The drones de-swarmed, occupying every square foot of airspace. The air was precision cut so each had an equal distance from one another. The ship’s lasers, top, side, bottom, zapped the bugs incessantly, but this time hit mostly empty air. The attacking ‘everywhere’ was intelligently dispersed using a clever algorithm to manage the defensive swerving position of each and every drone. Exhibiting a newfound prescience they avoided the red beams, mostly. But the ship caught on quickly; it was a battle of wits and omnipotent intelligence. Learning at light speed, it managed to resume its efficient fly swatting and once again sent the pests into the burning embers that was once a town. Some bounced onto the streets like hardened tires, others disappeared into an inferno.
But overwhelmingly, there were still too many. And the horde mentality was equally ingenious, using the physics of the universe to its full advantage, making every large or tiny attacker count. Efficiency level: maximum. They attached themselves to the ship and began: the destructive phase. Their goal, now obvious, had been to get close.
“There’s just too many. Come on Number 486, you can do it,” Ron said with worry. He realized the position they’d be in right now had the ship not arrived. “They have the entire thing covered. Are they moving it?” It began to descend slowly.
“I don’t know,” Rico replied, “I’ve never seen anything like this.” Not even the wonders of, Felix, that awesome place, he thought comparing one inconceivability with another. “They’ve totally cocooned it! How are our wall lasers doing?”
“Seventy-three down, only twenty-three left, and half of those have exhausted their auto-repair cycles—including the ones in the bay. The remaining lasers are assisting but support is extremely minimal. It would take a year to zap that many, even at 100%.”
“Zoom in, right here.” Rico pointed to a spot at the top of the ship. The ship was descending, faster now—or the drones were pulling it down. Its hull looked alive, oscillating randomly like it wore a blanket of a million roaches. And oddly, it was beautiful, like a star, with mostly reds, but also blues, greens, and purples; lasers of every shade, millions, all designed to penetrate various substances escaped it creating a brilliant starburst. To an ant it would be a supernova. A few of the ship’s lasers were able to blast through the living moving crust, but each time a new layer of pests capped the outburst. It seemed that at close range the ship’s lasers were in lacking in effectiveness; likely the drone mentality knew and decided to take advantage. Open patches glimmered like mirrors receiving the sun once again.
Now, finally being lower than the great wall, Rico noticed a dome atop the ship. Its lasers, like windshield wipers, occasionally cleared areas just enough to make out some details. He said, “Look, the bridge.”
“And there’s people inside,” Ron elated, and he quickly zoomed in. There were several indeed, all wearing orange jumpsuits managing their stations. A woman stood behind eight or more, same orange suit, arms crossed. They didn’t look worried, not a bit. Those manning the panels sat erect, punching buttons and controls as if the rescue was a routine everyday operation.
Hopefully, they thought, it was, although it sure looked like anything but.
It struck Rico as somewhat odd. He figured their advanced technology would be able to do a whole host of functions, that its automation would mostly, if not totally, manage every process—similar to that of the lender facility. He wondered exactly what they were doing manning the controls so rapidly, and for what purpose. Even the survivor drop-ships—that ended with Amy’s arrival—were unmanned, flown and managed using nothing but automation. But it had been a long time since he’d seen anyone, or anything new, so he rationalized that he was likely ignorant to much that could have changed.
They could only wait, and watch. The three of them felt powerless in the control room, with nothing else to do; they didn’t have buttons to push and systems to manage like the crew of the descending ship. Their systems were almost completely automated because it was highly effective, lending much advantage over slower human decisions and reaction times for fast paced battles like this one.
At times Abell would grunt while watching the screens. The light from the action flickered onto his face like late night TV. Rico looked at him, knowing that he would rather be outside. He imagined Abell pouncing on the drones with his extraordinary might and muscle. He pictured Abell swinging that pipe; a pipe he himself probably couldn’t even lift. He’d surely take a few out.
It was chilling to see the power of the drones in action. The hair stood up on Rico’s arms as he awed at the battle. Interestingly there were seemingly unlimited methods of attack. Many smaller black drones had transformed to create a shell around a hull-gnawing chrome attack drone. The core entity was free to melt and drill, safe from to the lasers until its easily replaceable shell of assistance was compromised.
Others bound themselves together like magnets creating a larger more deadly power. They would crash into the ship exploding violently. The tremors of the suicide hits could be felt like an earthquake. Drones coordinated with these more rare but devastating attacks in order to limit collateral damage.
Some simply waited for their turn on the front lines. They hovered or perched distantly on the great wall, making use of its ramparts; Rico had reactivated the forcefield which did dissipate lasers so it was useless to go farther or higher. Focusing a beam on a single spot—like the eyes of an owl: no matter their motion the beam held its target—they burnt precisely. For all attacks, after a drone was destroyed another was there to take its place and the reserves seemed limitless. The coordination made the swarm an effective force against any opponent large or small.
The ship neared the ground edging the lake, therefore protecting its bottom. It set itself down on extended stabilizers which made four-foot deep indentions into the soil. A slot opened on its port side which overlooked the lake and a hose sinuated out and stabbed the water. The forcefield surrounding it became easily apparent. It lit the water’s surface with an electrified teal glow. Drones swiftly attacked but did zero damage to the hose. Air hungry whirlpools formed around the tip; the swirling motion was powerful enough to crush a small wooden boat. The water level of the lake lowered, following that of the canal until nothing but mud and flapping catfish remained. It dried the entire reservoir in less than two minutes. The hose retracted, the teal sparking ceased, and the port sealed shut.
The cerulean blue propulsion glow went dark and Number 486 ejected large anchoring cables that burrowed into the ground. Its shield intensified with a more energetic teal charge and the drones began to have trouble clinging to the hull. The current, like electrostatic webbing, went through each and every one. Something, was happening.
“Why did it take our water?” Ron questioned. He was in a zone, talking mostly to himself. “Is it a power source of some kind?”
“Look,” Rico said, “Movement, something is pushing that layer of drones.”
The drones bulged upward between the bridge and the aft—center-ship. A murky blast flicked them away like fleas: water cannon, fish included! The stream was focused, with the pressure of Europa’s geysers. It spat into the clear blue sky a laser of brown water, and before a minute could pass clouds formed: dark and heavy, purple and tumultuous, a cotton big-bang. As if having a singular mind, the drones hesitated in surprise. The spout that’d fired the geyser began to rotate like a wandering eye; it stirred the sky like a paint stick, mixing the thunderous storm that formed a galactic spiral. The center cleared as the velocity of gyration increased letting return the vivid blue of the day. It was noon and the blaring sun was directly above. Rainbows made an inner-cylinder around the mist of the violent stream. If it was some kind of attack, surely it was a fascinating one!
The clouds orbited the storm’s shrinking eye and it needed no more stirring. And the water ran out.
“Our lake…” Ron said completely engrossed. “…is in the sky.”
Save for the ship that reflected light like a
moon, enjoying a single diminishing beam of sun, the town was heavily shadowed, and the temperature dropped. It was a violent eerie stew. Thunder cracked and its reverberation bounced onto the wall as if it was a giant speaker catching and amplifying the rumble. White hot lightning sizzled and the storm became electrified. It raged as the clouds merged sealing the blue eye which became the pit of focused power. The drones, now obviously apprehensive, redoubled their efforts.
Thunder rumbled throughout the facility, people in the safe room huddled and cried. Rico continued sending them, as well as Ted updates like he’d been doing since the strife began. In the broadcast room several lenders had awoken, sending the feed to plummet: yellow status. Jim and Amy remained asleep—deeply immersed in the transformed high-level map. The lenders who were disturbed, mostly the newest and least experienced, drunkenly rose, some falling off the beds. An unexpected logout twisted the mind for days. They meandered incoherently to Ted, stumbling to get an update, but he redirected them to the break room and sent the twins to console and inform. He also instructed they get blankets and whatever they needed from his living quarters.
Only a ten count after the leg wobbling thunderclap the top of the ship began to emit an azure electric glow as if vacuuming the teal field about its hull and refocusing it. The storm above it took shape, spinning faster and faster every second until a funnel emerged—spinning, sucking, and radiating electrostatic blue sparks. The descending electrified cone was reaching to touch a gleaming metal rod now erecting from the ship.
“Looks like the broadcast needle, but larger,” Rico pointed out.
The drones still had no intention of retreat, seemingly they angered and intensified. They gnawed at the rod delivering every tool they had: bright melting arcs of energy, spinning drills and cutters, and lasers of every type. Many teamed up, now clumping into groups as large as a city bus, and crashed into it. But the focused shields protected it—the ship, mighty Number 486, had gotten a serious upgrade. Since the engines had powered down the shield became impenetrable.
Above, the full blown hurricane-sized tornado began its duty. The conjured destructor vacuumed drones by the hundred; it extirpated trees, debris, the flames—say goodbye to Julio’s pizza stand—all sucked and shredded to oblivion.
“There must be 200 mile per hour winds!” Ron yelled.
“At least!” Rico replied at the top of his lungs. The noise reverberated throughout the facility, a harsh tonal roar as if a horn blasting freight train was on track encircling the rim of the wall above.
And then the tornado met the ship’s rod. The electricity discharged in a snapping crack not rivaled by its earlier thunderous counterpart, not by far.
Other lenders awoke.
Wall lasers stalled. Intelligently the system made a choice—keep the outer ships up as long as possible. Two outer perimeter ships had already set down. The others increased speed to maximum, filling the gap, but the perimeter could not afford another loss. Another flood of drones would be the end. Broadcast feed: borderline red, and the previously full buffer was also depleting quickly.
The townspeople in the safe room had more space, because they huddled together, tighter, gripping each other, hoping, and like old times, praying.
The cameras in the control room displayed static making it difficult to see—the spinning debris made the inside of the wall its racetrack. The static faded as the tornado stabilized and morphed into a tighter more narrow shape. With the change the debris rose to overcome the height of the wall and was flung miles into the desert.
A few lingering drones were reluctant to give up, yet soon enough even their anchors tore. Inescapably they flew upward smacking the edge of the electrified twister. It was spinning so fast its walls were borderline solid. One exploded releasing a final screech. Others rode the charged wall of wind to the stratosphere. It shocked every leftover into oblivion, shot them up, then flung their carcasses miles away. Far beyond the wall it rained garbage from clear skies, pitting the desert with dead black hail. Some made it as far as the outer ships; their lasers assisted evaporated any incoming chunks.
The storm had cleansed the ship, energizing it at the same time. Its lights went bright; the bridge lights illuminated the crew. No cheering or solace, expressionless, completely unphased, diligently tapping on their controls, they didn’t even bat an eye out the window.
“Wow,” Abell said, a single word in his usual monotone. His large eyes gaped. He spoke, he spoke! Who wouldn’t, who couldn't!
“It’s done—and look, it’s auto-repairing,” Ron exclaimed. “The storm—”
Rico cut him off, but he didn't mean too. They weren’t even talking to each other, individually they awed to themselves. He said, “The door, it’s opening. They’re coming out.”
They continued to gape, oblivious to the flashing alert on the panel aside them. Broadcast feed was teetering on the red. But it did it even matter—with a force like that, so powerful—why would it? They really were saved, after so many long years. A large door below the front of the ship cracked open. Blinding white edged the breach. Cold smoke forced its way out—defining a razor-thin beam of light—then swooshed to the ground. The mysterious savior was, finally, about to make an introduction!
Rico was ecstatic, his newfound curiosity overflowing. Abell was obviously just as happy although he portrayed it differently; he was slow at learning how to handle his now deeper capacities. Rico jumped up and hugged the oak tree of a man. Ron quirkily did the same. The oak tree hugged back squeezing them both red. This was the moment and the day everyone had long awaited. The systems slowly returned to normal, auto-repairs kicked in throughout the wall. Broadcast feed status crept slowly, rising back into the yellow. Relief settled onto the townspeople as Rico relayed the good news to all. They elated and cheered, arms squished at their sides.
With a perma-smile, Rico glanced at one of the screens that was focused on the ship’s bridge. The ring of orange-suited pilots hadn’t changed. Straight-faced, they continued tapping away, operating their panels at the exact same pace—no difference.
57. The Decision
The words sobered Jim directly into a rage. He held still, but could’ve ripped their heads off with his bare hands. Something, and Amy’s hand pressing his, told him to wait. Hear them out.
“This is going to be hard for you to grasp but there is a map,” Greg continued. “It was designed for a special purpose—this. We can take you there, if you decide. I can tell you everything I am allowed to say, and nothing more. Your decision is a big one, and together the both of you must decide it. Your choice is and always will be—yours.” Felix took a deep-breathed sigh and held his arm around Rosita. Eddie nodded with a slight and somber bob of his head, pressing his lips.
“Go on,” Jim said under his breath.
“If you so choose, you will accompany her. You can assist with her death if she wishes.” Amy didn’t say a word, just gulped a breath. Tears flooded her eyes, but didn’t fall. She turned to face Jim.
“You’re right, I don’t fucking understand!” Jim exploded. Maybe the alcohol wasn’t such a good idea. He burst upward ferociously, cracking the first dried-wood strip of the picnic table’s top. The rest of the outdoor restaurant went silent in fear, some snuck away. The empty bottle of tequila fell to the ground and the dishes were scattered and broken. He continued slowly and furiously, “You are going to start talking, and right now, even if I have to rip it out—” Amy grabbed his arm. He stopped at her touch for he was ready to split the rest of the wood, make his way straight through the table, grab the pencil-neck, and rip his throat out. He held firm, then her small hand beckoned him again; a gentle touch.
He looked to her, still seated below him; only a single tear escaped her. Amy forced a smile, the best she could, and slowly shook her head. She always had that effect on him. His anger wanted to erupt; and oh it would have, violently. He wanted to tear their fucking heads off like he had done to so many other dream characters. He ri
pped them apart, blasted them to bits, choked them out, gunned them down, and cut them in half. It had helped to release his anger many a day. But never more than after the revert, his emotions were different to him, powerful and still changing; everyday learning to manage the new person he was becoming. The others at the table felt his pain, and, he saw, and felt, their sincerity. But Amy’s touch was what did it.
She silently beckoned him: sit down, be calm, and listen. Words felt not heard, she had that power. It only took a touch, and her smile.
Jim sat and puffed the anger away with larger, then easier, then lighter breaths, until he actually could listen again. Felix gave him a single nod then spun a finger to the frozen restaurateurs. The waiter quickly brought a cheap bottle of mezcal and filled a shot.
Jim accepted the drink. There was something in their eyes, Greg, Eddie, something they knew, something he knew they knew. It was smooth and sweet; the shot went down quickly, without a chaser. He no longer needed chasers in life. Like his black coffee, he just wanted it straight. He sat down and spoke, “Continue.” He said it sternly, under a thin layer of control, given to him by a girl. This girl he loved, and trusted. I’ll listen, for her, he thought.
“Jim, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but it is the way it is. The choice is yours Jim, first and foremost, yours. Amy, I’m sorry to say, the choice is not yours but you must agree in order for the choice to be allowed. What’s out there, on your planet—it will destroy your town and every single person in it. But worse, it will scan each person first, before it kills them, and use them. It will attract their consciousness, to its system. They will work, as slaves inside the machines’ worlds, their own maps, however horrifying they might be—forever and ever, for eternity.”
Lenders Page 47