Synchronicity Trilogy Omnibus

by Michael McCloskey

  “Fractures,” two handlers said in unison.

  “Patton,” one continued.

  “Pandora,” said the other.

  Bren heard the kah-wump of glue grenades going off. Glue tendrils whipped past the view on Meridian, but he couldn’t tell who tried to glue whom.

  Boom. Boom.

  Bren sighed and watched the tactical. He’d lost track of the sniper that had engaged Meridian, but he assumed the person wasn’t a major threat to the ASSAILs.

  Nothing I can do but watch, he told himself again.

  “Pandora’s down,” a handler said. “I’m putting in for a transfer.”

  Bren wasn’t too concerned. The handlers could screw up and cause trouble for a mission, but trouble in a mission didn’t mean they had screwed up. Still, the handlers were serious about their jobs and often took it personally when their machine was killed. Much as Hoffman exhibited the opposite reaction—pride—when Meridian survived time and again.

  Boom.

  The firing slowed. The tactical display updated to show more dead security machines out on the concourse. Bren swept the view around in the virtual pane trying to find a symbol indicating a Red kill. There was none.

  “That was close. I think we could have easily lost more machines there,” Bren said aloud.

  “Lucky Meridian,” Hoffman said, smiling.

  Bren smiled. Hoffman must be very unpopular among the handlers.

  “Well, I hope he makes it again,” Bren said. “You know a lot of people wanted us to keep Meridian down. I had a hard time explaining he’s the same as the others except for the name and handler.”

  But as Bren spoke the words, he wondered whether Meridian was the same now. Why did he still have the doubt?

  Marines hustled out onto the concourse, sticking to the storefronts and hauling away the glue-covered figures in gear. One or two more shots rang out as they discovered another sniper hiding in a service corridor that joined the concourse from the other side. Bren saw their skinsuits lighten to blend in with the pale walls and bright concourse lights.

  Bren watched the camera view move back and forth across the concourse as marines set up their positions. A team of engineers began widening the pathway from the hangar to the concourse, creating an access road from the Vigilant to the main concourse. Bren monitored the radio traffic on the marine channel as they set up a laser-armed hardpoint in the hangar to guard the umbilical entrance.

  “Time to play leapfrog again,” Henley announced a half hour after the firefight on the concourse.

  The ASSAIL machines took his cue and strode away.

  They have no trouble discerning Henley’s meaning. Of course, they wouldn’t. These things are ten times smarter than a security drone. They’re smarter than I am.

  “The incursion plan calls for spinward progress toward the spaceport,” Henley said.

  Bren wondered why Henley had stated that, then realized that the ASSAIL machines were headed in the opposite direction.

  “We have an opportunity nearby,” Meridian said. “A massive lab is situated less than half a kilometer from here. I believe Slicer may be there, and I have reason to believe that it wants to protect something there.”

  Henley didn’t answer, but Bren could imagine what was going through his mind. The marine commander was probably on the verge of deciding that he’d rather not have the ASSAIL units on his side at all. A space force commander could not rely on them and could not order them around for fear of demonstrating his own inferiority to them. Bren felt certain that younger AI cores would obey direct commands, but each time a human told one to do something suboptimal, it would learn more about the limitations of its creators. He wasn’t sure what Meridian would do anymore.

  The machines split into two groups. Bren scouted ahead in his PV, checking out their intelligence on the terrain before them. There was indeed supposed to be a major lab facility nearby. It looked like the machines had split up to cover two main entrances. There were additional security hardpoints in the area, but they had already destroyed the only laser emplacement out on the concourse.

  An urgent voice called out on the marines’ channel.

  “The grenades are moving out! No one’s given them the go-ahead!”

  “We need them,” transmitted Meridian. “Slicer is in the lab. There are unstable compounds in there that could be used to our advantage.”

  “Are you sure they can make it that far?” Bren asked.

  “I’ve provided an efficient route that takes advantage of the terrain. The devices will make it.”

  Bren knew better than to contradict the core. If it said the grenades would make it then he didn’t doubt it.

  “Damn! Those things are moving! They’re ricocheting off this corner!” exclaimed a marine commander in the station.

  “It’s like a train of grenades coming down the ramp!” someone else said.

  “Stay out of their goddamn way,” Henley said.

  Bren watched in fascination as a line of grenades hurtled past Meridian’s front camera view into the lab. Bren wondered which five were the incendiary grenades. The last grenade rolled by in a perfect pattern, following the exact course of its predecessors.

  A second later, the lab exploded. The Guts shook. Pieces of loose equipment fell onto the rubberized deck. Bren hoped the breach umbilical held fast to the station.

  Hoffman and a couple of the other handlers cursed and gripped their niches. Bren couldn’t blame them. If the station broke apart, the Vigilant would be in for a rough ride.

  “Any sign of the Red?” Bren asked.

  “I dunno. Is the whole station going to explode?” Henley snarled on the private channel.

  “I doubt it,” was all Bren could say.

  “We’re not going in there until the smoke clears. That explosion was hot, though. The Red had to be damaged, at least.”

  Henley spoke to the space force marines. “Use your vac masks, if the chemicals from the lab explosion don’t get you, then the fire control measures will.”

  Bren saw gray smoke and white mist curling out of the lab. He imagined one or the other was a fire control spray that had been deployed after the explosion. How did the ASSAILs know this wasn’t the Red’s plan? It could be a chemical or biological attack.

  How much have the Reds learned about human biology? It’s gotta be a lot more than we know about theirs.

  The white mist began to thicken and spread. Bren assumed it was fire control spray.

  “Visibility is dropping here,” someone said.

  “Pull the scouts back to the concourse entrance,” Henley said. “This should clear up, if the goddamn station doesn’t rip itself apart first.”

  Bren refocused on his tactical. The ASSAILs moved back to the concourse entrance, then on toward the spaceport as originally planned.

  Henley surprised Bren by sending several squads of marines straight after the ASSAILs toward the spaceport.

  “We’ve done some reconnaissance of the spaceport while your friends were blowing up the station,” Henley transmitted to Bren. “It looks clear, so I’m going to go ahead and get some men to secure that objective.”

  “Surely the ASSAILs are aware of your recon,” Bren said. “So, why are they still headed there?”

  Henley grunted but didn’t answer. Bren concluded he was probably satisfied that at least the ASSAILs were back on the incursion plan.

  Meridian’s camera showed a wide branch of the concourse splitting off, offering entrance to the spaceport. The view showed a couple of marines hunkered down by some support columns near the entrance. As the camera jogged with the ASSAIL’s steps, Bren recalled the quiet footsteps from the last mission. He magnified the audio for a few seconds to check it out.

  Meridian’s footsteps were clearly much quieter than the ASSAILs usually sounded. Bren cursed. Whatever had happened to Meridian before was happening again.

  The war machines tromped into the spaceport terminal. Along the right side of the cam
era feed, Bren saw a long line of tall, wide windows offering a view out onto the inner face of Synchronicity, where the spaceplanes landed to match the spin of the station. It was a strange union of a simple Earth airfield with the exotic view of a space ring. Bren didn’t often see it since the Vigilant wasn’t an atmospheric craft, and was one of the few specialized craft that could land on the outside of a space station, a tricky prospect given the spin of the space habitats.

  The inside of the terminal appeared uninhabited. Rows of chairs were interspersed with luggage carriers and support columns. A set of conveyor belts and rows of manicured airscrub brush dominated the center of the room.

  “There it is! I see the fucking Red!” shot the voice of a marine across the channel.

  “We have the Red, it’s out on the runway,” someone confirmed. “Damn! It’s fast. It slipped around that passenger shuttle.”

  Meridian’s camera swept back toward the waiting area by the windows. Bren caught sight of the Red dot at last, out on the runway in the vacuum of space.

  Captain looked to be about three hundred meters away, maybe farther. The alien stopped and sat motionless out on the runway for a moment, as if to taunt the ASSAILs. Then a wavering distortion of the light made Bren blink. It looked as if the spinner stood on a hot desert highway with the heat shimmer engulfing it.

  A hundred meters of the giant plate windows in the waiting area cracked from left to right in about a second. Bren imagined what must have happened: hundreds or even thousands of invisible cutter molecules sprayed out to fracture the glass.

  “Masks! Masks!” yelled Henley.

  Bren felt it wasn’t necessary. It was clear to everyone in that waiting area what was about to happen. He saw a marine dive for a stairwell out of the corner of Meridian’s camera view. The windows exploded outward onto the inner surface of the station. Bren saw debris flying. The air must have left the atrium in a few seconds. The tactical view showed doors closing throughout the area to contain the atmosphere in the station.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  The ASSAIL units pursued Captain out onto the runway, shooting as they went. The alien spun away, almost too fast to spot. The creature seemed to move even faster in an airless environment. But there wasn’t much cover out on the inside face of the station. Only three spaceplanes and a few maintenance vehicles lay between the observation windows and the spinner.

  “If they’re headed out there, then they’re going it alone,” Henley said. “My men are pulling back to a pressurized zone.”

  That didn’t surprise Bren. The vac masks the marines had would save their lives when an area became depressurized, but the men wouldn’t last long in such a cold, dangerous environment. They had to retreat.

  Boom. Brrrooom.

  Captain evaded the fire. Craters started to pock the runway as the 12mm rounds dug into it. Bren could imagine what Henley would be saying. He hoped the structure of Synchronicity was so massive that it could absorb a great deal of such punishment without flying apart.

  “Oblivion is dead,” a handler said. “I don’t know how.”

  Bren checked Oblivion’s last status. The machine had fractures.

  Could have been Captain or a lucky shot by someone else. Or a cutter molecule may have hit its core in the right place to knock it out.

  Bren heard Henley cursing on the marine channel. The safety measures on the local airlock doors weren’t working. Apparently, Captain had disabled them. Some marines were out in the vacuum and couldn’t get back in.

  “Fractures on Plato,” a handler said.

  “Fractures on Meridian,” Hoffman said. Bren detected strain in Hoffman’s voice.

  Boom. Boom.

  The 12mm sounded different now between Meridian and the other machines. The lack of atmosphere blocked out the audio sensor’s pickup, but the cannons still caused vibrations that were loud in Meridian’s chassis.

  “Plato’s lost the left magazine,” a handler said. “But I think it may have clipped Captain. It put a hole through—”

  Bren kept watching Meridian’s feed. It moved rapidly up behind Plato. The ASSAIL in view jerked and then sprawled onto the runway.

  “Plato’s out. Plato’s out,” someone announced. “Shit. It put some holes through the spaceplane the spinner was hiding behind.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Henley said. Bren didn’t know why Henley cursed. Bren saw Patton and Panzer walking side by side to the left of Meridian on the tactical display. Bren couldn’t keep track of everything. Captain was somewhere out there flitting around the planes. Or what was left of the planes. Some of them had been reduced to debris littering the inner surface of the station.

  Boom. Boom.

  Meridian’s view faltered. Escaping gas and debris obscured the camera view. Bren watched the gray runway surface grow closer to the camera.

  “More fractures … no!” Hoffman said.

  “Is he …?”

  “He’s fallen to the ground,” Hoffman said.

  Maybe the leg was hit? Bren thought aloud.

  The camera angle changed again, but Bren still saw only the runway surface as if the camera looked sharply down. He checked Meridian’s diagnostics in his PV. Everything appeared normal.

  “He’s faking it!” Bren said.

  “That’s it. He’s faking it,” agreed Hoffman urgently.

  Brrrooom. Brrrooom.

  Bren heard more salvoes from either Patton or Panzer. Bren felt the Guts shudder slightly.

  “We’re freezing out here!” someone said on the marine channel.

  Several others echoed the same urgent announcement. The marine’s equipment wasn’t enough to protect them for long.

  Meridian’s view righted itself. Bren saw Plato’s chassis sitting on the runway. The spinner whirled out from behind it for a split second, its spherical shape imprinted on his mind in an instant.

  Brrrooom.

  The orb exploded. Plato’s torso hurtled into view then smashed into the forward camera bubble. Bren’s view became marred by white streaks of stress damage in the plastic lens shield, but the camera feed was intact.

  Bren felt another tremor.

  Please hold together awhile longer.

  “Captain’s dead!” Hoffman exclaimed. “Meridian is invincible!”

  Bren smiled, but said, “So he is. Should I be happy or worried?”

  Seventeen

  “The cores have been up for over twelve hours,” Bren said aloud in the Guts. “We need to get them back and shut down.”

  “Colonel Henley wants at least one machine to crack the hangar with the … whatever the hell it is,” Hoffman noted.

  The last pocket of Synchronicity security forces guarded what the UNSF intelligence indicated was an alien spacecraft. It was the crown jewel of the mission, completely unknown at the beginning of the deep space incursions. The marines had moved in on the hangar but found stiff resistance around three security hardpoints, each with a laser emplacement. A handful of robots and desperate, heavily armed locals were using the cover of the hardpoints and the lasers to keep the UNSF marines at a distance.

  They must be under spinner control, or they would have already surrendered. Whatever is in there is clearly important.

  Bren knew Hoffman hoped Meridian would get the task of busting into the hangar. That machine was the most qualified, even with the minor damage it had received. It was also the machine Bren wanted to shut down immediately. Its superiority was dangerous; Bren already felt it might be too late. What could they do if the machine refused to come in and tried to spread its control over the whole station? Or back to Earth?

  As if Bren didn’t already have enough to worry about, he also wondered if Jackson’s electronic warfare team was up to the task of isolating the station from Earth communications. That would trap any rampant AI core here, keeping it from spreading electronically.

  “Meridian and Panzer. Prepare for stand down. Return to the Vigilant.”

  “Belay that,” Jameson’s voi
ce came on the channel. “I have dire news. The Chinese fleet has engaged us. We’ve lost two cruisers so far. The support fleet has been forced to withdraw.”

  “Then shouldn’t we …”

  “The Vigilant can’t disengage. It would never make it out of there anyway. The only reason you’re still in one piece is because you’re attached to the station. No doubt the Chinese are after the same thing we are.”

  There was a pause. Then Jameson continued.

  “Your orders are to defend the alien craft at all costs. If you can’t keep it out of Chinese hands, then destroy it.”

  Bren looked around the Guts and saw stunned faces that must be mirroring his own. He’d only read about such grave missions in books as a kid, and now it was happening to him in real life.

  “Yes, sir,” Henley answered without skipping a beat. “We’ll deploy to protect the craft. Bren, we need the remaining ASSAIL units now more than ever. They still have an operational lifespan of … about thirty-eight hours, correct?”

  Thirty-five hours, Bren thought to himself. And Henley knew that as well.

  “Correct,” Bren said. “But it may be critical to cycle them now, before the Chinese make an incursion. They’ve been up for a long time.”

  “Bring one of them in at a time,” Jameson said. “I think the Chinese will go straight in. I doubt they’ll be playing games. They want that craft and they want it before the UNSF can bring more force to oppose them.”

  Bren thought about the news for a few more seconds. If the Chinese were coming here to seize Synchronicity, which machine did he want running for the longest time?

  “Panzer. Prepare for stand down. Return to the Vigilant,” Bren ordered. He saw from the tactical that the machine appeared to obey the order. If the tactical wasn’t being tampered with, then the machine was moving quickly back toward the Guts.

  “This is Henley,” said the major on the ASSAIL channel. “My retrieval team assigned to find the remains of the Red named Slicer is telling me that we don’t have it.”

  “It’s still out there?”

  “Most likely. We found pieces. No way to know if they are real or some kind of deception. But the thing isn’t there; at least, most of it isn’t there. The explosion was hot, but it got shut down quickly by the fire controls, and these guys know their shit. I’m told there’s an eighty percent chance the thing didn’t die.”