Alpha

By Taylor Hohulin

Earth's greatest soldier has become its biggest threat, and the only one who can stop him is the worst robotic soldier in the history of the universe.

A robot with a crush...

Alpha is the world's first robotic soldier, but he would rather woo his mechanic than wage war. This probably has something to do with his human heart.

A soldier with a vendetta...

Once the greatest soldier the Planet Earth Military Forces had seen, Meat can't help but think this new age of robotic soldiers will leave people like him in the dust.

A CEO with a mustache...

Lucas Sharpe just wishes he'd managed to work his way to CEO of the Planet Earth Military Forces before its leaders traded their plasma rifles for stacks of paperwork.

Alpha is having enough trouble winning his mechanic's heart (as it turns out, robots aren't her type) when Meat begins to stalk Alpha's inventor. As Meat's intentions become clearer, Lucas sees a chance to return to action, even if it means breaking a few rules. Stories intertwine, and before long, everything Alpha loves is threatened. It becomes clear he will have to fight, and he really would fight...if not for an unfortunate, deadly malfunction that should come as no surprise to anyone who knows his inventor is the worst Military scientist of all time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Taylor Hohulin
• Release date: Jun 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781386621461

Taylor Hohulin

Taylor is a radio personality by morning, a science fiction author by afternoon, and asleep by 9:30. His weaknesses include Oreos, his dog, and Sharknado movies.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Max, Meat, and a Man with a Mustache

"Y our application says you’re from Venus, Mr... Chris Lightly paused, cocking his head to one side. I’m sorry. I’ll butcher this if I try to pronounce it."

Chris smiled as he spoke. It was a dazzling smile, and as Lucas Sharpe watched from his seat next to him, he had to admit he was impressed. As Hiring Manager for the Planet Earth Military Custodial Services, Chris did a lot smiling, but every grin and every smirk was as big and bright as this one, even when he was faking.

And right now, he was definitely faking.

The applicant took a seat across the table from Chris and Lucas. You may call me Tom Smith. It is my Earth name, he said without even attempting to return Chris’s smile. Smith had clearly grown up on one of the Venus settlements, judging from his thick accent.

Thank you, Mr. Smith. Now it says here—

"No. Tom Smith. Not Mister."

Lucas leaned back in his chair, barely stifling a yawn. The Venusians weren’t even trying anymore. They knew the Military knew what they were up to, but that didn’t stop them from wasting Lucas’s time.

Right, uh, Tom Smith. Another dazzling smile, another fake. Chris shuffled through some papers. So you’re applying for an overnight shift, specifically in the storeroom for the Planet Eradicating Laser?

Smith responded, but Lucas had already tuned him out. Just once, he’d like to skip one of these interviews. It was a custodial job, for crying out loud, and he was CEO of the Planet Earth Military Forces.

This was not what he’d dreamed of when he fantasized about working his way up the Military totem pole. For starters, he’d at least hoped to earn a title like General or Supreme Commander, but Generals and Supreme Commanders hadn’t been a part of the Military since he was in high school. Things had changed, and fast. Soldiers were still soldiers, but Earth’s military leaders spent more time filling out paperwork and going to office parties than anything else these days.

It was enough to make Lucas wish he were back on the bottom of the totem pole.

Lucas shook his head, forcing himself to pay attention. Chris was asking the man across the table where he saw himself in five years. Smith was oddly jumpy for a guy applying to be a janitor. Guys like Smith always were, and Lucas was sick of it.

"All right, Tom Smith, Lucas said. If he didn’t step in now, the interview was likely to stretch into lunchtime. I looked at your resume, too. You have a master’s in Modern Weaponry from the Venus Warfare Academy. What are you doing applying to be a janitor on Earth?"

I have many student loans, said Smith with a shrug that was probably supposed to be nonchalant. Lucas liked it better when Venus sent people with Espionage degrees. At least they put on better shows. The standard of living is much lower on Earth. I wish to pay my debts as soon as possible.

So this has nothing to do with the Mars-Venus conflict?

No.

You’re not trying to work in the storeroom for the Planet Eradicating Laser because you want to use it on Mars?

Smith forced a smile, proving Chris to be the undisputed fake-smile champion in the room. Of course not. I am a man of peace.

A man of peace with a degree in Modern Weaponry?

Smith’s face transformed. In an instant, the look of innocence was gone, leaving only frenzied anger. Lucas started to stand and reach for his laser pistol, but Smith had already launched himself across the table. He hit Lucas in a flying tackle, and Lucas’s chair clattered against the tile floor. Smith clutched at Lucas’s throat as they tumbled together.

You will give me the Planet Eradicating Laser! Smith screamed. Life and prosperity to Venus! Death to Mars!

They rolled to a stop with Smith on top. Smith reached into the back of his waistband, keeping one hand on Lucas’s throat, and pulled out a laser pistol of his own. How had he gotten that past security? Lucas would have a word with Doug after lunch.

Struggling to focus as Smith’s hand closed on his throat, Lucas grabbed Smith’s gun wrist, twisting the gun away from his head and toward the ceiling.

It was a good thing Venus didn’t require its Weaponry majors to exercise. Lucas was getting out of shape.

Smith screamed in frustration, and the pistol went off. The blast took out a fluorescent light, causing a small fire and setting off the sprinklers. Great. There went another hour of his afternoon, disappearing into the great vortex of Incident Report paperwork. As if Lucas didn’t have enough on his plate already.

Expert on weaponry though he was, Smith clearly knew little about hand-to-hand combat. He’d left himself off balance, and a sharp yank on the Venusian’s arm was all it took to send him sprawling.

The water from the sprinklers had turned the tile floor slick, and Lucas slipped as he scrambled to pin Smith to the ground. Lucas lost focus for a split second, and that was all Smith needed to land a punch on Lucas’s chin.

Stars danced in front of Lucas’s eyes as he collapsed.

Lucas rolled onto his back. His vision cleared just enough that he could see Smith kneeling over him and pointing the laser pistol at his head.

Mars must perish, Smith said. His straw-colored hair was plastered to his forehead by sprinkler water. You will give me the Planet Eradicating Laser, or—

That was as far as he got before Chris Lightly knocked him out with a chair. The pistol clattered out of Smith’s hand, and he hit the ground with a wet thump.

Nice shot, Lucas muttered, wiping water out of his eyes. Took you long enough.

I’ve never had an interview go like that, Chris said.

Me neither. Lucas squinted up at the sprinklers. Do you know how to turn those off?

I think they shut off automatically.

Lucas stood, looking around the room. Water damage, a busted light, a firearm in the office, and an unconscious applicant. There was going to be plenty of paperwork today.

Lucas sighed. The bottom of the totem pole was sounding better and better.

Well, that’s why they make me go to every interview for positions involving the Planet Eradicating Laser, Lucas said, scooping soggy papers off the table.

Boy, that was wild, though! said Chris. Usually they give up once they realize you know what they’re up to.

It was a bold move, that’s for sure, Lucas said. But I’m sick of going to janitor interviews. If we could just say that only Earth citizens are eligible for the position, I’d save myself hours every week. I can’t remember the last time we got a serious applicant from Venus.

You know HR would never go for that. Interplanetary discrimination lawsuits and all that.

A guy can dream, right? Lucas looked at Smith’s unconscious body. Listen, can you call this one in? I’m meeting with a new hire in half an hour, and I’d like to get dried off first.

Sure, sure. Chris’s eyes lit up. This isn’t—is this the guy who...?

Lucas sighed. It’s him. Dr. Max Center.

Don’t sound so excited.

Lucas shook his head. I know why they picked him, and I’ll even stand behind the decision. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.

Well, look on the bright side. This guy won’t pull a laser pistol on you.

I hope not. I won’t have you on chair duty.

Chris smiled. This time, he wasn’t faking.

DR. MAX CENTER WAS about to become the worst scientist ever employed by the Planet Earth Military Forces, but he didn’t know it. All he knew was he was responding to a message on his videophone from Lucas Sharpe—the Lucas Sharpe—that said his planet had requested his service.

It was a confusing message, to be sure. The Military only hired the best, and, sorry though he was to admit it, Max was not the best scientist there was. His doctorate was from the second-most prestigious robotics program on the planet, where he earned the third-best grade point average in his class. There were at least thirty scientists ahead of him on the planet. Maybe as many as fifty.

Max had accepted his position of insignificance several years ago. After his first semester at the North American Robotics Institute, he realized he would never be considered one of the top names in robotics unless a serial killer or an oddly selective plague wiped out several dozen scientists. He only spent a month wishing for one of these scenarios.

But now, less than a year after Max’s graduation, Lucas Sharpe was on his videophone. Max Center, third in his class at the second-best robotics program on the planet, had been contacted by the CEO of the Planet Earth Military Forces. How many people had gotten calls before he did? Had they all turned Mr. Sharpe down? That was hard to imagine, but it was even harder to imagine the Military coming to Max first.

Max arrived at Planet Earth Military Headquarters almost forty-five minutes before his appointment. The lobby was a blinding, sterile white. The high ceilings and sparse decoration made Max feel tiny and insignificant, and he wondered if that was on purpose. To his right was a reception desk. The red-haired woman behind it smiled when Max looked at her. The gold nameplate pinned to her shirt said Lee.

Welcome to Military HQ! Lee chirped. How can I help you?

Max shuffled up to the desk, painfully aware of the scraping sounds his shoes made against the white tile floor. I’m looking for Lucas Sharpe’s office, he said.

Mr. Sharpe? Well, that’s exciting! Lee pointed toward a hallway. Just go through the metal detector there, then take the elevator to thirty-five and follow the signs!

Max nodded his thanks. He didn’t want to talk more than he had to, as a powerful echo accompanied every word he spoke, making it impossible to concentrate. He hoped Mr. Sharpe’s office was carpeted.

The metal detector was just around the corner of the hallway. When Max passed through, the alarm squawked noisily. A heavyset bald man wearing a nameplate that said Doug set down a comic book and stood with a sigh. He stared at Max suspiciously, squinted eyes passing over Max’s body before stopping at his waist.

Probably your belt, he said, stroking a wispy mustache. Yeah, I bet that was it.

Max started to remove his belt, but Doug waved him on.

No, no, Doug said, picking up the comic book and settling back into his folding chair. Go on.

Max re-buckled his belt, confused. Was it that obvious he wasn’t a threat? He hoped so. He wasn’t sure he liked any of the alternative explanations for Doug’s behavior.

He stepped inside the elevator and pushed the button for the thirty-fifth floor.

The elevator dinged after a few seconds, and Max stepped out. He was in a long, white hallway. The wall in front of him was blank except for two silver arrows. Precise, black letters were carved in each. On the arrow pointing left was CEO’s Office, and on the one pointing right, CEO’s Bathroom. Max followed the arrow pointing left.

At the end of the hallway was a set of white double doors with silver handles. Max slipped inside.

On the other side of the double doors was a miniature version of the lobby. Everything was stark white. There were a few uncomfortable-looking couches scattered around the room, and to Max’s right was another receptionist’s desk. This receptionist didn’t look as cheery as Lee did, mostly because she was asleep. She was sitting straight up, head lolled to one side. Her mouth hung open, and her breathing was almost loud enough to be considered snoring.

Max cleared his throat softly, and her eyes fluttered open. She straightened her head and fixed Max with a how dare you! stare.

I, uh, Max stammered, I have an appointment with Mr. Sharpe.

I bet you do, said the receptionist. She wasn’t wearing a nameplate. Name?

Max? His name came out sounding like a question. Max cleared his throat and tried again. Max Center.

After raising a suspicious eyebrow, the receptionist pulled out a clipboard. Her eyes widened. Oh, she said. It’s you.

Max nodded.

I’m so sorry, said the receptionist. We weren’t expecting you this early. You can wait for Mr. Sharpe here. She waved at the couches.

This room was smaller than the lobby, and as Max shuffled across, he was pleased to note his footsteps and his words didn’t echo nearly as much here. Max sank into one of the couches. It was rock solid, and only slightly less scratchy than burlap.

Before Max could find a way to get comfortable, one of the double doors swung open. Max instantly recognized the man who rushed in. He had seen him on his videophone only a day before.

This was Lucas Sharpe, and he was soaking wet.

Mr. Sharpe was a short man with big, round arms and a barrel chest. Even in his soggy state, he walked with purpose and pride. But his most noticeable feature—the feature to which Max was always drawn when he saw the man on TV—was the thick, red mustache that completely covered his mouth. His forehead was so small and his chin so large that the patch of facial hair formed an elongated bull’s-eye in the middle of his pasty white face. It was as if his head grew from the mustache, not the other way around.

Mr. Sharpe had to walk past the receptionist’s desk to get to his office. When he sloshed in front of her, she looked up, eyes wide.

Don’t ask, Diane. Mr. Sharpe didn’t even stop to look at her. His voice was just as raspy as it had been on Max’s videophone. Max wondered if Mr. Sharpe had a cold or if that was his real voice. It sounded like he was gargling shrapnel. Max suddenly wanted to clear his throat, but he didn’t dare do it while Mr. Sharpe could hear.

Mr. Sharpe paused at his office door. He turned and looked at Max. Are you...?

Dr. Max Center! Max said with a nervous smile. He held out a hand and walked toward Mr. Sharpe. Pleased to—

Sit down, kid, Mr. Sharpe barked. Give me a minute, for crying out loud.

He yanked the door open and disappeared into his office.

Max eased himself back onto the couch. As soon as the door closed, Max cleared his throat noisily, and a split second later, Diane did the same. She looked at Max and smirked.

Every time he talks, she said, shaking her head. Drives me nuts.

An intercom on Diane’s desk beeped, and Mr. Sharpe’s voice said, Send him in.

Diane smiled a plastic smile. She rattled off a line she must have said a thousand times by now: Mr. Sharpe will see you now.

Max stood and walked into Lucas Sharpe’s office.

Mr. Sharpe’s suit was still shiny and heavy-looking from the water, but he had managed to dry his face. His mustache, which had previously drooped under the weight of the water, now bristled proudly over his mouth. Max wondered if Mr. Sharpe had something—like strangely colored lips or a hairy mole or maybe even a questionable tattoo—that he was trying hide with that mustache. At the very least, it looked like all that facial hair would make eating a difficult ordeal.

Mr. Sharpe sat behind a glass desk piled high with fastidiously squared off stacks of paperwork. A small picture frame was perched precariously atop his flat-screen computer monitor. Max couldn’t see the picture inside, and he wondered if there was a wife or a child smiling in there. He wasn’t sure if he could imagine a Mrs. Sharpe, a woman who could find her way through that mass of crimson hair once in a while to kiss those lips that may or may not be colored deep purple or marked with grotesque moles.

It was as Max contemplated the complexities of Mr. Sharpe’s family life that he realized how uncomfortable he was. The CEO had not said a word since Max entered his office. The only sound was the soft tick-tick-tick-tick-ing of a clock hidden somewhere amid the diplomas, certificates, and news clippings that littered the walls. Max had never been in the presence of someone quite as important or powerful as Lucas Sharpe. He sank in his chair a little bit, and the leather made a sound that nearly caused him to insist that it was, in fact, the chair that had made the noise.

If Max had not been so focused on Mr. Sharpe’s importance, his picture frame, or his mustache, he would have realized they were both feeling uneasy. The Military’s CEO was also shifting uncomfortably in his chair, though, after years of sitting in it, he had learned how to move so it would not make suspicious noises. Just as Max had never been in the presence of someone so important, so Mr. Sharpe had rarely interviewed anyone so insignificant. The Planet Earth Military Forces had standards, for heaven’s sake, and Mr. Sharpe could count on one hand the number of times someone so unqualified had been in his office.

Finally, Lucas Sharpe cleared his throat and spoke:

Max—er, Dr. Center—we called you here because the Mars-Venus conflict is getting out of control.

Max nodded, but he didn’t say a word. Anything he did say would come out sounding idiotic. He’d heard the talking heads on news channels mention the Mars-Venus conflict, but he didn’t have a clue what any of it was about.

Mr. Sharpe continued: Earth wants to send a team of mediators to help sort things out up there, but we don’t know how they’ll be received. The Venus settlements have been growing... Sharpe paused, frowning at his soaking clothes. "...irritated with us and our refusal to take a side. And then, almost as an afterthought, Mars is a little ticked, too."

Max nodded again. He would have to research the Mars-Venus conflict after the interview. He hoped Mr. Sharpe couldn’t sense his ignorance on the subject.

There’s a good chance the mediators will be attacked just because they’re from Earth. We would send a security detail, but traveling that far through space messes with the body. Something about time-shifting and temporary atrophy... Mr. Sharpe shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Honestly, when the doctors explained it to me, it went over my head. There’s probably a simpler explanation, but I think they like us to know how smart they are. Anyway, any soldiers we send would be useless for at least a month. And we doubt Mars or Venus will wait that long before attacking, if that’s how they choose to respond.

That’s where you come in, Dr. Center.

The room fell silent. After a moment, Max noticed the soft tick-tick-tick-tick-ing again. He leaned forward in his chair.

Mr. Sharpe took a deep breath. You know how to build robots, right? You learned how to do that?

Max was too nervous to notice the wild look of fear and hopefulness in Mr. Sharpe’s eyes. The CEO was hoping that by some incredible lapse on the Military’s part, Max was one of those students who had his doctorate something impractical like Robotic Theory or The History of Automatons in Southeast Oregon. It could have happened. Just this morning, a man with