Artificial Evolution

by Joseph R. Lallo

  Confusion was quickly swept away by realization. “An EMP grenade?” Silo cried.

  She looked to her grenade launcher to find it unresponsive. From the sound of the fruitless clicking and frantic whispering from the Neo-Luddites, as well as the malfunctioning of the ship, the EMP grenade had been overpowering enough to knock out the electronics for a fairly massive radius. The crunch of boots signaled the soldiers approaching her position.

  When they were near enough to be a threat, Silo jumped to her feet. “All right, everyone. I want you to put your weapons on the ground and kick them over here!”

  “We may all be unarmed, but you’re still outnumbered. You drop your weapon.”

  “Oh?” Silo remarked. She pulled one of the spare launcher rounds from her belt and gave the casing a half twist. It slid open and she pulled free a tab. “I guess no one ever taught you to manually prime a grenade launcher round. Now, weapons down.”

  The troops held their ground for a moment, then reluctantly complied. Dressed in cold weather gear similar to Silo’s, their uniforms included mirrored goggles. They also wore respirators to counter the low oxygen.

  “Masks off, too,” Silo said.

  Again, they complied.

  “Good. This won’t hurt a bit.” She heaved the grenade. The soldiers scattered, but when the grenade struck the ground it released a plume of yellow gas. She held her own respirator tight to her face until the gas cleared. When it did, the soldiers were unconscious. She explained to the unconscious mound of enemies, “A good soldier always brings a couple tranq rounds, just in case.”

  Silo turned her attention to the ship. It was still grinding in a circle. From the looks of the frustrated hammering of the pilot, the designers of this particular piece of bleeding-edge technology hadn’t gotten around to installing a manual door release.

  “You might want to back away, hon!” she called out.

  The pilot, who was the only soldier inside the ship, couldn’t hear a word she said, but when the window of the ship revealed her priming another round, he scrambled back. She threw the grenade. After the two practice throws she’d had, this one was right on target, blasting out the ship’s window. While the pilot was still recovering from the shock and flying debris, she sent her final tranquilizer round through the opening, putting the pilot to sleep.

  “Open com, Garotte… Garotte…? Radio is still down.” With no way to know how Garotte was managing, she tried to set her mind to the tasks at hand: prepping the soldiers for pickup, keeping an eye out for whatever that thing in the cave was, and hoping for the best.

  #

  Garotte had been getting along surprisingly well, considering the “plan” he’d been able to devise. The defensive shields were taking their sweet time reactivating. Given enough time the twin ships would be able to coordinate and locate him, and any attack he might heave in their direction that didn’t take out both ships would give away his location to the remaining one. As long as all roads led to discovery, no sense waiting for it. He’d flicked off the cloak, revealing himself, then flicked it back on and quickly changed direction. This had brought a volley of attacks that lost their lock and missed him. For the last few minutes, he’d repeated the process, teasing them into wasting ammunition, but now they seemed reluctant to fire.

  “Come on… come on, I know you want to,” he muttered to himself.

  Again he flicked the cloak off and on. The fact that neither ship had attempted to fire anything but missiles at him so far suggested that either they didn’t have any blasters, they weren’t working, or the pilots were smart enough to hold back until they had a better opportunity. Missiles could redirect and delivered a bigger bang, after all. Thus far he’d coaxed them into locking missiles and firing five times. Each time he flicked the cloak back on, he barely dodged the now unguided missiles. The detonations were sometimes a bit close for comfort, but the ship was relatively undamaged. Now they weren’t taking the bait. That meant that they were either out of missiles or, again, wily enough to convince him of such. He glanced at the clock. The ETA had come and gone. Help was late, or it wasn’t coming at all.

  “Open com, Silo.” Only silence. He gave the order again, forcefully and deliberately. “Open. Com. Silo. Jessica, if you are there, answer.” Again nothing.

  Garotte’s face became stern. His muscles tightened and his finger hovered over the launch button for his own missiles. If he was interpreting the situation correctly, these men were no longer armed. If he fired, he would be firing on a defenseless enemy.

  “Open broadcast channel. Attention Neo-Luddite ships,” he said. His voice was controlled, but only through great effort. He watched his sensors closely. There was no missile lock and no sign of any blasters warming up on either ship. Technically the radio broadcast was detectable and targetable, but past experience had revealed that the cloak obscured its source enough to make it a mediocre targeting aid at best. It was a measured risk. “I get the distinct impression that you are no longer armed. I happen to have a few missiles left. Strategic withdrawal would, at this point, be advisable. Consider that a friendly pointer on proper military tactics.” His voice became more sinister. “And if my agent on the surface is not answering because she has been killed, consider your retreat a temporary reprieve.”

  In response one of the enemy ships fired a burst of plasma shots that missed the stationary and unshielded Declaration by an amount so small it could only have been deliberate. He flicked the cloak back on.

  “Ah, undetectable blaster heat signatures. I imagine you are rather proud of that.”

  “You will land on the planet’s surface, and you will relinquish the modular cloak, or you will be destroyed,” the lead ship ordered.

  “I’m afraid not, gentlemen. I stole the cloak quite fairly from one of your ships. It isn’t my fault you couldn’t keep the other ones intact. And need I remind you that I am the one issuing the ultimatum?”

  “I repeat, relinquish the cloak or be destroyed. You are not in a position to make demands.”

  A tone from the Declaration’s console indicated six ships entering the system. Garotte smiled. “It seems that I am.”

  “Attention,” came an announcement on all frequencies. “You are in a restricted area. Power down your weapons and propulsion systems, and you will be towed to a processing facility for questioning.”

  “Have fun with the police,” Garotte said. “And here’s a little something to remember me by.”

  He unleashed another pair of rockets and darted down toward the planet’s surface while the enemy ships scrambled to avoid them.

  #

  On the surface, Silo had managed to shut down the rotating ship and tie up the Neo-Luddite soldiers. She’d also stripped them of their weapons and equipment and had begun doing the same to the ship when the Declaration appeared over the field. Garotte set the ship down, scattering the yaks who had come to investigate, and opened the main door.

  “Did no one ever tell you that it is exceedingly rude not to answer your radio hails?” he asked, stepping out to survey the damage.

  “These yahoos decided to chuck an EMP grenade. A pretty hefty one, too,” she explained, brushing her hand on her parka. She put one hand on her hip and tipped her head to the side with a smirk. “Garotte, were you worried about me?”

  “Oh yes, I was beside myself with woe,” he said. “I was already deciding what personal effects I would use to decorate my altar to you.”

  “You can’t fool me, you big softy,” she said, punching him in the arm. She then tugged aside her respirator and pulled him in for a peck on the cheek. “That’s very sweet of you.”

  “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat, “well. The cavalry has arrived, so I would recommend we depart as soon as we are able.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me. Let’s load up the weapons from these guys. This is the scanner they were looking at, too. Hopefully it didn’t get completely wrecked by the EM pulse.”

  “Any indic
ation of what they were looking for?”

  “They were yammering about something called a Gen-Mech. There was something in that cave, maybe it was what they were looking for, but it didn’t look like any weapon I’ve ever seen. Right now I’m just happy I don’t have to go back in there.” She heaved the confiscated items into the ship’s cargo area. “If you want to interrogate one of them, the commander is the one in the middle.” She pointed to the row of restrained Neo-Luddites laid out on the ground.

  “I’ve never been impressed by the reliability of interrogations. We’ve got the scanner. That will do for now. The authorities can handle the rest. What exactly did you mean about the contents of the cave?”

  “See for yourself.”

  She escorted him to the cave’s mouth. There, half-hidden in shadow, was a creature. It was hairy, with four long, spindly limbs and two smaller ones, each tipped in angular, boney pinchers. It had a configuration of anatomy that Garotte had never seen before, and it was lightly twitching.

  “What do you think it is?” Silo asked.

  “I don’t know…” He turned to the Declaration, where the radio was receiving messages from the security force in orbit. They’d made quick work of the Neo-Luddite ships and were preparing to investigate the surface. “I’m not comfortable taking it with us without knowing more about it. We’ll leave it for the authorities.”

  The pair climbed into the Declaration and lifted off, switching on their cloaking device.

  “One thing’s for sure,” Silo said, “these cops are about to find a lot more than they bargained for.”

  Chapter 3

  There has always been a certain degree of glamor in the mental image of an investigative reporter. On the surface it was equal parts detective and celebrity—digging into the shadows to find truth, then hauling it out into the light and presenting it to the public with a practiced speaking voice and flawless hair. Like all glamorous professions, though, the glitzy image hid the mind-numbing portions of the job. Michella Modane had enjoyed a meteoric rise in the ranks of journalists, thanks in roughly equal parts to her on-screen beauty, investigative savvy, and the astounding ability of her boyfriend Lex to stumble on to newsworthy catastrophes. Unfortunately, for every thrilling moment of discovery or gratifying minute of air time, there were a hundred dull tasks. Worse, because so much of her work was done on location or remotely, when she was forced to work from the network headquarters, her office was less than spacious. It had no windows and only enough room for a pair of narrow desks, a pair of chairs, and a shelf with her awards. It was so small that if she had to interview someone there, her assistant had to step outside. At the moment, said assistant was scrolling his way through a multipage spreadsheet on his datapad.

  “Jon, did you dig up that expense form?” Michella asked, adjusting a stylish pair of glasses and pushing a stray lock of auburn hair aside.

  “No. You’d think they’d make the directory searchable with keywords. Digging through this alphabet soup is a tad archaic,” Jon replied.

  Jon had been hired as an intern several months before, and when he’d managed to keep a camera roughly pointed at a terrorist attack that Michella had taken a suicidal interest in covering, he’d earned both an award for distinguished coverage and a permanent position within the GolanaNet News Network. Unlike Michella, Jon was quite happy with the more boring aspects of the job. For some reason he’d never developed a taste for running toward explosions.

  “If it was fast and easy, they wouldn’t call it bureaucracy,” Michella groaned. A tone from her own datapad caught her attention. “Oh, good. Lou is calling. Maybe we can fast-track this nonsense.” She straightened in her chair, brushed the same unruly lock aside, and hung her glasses from the neck of her blouse before accepting the video connection. “Lou! I was just thinking of calling you.”

  “I’ll bet you were,” said Lou.

  Louis Murdock was her features editor. A year earlier his job had primarily revolved around picking through heaps of transit news to try to find something that wouldn’t bore the regular visitors to his section of the GolanaNet News site. The planet Golana was a transit and shipping hub, not exactly the most exciting corner of the cosmos. Even if it was a bustling hub of culture and society, GolanaNet made most of its money from entertainment news and scandals. Socially significant exposés didn’t factor into the budget. That had changed when Michella rocketed to stardom. Now he spent his time trying to make sure Michella came up for air often enough to show her pretty face, share her findings, and keep the ratings and hit counts high. He occupied the uncomfortable middle ground between earning revenue and earning gravitas, and he looked the part. He was portly but immaculately dressed. His daily uniform was a pair of black slacks, polished wingtips, a white dress shirt with a starched collar, a silk tie in a ruthlessly precise double Windsor knot, silver cufflinks, and an open roll of antacids peeking out of the pocket. He had a part in his hair that was wide enough to officially qualify as a comb-over, though those who mentioned it had a tendency to end up on the less desirable assignments.

  “I’ve had Jon looking for the form to expense high-speed transit. I’ve got a lead that’ll evaporate if I don’t get to it in the next five days,” she said.

  “What story is this regarding?” he asked.

  “The Neo-Luddites. What else would it be regarding? I’ve been getting solid info from this guy for weeks, and now he wants a face-to-face, so—”

  “Ah. Well, about that. The folks upstairs feel as though we’ve hit the core of the Neo-Luddite apple. No more meat on the bone.”

  “No more meat on the bone? We still haven’t identified the person or persons responsible for providing the financing for the Weston University attack.”

  “Granted, but—and again this is the people upstairs talking—they are looking for something with a little more public interest.”

  “You mean something that will drive more traffic for that precious ad revenue of yours.”

  “This is a business, Michella. Those ads pay your salary. And for all of the rapid transit and glitzy hotels.”

  “It wasn’t my idea to stay at the McKenzie Pavilion, it was theirs! They thought it would give our network a little prestige!”

  “Even so. You are just one member of our staff. You can’t expect an award-winning news network to spend the budget of a whole department financing coverage of one reporter’s pet projects.”

  “My pet projects? My pet projects?” She scoffed. “This department has received exactly three awards, two of them were for my work on my pet projects, and the other was for Jon’s video coverage of them.”

  Lou released a high-pressure sigh and fished the antacids out of his pocket. “Listen, Michella. I’m getting a lot of pressure. They don’t like your deep stuff. They want to tone down the investigation angle. They feel that your coverage tends to direct a lot of attention toward people who can… oof.” He tapped his chest as a wave of heartburn swept through and popped three of the chalky tablets. “People who can make it difficult to do business.”

  “Who could…? VectorCorp? Is this VectorCorp finally coming down on me for my coverage of Bypass Gemini?”

  “You cost them a lot of money and a lot of bad publicity. Corporations have a long memory. VC put a new guy in charge of our contracts. He’s been talking about renegotiating our bandwidth charges.”

  “Well, VectorCorp should be happy to see me digging into the Neo-Luddites instead of continuing their attempted double genocide, which I could just as easily—”

  He released a pained breath and tapped his chest again. “Michella, don’t. And while we’re on the Neo-Luddite subject, bruising the military doesn’t help matters for us either.”

  “They wouldn’t call it hard-hitting news if it didn’t leave a few bruises, Lou.”

  “Look, Michella, be that as it may, GolanaNet now has direct control over your budget. Until you find another hit story, one that they approve of, you’re going to have to trim down t
he budget and avoid making any more powerful enemies. No major travel expenses, no rocking the boat. If you ask for so much as a bus ticket, they are going to want to know why, and if they don’t like it, it is coming out of your own pocket. Find a fluff piece for now, something cheap with broad public appeal. When the money is rolling in again and the heat is off, then we can talk about the next hornet’s nest you want to poke with a stick.”

  “Human interest stories? What do you want me to do, Lou, cover a pie-eating contest? How am I supposed to follow something juicy without a budget?”

  “Modane, this isn’t a negotiation. It was handed down to me, and I’ve handed it down to you. End of discussion.” He gave a heavy sigh and added with sincerity, “I’m sorry.”

  She gave a sigh of her own. “Fine. And be sure to tell the top of the food chain that I am delighted by this fresh challenge.” Michella closed the connection and glared at the wall for a moment.

  “A pie-eating contest could be fun,” Jon offered with a shrug.

  She shifted her glare to him.

  “Or maybe a dog show,” he added. “I can start digging through the slush pile.”

  “No,” she grumbled. “I’m not going to give up on a story just because the suits are getting cold feet.”

  “Do you have a nest egg saved up to finance your own stuff? Because I know I don’t.”