Andrew Mackay - Infinity Claws

Wool carried Jelly through the hyper-sleep concourse – a long corridor with boxes and attached units on either side of the wall.

“Now, if I let you down do you promise not to run off?”

“Meow.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Wool squatted and released Jelly onto the ground. “Enjoy yourself while you can, Jelly.”

The cat wasted no time exploring the concourse. She bolted to the far end as fast as her legs could carry her.

“Whoa, calm down, pet,” Wool yelled.

Jelly reached the far door and found that it wouldn’t open. She whined and knocked it with her head.

Then, the door slid open, startling her. “Meow.”

She looked up the legs of the man standing in front of her. Tripp looked down and smiled.

“Ah, she’s awake.”

“Yes, Tripp,” Wool said, hopping after Jelly. “Just stretching her legs.”

“I can see that,” Tripp looked at the mischievous cat. “Wearing yourself out, are you?”

“Meow.”

“Such a good girl,” Tripp crouched down and offered her his hand. She ran her face along his fingers. “How long till we suit her up?”

Wool scooped Jelly into her hands and looked at her face. “We’ll get her fed and let her get her energy up. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to suit her up.”

“Very good,” Tripp began to walk away.

“Tripp?” Wool hollered after him.

“Yes?”

“We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?”

“Of course we are.”

“What with the change of course and everything?”

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Wool placed her face on top of Jelly’s head and breathed in. “If something happened to Jelly, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Wool, look,” Tripp walked back and offered her some reassurance. “We’ll be fine. Androgyne will check Opera Alpha out first and let us know what’s happening. There’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of.”

“I know,” Wool muttered. “That’s what’s scaring me.”

“What, you’re scared because there’s nothing to be scared about?”

“Yes,” Wool half-chuckled at her own revelation. “Something doesn’t seem right.”

“Exactly,” Tripp smile. “That’s what we’re here to fix.”

Daryl entered the control deck at the front of the ship and made his way to the pilot’s seat.

Tor Klyce busily tapped away on the board on his communication panel.

“Tor, any response from Opera Alpha?”

“I’m patching into their network now, Captain.”

“We’re off record, Tor, you can call me Daryl for the time being,” Katz said as he strapped himself into his chair. He flipped two red switches which created a polymorphic grid on the screen overlooking Saturn. “Hit the radio on frequency zero-five-four-niner.”

“Understood.”

Tor unhooked the comms device and squeezed it in his hand. “This is USARIC vessel Space Opera Beta, communicating on a frequency of zero-five-four-niner. Do we have contact?”

Nothing but a short burst of static came from the speaker. Tor held the button down again.

“I repeat, USARIC vessel Space Opera Beta, communicating on—”

A short burst of warbled static shot through the speaker, cutting Tor’s announcement.

“What was that?”

Katz turned around in haste. “Try again.”

“Space Opera Alpha, do you read us?”

The warbled sound dampened down into a familiar hiss.

“I’m not sure what that interruption was.”

“—Everything okay, here?” Baldron Landaker walked into the control deck, adjusting his inner-suit sleeves. “Do we have contact with Opera Alpha?”

“Not as such, no,” Tor said, turning a dial on his control bank. “Just a weird static. Erratic at best, and we can’t do anything about it.”

Baldron punched his mechanical fists together and looked over at Katz. “We still on with them?”

“Yes we are, Baldron,” Katz returned to his controls. “Just making up our revised route to the docking bay, now. Is Androgyne prepped?”

“Jaycee and Tripp are with her now,” Baldron said, slowing down his speech. The enormity of Saturn and her rings overwhelmed him for the first time since waking up. “My God, would you look at that. She’s a beast, right?”

“Yes she is,” Katz said, busily punching in data into his computer. “Alas, she’s not where we’re headed. See that tiny white dot, top-left?”

“Yes,” Baldron walked over to the flight deck. He stood next to Katz and took in the view.

“That, there, is Opera Alpha,” Katz said. “We’re just a few hours away…”

Tripp and Bonnie entered the smallest compartment aboard the spaceship.

A circular hub with a diameter of exactly fifty feet.

Tripp made a beeline for a silver-coated “woman’ resting on an electric chair at the opposite end of the room.

“You think she’s up for the job?” Bonnie asked, following behind Tripp.

“With a one hundred percent success rate?” Tripp asked, “I’m surprised we haven’t been replaced altogether by the Androgyne series.”

“Yeah,” Bonnie shot the sleeping droid a stern look. “Look at her. A useless piece of junk.”

“Until we boot her up, that is,” Tripp felt the side of Androgyne’s neck. The droid was extremely lifelike. He pushed her earlobe out with his knuckle, revealing a small tattoo on her neck, which read Manning/Synapse .

Tripp nodded over to the gears on the desk beside Androgyne’s chair. “Bonnie, hit the juice.”

“My pleasure.”

She walked over to the lever and yanked it back.

The droid’s chair lit up and vibrated.

“Activating Androgyne,” announced a female voice.

Tripp took a step back, allowing the droid some space. “Moment of truth.”

Bonnie smirked and scratched the side of her leg. “She’s such a show-off.”

Androgyne’s eyelids lifted, revealing her crystal blue eyes. She blinked a couple of times, emotionless and peaceful. A faint sound of the mechanics operating her joints could be heard.

Finally, she performed a smile. To say it was anything other than lifelike would be a gross understatement.

“Oh, my. I am awake,” Androgyne said, lifting her head forward slightly. “Good after-morning, Tripp Healy. Dr Whitaker.”

“It’s actually evening by our watches,” Tripp smiled at her. “But we forgive you. It is dark outside after all.”

“Is it not always dark in space, commander?” Androgyne blinked twice and tilted her head left and right.

“How are you, Androgyne?” Bonnie asked.

She turned her head to Bonnie and went to stand out of her chair. “I need to calibrate, could you please—”

A thick cable attached to the back of her head yanked back, throwing her bottom to the seat once again.

“Whoa. Easy, tiger,” Tripp moved forward and held Androgyne by the sides of her face. “You’re still plugged in. Don’t move.”

“Plugged in?”

“Yes, uh, give me a second…”

Tripp reached around the back of her head and lifted her hair up. The cable came free as he twisted it away from the top of her neck. “There, you’re free now.”

“What was the problem?” Androgyne asked. “Was there something on my head?”

“Uh, no,” Tripp shot Bonnie a threatening stare. She tried not to laugh.

The Androgyne series two first came to fruition in the year 2075. It was designed to replace canaries on space missions, to use the laymen vernacular.

Official estimates are unclear but, since records began in the early twentieth century, an estimated three hundred birds had been used on missions and almost all of them died on their expeditions.