BASTARD STAR v. SAZALO RAKUZIA

They were the Jin family, who had gripped the God-Conquering Sword and lived.

They were peerless masters of the seventy-two sacred killing motions, and had carved their school into a dragon’s stone skull. To even gain entry to the outer temple students had to force their way through the iron doors of the west gate, which needed to be hauled open by a team of oxen during festival days to allow the celebrants through.

Those doors now hung loose on their hinges, letting in the winter’s bitter chill. The base of the dark metal was stained a deep red. Too red for rust. The once-peerless masters of the secret ways of death themselves had been reduced to stains on the stone. The blood had dried, but the wounds it spilled from were still fresh.

Jin Xiang lowered his hood as he crossed the threshold into the inner sanctum towards the temple. He had returned to a temple under occupation with one thought burning in his mind, sharp and cold as the blade he carried.

Revenge.

A click, and the world froze. Another click, and the swordsman stepped backwards through the temple. The defenders rose to their feet around him and his blade blurred back into its sheath. An android sat silently in front of the ancient television set, its single optical array transfixed on the scene that was now moving in reverse. The hazy light of the screen bled out into the dim storage room, casting its crooked body–little more than an endoskeleton held together by a web of wire and tubing–into sharp relief.

In that moment, Bastard Star considered themselves the luckiest machine to have ever walked the ruined halls of the Wizard’s Wife. To call the derelict battle cruiser a death trap would have set an unfair standard for every spiked pit and sawblade-ed hallway to ever make a career out of reducing careless adventurers down to their constituent parts.

The Wife wasn’t a death trap, it was a death sentence. And yet, the treasures hidden inside its halls were worth designating a next-of-kin.

Treasure. That’s what Bastard Star had found, buried in the outer crust of the ship. Legends painted in hazy light on phosphorescent glass. A vault–no, a reliquary–that contained the collected wisdom of the masters of old, preserved forever in Mylar.

They were priceless relics of a bygone age, which was good because Bastard Star didn’t have any money and had stripped the magnetic tape out of three cassettes before they figured out how to feed them into the television. The robot clicked another button with a clumsy metal finger, and the cassette player whirred.

Sazalo Rakuzia clenched his teeth so tightly he was afraid the creature would hear his jaw creak. This was the twenty-seventh time they had watched that particular fight scene. The well-dressed man had been lurking just outside the glow cast by the television set, and the stakeout had stretched his patience to the breaking point.

Beyond the pale halo of fuzzy color, the room that looked like a data center had violently collided with a videocassette store. Technology from every conceivable era–from the disk-based storage of the Silicon Age to more contemporary five-dimensional crystal matrices–was neatly stored away in pockets of fractalized space to keep the particularly ancient exhibits from crumbling to dust. If there was ever a place he could find a map of the Wizard’s Wife, it was here.

The only problem was, someone else had beaten him to it. Saz looked down at the cigarette pinched between his fingers and considered lighting it, not for the first time.

He knew he should have been more guarded, but the spindly creature was too busy fiddling with the television to notice him, and it would probably continue to overlook him as long as he kept his temper in check. Soon, he would be free to explore the storage depot to his heart's content. All he had to do was wait for the machine to move on.

But that stupid robot. 

Kept. 

Pausing. 

The damn. 

Movie.

Saz’s eye twitched as the cassette player clicked again and the tape began to whir. Enough was enough. Three hours of watching Jin Xiang, the Steel Flower of the North, avenge the death of his family had taxed every bit of patience he had, and the well was running dry. Sazalo stalked into the circle of light and placed a heavy hand on the robot’s shoulder from behind.

“TV time’s over, son. I suggest you move along,” his voice was low and steady, but he gripped Bastard Star’s shoulder in a way that said the suggestion was anything but.

“PLEASE BE PATIENT. I HAVE NOT FINISHED MY COMBAT ANALYSIS,” the robot’s voice was metallic and stilted, but it didn’t miss a beat. The machine didn’t even turn to look at Sazalo as it spoke.

That was the wrong thing to say. With a snarl, the old gangster cocked back his leg and kicked the television set as hard as he could. The tip of his polished shoe cracked through the antique screen and sent the device flying. Only then did Bastard Star turn to fix him with its single, staring lens.

“Finished now?” Saz growled around the butt of a cigarette. He let go of the robot’s shoulder to light it–a tiny ember in the now-dark room–and took a long drag.

“I WAS NOT,” the robot said. It almost sounded like it was sulking.

“Too bad,” Saz jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the door. “You’ve got ten seconds to scoot before I help you along your way.”

“WAS THAT A THREAT?”

“What do you think, dumbass?” Saz snapped.

“I THINK YOU HAVE INSULTED ME, DAMAGED MY PROPERTY AND POSSIBLY ISSUED A THREAT AGAINST MY PERSON,” pistons hissed quietly as Bastard Star unfolded from its sitting position. Even at full height, they still had to look up to meet Sazalo’s eyes. “I BELIEVE I AM NOW FREE TO RETALIATE.”

“You’re really starting to piss me off, you know that?” Saz growled around the butt of a cigarette.

“I APOLOGIZE,” the machine’s voice was grinding and stilted. Metal creaked as its joints tightened around something strapped to its side. “I WILL ENDEAVOR TO ESCALATE THE SITUATION QUICKER NEXT TIME.”

The rasp of metal against metal was Sazalo’s only warning. A crude blade flashed out of the dim light towards his neck. There was no art to the strike, no pretense of grace. It was simply a sharp piece of metal, swinging towards his head with all the force Bastard Star could put behind it.

It was the best their spindly frame could muster, but it wasn’t fast enough. A crown of purple light erupted from the marking on Sazalo’s skin as the man lurched back. The tip of the sword skated off the ethereal armor a hair's breadth from his head.

Pistons hissed and joints creaked as the blade flashed around for another pass. It fell once, twice, three times in quick succession. Once, twice, three times it cracked off the same strange light that rose from Sazalo’s skin. No matter how fast Bastard Star swung, the magic was always faster.

Sazalo caught the next strike on his armored forearm before it could reach his neck. He angled the block so the blade wedged between the plates. Then he went on the offensive, ramming his fist into the robot’s chest with enough force to dent its riblike supports. Bastard Star retaliated in kind. Its free fist clanged against the plates shielding the gangster’s face hard enough to crack the armor.

Sazalo pulled his arm back, releasing the blade as he hunched over into a more traditional fistfighter’s guard–arms bent sharply up and held close to protect his vital organs, fists on either side of his head to protect the chin. His legs tensed with anticipation, pent to keep his center of gravity low. Bastard Star sprang into a far more dramatic pose, leaning forward with one palm splayed towards his opponent. Their other arm coiled overhead like a serpent, angling the blade down at Sazalo’s face.

Had he arrived at the room a few hours earlier, he might have recognized the stance as a perfect replica of the lone master from The Pilgrim King. Unfortunately, whoever had directed the film had prioritized form over function when they choreographed the fight scenes. Bastard Star learned this lesson the hard way when Sazalo sprung forward. He stepped into a lunge, and the shining armor wrapped around his fist extended into a long, brutal spike. The point sunk through the nest of wires and tubes at the android’s core and hitched as it caught on something.

“YOU CHEATED,” Bastard Star’s voice was bitter but resigned. The robot tried to grab at Sazalo, but the spear was too long for it to reach. “I DO NOT DETECT A HARDLIGHT PROJECTOR ON YOUR PERSON. WHO ARE YOU? HOW DID YOU DO THIS?”

“I’m Sazalo Rakuzia, son.” the gangster snarled. “When I say move, you don’t stick around long enough to ask ‘how fast.’”

Sazalo didn’t bother answering the second question. He didn’t have the patience to explain magic to a robot. Instead, he planted a foot against the android’s chest and heaved. Bastard Star went flying through the open door. The android’s crooked body crashed into the opposing wall and slumped down in a heap of dented steel and loose tubing.

Saz watched cautiously as the machine twitched itself into a sitting position. Bastard Star considered the damage and determined its arms still functioned well enough to make a rude gesture in Sazalo’s direction.

SHUNK.

A spear of light slammed against the robot’s slumped form, pinning the offending hand to the wall. Bastard Star’s free arm raised another defiant finger.

SHUNK.

Another spear crunched through their other hand.

SHUNK.

And one more for good measure.

Sazalo watched the pile warily for a moment. Once he was assured it wasn’t going to move while his back was turned, he retreated back to the tape room. He didn’t stick around to see Bastard Star’s eye dim, or hear the dull hum of their internal processor whirring to life. Words flashed in the rickety android’s mind, burning as hot and bright as a flame.

> opticArray_117.dump(“01_Rakuzia.log”);

> monitor.newData(“heavenShatteringSword.mov”);

> monitor.newData(“01_Rakuzia.log”);

> monitor.assess();

| Processing combat information. . .

| . . .

| Calculating.

| . . .

Bastard Star’s limp fingers creaked into a fist as visions of the fight blurred together in their mind. The post-combat processing stung their pride as it highlighted each misstep. Step here, not there. Pivot into the swing. Conserve momentum. Move faster. Faster.

The wisdom of the masters hadn’t been enough to win the fight against the man in the purple suit, but perhaps…

| . . .

| Results: SEVERELY LACKING

| Target human baseline: NOT MET

| . . .

| Checking new data acquisition. . .

| Adjustment criteria met.

| . . 

Perhaps it was enough to move the needle.

| . . .

| Adjustments complete. Apply changes (y/n)?

> YES

> Applying changes. . .

| |_ New weight applied to STR (was  0.0 -> +1.2)

| |_ New weight applied to SPD (was  0.0 -> +2.7) 

| |_ New weight applied to CON (was  0.0 -> +0.6)

> . . .