Beware the Cyclomen
Beware the Cyclomen
Starlix sat, drink in hand, with his back to the bar, surveying the room. Tambacor wasn’t a moon known for civilized behavior, and this particular watering hole wasn’t doing much to improve that reputation. The place was certainly crawling with synthroids - synthetic humanoids - and even its human patrons were less than sociable. This wasn’t a place you went looking for trouble, it was a place trouble found you.
The rugged Keppran slammed back the shot of Ridauran yasmin and turned to the bartender. "Valtrex," he grumbled, "give me another of these. And try not to piss in it this time. The best yasmin in the system comes off of Ridaura, yet somehow yours still tastes like it was strained through the fur of a Tarka."
"What can I say, Starlix," the bartended hissed. "I heard you were in town and had to lock all my best product in the vault. I’m still trying to recover from the damages you caused the last time you were here.
"Why are you here Starlix? Rumor has it you had your badge taken away, so you can’t be here on official business."
It was true that Starlix was no longer with the Aceon, but his reasons were not public knowledge. The theory that he’d been kicked off the force probably started somewhere in the gutters, but since the people starting those rumors were the very people Starlix wanted to keep guessing, he didn’t mind at all. All that would change soon enough, for this lot at least.
"You ask to many personal questions Valtrex. My business is my business, and if I want to open up to you I’ll- well, let’s just say I won’t ever want to open up to you."
Valtrex looked like he wanted to say something more, but Starlix picked his fresh drink off of the bar and turned back towards the rest of the room. His eyes continued to scan the crowd, searching for that one face. He’d been tracking him for days, ever since the situation on Micardis went bad. Now that he knew his prey had landed on Tambacor it was only a matter of time before he found his way here. You don’t go looking for trouble here, he thought again. Trouble finds you.
And there it was. Six feet of pure synthroid trouble, huddled in the darkest corner of the bar; waiting for a ride out of town, or hoping to find someone with access to a patch kit to give him a new identity. Too bad my friend. Your time’s up today.
Starlix tossed his drink back, and pulled himself up to his full height. He walked casually across the bar towards his target. Without stopping, he slid his blaster from a concealed holster in his overcoat, raised it, and fired. In one continuous motion, Starlix holstered the gun and pulled out his badge, holding it over his head for all to see.
The synthroid’s chest was on fire from the blast and no one seemed to care. All eyes were on Starlix. One careless thug rushed headlong towards him, itching for fight with the man ballsy enough to pull a gun in a bar. Fortunately for the thug, someone had the mind to stop him and direct his gaze to the badge in Starlix’s hand.
Content that everyone had seen his badge, Starlix put it away and calmly left the bar. His synthroid target was still burning and twitching at his table, but he knew that was just a few final circuits loosing their spark. The synthroid was dead.
It was true that Starlix was no longer with the Aceon Force. After sixteen years of government police work, chasing two-bit crooks and smugglers who would serve half their sentence, if that, before being let out on a technicality, Starlix had had enough. It was time to do some real good in the galaxy.
The Cyclomen answered to one authority - the galactic Prime Minister. Their one duty was to find and execute rogue synthroids. Twenty years or so prior, the first synthroids started rolling off of the assembly line. They were used for any type of manual labor you could think of - the lousy jobs that no human wanted to take any more.
Six years ago, the original series began to malfunction. Massive property damage was the usual result. No one knows exactly what the problem is. The units function properly one day, and the next they go haywire. Not even maintenance checks on a unit known to have malfunctioned reveal the cause… all systems appear to be normal. But instead of cleaning sidewalks and painting buildings, the synthroids start blowing up office towers and sabotaging helitrains.
The synthroids look and act human, but they have no emotions. They take no pleasure in their work, whether it be benevolent or malevolent. They simply do what they do.
Unfortunately, the synthroids were programmed with a self-preservation feature. It was meant to keep them from hanging around in burning buildings or standing in the way of the garbage crafts they were meant to pilot. It wasn’t meant to drive them to run from local law enforcement when their wires crossed and they ran a school transit off the road.
The Cyclomen were formed in response to the largest wave of synthroid violence to date. A mob of several hundred first and second-generation synthroids rampaged through the capital city of Cyclo on the second moon of Keppra. Within six hours the city was declared a disaster area.
Galactic parliament responded immediately and gathered an elite force of marines, Aceon agents, and even a few mercenaries willing to sign up. They were officially named the Synthroid Elimination Unit, but everyone called them the Cyclomen in honor of the fallen city.
"Let all synthroids beware," the Prime Minister had declared. "The Cyclomen will find you."
Starlix heard a few of the bars patrons repeat that famous phrase as he stepped out into the night air. But it brought him no pleasure.
Instead, Starlix simply wondered how long it would be before the third generation synthroids became the hunted.
How long until someone comes after me?
Starlix sat, drink in hand, with his back to the bar, surveying the room. Tambacor wasn’t a moon known for civilized behavior, and this particular watering hole wasn’t doing much to improve that reputation. The place was certainly crawling with synthroids - synthetic humanoids - and even its human patrons were less than sociable. This wasn’t a place you went looking for trouble, it was a place trouble found you.
The rugged Keppran slammed back the shot of Ridauran yasmin and turned to the bartender. "Valtrex," he grumbled, "give me another of these. And try not to piss in it this time. The best yasmin in the system comes off of Ridaura, yet somehow yours still tastes like it was strained through the fur of a Tarka."
"What can I say, Starlix," the bartended hissed. "I heard you were in town and had to lock all my best product in the vault. I’m still trying to recover from the damages you caused the last time you were here.
"Why are you here Starlix? Rumor has it you had your badge taken away, so you can’t be here on official business."
It was true that Starlix was no longer with the Aceon, but his reasons were not public knowledge. The theory that he’d been kicked off the force probably started somewhere in the gutters, but since the people starting those rumors were the very people Starlix wanted to keep guessing, he didn’t mind at all. All that would change soon enough, for this lot at least.
"You ask to many personal questions Valtrex. My business is my business, and if I want to open up to you I’ll- well, let’s just say I won’t ever want to open up to you."
Valtrex looked like he wanted to say something more, but Starlix picked his fresh drink off of the bar and turned back towards the rest of the room. His eyes continued to scan the crowd, searching for that one face. He’d been tracking him for days, ever since the situation on Micardis went bad. Now that he knew his prey had landed on Tambacor it was only a matter of time before he found his way here. You don’t go looking for trouble here, he thought again. Trouble finds you.
And there it was. Six feet of pure synthroid trouble, huddled in the darkest corner of the bar; waiting for a ride out of town, or hoping to find someone with access to a patch kit to give him a new identity. Too bad my friend. Your time’s up today.
Starlix tossed his drink back, and pulled himself up to his full height. He walked casually across the bar towards his target. Without stopping, he slid his blaster from a concealed holster in his overcoat, raised it, and fired. In one continuous motion, Starlix holstered the gun and pulled out his badge, holding it over his head for all to see.
The synthroid’s chest was on fire from the blast and no one seemed to care. All eyes were on Starlix. One careless thug rushed headlong towards him, itching for fight with the man ballsy enough to pull a gun in a bar. Fortunately for the thug, someone had the mind to stop him and direct his gaze to the badge in Starlix’s hand.
Content that everyone had seen his badge, Starlix put it away and calmly left the bar. His synthroid target was still burning and twitching at his table, but he knew that was just a few final circuits loosing their spark. The synthroid was dead.
It was true that Starlix was no longer with the Aceon Force. After sixteen years of government police work, chasing two-bit crooks and smugglers who would serve half their sentence, if that, before being let out on a technicality, Starlix had had enough. It was time to do some real good in the galaxy.
The Cyclomen answered to one authority - the galactic Prime Minister. Their one duty was to find and execute rogue synthroids. Twenty years or so prior, the first synthroids started rolling off of the assembly line. They were used for any type of manual labor you could think of - the lousy jobs that no human wanted to take any more.
Six years ago, the original series began to malfunction. Massive property damage was the usual result. No one knows exactly what the problem is. The units function properly one day, and the next they go haywire. Not even maintenance checks on a unit known to have malfunctioned reveal the cause… all systems appear to be normal. But instead of cleaning sidewalks and painting buildings, the synthroids start blowing up office towers and sabotaging helitrains.
The synthroids look and act human, but they have no emotions. They take no pleasure in their work, whether it be benevolent or malevolent. They simply do what they do.
Unfortunately, the synthroids were programmed with a self-preservation feature. It was meant to keep them from hanging around in burning buildings or standing in the way of the garbage crafts they were meant to pilot. It wasn’t meant to drive them to run from local law enforcement when their wires crossed and they ran a school transit off the road.
The Cyclomen were formed in response to the largest wave of synthroid violence to date. A mob of several hundred first and second-generation synthroids rampaged through the capital city of Cyclo on the second moon of Keppra. Within six hours the city was declared a disaster area.
Galactic parliament responded immediately and gathered an elite force of marines, Aceon agents, and even a few mercenaries willing to sign up. They were officially named the Synthroid Elimination Unit, but everyone called them the Cyclomen in honor of the fallen city.
"Let all synthroids beware," the Prime Minister had declared. "The Cyclomen will find you."
Starlix heard a few of the bars patrons repeat that famous phrase as he stepped out into the night air. But it brought him no pleasure.
Instead, Starlix simply wondered how long it would be before the third generation synthroids became the hunted.
How long until someone comes after me?