The
RESOLUTE
By
G. Weldon Tucker
The Storyteller
gweldontucker.com
The use of names of countries, religions and religious beliefs, or the interpretation of such information is not intended to parallel or portray any group of people, anywhere on or off the planet. The accuracy with which the story is told is merely coincidental where it is true, and accidental where it is not. Please forgive my lack of precision and instead, enjoy the story for what it is intended, fiction.
©2016 G. Weldon Tucker- Tampa Bay, FL- USA
Also By G. Weldon Tucker, #TheStoryteller:
Gambler’s Lot (Romance/Suspense)
Robin’s Heritage (Paranormal/Suspense)
The Janitor - 3 part series (Action/Adventure)
The Alfuego - 3 part series (SciFi- Adventure)
Angela’s Torment-3 parts (Action/Romance)
Dread-A Love Story (Paranormal/Romance)
High Country Terror – 4 parts (Action/Humor)
Wolf’s Nightmare – 3 parts (Para/Suspense)
Death Trap – 5 part series (Action/Suspense)
Wit- Sec (Action/Suspense Witness Security)
Extreme Focus (action/Suspense Wit Security)
Sound of Sand (Action/Suspense)
Genesis Rider (Action/Suspense/Romance)
Scarlett’s Fever (Occult/suspense)
Westerns- Dark Side Westerns- 5 novels
(Vampires, ‘Shifters, - Law and Order done
right!)
The
RESOLUTE
By
G. Weldon Tucker
Prologue- 2180
No one wanted to be the last man… or woman… standing. The human’s domination was over. In the late twenty second century, Cyborgs had come to life, literally. From simple robots, run by programmed computers, filled with Artificial Intelligence features, scientists tried to outdo one another in the race to build a sentient robot. Sort of like a driverless car. If you put your trust in it, you give it control of your life.
Now, they had succeeded far beyond their own limited imaginations. Cyborgs. The things looked human, they spoke like humans, they acted like humans, dressed like humans, and sure enough, they soon began to control every facet of human living… and began systematically destroying humans.
The humans had to go. The Cyborgs had learned to replicate themselves, and man was now taking up far too much space, using far too many resources. Humans were inefficient, frail, and for the most part, in these modern times, in the way.
At first, it was gas and biological elements, neither which had any effect on robots of any kind. The attacks were blamed on rogue elements, such as terrorists and despots. And they literally wiped out almost all poor, third world countries who were basically defenseless. Long stretches of land around the world went devoid of life. Any life. Gassing mammals will pretty much do that. But that cleansing was far too slow in more defensible areas of the planet.
Humans fought back, of course. EMP bombs stopped whole armies of Cyborgs in their tracks. So, the Cyborgs learned to travel in ten unit teams, spread far apart. Sound familiar? War waged around the world. And, yet, the humans were losing. The robots could rebuild replacements far faster than humans could raise up children to replace soldiers.
One thing the controlling Cyborgs learned about had to do with the necessity of the ozone layer around the planet to protect life. Unnecessary for robots, and all the Cyborgs would need to do was stay out of sight from the humans hunting them, out of the backlash and wait. A sneak attack began the destruction of that all-important protection, far up in space.
With that eventual success, humans were going to disappear. In any case, the planet would default to the robots, sooner rather than later. It was a given.
So goes the Cyborg logical mind. The humans, however, are a surprisingly resilient species…
BOOK I
Emmigration
CHAPTER 1
Commander Christine Washington, a raven haired, well-toned, attractive enough young woman surveyed herself in her mirror. She was all woman all right, but condemned to an era that may well spell the end of all mankind. Extinction.
No young men to come calling, no rolls in the hay, she was all business. No uniform, for those were not allowed. But jeans, man’s white shirt and heavy boots made up her ensemble. Frankly, that kind of dress code caught no Cyborgs camera’s eye. Everyone was the same. It was all that was left.
But Christine had a mission. Her father, General David Washington, was putting it together. Something had to be done. The Cyborgs had taken over the world, and they did not tolerate humans any more than absolutely necessary. So, there was a rebel movement afoot that had Christine seriously ensnared in its net.
Space!
Her heart soared to even think of it. Well, true, in her lifetime, maybe the moon, but it was a hell of a big step up from enforced servitude. Everyone else she knew, those that had caved to the pressure of the Cyborgs, were mere slaves… or dead.
Washington means hunter of home or settlement. She came from a long, long line of military family, and they did not give up their responsibility easily. Not the determined ones. And she was up to her pretty neck in finding a way off this doomed rock and out to some better world…
She combed out her black, short bob, checked her teeth, grinning with a wide, white smile, and pulled on her canvas jacket. It wasn’t much against the cold outside, but it helped.
There came a knock at her door.
Michael, she thought, hurrying through the small, efficient apartment to the front door. Michael Washington, her brother, was in this up to his neck, too. And today, they were to start the last phases of training.
She pulled open the door to a total stranger. Make that three! And all had weapons in their hands!
Intelligence, she thought, recognizing the policing arm of the Cyborgs. But, they were human, and she dropped kicked the lead man in the balls, and hardly hesitated to watch him fall, for she was in a whirling heel throw to the second’s chin. He tried to get an arm up, too slow, too well fed, and he was out. The third leveled his Taser pistol and pulled the trigger.
But Christine was made of quality stuff, and she artfully turned in under it, came up with her back to the stunned man and delivered a throat strike with her right elbow. Gagging, breathless, he went down.
Hurrying to her closet inside, she grabbed her always ready escape bag, then ran out the door, leaping easily over the three stunned, downed men. There would no returning to hearth and home. That was suddenly in the past.
Three on one. True, she was better than five foot nine, weighing in at a little over one forty, but she was not their size. At twenty-nine, she was very well trained, and she definitely did not sit on her butt all day waiting for Cyborgs to send her out to ruin someone’s day.
She hit the bottom of the four story building as Michael’s small muddy brown Fiat, a relic from days long past, screeched to a halt with smoking tires. She jumped in, and slammed the door, even as he was accelerating away. His was one of the few cars in St. Louis, as the computer controlled cars were all disabled. Only the relics could travel, and not by any edict of the Cyborgs.
Michael saw her swing her bag over the seat rest into the back seat, and said, only, “You, too, huh? I had four. How about you?”
“Li’l ol’ me only got three. If they had sent four, I might have had to kill some of them. As it is, I disabled all three. You?”
“Let’s say I was not as gentle with those assholes. Maybe one might make it, but he will walk funny the rest of his short life.” Michael’s sense of humor was stilted a bit. Trying times.
She grinned, saying, “To the safe house?”
“Yes. ETA about twenty. You hurt?”
“No. Just pissed off,” she replied as she rubbed her elbow.
“Me either. I don’t know who alerted them to us. Any ideas?”
“No. I wonder if it was just us? They usually come in a sweep!” She eyed her handsome younger brother. Like her, dark black hair, blue eyes, but half again as big, weight-wise, while four inches taller. He had really filled out in the past two years under the intensive rebel training program.
Once through ‘boot camp,’ six months of intensive training for survival and for space travel, then every other week duty calls, they had been assigned to work quietly in the civilian sector. From there, they were reporting any new developments that might affect the organization, properly called REP for Resolute Emigration Program. This to be the escape route for those wanting out from under the Cyborgs.
The Cyborgs were slowly squeezing the life out of the species. Like the cars. Eventually, they would control all disbursement of fuel for them. Right now, Michael had three separate, old fashioned gas stations that did not use computers, but the contents of their big ten thousand gallon tanks were dwindling. When it was gone, the Fiat was done.
“Well, we gotta get inside and safe, then we can figure it out,” Michael said. Unnecessarily, of course, but then Michael was more deliberate than his sister.
Only people in demand, scientist, engineers, security, medical and IT types were allowed work permits. Michael and Christine Washington were engineers, she mechanical, he, chemical, and in high demand. But their work was primarily supervisorial, rather than functional.
Also, because they back filled other positions, and there was no such thing as full time employment, they had plenty of time for their other recreational activities. Perhaps, somehow, the Cyborgs had been watching.
Shortly, they were at the mouth of the tunnel that led to the safe house. This was located in the back of an abandoned, multi-level department store parking garage, down in the basement. If the Cyborgs were more anticipatory, and less observers, they might have noticed the Fiat enter the garage, and after a time, there was no Fiat leaving. Michael called out the security code to a speaker and battery combination that was hidden in a support post, ten feet from the wall. No keys to touch and leave IR fingerprints upon.
The REP allowed no computer control at all. Instead, inside, two men, armed to the teeth with heavy duty weapons, threw an analog switch and the heavy steel and concrete doorway, a large circle, stepped away from the front of the car, inwards and then slid sideways.
Michael drove the Fiat inside. The door reversed. There were people assigned to keeping the tracks or other indicators away from the door, and from the outside, the circle was indistinguishable from the wall that contained it.
Inside, the tunnel lay inviting, once past the machine gun nests. It ran for six miles into the outskirts of St. Louis, using adapted main sewers, and ended in a completely underground parking area. There were sixteen other cars already there.
“Not a good sign,” Michael said.
“Yeah, we never see more than two. A security breach? Someone talking about us?”
“I don’t know, but we better find out. Get to the HQ office and call Dad. I will head for the briefing room and see what they know,” Michael suggested.
“Okay, see you in about thirty minutes. Save me a seat.”
Just getting to those respective rooms took time, as the entire complex, built in an abandoned underground silo, held eleven rooms off different points on the circular stairs. No elevators.
But Christine was in excellent shape. She reached the HQ offices in five minutes, not even breathing hard from the five story climb.
But, when she called, the analog answering device on his old fashioned phone surprised her when she gave her ID code. Just another precaution. Before she could leave a message, the unit said, “You have a meeting downstairs. Get to it, now!” and hung up!
She recognized an order when she heard it. She hustled out of the HQ office and scampered quickly down ten stories to the conference room. Or, in military parlance, the briefing room. It was packed.
This, too, is not a good sign, she thought, finding Michael and the seat he held for her, way in the back row.
The place was abuzz with voices anticipating, hoping, even some worried. What was happening? Where was the leak? Now, what the hell should they do? All would be answered, Christine knew, for that was the military way. Planning, response, performance. It would come. She felt Michael’s hand on her shoulder give her a gentle squeeze. He knew.
CHAPTER 2
Representing the underground resistance, the Resolute Emigration Program, or REP, there were six three men and three women gathered in the dark recesses of a deep cave in central Missouri, not far from Christine’s pending meeting. In fact, by a short rail tunnel, they were but ten minutes away.
They were the leaders of the military action against the Cyborgs, and on every face, there was only a grim acceptance of another huge loss. Their mission was to rescue the human race as a species, but, so far, it was not going well at all.
Black haired, blue eyed, square chinned General David Washington, a sturdy, hard muscled, fireplug of a man, had the floor, laser pointer in hand, ready to roll. Like his namesake of the Revolutionary War, the one for independence, he was not one to relinquish control to a bunch of whiners.
He was dressed in khaki trousers and bush jacket, the closest thing to military allowed on the planet. Though, truth be told, he never left the silo to be seen by any Cyborg eyes. With his short haircut, perfect presence, there was no doubt he was a General and in charge.
As he discussed the changing world, he indicated various points on a map, hanging from a roller in front of the silent, dark, seventy inch vidscreen. The map was an old fashioned, vinyl and paper analog print, the world laid out like a squashed pumpkin.
Large sections of the map were colored by hand, a light florescent orange that showed off well in the darkened room, a single pair of spotlights illuminating the map.
No Cyborgs allowed in this meeting. Every attendee was scanned before entering. But then, in the whole of the complex, scanning was automatic, all the time. And not in any way connected to the internet.
“You can see that we have lost South America, Central America and Mexico on this side of the world. Everything south of the equator is about gone, including Africa, Australia, South Pacific, Southeast Asia and major portions of China. I do not believe they have the Antarctic Ice Shelf swept, but we have had no contact with them for nearly a month.
“The Cyborgs are moving north to continue the concept of sweeping the land. People, all of this destruction and extermination in less than sixty days. Those that could flee north, did so. Most of the killing was brought by our own goddam stolen missiles with gas. We no longer have any control of our weapons, people. Not so much as a fighter aircraft. Not even another EMP weapon, except what we carry by hand. If it runs on computerized electronics, they own it.”
He paused, looking as if he might be too damned angry to continue. No one interrupted his thoughts.
“We have nearly two million refuges flooding through Mexico to our border. There were twelve million, but they have been systematically killed off. By this time next week, there will be twice that number at our gates. They are coming for the great United Earth military machine to save them. We will let them in. What difference will it make? We have lots of room.” This last accompanied by a dignified shrug. There was no answer.
Admiral Morgan, who commanded mostly kayaks and rowboats, the new world joked, spoke up. His ships and planes were all commandeered and decommissioned, as in mothballs, by Cyborgs, all useless. They’d been left at rest in whatever harbor the Cyborgs had found them. And his no longer. The fifty-three years old man said, “We have to speed up Operation Abort, and right now. If we wait even a year, it will be far too late.”
Morgan means ‘defender of the seas, and for his current role,
with forty generations of Naval families behind him in fine tradition, he was in the right position at the right time. But he still thought about water, most of the time. That would change…
-----
Pert, but very serious Colonel Patricia Kholer signaled for attention from General Washington by rustling her stack of papers in hand. Washington nodded to her, “Colonel?”
“An update on materials, General.” She stepped up from her seat to face the group, passing out several flimsy pages. Flimsy, because, as they left the room, the electromagnetic field would completely wipe out all of the special ink on the paper. Guaranteed. No computer necessary.
Kholer, a mix of blonde and gray to a pleasant light color, started ticking off the current status on the necessary supplies. “You will note on line six, however, that we have a problem. The Cyborgs found the Number Nine plant and shut it down. They did not take the materials, and there are enough panels for nine habitats. They have no idea what the plant did for us, other than it was operating during disallowed hours.”
Washington asked, “Is it closed?”
“Right now, yes. But I believe it will start up again, this next week. It turns out the complex robot parts in sheet steel right out of the loading doors roughly eighty percent. Ours is a byproduct in titanium. So, they can operate, but we will have to be very careful. Frankly, nine habitats worth of production is a damned good job.
“But note that we lost three other habitats when a portion of that plant mysteriously exploded. We suspect sabotage, but that is not a Cyborg technique. That is human. And, of course, it would most likely be a human idea sold to the Cyborgs. Again, it will reopen after repairs.
“Meanwhile, the sneaky Cyborgs are pretending they do not care. But then, again, they have no idea of what the plant is making, if it is not their own pieces and parts. It works, we can skim what we need, but it can be slowed.”
The Resolute Page 1