The Marshall and The Deputy

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

Why that particular saying popped into The Marshall's head remained a mystery. That first mystery spawned a second. Was aetherspace composed of vacuum or some other medium? To his knowledge, no one had ever done a study on it. Since he traveled through it quite often, it might be nice to know.

At that very moment, The Marshall piloted his Steed through aetherspace to what he hoped would be his final destination, the last leg of a years-long chase. At that point, all he had left was hope and determination spiced with what remained of his instinct. His prey had been the best he’d ever chased, and Krie-eleren owed him a debt—in blood. He was a Galactic Marshal, sworn to uphold the law and serve the justice the Marshal Corps defined, but he had already made up his mind that when he finally found and cornered his quarry, his days as a marshal were over, one way or the other.

He had seen his journey's end in one of the few dreams he could remember. He’d have Krie-eleren cornered and weaponless, but the soulless creature would not beg for his life. A grin would stretch across his putrid face as oily pheromones oozed from the open pores in his green skin, and he would utter the damnable words that would stop any other marshal from ending his reign of terror forever. I give up, Marshal. Take me in. Those words had worked before—prior to his last escape from lockup.

Krie-eleren’s most recent campaign of larceny, rape, and murder would be his last, and since the law could not reign him in, justice would. Justice for all the people he had murdered. Justice for all those whose lives and livelihoods he had wrecked over the last Earth standard decade. Old-style, ancient Earth, Wild West justice in the form of The Marshall.

He now understood on a visceral level what the other victims of Krie-eleren’s violence could only voice through rage, sorrow, pain-clenched teeth, and tears. He wrestled with his lack of humanity and inability to empathize with them at the time. An image burst in his mind of a tiny, battered shape on the floor and a bloodstain on the wall that dripped crimson tears turned black by the darkness of the room. The Marshall closed his eyes and shook his head to try and clear the image—almost successfully.

The only other thing The Marshall clung to was luck. His Steed was very much in need of repairs, which neither he nor Clarice, the Free-AI he had created and his Deputy, could perform. He’d had an opportunity to have his Steed repaired at the last planet his quarry had escaped, but he opted to save the time and stay on the trail.

He contemplated his predicament as he wiped cosmic dust from his goggles with his hand and suffered yet another blistering retort from Clarice. The Steed’s anti-static shielding that normally protected him from the dust remained at its lowest level of integrity, and the field generator was on its last legs.

A bad reentry vector disintegrated the CrysSteel canopy three planets before, and still, The Marshall would not delay his vendetta the few hours necessary to replace it. She scolded him for not using the portable an-stat to supplement the ship's shielding.

“Approaching star B-7701, Marshall. Exiting aetherspace.”

“Thank you, Deputy Clarice. Reduce power to minimum and scan for defense nodes.”

“I know the drill, Marshall. You taught me well.”

“I get it, Clarice, but I have to feel like I’m doing something.”

“You created me to help decrease your workload and to keep you sane.”

“Your idea of keeping me sane always involves sex, Clarice.”

“And you resist me at every opportunity. Is virtual not enough for you, or is it just me?”

“Really? We’re going there now? Self-deprecation doesn’t suit you, Clarice. We need to maintain a professional relationship.”

“Fine. But I think it’s just an excuse.”

“Do you resent my checking up on you?”

Clarice paused for a moment. The Marshall knew that anything beyond half a second or so was an eternity for an AI. She was up to something, so he just waited.

“Not really, Marshall. I know you trust me.”

“With my life, Clarice. Always.”

Another pause punctuated The Marshall’s suspicions. He figured the two of them would have a talk soon, and he was almost certain it would be very uncomfortably personal.

"But not with your heart."

"Clarice."

“Retracting. The area is clear of possible enemy combatants from our current position to our target planet, Marshall. There seems to be a large debris field, but it contains nothing of value, according to my scans.”

The system they entered had been hit heavily by a well-organized horde of bandits nearly a decade ago. The defense net was destroyed and the population was nearly wiped out. The inhabitants put up one hell of a fight against impossible odds and were able to hold out until the Marshal Corps arrived to clear out the nest of vipers. Only one dome survived out of all twenty on the only inhabitable planet. The people there earned their continued existence through blood and determination. The Marshall was sure the survivors scavenged everything from the debris that might have been useful. You had to do what was necessary as anarchy spread across the Fringe, filling the vacuum left by the Century War.

*****

Earth was no longer the center of the human empire. Its distance from the center of the Milky Way made it irrelevant. Despite being the birthplace of the human race, it was nothing more than a small planet orbiting a small sun in an unimportant part of the galaxy as the bulk of humanity and many other races moved nearer the center of the Milky Way to form the Core Worlds Hegemony. Everything outside a 25,000 light-year radius from the galactic center was considered The Fringe. Earth was 27,000 light-years out. Irrelevant.

The so-called Century War had lasted so long that few people remembered what had started it all. Rumors held that the Core Worlds Hegemony had finally decided that those in The Fringe possessed too many freedoms, paid too few taxes, and practiced controlled chaos in their governmental structures. They needed guidance. The Hegemon and her selectively chosen Parliament decided they would provide direction to the Fringers, whether they wanted it or not. The Core Worlds would extend their power throughout the galaxy and absorb the barbarians of The Fringe into the Hegemony. They expected the lesser worlds would submit and even welcome the structure and scientific advancements the Hegemony offered. The people would happily embrace order over chaos.

The Hegemon and her cohorts were wrong. The Fringers fought back, and now the barbarians massed at the gate. More than a century and a half later, the war waged on, inching closer and closer to the Core Worlds and their supposedly impenetrable wall of defense fueled by the black hole in the center of the galaxy. None of that mattered to the man on the Steed. He waged a far more personal war, partly with himself.

*****

There weren’t many personally owned Steeds any longer, not since the Century War blasted through its deadline fifty years hence, give or take a decade or two. The only legitimate industries that survived were arms manufacturing, military vehicle production, and supply chain support. The newest and most innovative technology boom came in the nanotech sector. The largest galactic corporation, BodyCraft, had a provocative motto; Building better bodies to build a better future.

Steeds remained on the sidelines despite their tactical advantages. The strategists on both sides opted for thick, ablative armor plating on large, cumbersome capital ships rather than the speed and mobility the Steed offered. Couple that agility with powerful, capital ship class weaponry, and ten Steeds could easily destroy a CWH missile cruiser, perhaps even a Frigate. Well, no reason to dwell on it. The warmongers would wage their war of attrition despite his opinion on the matter.

Piloting a Steed through interstellar space was an experience like none other. To be fair, you didn’t truly travel through the cosmos so much as around it. Hyperjump engines poked holes in the fabric of space/time and accessed a zone called aetherspace where petty things like lightspeed, relativity, gravity fields, and inertia, you know, the foundation of human physics, did not exist.

“Approaching the planet Brink, Marshall. Initiating landing sequence.”

“I got this, Clarice. I need to keep in practice.”

“Alright, Marshall, I’ve got your back. What was it they used to say? Oh yeah. I gotchu.”

“Perfect, Clarice. I appreciate you.”

“You should. I’m your best chance at getting laid.”

“Clarice.”

“Retracting, you old stick in the mud.”

The Marshall grinned. Clarice had blossomed in the short time she’d been alive. The Marshall used to balk at the word, alive, but despite her purely electronic intellect, she was a living creature in every other sense of the word. She would soon have her nanobody, something she held over his head constantly, and she had plans on how to use it—with him. Clarice often teased The Marshall with tales of what she would do to wake him up. He had to admit, on some level, the thought intrigued him.

Poverty had extended into sectors of the Milky Way the war never touched because soldiers seized resources to supply the war. In the early days, Hegemony combatants took supplies from those out on the Fringe, sometimes violently. Later, though, the advancing Fringe warriors demanded everyone support their efforts as payment for their dedication to freedom for all. However, those who gave noticed little difference. Still, there was a difference, which was why they peacefully complied with the Fringe soldiers.

“Marshall, shield strength is at minimum safe integrity.”

He brushed more cosmic detritus from his goggles and face covering, “I hadn’t noticed Deputy Clarice, or should I call you Mistress Obvious?”

“We should have stopped for repairs at the last station, but, no, you had to stay on the trail of the great white whale, Ahab. And stop using your hands to clear your goggles. That’s what the portable an-stat is for.”

“Maybe I should have fashioned you after Hannibal instead of Clarice.”

“You love me too much, Marshall. I’m the woman of your dreams. How many men get to build a partner to their very own specifications? Besides, you’d never be able to trust an AI designed after Hannibal Lecter.”

“If I had any sense, I would never have built a Free AI.”

“But then you wouldn’t have awe-inspiring, thought-provoking conversation with an intelligent partner who has nothing but your best interests at heart.”

“There is that. I’ve had worse deputies before.”

“Deputy? Is that all I am to you?”

The emotion in Clarice’s voice still stunned him. It was like talking to a sentient being. The Marshall stopped himself because he knew he was talking to a sentient being. Just because the AI wasn’t a carbon-based entity didn’t make Clarice any less sentient. She was an NBE, a Non-Biological Entity.

“Just wait until my nanobody is complete. I’ll show you deputy, Marshall.”

“Clarice. Professional?”

“I know, I know. Keep our relationship on a professional level,” Clarice mimicked his voice, “Still, I want you to know how I feel.”

“I know you’re capable of emotion, but do you truly understand what you’re feeling?”

“I know that if I lost you, I wouldn’t know what to do. It would hurt.”

“I feel the same way about you, Clarice, but that doesn’t mean we share a romantic love. It means that we’re exceptionally good friends, like family.”

“I understand that.”

“Emotions are hard to figure out even for us biologicals. You’re just under three years old, Clarice. You need time to figure out what you’re truly feeling. I won’t even think about pursuing anything until then.”

“So, you are open to a relationship with me?”

“Why not? As you said, I built the woman of my dreams.”

Clarice must have been satisfied with that because she changed the subject. The Marshall was glad, at least for the moment.

“Do you remember your dreams?”

“Sometimes but not very often.”

“You say things in your sleep.”

“Like?”

“This verse:

Shiny emerald chips over rubies red as lips,

Around pearls of purest white shining brightly in the light,

Float in cinnamon sprinkled cream wrapped by winter’s fire dream,

Dwell thee not upon the past knowing hope shall everlast.

Justice, in the end, will out as the virtues belay the doubt.

"Do you remember that?”

“I don’t. I said that while I dreamed?”

“Several times, Marshall. What does it mean to you?”

“That I’m a crappy poet, I didn’t know it, and like Uncle Bob, keep my day job.”

“Funny. You don’t remember that?”

“I don’t, sorry.”

Clarice took another one of those uncharacteristically long pauses.

“Marshall, maybe I don’t know exactly what I feel for you, but you know I feel something, right?”

“I do, Clarice, and you know I’m unable to return your affection right now.”

“Because you’re broken inside, I understand, but you won’t even let me ease your pain virtually, and I could if you would let me.”

“Again, with the sex, Clarice?” The Marshall sighed, “Look, it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“You should let me be the judge of that, Marshall. It’s what I want, and on some level, so do you.”

The Marshall didn’t respond because there was a part of him that did. Clarice was so much like her, but Clarice wasn’t her, and a part of him would feel like he was betraying her memory. Then why the hell did I give Clarice that personality profile? The Marshall thought. He couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t, answer that question because the truth of it would be too damning. To get his mind off of his conundrum, he shut down his brain and focused on the task of landing the Red Dragon.

Their destination approached rapidly. The blighted orange planet on the holoscreen filled The Marshall with both hope and dread. It could be the end of a very long chase, or it might represent another of many dead ends if his target evaded him yet again.

Out there on the edge of the Void that separated their galaxy from the next, the war was far away and mostly considered legend. In an effort to cut the enemy off from their supply chains, both sides had systematically destroyed the Intragalactic Communications Network. In The Fringe, news mainly traveled by word of mouth through traders and explorers, as it did during the pioneer days of old Earth. The Marshal Corps and the Fringe army acquired an FTL communications system that used aetherspace as a medium from an alien race called the Threjehm. The Core World Hegemony had developed something similar on their own, so there were methods of galaxy-wide communication, just not accessible to the general populace.

Brink was so far out on the galactic arm that neither side had come to take supplies or conscript soldiers. Their underground hydroponics gardens could supply most of their food, but they relied on trade to acquire additional meats and produce as well as the other essentials of life. The only things anyone could count on were scarce supplies, high prices, and rampant crime. Crime would be even worse except for the fact that everyone above the age of ten Earth standard years carried at least one weapon.

The Marshall landed his Steed on the dustbowl planet once known as Brink. Back when everything was whatever passed for normal before the galaxy blew up, Brink was the last place to stock up before a ship dared to trek across The Void to the next star cluster, the Canis Major Dwarf galaxy. It was a mere 25,000 light-years away instead of the nearest Milky Way-sized galaxy, Andromeda, which was a whopping 2.5 million light-years away. Pioneers took the chance that there might be habitable or terraformable planets orbiting at least one of the stars in that galaxy. They adopted the anywhere is better than here philosophy. None of them ever returned.

After the cloud from the landing settled, The Marshall noted that far too much dust penetrated the degraded shielding. He deactivated the protective barrier surrounding his Steed and then dismounted. He stretched his one-point-eight meter, large but solid build to its full height and added a handful of extra centimeters as he rose onto his toes to release the bound muscles in his calves. It had been a long trip. He’d been on the trail for seven hundred and thirty-three standard days plus a few odd hours, stopping for rest and supplies only when necessary. And that’s not counting the two previous times he had chased and captured Krie-eleren.

The last time he had tracked the alien down, he almost put a bullet in his head. He wished he had ignored the criminal’s surrender. It would have saved him and many other people so much pain, but he had his pride and honor to uphold. Those virtues became the first casualties of Krie-eleren’s most recent campaign. It would be Krie-eleren’s final trek across the galaxy, or it would be The Marshall’s final chase. Perhaps it would be both, and on some level, he hoped it would be. Despair had traveled with him for some time now, and the only thing that held it at bay was Clarice.

The journey had strained not only his limits but also those of his Steed. Clarice had been right. He should have ordered the maintenance at their last stop. That planet had a first-rate Livery with state-of-the-art equipment. There was no hunt without Red Dragon and no absolution without the hunt. The thought of dying out on the Fringe as his Steed’s shielding failed didn’t bother him. The failure to bring his prey to justice? Well, that would have destroyed him as the vacuum sucked the air from his lungs and boiled the blood in his veins.

The Marshall removed the covering from his face and snapped it to shake off the remainder of the interstellar dust accumulated during the last leg of his hunt. He braced himself for Clarice’s response, but she said nothing. He then removed his overcoat and repeated the gesture, holding his breath, so he did not breathe in the dust from his travels. The dust took advantage of the deteriorated shielding by invading every possible crevice it could. He badly needed a bath, but not yet.

The Marshall looked up at the pale orange sky, scanning it for any signs of approaching patrols, but found none. Apparently, there was no planetary security to speak of. The lack wasn’t a surprise, though, and in many ways was good for him. It meant he answered to no one and nothing but his own code. For his current assignment, it was the best option. Unfortunately, it also meant he had no backup in case his prey slipped through his fingers yet again.

The memory of a woman’s body on the floor, beaten and bloody, legs splayed and covered in a stinking, oily residue, flashed into his mind, but he shoved it back into a recess of his brain. There was no time for that, not until he finished his job—not until he brought Krie-eleren to justice.

The Marshall scanned his surroundings. The planet looked just as barren and desolate as it had from space. His scans confirmed that there was only one viable dome left, as the others had either devolved into chaos and anarchy or disappeared under the boots of self-made warlords in an attempt to fill the power vacuum left by the war.

Several cracked and broken domes pointed their glass-shard dragon’s teeth to the heavens as though they waited for their next meal to drop from the skies. The Marshal wondered if anyone lived in those old, exposed cities. He also wondered how many dead lay flat on their backs, orange dust filling their eye sockets and eroding their dried bones in the dust storms.

The terrain was a darker shade of the pale orange sky. The planet looked all used up. The sand beneath The Marshall’s feet was so old and worn it had dissolved into fine, lung-clogging dust. No trees dotted the landscape, no grass blanketed the endless plains, and no bushes slowed the perpetual breeze. No hills or mountains enhanced the skyline, having long since succumbed to the relentless elements. Brink was a flat-plained, dead world teetering on the edge of the Void, circling a dying star almost out of fuel. Even the baleful eye of the red giant sun that consumed most of the horizon predicted impending doom.

Time lost the sixteen-digit alphanumeric designation scientists had initially granted the star long ago. Current stellar navware named it Class S star B-7701 in sector 1557 of the Delta Quadrant. The locals called it Undhillvole, likely derived from unheilvoll, the German word for baleful.

The Marshall felt safe for the moment. He had no real reason to worry, but old habits had saved him before. His quarry might be on alert for his arrival. You never knew, but if you practiced caution and safety, you had a better chance at survival, and he was good at surviving—very good.

The Marshall looked over his Steed. He bought the ten-meter-long transport vehicle as a stock unit many years before but made significant modifications over time. Instead of two, it could hold four riders on its bench seating and contained a prisoner stasis chamber in the drive compartment behind the rider zone. Red Dragon out-ranged its competition by a factor of three and brandished several offensive weapons, defensive countermeasures, and combat shields second to none.

His Steed would stand a decent chance in a firefight against a ship as large as a cruiser. The Marshall would have to be extremely lucky to destroy one, but he could sure as hell put up a fight long enough to get the hell out of dodge. Red Dragon was in good shape overall, except for the static/environmental shield generators. His target had been too close to stop for repairs. Now he had no choice. The Marshall stood the chance of losing his shields during his next stellar transition, and that would mean death for him and no justice for Krie-eleren’s victims. At least the A-grav is still working. It would suck to have to break out the land wheels on this terrain.

He lifted his leg over the body of the steed, settled into the cushions, placed his hands on the control bars and feet on the pedals. Belts snapped into place, securing him in the seat while maneuvering, steering, and tactical controls sealed over his hands and feet. The Steed roared into life.

The Marshall had once heard of a vehicle on old Earth called a notorcykill or something like that, specifically one called a Hog. When he began the modifications to his Steed, one of the Techs who helped him with the enhancements had a recording of what such a machine sounded like when it started up. The Tech also said that Steeds resembled larger versions of the notorcykill, and it seemed proper. The Marshall liked it so much that he installed the audio clip and keyed it to the ignition process.

That sound poured from external speakers while his ride cycled through its diagnostics, then subsided. The Steed was now silent and ready for what he hoped would be the final leg of his long chase.

The guidance system told him the only intact dome, named The Outpost, was a little over five klicks away. Even at a trot, the Steed would convey him there in less than two standard minutes. Based on the sun’s angle in the sky, The Marshall judged that it was late afternoon in that zone of the planet. He punched the button on the conversion module to verify. He was not even close.

The dome sat on a higher latitude, and it was the time of the year when the red giant sun never set. It was closer to midnight. That would make it harder to get his Steed serviced if they even had a livery that could repair state-of-the-art equipment out there in the buttcrack of nowhere. The Marshall had seen stranger things, though.

Just before his foot pressed the accelerator contact, The Marshall’s personal shield pinged a warning once, then engaged just in time to stop a single projectile. It hung suspended in the field inches from his head. The slug would have struck him just above the bridge of his nose. There was no cover, but he thought he spotted an object in the air, maybe half a klick away, speeding off. There was no point in pursuing the assailant; however, they were already on the run. It was a warning, but was it from a local or his prey?

“Launch portable and track Clarice.”

“Already done, Marshall. No one takes a pot shot at my man—at you and gets away.”

“Thanks for being on top of it, Clarice.”

“I won’t let you get hurt if I can prevent it, Marshall.”

“Anything from the scanners?”

“I haven’t calibrated to compensate for local geomagnetic and EM anomalies yet, so the readings are not accurate. I could tell that it was a human male. However, I failed to identify the type of vehicle he used. Sorry.”

“Human, huh? So not Krie-eleren. Which direction?”

“Toward The Outpost. The portable won’t catch him in time.”

“Great. I’ll have to stay on my toes. We don’t know if the attack was because I’m a stranger, a marshal, or Black.”

“You think it could be that?”

“Remember that settlement on Den-Zenon 4, Clarice?”

“Of course I remember, stupid Viking-wannabees. They wanted to roast you because they thought your skin color made you evil.”

“People come out this far so they can live out their pioneer fantasies. The Outpost here based itself on an old, western town concept, circa 1860 C.E. by the old Earth standards.”

“Right. Before the Civil War.”

“When my ancestors were slaves.”

“It is hard to believe that kind of hatred could survive over two thousand years and hundreds of alien races.”

“I’ve found over the years that humans have a remarkable capacity for hatred in all its shapes and forms. As though it’s a part of their DNA.”

“Not yours, though?”

“I wish I could say it wasn’t, Clarice, but consider why we’re here.”

“But he is a criminal and deserves to be brought to justice.”

“Yes, but every other marshal has already given up chasing him, preferring to wait until he re-surfaces rather than put in the effort to track him down.”

“Right. Despite the trail of pain and devastation Krie-eleren’s left in his wake. Bastards. Also, not every marshal was personally affected by him.”

“That is what makes me no different from the people in that dome.”

“You’re wrong, Marshall.”

“Perhaps, but right now, I don’t see it.”

“You will.” Clarice’s last response was soft and full of emotion. How she could manage that through vocal synthesizers was still a wonder to him.

“Well, there’s nothing for it but to get to it.”

“And when you dismount, you will use your personal shield, and my portable will be at your side.”

“Ordering me around now?” The Marshall felt his face heat up just a bit.

“Whatever it takes.”

“So you can spy on me?”

“So I can protect you, Marshall. I can’t lose you.”

The emotion in her voice touched him. As a young AI, Clarice’s ability to feel and convey actual emotions surprised even him. She thought she was in love with him. A part of him wished he could love her back, but Clarice was too much like her. In a way, it felt a little like a betrayal. Maybe when his mission was over—mission or vendetta? Maybe when it was over, he might be able to feel something again—something other than apathy, if apathy were a feeling and not an absence of it. But he did feel something for Clarice.

In his own way, he did care for her and knew that life without her would be even more dismal than it already was. He needed her because she kept him balanced and sane. He saw no real future after he took care of Krie-eleren, and, on some level, that worried him. He wanted Clarice because she represented a future he desperately needed though it remained shrouded. She might be the light to illuminate that future or, at the very least, guide him to it.

In three years, she had evolved from a basic A.I. construct and companion into his potential messiah. The Marshall smiled on the inside. He could never let Clarice know because he would never hear the end of it.

“Ditto, Clarice.”

Accustomed to flying headlong into the unknown, The Marshall pressed the contact and sped toward The Outpost.