by Tripp Ellis
18
Slade
Alarms sounded aboard the Revenant. Klaxons blared. Multiple contacts illuminated on the LRADDS display. The screen was awash with red icons.
“Sir, multiple enemy warships,” the tactical officer shouted.
"Battle stations," Captain Bryant yelled.
“Sir, we have nukes incoming."
The Revenant was surrounded with heavy destroyers. Nukes streaked across the star field from all directions.
The Mark 25 cannons that lined the port and starboard side of the Revenant swung into action. The auto targeting system locked on to the inbound warheads. The 16 inch guns blasted a flurry of armor penetrating super-sabot rounds. The staccato report rumbled through the ship.
“Helm, port full,” Zoey commanded.
“Aye, sir.”
The massive destroyer banked. Zoey clung to the command console as the thrusters engaged. “Fire control, give me a solution."
“Sir, there are dozens of them,” the fire control officer shouted. His voice quivered. “Which one do you want me to target?”
“As many as you can.”
“Aye, sir.”
The Mark 25s shredded several of the inbound warheads. But a few managed to sneak through the defenses. Three nukes slammed into the hull of the Revenant. The mighty ship quaked, and the bulkheads rattled. Avionics exploded. Smoke filled the air.
Zoey slammed the deck.
Klaxon’s sounded.
The new captain staggered to her feet. “Damage report!”
“Hull breach in section 27-32, 65-73, 122-138.”
“Seal the compartments!”
The LRADDS display lit up with more red icons.
“More inbound nukes, sir!” the tactical officer yelled.
Zoey was soaked in nervous sweat. The old destroyer could take a lot of punishment, but it wasn't going to take much more of this heavy abuse. “Plot jump coordinates for Zeta 9 Centauri.”
“Aye, sir.”
“I have a firing solution,” the fire control officer shouted.”
“Fire the Widow-makers!”
“Aye, sir.” The fire control officer launched four 50 megaton nukes. They blasted out of the launch tubes and streaked across the star field, spewing propellant.
These were among the most devastating weapons in the Revenant's arsenal. Upon detonation, the thermonuclear reaction would create temperatures hotter than the sun. The blast could be seen from a thousand miles away. The explosion would emit x-rays, infrared rays, and gamma rays. But these warheads weren't going to detonate. They were eviscerated by the enemy defenses almost the instant they left the launch tubes.
“Coordinates plotted, sir," the tactical officer shouted.
“Get us out of here!"
The tactical officer engaged the slide-space drive. The quantum distortion rippled through the ship. The bulkheads bulged and warbled. Zoey felt her stomach clench, and she had a moment of vertigo. The uncomfortable sensation passed within a few seconds as the transition to slide-space completed.
The Revenant vanished from orbit around New Earth before the incoming warheads impacted the hull.
Zoey’s heartbeat began to slow to a normal pace. She caught her breath and wiped the sweat from her brow. She felt guilty leaving New Earth defenseless. But it was better to regroup and strike back when the Revenant had the advantage.
“Any idea who the hell just hit us?” Zoey asked.
“Sensor readings indicate the warships are consistent with those encountered by Admiral Slade at the synthetic colony.”
Zoey grimaced. “Robots.” She said it like the word tasted bad.
It didn't come as much of a shock. It wasn't a question of if the robots would attack, but when. They had years of pent-up anger stemming from the original uprising. The Federation was at its weakest. It made for the perfect storm, Zoey thought. And who could blame them? The robots had suffered some horrendous atrocities in the early days of artificial intelligence.
Scores of casualties flooded into the med center. Corpsmen scurried about, treating the wounded. Doctor Jackson attended to the most critical patients first, provided they had a high probability of survival—no sense wasting resources on terminal cases. The air was filled with anguished moans and screams of agony. You could almost taste the tinny metallic aroma of blood. There were contusions, lacerations, and broken bones. Burned skin, blistered and charred. Some sailors were unrecognizable, red and blackened and oozing. It was always the same after every combat engagement. Doctor Jackson saw the horrible side of war firsthand, and he was getting tired of it.
It didn't take long for the Revenant to reach Zeta 9 Centauri. It was one of the designated emergency fallback locations. It was an industrial planet that was home to several major manufacturing plants, including the Sokolov ship yard, the original designers of the Avenger class destroyers. For now, it appeared to be safe. There were no signs of the enemy.
"Get an HRT outside immediately and repair the hull,” Zoey commanded. "I want this ship back in tip top shape ASAP.”
“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer shouted.
Commander Walker made his way to the CIC. His worried eyes found Zoey. "Captain, the Admiral is still on New Earth.”
“I’m aware of that, Commander.”
"Request permission to mount a recovery operation, sir."
“We don’t have a clear picture of what we’re up against.”
“This is the Admiral we’re talking about.”
“I know it is. I just don’t want you to rush in unprepared.”
Walker gritted his teeth. “Rest assured, I will be prepared.”
“What do you need?"
“A gunship. A small team. It will be a routine extraction.”
“Something tells me this is going to be anything but routine." Zoey gazed into his worried eyes. “Bring her back, Commander.”
19
Tyler
The Reaper team secured themselves inside the medical facility. The room didn’t have any exterior walls. No windows. The dual stage airlock contained airborne pathogens and provided an extra measure of safety. Whatever those creatures were, they’d have to get through two steel blast doors if they wanted to get inside the med center.
The room was full of beakers, specimen jars, microscopes, gurneys, and diagnostic equipment. Attached was a robotic operating room. There were a plethora of examining and recovery bays, separated by curtains. In the back, there was a cold storage facility that was still running on emergency power. It contained med supplies, perishable drugs, several 5 gallon drums of DETMT, and a few body bags.
Morale was low. The platoon sulked about the room.
“Sir, may I have a word with you,” Donovan asked.
“What is it, Master Chief?” Tyler replied.
She pulled him aside. “Everyone is looking to you for answers, sir. You can't ever hesitate like that. You always have to have the answers, even if you don't.”
Tyler grimaced. He didn't like what he was hearing. He could see in her eyes that she had no faith in him. “I understand, Master Chief.”
“Where’s Dr. Noble?” Elliott asked Horton.
“She, and two others, tried to make it to Station 5, on the north side,” Horton said. “I don’t know if they made it.”
“What’s at Station 5?” Tyler asked.
“There’s a freighter. It’s the only way off the planet.”
“What happened to your ship?” Tyler asked.
“Those goddamn things chewed through the wiring. Tore it to shreds,” Horton said. “My advice to you… Don’t leave your ship on the ground for too long. Especially not at night.”
“What makes you think that freighter is in any condition to fly?” Tyler asked.
“I don’t. But it’s the only possibility. Except for your ship.”
“We need to get over to Station 5, immediately,” Elliott said. His face was filled with worry. Either Holly Noble was extremely valuable t
o the corporation, or Elliott had some type of personal connection to her.
“We’re not going anywhere just yet,” Tyler grumbled. He tapped his earbud and signaled the Vantage. “Hawkeye, Bravo One, actual. Do you copy.”
An instant later, Kowalski responded. “Bravo One, Hawk-eye. …Finn?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to Grimsby?”
“We’ve had a… situation. Deploy the surveillance drones. I want eyes in the sky.”
“Copy that.”
Kowalski flipped the switch on the console. Dozens of small bumble drones launched from a port on the Vantage. They were no larger than a bumblebee. They fanned out and set up a grid encompassing the entire facility.
Tyler pulled out his PDU and tabbed through a few screens to access the video feed. The drones were networked together. The visual data was processed and interpolated, providing a continuous, navigable view of the complex and surrounding area. Tyler was able to move around and zoom in and out, in 3-D space. The drones had the ability to detect movement and potential threats. If anything was out there, these drones would pick it up.
Kowalski launched a second set of drones. They were programed to map out the mining tunnels. With the vast network of passageways, it could take a few days to fully map the cavernous underbelly of the mining complex.
With nothing more to do, Kowalski re-engaged the autopilot on the Vantage. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. The Vantage had enough juice to stay airborne for a lifetime. The autopilot could put him in a perfect stationary hover. Kowalski slept for most of these missions. His job was to get the platoon to and from their destination, and be ready whenever they needed them. It left a lot of time to sleep, read, and play video games. And that suited him just fine.
Tyler scrolled through the virtual map and found Station 5. He zoomed in, but he didn’t see any signs of Dr. Noble, or her associates.
There was a large freighter still on the tarmac outside the compound. It looked intact. Tyler kept scrolling through the map. He didn’t see any creatures. Nothing seemed to be moving out there. The drone’s motion trackers weren’t picking up any lifeforms. It was an eerie, desolate jungle.
Horton watched Tyler as he studied the surveillance map. “Trust me. You can look right at them and not see them. They blend in. They’re like chameleons. Their camouflage is flawless.”
“The drones will pick up their movement,” Tyler said.
“No. They won’t. At least, not until it’s too late.”
“Well, you’re just full of optimism, aren’t you?” Petrov said.
“Spend a few days in this shit hole, then come talk to me about optimism.”
“Sir, I think you’d better come take a look at this,” Faulkner shouted. He was in the back of the med center with his weapon aimed at a body bag that was lying atop a gurney.
Tyler rushed to meet him.
Soon, the rest of the platoon was bearing down on the bodybag.
“I swear, I just saw that damn thing move,” Faulkner said. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets. He seemed a little rattled, and not much ever seemed to rattle Faulkner.
He was a big guy—6’3”, 260 pounds of pure muscle. He carried an M640 light automatic weapon. It was a belt fed machine gun that fired 7.62mm rounds. It was heavier than the standard issue RK 909s, but still light enough to be operated by one person. It could put a lot of bullets downrange in a short amount of time. With a weapon like that, he shouldn’t have been twitchy about a body bag. But something about this whole planet had him a little spooked.
“Don’t get squirrelly on me, Faulkner,” Tyler said.
“I’m telling you, the damn thing moved.”
“Open it up.”
Faulkner inched toward the dark green bag. He grabbed the zipper and pulled it open with a quick sweep of his arm. He pulled away from the bag as it opened. His face twisted up from the stench.
Faulkner’s eyes went wide like saucers.
The rest of the platoon stared slack-jawed.
“What the fuck is that?” Faulkner stammered.
20
Slade
The signal was broadcast over every channel on every device. It was from Sarlin, the commander of the synthetic fleet. The message was simple. “Surrender, or be destroyed.”
There wasn't much choice. Slade had seen firsthand the slew of mechanized warriors the synthetics possessed. Brutal killing machines that were like walking tanks. They didn't need food, they didn't need sleep, and they had no conscience. Limited AI that followed every order without question. Tens of thousands of them were waiting aboard the warships, ready to go into battle at a moments notice.
New Earth's air defenses had been devastated. The ground forces were tattered, and had suffered heavy casualties from the Decluvian invasion. General McMahon was still, presumably, at Blackhawk Mountain with his finger on the trigger of the nuclear arsenal. It was the Strategic Defense Command’s headquarters, located 2000 feet underground. But even if he could target the invading warships, and launch the arsenal, the synthetics had already proven themselves adept at dismantling incoming nuclear threats.
It was pure chaos in the East Room of the White House. President Amado had been ushered deep underground to the emergency operations center.
Former acting President Perez, who had been in attendance at the ceremony, stepped to Slade. “You know, I thought long and hard about blocking President Amado's return. I had the support of the majority of Congress. According to Article 25 of the Constitution, we could have kept him from the Office, legally. But I'm glad we didn't. Because I sure wouldn’t want to go down in history as the President who surrendered the Federation.”
Slade’s face was grim. She heard the roar of fighter jets overhead and stepped to the window. She peeled back the curtain. The sky was littered with enemy fighters, streaking through the clouds. Swarms of transport ships descended. One of them landed on the White House lawn.
The back ramp lowered and a horde of mechanized warriors stomped out of the craft. The mechanized robotic infantry was terrifying. Silver ministers of death. They had forearm attachments in the shape of mini-guns, plasma cannons, and RPG's.
The platoon was marching toward the White House across the lawn, and nothing was going to stop them. There were Secret Service agents atop the roof, raining down bullets upon the mechanized infantry. But the rounds just sparked and bounced away. The machines didn't seem to flinch. They just kept on their incessant march. Just one of them was able to take out every single agent on the roof, firing with surgical precision. If there was any doubt about their capability, it was put to rest in the blink of an eye. Tens of thousands of these things were taking their first steps all across New Earth.
Slade's heart was pounding in her chest. Her throat was tight. As bad as the Decluvian invasion had been, this was worse. Seeing the ease at which they stormed the Federation's capital was gut wrenching.
Slade would have given anything for an STN 50 disruptor—a weapon that wreaked havoc on neural pathways of both human and synthetic beings. She had used a similar weapon against these mechanized soldiers before, with great success. But robots were always quick to address any flaws. It was doubtful that such technology would still work.
Slade dug into her pocket and pulled out her lipstick. It was something she almost never wore, except for special occasions. She wasn't a girly girl by any stretch of the imagination. She removed the cap and twisted the lipstick up in the tube. Then she painted geometric shapes on her face to break up the patterns of her features. Sultry red triangles across her lips and nose and eyes and cheekbones. She looked ridiculous.
When she was done, she handed the tube to Perez. His brow crinkled up. "I don't think that's my shade."
“Do it, if you want to live."
The walking tanks blasted through the front door and smashed through the windows. Glass shattered and wood splintered. The soldiers stormed in from all directions. There was nowhere
to run, nowhere to hide. And those that did attempt to run were brutally gunned down.
The White House was filled with shrieks and screams. Terrified reporters scurried like roaches. Their bodies peppered with bullets, exploding into grisly bits of blood and bone. Cameras clattered to the ground. The mechanized warriors knew no mercy.
Slade stood perfectly still. She knew the mechanized infantry keyed off movement and facial recognition. The exact relative measurements of the eyes, nose, and mouth, allows facial recognition to identify anyone in almost an instant. But when those features are obscured, detection becomes impossible.
Slade may have looked ridiculous, but as long as she stood still, she was practically invisible to the machines. At least, to these lower-level machines.
Several of the walking tanks stormed through the East Room. One of them squared off in front of Slade. Her heart was thumping so loud she was sure the damn thing was going to hear it.
The mechanized soldier looked her up and down, then moved on to Perez. He was trembling. His hands were shaking so bad they were rattling against his cuffs. His knees were smacking against his pant legs. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, gliding over the greasy red lipstick.
His movements gave him away. It didn't take long for the machine to recognize him as a threat. It took a small step back and spun up the mini-gun. Muzzle flash erupted from the barrel and within a fraction of a second, a dozen rounds punctured Perez's chest. They tore a hole in his thoracic cavity the size of a football. Blood splattered the wall and sprayed across the gold curtains. His body crumpled to the ground.
Slade’s body tensed. She could feel her face flushed with rage. But she maintained her composure and stood still.
The machine’s head snapped to her. Slade had made small, almost imperceptible movements. Her core body temperature elevated slightly. Both of which were enough to draw added scrutiny.
The mechanized warrior surveyed her again. She was going to die in the White House with the Medal of Honor around her neck, she thought. Probably not the worst way to go out, but she wasn't ready to die just yet.