The Last Server

by H. J. Pang

  “Fire at will!” roared Major Shang, and four other weapons added to the chorus. One of the Mindless got hold of Zari, but the commando rifle-butted its head in. Greg shot down the two closest to him, pausing briefing to activate one of the home-made grenades he had gotten. He flicked the disposable lighter attached to the jar, lobbing it towards the far end of the hall. The basement lit up briefly as a smoky flame erupted, setting several charging attackers on fire. Not quite as good as frag grenades, but good enough to set scum on fire.

  “Move, move, move!” ordered the Major as he dashed forward, MMS at the ready. Everyone spaced themselves out from each other, boots thudding as they leapt over the corpses of slain Mindless. They fired burst after sporadic burst as Mindless broke out of side passageways and public toilets; there was no telling how many more remained. Some of the Mindless that had been shot limped and crawled after them, their feral instincts overriding their pain. They posed far less of a threat, but a stray bite could still prove fatal in days if left untreated and allowed to fester.

  “The door that leads to the facility is just up ahead! Just a little while more!” encouraged Major Shang. “Keep it up, boys!”

  “How far away?” asked Greg. He swapped his drum magazine for another, the heat of his gun noticeable even through his gloves. Wesley, on the other hand, seemed unfazed, like this was just a guided tour to him. But if what he said was to be believed, he had already seen more horrors than Greg had in the mines. Fighting Mindless had to come second nature to him.

  “You remember where the underground casino is? That’s where,” said Major Shang he fired at the heads of one, then two Mindless.

  “A casino? Are you fucking kidding? Why there of all places?” spluttered Greg.

  “A server farm of this magnitude needs a high security access point.” Major Shang hunkered down against a marble pillar and peered out into the passageway. “What better security than a casino or bank vault? MBS probably brokered a deal to get some computational power for their machines.”

  “That must explain why the probability of striking it big is null,” commented Wesley.

  “You would know, wouldn’t you?” teased Greg.

  “I am a servant of the Code. Probabilities and numbers are my life.”

  “No I meant—” Greg shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “If you are implying that I was a gambler here, then yes, I do confess I was here once—”

  “Can you both shut up here?” snapped Captain Ping with a scowl. The blood and gore coating his goggles and helmet did nothing to soften it. “We’re fighting for our lives and yet we still have to hear this bullshit.”

  Greg looked at Wesley, but the acolyte didn’t roll his eyes or do anything like that. But if he could emote digitally, he would probably say “~.~” or “>.<”.

  There didn’t seem to be any more Mindless for the time being, but Greg wouldn’t put it past even brain-fried beings to fall back and regroup. They had to have adopted some kind of pack mentality, like the spotted hyena; otherwise they would have killed each other a long time ago. The old signs were still around, and Greg saw with relief that they had now reached the casino in the basement.

  There was a series of turnstiles at the casino’s entrance, and long ago, all Singapore citizens had to pay an entrance fee of a hundred dollars. Greg had never gone inside, since he didn't consider bankruptcy and despair as desirable states. Now that money was virtually worthless, and there weren’t any guards to demand a token fee of food or ammo, the six of them hopped the turnstiles for free. The crinkle of unwanted and unused chips on the floor was satisfying, a snub at careless spending while people of these days lived with barely enough food to get by. Glasses and goblets still sat where they were abandoned, their contents long since dried or downed. With the prices of alcohol as they were, it was more likely the latter than former. A thick layer of dust had gathered around everything, with the beams of the lights emphasising the dust motes in the air. Hues of green, blue and amber were lit up as the light settled across the bar, many of its bottles toppled or missing, Slot machines sat unused and unwanted since the prospect of striking it big lost its importance. Either that, or the chips within were all gone. Several suited and smartly-dressed skeletons lounged or otherwise lay in sofas or chairs, some with glasses or cigarettes in hand.

  “Do you all hear something?” asked Zari nervously. A dull thumping, almost like there was something trapped in the walls. Greg saw the soldiers glancing at the skeletons littering the place, and understanding dawned upon him. Army guys were superstitious, if not more so than the average person.

  “Come on, let’s be realistic, guys,” said Greg. “There’s probably another reason for all that, like the metal of the shafts contracting and expanding. Where are we going, Major Shang?”

  The officer snapped out of his thoughts. “It’s just this way,” he said. They came to an area where game tables were set, unfinished card games laying upon them. Many of the chip piles were absent, but gathered into heaps next to the exchange counters, as if the players had tried to exchange them but found the counter staff missing. A steel gate behind the counter had already been broken into, and for a moment, Greg held his breath, wondering if the 418 had already come before. But no, the dust on the floor was undisturbed, and when they entered, the imposing circle of the vault door was still intact, several scratches at the side showing looters had made a pathetic attempt to get into it. The vault door had to be 30cm thick, at least, and its locking bolts were made to stand up to almost anything.

  “Break out the C4, Ang,” ordered Captain Ping. Ang opened his utility pouch, handling out several bricks of plastic explosive.

  “Begging your pardon, Captain, but I don’t think that’s going to work too well,” said Greg. “We’ll need thermite to melt through the bolts that thick—”

  “Which is something we don’t have,” cut in Major Shang. “Resources are scarce, and it’s not like the factory producing it is still in business. Get the blasting caps inside the C4 and we’ll soon be in.”

  A grate fell off the ceiling, landing hard onto the bare floor with a clank. All of them turned towards it.

  First one, then more of the Mindless tumbled out of it, screeching and spitting. The soldiers fired at them without flinching, too well-conditioned to hesitate, round casings clinking upon the concrete floor. Then two more grates at the side burst open, and they finally discovered the cause of the thumping.

  The Mindless had been tracking them through the vents.

  A group of four leapt upon Ang, and he fell down screaming. Greg swung the barrel of his weapon towards them, but his SAW chose to jam there and then, a dull clack resounding through hot steel. Having no other weapon except a knife, he tugged hard at the bolt of his weapon, splitting the offending round casing with a clink. He pulled the trigger as he charged forward, shredding the Mindless before him.

  When he got to Ang, he saw that he was too late. The soldier’s face was all but gone, his jaw hanging off what was left of his lower skull. The skin on his arms were so badly clawed and ripped that none of the sleeves of his uniform remained. Only his helmet and armour prevented his upper skull and torso from being assaulted, but now it was just adornment, for all the good it did.

  “Get the rest of the C4 and move!” yelled Major Shang, throwing Greg back to the present.

  Greg would have preferred a chance to say goodbye, but there wasn’t time. More Mindless were pouring out as the men stopped briefly to reload, so he grabbed all of the rectangular charges with one hand. By the time he dashed to the door, Major Shang had already set a series of charges, not on the door itself, but where the locking bolts would be. A round vault door didn’t have just a single bolt like a normal door, but could have as many as 24 of them. And the steel- lined concrete that made up its doorframe was extremely tough, and they would need all the explosives they could get. Greg tossed the rest to Major Shang before going over to help the other three.

  C
aptain Ping was wounded in the arms, but was otherwise fine. Zari was uninjured so far, probably on account of his better commando training. He was striking out with a kitchen knife taped as a crude bayonet upon his SAR 21 barrel, so it must have jammed or ran out of ammo. Wesley fired in single shots, each one precise and deadly upon the Mindless’ skulls. The polymeric barrel of his gun seemed to be giving off a lot of smoke, however. Despite the pile of Mindless bodies stacking up, with several blocking the vents to the left and right, the flow through the main door was relentless. Greg whipped out his second-last firebomb, flinging it against them. It failed to ignite, and he realised that in his haste, he hadn’t flicked the switch.

  “Prepare for breach!” yelled Major Shang. The four defenders dashed to the sides of the room and ducked, hands over ears.

  A bang resounded throughout the air, and even with his ears closed, the ringing in his head hurt like hell. A thunderous shaking of the ground followed shortly, and Greg was aware of himself falling hard to the side, against the debris-lined floor.

  He felt a hand pull at his shoulder, and looked groggily at him. Wesley was mouthing something at him, but for some reason, he couldn’t hear. Then Wesley lifted up his sleeve and gripped his bare arm, and the familiar sensation of his electronic healing took effect. As his hearing returned, so did the damn ringing inside his head.

  “Get up, Greg! You aren’t passing out on us just yet!” said the acolyte. Greg looked behind him, and saw what had caused it all. The vault door had been blown off its bolts and hinges, landing face down on the ground. Weighing tens of tons at the very least, the impact of it had caused the ground to shake, throwing everyone down. Several of the Mindless were flattened by the door, with the others nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they’re not as dumb as they made out to be, having fled from a noise that could shake the heavens. Already Major Shang and the rest were getting up with looks of pain upon their faces, blood-streaked but none too worse for wear, considering they’d almost been eaten by Mindless.

  “My head,” groaned Greg.

  “Yep. Make that the whole lot of us.” Again, Wesley didn’t seem too fazed by what happened. Greg wondered just how many types of combat simulations he had experienced during his time with the BOC. Or for that matter, what horrors had he seen in the wasteland. He would have to ask him about it sometime.

  They stepped into the vault. It was separated into two halves by fencing, with the centre area being a path where a trolley could be pushed. It was surprisingly bare aside from the bags of coins at the side. It seemed that in the wake of The Storm, people still believed that money still held value, and grabbed whatever they could carry.

  At the end of the pathway was a steel door similar to that at the entrance of a HDB building’s bomb shelter. Not as impressive as the door they had just blown off its hinges, but a solid metal door nonetheless. Fortunately, this one was secured by something far less fancy: two enormous Abloy padlocks, and a built-in deadbolt.

  “Our guns and bolt cutters wouldn’t work on these, but stick our remaining C4 on them, and we should be inside pretty soon,” Major Shang was saying to Captain Ping. “Ah, glad you could join us, Greg.”

  This was it. Beyond this door lay the passageway to the server farm, no doubt full of 418 elite soldiers. Far better equipped, and all prepared to fight to the death.

  The soldiers around him looked exhausted, with streaks of gore all over them. They had all gone on this mission without knowing if they would even make it across the river, much less succeed. All of the soldiers had risked their lives for Greg’s son and whoever else was held in the server facility, for kids they didn’t know. A few of them, including two commandos and Ang, had given up their lives in the process, two of them killed by an enemy they could never anticipate. Maybe that was what being the SAF or the Old Guard was all about. About fighting not just for those you know, but for those you don’t.

  “Thank you all for doing this,” said Greg, and the soldiers looked at him. Even Wesley showed signs of surprise. “All of you here have people counting on you back home, and yet you came along with me. My original plan was to make it to the server with just Wesley—who is a true lifesaver—I must add, and handle what may come. I cannot ask any of you to risk your lives any further. If you would like to return to base, I have no argument with that.”

  The soldiers merely stared back at him.

  “You really that siao or what?” Captain Ping finally said.

  “What?” Greg sure didn’t expect an answer like that.

  “We’ve survived sniper and GPMG fire, shelling by mortars, fighting horde after horde of siaokia zombies, and now you tell us to turn back?” asked Captain Ping. “Sure, I have a wife and two kids, but in my line of work, I expect my life to be at risk. We’re fighting for a greater purpose here, Greg. Something bigger than ourselves and our families.”

  “Remember when I said my men and I will lead you as far as the bridge?” reminded Major Shang. Greg nodded quietly. “That was the original plan. But my men and I had an agreement. Should the situation be far bigger than anything the four of you can handle, my men and I will fight alongside you. If Captain Ping and Sergeant Ang of the Scout Unit didn’t hesitate to help, how could we?”

  “What about Guo Li?” asked Greg.

  “Guo Li needs a guardian, but even more than that, he and the other children need a world they can grow up safely in,” said Major Shang. “The 418 is a scourge that we may never have the power to put down, but we can disrupt the ways and means in which they seek control. This includes their control of the server. If I have to die for there to be a better world, so be it.” He hefted the Ultimax 100 he had retrieved from Ang.

  Greg had braved through the last two weeks, not to help anyone else, but in the hope to save all that was left of his family. He had signed on as an SAF soldier back in the day, not just for the money, but for doing what he believed in. All those principles were lost when The Storm happened, and humanity was no longer about helping each other, but how one best helped oneself.

  Six years it had been. Six years people played a game of the survival of the fittest. Perhaps it was not too late for him to do this not only for his son, but for all the people who had ever been enslaved or abused by the 418.

  And these soldiers didn’t question it. Even with their lives and their family on the line. Who was he to be any different?

  “Let’s do this!” Greg breathed, and together, he and the others checked and reloaded their weapons, clicks and clacks splitting the air. They had a fight ahead of them. A fight that would determine not just the fate of these particular children, but of those who would inherit the world.

  BATTLE FOR SINGAPORE (AND PERHAPS THE WORLD)

  ABLOY PADLOCKS WERE notoriously hard to cut and pick, but not altogether hard to blow apart. Whenever they put their mind to it, mankind was capable of destroying anything.

  Which led Greg to believe that should he put his mind to it, he would be able to kill every last motherfucker who believed in the glories of the 418. It was hard not to, charging through the door with fully-automatic weapon in tow, followed shortly by similarly-armed comrades.

  The 418 weren’t expecting anyone to come in through the back door, and so a couple of 49ers had wondered what the loud bangs were. The server farm was full of electronics, and so many things could go off after being powered up years later.

  The bullets hit them hard and fast, and they were dead before they hit the floor. Even the maze of passageways of an underground facility filled with a constant hum of countless electronic and mechanical machines did little to muffle the harsh clatter of automatic firearms.

  Greg kept his Ultimax raised as he looked around, taking in the surroundings. Row upon row of housing units stood about head-high, random flashes of LED lights lighting up their complicated surfaces. The flash of interface screens, lines upon lines of commands and text glowed dimly behind dusty screens. A whirring of fans could be heard, no doubt to cool the immense heat g
enerated by the data processors. Indeed, the air carried a coolness Greg vaguely recognised as air-conditioning, a luxury that was lost six years prior. So many electronics in any one place, untouched and unsullied by The Storm. Even the 418 Labs were nothing compared to this. It was enough to make Greg’s mind spin. But a look at Wesley confirmed this was nothing to him. He had probably seen this exact scene before in a SAF server somewhere.

  “What exactly are we looking for?” asked Major Shang.

  “This is just one of the many subprocessor units. The 418 wouldn’t be able to access the server’s decryption protocols from them,” confirmed Wesley. “We need to get to the Control Room. It’s the only way external interfaces can be connected to the system’s network.”

  “Can help us Google translate or not?” asked Zari.

  Wesley shot him a look. “It means that if you want to configure any server parameters, or connect stuff like thumb drives or laptop computers, you can only do it in that room.”

  “Do we have to worry about any of the stuff around us?” asked Captain Ping, scanning the area like the rest were. “I wouldn’t like to get a bullet into anything that’ll cause a total server shutdown or explosion.”

  “A server farm of this size has regular scheduled backups and redundancies. Just don’t shoot anything if you don’t need to.” Greg was sure Wesley was rolling his eyes behind his goggles.

  They came up to a large entranceway which had stairs leading up over an incline. From where they stood, nothing could be seen in the room beyond. In it, server cabinets housing standard 19-inch racks could be seen, along with what looked like hastily set up barricades of plastic and metal desks. A catwalk hung above the room, pipes of several colours running past it. Greg was reminded of a photo he’d seen of a Google Data Centre before, with pipes in green, yellow and red, the colours of their parent company. All these fed water to cool their servers. No one could be seen, and the only sign anyone had been around was the open olive-green-and-black military- grade cases at the side.