Slipshot: Vol 1.0

By Aibo, Ryan Sunada-Wong and Gabriel Juarez

Aibo's Slipshot brings groundbreaking innovation, robust worldbuilding, and an unforgettable, action-packed plot. Welcome to the thrilling kickoff to a fast-paced, high-tech sci-fi adventure that will alter the landscape of your imagination.

Something's not quite right in San Francisco. Phantom-like ma

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mint Cookie Industries, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798987084519

Book preview

The End

After months of hard work, Opal Fremmitty was finally ready to send the machines on their way and at last bring this miserable project to a close.

She sighed as she wiped a droplet of sweat from her brow. She tossed the Init Caster into a tool bag which rested on the ground next to her. She glanced up at the large machine that stood next to her. The thick, massive legs of the mechanical quadruped stemmed from an equally thick and massive body. At the base of its chassis, bulbous eye-like devices encircled and clicked as they turned and observed the world around them.

She slammed the panel door shut. Now that the last of the Vérkatrae was awakened, it could go along and do its job.

Opal lifted her hand to her forehead, shielding the bright starlight of this particular Var from her eyes. She could feel the star’s heat against her body, swarthy, almost burnt from exposure to this Var’s climate. She sniffed the air, which smelled like dust and burning metal. She could see, in the distance, along the horizon, the long line of those lumbering machines, each equidistant from the other in a manner that was most efficient for them to do their work.

Well, that’s another one down, she mumbled, her voice cast with a tone of bitterness. She could feel the vibration of the Vérkatrae in the ground, especially from these large ones, the Sleepers. Those giant extrusions on their backs always emitted that deep, rumbling groan, like an announcement to battle, like a thick, belching horn that made the ground vibrate under one’s feet. The Varlings, whoever they were, Opal tried not to know, would never see them coming. They were not meant to be seen. They were designed this way. Not until the last moment, anyway.

The Vérkatros lumbered forward, its ocular devices clicking and turning with each of its steps. The extrusion on its back, like a hunch, started its work. Opal reached down and picked up the tool bag, slinging it across her shoulder. She jogged, steps behind the slow-moving Sleeper. She always followed the Sleepers around, just to make sure they were doing their job. It was the responsible thing. It was what a good Mechanic Class Slave would naturally do.

Opal’s ankles turned on the dry, cracked ground. Small, scrubby brush poked its way through stony soil, its stems and leaves covered in thorny protuberances. Small, yellow berries clung to their stems defensively among rocks and boulders that were baked into a yellow-red tinge. Among them, squat, stone houses rose like empty turtle shells from the dry soil.

Opal paused. The bodies were where they should be. They behaved according to plan. A Var dismantlement project was designed to be humane. The Sleepers made sure of that. Except….

It was the whimpering that caught Opal’s attention. Like a gentle, whispering cry, so light that it somehow cut through the deep rumbling wails of the Sleepers. She jogged towards the sound and glanced among the bodies that lay in the dust, scantly covered, skeletal. Among them, one small, almost miniature compared to the others, stood. Opal paused. Deep, blue eyes inside dark ringed sockets gazed up at her.

Opal clenched her teeth. Fucking Sleeper missed, she hissed. She dropped the tool bag from her shoulder onto the ground and reached in. The others would be here any moment. The dismantlers. This…child…should not witness their arrival. She turned the tool bag upside down. Its contents clanged onto the hardened soil. Where is it? she hissed. Where is it? She pushed tools and devices aside, turning and tossing them around. Fucking where is it! she sobbed hoarsely.

She paused. Her eyes grew wide, her head cocked as if listening. No, she whispered, her voice trembling. No, no, no, it can’t be. She jumped up and turned, facing the direction from which she came. She could feel them now. The ground beneath her feet rattled as if pounded all at once by thousands of hammers. She could see them now. Their bodies glinted in the light of this Var’s parent star. The high-pitched squeal as they rewrote the soil, the stone, the very ground beneath their feet.

The Constructors had arrived.

Opal clenched her teeth and squared her body. The Constructors would tear this world apart. It didn’t matter if this Varling stood before them, if she witnessed the gruesome last moments of her own life and of those around her, the ground crumbling beneath her feet. Opal felt her throat tighten, her stomach turn. It was not meant to be this way. The Sleepers…should have done their job. They should have made sure that not a single Varling was awake to see what was coming for them. They should have….

Opal screamed as she charged towards the oncoming Vérkatrae. She stopped as she stood before those that moved towards the village, the Constructor Classes. Constructors, Opal scoffed. They created, but they also destroyed. They would build the Vars, and they would also tear them down. They would shred the ground beneath their feet, returning this Var’s matter to another form.

One particular Constructor stepped mechanically towards the child that stood alone. It would not stop. It would barely notice this child as something other than matter that needed to be redistributed.

They can’t reach her. They mustn’t…. Opal swallowed hard as she thought about those eyes. Those hollow, starving eyes that pleaded with her, that begged of her an answer to the unanswerable question of why. Why didn’t the Sleepers do their job?

The Vérkatros was not as tall as the Sleeper, but wider, sharper, crouched, its body flat and its nose poised towards the ground, its four legs spread wide as if ready to jump at any moment. From its head emanated a stream of white, plasmic light, like lightning that found its mark and did not relent in striking its target. Opal choked at the smell of burning metal and steeled herself against the blazing heat and the blinding flashes of light.

Opal felt her chest tighten, a churning sensation in her core that welled up through her body, her heart pounding in her chest, her lips quivering. I can’t…stop them…. She muttered. It’s too late. She glanced behind her, over her shoulder, at the small Varling. Tears formed in her eyes and streamed down her cheek. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I…I can’t let it end like this…. Not like this! She gazed up at the sky, at the bright, burning star that burned her face. Not like this…. Fuck this project, and fuck Griddish…. I’ve had enough.

She rushed forward, shoulder down as she slammed her body into the side of the oncoming Vérkatros, bashing against its soft, organic yet simultaneously hard metal body with her fists until they were bloody.

She fell to the side. She gasped as her shoulder and chest throbbed with pain, her fingers and hands mangled and bloody. She watched as the Vérkatros stumbled to one side, knocked off its trajectory for a moment, and then returned to its path. Stupid, she hissed as she fell onto her side, her jaw clenched, the dust of the dying planet filling her lungs. She coughed and then grimaced. What did you think you could do? You should know better. You’re an idiot, Opal, she mumbled. A real fool. They can’t be stopped. And yet, here you are, thinking you could somehow save these Varlings from their fate. She shook her head. I’m so tired. Tired of all this. Tired of the Vars, and the Vérkatrae. Of the death, the violence. What right do we have?

The ground beneath her started to fizzle and fade. Instead of hard, broken ground, she felt as if she were floating on water. She glanced towards the sky, the hot star that warmed this planet, this so-called project. She saw a face. Black eyes stared into her own. Black locks of hair waved in the hot breeze of the passing Vérkatrae.

You failed, Opal, came the voice as the face grew close to hers.

Rive, I….

You cannot stop the Vérkatrae. It’s inevitable.

I couldn’t let them…, she gasped and coughed, the dust and smoke of the decomposing Var scratching her throat and lungs.

It’s our job, Opal. It’s what we were designed for. When the Commission has decided, it is up to us to execute.

Opal felt her body rise, as if being lifted and carried. A moment later, perhaps it was a moment, perhaps longer, she watched the blue light of the Slipshot envelop her, comforting her, wrapping around her like a cocoon. And then the world where she once stood between an advancing Vérkatros and a small child, faded away until all that was left was a dark, empty space, quiet, featureless, unimportant.

Chapter 2

Encounter

Fredrick Munchen felt his stomach turn. He shivered, as a chilly sensation ran up and down his spine. The chills came and went. And when they came, it meant one of those things was close by.

The walk to Gendarme Apartments on Sutter St. was a short two blocks from Temple Pizza where Fredrick had his bill-paying job. The dark, late-night streets were often crowded with odd assortments of people. Fredrick looked forward and kept his head down as he trudged along the broken, dirty sidewalks, wincing at the occasional smell of old beer and urine that would waft along the streets in light gusts from some dark, abandoned side alleys.

Fredrick stopped at the corner of Post and Leavenworth. He waited as sleek, black limousines with smoky windows passed quietly on their way to richer entertainments just seconds away in Union Square.

He crossed Post Street, making sure to look both ways, in the event that he met a car or a bicyclist who was trying to just-make the light before it changed. A dry, mechanical-smelling breeze blew by as the last few cars zipped past the intersection, blowing his long-ish, curly blond hair into his eyes. He stroked it back and crossed.

Almost there, he mumbled. Fredrick took a deep breath. Those chills just never seemed to go away. Fredrick stopped walking. His heart seemed to skip a beat and his stomach started to turn. He felt as if he wanted to vomit, as his mouth watered salty. He wanted to keep walking. Don’t stop. Don’t look around. But at the same time, he wanted to be careful, to take it easy. He definitely didn’t want to accidentally stumble over one of them again. He didn’t want to accidentally touch that strange emptiness. He didn’t want to feel that cold, empty feeling again as he physically passed through them at times, or around them while he cautiously tried to avoid any and all contact and slip by without notice.

On Leavenworth Street, Fredrick stopped and squinted into the red and yellow taillights of the opposing traffic, into the sickly yellow streetlamps, up and around the tall buildings with their undraped windows. From windowpanes that seemed more like eyes, cool, ghostlike green and blue light poured from blinking hallway fluorescents. Fredrick felt ashamed for a moment, as if he were stealing privacy in an otherwise overcrowded world where privacy came at a cost. But his intention was otherwise. He looked around hopefully, trying to find the source of his consternation, wanting to identify it so at least he would know where it was.

He paused at a dark alleyway. He turned his head and peered in, his eyes shifting along the shadowy and barely identifiable things that were strewn about. A dumpster or two, trash bags, a rusty, abandoned car. A scooter. Black, steel ladders that hung from rickety fire escapes. A peeling fire hydrant. He sniffed. The air smelled of rotting garbage and human piss.

And then, thwack! Fredrick tumbled forward into the alley, his muscles and bones quaked and rattled as if he had been struck by a car or hit by a wooden plank. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, panting as he tried to regain his breath. He gazed forward and pushed himself onto his feet. His hands and knees stung from scraping along the cobbled surface of the alley, his side and back throbbed.

He held his breath. They stood there. They seemed to be everywhere these days. Those shadows, blurry, fizzling in and out, appearing for a moment and then, gone.

Watch where you’re going asshole, Fredrick heard. He looked towards a pile of garbage. A figure stood there, dark, like a silhouette. And then, it stumbled into the acid yellow lights of the alley, swooning. A woman, maybe. Her hair was pulled into ponytails that shot out from either side of her head. She faced Fredrick, her hands by her side, clenched into fists. And those…things…stood next to her, one on either side.

What? Fredrick said, weakly.

I said watch where you’re going.

But you crashed into me.

The woman scoffed. Whatever. She staggered forward, stopped before Fredrick, and gazed up at him, her eyes bleary and shifting. Who the fuck are you?

Fredrick grimaced at the strong smell of alcohol. I could ask you the same question.

Yeah, well, that’s none of your business, so fuck off.

You’re the one who’s talking to me, so maybe you should….

The woman staggered back a step. She wore a red jacket, and trousers that had pockets all over them, like cargos. She wore smudgy, red boots that rose just above her calf. She lifted her hand towards her head. Her arm glinted in the yellow lights. It looked like it was made of metal. God, I got a headache, she said, rubbing her forehead with her fingers.

Fredrick took a shallow breath. Are you ok?

Do I look ok?

Well, um, no not really.

Well, that’s none of your business.

Fredrick sighed. But you asked me, he protested.

Oh, stop your whining, it’s making my stomach turn.

I think something else is making your stomach turn. A bit too much to drink maybe?

Fredrick looked more closely at her face. It was smudged with dirt or oil, as if she was working on some kind of machinery. A mechanic, maybe. She seemed close to his age, if he could only see under the grime. Was she in school, like him? Not likely, not if she was a mechanic. She seemed like a worker, like someone who had a job to do.

What are you staring at?

Fredrick glanced away. His eyes fell upon the blurry shapes, those fizzling, static patches that seemed to hover behind her. He shivered, as the sweat that was starting to soak his hair and clothes, the sweat that was so hot just moments ago, now made him feel like he was being wrapped in a cold, wet blanket. He swallowed hard. He returned his attention her.

Um, he started, So, do those things belong to you? he said, nodding towards the space behind her, and the blurry, fizzling blotches.

She glared at him for a moment. Her eyes became sharp, dissipating the wandering bleariness of a moment ago. She looked deeply into his eyes, and then followed his nod to where it led.

Shit! she hissed. Fredrick opened his eyes wide. So, those things are real, he shouted. They’re not just in my head. They really do exist.

She faced Fredrick, glaring again into his eyes, this time with more spite. Listen, she growled. I don’t know anything about that and neither do you. She raised her forefinger towards his nose and then flicked it. She stepped back, squared her body, lifted her leg, and struck him in the chest with the heel of her foot. Fredrick stumbled backwards and fell onto the ground. The back of his head struck the cobbled surface of the alley. He gasped as he tried to regain his breath. Tiny sparkles of light danced in the air around him. He sat up and turned onto his hands and knees, coughing and choking. She jogged to the end of the alley, paused, and then turned her head once to the left, once to the right, and disappeared around the corner.

Fredrick lifted himself off his knees, and sat down on the cold, dirty cobbled alleyway, breathing deeply, intentionally, as he slowly caught his breath. He rubbed the back of his head, and then glanced towards the direction of the dumpsters. Those shadows were gone. At least, he couldn’t see them anymore. Or feel their strange presence.

So, they do belong to her, somehow, he mumbled. Then what would that make her? Some kind of ghost? She sure didn’t feel like a ghost when she crashed into Fredrick and knocked him onto the ground. Fredrick sighed as he rubbed his own shoulder. Nope, she definitely wasn’t a ghost.

A sense of tenuous calm returned to him, his stomach no longer twisting and turning as it had moments ago, despite the bruises to his body and his aching head.

What’s her problem anyway? he grumbled. He paused. What was she? Something very strange and very different, indeed. And those things, they are somehow connected to her. Still, whatever this woman was, she wasn’t about to just disappear. Unless she was just an illusion, or a dream of some kind.

A dream….

Fredrick sighed deeply, shook his head, and hoisted himself up onto his feet, groaning and hissing. That’s really gonna hurt in the morning, he said as he wrapped his arms around his own body. His chest ached and his head burned as he moved. He brushed himself off and walked to the entrance of the alley. Just a few more blocks until he was home. Maybe he could sleep it off, this feeling, this sense of dread. The world would look better in the morning. For now, those things were gone. But they wouldn’t stay that way. He knew that much. He looked around, and squinted, as the brightness of car lights on Leavenworth seemed to flood the streets with their halogen crispness. He put his hand up to shield his eyes. He heard horns, a few shouts. He took a right turn and walked the last block to Sutter Street and then Gendarme apartments, his feet pattering nervously along the slippery, smudgy concrete sidewalk. He rushed, his face focused on his shoes. He thought about his small apartment, the creaky old bed. A thick blanket that he could pull over his head like he would when he was a child, and the wind rattled his window panes. He thought about sleep, desired sleep, which was always so restless, always so tortured.

A few steps more, and the squealy, steel-barred door of his blackened, concrete apartment building came into view. He stopped and fumbled around inside the deep pockets of his khaki trousers, which were damp and smudged and torn in some new places now. His hands trembled as he grabbed hold of the ring of keys, pulling and turning them until he could position the one properly. He inserted the key and turned the lock open. He yanked at the door, which at first resisted his nervous, overzealous tug. He stumbled past the receptionist-slash-owner of Gendarme Apartments, the man who raised his hands and argued with a tenant, something about being late for his rent payment. At least Fredrick always paid his rent on time. For now. Until those things finally had their way and got the best of his sanity.

Fredrick stumbled towards the old elevator, the rattly, grinding monstrosity that would require strong arms to pull open, arms which he didn’t have right now, not after his altercation with that woman. He walked past the barred shaft and mounted the stairs. He stumped up three floors through dusty, dark stairwells that smelled like stale food and must, garlic, curry, and onions. He limped to the dark-stained wooden door of his studio apartment, slipped the key into the lock and turned. He pulled the door open and walked towards the window opposite the main door, tripping on carpet creases and small objects like pens and coffee cups, which seemed to litter every inch of the warped, uneven floor. He looked out the front window, onto Sutter Street. A gentle fog started to fill the streets, and the streetlights and the traffic lights flashed a soft red glow.

He sighed. He turned towards his bed and sat down on its edge. His chest and head throbbed. You’re definitely gonna feel that in the morning, he mumbled. He took off his shoes and pants, and rolled over onto his creaky single bed, falling almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep. It was a rough day, and Fredrick was exhausted. And his troubles were just getting started.

Chapter 3

Images and Forms

Fredrick opened his eyes at the piercing sound of an electronic chirp next to his ear. He reached over to pick up his phone, fumbled with some buttons, and squinted at the screen. 7:45 AM. Fredrick sat up quickly, grunting at the pain in his abdomen. He rubbed his eyes and then his sandpapery cheeks. He took a deep breath as he turned his body and stood up. He stretched his arms above his head and glanced out the window. The thick fog clung to the damp brick buildings as shadows of figures walked by aimlessly. Or at least they seemed that way.

The image of that woman came into his mind. And those smudges that hovered next to her in the alley. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he met that woman, or maybe it was a dream, and that it never actually happened.

Fredrick walked towards the small bathroom of his studio apartment. He looked in the mirror, at his stubbly cheeks, his sunken eyes, the dark circles. A black splotch had formed on his chest. He touched it and hissed