Of Salt and Sand

by Barnes, Michael

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  “It’s a go!” shouted Briggs into the radio. “Move! Move! Move!” he motioned ahead.

  At the sound of his command the five men with EMR devices strapped to their backs, rushed forward from the main division. They wore weighted boots, protective clothing and gas masks to prevent the newly created bursts of air from pummeling them over and filling their eyes, nose and throat with salt particulate created in the transformation process.

  “Reitman assures me that the exterior tunnel’s main defenses have been deactivated—you should meet little or no resistance,” he shouted at the five men as they hurried past him.

  There was only a few hundred feet of solid salt rock to blow through before penetrating into the outer Omega-seven tunnel way; and with the men’s EMR devices, it wouldn’t take long. But even before the salt-rock could be targeted, the first step was to blast a large hole in the ceiling of their cavern, right through to the desert’s surface. Without this crucial opening, the pressure created from the sheer volume of expanding gas, would crush their bodies like eggshells under the wheels of a Mack truck.

  As the five men—cutters, as Briggs had called them—proceeded ahead, the rest of the team fell back, equipping themselves with their own gas masks. The men knelt with their heads touching the ground just in front of their knees. Soon, the odd posture was made apparent as great surges of freshly created atmosphere blasted over and around them in a heated, escaping rush.

  In a shorter amount of time than any of the Fire Ants could have guessed, the flashes of bright light and the distant rumbling ceased. The air grew still, and the thick dust cleared as it rose slowly up and out into the cool night air through the newly made opening in the cavern’s ceiling.

  Briggs stood first. He pulled off his mask from his sweat-ridden face, and looked ahead. From down the darkened tunnel way, he saw a steady bright light—the light from the Omega-seven tunnel. His men had successfully penetrated into the HOPE complex, as from the end of the passageway, the silhouette of one of the cutters waved an, all clear, at him.

  Briggs’ radio, simultaneously, came to life.

  “We’re in!”, shouted the voice. But it was soon cut off in mid-sentence.

  A volley of popping white energy suddenly exploded from the tunnel’s opening. “We’re under attack!” a man keyed in frantically. “It’s a—!” The radio went dead.

  Briggs glared ahead and down the shadowy length in a frantic gawk. Now, through the haze, he could see, feel and hear an angry exchange of weaponry as his five men shouted their strategic maneuvers back and forth to each other, their frantic voices echoing off the shadowy walls like inhuman wails and shrieks. The five cutter’s had engaged something waiting for them in the Omega-seven tunnel, something which had taken them by complete surprise.

  “Send in the Goliaths!” Briggs heard some of the Fire Ant’s shout from behind.

  He whirled like a whip. “Negative!” he retorted sharply, facing them down. “That is a negative! The Goliaths don’t move until we have penetrated into the MU1 station and safely retrieved the Four! Do I make myself clear!” he ordered, his resolve absolute and unquestionable. “Their safe removal is paramount! Now I need ten volunteers. The rest of you stay back until you are ordered to move!”

  Several of the men jumped and hurried forward.

  “Move it gentlemen, our comrades are under attack!” Briggs barked.

  The ten men, along with Briggs, now plunged into action and moved as a single bulwark force. The rest of the Fire Ants crouched and waited behind, watching with uncertain dread as their comrades edged ahead and down the tunnel toward the spitting flashes of energy. It felt strangely wrong, allowing these ten brave men into an unknown scenario without the support and protection of the Goliath’s, the best defensive weapon the division had. But orders were orders, and these were men who did not question their instructions. They held back and waited, standing amid their massive counterparts, which now seemed as docile and worthless as a rack of stuffed grizzly bears on some sports shop display.

  Briggs and his small support team had edged midway through the cavern. The exchange of fire had become extreme as burst of searing light bounded and boomed all around them. As they neared, the echoing shouts of his five cutters caused their blood to chill.

  “It’s coming right at you! . . . Blast it! Blast it!”

  “I can’t see it! Aah! . . . I’m hit!”

  “There’s another one!”

  “Now it’s above you! Shoot it! Shoot it!”

  “I’m hit! . . .”

  The shouts of desperation bombarded Briggs and his small stronghold of men in a sickening salvo of realization: this was going to be a bloodbath! Reitman was wrong about the Sandcastle defenses. There would be many, many casualties.

  The group quickened their pace, and readied their weapons. With mounting dread and pounding hearts, Briggs and his ten soldiers mentally prepared for an enemy never before seen nor engaged, and which now appeared to be far worse than any of them could have imagined.

  They crept several more feet, and soon found themselves right at the brink of the action. Then, just as Briggs primed to shout his attack, the noise of combat suddenly ceased, and an eerie silence drizzled in, dispersing the cloud of salt dust and the acrid odor of ionization.

  Briggs held up a suppressing hand and motioned for his men to halt. They froze and listened, sweat pouring down faces and senses keen and aware.

  All at once, the sound of running footsteps—grunts and coughing—broke through the deadening calm. Briggs gulped and prepped to draw his weapon. He hoped that at least one of his men had survived, but regardless of the outcome, he had mentally prepared for the blood and carnage of the wounded and dead.

  Suddenly, out of the shadows, the first of the five cutters appeared . . . then another right behind him, and another. Briggs was stunned beyond belief. Soon, all of his original five cutters stood in front of him. His eyes bulged. This was something he had never seen before, and certainly not in battle. There was no blood, no cuts, gashes or bruises . . . and there was no clothes! There stood his men, completely naked as a newborn baby—panting, sweating, coughing and trembling like a leafy tree in a strong breeze.

  “What the—!” was all Briggs could get out.

  Several of the other men hurriedly tossed the bare soldiers some of their own helmets—to cover obvious areas.

  “They appeared out of nowhere and took us by surprise!” spewed out one of them. “Not the sentinel systems we were expecting to see!” he gasped.

  “They were some kind of androids, sir! They almost looked human!” coughed another as he gulped down air. “ . . . fast, very fast! And agile! They moved like an animal, not a machine!”

  “We couldn’t hit them!” spit out another.

  Briggs glared. “What happened to your weapons . . . your equipment . . . your uniforms!” he barked angrily.

  The men eyed each other awkwardly, as though just realizing how absolutely ridiculous they must appear.

  “They . . .” one of them stuttered, “they hit us with some kind of modified EMR weaponry, Colonel sir—built right into their arms or hands . . .” he shook his head. “It disintegrated all but our blasted flesh!” he huffed.

  Briggs cursed. “Organic matter,” he grumbled. “I should have known as much.”

  “Even my lucky earring is gone!” groaned another of the men, pointing to his right ear.

  “And the metal in my teeth!” cried another.

  Briggs also noticed that the camouflaged paint, traditionally applied on the faces of all the Fire Ants during a mission, had been transformed away on each of the five men, leaving their faces clean and unblemished.

  The soldier rubbed at the small hole left in his ear. He swore and spit, indicating toward the others. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Colonel. Honestly!”

  Briggs twisted his head, oddly. “It must be the Four’s companion androids—their pet systems,” he scowled loathingl
y. “They were supposed to be offline,” he continued through gritted teeth. “We’ve got to eliminate them before they override Reitman’s access and reactivate the sentinel systems. We’ll have the whole legion of defenses coming down our throats if we don’t get inside that station, and fast!” He gave the five unclothed men a final, demeaning frown. “Now get back to the unit and get some clothes on! You look disgraceful!”

  Briggs was beginning to understand the sheer genius of the HOPE defense strategy. Why use valuable ammunition and defensive systems to wound or kill an enemy, when humiliation could be just as dysfunctional and debilitating—turn them around running with their tails tucked between their legs. His five cutters had done just that. In shock and dismay, they had not been trained to deal with this sudden tactic—this exposure to which all cultured humans are made inherently uncomfortable. Take away their weapons, and they’ll use their fists. Wound them, and the sheer adrenalin drives them on. But take everything from them but their skin, leaving them bare and revealed, and they become psychologically naked as well, and therefore infinity more vulnerable.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Briggs conceded, finally. “We’re going in again, but not alone. It’s time let loose the Goliaths. They’ll make quick work of those irritating android-pets.”

  Chapter 47:

  Three-of-Ten had been called much worse than irritating, that much was for certain, and very soon, he was about to get downright nasty. Jacob had kept his companion droid’s abilities a secret from even the other Four. No one—including Colonel Briggs and Jimmy Reitman—could have conceived how advanced the robot’s artificial intelligence had become. It was, in fact, Three-of-Ten who had reactivated the other companion systems, and who had led the attack on the five soldiers as they broke through into the Omega-seven tunnel.

  Jacob’s last action, just before falling unconscious, enabled the android to record and analyze the audio from the station. But it had not been the boy’s final shout of hatred, nor Jimmy’s cold response which had triggered the android companion into action. It was Jacob’s biological readouts.

  At no other time since Three-of-Ten’s inception, had his human assignment’s vital statistics risen and fallen to such levels. This atypical vacillation in Jacob’s organic data had been the catalyst for the immediate response in Three-of-Ten. But that wasn’t the only thing that had gotten the android’s circuits in a uproar. In fact, each one of the Four had fallen into alarm status, their bio-readouts dropping to dangerous levels. Three-of-Ten had pinged the other companion droids and found them offline. In response, his programming required an emergency transformation from passive to aggressive mode. He had moved to activate his counterparts and investigate. In so doing, the enemy had been discovered, engaged and turned back. Now, the team of androids—Three-of-Ten, Four-of-Ten, Six-of-Ten, Eight-of-Ten, and even Hank (his actual assignment ID being Nine-of-Ten)—needed to not only locate their Four, but repair the communication to the main garrison of sentinel defense drones, which had gone strangely offline.

  The Four’s DNA signatures were quickly located, and within minutes of repelling the five intruders, the group of robotic liberators stood outside the sealed entrance of the MU1 umbilical station.

  Normally, the robotic humanoids were both strong and well equipped for their size. But now there was a problem. The battle with the human solders had drained the energy of each to dangerous levels—their design was not conducive to such defensive actions. Unlike the sturdy, battle-ready sentinel drones—who’s capacity to both wield and maintain vast amounts of energy was nearly limitless—these androids were meant to escort, accompany and protect one individual. Their frames were small; their energy storage capacity, minimum; and they emulated human-like characteristics. At short bursts, they were extremely effective, but not when forced to be duration fighters.

  After such a draining confrontation, their lesser, integrated EMR transformers were now left with just enough power to make one combined effort at penetrating the MU1 station entrance.

  Three-of-Ten’s modifications helped. He had pretty much more—and better—of everything, but he had also fought with greater resolve and aggression, and had therefore depleted more energy.

  At the speed of an electric current, the collective team had proposed, deliberated, assessed, evaluated and chosen the most probable of strategies for a successful entry. They synchronized their aim, locked on to the most vulnerable sections of the sealed entry, and let loose their EMR weaponry. The reinforced aperture exploded in a rippling fist of light. The meter-thick, alloy-door popped and groaned as though a living entity. The pressure wave slammed hard against the fortification, but was quickly repelled back like a ricocheting bullet. It knocked the robotic companions hard, but they held their ground.

  A misty haze rose from several key spots along the door’s peripheral edging, and when it cleared, pockmarks covered the doorway—the damage was extensive. Now, with such loss of mass in crucial sections, the door’s immense weight become its Achilles Heel. With the center of gravity so shifted, the destabilized structure felt the crushing force of gravity wrench, twist and pull it off center. With all but enough energy to keep their circuitry working, the team of androids let loose one final blasts: an intensified beam focused in just one spot. Finally, just as they had calculated, the door suddenly warped over onto itself and slammed down in a terrific boom, rattling the entire passageway.

  Three-of-Ten wasted no time. He bolted in first, his scanning sensors having already mapped out every facet of the room even before entering. He knew exactly where his human charge, Jacob, lay. The android moved like a whip toward the boy.

  The station’s automated droid control operators sat in a casual row. They made no acknowledgement of Three-of-Ten’s presence. They were busy at their task, their programming void of defense algorithms. Like a great whale swimming peacefully beneath an ocean squall, they were seemingly unaware and uncaring as to what had transpired around them. Theirs was a responsibility bound to only one dutiful process: the HOPE satellites. After all, this insurgent scenario had never been conceived in the minds of those who had programmed them.

  Jacob laid in a crumpled heap, his head resting against a workstation panel. Through the unique bond of android and human, Three-of-Ten’s probing technology had already determined the foreign chemical now surging throughout the boy’s body, and a healing solution had been formulated within his central processer. But he needed to get Jacob to the complex’s medical facility to produce the antidote, and fast.

  The other companion androids had also entered the station, and were attending to each of their human charges—their collective network transmitting all solutions, queries and results back and forth in a combined assembly of probabilities and outcomes.

  Suddenly, Nine-of-Ten (Hank) who had sensibly stayed in the passageway to stand guard, sent a paralyzing notification: he was under attack! Instantly, the other systems moved to aid him. But not Three-of-Ten.

  Jacob’s rogue programming had long since overridden the androids normal defense algorithms, those which had been authorized and downloaded to the other companion systems by the original Five. This new instruction would now prescribe the androids every action, and response. And in this unprecedented scenario—when all of the Four had been deemed, incapacitated—it meant a dangerous directive. Three-of-Ten was to use all resources available to him to resuscitate and aid each of the Four, starting with his own human assignment, Jacob.

  In the seconds that followed, the passageway became a killing ground for the other companion androids. With their energy nearly drained, their only defense was their agility and superior intelligence—which would only buy them time. They each locked onto a Goliath, and lurching like a striking snake, began to attack in whatever means they could.

  It was an admirable attempt, Briggs thought, watching from a distance, but a foolish calculation for machines purported to be so intelligent. For as his superior Goliaths fought on, Briggs had to concede th
at the small group androids were not only tenacious, but performing very impressively. In fact, he almost felt a sense of pride for them . . . almost.

  Four-of-Ten pulled a piece of rail blown out from the corridor’s ceiling, and went for one of the Goliath’s large electronic eyes. The Goliath tracked the incoming assault and fired its EMR beam of transforming energy. The android rolled, leaped and reflected so quickly toward the monstrous drone that it couldn’t keep a steady lock. And soon, wham! The rail found its mark as Four-of-Ten forced the metal spear deep, penetrating through hardened glass, steel fibers and critical circuitry. The Goliath bellowed as its enormous eye blew out fire, sparks and smoldering fragments of wire and shattered glass. It swung its powerful arms, clawing and tearing at the air. Then, with its electrical system of arteries severed, it rattled to a dying holt, and folded.

  Four-of-Ten didn’t miss a beat. He had already targeted another of the robotic killers, and was just about to attack in a similar strategy. But in the next second, as the android leaped for the blow, a beam from another Goliath’s EMR caught him midair. The powerful swath swept so quickly across Four-of-Ten’s chest, that even as his severed sections slammed to the ground in burning pieces, his processor was still trying to determine what had happened. Then came the end, as the Goliath rushed in, and with its claw-like pincers, crushed the android’s upper torso and head like a pretzel. Soon, others of the companion android fighters were meeting equal endings, as the sheer number of Goliath’s simply overwhelmed them.

  As Three-of-Ten grabbed up Jacob and rushed for the exit, only Eight-of-Ten’s pinging transmission remained. The rest of the companion systems now lay in smoldering pieces, blown and scattered throughout the tunnel-way. Three-of-Ten communicated his intentions to the last of his metal comrades. He needed to get out of the station with Jacob, but the only exit into the passageway had become a Goliath hotspot, a suicide run for Three-of-Ten, and an equally dangerous prospect for the android’s precious cargo.