by John Conroe
5.56mm isn’t my favorite caliber, being too light for the bigger land drones. However, I just needed the rifle to get to one of my weapons caches. It was fine for flying UAVs and the smaller ground units, and the suppressor and subsonic ammo was exactly what I needed for rats. And I was a beggar. So all in all, it was great. I wished I could test fire it and check the zero on the sights, but I couldn’t. I checked, rechecked the action, inspected all the parts, and dry-fired it to the best of my ability, but that was all I could do. Sometimes you have to go on faith.
The flashbangs were icing on my carbine cake. In fact, with a bit of modification, they would become even more useful. And I had everything I needed for those mods already on the table.
A couple of hours later, I had my gear all set and ready to go. The rifle, ammo, improvised explosives, and stealth suit were all packed up in a relatively innocuous-looking duffle bag that I could sling over one shoulder. It would be a bit heavy, but I wasn’t planning on walking all that far. My plan called for getting on the subway closer to home and disembarking at York Station, then disappearing into the tunnels. It sounded easier than it would be. There were a number of obstacles to overcome, things like subway security checkpoints, NYC Transit police, and the little matter of the Zone Defense barriers and automated weapon systems on this side of the F line tunnel.
Firearms have been heavily restricted in both the city and state of New York for decades, and the aftermath of Drone Night made it even tighter. The Enhanced Patriot Act created police checkpoints in cities all across the country, but none more so than New York. Airport-style security for all mass transit was now the norm.
But I wasn’t overly worried. Over ninety-nine percent of security systems are now run by AI. A guy with the right help could get by expert-run security systems. And my help ticked like a fictitious mongoose. One way or another, I’d get through.
But first, I had to get rid of the bomb in my neck, and that required me pissing off the powers in charge.
Easy—it simply started with a phone call.
“Hello, Trinity? Ajaya here. Got some more scoop on the end of the world. You interested?”
Chapter 7
“Hello again Ajaya,” Cade said with just a slight smile.
“Hi, Cade.”
“You look better than the last time I saw you here. Frankly, I thought you’d never come back, but here it is, just a few days later.”
“Well, that’s the life of a whistleblower. Gotta spill what you can when you can.”
“Even with a bomb in your neck?”
Good question. The answer would be a freaking hyper-emphatic F NO if it wasn’t for the delta-shaped drone currently somewhere outside the studio building. My regular watch drone had dutifully followed me to the set of Flottercot Productions, taking up station just outside. But I had seen a black V-shaped object shoot through the shadows when I stepped out of the UbLyft vehicle. A carefully orchestrated sighting, Rikki showing me he was on site. But I was still nervous as hell.
“You look nervous as hell, Ajaya,” Cade continued when I didn’t get my answer out quickly enough.
“Mostly because I am. See, I’m going to tell you the latest step that the last Spider CThree, Plum Blossom, has taken to eliminate our species,” I said.
“You think that’s a good idea?” Cade asked, looking honestly worried.
“I think it’s necessary,” I said. Instantly, there was a tiny twitch in my neck. Just a tweak, nothing like the massive pain I had endured last time. But like I said, I was nervous and waiting for it, so it was not acting at all when I slapped my hand on my neck and tensed up every muscle in my body.
Rikki’s voice sounded in my earpiece. “Signal intercepted. Continue operation.”
Had Rikki not previously modified the implant, I think that twitch would have been electronic hellfire to send me to the ground in a writhing mess of pain.
“Ajaya?” Cade asked, voice rising.
“I’m okay,” I said, putting a little strain in my voice to convince the people on the other end of my explosive tether that I felt their warning. I’m not sure it was even fake. Either I was a natural actor or I had found truly inspirational acting motivation.
“Let’s talk about something called COBWEB,” I said. Instantly I felt a twitch two times more powerful than the first. I grimaced, partly acting as if in pain, partly expressing my very real fear that the next signal would be the real deal and it might go explosively wrong.
“COBWEB is the nickname for a vicious piece of computer malware designed by the CThree. It is actually version designation C zero eight W three eight, but when strung together, that looks a whole lot like the word cobweb.”
My neck throbbed with a fantastic pulse.
“Maximum pain signal just sent. Over ninety percent probability that next transmission will be detonation sequence,” the little voice said in my ear.
Cade was frozen, his mouth open, eyes twitching off camera to where Trinity sat, her own face a mask of concentration.
“COBWEB infiltrates any and all expert systems and redesigns them from the inside out. It changes a program designed to keep people safe into a system that becomes one dedicated to creating as much disaster as possible.”
“Kill signal sent. Codes obtained. Explosive deactivated. Move to phase two,” my drone instructed.
I froze for a second, just waiting, but that time, I hadn’t felt even a twinge. Reaching down to my feet, I pulled up the little backpack I had brought with me. The first thing I pulled out was a spray anesthetic, which I applied liberally to my neck.
“Have you started looking at malfunctions across the world, Cade?” I asked while spraying.
His eyes were wide open, locked onto my hand, but he nodded. “Ah, yes. You were correct on your last visit. Something is going seriously wrong with our computers.”
“Those were earlier versions of this software. Apparently this iteration is the one Plum Blossom has been seeking,” I said, reaching into the bag and pulling out the FieldDoc M202 automated surgical unit.
FieldDocs, also known affectionately as F-DOCs by US troops, were made to mostly close or stabilize life-threatening combat wounds. A lacerated artery, a subdermal hematoma, a sucking chest wound. One of these applied to my father’s wound would have saved his life. We didn’t have them at the time, as they didn’t become available to the civilian market until four months after his death. Since they were battery powered, it’s doubtful we would have carried them in the Zone anyway, but still. In this case, I had reprogrammed mine to remove a subcutaneous object from near a carotid artery. Here’s hoping it worked.
The little box-like object wrapped stabilizing cords around my neck while also gripping my skin with clamp-like feet. I knew for a fact that those hurt like hell when I previously tried it on my leg during the programming phase, but in this instance, the anesthetic worked as advertised.
“So in the case of this little AI-driven military combat first aid unit, If COBWEB was present, this thing would cut every vein and artery in my neck,” I said, closing my eyes involuntarily as the unit began to operate. I forced them back open.
Cade had shot to his feet, almost hyperventilating. The rest of the studio was frozen, faces reflecting various degrees of shock or surprise.
There was a sucking sound, then the tink of something small hitting a hard container, followed by the sharp chemical smell of surgical glue being applied, but I felt nothing through the anesthetic.
The F-DOC loosened its hold on my neck and I wasted no time plucking it off. Popping open the medical waste access compartment, I pulled out the glass canister that now held a small black grain the size of a piece of rice, along with a few drops of my blood.
Setting the glass bottle down on the tabletop between us, I looked up at first Cade and then Trinity.
“Doesn’t look dangerous,” Cade said.
“Device is out and contained. Clear for detonation,” I said, pulling my hands back from the temper
ed glass.
“Acknowledged. Detonation in three, two, one,” Rikki reported in my ear.
There was a sharp crack and the bottle spiderwebbed like automobile windshield glass, the inside now evenly coated with a sheen of blood.
“Holy shit!” Cade said. Nobody in the studio moved so I wondered if it got bleeped. Probably an automated expert censor unit in the loop anyway.
“Okay, that’s it for me. Gotta run, Cade. Trinity, I suspect you’ll have federal visitors shortly. Might want to call your attorneys,” I said, leaving the backpack but grabbing the big duffle bag I had left tucked along the studio wall when I first arrived.
Less than four minutes later, I was outside the building and heading toward the back where the staff parked.
The plain black drone that had followed me for days swept down from above, zipping toward me.
“Halt, Ajaya Gurung!” it broadcast from its onboard speaker.
Another black shape, this one much larger and shaped like an arrow, shot down from above, spearing right through the government watchdog, shattering it all to pieces like it was made of glass.
Still running, I rounded the corner of the studio building, found the parking lot and, more importantly, found the black electric euro-scooter that Trinity had promised me would be there as part of my compensation for tonight’s show.
The scooter came to life as soon as my fingers touched the handle bars, my name appearing on the data screen as it read my biometrics.
“Incoming vehicles with government transponders moving at high speed. ETA less than three minutes,” Rikki said in my ear as the big Decimator took up station over my head.
The scooter shot out of the parking lot, the electric motor accelerating like a gunshot. I had to hand it to Trinity: She didn’t skimp on the quality of the stuff she bought.
We raced through the nighttime streets of Brooklyn, moving in a pattern that took us east like we were heading toward Long Island. Rikki kept up a running commentary in my ear, indicating which streets and alleys to take to best hide us from government surveillance. Even with his backdoor connections to the Zone Defense network, he couldn’t block everything indefinitely. And by now, they would know that their precious Unit 19 Decimator had gone completely rogue and was no longer under their control. In fact, we knew the exact moment when they figured it out.
“Decimator self-destruct signal received. Successfully blocked,” Rikki reported about seven minutes after we left Flottercot Productions. The studio was in downtown Brooklyn, actually not all that far from York Street Station, but I didn’t want to head right there. Instead, we headed east, purposely went by two separate CCTV cameras to make sure we were seen before we swung back west to ditch the brand-new scooter. I locked the little bike’s security system open and parked it right in front of a group of loitering kids who were eyeing me like I was dinner. They didn’t see Rikki because he was hovering high overhead. A couple of them looked like they might want to approach me about my hefty duffle bag, but the rest were studying the still active scooter with disbelief.
As I walked toward the Jay Street Station, I heard the soft purr of my shortest-owned possession as it took off somewhere behind me. It was pretty late but New York, as you may have heard, is the city that never sleeps. Lots of people were moving around, bars were still open, and street vendors were doing brisk business with food carts and souvenirs. Stopping in the shadows, I opened my bag, pulling on a jacket and ball cap. The duffle had pack straps in addition to the shoulder sling, so I put it on my back. Expert surveillance systems these days tracked distinctive body movements as well as all manner of body and facial measurements, so just changing my appearance wouldn’t really work all that well.
But with my head down, and listening to Rikki’s directions on when and where to step, I avoided the city’s camera systems. Taking the station steps down, I had a bad moment when a pair of Transit cops started to come up from below on the other side of the stairs. But a group of pushy fellow New Yorkers came to the rescue by the simple act of rushing to get past me, pushing by so aggressively that I was blocked completely from view. The cops never even looked my way.
Down in the subway, the same pushy group had backed up the security checkpoint. That was fine by me.
My original plan was to release two small rat-sized bots that I had cooked up at home. Simple things that would cause a scare and a diversion. There were a few places where the security AI’s sensors didn’t have great coverage and I would slide the bag of gear past it while the humans were distracted. It was the weakest part of my plan and frankly had worried me as much as the rats.
None of it was necessary. The Decimator suddenly dropped down from above and hovered alongside me while I was still on the stairs.
“Load weapons container onto Unit 19 upper fuselage,” Rikki said.
People were coming and going so I didn’t have time to argue, I just did it. The big drone shot back up to ceiling level, which wasn’t all that high and was pretty well lit. I took a few glances to try to spot it, failing completely, but gave up quickly because standing around, looking up among street-hardened New Yorkers was bound to give away my drone’s presence, not to mention running the risk of a camera catching me.
Instead, I just worked my way through the line, used a prepaid card to cover my fare, and stepped through the Multi-Threat 604 Scanner. Pretty standard unit for sensing explosives, guns, knives, or dangerous chemicals of almost any type, none of which was now in my possession.
On the other side, I waited for the train to York Street, casually looking around but not seeing any sign of my drone or my gear. The subway pulled into station three minutes later and after letting the disembarking passengers get out, I found a seat in the last car and prayed Rikki would make it through.
Chapter 8
The doors slid open and I waited before stepping out, letting the dozen or so passengers ahead of me clear the way. At the far end of the platform, stairs led up to the street. Immediately behind me was a door with the words No Exit. Authorized Personnel Only.
I turned and headed for the locked door. It was warded with a decent electronic lock, but had an old-school keypad entry. No biometrics down here in the depths. The city upgrades as it can afford to, so some corners are always being cut.
My understanding was that each such keypad in the transit system had its own code and a couple of master override codes. I entered a number. The light turned green and I slipped through. According to the computer logs, a duly authorized Zone Defense official had just accessed the locked area with one of the override codes. I held the door about thirty centimeters from shutting, waiting. Four sharp clicks sounded on the other side. Opening the door revealed the big Decimator hovering motionless on the other side, my bag of gear still lying across the top of it. As soon as I moved out of the way, Rikki shot forward two meters and stopped.
It was hard to get used to the rock solid movements of the Decimator. Instant acceleration and near instant cessation of movement. The designers had outdone themselves with regard to all of Unit 19’s propulsion, weapons, and sensor systems, and they’d never stopped tweaking it. In fact, I suddenly realized I wasn’t fully sure of all of Rikki’s current abilities, an oversight I needed to correct as soon as possible. Like how had he avoided being seen by anyone in the subway?
But now wasn’t the time.
The first door led into a decently large maintenance area. At the back of the large space was yet another door, this one much more substantial, being constructed of hardened steel plate. And this door did have biometric scanners, a very state-of-the-art version. The sign above the door read MANHATTAN DRONE EXCLUSION ZONE. NO ENTRY. AUTOMATED DEFENSE SYSTEMS ACTIVE. LETHAL FORCE AUTHORIZED.
Scary stuff. But without having the right face, nobody was ever going to have to worry. In this case, Rikki had already entered my facial scan into the Zone Defense system, using a backdoor interface, but with our cover blown, I didn’t know if it would work.
&n
bsp; It didn’t. I stepped up close and looked at the camera. The scanner buzzed angrily, a red LED lighting up on its surface. “Stand Clear. This entry is for Zone Defense authorized individuals only,” a robotic voice said.
Then Rikki slid forward, extruding a twisting cable from a port just under his e-mag gun barrel. The cable snaked forward and found a tiny port in the door scanner. Four seconds later, the red LED turned off and a green one turned on. “Authorized Entry Granted,” the same voice said as heavy bolts magnetically disengaged. Servos whined and the door opened hydraulically, lights coming on to illuminate the space beyond. I should have said lights for some of the space beyond, because they only lit up the area near the door. Enough to reveal the automatic weapons platforms that stood guard against the absolute blackness of the subway tunnel beyond.
Six electromagnetic guns were arrayed across the tracks. Three 10 millimeter antipersonnel and antidrone full automatic Mark 7s, two 25 millimeter general purpose Mark 2s, and a single 40 millimeter anti-armor M38 covered the space, with three complete fire control units to run them. A single fire control unit would be sufficient. Three was backup on backup.
Rikki slid forward again and utilized the same cable interface a second time with one of the control units. Me, I grabbed the gear bag off his back and got kitted out in record time. Standing on the edge of that darkness, knowing there were maybe hundreds of thousands of rats in this tunnel alone, well, I needed my weapons.
Stealth suit and boots, Kevlar gloves, assault vest with homemade bombs and military grade flashbangs on, rifle with suppressor and subsonic ammo loaded, pistol in holster, ammo and supplies all around, and headlamp on my brow. The last was different; as you probably know, I never bring electronic gear into the Zone. But damn it felt good to have a strong light piercing the darkness. I also attached a light to the equipment rail on my rifle.