We don’t, the Endeavour said. The alternative is to wait for the undead to finish ravaging the planet. And sooner or later the machines will return to finish their experiment and wipe out life on Earth anyway. If you want to strike back at them – if you want to have even a remote chance – this is it.
“And then what happens?” asked a sergeant whose name I’d forgotten. “Your people get impressed and recruit us into their alliance?”
It was a rhetorical question and there was a bitter tone in his voice, but the Endeavour answered honestly. I don’t know. They might. It would involve sharing technology, but that’s not unprecedented. But, yes, they might ignore you and leave you at the mercy of a returning machine force. I am not a general or a strategist. I cannot promise you anything. All I can tell you is that they are monitoring the situation here very closely.
“The alliance doesn’t give a shit about us,” someone else said. “Do they?”
They care about the human race to the extent that it may prove a useful tool in the war against the machines. That is the only extent to which any member of the alliance is valued. Make no mistake: this is the most critical war which has ever happened in the history of this galaxy, and perhaps this universe. The machines exist to destroy every speck of life they can find. Everything is expendable to stop that from happening.
“If we’re going down, we may as well go down fighting,” Andy said.
“Fuck that,” someone else said, and someone else talked over the top of him, and a bit of an argument broke out. It was one I’d seen many times before, about how much the Endeavour could be trusted, whether nuking the machine base was a good idea. There were a lot of people who used the “poking a sleeping dragon” analogy, who thought that we were taking a dangerous risk; particularly since they were the ones lucky enough to have survived a zombie outbreak, and to have a good chance of continuing to survive it. It’s an argument I don’t agree with, but can still understand. There are still hundreds of millions of humans left alive on this planet, and by destroying the machine ground stations we are absolutely putting those lives at risk.
But then, as the Endeavour pointed out, we already have a Sword of Damocles literally hanging above us. If the machines aren’t still in orbit, they’ll be back some day, to gather their data and then finish what they started. Our only chance is to strike at the ground stations and hope that such a temporary blow to the alliance proves that we’re worth an investment of technology and recruitment. The Endeavour is noncommittal about how likely that is to work, but I can’t fault it. It genuinely doesn’t know.
The argument was broken up by Tobias banging a palm on the table. “Enough!” he barked. “This is a pointless argument. The decision has already been made, by higher powers than us. The operation is going ahead. So shut up and listen.”
He composed himself and carried on. “There are three remaining nuclear powers with functional governments – that is to say, governments with a reasonable level of control left over their military assets. Russia, China and India. Furthermore, we’ve been able to contact military assets from three nations which were formerly nuclear powers, but which have fallen into disrepair – the United Kingdom, France, and Israel – and an agreement with a US Navy commander in the Gulf of Mexico who commands a flotilla with at least half a dozen nuclear warheads.”
Tobias clicked his mouse, and a world map with black dots on it flashed up on screen.
“Here we have the locations of the ground stations. North Dakota, in the USA; Roraima State in Brazil; just south of Buenos Aires in Argentina; right on the Danube River in Austria; roughly the centre of the Democratic Republic of Congo, near Kindu; eastern Iran, in Kerman province; Pak Chong in Thailand; Zabaykalsky province in Russia near the Mongolian border; and – home sweet home – Ballarat, Victoria. They’re roughly equidistant from each other, and provide a sort of maintenance field on the undead. Locations outside the field – say, Antarctica, or far northern Russia, or French Polynesia, or the open ocean – are outside the effect.”
“Wait,” one of the civilians said. “The dead don’t come back there?”
“Correct,” Tobias said. “A CSIRO vessel took some specimens from Christmas Island down into the Southern Ocean, beyond the reach of the bases in the Congo or Ballarat. All the specimens weakened and then... well, you can’t call it “died,” because when they came back within range they animated again. So, yes, we have reason to believe that these bases are the cause of resurrection, and that if we can destroy them, not only will people no longer rise from the dead, but all existing undead will cease to function.”
I glanced over at Matt. He was stony-faced. How much easier it would be, to walk across hundreds of miles of wilderness and farmland and highway without zombies trying to claw your face off.
“So. On to the topic of destruction. As you all know, we can’t simply shoot a bunch of ICBMs at the bases, or Russia and China could fix the problem overnight. The machines can just scramble the guidance systems on the missiles. So the warheads need to be detached and physically moved in – which necessitates a massive air and ground diversionary attack, because they have more conventional defences as well. Which is what we’re working on. Between the three of them, China, Russia and India are handling the bases in Russia, Thailand, Iran and Austria.
“The Russian, French and British navies – or what’s left of them – are working to attack the base in the DRC. That may prove to be difficult, since it’s not near the river and they have several hundred kilometres of hostile ground to work their way across, and no surviving government forces in the region to help them out. The base in North Dakota is being handled by the surviving US Navy forces in the Gulf, plus some Royal Navy forces from the British Virgin Islands and Ascension Island, coordinating with some civilian survivalist groups in Montana and Wyoming. The base in the Amazon is also their responsibility, with the help of some Brazilian Army survivors we’ve come into contact with. Ditto Argentina.
“That leaves us. We have the nuke, we have the PAL codes, and we have the support of our loyal RAAF forces, some RNZAF planes, and a few Indonesian Navy vessels off Lord Howe Island. At this stage, the only targets that aren’t ready to be attacked are the three in the Americas, and the one in the Congo.” He took a sip of water. “So, effectively, we have a floating strike date.”
“Which is what?” Professor Llewellyn asked.
“Indefinite,” he said. “Could be five days, could be five months.”
“Couldn’t we just go now?” Matt asked. It was the first thing he’d said. “Six out of nine isn’t bad.”
The machines are not aware of our plans, but nor are they defenceless, the Endeavour said. Our advantage is the element of surprise. If we strike the six bases we are capable of striking right now, the bases in the USA, Brazil and Argentina will be on high alert. Destroying them will become almost impossible.
“So?” Matt asked.
Tobias frowned. “It’s all or nothing. Anyway, as before, it’s not our decision. This is for governments to make, not for us.”
Matt snorted. “What’s Christmas Island done for us lately? We’re the ones that sacrifice everything to get the nuke, and we don’t get to decide how to use it?”
Tobias stared at him flatly. “It’s not Christmas Island’s decision either. The nuclear powers are the ones co-ordinating the missions and calling the shots. We’re not the ones supplying the warheads.”
“We’re the ones supplying the friendly, intelligent spaceship.”
You overestimate my importance, the Endeavour said. Your governments were all well aware of the machine bases long before the two of you discovered me in winter. Indeed, the United States and Russia both made failed attempts to destroy the bases within their territory. I – and by extension, Australia – provide a source of intelligence on the machines. Most importantly, I shared information about their defence capabilities and made it known that a non-ballistic warhead would theoretically be able to destroy
a machine ground station – that is was the guided missile which was the problem. But that is all.
“Hold up,” the sergeant from earlier said. “Aren’t you also, y’know, our only communications link with the alliance? The only shot we have at actual long-term survival?”
Yes, the Endeavour said, but whether your various martial-law governments scattered across a dying planet are thinking that far ahead is another matter.
“Can I get some clarification on something, here?” Simon asked. “How, uh – how well organised would you say this whole operation is going to be? Are all these governments in total agreement on this? Is this going to be easy? Can we absolutely trust – I mean, if we’re talking about jumping the gun, how can we know that Russia or China won’t?”
“Nobody’s jumping the gun,” Tobias said irritably.
“You don’t know that,” someone said.
“Exactly,” Matt said. “We should use what we have and take out Ballarat.”
“Jesus, Matt,” I said, but my words were drowned out by another rising argument. Tobias was banging his hand on the table again. Matt walked out of the tent, and I went after him.
From warmth and light and noise, straight into cold and darkness and relative quiet. Thick black snow clouds covered the sky, and it was as dark as twilight, even though it was well after sunrise. The hubbub from the command tent died away as I hurried after Matt. He was stalking down the slope towards the camp. “Matt!” I called. He didn’t stop, and I jogged to catch up with him. It was snowing gently, flakes drifting down from an ominous sky, a short and unseasonal fall. Probably the last we’ll have for the year.
“You don’t really think that, do you?” I asked. “That we should just go for it? Forget about those other bases?”
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
“Why?”
He stopped walking, and turned to look at me. Even in the gloom, the only light the distant campfires, his face was hideous: a demented gargoyle leering out of the shadows of his parka hood.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “You just don’t.”
He kept walking down into the valley. I stood and watched him go. I glanced back at the command tent, where other people were starting to leave. Either Tobias had dismissed the meeting, or it had broken up of its own accord. Endeavour, I asked, looking down at the ship’s long blue shape, the tents and shanties of the camp on its leeward side. Where are the PAL codes?
In Tobias’ pocket.
Good. And the nuke?
In one of the supply stores. Under heavy guard.
Good.
You have an overactive imagination, the Endeavour said. One argument does not mean there is about to be an armed insurrection.
I don’t know, I said, sitting down on the slope, tucking my hands into my armpits, looking at the scattered campfires. How do most of the people here feel about it?
About the upcoming assault? Most people here do not care. Most people here, are here because it is safe.
I sat there for a while at the lip of the slope, looking down at the camp, the dozens of fires, the slow-moving patrols, the snowflakes drifting across everything and gradually blurring the world, remaking it fresh and white. It was freezing cold, but I wanted to experience that, wanted to sit in what might be my last snowfall. It’s so easy to get complacent, so easy to feel safe. Any of us could die so easily. Almost a thousand people here, lured by safety and hope, sleeping in warm tents and eating plentiful food while we discuss plans of action that might get them all killed. All over the world, from Australia to Mexico to Japan to South Africa, groups of survivors sit in ones and twos and dozens and hundreds, trying to get on with another day, trying to live. They have no idea what we’re planning, no control over their own fate. They don’t get a decision. They don’t get consulted. A handful of government figures – some elected remnants, some military leaders who were well-equipped enough to survive – are making decisions that will decide whether the human race lives or dies.
It’s out of my hands. Matt and I are, by some definition, the most important people on the planet right now. By another definition, we don’t matter at all.
That’s somehow a relief.
November 6
4.00am
A few hours before dawn now. Things have mostly quietened down. There was a... scrummage. A kerfuffle. An incident. Lots of polite terms.
I woke up sometime in the middle of the night, those dead and empty hours between midnight and dawn. The Endeavour woke me, to be precise. Aaron, he said. You may want to get up.
“Wh..?” I mumbled, fumbling in the dark for my Glock. “What’s going on?”
Nothing dangerous, the ship reassured me. Leave the gun. Just... maybe you should see for yourself.
I pulled my clothes on, buckled my holster on anyway, and hurried down the corridors. There was a commotion coming from outside, yelling and shouting – but it sounded more like an argument than screams of terror. Your ears get attuned to that sort of thing after a while.
Outside there was a cluster of people with flashlights, somebody being detained by two soldiers, his arms pinned behind his back. Tobias was screaming in his face, and the figure was screaming back. I didn’t need to get close to the light to see it was Matt.
“You have no right to keep me here!” he was raging. “No right!”
“Rights?” Tobias barked. “Rights? What world are you living in that you think any of us have rights?”
Matt lapsed into profanities, fuck you, fuck this, etc. A growing crowd of civilians, woken by the screaming, were gathering at the edge of the light. “Get him inside the ship!” Tobias ordered, and the two guards holding him started forcing him inside, surrounded by a dozen other sentries and soldiers and hangers-on, all of them looking unhappy about the situation. Matt may be a difficult figure, but he’s not at all unpopular around here. I was about to speak up but the group bore down on me and Tobias grabbed me by the arm and dragged me inside with the rest of them.
We ended up in the medical bay again, Matt’s empty bed ringed with spent IV drips and silent life support machines. He was still screaming his head off. “Let me go! Let me fucking go!”
Tobias put a hand around his neck and choked the voice out of him for a moment. “Matthew! You. Are. Not. Well. Do you understand?”
“Tobias!” I yelled, grabbing his arm and pulling it off. “Jesus!” For a moment the captain turned on me, looked as though he was about to hit me, but his eyes softened and he turned back to Matt, who was spluttering and coughing.
“What the fuck is going on?” I demanded.
“The Endeavour told us he was trying to leave camp,” said one of the privates quickly, nervously, obviously wishing he hadn’t been unlucky enough to be on duty when this happened. “We found him walking out past the west perimeter. Bag full of food, Steyr Aug, twenty magazines.”
Matt had recovered from Tobias’ choking, and was glaring at us. “What? Who the fuck are you to keep me here? If I want to go, I’ll go!”
“Matt…” I said.
And then I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
For everything he’d said, for as much as he’d changed, I never truly believed that he’d want to leave Jagungal. That he’d want to leave me.
“Matt,” Tobias said sharply. “You’re injured. You were shot in the kneecap a week ago. You’re not fit to go traipsing around the wilderness on your own.”
“I’m fine,” Matt growled. “Or did you not notice Rahvi’s miraculous recovery when he slept in the medical bay for a week?”
“Bend your knee, then,” Tobias said.
Matt cocked his head, his face still a mask of restrained fury. “All right,” he said. “If I sit here for a month, and after that I’m all good and fit and proper, do I have permission to leave then?”
“No,” Tobias said.
Matt stared at him for a moment. Then he said: “Endeavour. Make them let me go.”
The Endeavour’s answer
was much faster than Tobias’. No.
Matt twitched. “Why not?”
Because I have a duty of care for you. And if you leave here you will die.
Tobias spoke up again. “Listen, Matt. You have a duty here. You’re important. Maybe you don’t like it. I don’t care. There are bigger issues at stake here than your temper tantrums. I’m sorry it took us so long to get you out of New England. I’m sorry you had to go through what you did...”
“It’s not about that!” Matt screamed. “Are you sorry about Rahvi and Blake? Do you give a shit about them?”
Tobias punched him in the stomach. Matt gave a grunt of pain, his top half leaning forward, the soldiers gripping his arms the only things stopping him from keeling over entirely. Tobias still had a hand in his hair, gripping Matt’s head close to his. “Don’t even,” he hissed.
He took a step back. My hands were balling up into fists, but I didn’t dare do anything. “You will stay in this valley for as long as you are needed,” Tobias said. “You know why we need you here. You are not a child. You are an adult. I’m asking you to behave like one...”
Matt lashed a leg out at his groin, which Tobias easily avoided. “...Or,” he went on, grabbing Matt by the neck, “or we can handcuff you to the fucking bed!”
They did just that, and I stood impotently in the middle of the room. Matt ended up lying in the makeshift camp-bed with both wrists cuffed to the railings, screaming and raging like an animal. Like someone having a mental breakdown at a hospital ER at three in the morning. My brother.
The Endeavour said nothing. Did nothing. Everybody here is implicitly at the ship’s mercy, all the time; it has a thumb to our brains, it can tweak our pain sensors at will. Nothing happens here without its consent. But it did nothing.
Tobias ordered the rest of the soldiers out of the room, and left without saying a word to me. I followed him out into the freezing cold, the stars blazing away above us. The woken civilians from before had all gone back to bed. Tobias had stomped off through the snow to one of the campfires, angrily stirring up the embers with a stick, a column of sparks hissing up into the night. He was staring at the fire, moving his lips, which I knew was a sign that he was engaged in furious private conversation with the Endeavour.
End Times Box Set [Books 1-6] Page 155