Callisto Deception

by John Read

  By the end of the day, bulldozers were leveling ground as whining chainsaws cut through the valley, felling lumber for the first houses. City planners, trained in the Calli simulation, knew exactly what to do. Land surveys had been completed within hours and streets mapped out in yellow rope. This would become the first city on Callisto.

  When the ring-shaped colony’s artificial sun broke over the horizon on the third day, a row of townhomes began to take shape along the dome wall. Poly-wood frames rose from printers like treasure from Hermione’s bag. The previous day’s whining chainsaws were replaced by an incessant hammering that reverberated off the Ring habitat’s domed roof.

  Marie hadn’t trained for any of the work that was going on below, and worried she would just get in the way. She kept Branson with her up on the hill, watching as he played with a few neighboring boys.

  On the third evening, a man stomped his way up the hill carrying a basket of food: fresh bread, fruit, and dried meat. He was alone, but seemed happy enough, his short grey hair looking white in the evening light. This was the first time Marie had ever seen James in person, and she took note of the mild differences between the real him and his avatar. In person, his dimples were deeper as he smiled with a sincerity VR simply couldn’t convey. Marie greeted him.

  “So, this is Branson, eh?” he said with a smile, tipping his hat. Branson hid behind Marie.

  “You should have told us there’d be nothing here,” Marie said.

  “Would it have made a difference?” James said. Marie didn’t answer. “But, to tell you the truth, I had no idea.”

  “Where are the people who built this place?” Marie asked. “Will we ever meet them?”

  “They went back to Earth years ago, thought they had just constructed another mining colony,” James said. “I remember when my father sent up this infrastructure, the universal constructor that built this place. The Doomsdayers, like my father, didn’t know when we’d actually need it.”

  “Ah,” Marie said. “Have you talked to Hoshi?”

  “I have. You’re probably wondering if we should get back to work,” James said. “They’re going to build a Center for Genetic Diversity, but in another town.”

  “Another town?” Marie asked.

  “Yeah, since this is going to be a major city, it will probably serve as the capital. We’ll want to be far away from politics as possible.”

  “Was that Hoshi’s decision?” Marie said.

  “No, actually, that was my decision. I figured we could use some relaxation. Give civilization a chance to come together before we start meddling again.”

  “This civilization is going to get a whole lot bigger,” Marie said, holding her belly.

  “And thanks to you, we’ll soon have over two thousand expecting mothers,” James said. “They’re already building the hospital. It will be the finest in the solar system.”

  “It’ll be the only hospital in the solar system.”

  “Well, hang in there, and let me know if you need anything, don’t be a stranger. And you need to come back to the airlock and get your watch. They’ve been customized for life on Callisto.”

  “Thanks,” Marie said. “I’ll do that. Then you won’t have to drag your weary feet up here to tell me the news.”

  James laughed. “Always a pleasure.” He turned with a wave, and walked back down the hill. Marie watched him go, realizing that though he was, strictly speaking, a colleague, he was also the closest person she had to a friend.

  18

  After Pearl Harbor, we found ourselves in the year 2043, one hundred and twenty-nine kilometers north of Tehran. A million Russian soldiers and five million citizens of the Iraqi-Iranian union were dead. Russia was losing, but for political reasons, they weren’t pulling out, and so the fighting continued.

  We’d been deep in simulation for almost five weeks, putting up with the extreme heat, lack of sleep, and language barriers. None of the Turings here spoke English, which had become a massive pain in the butt.

  Luke and Jamaal vowed to turn our sorry asses into Marines or at least the NASA equivalent of Marines. They taught us Krav Maga, which in Hebrew literally means “contact combat”, a form developed by martial artist Imi Lichtenfeld. They dragged us from our cots under cold starry skies, well before the sun rose to scold the desert with blistering heat. At mid-day our resistor suits outgassed with the smell of burnt plastic.

  Locked inside our military grade VR units, there was no escape from the training; we were always “on”. This Gulf War simulation wasn’t like the others. When we died, there was no purgatory. Instead, we re-spawned as another solider, like agents in that ancient movie that only a sci-fi buff like me would know about: The Matrix. We fought alongside the local militia fighters, mainly Shiites, who fled Tehran during the occupation. As in the prior two Gulf Wars, US special forces soldiers abandoned their traditional uniforms when imbedded with the local militias. We dressed exactly like the locals; in some cases, right down to the keffiyeh, or traditional head scarf. We began with four squads of twenty-four. But failed raids and snipers had decreased our number to seventy-three. I’d already been killed twice.

  This night’s mission would be our last in Iran. Our goal: destroy a Russian drone base. The base contained a command and control bunker which intel indicated contained several senior Russian officers. If we succeeded, resistance fighters would rise up and drive the Russians out of Iran for good.

  The attack was based on a historical event. The American assault had succeeded, but no one could figure out how they did it. The base was taken, but all the soldiers were killed, and the Russians claimed it never occurred, leaving no one to tell the story. If we were successful, we’d discover a plausible explanation for what had happened there.

  There was a twist. We also had to kill the Russian general leading the operation. That general was played by Commander Tayler. He’d immersed himself with the Turing computers, leading an army of soldiers against us. His mission was to take us out, making our lives hell in the process.

  With Commander Tayler playing enemy, Serene was designated our new leader; she had been given the rank of captain. The six other humans on our side were lieutenants. The Turings were either NCO Marines, or local freedom fighters.

  We’d arrived on location in the night, covering our Jump Jets in chameleon tarp. Stealth tents and sand colored canvas covered our equipment. From the air, we were invisible to visible light, infrared, and radar.

  Captain Serene Johnson marched to the front of our canvas HQ. She wore a camouflage ball cap, with her hair bun sticking out the rear. Baggy cargo pants and a traditional wool shawl hid her figure, as well as several concealed weapons. Her face showed war paint residue from a previous operation.

  “The Russian base is nearly impenetrable,” Serene said, pointing a knife at a holovision display that stretched from the floor to the roof. “Its anti-shell defense system will destroy any incoming munitions. Bombardment is out of the question. Regardless, we go in tonight.”

  “This is cracked,” Luke Singer interrupted. “Attacking a base without air superiority?”

  “Lieutenant Singer, crazy is what we do,” Serene replied, placing the knife in its sheath and covering it with her shawl. “I said it’s ‘nearly’ impenetrable. We’ll be going in alongside their own drones …”

  “There’s no way.” Singer replied. “Their supply lines are guarded as well as the base itself.”

  Serene crossed her arms and scowled. “We’re not going anywhere near their supply lines. Kevin, tell Major Singer how we’re planning to get in.”

  Kevin was asleep; he’d been up all night doing who knows what. “Kevin!” she hissed. He stood up, stretched, yawned, and turned to the group.

  “Turn off that dammed projection,” he said in a groggy voice that heightened his Indian accent.

  I reached over and shut off the holoscreen. With the projection off, we could see to the rear canvas wall where a strange contraption sat on a tabl
e. The device looked like a torpedo, except rendered in polygons, without a smooth surface anywhere on the design.

  “We’re not going to like this, are we?” I said.

  Kevin smirked. “Meet Project Suckfish. I’ve had our printers making them all night.” Kevin spread his gloved palms, and the bomb began to unfold.

  “It’s a wingsuit, stealth, of course. It’s also a clone of the bombs the Russian drones carry.” Kevin closed his palms, and the wingsuit collapsed back into its original shape. “Projection, please, John.”

  I was tired, and didn’t immediately respond.

  Kevin stared at me. I reached over and turned the projection back on.

  The room shimmered and around us fish darted by. An ominous shadow approached from overhead.

  “A shark,” Singer said, stating the obvious.

  Jamaal punched Luke in the arm. “No shit, Holmes.”

  “The shark is a Russian drone,” Kevin said. “See that fish there, stuck to its belly? That’s the remora or suckerfish. We’ll clip to the drone in flight, just like the sucker fish.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. In flight?” Avro said.

  Kevin nodded and used a gesture to swipe away the sea. It was replaced by an animation of a Russian drone.

  “We’ll land here, between the engines,” Kevin explained. “You’ll secure your suit to the landing boom and reel yourself into position under the aircraft.”

  “Seriously,” Amelia said.

  “The Russian drones are too stupid to detect the extra weight, and the people in the base will think they’re returning with unused munitions. We should be able to get the entire squad into the hangar undetected.”

  “The entire squad?” Luke Singer said. “There are over seventy soldiers here!”

  “Whoever makes it onto the drones makes it into the base,” Kevin said.

  “And those who don’t?” I asked. “These things have parachutes, right?”

  “No parachutes. If you miss your drone, well ...”

  “Well shit,” Singer said, actually sounding impressed for once.

  “Are we good?” Serene asked.

  “Ooh-rah,” Singer replied.

  Kevin took a seat and Serene stood in front of the group. “We drop at zero one hundred tonight. The Russian drones will have just finished their bombing run in Tehran.”

  The map reappeared behind her, and she pulled out her knife. “We rendezvous with the drones here, forty miles south of the base. Once we’re in, we’ll fight our way to the center of the compound. Command and Control is located underneath the palace, here.” She pointed her knife at the far side of the building. “This is also where the officers, and presumably, Commander Tayler, are hiding. Once we take out the Command Center, the war is over. Everyone got it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Nash, and Singer, accompanied by several Turing Marines.

  “All right,” Serene said. “Get suited up.”

  By zero-dark-thirty we reached 16,000 feet. The stealth Jump Jet’s chameleon skin matched the blackness of the sky. The Russian drones skimmed the ground, 14,000 feet below us.

  A single red bulb illuminated the cabin. As we neared the target zone, a ramp descended from the rear of the jet. We inched our way toward the edge, as a deafening wind whipped around the cabin like juice in a blender. I looked into the darkness. The other Jump Jet was just barely visible against the moonless sky.

  The red light clicked off and a green one clicked on.

  Jamaal Nash and Luke Singer jumped first, diving off the ramp. They extended their arms and, by extension, their wingsuits, as they slipped into the black. Serene, Keven, and I jumped next, followed by Avro and Amelia. Within seconds, all seventy-four troops dropped into the night.

  Although technically a stealth airframe, the Russian drone’s engines produced just enough heat to be detected by our tactical visor’s IR sensors. Our suit computers amplified the signals, illuminating the drones like traffic on a nighttime freeway.

  The drones flew at 270 miles per hour, a speed we could easily match. Those who jumped first aimed for the drones to the east. We worked our way west from there.

  I leveled my approach as we descended below 3,000 feet. Serene flew to my left, tucking in her arms and sacrificing altitude for speed. She shot several hundred feet ahead, aiming for the lead drone. She grabbed the vertical stabilizer, swinging herself underneath the aircraft with the agility of a yoga master.

  I approached my target from above, hovering for a moment and bleeding off speed to hold my altitude and then reached out to grab the drone by the tail, and missed. Shit!

  As I tumbled end over end in the drone’s jet wash, my suit tore open and the wings ripped off. I steadied myself in freefall, rolling onto my back to see Serene tucked into position on the bottom of her drone’s fuselage. Her wingsuit transformed, enclosing in the chameleon shell.

  I wasn’t the only one who’d missed. At least twenty other bodies fell along with me.

  The drones flew out of sight over a ridge. I winced, as my body exploded into the hillside. We all wore suicide vests, knowing that this was a one-way trip.

  It felt like I was punched by a giant fist, the resistance suit heating to 200 degrees and attacking my skin with several hundred watts of electricity from electrodes covering every millimeter of my body. But my death lasted only moments before the program chose a new avatar.

  I assumed the body of a Turing who had already activated his camo. I was now a suckerfish, stuck to the underside of a drone.

  A landing gear extended inches from my face as we approached the runway. The hijacked aircraft came to a stop. I half expected the entire Russian army to be waiting for us, but the tarmac was empty.

  As we passed through the hangar doors, I noticed an arm poking out of the suckerfish on the drone beside me. It was Avro’s, the tattoo on his wrist a dead giveaway. He faced down, screwing a silencer on his pistol. Avro tilted his head, peering through his combat visor, taking aim from behind the forward landing gear.

  Russian technicians stood watch, waiting for their drones. Silenced shots sprang from Avro’s pistol and five of the Russians went down.

  We dropped out from our suckers. I grabbed a magnetic-mine from my pocket, and slapped it onto the drone’s fuel tank before running for cover.

  Avro and I huddled behind a tool chest at the rear of the hangar. Somewhere, an alarm shrilled, and dozens of Russian troops flooded through the large hangar doors towards the drones.

  Serene and a few others took cover six meters away while the enemy soldiers took up position around the drones, using them as cover. Serene raised three fingers and Avro nodded.

  She folded down one finger. Then, the other. “Fire in the hole!” Serene yelled.

  I hit a trigger on my wrist and the puck on my drone exploded, igniting the craft’s remaining fuel. Seven drones burst apart, lobbing soldiers across the hangar and into distant walls.

  Avro pointed to a door at the rear of the hangar, giving us the signal to follow him. The door led to an alley, Avro holstered his berretta and removed an MK85 rifle from its satchel. He unfolded the stock and pressed it into his shoulder, then led the way. In front of us, a solider came into view; Avro fired, and the solider exploded.

  “Shit!” Avro whispered. That was one of ours. “Shit shit shit.” Our suicide vests could be detonated by a strategically placed bullet. The idea was that if we were ambushed, we’d take the enemy with us.

  “Sharpen up, Avro,” Serene said. “I’ll lead. I’m not spending any more time in this piss-ass sim ‘cause you can’t hold your shit.”

  “GODDAMMIT,” a soldier yelled from behind us. “You shot me, you son of a bitch!” It was Jamaal Nash who’d re-spawned from one of the troops with us in the hangar.

  “Nash, calm the hell down, it’s the fog of war, idiot,” Serene whispered.

  Jamaal Nash pulled his pistol from his holster and shot Avro between the eyes.

  “What the hell!” I ye
lled.

  From behind, another solider tackled Nash and grabbed him in a headlock, and started pummeling him in the gut.

  It was Avro.

  “Oh, for the love of God!” Serene shouted. “We need to get out of here before we all get blown to bits.”

  Avro picked Jamaal up by the head and threw him into the hangar wall. Three Russian soldiers turned the corner, alerted to our position by the commotion. Avro pulled out his berretta, still sporting the silencer, popping the soldiers in succession.

  We jogged along a barracks, hunching down to avoid the windows as lights inside began to come on. A troop truck sped down the road, tires squealing as it rounded a corner, ready to dump its complement of soldiers into combat.

  “Find cover,” Serene ordered.

  Across the street, a windowless concrete building bordered the main road. A lone man sprinted along its roofline. The truck stopped about ten feet from the building’s northern corner.

  “I think that’s Kevin!” I said, pointing to the person on the roof. The running soldier wore one of our vests, but his rifle was gone, freeing his arms to punch the sky with each stride.

  “Gahhhhh,” yelled the man on the roof.

  “That’s Kevin, all right,” Avro said.

  Kevin jumped from the building, arcing through the air and swinging his arms in concentric circles like a six-year-old going off a diving board.

  “What the …” I said.

  “Indra Akbar!” Kevin yelled as he fell towards the truck. His body tore through the vehicle’s canvas roof; I imagine he causally introduced himself to the troops within. The truck exploded in a fiery cloud, illuminating several blocks.

  “I think Kevin likes to die,” Serene said.

  “Yo,” Kevin said as he strolled casually out of a nearby hangar, his tone hiding the immense pain of his recent death.

  “Hi, Kevin,” Avro and Serene mumbled in unison.

  “Hey, where’s Amelia?” I asked. My visor indicated the location of our troops. I saw a dozen others, their bodies outlined in green with names over their heads, but Amelia wasn’t among them.