Men and Machines I

by Charlie Nash

  “Don’t see a canopy break,” said Morale Boy, scanning skywards.

  “Can’t be the pod then.”

  “Well, the signal ain’t moving and it’s connected to the game grid,” argued Mouth.

  So I wondered what it was. “You three with me. Rest of you, stay put.”

  I put the StrafeMaster between me and the giant frost-tree trunk. Inched forward. Didn’t like getting this close. Its features resolved through the haze: the trunk was finned from ground to canopy, bulging at the base. Each fin was as thick as a thigh and had room for two men between them. The heat came in great waves; each one broke a fresh sweat.

  “Wouldyalook at that?” muttered Mouth. “That’s some crazy shit.”

  “Yeah, frozen up top and baking down here,” said Morale Boy.

  I was about to tell them to shut up when we came on a rumpled, prone, body-shaped mass. Mouth and I bumped heads over the body as we surveyed his gear. All-terrain suit with holographic camo. An empty holster for deconstruction munes; very fancy, and expensive. Didn’t smell like a deputized combatant.

  “Dead,” said Mouth, poking at the body with his foot.

  I shook my head, getting a really bad feeling. “If he was corpsified, his timepiece shouldn’t be emitting.”

  “Well, maybe it’s busted.” And before I could stop him, Mouth poked at the timepiece. The ping from Comms’s gear was immediate.

  Under the vaulted canopy, I experienced one silent heartbeat. I knew what this was. My pulse jacked over one-seventy. Didn’t want to be here.

  Trap, I thought. And then I ran.

  Most people think that in a firefight, there’s noise and chaos. Shots ringing out, shit blowing up, men yelling above the maelstrom; but that’s only for the cinefeeds. Tactical munes are molecular sharp and spat out of silenced accelerators in hypersonic range; they cut through without wasting energy making noise. And men under fire keep their yaps shut, too busy running or breathing, or laying low for sound. So I wasn’t sure we were being fired on until the first guy went down. He crumpled in a red atomized cloud, puffed from the gaps between the wafer-useless body armor.

  Comms, over the headset, was all I could hear. “Signal lock. Signal lock.”

  “Fucking jam it!” I was pressed against the earth, watching the puffs of dirt as the munes showered down the hill.

  I pointed the StrafeMaster upground and let off a burst. Down came the monocle and the jungle reeled into overlayed spectrum. IR showed the hot trunks; UV lit the viper bush molecular machinery in cool blue. Some of the squad were down and not moving. Counted at least six. Memory-less now, lucky fucks. But there was nothing else to see. Confirmed my theory. I released the trigger and slapped the monocle away.

  The others had found cover spots, but no one else had fired back. I could hear clicks, and swearing. “Malfunction, malfunction,” began, and repeated. I tried to count them out; seemed no one had a weapon that worked, but I wasn’t sure. I thought about vege spores choking the workings, or long-range jammers. Or just old, bad equipment.

  A minute later came Comms. “They’re off,” she said. “Lock’s gone.”

  Ten of us were left. I waited a while before I moved again, until the silence was too much to bear; the squad followed behind. “How many Deltas?” I heard someone ask Comms.

  “That wasn’t Deltas,” I said. “It was a trap. A decoy body and a mune dispenser. Probably left from another game.”

  But still, it had taken out half the squad. Mouth, Comms and Morale Boy were all still there, so points off me for poor judgment. Maybe, I thought, just maybe I would make it.

  Let Tartarus do the work.

  Rain started, acidic stuff that stung all the scrapes and made the underbrush curl itself into hemispherical rocks. We tripped and stumbled down the last of the hill until it flattened and led to a drop-off: two sheer meters into a fault-line.

  I went down into the soft mud and took a rest. I played with the SCM card, spinning it round between finger and thumb. The rest of them fiddled with their gear and weapons before they steadily gave up and sat down.

  We were there a while; marking time in pretend sleep and distraction.

  “Fucking mechanical shit,” muttered Mouth eventually, collapsing in the dirt beside me. He was a software boy; hardware was clearly a puzzle. And it had been a long time since boot. I took the rifle off him. It took only a moment to disassemble. It had no firing bolt, so that explained that. I wondered whether to show him; I didn’t.

  “Hey, so, Cap? What GIMP block did you come out of?”

  I took a breath. The question slammed a lot of memories into the chamber. Gray walls. Deep shadows. Invisible bars. Pain and solitary. Endless appointments. Rehabilitation. Nothing to make me forget. But I said, “E-one-nine-one.”

  Mouth whistled. “Wow, that’s serious shit … treason, huh?”

  I gave him a very dirty look.

  “Hey,” he said. “We’re one-nine-ones too.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah. Maybe—”

  “Maybe you can stow it, Private. Bigger things happening here than what cell we sat in.”

  I got up and walked away. I pretended to watch the perimeter, but I was pretty spaced out. I could hear rotorbeats that I knew weren’t there. I couldn’t afford to lose it. That mem wipe was so close …

  Peripherally, I knew Morale Boy was helping Comms and three of the other grunts in rechecking their signal. As soon as they got a lock, we’d move again.

  And that was when I lost it.

  So sudden. Tartarus became a gray block command room. Peeling posters, a tangle of busted comms gear recovered from a chopper. Two Charlie, two Charlie. The Comms is sending, over and over, as blood slicks from his nose onto the console. Mayday, mayday. The dive room door is barricaded; it thumps. I walk behind Comms and draw my weapon. Mayday, mayday.

  Somehow, I scrambled out. I swallowed the panic and counted out my breathes. Tartarus was back; so was the squad. It took a while to feel real again, the memory lingering like bitter tonic. I checked the timepiece; an hour had passed. I tipped my head back and let the tears run down my throat. I didn’t want to go there again. Swore I wouldn’t; just like the last time, and the time before.

  And then I became aware the squad had drifted.

  Down the fault-line, one of the frost-trees was right on the edge, its big fins sticking out over the crumbling rock wall, showing the deep, red-hot tap root punching down into the crust. Alongside were three dark bushes, elegant things, like bonsais of origami cranes. Three grunts were there, real close, checking it out.

  I watched it happen; didn’t move. The frost-tree shuddered and the next instant, the two grunts were gone. The trunk fins had closed, and flattened into a vice. One muffled shout made it out before a thick red splash came down the dirt. The third grunt stumbled sideways, coordination undone by what he’d seen. He tripped over himself and put a hand straight into the dark bushes. The whole lot collapsed. One moment, it was a Zen garden, the next, a broken card house. The grunt sat on his ass and stared at it.

  Run, I thought, but I gave it no voice.

  The crane-like pieces began re-assembly. They slunk over each other, angular edges articulated, and swarmed the grunt. His shriek cut off as the plume invaded his lungs. Flat out, mouth open, he became fertilizer stock. The bush reassembled over its new base, spreading in an elegant branch structure. Then all was still, like the event had been erased. Nothing to see here.

  The remaining six squad stood, shocked. I remembered that realization, too. That everything here could eat you. That what seemed familiar was more alien and menacing than you could imagine. But at least here, I thought, when you were dead, that was the end of it.

  But not everyone saw it that way.

  Three grunts ran, straight down the fault, which left Mouth, Morale Boy and Comms with me and the carnage.

  Mouth opened his. “Are those self-assemblers?” Morbid fascination.

  I didn’t answe
r. I watched the runners until they disappeared.

  “Looks like,” said Morale Boy. “Can’t tell till they move. Fractal patterns, can you see? Probably stochastic, emergent behavior from simple rules.”

  I had no idea what fractals or stochastic was; I just wondered how long the runners had. But the three of them were staring at me, so I said, “Yeah, well simple rule is don’t touch.”

  Several more of the bushes were collapsing and moving towards the one with the catch. I backed up, nice and easy.

  Comms shifted her gear around and swore. “One of the runners had the bounce receiver.”

  I twitched my mouth. This made it easier. I knew from the SCM that they’d gone right towards the pod. “Guess we better see how far they can run.”

  Two hours passed; they’d gone a long way. We paced down the fault, keeping clear of the vege, tracking the footprints. Stopped to rest and started again. Mouth, Morale Boy and Comms kept pace pretty well for desk jockeys. But I tried not to feel attachment. Every step I worked on focus. I just needed to get out this time. Once more, and I was out. So I could do this. I could get through.

  A headache descended, like it always did after a re-live; memory afterglow. It stayed an hour, and retreated, just as the air cooled. The canopy was thinning, letting in fresh atmo and harsh green-hued sunbeams burning up the foggy undercurrent. The edge itself was scalpel cut; branches and foliage ended in a neat line. The four of us stopped before we crossed it, just soon enough to save ourselves.

  What was left of the three runners was laid out just beyond the edge. Well, pieces of them. I’d seen a lot of munes damage in my time, and this wasn’t munes. I lifted my eyes. Not too far away was another tree-like thing, different from the frost-forest. Branches like zombie arms; massive reach. Trunk like an armored python. I knew the name of this one, but I’d never seen it.

  “Weeping wraith,” said Morale Boy, like he’d read my mind.

  I lifted the StrafeMaster and slid my hands down the grip. I pushed the muzzle out; one inch, two. Sunlight touched barrel’s end. There was a whisper hiss, and the tip fell. I stared at the slice of aerated metaloceramic, cut like a laser through grease.

  Not even Mouth said anything. I pulled the monocle down and looked through the polarizer. In the spectrum view, I could see the tendrils. Morale Boy was rattling off about loops of atom-thin buckyrazor strings. About plant territorialism. A floating, near-invisible grid net. And a green zone just above the ground. All I could think was, there’s only four of us left now.

  Comms nudged me in the back. “Cap. Look.”

  And there, just visible in the wraith grove, was the goddam pod.

  “They must have blasted a tunnel before they dropped it,” said Mouth.

  I didn’t care what they’d done. It was the pod. The gateway to my mind-erase. It was cylindrical, crystalline; jammed into the ground on its drop spikes. Above all, I wanted to know that it was real.

  I got down on my belly. Through the monocle, I could see the slice-n-dice tendrils wisping through the air. About two feet of air above the ground was clear.

  I crawled. The pod was near the trunk; I went straight towards it, weaving through low scrappy bushes. Something they were exuding made my eyes water, but I didn’t stop until I was beside the pod. Above, I saw the tunnel the gamemasters had made through the wraith. A safe zone. I stood up.

  The pod seemed undamaged, and small, so small. The diamond panel over the control screen slid away in a well-oiled whisper. The screen was red: game still in play, and showing me exactly the same info the SCM card held. I ran my fingers over the pod’s smooth shell, making it real.

  Just one thing left to do.

  A little track of cold sweat began at my nape and tracked its way south. I glanced back towards the frost-trees. With the polarizer on, Mouth, Comms and Morale Boy were just shadows behind the floating field of wraith fronds. My first thought was: what are the chances any of them were going to make it anyway? They’d have to come back two more times.

  But one could make it now. The pod was real enough.

  One could make it.

  I looked down at the StrafeMaster, hanging from its shoulder strap. Memory was trying its reload again. They’d trusted me, back then, too, just like those three did now.

  If I could have left, I would have.

  Instead, I got their attention. Called them over.

  I watched them come, hoping they’d make a mistake and the wraith would finish them first. But none of them did. Too soon, we were all by the pod.

  “So, how’s this work?” Mouth, naturally, had the screen cover off before I’d gotten my shit together. But maybe that was better. Forced my hand.

  Mouth read the game type. “What’s Highlander?” he asked. He looked back at me. Morale Boy and Comms too. A moment later, their hands slowly rose.

  Because my StrafeMaster was up and ready. I inched the cut tip until it found the flesh at Mouth’s throat. I felt him swallow. “It means,” I said slowly. “That only one of us can leave.”

  “So, leave,” said Mouth, his jaw making only small movements. “Not going to stop you.”

  I had become flesh wrapped in sweat. “Sorry. Pod’s not active until there’s only one of us breathing.”

  I was going to do this. Had done it before. Once more: could do it again.

  “Doesn’t have to be this way,” said Morale Boy.

  Someone else said that to me once. Then I see their eyes again, before I close a door and weld it shut. I growled, and the memory retreated, but only just. I was shaking. “Yeah it does. Don’t know why you volunteered for this, but you’re not going to make it. So I’ll make it easy.”

  Mouth’s face twitches. Was he laughing? “What, you think we don’t know what’s going on? Stellines want us dead, Cap. If we’d stayed in the GIMP, they’d have had someone do it there. Couldn’t stop us coming here, though. So, they’re playing you to make it happen.”

  My eyes flickered.

  “Don’t you remember, Cap?”

  I screwed my eyes shut. “I don’t want to remember. So shut it.”

  Comms voice was low, and steady. “You should. Think about it. What did you do to get thrown in the GIMP?”

  And so, we come back to now.

  Two muddy feet, and fucking hesitation.

  A memory reloads. I am back in the GIMP. In the gray-walled cell, with that Stelline psych. She touches her lips. I’m talking, like I didn’t want to. We were on recon, I say. Live planet. We didn’t know about the alienoids. Squad got compromised. They didn’t want to die. Dimly, I feel the StrafeMaster in my hands, the pulse beating through the grips. They were all done for, I go on, talking through the memory. The compromised turned on us. Our comms were short range. I didn’t know anyone was coming for us. And the psych’s fingers linger on her lips. You did what you had to do, she says.

  I snap back. Tartarus returns, green and deadly. Comms, Morale Boy and Mouth are all in my firing line. “I killed them. All of them,” I say. “That’s why I was in the GIMP.”

  I finger the trigger, but Mouth cuts in. “We had the same psych, Cap. I hacked her records. That’s how we met.”

  “Do you remember her, Cap?” asks Comms. “Do you remember what she told you?”

  I can only remember one thing she’d said. “She told me I was still a man.” My fists work the gun grips. “But she was wrong.”

  Comms is unmoved. “She said you were useful. She recommended you for special service. Because you’re an easy trigger. We read the transcripts.”

  “I don’t want to be useful. I just want out.”

  Mouth grins. “You’re doing exactly what they want. Why else do you think you’re the only one with a working weapon? That the gamemaster asked you for rank before he let you go with the SCM? We figured they’d do that. We figured how they’d play it.”

  This registers. Very slowly. A few sweaty seconds go by. They played you, I think. They all played you from the start.

&nb
sp; “We have a better plan,” says Morale Boy. “But we need you.”

  “The hell you do. Bad move. You read the transcripts, so you know my squad could have been treated. There was a treatment. They didn’t have to die. And I killed them anyway.”

  Mouth takes a breath. “You had short-range comms, you said so. You only knew about the treatment later. You did what you had to do,” he says, firmly. Like they know this already. Like they all understand how this is going to go, and I’m just catching up. A hostage drama with fucking reasonable hostages. I want them to lose it. Cry, beg, give me a reason. But they don’t.

  I finger the trigger. “I want out. I need that mem wipe. And the pod will only take one,” I say.

  Mouth glances towards it. “Cap, the pod’s control is just software. And I’m good with that.”

  I narrow my eyes, and find myself arguing with them. “So, you get out. They’ll be on you before you blink.”

  “So we have to hide. He’s good with that,” says Mouth, thumbing at Morale Boy. That third eye tat stares me down.

  So I say, “They’ll know where you’ve gone. They’ll have a tail on you so fast—”

  Comms puts a hand in her gear and pulls out the high-end EMP. “Signal scramble’s a bitch with one of these things, Cap,” she says quietly. “We have the means. Got it all. We need you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we wanna keep the stuff in our heads, and we can’t shoot for shit. We need a field man. And we know you don’t want to be a Stelline anymore.”

  “I won’t be after this,” I say. “I’m out and wiped clean. So I end you. I don’t care if they wanted me to do it. I won’t remember.”

  Morale Boy has a new expression and my sweat runs cold. “You really think they’re going to let you out?”

  “They have to. I’ve done three,” I say, but doubt has pooled in the cold sweat. His expression is pity. Of all the nightmare memories shacked up in my brain, I never thought of this.