Warsuit 1.0

by James Lovegrove

  “Bring it on, spotty eye,” Od said with as much bravado as he could muster.

  “Oh, I most certainly shall.”

  The Hexaflyer nosed its way out into the open.

  “All his onboard weapons systems are primed,” said Wes. “He means business.”

  Next thing Od knew, two missiles had detached themselves from the gunship’s underside and were winging their way towards Warsuit 1.0.

  “Heat-seekers,” said Wes. “They’re homing in on our thrusters.”

  “Countermeasures!” said Od.

  “No time.”

  “Then cut the thrusters.”

  “We’ll fall.”

  “Do it anyway!”

  The boot thrusters were extinguished and Warsuit 1.0 dropped like a rock. The missiles, having lost the dual heat signatures they were tracking, shot dumbly onwards. They passed over the top of the plummeting Warsuit and impacted among the aircraft on the other side of the hangar. Huge fiery flowers blossomed.

  The Lux Aurorae was rocked by the force of the explosions inside her but continued her upward progress. Above, on the surface of the Atlantic, a dome of water was forming. The pressure wave generated by the rising submarine built up a kind of liquid blister that grew to several metres in height. As it swelled, it spat out the fish inside it like tiny silver sparks.

  Meanwhile, Warsuit 1.0 reignited its thrusters within inches of striking the waterlogged hangar floor. The sudden reversal of direction jarred Od’s spine. It felt as though all his vertebrae were being squashed together. A wave of light-headedness washed through him, but there was little time to recover. Wes was already alerting him to another missile coming from the Hexaflyer, this one laser-targeted rather than heat-seeking.

  “It’s hardened. Can’t get in. He’s launched it.”

  “Then evasive action.”

  The missile chased Warsuit 1.0 through the hangar space. Wes jinked and rolled and zigzagged, all at top speed, but the missile kept up. The gap between the two, missile and suit, closed remorselessly, metre by metre. Od was both terrified and nauseated. The Warsuit’s dragonfly aerobatics would have made even an experienced fighter ace airsick.

  “Can’t… take… much more… of this,” he gasped. His head swam. He felt close to blacking out.

  “Understood,” Wes agreed. “One chance. A last-ditch, crazy manoeuvre. If I get it wrong, it’ll mean the end of us as surely as that missile will. Do you trust me?”

  If Wes had posed this question in anyone’s voice other than Tremaine Fitch’s, Od would have said no.

  “Yes.”

  “Then hang on. This is going to be tight.”

  Warsuit 1.0 made a sharp turn and soared towards the hatch and its fountaining downpour of seawater. The missile duly swung about and pursued. Od watched the hatch get closer and realised what Wes was attempting. His whole body went rigid.

  “Turn, Wes.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Turn!”

  “One second more.”

  “Turn!”

  “Now!” cried Wes.

  Warsuit 1.0 abruptly changed course, veering through ninety degrees, just missing the hatch. The missile couldn’t match the suit’s agility in the air. It rammed nose-first into the hatch and its warhead went off with a bang that made a thunderclap sound tame. Both the doors erupted outwards. The Warsuit was sent spiralling through the air.

  At that exact moment, the large blister in the ocean’s surface popped. The Lux Aurorae breached like a whale coming up for air, and the mound of water shattered into white surf.

  Had the hatch exploded any earlier than it did, thousands of tons of seawater would have come sluicing into the hangar and the Lux Aurorae would have been swamped and sunk like a stone. Wes had not simply been fortunate in his timing, however. Luck had had nothing to do with it. He had been aware of the submarine’s position in the water and known she was just about to emerge into the air.

  Or so he told Od, who had no choice but to believe him.

  “Cut it fine, though, didn’t you?” Od said, still reeling from the concussion of the missile blast. The hatch doors were now like two steel petals, opened to the sky.

  “The margin of error was narrow but acceptable,” Wes replied. “I’d never be entirely reckless when lives are at stake. Especially yours, Od. Speaking of which… Hexaflyer at six o’clock.”

  As the T-Cell aircraft rose from below, its pilot’s voice came snarking over the airwaves. “Missed you twice, Odysseus, but you know what they say – third time’s the charm.”

  “Face it, d’Arc,” Od said, “you’ve lost. Once I’m sure everyone’s got off this submarine safely, including my dad, I’m going to lob a few big bombs at it and send it to join the Titanic on the ocean floor.”

  “You’ll never get the chance. Did I mention, by the way, that I’m to blame for your father building that suit?”

  “You did. You never got round to saying how, though, and frankly, I’m not sure I care.”

  “You will care when I tell you. Your mother, remember her?”

  “What about my mother?” said Od tautly.

  “Her operation going awry – the cause wasn’t human error, as you were told. Actually it was us, T-Cell.”

  “Go on.” Od felt his stomach clench. Something uncoiled in his heart like a venomous snake stirring from sleep.

  “I instigated a cyber attack on the Oncodyne Clinic that day,” d’Arc said. “We were after the secrets of the ion beam and hoped to pluck them out of the clinic’s mainframe while the beam was in use. The attack coincided with your mother’s time in the operating theatre, and it upset the minute calibration of the laser. Alas, what was meant to kill the tumour ended up scything through her brain. The ion beam became like a mad axeman running amok, doing irreparable harm. The surgeons fought to reset the machine and save her, but the damage was too extensive. The poor woman died right there and then on the operating table.”

  “This is crap. I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “You do, though. How would I know all these details if it wasn’t true?”

  “Shut up. Just shut your mouth.”

  “How does that make you feel, Odysseus? Knowing that T-Cell took your mother from you? It’s obvious how it made your father feel. It twisted him up inside. It turned him from a humble, harmless academic into a builder of death machines. Oh, he was well aware of the true circumstances of his wife’s demise. The British government made sure of that. They used it to recruit him. Once they’d told him how his wife really died, they didn’t have to do much arm-twisting, though. Jumped at the chance, he did.”

  “Od,” said Wes, “he’s trying to rile you.”

  “He’s succeeding.”

  “But the whole point is to stop you thinking clearly. He wants you upset and confused so you’ll do something irrational and stupid.”

  “Then,” said Od, “he can’t know me very well, can he? I’m riled all right. But I’ve never been clearer-headed in my life. Let’s get out of here, Wes. It’s too cramped inside this sub. We need elbow room.”

  Warsuit 1.0 exited up through the torn hatch. As it rose above the Lux Aurorae, Od saw slots open all along the submarine’s length, just below the waterline. Next moment, spheres popped out like peas from the shell. They surged to the surface, righting themselves and floating. They were the sub’s life pods, and in each was a score of T-Cellers. One of them, Od was certain, contained his father. It wouldn’t take long to find out which. The top section of each pod was fitted with panes of clear plexiglass. Wes could remote-scan the faces of the people inside until he spotted Tremaine Fitch.

  The Hexaflyer shimmied up through the hatch. Od got ready for d’Arc to resume the fight, but instead the T-Cell leader turned his sights on the life pods. The Hexaflyer began strafing them with gunfire.

  “What the…? You’re shooting at your own people!” Od yelled at d’Arc.

  “Plenty more where they came from,” d’Arc replied. “It’s yo
ur father I’m hoping to get. Sooner or later I’ll find the one he’s in.”

  A pod took a direct hit and erupted in flames. Its occupants leapt out frantically into the sea and started swimming away as the pod, a broken eggshell, began to sink.

  “That does it,” said Od. “Wes?”

  “Say no more.”

  Warsuit 1.0 swooped on the Hexaflyer, hammering it with bullets. D’Arc had no choice but to leave the life pods alone and engage with Od. The Warsuit came out of its dive and started to climb, drawing the Hexaflyer after it, away from the life pods. D’Arc unleashed a volley of missiles. At Od’s command Wes deployed countermeasures. Chaff bombs burst. The dazzling clouds of tinfoil flakes threw the missiles off-course and made them detonate prematurely. Heavy-calibre machinegun fire raked through the air at the Warsuit. Wes dodged, dived and darted around the blazing streams of bullets. Od retaliated with a blockbuster, but the Hexaflyer’s own countermeasures bamboozled the shell and it crashed uselessly into the sea.

  Hexaflyer and Warsuit battled it out in the sky above the Lux Aurorae for several minutes. They seemed, to the people observing from the life pods, to be evenly matched. Neither could gain an edge on the other. Jupiter d’Arc had some skill as a pilot and the Hexaflyer was the faster of the two aircraft, but the Warsuit was extraordinarily deft and manoeuvrable. Explosions cracked and rumbled. As dogfights went, it was as dramatic and startling as any the audience below had seen.

  For Od, there was little fear. There was no space for it in him. He was filled to the brim with a cool, calculating hatred. D’Arc had killed his mother. Had ruined his life, and his father’s. Had tried to kill his father.

  Payback. Justice. That was all Od wanted.

  “We’re starting to run low,” Wes warned.

  “On what?”

  “Everything. Ordnance. Solid fuel. We’ve not much more than a minute’s flying time left, and we’re down to our last clip of bullets.”

  “So what does that leave?”

  “The microwave beam, but that’s only good for melting holes in things at close range. Apart from that, we’ve used up the lot.”

  Od glanced at the Hexaflyer in the rear view screen. It was circling round, gaining altitude so that d’Arc could commence a fresh onslaught. Unlike Od, d’Arc hadn’t yet thrown everything he had at his opponent. There was still plenty of the gunship’s deadly payload left beneath its wings.

  “How close is close range?”

  “A couple of metres. Od, you’re not seriously thinking…”

  “I’m very seriously thinking. We’re out of fuel. Out of ammo. Basically out of other options. If we go back down and land on that sub, we’ll be a sitting duck.”

  “Correction. I would be a sitting duck. You could climb out and take cover.”

  “No. Anyway, if we don’t stop d’Arc, he’ll just start blasting away at the life pods again. He’s not going to give up until I’m dead. And the feeling’s kind of mutual. We do this, Wes. We finish him. We have to.”

  “If you say so,” said Wes, and Od could hear the unspoken implication: It’s your funeral.

  The Hexaflyer had completed its turn and was making its approach run. D’Arc was coming out of the sun, whose rays made the aircraft’s silver skin blaze as blindingly as a magnesium flare.

  Warsuit 1.0 levelled out and went to meet it head on, boot thrusters burning bright blue. The two flying machines narrowed in on each other. Od could see a magnified image of d’Arc in the cockpit, his teeth clamped in a death’s head grin. No words needed to be said. It was a midair game of chicken. Which of them would blink? Which would veer away at the last possible instant?

  The answer was Warsuit 1.0. But only slightly. Wes flipped up over the Hexaflyer, then swooped in behind, riding its slipstream. A snap of acceleration, a few adjustments in pitch and attitude, and the Warsuit landed on the Hexaflyer’s back, straddling its fuselage.

  Immediately Od lowered the suit’s left arm. The pincer-dish arrangement at the end began to glow orange-hot, red-hot, white-hot. The surface of the Hexaflyer’s portside wing began to glow in the same colours. Aluminium rippled and bubbled and began trickling back towards the ailerons like streams of mercury.

  D’Arc grasped what was being done to his aircraft and threw the gunship into a series of spins, rolls and turns. Wes compensated as best he could with the thrusters in order to keep the suit steady and maintain position. Od concentrated on training the microwave beam on a single spot, or trying to. The wing was melting, but not as fast or as evenly as he would have liked. To sever it all the way through was going to take time and a lack of interference. D’Arc was giving neither.

  Finally one of d’Arc’s sudden sharp turns managed to dislodge Warsuit 1.0’s footing. The Warsuit slithered across the wing on its side, fetching up against one of the propulsion units. Seeing this, d’Arc thrust the joystick forwards and put the Hexaflyer into a near-vertical dive. Od managed to hook the suit’s right arm around the propulsion unit and hang on, just. D’Arc barrel-rolled. Still Od clung on grimly, although the centripetal force nearly hurled the Warsuit off.

  “The propulsion unit,” said Wes. “It’s our only chance. The next move d’Arc makes will toss us clear, and that’ll be that.”

  “Surely if we blow it up at point-blank range – ”

  “We get blown up too.”

  “Can the suit take it?”

  Wes was silent for a beat, then said, “Does it matter?”

  And Od understood that it didn’t matter. Not compared with stopping d’Arc. Ending T-Cell’s terrorism by cutting off its head.

  He brought his left arm up and directed the microwave beam into the mouth of the propulsion unit.

  There was fire.

  And noise.

  And a sickening carousel of turning, wheeling, somersaulting, up-ending, spinning.

  And the screech of tortured metal.

  And the dim roar of thrusters.

  And then a bone-shaking impact.

  Followed by another.

  And another.

  All the screens went black. The lights went out.

  Od couldn’t tell if he was in darkness or unconscious.

  Was there any difference?

  Chapter Seventeen

  A cabin on a naval vessel. A hard, narrow bunk bed. The slow, ponderous up and down of a large ship stationary at sea.

  Od crawled out from under the covers and got blearily to his feet. His head throbbed. His body was a mass of bruises. He needed to pee badly.

  As he stumbled towards the door in search of a toilet, he bumped into two people entering the cabin.

  That was when he realised he was wearing just his underpants.

  One of the people was his father, so the near-nudity didn’t matter so much. The other, however, was Angelica W-K. The brief, appraising look she cast over Od’s body made him whirl round and snatch a blanket off the bunk to cover himself with.

  “I’ve seen worse,” she sniffed. “Seen better, too.”

  An hour later, Od was dressed, fed, dosed up on painkillers and out on the main deck of the HMS Dominator. In the light of a spectacular sunset the Royal Navy destroyer lay at anchor beside the Lux Aurorae. It was a large ship, 150 metres from stem to stern, but dwarfed by the island-like bulk of the crippled submarine. A second Royal Navy vessel, a frigate called the Imperial, was nearby. Both ships had been on exercises near Madeira when the call came in from Angelica W-K redirecting them to this location. She herself had been flown out by Sea King helicopter and been winched aboard the Dominator en route.

  “We were tracking you,” she had told Od earlier in the cabin, after he had filled her in on everything he had done since their last conversation. “The Warsuit’s fitted with a GPS transponder, naturally. We lost the signal when you went under the waves. We assumed that you’d crashed and this would be a retrieval operation.”

  “Pulling my body up from the water in my seven-metre metal coffin, you mean.”

 
“Indeed. Little did we realise it would be a mopping-up operation instead.”

  She didn’t smile. Od didn’t think she was capable of it. But her blood-red mouth did go a fraction less rigid.

  “Two hundred T-Cell operatives are now in our custody,” she went on, “and we’ve secured one of their main bases. This sub has been eluding everyone for years. We knew she existed but could never find her. Now and then various navies have picked up mysterious sonar traces which had to be her. You’d think something so big would be hard to miss, but her sheer size has been her greatest disguise. The sonar pings that come back from her register her as a rock formation, an undersea ridge that shouldn’t be there, and she’s moved on before anyone can get a better fix on her.”

  “Well, she’s all yours now.”

  “Yes.” Angelica W-K looked like she was about to say thank you, but it seemed that gratitude, like smiling, was beyond her.

  “And d’Arc?” Od almost didn’t want to ask the question. He assumed the T-Cell leader must be dead, which made him a murderer. Never mind that he had been provoked. Never mind that the world was a far better place without d’Arc in it. Guilt was guilt. Od’s conscience would have a heavy burden to bear for years to come, maybe forever.

  “Actually, we’re not sure.” Angelica W-K turned to Od’s father. “You say his aircraft hit the sea.”

  “It did,” said Tremaine Fitch. “It went down in flames, minus a wing but more or less in one piece. I saw it bounce along like a skimming stone, then sink. It’s just conceivable he could have survived, perhaps even bailed out before he went down. But I doubt it. Let’s hope not.”

  “Well, by all accounts, it was either you or him, Od,” said Angelica W-K. “Be glad it was you.”

  Od tried to draw comfort from her words. It wasn’t easy.

  “The Warsuit,” he said. “What’s happened to it?”

  Now he was out on deck and able to see for himself the state Warsuit 1.0 was in.

  The suit lay on top of the Lux Aurorae in several pieces. A leg was smashed up. An arm had broken off and come to rest several metres away. The torso was battered and scraped. The head had a huge dent in it. The Warsuit was hardly recognisable as the gleaming, sleek machine it had once been.