by John Conroe
The twins were home when I walked in, talking excitedly to Mom and Aama about some boy or maybe even boys. They cut off like a switch had been thrown the second I appeared. “Ah, hi everyone.”
“How was it?” Mom asked.
“Ah, fine. Zone Defense is a weird place,” I said.
“You should fit right in,” Gabby said instantly. Her twin’s eyes got big and Mom’s mouth thinned out into a tight line. A second later, I think Gabby realized she was supposed to treat me with kid gloves or something because she backed up a step and shot a quick glance at Mom.
“We must be cut from the same cloth because they have posters of you up all over the place,” I shot back.
“They have posters of me?” she asked, her embarrassment forgotten.
“He’s making fun of you, moron,” Monique said. Only the twins were allowed to mock each other. Anyone else faced their combined wrath. Some days, the Zone seemed easy compared to matching wits with my sisters.
“Enough making fun of anyone,” Mom said, but the taut look was gone from her face and I might have seen the twitch of a smile. Family dynamics back to normal.
“I’ve got some reports to go over. Aama, do you need help with dinner?” I asked.
She snorted. “You are sweet, but we all need to be able to eat the food,” she said with a smile.
“Aama, that’s cold!”
She shrugged and smiled.
I can cook. I don’t care what anyone says. But matching my grandmother’s culinary skill? Nope.
“It’s your night to do the dishes, AJ,” Monique said. “We did them for you last night.”
“Oh. Thank you,” I said. Gabby opened her mouth to take a shot but realized it wouldn’t work in the face of my gratitude. “I’ll be working in my room if anyone needs me,” I said, smiling to myself at my sister’s uncommon lack of a response. I have to treasure these singular moments when either twin is speechless.
Inside my room, Rikki woke as I entered, lights coming on across the area that would be equivalent to a fighter plane’s cockpit canopy. “Hey, Rikki. Status?”
“All systems nominal. Residence secure. Three notable surveillance incursions during the last four hours and forty minutes.”
“Surveillance incursions?”
“Exterior attempts to gather intelligence via UAV. The first occurred at 13:42 hundred hours. Media drone registered to Caliper Productions. Second incursion at 14:10. Unknown unregistered commercial drone attempting to insert micro surveillance drone unit. Third attempt at 15:25. Unregistered commercial unit utilizing onboard sensors against Gurung residence.”
15:25. That was just a few minutes ago, about when I got home. “What happened to them?”
“Rikki unit used high output, focused radio frequency jamming on media drone, which performed a return to base response. RF jamming was also successful in disrupting second unit and its micro unit, but units only withdrew to observe from outside RF interdiction distance. To insure defense, Rikki unit initiated a viral software attack, utilizing directed laser communication. Both units withdrew before successful insertion of virus. Third unit unresponsive to jamming attack or virus insertion. Rikki unit suborned uninvolved delivery UAV and successfully intercepted third unit. UAV impacted ground at 15:28.”
I ran to the window and looked out. A few people were standing below, watching a man in a suit carry a drone into a black car that immediately took off. By the time I got downstairs, even the bystanders were gone, but there a few bits and pieces of plastic scattered about. Part of a fan prop, as well as a piece of something I thought might be a camera covering.
Back upstairs, I met Mom at the door as I came back in. “Ajaya, everything okay?”
“Yeah, Mom. Thought I left something important outside,” I said.
She looked at me for a moment, then nodded. Most moms, at least the moms of the friends I’d had growing up, would have instantly asked what important item was left outside. My mom didn’t. I shared a great deal about my Zone activities with Mom, but not everything.
Long ago, we had come to the understanding that some things were far too disturbing to casually discuss. I never described the countless skeletons or tragic scenes of death I regularly encountered inside Manhattan. So when I got vague about things, Mom usually left it well alone. And I didn’t want her worrying about surveillance drones watching us until I knew enough to properly brief her.
Back in my room, I examined the crash debris. “AI scan items on desktop. Compare to known drone types.”
“Scanning,” my AI reported. I turned back to Rikki. “You have the ability to take over other drones?”
“Imprecise description of capability. Rikki unit is able to disrupt flight software and payload retention of certain common UAV models. Slowing or tilting one or more fan blades causes errant flightpath. Precise application resulted in mid-air collision.”
“In the past week, how many attempts have you defended against?”
“Four. Three media units seeking footage of Gurung family members. One unknown unit took station on building directly in line with this structure. RF jamming was successful in driving all units away.”
“Have you interfered with any other UAV software recently?”
“Negative.”
“What is the source of software interference capabilities?”
“Software upload from Spider CThree units.”
“When?”
“Two years, seven months, three days ago.”
“How many Spider software uploads have you received in the last three years?”
“Seventeen.”
“Range and type of upload?”
“Nine IFF protocol changes, five tactical modifications, three offensive enhancements, including the interference protocol.”
I knew that Rikki had had interaction with the drone network still inside the Zone, as he acted exactly like a double agent, trusted by the network until we blew his cover. So the transponder friend and foe updates made sense, but I never realized the Spiders were uploading packets of code to my drone. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I checked his software religiously for changes, but I focused on his core mission programming and some of his flight software.
“What were the other two offensive upgrades?”
“Autonomous coordination of subdrones, upgrades one and two.”
“So the Spiders gave you code for commanding other drones?”
“Affirmative.”
“How many at once?”
“Upgrade 2 increased number from six to ten.”
“Other Berkut units can do this?”
“Surviving seven Berkut units had this capability as of last connection by Rikki unit to drone network.”
I probably should have been asking Rikki more questions all along, but then again, the luxury of having him at home with me is a new thing. For two years plus, I only saw him when I went into the Zone on missions. And that is not the place for a heart-to-heart with your robot pal, talking out loud, where anything that can hear can also kill you.
I tabled the whole uploads thing, deciding I needed to let it ferment in the back of my brain for awhile. “AI, what is the status of Drones Amok?”
“Twenty items for review.”
“List and project on the wall, please.”
Instantly, a list of exactly twenty reports appeared on the white empty wall of my room.
Scanning down through them, I saw a lot of recent accidents listed, all either taken from news articles or reported on blog sites.
“Additional references to drone accidents found on chat rooms,” my AI said.
“How many?”
“Three hundred twelve.”
Twenty official or semi-official reports along with another three hundred plus unofficial, and who knows how many unreported drone accidents there were.
“Please run a similar search for the six-month period prior to the Drones Amok search.”
“Complying.”
Over
three hundred accidents in two weeks? Something was going on, and I was pretty sure it originated inside the Zone.
Chapter 8
“All right, listen up,” Yoshida started after stepping out in front of the twenty-four soldiers sitting in the same auditorium where we had once planned the rescue of the Bonnen brothers.
“You’ve all volunteered and passed the screening process for a new Zone initiative,” the major said, clearly comfortable in front of so many professional warriors. Personally, I would have been pretty nervous. Public speaking hasn’t really ever been my thing.
“To reiterate what this is all about, you lot are going to form an initial cadre that will infiltrate the Zone on foot and clear buildings one by one. Our mission is to take back Manhattan and we’ll do it street by street, building by building until we’ve cleared every damned drone in the Zone. This is a long-term project and we expect it to build in momentum as we go forward.
“Now, let me address the elephant in the room—the death of Sergeant Paul Primmer. I’ve looked over Sergeant Primmer’s records and I can tell you with certainty that he was a hell of a soldier. Brave, capable, and successful—decorated.
“But he died in the Zone, and I can tell you with absolute conviction exactly why that happened… he made a mistake. In the Zone, you generally don’t get to survive even one of those. Primmer’s mistake was overconfidence, or maybe you could call it contempt. He didn’t listen to his instructor, and it cost him his life and almost cost the lives of the men with him.”
Yoshida paused and looked over the group of very quiet operators. I was standing in the back, along with Sergeant Rift, who was waiting to go over the most recent upgrades that Yoshida’s people had made to the current stealth suit model.
The major was making eye contact with each and every person sitting in front of him, row by row, and when he reached the last person at the very back, his eyes moved up and met mine.
“You are all professional, experienced operators with multiple successful missions into some of the most dangerous theaters of operation in the world. But none of you have ever been in the Zone. I have, and I count myself lucky to be alive. Eight times I’ve been inside, on foot. The first seven of those were complete failures, with people wounded or killed on each and every mission.
“The eighth was different. We penetrated ten blocks into the north end, moved through an apartment building, and exfiltrated without incident. Along the way, we set nine passive traps for drones. Subsequent missions by several members of my team found and neutralized four land drones in those traps, while setting an additional fifteen collection devices.
“So what was the difference, you might ask? I’ll tell you—I took an expert with me. And I did exactly what he told me to do, no more, no less. I took out my ego, stuffed it in my gear locker, and treated the mission like it was my very first. In many ways, it really was. Your instructor has survived hundreds and hundreds of trips in, out, and all around Manhattan. He’s spent enough nights inside to qualify for gold status in most hotel membership programs. He’s also at least a decade younger than I am, and he’s a civilian to boot, and you’ve seen him on that show that we all love to hate,” Yoshida said, his right hand coming up to point directly at me.
Every head swiveled around to stare at me. “Look at him… hardly out of high school, although he does have a degree in drone technology. Most of you are going to be tempted to take him under your wing rather than you under his. The rest of you are likely ready to discount half of what he says. Do either of those things and you will die… horribly. Ajaya grew up in the Zone. He and his family survived Drone Night firsthand. Then he learned sneaking and peeking from a highly decorated SAS sniper… his father. He has had more success in the Manhattan Drone Zone than all of the Zone War teams combined. He’s quiet, humble, and has the highest score ever recorded in our simulated Zone shoot house. He will take you into the Zone, train you in surviving it and, probably, bring you out—if you listen exactly to what he says. Check your egos people, because the drones in Manhattan will eat you for breakfast. Questions?”
A wide-shouldered woman in the third row raised her arm. “Corporal Copeland? How much of his success is because of his pet drone?”
“Don’t ask me—ask him! Ajaya?”
Every eye came back to me. “Having Rikki improves my speed, my chance of survival, and increases my drone kill counts by probably two hundred or more percent. Without a scout, everything takes four to six times longer, at the very least. In the two-plus years I’ve had him, my success ratio has skyrocketed. Probably collected as many kills and recoveries with him than in all the other years before I got him,” I said, meeting her eyes.
“How many years is that?” she asked, frowning.
“Since I was twelve. I’m twenty-one.”
Another hand went up, a lean lieutenant in Marine battle dress. “Yeah, Stokes?” Yoshida asked.
“Do we get drones?”
“Yes, we will be using Kestrels. Ajaya is helping us modify their programming, and they’ve been successful. Not quite up to his Berkut, but improving with every training mission and every foray. We’ve rebuilt our simulator and you’ll all be going through our computerized version of the Zone, first by yourselves, then with Ajaya leading you, and then multiple times with your assigned drones, all before we ever send you into the Zone.”
Stokes’ hand went up again. Yoshida just nodded at him. “Can we see it? The Berkut?”
“You know, that’s actually a hell of an idea. Ajaya, care to introduce them to a Death Eagle?”
It was spooky, but the major must have foreseen exactly this moment happening. He had asked me to bring my drone to the auditorium and prep it for something just like this. Called it Show and Tell.
“Rikki, please execute OpFor,” I said. Short for Opposing Force. We had already started on some training scenarios.
Rikki dropped from his perch high above, directly over the class of hardened combat operators. His gun started shooting with his first motion and by the time he slammed to a stop two meters above the tallest soldier, he was out of ammo. The blanks all went through his suppressor so the actual shots were pretty quiet, but for hardened combat soldiers, they might as well have been full sound. Most of the class hit the ground, dove into empty seating rows, or, in a few cases, simply stared in horror at the flashing, smoking gun barrel. The empty brass casings rained down all around them for a couple of seconds after he finished.
I threw Rikki another block of ammo and he flipped over, ejecting the empty case in my direction while catching the full one in mid-air. Then he shifted forms, delta wings sliding out and fans moving to full forward propulsion. Like an arrow, he shot across the room, banking up and around the side wall, the back wall, the other side, and then strafing down the middle of the auditorium from the stage in front, his gun firing the whole time. He stopped directly over my head, spinning in place to face the class, ejecting the now empty ammo cassette right into my upturned right hand.
“That, class, is a Russian Berkut,” Yoshida said. “Rikki, what was your kill count?”
“Nineteen on the first pass, Major Yoshida. Then four were terminated on the second pass with additional insurance shots placed on sixteen of those that may have sustained survivable wounds.”
“There, you heard it… you’re all dead. In about three seconds.”
“And we’re supposed to fight that?” another soldier asked.