“So, forever, then.”
The Core doesn’t deign to answer, so I acknowledge the order and close the feed. I try not to think about what comes next, but it happens anyway.
The split is like a repeating déjà vu, with a side of circus mirror room and a pounding headache that won’t go away. My consciousness stretches and bends, and the jump kicks in, hurtling my fragmented self into routes aimed for the seventeen armored HOSTs. I try to monitor them all but I become lost in seemingly a thousand viewpoints, unable to focus on everything as the jumps all blur together.
The end of the jump—jumps—is jarring enough, but the termination points smash into my mind—minds—one after the other. Dizziness washes over me, and I pause in the reverberating silence.
Focus, Tackett. Slowly, I segment my thoughts—thoughts—and concentrate on each split-stream. My HOST—HOSTs—powers up, each running through diagnostics before coming online. The tactical feed is flush with HOST icons, and I mark them with phonetic designations so I can tell whom—whom—is whom.
I—they—move out.
*
I check my feed, confirming my designation, Tackett Alpha. The bunker I find myself in is narrow, barely wide enough for my HOST. An ammunition bay slides open and feeds into the HOST storage system, then quickly snaps shut. I am ready in seconds.
The bunker’s outer door creaks open, and I hurry out, the tac map already showing the massive threat of the infection only a klick away. I don’t get far before I realize it’s too much information to handle. It’s already too much, even before I consider my own HOST interfaces and weapon hardpoints.
My mind is racing to keep up, echoes of the other streams pounding at me. The tactical feed is buzzing with queries, and I need to sort everything. The split-streams are all moving, and I have to concentrate on defensive positions.
I step back into the bunker and hand out orders to the other sixteen HOSTs that have me inside them.
*
“Hotel, infection is closing,” Alpha says over the feed. An icon flashes, marked with my designation, Tackett Hotel, and the tac map is updated with my coordinates just to the south of the Core’s perimeter. “Load up and get moving.”
As soon as the ammunition bin closes, I head for the facility’s exit. The tac map is already going crazy, blips and amber alerts signaling the surge of the infection towards my position. Integrated weapons on the HOST click as the ammo feeds load up, and I start to mark priority targets.
The lighting in the hall flickers as I storm past, and I burst through the outer door, stepping onto the surface above. Wreckage surrounds me, debris from the abandoned habitats. Mixed ceramic alloys crumple under the weight of my HOST.
The infection is nearly on top of me, a towering, seething mass of corruption. A churning cloud of nanites separates and swarms towards me, and my hardpoints open up. Half a klick away the stream of flechettes bores into the swelling infection, ripping a temporary hole through the chaotic mass.
Ages of training, and the experience from countless combat missions, takes over. I hone in on the myriad targets, hardpoints shifting seamlessly as I pour fire into the nearest waves of infection. The tactical feed becomes a buzzing blur, my weapons shuddering as ribbon after ribbon of flechette rounds slams into the churning tide.
I don’t see the shifting debris above me until it’s too late.
Tricky bastard.
*
“Charlie, incoming!” my own voice booms into the tactical feed.
I see it already, of course, but I appreciate Alpha’s warning. My hardpoints flare out, maximizing area of effect, and I pour a stream of flechettes into the massed Purge. Blobs of dissolving nanotech slough off the infection, but any success is only temporary. The mass shivers and patches up its wounds, and several thick tendril shoots out of the Purge. I focus on the closest, but there are too many for my four hardpoints. Flechette fire stitches across the tendrils, but they only come harder, faster.
I take an involuntary step back as the infection surges, swarming over my armor. Electrical charges ignite a swath of nanites, burning them to a crisp, but there’s too much.
The Purge is all over me. I feed more juice to the HOST’s defenses, but the systems short out, overwhelmed. I taste the odor of burnt copper, and then cringe at the stinging sensation of parasitic nanites digging into my armor.
I push what’s left into my power core and hope this is all worth it.
*
Charlie goes down in a spray of corrupted nanites. A second later a fireball erupts where he fell, the blast wave plowing through the surrounding infection. The tactical feed opens up, and I hear Alpha barking orders. The tac map flashes, coordinates marked with HOST icons.
“Tackett November, support Delta here.” My icon blinks on the map, the location only a couple hundred feet to the east, near the ridgeline. Delta’s icon shifts on the tac map, placed behind the crumbling walls of a collapsed habitat. “Delta, hold this point.”
There’s no time to think, only to act. The infection has recovered and is surging past Charlie’s perimeter. I rush towards my designated point, integrated weapons cycling towards the threat, Dissolver rounds locked and loaded. The tactical feed is alive, my own voice sounding over and over, frenetic, calling and marking out targets. Alive, but it’s only a buzz in my audio, the ridgeline coming up and then I’m on it.
The infection is a tsunami, a towering wave of corrupted mass, and I am the tiniest ant before it.
*
November finally takes the ridgeline to my left. It’s a small relief at this point.
I watched as the infection rode over Charlie, slamming into his armored core like a giant hammer, sending him crashing into the old habitat’s debris. Flechette rounds tore into the infection all around him. His armor’s defenses sent out arcs of lightning that danced across warped nanites, flashes and pops as black shards burnt up.
The same infection that now swarms towards my position.
I hunker down behind the cracked remains of a wall and fire in wide bursts, spreading my fire in an effort to catch more surface area. A tendril of glinting darkness shoots forward and I focus it down with a steady stream of flechettes. Like a wound, the infection slumps into a puddle of sludge as the flechette rounds do their job, breaking down and dissolving the warped nanotech.
November is firing now, peppering the mass as it tries to surge between us. I turn my weapons on the same point, burning through a ribbon of ammunition. The infection splits and swirls towards me, hurling projectiles. Integrated systems track the inbound threats and flechette fire tears them apart. One of the projectiles spatters too close, and my HOST’s personal defense system opens up, electrical backlash arcing over the infection.
Another avatar, Hotel, flashes and slips into a dull gray as it fades from the tac map. I hope this is all worth it.
“What the hell’s it waiting for?” November asks. His fire rakes across the infection, his four hardpoints streaming countless Dissolver rounds.
I see what he means. The infection encircles our defensive perimeter. It’s attacking, but not aggressively. It could wash over us like the tide, but it almost seems to be waiting for something. Like it’s not sure what to do, or it’s holding for the order to sweep us away like bugs.
The infection is being deliberate.
“What the hell…” The shocked voice is my own, but not, marked on the feed as Alpha.
Someone replies, but I don’t hear it. The infection trembles, the surface quaking under my feet. The shattered habitat below shakes, a large chunk of the wall falling in on itself, a cloud of dust rising into the air.
I can feel it. Something has changed. A decision has been made.
A low roar sounds in my audio feed, and I realize it is the gathered mass of the infection as it surges forward. Like a titan it reaches out for me, for all of us. My peripherals pick up November. He steps forward, letting loose with all of his hardpoints, a barrage of flechettes obscuring
the blackened sky. The infection overcomes his fire and swarms over his HOST, drowning out the lightning arcs of his defenses. One of his HOST’s hardpoints shudders one last time, and then November is gone.
I’m not nervous as the glistening, chaotic horde of corrupted nanites closes on me. I feel a cold certainty as I open up with everything the HOST has, no longer worried about ammunition limits or overheating. Charlie didn’t cry out. November didn’t scream, not even at the end. And I won’t, either.
They are soldiers. They are me.
*
One of the many negatives to a split-stream is the feedback loop after. I experience the crash, the pain, the death of every one of my split-streams. Sixteen other mes, falling to the infection, slamming back into my primary stream. Echoes of them—me—rewind and play again, sixteen other lives and deaths like a whirlwind in my tortured mind. The worry that the infection found me, a way in through one of my streams, gnaws at me. Dizziness and nausea wash over me, and I have to stop to gather my bearings.
I have to stop but I don’t.
The Core’s bleating alarm screeches in my feed, a harsh, scrambled tone cutting through its warning. The alarm hits a peak and suddenly dies, leaving behind static and then a grim silence. The infection has breached the Core’s automated defenses.
Instinct takes over. My avatar is moving as soon as the alarm falls silent, the tac map marking designated routes as I rush towards the interior of the Core. My feet pound against the hard floor, my armored form weaving between panels and glinting obelisks. I hurdle thick power lines and circuit interfaces running across the surface, my focus on the tac map, scanning for breach points.
The central Core is enormous, a cavernous, vast hole. Zooming out, I see the virus, an amber, flashing icon near the upper surface, nearly five klicks away. It’s already beginning to spread, like an expanding wave, eating away at the Core’s outer layer.
I ping the Core, opening a private channel. “If you’ve got a solution, now’s the time.”No response.
“Can you hear me?”
The channel blinks, and I can’t help the rush of panic as a low, guttural sigh emanates through the feed. Hurriedly, I snap the feed shut. I keep moving towards the interior, wondering what it is I’m supposed to do now.
I vault over a power station and sprint through the opening of a side chamber. It takes me a second to realize where I am. Rows of dust-coated datastores line the chamber, maybe thirty of them, tall, oblong constructions jutting from the floor. Power and digital feeds run between them, the individual strands combining into one circuit that terminates at a central housing unit stationed on the far side of the chamber.
My footfalls echo across the chamber, the thuds and scrapes like an invasion of this sacred, silent place. I stop before one of the datastores and wipe the surface with my hand, smearing layers of dust across the console.
I had almost forgotten.
The scratch marks are still where I left them. My fingers trace the marks, and vague memories crystallize. Memories I didn’t know I still had.
The rush of that first resurrection, made clear by the jagged scratch on my datastore by a quaking hand. I feel the tingling nerves, and wonder if it’s more than that, being so close to me.
One mark, for every resurrection. For every life, and every death, at least until access to the Core was shut off.
Fifty-four scores dug into the outer hull of the datastore, buried by generations of grime. How many more might have been there? How many did I leave outside the Core, fighting an unwinnable fight against the infection?
Unwinnable. I can’t beat the virus alone. I couldn’t, not with seventeen of myself, not even with the elite soldiers I led into countless battles. We were never going to win.
I can’t let the infection have this. I can’t let whatever is behind it take my consciousness, or those that remain inside the Core. I don’t want to look upon this place with those inhuman eyes, like some stretched out alien nightmare.
The Core’s alert flashes in my feed. I realize that it has been flashing. I open the channel.
TACKETT-6E. Core systems compromised, fail-safes engaged—A long pause follows, the Core’s monotone voice cut off mid-sentence. When it resumes, it is not the same voice at all.
There is no need to fight this, Lieutenant Tackett. Dan. It is for the good. There is—The voice cuts short in a hissing burst of static, leaving me in stunned silence. It plays over in my head, no longer any doubt that the infection is in here with the Core. In here with me.
Fail-safes engaged. The thought tumbles in my mind. Fail-safes. The pieces snap together, and I know what to do.
I leave my datastore behind and rush through the chamber, pausing long enough to grab a power cell from one of the dim obelisks. My shoulder bangs against one of the silent, dark datastores just before I reach the main surface of the Core, and with a start I recognize the initials burnt into the metallic frame.
Hayes. I can’t help the smile. He would have liked this.
*
The ceiling of the Core’s main, cavernous chamber stretches away into gloom, like a towering cathedral. Power lines and circuit blocks glint in the shadow, light sources flashing as I sprint across the surface below. The infection reaches out with a sinuous, twisting arm and a section of the flashing circuits fades into darkness.
I race beside a huge power line that runs along the glinting floor, the thick reinforced cable easily as tall as me. I check the tac map again, marking the distance between my position and my objective. Two minutes.
The ceiling seethes above me, darkness creeping down the walls. I don’t have two minutes.
I barely need the tac map now. I can feel the Purge all around me, seeping into the Core. My weapons are primed and ready, but I hold my fire, unwilling to draw attention like that yet. The Core will have to hold its own, at least for now.
I am almost at the generator’s entrance, wide blast doors sealed shut, when the Purge finally seems to take notice. A large arm, flecks of gleaming nanite, breaks free overhead and falls in front of the blast doors. The infection shifts and warps.
A humanoid form stands before me, dark, glistening limbs lean and thin. It immediately reminds me of the corrupted avatar from the replay, staring at me with an alien, incomprehensible gaze.
The thing opens its mouth wide, a sick parody of a smile, and I focus a stream of flechettes at its head. The infection shrieks as I charge through it, blasting the corrupted matter over the walls of the generator entrance. Viral nanites hiss and smoke as the HOST’s electrical charges cook them.
The blast doors slide open as if I was expected. My feet clang on the reinforced alloy bridge, and I stop there, looking up at the generator’s massive dome. Electricity arcs over the surface, playing along the sharp lines of the generator. A vibrating buzz hovers over everything, and I can almost feel the static in the air, waiting for that match to light.
Maybe we can’t win. But that doesn’t mean the infection will, either.
I look down at the large power core in one armored fist, then back up at the enormous fusion generator. Not enough. I’ll need another.
Hopefully I can get by on the secondary. I shake my head at the absurdity of that thought. How am I supposed to get out of this, exactly?
The primary power cell in my HOST doesn’t want to come out, but I yank it loose of its holding with a final powerful twist, and the cell pops into my hand. The power cell is almost translucent, resistant glass-like alloys containing clustered hydrogen. I feel the drain in the HOST immediately, and a second later the smaller secondary comes online.
With a command, one of my hardpoints snaps open, and I pull out the arming system. Setting the charge takes another few precious seconds, and after I confirm the makeshift charge is ready I thrust both power cells into the ridge of the generator. I don’t have to wait for the shielding to come down, because the Core took care of this for me.
Fail-safe.
The Core—or wh
atever is in there—knows now, has to know what I’m up to. I close up the breaches in my HOST and jump over the ledge, moving as soon as I touch down. My weapon interfaces spin up, the tac map scanning for movement and finding it.
Shapes are following me, surging along the walls, tendrils reaching out. Targets move and shift all over my tac map, amber pockets of the infection moving to intercept my flight. The infection is spreading, and I know before long it will flood this place.
If I let it.
A thick, probing finger shoots out and one of my hardpoints opens up, obliterating the collected nanites. Another tendril slips down the rock and wraps around my armored torso, trying to hold me there. The HOST’s electrical arc dances over the infection, reducing the tendril into a blackened, smoking sludge. I wince at the shock that plays along my nerves but I keep moving, scrambling up the rock.
I’m back on the cluttered floor of the Core’s massive interior, moving as fast as my reduced HOST will allow. The infection spatters behind me, and I feel a sting in my back. I keep moving, afraid that if I stop the Purge will overwhelm me. Something hard slams into my shoulder, and I let loose another charge, lightning arcing over my armor. Hardpoints swivel, tracking the nearest targets, and a flurry of Dissolver rounds pelt the infection.
One of my legs is malfunctioning, but I don’t bother checking the damage assessment. It hurts, but I keep moving. Slower, but I can’t stop. It’s not worth it to stop.
I risk a glance behind me. The Purge is swarming over the walls now, surging over stone and bedrock, clambering into the feeds and circuits of the Core. The tac map is flooded with amber, an avalanche that cannot be resisted.
Keep moving, Tackett. I turn back towards the Core’s exterior, my hardpoints blasting away indiscriminately now. Anything moving is targeted. I’ll keep firing until I can’t. Better to leave it empty than not.
My feed pings, first with the low ammunition warning I knew was coming, and then by a channel request that I didn’t quite expect. I open it.
The Core screams.
I send the command and trigger the charge.
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