by Todd McAulty
“Zero signature,” Sergei said, from the drone station in the command center. “You do not register with any drone in service.” There was an element of surprise to his voice, as if he hadn’t believed the jammer really worked until just now.
“Fabulous,” I said. “Makes you wonder if there are any more of these gadgets. And how many other people are out there, creeping stealthily right under the noses of all these flying watchdogs. And what they’re up to.”
Sergei had listened to the tale of my adventures in the Continental with focused attention. I had omitted any mention of Black Winter’s strange episode of semiconsciousness, of course, as well as details of Machine Dance and her fate, but they weren’t really necessary elements of the story anyway. When I was done, Sergei offered a very different theory about why the Venezuelan war drone had ambushed us.
“It was looking for drone pilots,” he said.
“Drone pilots?”
In response, Sergei had pointed across the room, where two young technicians monitored the biggest cluster of screens in the command center.
“There are one hundred and sixty-four networked Venezuelan drones in service above Chicago at any time. No more than one hundred and twenty are needed for adequate street coverage. The others serve many purposes. High-security communications, specialized military surveillance, close-combat support, standby medical units, many others. But chiefly, they are for aerial combat.”
“Aerial combat? With what?”
“The battle for Chicago is over. But battle for control of Chicago airspace . . . it continues. AGRT estimates that there are over thirty parties with operational aerial combat units over the city.”
“Thirty parties . . . Good Lord. Who are they?”
“Who are they not? All four members of AGRT have presence—Argentina, Venezuela, Bolivia, and Panama. Also major regional players: Americans, Union, Mexico, Cuba, Canada. Breakaway republics such as Manhattan and Aruban Prefecture. Foreign powers allied with any of the above: China, Korea, Japan, and others. Opportunistic powers seeking to exploit situation for their own purposes, including some multinational corporations, and powers with unknown sympathies, such as Sentient Cathedral. No single player is powerful enough to sweep others off board, so result is ongoing, covert drone battle between multiple unknown parties—all of whom have different objectives, technologies, allies, enemies, and targets.”
“Wow,” I said, looking over at the two technicians. “What a mess. I bet those guys are busy.”
“Da. AGRT loses many drones each week. Also, we destroy or damage many others, and analyze remains for clues to whom we are fighting, and why.”
“That sounds fun.”
“Da.” Sergei leaned closer, picking up the drone jammer unit. “Foreign aerial units, such as Chinese and Korean, cannot operate remotely on foreign soil. They need covert operational bases inside city. To land, recharge and refuel, and repair drones when necessary. There are many such bases. Those who operate them—”
“—are called drone pilots,” I guessed. “I get it. So you think the Venezuelan war drone mistook us for enemy drone pilots?”
“Da. There has been considerable foreign activity near Continental in past forty-eight hours. Likely you were simply in wrong place at wrong time.”
I considered that. If Sergei was right, it undermined Black Winter’s theory that the presence of the war drone proved Venezuela was behind the attack at the biolab. It didn’t completely contradict Black Winter’s theory, but it did provide a plausible alternate explanation for events.
And Sergei’s suggestion was definitely plausible enough. It was certainly worth sharing with Black Winter to get his take, anyway.
“You going to report the existence of the lab to the Venezuelan Provisional Government?” I asked Sergei.
“I should. Unfortunately, they will want to know how I learned of lab. And then . . .” Sergei picked up his big green tablet. “They will want to know why you never left Continental.”
“Hmm. That’s a good point. Best we keep our mouths shut about this, for now.”
“I think that wise.”
A few minutes after I’d turned the drone jammer back on, I stood at the crest of another hill. It wasn’t nearly as high as my hotel room, but it did give me a relatively unobstructed view of the south of the city. I could see hundreds of skyscrapers from here, most dark and uninhabited. Chicago looked like it was slumbering, abandoned.
There were a few spots of activity. In some of the closer buildings I could see tiny lights—candles, flickering in the windows. Welcome evidence that there was still some life in the city. A little farther out, scattered on the streets that crisscrossed the dark landscape, I saw the lights of about a dozen AGRT checkpoints, where the Venezuelans and their friends still exerted total control over all travel in the city. And about two miles to the northwest was the bright rectangle of a newly constructed airstrip. Drones of all sizes buzzed around it, dozens of them, like fat wasps around a hive.
And maybe three miles to the west and south were the brilliantly lit buildings of ComSec, the Venezuelan machine depot. After the Union destroyed most of the Venezuelan heavy war machines in their daring strike on Grant Park in January, Venezuelan high command leveled two city blocks and consolidated Machine Operations with their allies in a more easily defensible position. Even from this distance I could see huge machines lumbering around the massive staging area. Most were bigger than the forty-foot robot that had defended the hotel from the Juno five days ago—much bigger. They moved slowly, deliberately, like stately metal giants. I couldn’t make out much detail from this distance, and I had no desire to. I jogged down the path until I could no longer see them, relieved my planned route would take me no closer.
Most of the rest of the trip south was uneventful. The only thing worth mentioning was a long walk through a concrete underpass. It was so dark I could barely see my hand in front of my face. But the road was mostly clear, except for a bottle I accidentally kicked, sending it bouncing and finally smashing, deep into the shadows. I fixed my eyes on the far end of the tunnel and kept walking.
About halfway through, I heard them. I’m not sure what they were, but they were definitely there. Following me in the darkness. Every time I stopped, I could hear them skittering behind me. Not even being particularly quiet. There was an odd squeaky chatter, like talking.
It was like being followed by Munchkins. If I stopped too long, they stopped too. I still couldn’t see anything.
“Are you out of underpass?” Sergei asked. There was a lot of breakup in the signal, but I could just make him out.
“Almost,” I said. “If I don’t make it, it’s because I got eaten by mutant rats.”
“Mutant rats in Chicago, they are no concern,” said Sergei. “Not like rats in Novosibirsk.”
“Yeah?” I was nearing the exit, and the signal was improving.
“Rats in Novosibirsk, they are like raccoons.”
There was a rattle on my right. A stone skipped across my path. I kept walking.
I emerged from the underpass, kept walking for several seconds. I no longer heard sounds of pursuit. A dozen yards out I turned around.
I could just make out a few of them, clustered near the edge of the tunnel. Or rather, I could see their eyes, bright and shiny. Not ratlike. They looked more curious than hungry. They were the size of large cats, but I couldn’t make out exactly what they were.
“It’s getting late,” Sergei said.
“Roger,” I said. “Picking up the pace.” I started walking again, happy to leave behind all those bright eyes in the dark.
I approached the Field Museum from the north. Years ago, I’d gotten a glimpse of it at night. It was awash with light, and bright banners hung between the colonnades, advertising a special exhibition on prehistoric plants. You could spot it miles away.
None of those things were true today. But the museum was still right where I’d left it, and it was still huge. It was
designed like a Greek temple, with a clean white edifice and dozens of marble columns. In front of the steps leading to the entrance was about ten acres of lawn—lawn that had not been cut or tended in many months. On my left was the aquarium, and behind the museum was Soldier Field, which had been used as a chaotic staging area for the November evacuations.
I was in good cover, about three hundred yards from the north entrance. It was bright enough to see the soldiers. I’d expected them to be patrolling the grounds, easy to keep an eye on, but they were huddled near the entrance, looking cold and bored.
“Sergei,” I said. “There are soldiers. With real guns.”
“Wait,” said Sergei.
I would have preferred a plan that didn’t involve sneaking around soldiers. With real guns. Sergei’s med tech buddies in the War College were able to secure the data for us, but no one had come up with a way to get it to Sergei through official channels.
So we were trying Sergei’s unofficial route. The data was packaged up and waiting for me on the second floor; all I had to do was cat-burgle my way into the building and get it. A building filled with Venezuelan soldiers, dinosaur bones, and a few vials of plague. What could possibly go wrong?
Sergei kept me waiting for over ten minutes. I was cold before, but after ten minutes of standing in a clump of bushes, wet from the thighs down in 40-degree weather, plague began to seem like the least of my worries.
“Sergei,” I said.
“Wait,” said Sergei.
“How long am I waiting? Seriously, I’m freezing to death.”
“Wait,” said Sergei.
“This sucks.”
I heard the thing before I saw it. Flying at low altitude, approaching from the west. It dipped down over the lawn, and I got my first glimpse of it. Fat and sluggish and cigar-shaped.
“What the hell is that?” I said.
“Venezuelan service drone,” Sergei said.
“Are you controlling it?”
I heard Sergei punching away at a keyboard, heard him curse mildly under his breath. “Almost,” he said.
The thing was flying shaky loops over the lawn. One of its rotors was out of sync.
“It’s making a helluva lot of noise,” I said.
“Is damaged.”
It definitely looked it. It didn’t seem capable of flying in a straight line. Two soldiers stepped out from under the cover of the pavilion to see what was going on. They watched the drone do its lame low-altitude dance. One of the soldiers was speaking into his shoulder. Another soldier stepped out of the shadows to join them.
“Sergei, this isn’t working. I think they’re calling up additional soldiers. We need to draw attention away from the north entrance, not get them all bunched up here.”
“Wait.”
I felt frustrated and anxious, but I held my tongue. I’m glad I did. About ninety seconds later, the drone pitched right, built up speed, and then flew smack into the north wall of the Field Museum.
The impact made a crunch I felt in my bones three hundred yards away. The drone bounced once, skidding along the wall. One of the rotor housings buckled, pinching the spinning rotor inside. There was a spray of sparks, a flash of flame, and then the machine disintegrated, scattering buckled metal and parts in a wide arc across the lawn.
“Damn,” I said.
“I have lost contact with drone,” said Sergei. “What is happening?”
I wasn’t sure what was happening. The soldiers were running. They hunkered low and ran across the field toward the crash site. One of them turned around and waved excitedly, and two more soldiers came out of the shadows of the colonnade.
“Hot damn,” I said. “I think it worked.”
“What is happening?”
“All five soldiers have abandoned their post. Nice work.”
“Get inside museum.”
“I’m moving.”
The soldiers had formed a circle around the crashed drone and were approaching it warily. They were distracted, but it was tempting fate just a bit too much to saunter across three hundred yards of muddy lawn to the entrance. If even one of them glanced over her shoulder, they’d spot me in an instant.
Instead, I made my way around the lawn on the west, sticking to the scrub whenever I could. I made several sprints in the open, but nothing too nerve-racking. The hard part was the last eighty yards—completely exposed, and in relatively bright lighting. I swear one of the soldiers glanced my way at least once, but I somehow managed to make it to the steps unseen, and dashed up the marble to the entrance.
I hid behind one of the pillars. I was breathing hard, probably harder than I should be after an eighty-yard sprint.
“What is your position?” Sergei asked.
I was having trouble getting my breath. I squatted, putting my hands on my knees.
“Acknowledge,” said Sergei.
“Shit, give me a minute.”
“You are in poor shape,” said Sergei matter-of-factly.
“It’s running up the damn steps. I think I’m gonna puke.”
“A bad idea.”
“If you say so, coach.” Reluctantly, I got to my feet. “Let’s get inside.”
About a hundred and twenty yards to the east, the soldiers were kicking at the fragments of the drone. They were talking animatedly, and one was trying to stamp out flames on a small section of smoking grass. The closest soldier was about sixty yards away, and twice I saw her look my way. I was fairly sure I was hidden by the shadows, but I kept my movements slow, and used cover whenever I could.
There were multiple glass doors at the top of the marble steps, but the first ones I tried were chained. I worked my way along until I found a single unchained door. It was electronically locked, but the GPU card Sergei had given me dealt with that quickly enough. Inside was a second set of glass doors; beyond that was a table with a heavy military backpack and two coffee cups.
I’d taken no more than three steps toward the inner glass door when a heavyset man with an automatic rifle appeared behind it.
He kicked it open. The rifle came up, leveled at my neck.
“¿Quién eres?” he said.
I put my hands up, managed a smile. “Hi,” I said.
“¿Quién eres? ¿Dónde están los guardias?”
“Do you speak English?” I said.
“What is it?” said Sergei.
The soldier was talking rapidly in Spanish, hurling questions at me. He came closer, walking around me on my left. The gun never wavered from my neck. It looked like the most dangerous thing I’d ever seen. My neck felt naked and exposed, and prickly sweat broke out all along my back.
“Can I show you my identification?” I said. I pointed at the breast pocket of my jacket with my right hand. “Identification?”
“Is it a soldier?” Sergei asked.
The soldier didn’t like that suggestion. He took three quick steps forward, slammed the business end of the rifle into my collarbone, forcing me back. He was shouting at me now.
“Ow,” I said. I kept my hands in the air.
I heard Sergei typing urgently. “His name. I need his name.”
The soldier was still shouting. Spittle was flecking at the corners of his mouth. Jesus, that wasn’t a good sign.
He thrust the weapon at me again. I raised my hands even higher. “Okay, okay,” I said.
The soldier was starting to look around. He was glancing over his shoulder at the outside door. Probably looking for the other soldiers. When he found them, he’d shout for them, too.
“His name,” said Sergei.
The soldier’s uniform was very dark. It was multilayered, with a combat vest on top of a tightly woven turtleneck, and a light jacket on top of that. There were a lot of electronics sewn into the vest. A thick belt supported a sidearm, a heavy metal flashlight, some kind of pouch. I caught a glimpse of a small name tag above the left breast pocket, but it was covered by the jacket and I couldn’t quite make it out.
“I n
eed to speak to your commanding officer,” I said.
He’d taken a few steps back, was craning his neck to see outside. When I spoke he snapped back toward me, raising the gun a few inches. “Silencio,” he said.
The more he raised the gun, the more his jacket fell open. I could almost read the tag. If I could inch slightly to the left . . .
I kept my mouth shut, and the soldier backed up toward the door. He dug in his pocket, produced a key, and reached to his right, pressing the key against a wall panel.
I risked a single step to the left.
The soldier didn’t immediately react. His attention was focused outside. He backed up again, nudging the door open with his foot.
“His name starts with G-R-A-N,” I said, as loudly as I dared.
I heard Sergei typing. The soldier stepped outside, keeping the gun on me from the doorway. He glanced left and right, then waved for me to follow him outside.
“Okay,” I said. I stepped out into the cool night air.
The soldier’s shoulder squawked.
He seemed a little surprised. He plucked something off his shoulder, put it in his ear.
I heard Sergei talking in Spanish.
The soldier was listening intently. He started to object, but Sergei shut him down smoothly. The soldier stared at me, gradually lowering his gun.
“Tell him your name is Cooper,” Sergei told me.
The soldier and I stared stupidly at each other for a moment. Then I pointed at myself.
“Cooper,” I said.
The soldier said something in Spanish.
“Answer him,” Sergei said.
Jesus. “Splendid job,” I told him awkwardly in English. “You’re, ah, you’re very on the ball. Not like those other slackers.”
I heard Sergei typing again. “Keep him occupied,” he said. “Say anything. He doesn’t understand English.”
“Thank God,” I muttered. To the soldier, I said, “You’re looking very dapper tonight. Really. It’s so rare that someone makes an effort when they’re on duty.”
Sergei started speaking in Spanish again, saving me from having to continue. When he was done, the soldier nodded, falling to attention and giving me a clumsy salute. He stammered what sounded like an apology.