by Tori Harris
Instinctively, Creel darted back under the ship’s wing, crouching behind the port landing gear in the hopes of putting something … anything between himself and the direction from which he thought the shots had been fired. In spite of the relatively short sprint, his chest was heaving mightily from the massive dose of adrenaline now surging through his bloodstream. A distant, still rational part of his mind demanded he calm down and control his breathing to avoid going into shock, but with his primal, reptilian hindbrain currently in charge, such warnings were summarily ignored. Dropping to his knees beside one of Talionis’ tires, he looked forward to where the other two members of his team had been rigging the tow vehicle. At first, he couldn’t see either of them and for a brief moment had hopes they might have somehow taken cover in time. Upon a more detailed inspection, however, he could see an arm dangling from the near side of the vehicle.
He was alone. And the additional horror visited upon his psyche by this new revelation sent him immediately down on all fours where he vomited so forcefully and for so long he felt sure the effort alone would kill him. Is an aneurism less painful than a bolt from a particle beam rifle? he wondered. It’s definitely less messy and has the added benefit of denying the shooters the satisfaction of doing it themselves. Besides, there’s no shame in going out this way, right? It’s not that I’m a coward, after all, he told himself, staring hopelessly into the dark puddle of his own emesis, but I’m a physicist, an engineer, an academic … not a soldier. The closest thing I’ve ever had to any sort of military experience was that short stint in the Wilderness Scouts back in primary school. Why does this kind of thing keep happening to me, anyway? I’m in no way trained or cut out to be placed in situations like this, he concluded, slumping down with his back against the ship’s tire.
After sitting quietly for several seconds that seemed to stretch on for hours, Creel began to recover slightly, realizing with an odd surge of anger that he was doing absolutely nothing to improve his situation, let alone see to the mission at hand. Is this seriously the best you can do? he demanded, receiving no immediate answer to his own question. But even as the disconnected stream of thoughts and emotions continued, a fragment of some previously forgotten motivational speech shouldered its way into focus, demanding his immediate attention. Although he couldn’t quite recall the exact words, it was something about the only difference between a hero and a coward being the action they chose to take — or not take — when faced with a situation where they were more afraid than they had ever been in their entire life.
A situation just like this one, Creel. This is where it gets decided about you, right here, right now. So which one is it gonna be? Make your choice.
There was a brief pause during which he absently recognized the fact that he had been carrying on a conversation with himself. Was the key to making the choice to take action rather than die a coward’s death all about having the right conversation? Saying the right words to yourself?
I’m the only one left, he continued. I’ve got to get the ship out of here, and I’ve got to get myself out of here, and there’s only one way I can make both of those things happen at this point.
Castigan Creel had never driven, let alone piloted a vehicle of any sort in his entire life. Strangely, that particular problem was most likely not the biggest obstacle to his escape. In fact, he doubted the team’s now deceased “pilot” had done any real flying either beyond simulator training.
Long before the Alliance AI had declared all airspace above thirty kilometers to be a no-fly zone, manual control of all forms of transportation had been deemed unnecessary, unsafe, and, therefore, illegal by the Pelaran World Assembly. In spite of the dire situation, a distant part of Creel’s mind seethed at how restrictions on individual liberty always seemed to originate from his own people, not the all-pervasive AI. Even today, it was other members of his own species who were primarily responsible for enforcing the restrictions decreed from on high. In any event, Talionis’ onboard AI would do all of the flying … assuming, of course, she was still relatively undamaged and he could stay alive long enough to get aboard.
That’s what you’re missing. Think faster, you dumbass, he admonished himself, finally regaining some small degree of mental focus. How in God’s name am I still alive? There’s no way some twenty-five-year-old kid from DoCaS made any of those shots. It had to be another Warden, he thought, probably more than one.
After losing all three of his colleagues just two weeks earlier at the University of Taphis, Creel had spent some time reading everything he could find about the terrifying machines. Although there was precious little information available, he had learned enough to suspect very few WCS units were available to the Alliance AI for deployment on Pelara. They had, after all, been designed to handle heavy combat operations against battle-hardened troops in distant star systems, not for policing an unarmed civilian population already pacified centuries before. Local, protective custody enforcement operations instead came under the purview of the Department of Compliance and Safety, and they used Pelaran troops, not Wardens.
Obviously, the Alliance AI had been alerted to the fact that Creel’s team was engaged in activities serious enough to warrant special attention. But after reviewing all of the security cam footage from the attack at the university, it looked as if there had been only one Warden unit present. As powerful as they were, they couldn’t be everywhere at once, and it had been this simple fact that had spared his life that night.
Creel took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then scrambled back onto his knees. Regardless of who or what was doing the shooting today, or how many of them there were, they seemed to be content to remain under cover themselves for the moment. Was this another indication there were only one or two WCS units present? No way in hell, he thought, dismissing the idea as ridiculous. Even a single Warden would have no reason to believe the Pelarans posed any threat whatsoever. And there was little doubt it would have no hesitation walking right out into the open and killing each of them with impunity … perhaps even doing so without bothering to fire its weapon.
So why the delay in showing themselves? he wondered.
Whatever it was, the additional moments allowed Creel’s beleaguered mind to begin the process of analyzing the situation in more detail. Based on the orientation of the bodies, not to mention the fact that he had not been hit thus far, he was reasonably certain the shots had come from an adjoining tunnel, located roughly one hundred meters away off the ship’s starboard bow. As long as his enemies chose to remain there, the ship’s fuselage and landing gear offered reasonably good cover. Unfortunately, he was still convinced his only real possibility of escape was finding a way to make it into the cockpit. And, as his pilot had unequivocally demonstrated, there was little chance in doing so without being exposed to energy weapons fire.
Realizing that every passing second reduced his chance of success, Creel swallowed hard, then slowly raised his head above the level of the ship’s port tire. After scanning the area for any signs of movement, he quickly ducked behind cover once again. There was nothing. No shots, no DoCaS troops, no Wardens … no signs that anyone else was even in the area. There was only himself, the steady rumble of the ship’s idling powerplant, and the bodies of his former colleagues.
Maybe they didn’t see me and moved on, he thought, certain there was no way it was true.
Turning his body sideways, Creel leaned his right shoulder against the tire as he prepared to make a run for the ship’s boarding ladder. From the depths of his terrified mind, another memory surfaced, this time about an ancient sect of warrior monks whose code of conduct exhorted them to live as though their bodies were already dead, thus freeing them from needless fear. Funny, he thought, the jumble of random thoughts that come to mind when you think you’re about to die. Now squatting on his haunches, Creel’s body rocked from side to side like a cat preparing to pounce. I guess I wouldn’t have made much of a warrior monk, seeing as how I’m scared out of my
damned mind right now.
With that thought echoing in his mind, Creel leapt from behind the ship’s tire, took two enormous, bounding steps, and sprang for the fighter’s boarding ladder. Even before his hand was able to grasp for one of the rungs above his head, he was vaguely aware that the air above the ship had come alive with flashing lights and a vivid mix of rapidly changing colors. Seconds later, his body momentarily safe behind the fuselage, Creel dislodged the technician’s body from the top rung with a single shove, then reached up and removed the still mostly intact helmet from the pilot’s head.
Ignoring the already congealed blood, Creel donned the oversized helmet, then glanced up at the undulating pattern of light still coursing through the air above the ship. As his normally keen mind finally started to burn through the haze of fear once more, the recognition of what he was seeing took him completely by surprise. “Idiot!” he yelled at himself over the roar of Talionis’ powerplant. “The shields are up!”
Indeed they were, and had been since shortly after the first volley of energy weapons fire had killed the two nearest members of his team. Even with the incoming fire approaching at near the speed of light, Talionis’ near-field-entanglement sensors had provided the onboard AI an opportunity to respond in real-time. Doing so, however, had posed a moral dilemma regarding which lives it should attempt to save. If it had raised the shields immediately, the pilot and technician near the cockpit might have survived. Unfortunately, at that same instant, Creel was well aft of the ship, finishing his walk-around inspection. As he approached, the AI knew that contact with the shield system’s intense energy fields at the same moment it was absorbing the Wardens’ incoming weapons fire would have killed him instantly. Ironically, the ship’s AI had chosen to avoid taking a direct action that would have caused a single death, even though that same action might have prevented two more. Since then, the AI had made every effort to inform Doctor Creel it had raised the shields. Thus far, however, none of its warnings had been acknowledged.
Reaching up to the edge of the cockpit, Creel grabbed the pilot’s left arm, and dragged him bodily over the side to the ground below. Still only slightly less certain of his imminent demise than he had been just moments before, he took in a deep breath then held it as he slowly raised his head above the level of the fighter’s fuselage for the first time. The reaction seemed instantaneous. From the same direction as before, brilliant flashes of light flared against the ship’s starboard shields as the still hidden WCS units opened fire once again. Just as before, glowing waves of energy rippled up and over the open canopy before trailing away toward the ship’s stern.
Now reasonably confident he was protected from the Warden’s fire for the moment, Creel climbed to the top of the ladder, then quickly stepped over into the cockpit and allowed himself to plop awkwardly into the ship’s heavily armored seat. The fighter’s shields, he recalled, had sufficient energy dissipation capacity to handle impacts from the beam emitters carried by Guardian spacecraft — perhaps even the heavy energy cannons that once made up the primary armament of Pelaran battlecruisers. Well, as long as it was just a single hit at a time, he corrected himself. In any event, even as powerful as the Warden’s particle beams were, they were no match for Talionis’ shields, particularly with all of her powerplant’s considerable energy output available for the purpose.
With incoming energy weapons fire continuing to slam into the ship’s starboard shields, Creel realized it was time to get her moving and at least attempt an escape. At the same moment, he also realized he had absolutely no idea where the button to close and lock the cockpit canopy was located. Glancing frantically around the cockpit, he noticed that all of the various screens were still dark, indicating the onboard AI still considered itself to be in a preflight / maintenance mode with no requirement to prepare the ship for takeoff.
“AI, Creel,” he said aloud.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Creel,” the ship’s pleasant, female voice responded without hesitation.
“Seal the cockpit and prepare for immediate departure,” he barked, making no pretense of exchanging pleasantries.
“Command authority authenticated and accepted. Departure order acknowledged,” the AI responded, accompanied by a noticeable increase in the steady rumble of the ship’s powerplant.
As the canopy began lowering, Creel glanced in the general direction of his attackers, raised his right hand, and extended his middle finger defiantly — a gesture that, interestingly, had a remarkably similar meaning across thousands of Human worlds spanning two galaxies.
“All systems online and functioning within established operational limits,” the AI continued. “Hyperdrive charging. Maximum range hyperspace transition available in approximately nine zero seconds.”
“Damage report.”
“The ship has suffered no damage but is still under attack. Please note the tactical situation display for details.”
As project lead, Creel had at least some knowledge of practically every system onboard the ship. Unfortunately, his knowledge of the various components comprising the cockpit user interface was by no means sufficient to translate the complex displays into anything approaching situational awareness.
“I am not familiar with the symbology on the tactical situation display … I’m sorry, what has the flight control team been calling you again?”
“Usually Tess, sir. Although a few of them have been using less flattering names. I would be happy to assist you with the user interface. Unfortunately, you are currently experiencing an acute stress reaction, which reduces the accuracy of the ship’s neural interface to an unacceptable level. For now, we will simply interact verbally and via the cockpit UI.”
“Understood. Thank you, Tess,” he replied, slightly irritated that he was already thinking of the AI as a “her” rather than an “it.”
As strange as it might seem to outsiders, life under the oppressive Alliance AI had generally not resulted in a natural distrust of synthetic lifeforms among the Pelaran people. This was particularly true among engineers and scientists who still worked with advanced technology on a daily basis. Most viewed the “AI coup” not as a technological problem so much as a moral failure, or perhaps even a failure of imagination. The Alliance AI had been granted far too much authority, responsibility, and power — the results of which should have been predictable, even though the dictator in question had been manufactured rather than born. New systems with true sentience (like Tess) were now a rarity on Pelara. But advances in security, machine learning, and system ethics, it was hoped, now provided sufficient hardening to render them immune from compromise.
“I have decluttered and simplified the tactical display,” Tess continued. “The flashing red diamonds near the top right corner of the screen represent two hostile Warden Combat System units.”
“There are only two?”
“Only two have been detected thus far, yes. I recommend immediate action to neutralize both targets. Note that we currently have no weapons loaded in the internal bays or attached to any outboard hardpoints.”
“Your guns are online though, right?”
“Yes. The ship is equipped with two fully articulated dual particle beam turrets mounted conformally on both the ventral and dorsal surfaces. There is also a single kinetic energy cannon mounted in the starboard fuselage just forward of the cockpit.”
“The railgun? I didn’t realize they ever got that thing working.”
“The kinetic energy weapon became operational at 2304 hours local time yesterday. Loading operations were completed at 0115 this morning.”
“Excellent. Do you have a firing solution on the targets?”
“With the beam weapon turrets I do, yes.”
“And are we going to bring the mountain down on top of us if we open fire?”
“The probability is nonzero, but a significant collapse other than in the immediate area surrounding the point of impact is unlikely.”
“That doesn’t sound any risk
ier than allowing them to continue shooting at us. Targets approved. Fire when ready.”
With no discernible delay, Creel heard a faint humming sound from aft of the cockpit as the two dorsal turrets rotated rapidly in the direction of their targets. Less than two seconds later, all four particle beam cannons opened fire.
Within each weapon, positively charged hydrogen ions were accelerated until their velocity approached the speed of light. The resulting high energy proton stream then passed through a reaction chamber lined with a series of electron emitters, thus creating neutrally charged streams of hydrogen atoms. Although the stream was composed of what amounted to the smallest possible projectiles, each hydrogen atom travelled at the maximum speed possible in normal space. The result was an incredibly powerful, yet flexible weapon capable of delivering a variable amount of destructive power to its target as dictated by the current situation.
In this case, Tess’ targets were two heavily armored battle droids firing from behind cover composed of relatively soft limestone rock. Although not a particularly challenging target, the WCS units had already proven themselves to be extremely dangerous. Accordingly, Talionis’ AI initially set the weapons at fifty percent yield in hopes of minimizing the likelihood of escape.
The sound made by the weapons, while similar to the one Creel had heard in the university two weeks prior, was easily an order of magnitude more intense, instantly leading him to wonder if Tess had been wrong about collapsing the entire cavern complex. The beam produced by each weapon was normally invisible to the naked eye, but this mattered little within the atmosphere of a planet, where superheated channels of air briefly glowed with a wicked reddish-orange color before being replaced by white trails of condensing water vapor.