by Tripp Ellis
21
Slade
The mechanized soldier stared at Slade for an uncomfortably long time. She felt a sneeze coming on and wasn't sure how long she could hold it back. Just as her nose began to twitch, the machine stepped back, turned around, and marched out of the room.
She exhaled, and her stiff body relaxed. Her somber eyes gazed around the room at the destruction and bloodshed. She looked at Perez's mangled body and frowned.
She could hear the machines stomp through the rest of the house, clearing the rooms. They were moving toward the West Wing. There was no doubt another team of machines had already taken the Oval Office.
Slade crept to the body of a fallen Secret Service agent and pulled his service pistol from the holster. She press-checked the weapon— there was a round in the chamber, and 17 in the magazine. The pistol wasn't going to do much good against the machines. But she felt more comfortable with a weapon in her hand.
Slade peered around the door frame into the next room—it was clear. Then she dashed to the window, stepping over bodies and debris. The curtains were torn and frayed and blowing in the wind. Slade looked out over the South Lawn and saw Marine One smoldering in flames. Amado was either dead, or in the bunker.
Slade crawled out the window and crouched down behind a row of shrubs. Shards of glass crunched underneath her feet. She could hear the gunfire and chaos that was ensuing at the West Wing. If Amado was squirreled away in the bunker, it wouldn't be long before the synthetics would find a way to coax him out, or drill their way in.
Slade crept along the hedgerow, then dashed to a nearby tree on the lawn. She took cover behind its thick trunk. She moved from tree to tree until she was at the edge of the property. The outer security wall had been obliterated by the machines. She slipped away through an opening, dashed across the street, then ducked into an alleyway.
She peered around the corner and watched as machines marched up and down the street. The clank of metal feet slamming against the concrete filled the air.
The machines weren’t attacking citizens unless confronted. They seemed to be establishing their territory and dominance, staking out sentries on every corner.
The attack on WH2 was a strategic, pinpoint operation. Cut straight to the chase. Take out the leader of the Federation in one swift blow, and bring the colonies to their knees.
Slade continued down the alleyway to Preston Avenue. It was more of the same—a sentry on each corner. She watched a terrified couple walk carefully past one of the machines. Their eyes were wide, and they were trying to keep their distance. The machine let them pass. A few moments later, several gang members pulled to the intersection in a hovercraft and opened fire on one of the machines.
The bullets did nothing. They bounced off the composite alloy, pinging and clanking. Muzzle flash and gun smoke filled the air. Sparks flashed against the metal warrior. The thing stood there for a moment as the gang members emptied their magazines. The machine almost seemed amused. Almost. Then it took aim and eviscerated the vehicle, and everyone in it.
Bodies slumped out the window, bleeding onto the concrete. Weapons hit the ground. The hovercraft was still in gear, and with the operator dead, it drifted forward, crashing into a parked vehicle.
The machine didn’t seem any worse for the wear.
Slade took her jacket off and turned it inside out, then put it back on. She slipped the Medal of Honor over her head and stuffed it in her pocket. Then she tucked the pistol into her waistband, placing it in the small of her back. She wasn't going to get very far unless she looked like a civilian.
She stood up, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the alleyway. She strolled down the sidewalk like it was any other day. Her heartbeat was thundering in her chest again as she approached the corner.
The machine saw her, surveyed her, then did nothing. Slade didn't appear to be a threat.
She turned the corner and picked up the pace a little. She wasn't really sure where she was going, but she kept moving.
The city was still mostly in ruin from the Decluvian invasion, but there were some untouched areas. Some storefronts were open for business. Some were missing walls and roofs, but that didn't seem to be stopping them. Many people were too scared to walk about on the street, so wherever they were when the machines arrived is where they stayed.
Slade stepped into a coffee shop. Many of the patrons were huddling in fear underneath the tables. Wide eyes and pale faces, dripping with sweat. They looked at Slade like she was insane. It didn't help that she had geometric shapes painted on her face with lipstick. They stared at her in silence for a moment.
“Can I get you anything, ma’am?” The barista stood behind the counter and spoke in a casual manner, as if nothing was wrong.
“You're still serving?"
“The rent is still going to be due at the first of the month." He smiled. He had that California surfer voice, even though California was 200 light years away, and didn't exist anymore. He had long blond hair, and his green eyes were red and glassy. The kid was thoroughly baked.
“I’ll take a Grande latte.” Why not, Slade thought? She might not get another cup of coffee for a long time.
“I have to advise you, crisis pricing is in effect."
“Crisis pricing?"
“Hey, I’m risking my life to bring you the finest brewed bean.”
“How much?"
“72 credits."
“That’s outrageous.”
“Take it or leave it, ma'am."
Slade rolled her eyes. "Fine." She placed her thumb on the pay pad and transferred the credits.
“What’s your name?”
“Slade.”
The barista wrote her name on the cup. “So, like, what happened to your face? Did you do your makeup in the car, or something?"
Slade glared at him. “Just make my overpriced latte."
“No, I think it looks cool. It's like abstract art, or something. Sexy.” The barista stood there for an uncomfortable moment, then went to work preparing the latte.
A TV was tuned to the Colonial News Network. A reporter was rambling on about the invasion, but she didn't seem to know any more than anyone else.
A few moments later, the barista called Slade’s name. She grabbed the hot cup from the counter and let it cool for a few moments, then took a sip. It wasn't bad—not worth 72 credits, but not bad. She didn’t need the caffeine. She was already wound up on adrenaline. Might as well kick it into overdrive, she thought.
She could hear the heavy marching of one of those machines clattering past the coffee shop. She glanced back to the glass doors to see it walk past. It peered inside as it strolled by, then continued on. Everyone held their breath for a moment.
A shaky voice called out from the corner, “You're Admiral Slade, aren't you?"
She nodded.
“Do you know what’s really happening?” the man asked. He was a slightly chubby guy, wearing an untucked red flannel shirt. He had olive skin and short dark hair.
“I know what you know,” Slade said.
“We're going to fight them, aren't we?" He was scared and angry.
“Our military is taking the appropriate steps to respond to the situation." At least, she hoped that was the case. She had no idea if the Revenant was even still in existence.
The man seemed frustrated with the canned answer. “Why aren’t you out there doing something?"
Slade cringed. “Believe me, I want nothing more than to be in command of my ship, defending the Federation. I have every intention of fighting these things until I draw my last breath.” She paused. "In the meantime, I suggest we all stay calm. They only seem to respond to aggressive action, so don't make any threatening moves.”
“Why are they doing this?” a terrified woman asked. She was crouched under a table huddling with her two kids. They were maybe 5 and 8.
“I don’t know, but I'm sure we'll find out soon."
The news reporter announced a breaking al
ert. The video feed cut to a downtrodden image of President Amado.
The crowd gathered around the display. By the look on Amado's face, he wasn't bringing good news.
22
Slade
Amado didn't look his usual, charismatic self. He looked like he had aged 10 years. His eyes were sunken, and the bags seemed more pronounced. The twinkle had vanished. "Fellow citizens of the Federation. It is with careful consideration that I have agreed to the unconditional surrender of the colonies.”
The crowd in the coffee shop gasped. Some burst into tears. Some stared at the screen, slack-jawed. Slade's body tensed, and she clenched her teeth.
“The treaty I have signed will ensure the safety of every citizen, provided there is no resistance. The Federation will stop all military activity and dismantle and destroy all weapons and equipment. Further research and development of weaponry is prohibited. An occupying force will remain permanently on New Earth to ensure compliance. All military personnel are hereby ordered to report to special processing facilities for debriefing and re-education. I urge citizens to stay calm and comply with all requests. This will help ensure a smooth and peaceful transition. Thank you."
The transmission from the Presidential bunker ended. The reporter was speechless, probably for the first time in her career. She fumbled to put together a follow up.
Slade wasn't about to turn herself in for processing. She had nearly died when the synthetics tried to probe her mind and download her consciousness.
She knew that as part of the terms of surrender, the robots would have access to the vast amount of data the Federation had accumulated. Details on military protocols and operational readiness. Firearm registries. Criminal histories. They’d have access to every bit of signals intelligence collected since the dawn of the Federation. The UIA server farm was housed in a 200,000 square-foot facility, packed with supercomputers. They had logged every electronic communication ever sent or received. The transcripts were keyword searchable. They had crawled and collected every scrap of data posted on the network or on social media. They had detailed profiles on both civilian and military personnel.
Once the data was processed and propagated through the synthetics’ network, it would be impossible to hide. Facial recognition could easily identify military personnel, gun owners, or disruptive citizens. The mechanized infantry could round them up and corral them in internment camps in a matter of days, or execute them on sight.
Slade sat at one of the small round tables and sipped her latte while she tried to figure out her next move. It seemed hopeless.
“We deserve this,” an old woman said. “The gods are angry. This is their way of punishing us.” She pointed a crooked finger at Slade. “You. This is your fault. You travel through the galaxy like you own it. You make machines that bring destruction. You spoil what the gods have created, and now they smite you.”
Slade stared at the woman’s hand as she shook it at her. It was wrinkled and spotted with age and had an ever present tremor. Her fingernails were tinged yellow. Age delaying treatments made it hard to determine anyone’s true age. If Slade had to guess, she’d put the woman close to 200.
“I remember,” the woman continued her screed. “I was a small child during the first uprising. But I remember the horror vividly. Tell me, when has technology really ever served us? It hasn’t. Now we serve it.”
Her eyes blazed into Slade. Then she gave a disapproving glance at the rest of the patrons. Having said her peace, she turned around and strolled out of the shop muttering, “Thank the gods my days in this world are few.”
The door chimes rang as she pushed onto the sidewalk. She strolled east, and Slade could hear her yell at one of the machines, “Get out of my way.” Metal feet clanked against the sidewalk as the soldier stepped aside.
Slade shook her head and chuckled to herself. She finished her latte then moved to the door.
The sky was still dotted with enemy aircraft. She surveyed the mechanized soldiers that were posted along the street. They stood guard, observing faces of people who were bold enough to be on the street. But so far, it was relatively calm. It wasn't the mass slaughter that Slade had expected from a synthetic invasion.
Slade needed to get back to the Revenant, if it still existed. She could probably find a civilian craft. But even if she could find a functioning spacecraft, nothing was going to get off the ground without getting shot down.
There were a handful of ships that had escaped during the early stages of the invasion. But once the machines had established air superiority, the entire planet became a no-fly zone.
Still, it was worth a shot. She started to push through the doors when the woman with two kids called to her. “You’re not going to just leave us here, are you?”
Slade grimaced. "I don't know what I can do to help you.”
“But you're supposed to be this great war hero.”
“I say we fight them,” a young man said. “We could form a resistance. You could lead us.”
“I’m with him,” another man said.
“Me too,” said a third.
Slade looked over the would be volunteers. They ranged in age from early 20s to mid 40s. “Any of you have military experience?”
They shook their heads.
“You realize what you're volunteering for?"
They nodded.
“The odds are slim, and we’re probably all going to die.”
“I’d rather die on my feet, then live on my knees,” one of them said.
Slade grinned. It was a sentiment she shared.
23
Tyler
Tyler grabbed Elliott and slammed him against the wall. “You want to tell me what’s really going on here?”
Elliott shivered. “I don’t know. I swear to God. I know as much as you do.”
What was in the bodybag wasn’t human. It wasn’t an insect either. It was something in between. A sickening mutation. The name on the bag read: James Richter. But anyone who knew him would be hard-pressed to recognize him now.
“Bullshit. What kind of experiments are you running out here?” Tyler growled.
"I swear to God, I don't know." Elliott was trembling.
“The bugs did it," Horton said.
Tyler's eyes flicked to Horton. “What do you mean?”
Horton leaned in and whispered. He didn’t want O’Malley to hear. “Whatever those things are, they’ve got venom in their bite. But it’s not poison. It’s some sort of genetic mutagen. Once it gets in your bloodstream, it starts changing your cells. The process takes two, maybe three days. Sometimes less. It transforms you into one of them.”
Tyler released his grip on Elliott.
“You some kind of geneticist, or something?” Faulkner said to Horton with derision.
Horton glared at him. “I’ve seen it happen. Those things got my whole damn squad. Turned them, one by one. They’re some type of parasite.”
Tyler glanced back to Elliott. “The facility had a thousand employees, right?”
Elliott nodded.
“So there’s possibly a thousand of those things out there?”
“That’s just great,” Petrov said.
“I still want to know why that damn thing moved,” Faulkner said.
“Gases build up during decomposition," Elliott said. "Muscle fibers can contract. It's not unusual."
“Well, thank you for that explanation, Dr. Science,” Faulkner quipped. "It still seems a little creepy."
“I thought you Reapers weren’t afraid of anything?” Elliott said.
Faulkner’s eyes narrowed at Elliott. “We're not."
Elliott wasn't going to push the issue.
Tyler glanced at O'Malley. He was sitting on a gurney across the room.
“The best thing you can do is shoot him now," Horton said. “Spare him the misery."
Tyler's eyes burned into Horton. The platoon had already taken heavy casualties. Tyler wasn't keen on losing any more. He contemplat
ed the situation for a moment. He tapped his earbud. “Hawkeye, Bravo One, actual, over?”
There was no response.
“Kowalski, wake up!”
A moment later, Kowalski's dazed voice crackled back over the line. “Bravo One, Hawk-eye. There must have been some interference,” he said, making an excuse.
Tyler wasn't buying it. “Prepare for immediate evac.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Whoa, wait a minute, Ensign,” Elliott said. "What about our objective?”
“We can't secure this facility. Even if we could, who would run it? It's going to take a much bigger force.”
“What about Dr. Noble?"
"We'll look for her at Station 5. If she's not there, we’ll return to the fleet and prepare another mission that's more adequately suited to deal with the challenges.”
“You and I both know the fleet doesn't have the resources for a bigger mission.” Elliott’s face was filled with worry.
It was obvious that Elliott’s relationship to Dr. Noble was personal. “I’m sorry.”
“If this is a money issue…”
Tyler's face tightened. "I don't give a shit about your money, Mr. Elliott. What I care about is the safety of my men. No amount of money is going to bring back Ramirez, Jung, or the LT.”
“I didn't mean to offend you, Ensign. I'm just willing to do anything to ensure the safety of Dr. Noble." His eyes were full of desperation.
Tyler softened. “I’ll do everything in my power to find her. You have my word.”
Elliott seemed somewhat relieved.
“We move out as soon as Hawkeye touches down,” Tyler shouted. “Carry out our dead. Nobody gets left behind.”
“Aye, sir,” they shouted.
“Faulkner, take point,” Tyler said. “And blast the ever-living-shit out of anything that moves.”
“Hooyah!”