by Geoff Brown
Light spilled through the window. The world rattled. Pure sound flooded his ears, rattling his brain. Meyers looked out the window.
“They’re landing at the park!” she shouted.
“We have to go!” he yelled back.
They burst out of the apartment and down the stairs. As the Rangers reached the ground floor, the windows shattered. Hypervelocity slugs ripped through the air, blasting through the façade of the building, blowing holes in the walls around them. Santiago hit the deck, pressing Meyers down with him. There was too much fire in front of them; Hiver forces must be attacking their building.
“I’ll draw them away!” Meyers yelled. “Finish the mission!”
“But—”
“We’ve both been tagged. But the heat from the one that burned you would have neutralized most of the pheromones on you. If there’s anyone who can get close to the landing ship, it’s you! Now go!”
Santiago snarled. Rolling off her, he snatched up his weapon. “See you in Valhalla.”
“Hell no! You can visit me in Folkvangr!”
Snorting, Santiago turned around and crawled away. Meyers fired through the holes, screaming war cries, then picked herself up and sought better cover. Reaching the rear door, Santiago got up too and burst out. Behind him, the apartment shook under the hammer blow of multiple explosions.
He ran.
Alone.
* * *
As the city died around him, Santiago pressed himself down into the street. The suit adjusted, shifting its tones. With slow, measured, movements, he lowered his monocular and crawled down the middle of the road. It flew in the face of infantry doctrine, but the Hivers had read the textbook too.
A squad of Hiver infantry rounded the corner ahead of him. Infrared aiming lasers and spotlights slashed through the night.
He froze.
The enemy soldiers pressed themselves to the walls, pausing for the moment it took their suits to blend in, and stalked down the pavement. At such close quarters, they looked more like insects than men. Swallowing, Santiago stayed still, breathing as shallowly as possible. Even if they saw him, maybe they’d mistake him for a corpse and move on.
They moved on.
Santiago remained motionless. Breathing. Laying. Waiting. The tail-end Charlie would be watching their backs, and if Santiago moved, he was dead.
Gunshots echoed behind him. He couldn’t tell who was firing on whom; the gravity guns both sides employed produced the same screeching-tearing noise at hypervelocity speeds, the same silence at subsonic. Cautiously, Santiago inched forward, moving one limb at a time.
Down the road, a car flung off the ground. Whirling around a gravity singularity, it shredded apart, recomposing itself into four wheeled legs. Streetlamps twisted, bent, and broke off from the pavement, drawn to the singularity. The golem in birthing rolled down the street. Towards Santiago.
Cursing, he picked up the pace, crawling up onto the pavement. Under the golem, pipes burst free from the ground, gushing wastewater. Santiago slithered for the bend as fast as he dared. If he stood and ran now the golem would notice him. Slowly, inexorably, the golem came. The whirlwind of metal formed gears and wheels, arms and claws.
Santiago turned the corner. An irresistible force gripped him. Gnashing his teeth, he pressed himself into the road. He stretched his arm out, trying to pull himself forward. The golem’s gravity wash damn near ripped his arm off. A gale whipped around him. Santiago’s body tensed, every fiber of his being contracting, squeezing every last joule he could spare. The fence around the park creaked and groaned. The posts bent sharply, and exploded from the concrete. One smacked the road next to Santiago’s head. He kept crawling, forcing himself forward, dragging himself away from the singularity. But it was no use, he was being pulled back, back, into the maw of the—
The golem moved on. The singularity passed.
Santiago relaxed, panting. His muscles burned. He glanced around; saw no Hivers and no signs of movement. He ran for the parking lot, leaping over the gap in the fence.
A Hiver landing ship lay to his one o’clock, three hundred meters away. It looked like a pyramid with the top sliced off, disgorging troops and Hunters from three sides. The heat of the landing had flash-incinerated the grass, leaving ashes dancing in the heated air. Pressing himself against a stump, Santiago brought down his monocular and called up his combat map. Green dots filled the screen, intermixed with an array of red dots. It was a fracas, small teams fighting little wars of their own, linking up with others to coalesce into a more powerful one or breaking off to engage a threat from another axis. Swarm versus swarm, Rangers against Hivers.
With his suit computer, he tagged the flow of Hiver reinforcements and the landing ship. The q-com would update the Rangers’ net, feeding them fresh data. Taking a deep breath, he transmitted on the whole tactical net, reaching every Ranger around him.
“This is Sergeant Major Abel Santiago. I have eyes on the objective. It’s crawling with Hivers. I need a distraction so I can penetrate the target.”
The Hivers spread out, forming a defensive perimeter. Hunters formed up into packs, infantry gathered into squads. On the combat map, green dots swirled around red dots, converging on Santiago. He looked and looked but could not find a dot with Meyers’ name. The Hivers assembled into a swarm, sending their hunters forward to engage the new threat, infantry close behind. A squad of infantry rushed his way.
Santiago balled up and rolled aside.
The troops stormed past him, oblivious.
He stayed where he was. Waited. When he was sure the road was clear he looked up. Checked his map. The Hivers were forming a defensive circle around the park, responding to Ranger probes from every direction. Too busy to look inwards.
Santiago got to his feet and sprinted for the ship.
The interior was a dark, empty cavern. No Hivers emerged from the darkness to tear his head off.
At the far end of the hold was a door. Past the door, a staircase. He ascended the steps slowly, carefully, weapon ready.
A small antechamber waited at the top of the stairs. Soft light flooded his monocular, and he lifted it. Taking quiet, measured steps, he entered the room beyond.
It was the control room. Three Hivers were plugged into a console across him. In the center of the room was a spire that seemed to grow from the floor. Two more Hivers sat by it, thick cables connecting their temples to the machine.
None of them had seen him.
Santiago raised his carbine and fired.
The first one at the spire died without knowing why. Its partner turned around, and Santiago splattered his brains across the floor. The other Hivers whirled around to face the threat, their cables disconnecting. Santiago blasted them with rapid fire. One rolled away, producing a hand weapon, but Santiago got off-line and shot it before it could react.
Santiago blinked. And giggled. These weren’t Hiver combatants. Otherwise he wouldn’t have had a chance.
He inspected the spire. It had to be control node. He’d seen pictures of one once, in the early days of the war when there was still a functional air defense net. A Ranger team had sneaked into a downed Hiver landing craft, live-streaming video feeds of the interior. The craft had self-destructed before the Rangers could hack the node, but this one probably wasn’t in danger of blowing up anytime soon. Using an adaptor, he plugged his suit into the node.
A cold female voice entered his earpieces. “This is Central. We are inside the Hive Mind. Stand by.”
Santiago called up his map. The red dots were regrouping. Small detachments formed up, racing back to the dropships. The green dots formed into smaller groups, attacking weak points in the enemy line and fading out. Some Hiver constructs, their logic trees disrupted, got caught in an endless loop between running for the ships and running for the front. Red dots disappeared, but more green dots vanished.
CLACK-CLACK-CLACK
Santiago primed a grenade, tossed it into the antechamber. He fou
nd cover behind the spire as the grenade exploded. The concussion jarred his brain, left him dizzy. When he looked up he saw a pair of blood-soaked Hunters flow into the room, moving around to flank him on both sides.
He fired at the nearest one, blasting it apart. Ducking, he stepped around as he heard a laser CRACK.
The cable tightened, arresting his motion. The other hunter leapt at him, claws slashing. He tried to block the slash with his carbine. The creature latched on to it and broke it in half. As the hunter tossed the broken carbine aside, Santiago drew his dagger.
The Hiver closed in, slashing both hands forward, tail zapping from above. Santiago stepped aside, checking an arm with his left hand and slashing out with his dagger. The cable popped free from his suit. The blade slid harmlessly off the hunter’s arm. Santiago kept moving, chasing the recoiling stinger. Grabbing the base of the tail, he stabbed the blade in. He sprayed the wound with nano and jumped back, mind-keying a command.
The tail exploded. The blast knocked the breath out of Santiago’s lungs. The Hiver stumbled towards him, bringing its right claws slashing down.
Santiago stepped in to his left, his left hand slapping its arm over his right shoulder, and slashed upwards with his right. He felt the knife slide across its throat. He retracted the knife, ramming the blade into its neck. The dagger bit in, opening a hole. Retracting the knife, Santiago sprayed the wound with nano, kicked the hunter away, and blew its head off.
Gasping for breath, he staggered away and plugged himself back in. He panted, sucked in huge gulps of air.
Tik-tik-tik
Looked up.
More hunters spilled through the doorway.
“Fuck.” He brought both nanosprays up.
The Hivers halted.
He stared at them.
They stared back.
Nothing happened.
A cool voice filled his earpieces. “This is Central. We have control of the Hive Mind. All Hive personnel are now under the control of the Neuvo Corazon Armed Forces. The war is over.”
The announcement repeated. Santiago listened to it five times before finally hearing the last four words.
He collapsed. Blinked at the ceiling. When he finally found the strength to sit up, the hunters had departed. A lifetime later, he tuned his q-com.
“Major?” he whispered.
“Santiago! Abel! My God, man, you did it!”
“What the hell happened? What did we do to them?”
“The Academy AIs were coding a virus to corrupt the Hive Mind since the war began. The intel you collected helped us complete it.”
Every member of the Hive was in constant contact with each other. If a C&C node uploaded a Trojan horse into the Hiver command net, every single Hiver would be infected in minutes. Khabarov couldn’t have told him, of course. Operational security. As he pondered Khabarov’s words, a thought slammed into Santiago’s brain.
“We... we did to them what they were going to do to us.”
“We won the war.”
“We turned into them.”
“We won the war,” Khabarov repeated. “Look. You need treatment. Get to the outpost and into a medbox. Now.”
Santiago picked himself up. Dusted himself off. Left the ship. Wandered out the park.
The Hivers gathered themselves into little groups. They dropped their weapons into neat piles and kneeled on the ground, hands to their heads, dutifully awaiting collection. Hunters prostrated. Golems disintegrated. Wasps landed. Gunshots rang out in the dark. The shooting was entirely one-sided. The Hive’s starships were doing nothing to stop it. They must belong to Nuevo Corazon now.
Santiago pulled off his mask, letting the frigid air caress his burned skin and fill his lungs. Looking up, he saw billions of stars with uncounted worlds. Most were lifeless, some not, more than a few occupied by different strains of humanity. Including the Hiver homeworld.
Now ready to be conquered.
Kill Streak
Samson Stormcrow Hayes
Spencer dropped into the hole, cautious of any mines or tripwires. Two teammates dropped in behind him, but they recklessly took off through the tunnel. He followed behind, but lost them around the bend. A flash of light indicated an explosion followed by a burst of gunfire. They’d fallen into an ambush.
He tossed a grenade into the darkness and heard the enemy shout in fear before they died. Cautiously, he peered around the corner. He never saw the sniper who killed him.
Spencer punched his mattress, shouting, “Fuckin' pussy-ass snipers.”
Three seconds later he spawned elsewhere on the map. He tried to hunt down the sniper, but the jackass kept moving. Spencer died twice more before the game ended.
“Damn it,” he muttered. “I can't get anything going.”
He finished the game with a miserable 24-20 kill/death ratio. It didn't look like Deathdirge would be online so he played a few more games before getting ready for school.
He finished his homework and double-checked his math. His grades were slipping and he couldn't let them fall below a B or his parents would restrict his game time. They expected him to go to college.
His parents were still discussing the election when he sat down to breakfast an hour later. It was the first Tuesday of November and it was all anyone talked about, even online. It was driving Spencer crazy.
“I think it's going to be close,” his father told his mother. “You sure you don't want to come with me to the polls before work?”
“No,” his mom replied. “I'll vote online when the polls open in ten minutes. I don't know why you don't do the same.”
“Call me old fashioned.” His dad forced a smile, but Spencer could tell he was worried.
“You think Hanley's going to win?” asked Spencer.
“It's possible.”
“Hanley's awesome,” shouted his younger brother Toby.
His parents exchanged a worried look. His mom placed her hand on his father's shoulders and said, “He's too young to understand.”
“Am not! Hanley wants us to kick ass.”
“Toby!” his father rebuked. “Language!”
“Sorry,” Toby whined, his head bowed.
“So you're voting for Barker?” Spencer asked, and his dad nodded. “Does it even matter?”
“It sure does,” his father explained. “I know right now it might not seem like it, but if Hanley's elected, this country will undergo some big changes.”
“Change! Change! Change!” Toby chanted, echoing Hanley's slogan.
Spencer was tired of the whole thing. Even the players in other countries were talking about it.
“Don't you think it matters?” Spencer's mom asked him.
Spencer shrugged. He just hoped that when it was over, people would stop arguing online and focus on the game. Politicians came and went, but the game went on forever.
“With only two choices, is there really much of a choice?” he asked. His parents didn't answer.
It was the same at school. Students and teachers alike drew battle lines over who should be the next president and there was even a fistfight between Tim Roonie, one of the seniors, and Mr Cooper, the science teacher, that ended with Mr Cooper being arrested.
Spencer felt relieved when the day was over. He came home and quickly did his homework while his father, looking dejected, watched the election results. Hanley was winning. After dinner, Spencer dropped his dishes in the dishwasher and headed upstairs.
He wasn't surprised to see Toby playing his GameStation 3000. The GS was the latest in 3-D gaming technology. His parents bought it for him for his birthday as a reward for getting all A's in school. He lifted the headphones from his brother's ear and shouted, “Get out, assface!”
“But I'm in the middle of a game,” Toby whined.
“Don't care.” Spencer tore off the headset so Toby couldn't play.
“But it's not fair. You're not even going to play.”
“It's my room. Get out.” Spencer punched his br
other in the shoulder.
“Oww!” he cried.
“Second one's harder,” Spencer warned. Toby ran out the door.
Spencer shut down the game console and went to bed. It was only 7 pm.
The alarm rang at 2 am. Spencer jumped out of bed and quickly shut it off before the noise disturbed anyone else in the house. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Spencer realized he had overslept. He set two alarms, but didn't remember the first one going off. He must have woken up just enough to kill it.
He quietly slipped down the hall to the bathroom to relieve himself then hurried downstairs to grab an energy drink before returning to his room. Once the door was shut and the earphones secured, he activated the GS 3000. Spencer's preferences instantly loaded his favorite game, Elite Soldiers. It was the closest video games came to reality. Within seconds he was online.
He took a swig of the energy drink while he scrolled through the game options until he found Slaughterhouse. He put the drink down, scratched his nose before indicating he was ready. The game launched. A list appeared with the following options: Sniper, Scout, Recon, Assault, Warrior, Mercenary, Heavy Weapons, Demolition, Medic, and Spec Ops. Spencer selected the last one and a weapons menu appeared. His preferences were ready: main weapon: UMP45; sidearm, an M93 Raffica; and his special equipment – a C-4 explosive pack. He clicked ‘Accept’. There was a three second shift as the screen changed; then he was in the game.
Spencer was in a forest of fir trees that gently swayed to an imaginary breeze. Through the stereophonic headset, Spencer could hear chirping birds, the rustle of a chipmunk, and sporadic gunfire. Whenever he moved, he could hear the crunch of dirt and twigs beneath his feet. Spencer looked around to determine where he was located. Some game modes included a map in the upper left corner of his view, but one of the rules of Slaughterhouse was no map. Judging from an outcropping of rock that snipers liked to inhabit, he knew he was somewhere near the center of the action. Good. Now he had to decide: stay low or go for the high ground. He opted to stay low.
He ran down a dirt pathway to his left and immediately encountered his first foe. A short burst from the UMP dropped him. Spencer smiled. He continued forward more cautiously and ran into two more enemies waiting for him. Spencer was ready. He anticipated the first player would alert anyone behind him. The UMP barked out two more bursts and he took them both down. He rushed forward, wrapped around a bend in the path and hid in the narrow corner of a rocky outcropping to change magazines. A moment later, two more players rushed forward looking for him. Spencer's ambush dropped them both.