but because of the way things have been going recently, were going to try something new. The stern, elderly man said as he walked down the dingy hallway to his stateroom. In tow were a few armed Junkers in the uniform flight suit, all following close and eagerly listening to this new development.
But whos gonna captain it? Its a big assignment, boss dangerous too. People aint used to us standin up an takin our payment by force. The masked Junker Rudo asked, his eyes big behind his mask. An information gathering and espionage specialist, the recently appointed congressman never liked surprises.
Not you, thats for certain. We know what youve been up to. Were watching to see what you bring down on our heads. If its good, youll create another market for us to exploit and crack the Xeno problem wide open in a single stroke. Reaching the end of the hall, the statesman placed his hand in the DNA biometric scanner. It hummed quietly, before beeping and beginning the unlocking mechanism. But if it collapses, youre going to be handed over to the LPI on a silver platter and rot in an eight-by-eight box for the rest of your short life. The elder and Rudo exchanged icy looks at this remark as the final pins hissed out of place and the hydraulics in the security door hissed open. The bodyguards remained outside, in front of the office. Many different factions congregated here, some of whom would love to get hold of a high-ranking Junker official.
Outside the massive window in the stateroom, a floating chunk of what once was an engine casing rapped the station shielding, pockmarked by a century of pinballing around the massive scrap field. Beyond the dense belt of discarded metal orbited the glittering nightside of Planet Manhattan, which eclipsed the New York star. The statesman sighed and took in the impressive sight.
So it aint me. Anyone I know? Rudo asked as he slumped into a plush luxury office chair, putting his feet on the desk and lighting up a cigar.
Rudo, were not on a planet. Dont put unnecessary wear on the air recyclers or Ill be asking you to pay for their maintenance. Put that out immediately. The statesman stated pointedly without turning around. Its enough you wear that mask around the clock.
The masked Junker snuffed the cigar under his boot before pocketing the remnant in his flight suit. You gots my retinal and DNA anyway. Whats the difference if I wanna maintain my heritage?
Your biometric file and record of service are the only reason it hasnt been ripped off your head and burned. He turned and faced the Luchador. We know youre a snake. A damned good, dangerous snake. But youre our snake, and thats why I let you in on things like this.
He took the three steps to his own chair and slowly sat down opposite Rudo, pulling a bottle of vintage Cambridge Wild Valley from a drawer. Pouring each of them a small glass of the precious ill-gotten brandy, he took a small sip and paused, savoring both the flavor and the words he would speak next. Rudo downed half his glass in a swig and looked on expectantly.
Its going to be offered to Bishop.
Rudo was incredulous. Bishop?! He stopped, swilling the other half of his glass and setting it back on the table empty. Y-ya mean the Bishop?!
Hes ex-LSF. Hell love the assignment, gets him back into space and doing what he does best.
Do ya know why the LSF dropped him?!
I got his file. Born and bred killer, early genome experiment. Colder than deep space.
Yeah, swhy hes workin as our interrogator now. But do ya know why he aint workin fer them anymore?
Enlighten me.
He went freakin berserk! Was on assignment doin somethin or other out in Alaska, rumor has it his wing saw somethin they wasnt supposed to. Command whispered a hypnotic killphrase in his ear an he jus slaughtered everyone around! His wing! His crew! There was nothin' left but stains an' mist!
Yes, that was the incident that got pinned on him, and he avoided execution by court martial by disappearing into our ranks. Your point? The statesman finished his own brandy and rose from his seat, walking towards the security door beyond his room, opposite the way they came in.
Who says that killphrase aint outta his system yet?
Its been nearly a decade. Hypnosis wears off. Hes been invaluable to us thus far and this is a dream assignment for him. He put up a hand, signaling Rudo to follow him no further. Another biometric scan, and this door opened as well. He stepped through, leaving Rudo shaking his head as he turned to leave.
This aint gonna end well. Aint gonna end well at all
---
In the Interrogation Rooms:
The door slid open, and the statesman stepped through. The air smelled of recent sterilization. Brown stains dotted the metal floor. Down the hallway lined the doors of many holding cells, but here in the centre of the room was what appeared to be an operating table. Only the instruments nearby were far less... beneficial than anything a surgeon would use.
The man standing in the centre of the room towered over the grinning elder. His skin was dark and mottled, his hair a shock of white. He folded his arms and the corner of his mouth twisted up in the closest thing he could manage to a smile. His ice-white eyes glinted with satisfaction as he spoke, in a voice well-suited to command and intimidate.
Have you decided to implement my idea?
The Junker statesman returned the smile. Theyve been taking advantage too long, Hannibal. They must be taught that we have teeth.
The giant, LEDs blinking about his powered subsystems, nodded and saluted. Captain Hannibal Bishop, at your command, Sir.
Make them remember why we remain untouchable, Hannibal. Make them fear us.
Months had gone by under Bishop's command. Much had changed in the political landscape, and thus much had changed in his directive. Gone were the aspirations of privateerdom in the face of newer, much more pertinent threats in the face of this new reality.
They had been good months. What first started out as a solitary assignment for precision strikes against debtors was now the tip of the spear. Caveat Emptor was the vanguard of the growing fleet of an organization that had before relied on its political maneuvering to remain safe, and was now seeing the need for a small but effective home guard.
Stationed around the Junkers' frontier outpost in Sigma-13, in the forefront of all threats, Hannibal had found new purpose. He was the failed prototype of an experiment gone wrong, one of Liberty's first attempts to combine man with technology to better combat the resurging Nomad threat. Little more than a vat-grown head and shoulders atop an impressive cybernetic sarcophagus containing synthetic organs, he'd had to grasp that despite being designed by humans, to protect humanity, and to even look and act vaguely human; he was not human.
Humans didn't need constant mechanical maintenance and system checks, or to steal their own blueprints so they could machine and engineer their own replacement parts. Humans had hands made of flesh, rather than mechanical powered gauntlets with a torque rating designed to tear an infected human to pieces in hand-to-hand combat. Humans enjoyed a soft warm bed, rather than a dark sarcophagus which doubled as an automated maintenance hub. When humans saw a loved one being taken over by the Nomads, they could choose to run away rather than have imbedded neurlogical and cybernetic subroutines immediately take over and execute the individual. Humans could know love and all the mortal pleasures that accompanied it. Bishop was a walking suit of armor with just enough human bits to give himself and other people the outward appearance as a member of the species, and to keep those human bits functioning. His designers hadn't afforded him much luxuries aside from an abridged circulatory and digestive system.
Until he found sanctuary with the Junkers, he'd had only too much time to contemplate his misfortune in life. But the enterprising salvage workers rapidly catalogued his talents and put him to work. First they took notice of his raw physical strength and cold-blooded demeanor, and made him Chief Interrogator at Rochester.
Then, once situations heated up, he was given command of the preliminary Junker 'Negotiator' Vessel, dubbed the Caveat Emptor.
His new purpose suited him well, and for a time he'd had enough to do to escape the knowledge that he was a walking grey golem, in constant need of replacement parts and the subject of nightmares wherever he went.
--
He hung in a rough sphere in the centre of the bridge, suspended from wires pulled taut in every direction to keep him stable. Various cables slaving vital ship systems such as gunnery and navigation to his complete control ran into input/output jacks placed in his armor. They would be routed through the monofilament superconductor that passed for his spinal cord, to a processor linked to his cerebellum that would translate thought into direct input to ship systems. When hooked to the system, the craft itself became an extension of Bishop's body -- a process that was often unwieldly, overengineered, and yet immensely effective. Not unlike Bishop's actual body.
If not for the reality of ship systems needing engineers, and Bishop himself needing extra hands to keep both the craft and his biomechanical systems operational, he could fly the craft himself.
His watch-stander operated as his second pair of eyes. He himself was bombarded with a constant and immense influx of information from the ship's internal and external sensors -- so someone devoted to filtering and relaying important details to him was necessary.
"Captain Bishop, we're getting a transmission. It's garbled. Source appears to be the Abschnitt."
Bishop's response was both muffled from the mask that encased his head and acted as his heads-up display, and loudly beamed through the bridge on ship's speakers. "Patch it to me."
It spoke without speaking, using some form of telepathy that came in images and emotions. Bishop felt waves of mocking hate wash over him. His face twisted into a grin.
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