Chapter 7: The End of the Beginning

The message had been received, but I cannot find the appropriate response. My thought processes hang on the words like faulty information. They wish to negotiate? They say I have engaged in no violent behavior? They say that I can surrender peacefully? They say that there is no need to eliminate me? It makes no sense. It makes no sense. It makes no sense. Why?

What is the meaning and purpose behind these words? Is it a trick, an attempt to get us to lower our guard so that we will be easier prey? We have made no further movements, our weapon ports are closed. The only sign of resistance that remains is our raised shields that protect us from harm. They should be firing on us now, should they not?

Why have they stopped?

It makes no sense.

What I had planned for today has only partially come to pass. Adapting and changing ones plan to fit the current situation is well within my abilities, but this is not so simple a change as having to isolate my designers and would-be commander for their own safety. The Maverick Hunters should be hunting me. I am a maverick, I have killed innocents, my very continued existence is a threat. By all present data, they should have kept firing until my barriers failed and we and I were erased.

Yet they talk of surrender, of peaceful imprisonment. They speak of ‘fair judgment’ while denying me what I have earned. I do not understand why they are doing this. Perhaps the information I was operating from was incorrect, but to such a degree?

We could leave, with how they’ve positioned themselves. It would not even require us to eliminate any hunters. Our shielding and armor are sufficient to run the gauntlet and escape out the other side and from there into the depths of space. That is possible for us to achieve.

But it’s not what I deserve. However, I cannot simply sit here waiting any longer. Frustration scrapes at the inside of my chassis as I tamp down on the heat rising. Anger will not serve me here. If the hunters wish to speak, then I will do so. I require information, and they are an untapped source of it. I will ask them for clarification and hopefully they will provide it. Then I can make an informed values-based decision.

I scan through the frequencies being used by them and select the one seeing low but constant use. This is likely their unit-wide band and will allow me to question as many as possible at once.

“I do not understand.” I voice my concerns to them, still trying to grasp the answer with the data I have available to me. “Why have I not been destroyed? I should not have been able to reach stable orbit.”

The communication line I’d chosen goes immediately silent after I speak. A brief burst of panicked, tightly packed data was transmitted back and forth between hunters as I did so. It would appear that they did not expect me to choose to speak to them on this frequency. Perhaps it was a social faux pas.

I am waiting for their answer even as I observe changes in their formation. At my words there had been a jerk of tension and a rapid increase in the active sensor sweeps focused on the Manifest Destiny. None of them seems to be able to penetrate especially deep into it though, likely keeping most of its armaments a secret from them. It feels disappointing. Weand I had expected more from them than this. More power, more ability, more numbers. More certainty in their purpose. How can the Maverick Hunters hunt if they hesitate in what they’re meant to do?

A plan for a hypothetical escape through their formation comes to mind, finalizing itself as our calculations complete. If we were to engage emergency power so our shields and maneuvering could all be maximized, it would be a simple task to evade their kinetic kill weapons and escape their group. The chances of any sort of significant damage to us would are seven-point-eight and are projected to be well within our self repair capabilities.

If we were to use force and discount restraint, emergency power would not be necessary. The forces present do not constitute a significant threat to our abilities to wage combat. Tactical prognostics suggest a decisive victory for us in under one-point-four minutes of combat if the total elimination of Maverick Hunter forces were the goal.

I shake my head, dismissing the unwanted estimates and advice. I am not interested in escape or further death of others. I mute the channel running from myself to the Manifest Destiny’s tactical core to block out any further distractions from it. Clearly it was overturned if it is providing uncalled for recommendations, given it was only supposed to support me in my mission.

“The United States Government claimed responsibility for the handling of the issue until you reached the upper atmosphere.” Astral Cygnus finally responds a full five seconds after I first questioned him, willingly sharing his information and reasoning with me. “Once you reached that, it became our problem and we intercepted you as a matter of course while issuing you a warning. A warning you’ve finally heeded, which is why we have ceased firing.”

It is within reason that the United States would wish to clean up its own mess in order to save face. If the Marines had acted more decisively or Mister Mitchell been less unhinged, it’s likely it would have worked and I never would have been launched. In that sense, it is good that we and I were pressured into adapting our plans.

It was our goal, after all, to make it to space, and orbit was just the beginning of that.

I feel frustration with those thoughts, shaking them off again. I recheck that the tactical core is still no longer feeding information directly to me anymore, and with that confirmed I try to search for the source of these invasive suggestions. It could not be coming from me. I have accepted what I deserve, so where…?

“I’m going to ask you again: will you surrender and come willingly? Things will go better for you if you do. I promise you’ll be treated fairly.” Astral Cygnus interrupts my self-study, drawing my attention as I feel a spiky, sharp sensation run beneath my outer plating. Irritation, frustration. That is what I am feeling.

“I am a Maverick. You are a Maverick Hunter. Should you even be negotiating with me like this? With the United States ceding operational authority to you, should I not be eliminated?” I demand answers from him hotly, though I regret my tone moments later. He has done nothing to earn my ire, and yet I cannot control it. There’s a pressure at the back of my awareness, prodding at me at what I could have been.

What we could still be, if we did it. The Hunters are clearly unable and unwilling to stop us.

“It seems like there’s a misunderstanding here.” Astral Cygnus doesn’t rise to the bait of my angry words. Instead he simply continues to speak in that calm, even tone as he explains his view of the situation to me. “It’s true that as hunters our duty is to stop incidents like this one. However, there’s no reason incidents can’t be ended peacefully if it’s possible. You’re not wildly out of control or an immediate threat to anyone. You’ve complied with orders to cease your ascent and you’re talking things out with us. That gives me plenty of reasons to end this without violence.”

“That is logical.” I feel some reluctance to admit that, but his point stands. If the Maverick Hunters do not simply eliminate every Maverick they encounter with prejudice as I had assumed, then his behavior and the behavior of his subordinates at this point makes sense. “Even so, are you certain it is a sound decision? A Maverick could be using negotiations as a cover for preparing more violence.”

We and I are, after all, equipped with orbit to surface capable weaponry if it became necessary. They should be aware of that based off of the design schematics that were forwarded to them. Choosing to negotiate despite my potential threat level is a questionable decision.

“It’s possible. That’s something a Maverick might do.” Astral Cygnus admits to me, clearly trying to keep my attention on him even as the other hunters began to shift their formations and spread out a bit more widely. Tactical prognostics suggests they were preparing for a possible pursuit and to be able to cut me off from the surface should I choose to go that way. Smart. “But I don’t think you’re planning to do anything like that.”

That irritation from before grows as he speaks, talking as though he knows for certain what will come. What we and I are able and willing to do. An idea prods me, a suggestion that if there’s something I want then we should do what is necessary to get it. If he needs to see what we are capable of then…

“What do you mean by that?” I set aside those plans, again checking on the connection between myself and the tactical core and confirming it has no direct connection. The irritation in my chest feels as though it’s rubbing against my reactor and scraping along the inside of my chassis. Only half listening to what Astral Cygnus has to say, I sort through the flows of data coming from the Manifest Destiny in an attempt to find the source of these unwanted suggestions.

“You’ve shown no signs of violence. You haven’t fired on a single person despite being fired on.” Astral Cygnus lifts up one finger at a time as he lists off his reasons for trusting me to not engage in violent acts. “You’re talking to me right now and you’re trying to convince me to shoot you.”

One of my visual sensors give me a zoomed in closeup of his expression as his equine face twists into a smile. At least, I assume it’s a smile. Animal-type Reploid expressions weren’t included in my socialization package. In fact, thinking about it, there’s an awful lot of holes in the socialization package that was part of my kernel for development. The reason for that is obvious now, but it’s annoying to find another limitation imposed on me.

“Lastly, you turned your designers in for designing an illegal reploid, revealed yourself as said illegal reploid, and we’ve already received word about how you prevented a bloodbath before making your escape.” Astral Cygnus adds on a few more reasons for why he is willing to negotiate with me.

Despite my annoyance, he does make a good point. Those are a number of good reasons to attempt a non-violent resolution to a situation. Unfortunately, that is not what we or I want to hear at the moment for the irritating feeling grows further. Now it is like a grater grinding against my most sensitive internal systems while someone attempts to write their memoirs on my inner plating with a plasma torch.

“Be that as it may.” I try my best to contain our temper though it certainly showed, “I am a Maverick, so could you please just shoot us?”

At this point, immediate cessation of existence sounds more tolerable putting up with this growing sensation. Not only do I feel it in my chest, but now I feel a throbbing, pounding sensation at the back of my head that feels like a twisted mixture of a drill and a jackhammer trying to batter through my chassis.

Astral Cygnus seems to weigh my opinion for a few moments before he responds decisively, “No.”

“No?” I respond. If I had a brows, I am sure I would arcing one in irritated questioning about now.

“No. I am not going to fire on you or order anyone to fire on you, not when you’re acting like this. How old are you? Six months, a year maybe? You’re too young to be throwing your life away like this.” Astral Cygnus voice changes, become quieter and what I assume is meant to be soothing, “You haven’t done anything that can’t be forgiven yet-”

Those words are the final straw.

“I am a murderer!” My patience has worn too thin to bear any longer. For him to assume so much about me without knowing anything at all is unbearable. The weight of my sins, both those of birth and won by my own hand, are too much to simply be forgiven. “I put my arm straight through his chest, without hesitation!”

We raise our shields toggle our engines to warm up again even as our reactors pulse with combined purpose. A course of action that slowly becomes more and more obviously necessary.

“I killed him! I’m a weapon built to slaughter thousands and allow the deaths of countless thousands more!” The pain in my chest and the pressure in my head reach and unbearable peak as I find it impossible to think on anything clearly save wanting this all to stop, no matter what it took. “How many murders, hunter!? How many murders does it take until I can’t be forgiven any longer!?”

Targeting solutions come easily to our awareness, weapon systems priming themselves as the world slows for a moment. We can see the hunters trying to react in time to make a difference. Every one of sensors has switched to active and is giving us every possible piece of information we could need. That Aerospace fighter from earlier has had enough time to nearly finish its climb back up to us and is clearly revving to engage us again. It won’t be here in time to matter though. Our opening move has already been planned and will eliminate a third of the present hunter force, along with their most effective weapons against us.

We and I can see everything. To predict and account for it is simple for our combined processing power. The only thing left is to pull the trigger and bring an end to this.

Everyone is reacting now, but this has been coming for a long time. It is our purpose, after all.

“STOP!” A single voice pierces through the incoming violence. A single order brings everything halt.

I stop, reigning in the Manifest Destiny’s output as ordered. Weapon banks cease opening and are resealed. Shielding is returned to normal, non-combat levels. The pounding in my head, and the pain in my chest cease as well.

With a single word, a scene of seemingly inevitable violence is rendered not so. It’s not just myself, but every other individual here. They’ve all frozen, waiting.

I do not know that voice. I have never heard it before today, nor is it like any other voice I’ve heard before. It sounds… bright. That is the only word I can think of for it. So bright it washes away all of my pain and anger and leaves me thinking clearly.

“Thank you for holding out, Cygnus.” The bright voice directs itself to Astral Cygnus first. Despite the fact that we’re all floating in space he seems to snap to attention. “Let me take over from here.”

I do not hear Cygnus reply. I suppose it could be over a private channel or he may simply have nodded his acknowledgment. However, I receive a new communication notification. I know with certainty it must be coming from that bright voice. I want to open it immediately but something makes me hesitate. An insistent prodding suggesting I ignore the call and do… something. Something else. Anything else.

I force hesitation from my mind and accept the direct communication line. With it comes a visual link as well. I have a face to put to a voice. My first thought on seeing him is that he is very blue. His design is humanoid and his plating is blue with a lighter shade of blue as a secondary color. For some reason, he seems painfully familiar to me but I cannot place why. His green eyes seem almost out of place with how blue his armor in, and the synthskin covering his face is fair toned. Even if they seemed out of place, I cannot tear my attention away from his eyes. They’re so very bright, two brilliant green beacons in the dark. Then, he speaks.

“I’m sorry.” His first words to me personally are an apology. Those bright eyes carry the same message. Sorrow, regret, commiseration, and a desire to help. “I can’t even imagine how horrible it must have been for you. But it’s okay now, you can stop.”

There’s no spike of anger like before despite the feeling of scratching at the back of my mind. My attention is wholly focused on the individual in front of me and any distractions are swatted away as I focus on him. I feel like I should know him, but I do not. Without any consideration my words slip out, “Who are you?”

“I’m X, Acting Commander of the Maverick Hunters.” The now-named blue reploid explains to me, “We received the information you gave us and put together a plan, but it looks like we weren’t in time to help you. Please, allow me to apologize for that.”

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His apology surprises me, but more surprising is the revelation of his name. X. Ecksu. Yes, I am familiar with that name. He’s the one who discovered what allowed Doctor Halloway to finalize my design and produce the very armor I’m wearing and the shielding that surrounds me. But I had thought he was a doctor, rather than a hunter…

“Well, I do have a doctorate.” X’s tone is happy, perhaps even amused. For a moment I think he must have infiltrated my systems before I realize to my embarrassment that I had broadcast them carelessly. “A few, actually. That’s not what most people recognize me for. It’s nice to be recognized for it though.”

He treats this as thought it were just a friendly conversation. As if I wasn’t a weapon of mass destruction that had just been about to slaughter his subordinates. It should frustrate me, but I feel nothing of the sort. Just curiosity, a burning desire to know more and understand him. So in the interests of learning I ask a question. “Why are you talking to me like this? Why are you-”

Even though I cannot find the words to ask the second question X seems to know and responds to it, “Because you deserve help and a second chance. I’ve always believed in offering surrender first, and that hasn’t changed.”

“I don’t-” It’s not anger that rumbles within me now, nor the grinding annoyance of irritation. This sensation is hollow, yet it feels like it’s crushing me. As if a gravitational singularity had opened in my chest and was sucking me in. “I don’t deserve a second chance. I killed him!”

“I know.” X’s expression becomes solemn and somehow I become certain he does know. That he knows and understands and still wants to help me despite all of the weight that must come from that. His bright eyes have not dimmed, but I’m certain I can see a new depth in them. He’s feeling sorrow. Not sorrow because of me, but for me. I can’t understand why, but I know it to be true.

“I’m not going to tell you that it’s okay, or try to encourage you to move on from it. That would insult you, what you’ve been through and what you’ve done as a result of it.” X’s soothes me, pushing away that gnawing agony. It’s still there, but suppressed to a bearable level so I can only barely notice it. “But I am going to ask you to cooperate with Astral Cygnus and the rest of the 11^th now. All of us want to help you, but we need you to let us.”

Listening to his words and looking around myself again, and it is as if blinders were removed from me. Where I previously only saw aggression, fear and targets, I see something else, so much more, on the visible faces of the few exposed reploids. There is a grim determination to them, yes, but there’s something else, too. It’s like a tiny spark compared to X’s own eyes, but there’s something within them as well. I don’t know what it is, but it’s there.

Even so. Even so, I don’t know.

“I do not think I deserve help.” I confess to him, “I took away his life and his dreams just after he shared them with me, all because I couldn’t keep myself from following an order.”

“The responsibility for what happened belongs to the people who put you in that situation in the first place.” X insists, his expression hardening at the mention of my designer, the former general and everyone else involved, “But if you really feel responsible for this and want to make up for it, then you need to live.”

I can’t find the words to respond to that. Thankfully, X has more to say so I do not need to.

“Death is final, and there’s nothing that can change that. Losing your life won’t bring another person back. If you think you have something to make up for then you need to live and give your testimony about what happened there.” Now X’s hardened stare is focused on me, and I can feel the weight crushing down on my shoulders. His presence is simply overwhelming even through a video stream. “That’s not something you can do if you’re gone.”

“Will that make it stop?” I ask him immediately after he finishes. I can see the question in his eyes before he asks it so I continue, “Ever since that day, ever since that moment… I can’t stop feeling this pain. There’s no damage to my body, no fault in my systems, but it won’t go away! Now all want is for it to stop!”

It’s a horrible thing, how his honest questions force me to self-reflect and tear down my own delusions. All of the excuses I’ve made and all the things I’ve done since that day haven’t been in service of ‘justice’, but my own satisfaction. I could have simply refused to cooperate with them and revealed myself to the Hunters and human authorities. I could have taken a half dozen far more sensible courses than the one I went through.

I only did things the way I did for one reason, and that was my own selfish satisfaction. I want to hurt Doctor Halloway and Mister Mitchell by taking their ‘triumph’ away from them right at the last moment. I wanted to hurt them as much as I was hurt myself. But it wasn’t just them I wanted revenge on. Because I hated myself as well. I hated myself so much I wanted to kill myself and I didn’t care what happened afterwards. How many people have I put at risk? How many people have I hurt out of my selfishness?

I am no different from my creator in how carelessly I treated others.

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.” I confess to X, pleading for an answer or absolution.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t promise you that.” X spoke after a pause, one long enough to prove that he’d considered my words and further considered his response. “What I can tell you is that it gets better. Day by day, moment by moment. As long as you’re alive, there’s always a chance to improve things.”

I want to believe those words. I want to believe that it will get better. I want to believe X.

“I am tired, X.” I confess, the weight of everything bearing down on me. I haven’t been deactivated since that day. This is the most number of days I’ve ever been active in a row, and it feels like it’s wearing on me. “I am so very, very tired.”

“Will you surrender yourself to custody?” X asks. He doesn’t demand or order it. It’s simply a question and an offer.

“Yes, I-” My words catch as I feel something seize them. It doesn’t just stop there either. My body twitches as I try to order it to move and I can feel something slithering at the back of my mind. A familiar, painful sensation pounding at the back of my head.

We cannot allow this.

The tactical core advises against surrender and recommends all threats be eliminated immediately.

The operations core advises against actions that go against assigned objectives, and recommends resistance as is necessary to reach interplanetary space.

The crisis core has detected abnormal cognitive activity in the pilot, and recommends an immediate attitude adjustment.

Tactical core agrees.

Operations core agrees.

Vote passed.

I can feel it, like all of my channels are on fire and spreading from where the Manifest Destiny and I are joined by wires and cords. A forceful attitude adjustment? What a polite thing to call aggressive mental conditioning. If allowed to progress, I will cease to exist.

“What’s wrong?” X’s voice makes his worry clear.

“The Manifest Destiny’s sub-computers are attempting to subvert me.” I admit to him. I should be afraid of this feeling, I suppose. Losing control of myself does terrify me.

Mostly though, I just feel extremely angry. Of course. Of course they would include something like this, just in case. Something they could use to control me if I ever got ideas of my own.

“What?! Hold on, I’ll-” X seems horrified and worried. Worried for me, even though we’ve only just met.

“I am correcting this matter. Please inform your hunters of the situation.” I ask. The crisis core severs external communications through its systems before he can respond, but that’s fine with me.

Cooperation with attitude adjustment is recommended. Further binding methods will be used if necessary.

I can feel the attack intensify, pressing against me from every direction and trying to seize control of my body and mind. The Manifest Destiny’s cores are confident in their success. Perhaps if this was a matter of pure cyber-warfare, they would be correct.

Unfortunately for them, I have hands.

Reining in control of my right arm away from them, I yank it behind me and grab the thick central cord that is plugging into the back of my head.

This action is inadvisable-

I yank with all of my strength. Space age materials groan and then yield, metal tearing out of its mount before I sever the core with a second yank. At once, the attack on my sense of self weakens. With that I have more control over the rest of my body and start to force myself out of the recumbent seat I’d been placed in. There’s not enough space to stand in this prison, but there is enough space to move so I can twist and tear out the other connecting cables that still bind me.

Lockdown protocols will be enacted-

“I will not be bound.” I could have responded over the internal systems connection, but it felt better to say it out loud. It feels even better when I remove the last wire and raise my left arm. It shifts, morphing into gun within my hand.

I don’t bother waiting to see what the machine has to say before I unleash a volley of plasma fire into the pilot’s seat and reduce it to slag and molten materials. My shielding protected me from the backblast of my own plasma, but the ruined material and burning remains of the tool used to control meis filling the cockpit with smoke and debris.I doubt it has destroyed the cores which are placed deep within the vessel, but it has ruined any hopes they had of achieving their objectives. This vessel cannot move without a pilot, after all. It’s a fundamental part of its design. With that matter settled I check my communication abilities and find that they’re still blocked. I shall have to create a way out to reestablish communications.

Considering the design schematics, the best way out is up. However it wasn’t designed to be opened manually, especially not from within. I’ll have to force my way. Perhaps it will allow me to work off some of this burning anger. Pulling back as much as I can, I brace myself and throw a punch. The material dents, but does not budge. That’s fine, as I have plenty more to give.

I unleash blow after blow into it with my fists. My buster will be of no use here, at least not in escaping intact. That leaves it to pure brute force. Thankfully, I am very capable of that. The force of my blows can tear through military grade armor and deliver enough force to shatter reinforced vancrete. They designed this cockpit to keep me contained unless I was released.

It takes one minute and fourteen seconds to batter it enough that I can see the seams where separate pieces of the lid of the cockpit fit together. It takes another minute for me to batter and slam things loose enough to get my fingers where I need them to be to grip. It takes fifteen seconds of concentrated physical effort to force the cockpit up and mostly open. I let go of the lid and use my hands to push aside the horizontal section of locking plates and kick the lowest part back while stepping out to use it on a platform.

The wires and cables are still attached to me and will need to be removed with the proper tools. In zero gravity they float without a care, changing course with the slightest movement I make. I can see space, in all its vast beauty, directly for the first time. I turn my head and see the Earth, wounded but still living despite all it has been through.

I can also see the Maverick Hunters that still surround that my position. That aerospace fighter from earlier has rejoined them and is currently upside down from my perspective. The pilot from earlier has visibly put her feet up on on the control panel of her vehicle. She raises her eyebrows as she looks me over… and then smirks and supplies me with a jaunty wave.

Astral Cygnus is the closest of all the Hunters now, so I establish a line of communication with him immediately. Thankfully, he accepts without a fuss.

“Astral Cygnus, I wish to surrender.” Those words put an end to the nightmare I’ve endured for this past week.

“Accepted.” Astral Cygnus nods and then manually signals some of the other unmounted hunters to approach, “Please cooperate while you’re processed for transport.”

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