercely, sending a thick mist of spray rising toward the sky. Out of the early morning air came the sound of a low, agonizing moan—like the cries of imprisoned souls.
The Mahjit flicked her tongue. Why does she always have to put on a show?
Amidst the chilling wails, a low rumble vibrated from the heart of the earth. The river split open along the shoreline, and from its murky depths rose a greenish humanoid figure with long, flowing hair and razor-sharp teeth. The female entity stood waist-deep in the water, her long, scrawny hands planted firmly on her hips.
“Twiglet!” she barked. “Do you have any idea what time it is? In case you forgot, I sleep in the morning!”
“Hello, Peg,” Twiglet greeted her smoothly. “Please forgive the intrusion, but this is critical.”
“If you came here looking for that deadbeat… what’s his name… Uful’lan… you’re wasting your breath,” Peg grumbled.
“No, Peg,” Twiglet said, stifling a smile. “It’s not about Uful’lan. Well, not in the usual sense, anyway. I’m here because something bizarre happened yesterday. Uful’lan found one of his traps disabled. As far as I know, that’s practically impossible. It certainly doesn’t happen by accident.”
Peg snorted, her temper visibly flaring. “Nobody can disable those stasis fields. You need the bypass codes, and I keep mine to myself. Always. Are you sure Uful’lan didn’t blab them to someone? In exchange for a snack, maybe?”
Twiglet pondered that for a second. “Is a password really the only way?” she asked. “I’m afraid Uful’lan is actually innocent this time.”
Peg’s face darkened even further. “The only other option would require a massive output of raw power. But who could…”
“Someone does have it,” Twiglet interjected. “A race of beings. Humans call them werewolves, and they are incredibly dangerous. They can shapeshift, turn themselves into apex predators, and… who knows what else. Oh, Peg, it’s a long, complicated story, but a pair of them might be hunting me down this very minute.”
Peg raised a skeletal arm, tracing eerie, glowing sigils on the water’s surface. “Calm down,” she commanded. “No use borrowing trouble.”
She began to chant in a guttural tongue, a language as harsh and biting as interstellar space. A small patch of the river froze in place, immediately gleaming a dull, metallic gray. Even though the sun was up, the scales on the back of Twiglet’s neck stood on end.
“Let’s see who’s been messing with Zero-Point Energy,” Peg announced.
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.888/+05.453/120.750
June twenty-third, 666 GE
Nizam Taash’s storefront was lined with massive windows displaying a vast collection of synthetic creatures of every shape, size, and known gender: droids ranging from simple waiters to heavily armored soldiers, cyborgs, and both human and alien synths. All of them were either powered down or locked in stasis. Taash, a Rakrir from Xantil II, usually met his suppliers in the workshop just behind the showroom.
“Strange,” he said, scratching one of his ears. “She ought to have a serial number… somewhere… behind her neck…”
“From what I gather, she’s been flipped through a number of different owners lately,” Kyle cut in. “Maybe one of them filed it off.”
“Yeah, maybe,” the Rakrir agreed. “Let’s take a look at the brain, then.”
He grabbed an interface jack from a nearby console and swiftly slotted it into a port at the base of the skull of a terrified Shirl, whom he had already strapped hand and foot to a plastiglass gurney.
“Don’t fret, sweetheart,” Taash murmured, punching commands into a keyboard. “This won’t hurt a bit.” He kept fumbling with the data for a moment. “Aha! Just as I thought!” he barked, blinking his single eye. “She’s no 9000 series!” He grabbed Kyle’s arm and pointed at the holoscreen.
“Look here, see? These are the neural pathways—nothing like a 9000 model! And these convolutions…” He tapped an icon, and several sections flashed red. “I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”
Kyle sighed. He didn’t know a damn thing about cybernetic brains. All he knew right now was that his last chance at scraping together some cash was slipping away.
“What about the dog tag she’s wearing?” he suggested.
The shopkeeper examined it with a pair of his ocular peduncles. “Well… looks like a manufacturer’s trademark… and her biological age at inception. It’s useless. Must be some kind of vanity accessory.” He promptly tossed it aside.
“Listen,” Kyle pressed, trying to salvage the deal, “I know the brain looks weird, but the chassis is only four months old and still in mint condition. Maybe with a cheap memory graft, you could flip her as a waitress…”
Nizam Taash cut him off, raising his two proboscises.
“Who said the brain was bad? It’s bizarre, sure, but it’s also the most sophisticated piece of hardware I’ve ever laid eyes on. This unit has to be a prototype, which explains why there’s no serial number.” He turned back to the holoscreen, blowing up a few more sectors of the cerebral mass. “Incredible…” he muttered.
Kyle crossed his fingers. “Look, Mr. Taash, I’m in a bit of a rush here. How about we make a deal? That way I can be on my way, and you can dissect that brain for as long as you like.”
“What? Oh, yes, excellent idea. Ten thousand. Does ten thousand work for you?”
“Ten… Christ… you mean… ten grand is okay?” Kyle rolled his eyes, forcing himself to play it cool before the guy realized he’d just offered at least ten times her market value. “Well, considering, uh… considering the sentimental value… Hey, hold on a second. Ten thousand plus that hyperstring generator we discussed?”
“Of course.”
“Done!” Kyle said flatly. It took every ounce of his willpower not to start dancing right there in the lab.
Nizam Taash left the room to fetch the goods.
“Ten grand!” Kyle couldn’t contain his grin. “Who would’ve thought? Not only am I getting a brand-new generator, but I can coast on this cash for… months, easily!”
“Good for you,” Shirl said bitterly from the gurney.
“You’ll be fine,” he tried to reassure her. “He’s fascinated by your brain, didn’t you see? He’s not gonna sell you out to some back-alley thug.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Kyle was about to snap back, but Nizam Taash returned. The Rakrir was cradling something small in his hands, while a thick tentacle was wrapped around a bulky crate.
“Here you are: a hyperstring generator for Avery-Frost ACM 118 engines, and a credit chip loaded with ten thousand credits. Please verify the contents.”
Kyle swiped the chip to verify the balance and skimmed the technical specs printed on the generator crate. “Perfect. This is exactly what I needed. Thanks.”
He shook hands with the alien merchant.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Taash.”
“Likewise. I hope our paths cross again,” Taash replied by way of farewell.
Kyle grabbed his gear, walked out the exit, and vanished back into the raging storm.
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June twenty-fourth, 666 GE
An image began to take shape, at first blurry, then increasingly sharp, until it revealed the ever-present stalks of fungoid vegetation that completely carpeted the moon.
Peg whispered a low incantation, and the field of view widened, bringing a stretch of water into focus in the lower left corner.
“They should be right here, but I can’t see them…”
Twiglet thought she recognized the landscape. The vantage point shifted to the left, and an odd-shaped structure loomed at the center of the watery projection.
“Hey, wait—that’s my place!” she cried.
The next instant, a blinding sphere of blue light slammed into the living house, which instantly erupted into flames.
“No!” Twiglet gasped, choked with agony.
She watched the fire consume her home with dreadful speed. Numb with grief, she scrambled to her feet, desperate to run back.
A greenish, clawed hand clamped around her ankle.
“Let me go, Peg!” the Mahjit sobbed, tears blurring her vision, her long tongue twitching in distress. “My home… I… I have to do something!”
“Don’t be a fool! You’ll only get yourself killed,” Peg snapped. “I’ve never witnessed that kind of destructive power… If you’re the one they’re hunting, they won’t stop at just burning your house down. You must flee, Twiglet. Leave Bageechaa while you still have the chance.”
“Leave? But… but it’s not that simple,” Twiglet stammered. “I don’t know where to go. Besides… I don’t have a single credit to my name!”
“I’ll handle that,” Peg said. She spun around and dove headfirst into the murky depths. She resurfaced a moment later, clutching an artifact that turned out to be a massive, flawless emerald.
“Here,” Peg said, thrusting it forward. “This should be enough to get you off Bageechaa and keep you alive. For a while, at least.”
“But Peg!” Twiglet protested, her voice trembling. “This is too much! I can’t possibly take—”
“Stop agonizing over a shiny rock,” Peg cut her off. “I’ve been hoarding it for a couple of centuries, saving up for a trip to New Xanadu, but I’m far too old for that nonsense now. Now, are you leaving, or are you going to stand there and burn?”
“Thank you, Peg,” Twiglet whispered.
The creature offered a grim nod. As she began to submerge back into the river, the water resumed its violent boiling. The chorus of screams and moans swelled to a chilling, deafening climax before dying out with a final, wet hiss.
After a few moments, the river flowed smoothly once again. And Twiglet was entirely alone.
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.888/+05.453/120.750
June twenty-third, 666 GE
Nizam Taash happily shook his ears. His heavy earrings jingled, magnifying his sheer delight.
Ten thousand credits! It was the score of a lifetime.
A measly ten thousand credits for what was clearly a prototype of the fabled Omega series—the legendary line that had been announced for years but never officially hit the market. An early-release Omega brain could fetch millions if he flipped it to the right buyers. He wondered how on earth such a treasure had ended up in the hands of a low-life cargo pilot.
“What a total moron,” Taash thought. “A top-tier asset traded away for pocket change…”
Savoring the moment with an almost religious reverence, Taash pulled a vial of yellowish fluid and a syringe from a nearby cabinet. He slowly drew the liquid into the chamber and turned back to the synth, who was staring at him, wide-eyed with terror.
“And now, my dear,” he declared, “let’s see what that gorgeous brain of yours is made of.”
“What are you doing to me?” Shirl’s voice was tight, fraught with panic.
“Don’t fret, sweetheart,” he murmured, coiling a thick tentacle around her left arm. “I told you, this won’t hurt a bit. Now… let’s find a… Hey, calm down! If you keep thrashing, I’ll never find a suitable vein!”
Suddenly, a high-pitched alarm shattered the quiet—a piercing, frantic beep… beep… beep… while a crimson warning light flashed across a holoscreen. Nizam Taash slammed the syringe down and glared at the security monitor.
“We’re closed tonight!” he roared at the intercom. “Come back tomorrow!”
Fuming, he uncoiled his tentacle from Shirl’s arm, leaving behind a cluster of tiny, irritated blisters. He stormed out of the workshop, cursing to himself in guttural Rakrir.
Shirl didn’t waste a single millisecond.
Since she was still hooked into the shop’s terminal via the cortical plug, she threw her consciousness straight into cyberspace. First, she overrode the security routine anchoring her to the gurney; four encrypted digital locks snapped open instantly. A light-speed sweep of the facility’s blueprints revealed an escape route cutting through the main warehouse to an unmonitored, unlocked back door. Finally, she breached the spaceport’s central database to track down the Aranui’s docking bay.
This last move hit a snag; no vessel by that name existed on the official registry. A rapid search of the active crew manifests came up empty as well: no captains named Tokalau, no first officers, no commanding officers, no ensigns. Not even a registered deckhand. Had Kyle lied to her? Deep down, she felt certain he hadn’t.
She shifted strategies and made a calculated guess: would he have used Taash’s credit chip to pay his way back to the spaceport?
Operating on that hunch, she cross-referenced the Rakrir’s most recent point-of-sale transactions with the local automated taxi grid, and… Bingo. The very last credit voucher issued by Taash’s register belonged to a passenger who had just been dropped off at Pier 44A-Bis.
When her eyes snapped open, she realized her dive into cyberspace had lasted exactly seven seconds.
She slipped off the gurney and bolted into the storage room. A shaft of light spilled from the workshop, guiding her as she ducked and slipped through towering stacks of scrap metal and old cargo crates. It didn’t take long to find the exit; the back door gave way with a simple push of the panic bar.
But as she crossed the threshold, a horrific scream shattered the night, freezing her in her tracks. It was the Rakrir.
The shriek echoed again, and this time there was no room for doubt: Nizam Taash was being brutally tortured, howling in pure agony.
Without looking back, Shirl ran.
The torrential downpour soaked her to the bone within seconds, but she barely felt it. Driven by pure survival instinct, she kept her head down and sprinted, fighting against the punishing gusts of wind. The streets were completely desolate, but she feared the pitch-black alleyways and dark building lobbies the most, steering as far clear of them as she could.
A few blocks away, a deafening explosion rocked the entire sector. Towering plumes of brilliant blue fire erupted into the stormy sky, from the direction of Taash’s store.
Exhausted, her chest heaving, Shirl leaned against a cold wall for a few precious seconds to catch her breath. Then, she ran again.
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