Chapman nodded, but a nagging doubt surfaced in the back of his mind: There’s more to it than that. There has to be.
Dern stepped forward. “It’ll take us a little while to get this figured out. We should get started.”
“Go to it,” Chapman said. “We’ll get into position. What do you say, Vygotsky? We’ll gather up enough ECMs, then we’ll use the access shaft up to zero and clear the deck. We’ll drop down shaft three just before the batteries blow, then when the fun starts, we’ll come out and nail anything that raises its head. After that, we’ll hit the bridge.”
“Sounds good. But don’t forget the mines we left on zero.”
“Sure. We’ll climb up through shaft four and clear the starboard rooms first. If the PMs haven’t blown already, they’ll come in handy if the bots try to flank us or trap us in a pincer movement.”
Vygotsky blinked. “You really think they’re that smart?”
“Yes,” Chapman said. “Yes, I do.”
***
Having traversed deck zero in record time and climbed down access shaft three, Chapman gripped the ladder with one hand while checking his rifle with the other. Above him, in the confines of the narrow shaft, Vygotsky and Samson fidgeted, sending vibrations through the metal rungs. He could almost feel their frustration. “Take it easy, guys,” Chapman said, keeping his tone level. “Shouldn’t have to wait much longer.”
“I guess it’s our own fault for clearing zero so fast,” Vygotsky replied.
Chapman grunted in agreement. Their route through deck zero had been easy. Too easy. With just two M3s patrolling the starboard corridor, the team had taken them out then crossed the deck in minutes. Every room had been empty, and a quick check of the port corridor had revealed nothing but the broken frames of two more M3s, both brought down by the proximity mines Dern had laid earlier. It looked as though the bots had staggered on after the first blast only to be terminated by the second. I should be congratulating myself, Chapman thought. But maybe they left the deck clear on purpose. Maybe they wanted us to come that way.
Chapman pushed his doubts aside, centering himself, but Vygotsky’s voice on the intercom derailed his thoughts: “Hey, Dern, how long is this going to take?”
“Almost there,” Dern said. “The O2 generator was already online, and the batteries are overloading now. We’ve killed the cooling system, and the—”
“Give me the short version,” Vygotsky interrupted. “Thirty seconds? Twenty?”
A pause on the channel, then: “Wallace here. If you’re ready, we can ramp it up to max right now. After that, we’ll need about ten seconds before we can blow the O2 generator. The batteries should follow straightaway.”
“We’re ready,” Chapman confirmed. “Go for it.”
“Will do,” Wallace said. “Good hunting, Sarge.”
Chapman started the countdown in his mind. Hooking his arm over a rung, he transferred his rifle to his left hand, so he could open the hatch with his right. He laid his hand on the release lever. Two, one.
“Goddammit!” Vygotsky muttered. “Does nothing ever—”
His words were lost in a rush of white noise: interference on the intercom. A split second later, the shaft shuddered hard enough to rattle Chapman’s teeth, and he pressed himself hard against the ladder, clinging on tight, the rungs bucking beneath his boots, threatening to shake him free and throw him away from the hatch. “Hold on!” he shouted. But almost immediately, the moment passed, the ladder returning to its steady state.
“Let’s go!” Chapman barked, hitting the release lever and shoving the hatch open in one movement before dashing through. He darted across the corridor, scanning as he ran. His HUD showed three bots racing toward him from the direction of the bridge. In a second, they’d be around the corner. He dropped to one knee, raising his rifle. “Incoming. M3s.”
Vygotsky stood by his side, and Samson kneeled by the opposite bulkhead. Together, they made short work of the bots, cutting the cyborgs down as soon as they appeared. And then Chapman was up and running, his teammates behind him, tearing toward the bridge. They met no resistance en route, and Chapman’s mind sang with the buzz of battle. Victory. He could almost taste it.
The bridge doors were guarded by a single M2, but Samson was ready with an ECM pod, and Vygotsky dashed toward the dazed bot, pouring a stream of bullets into its visor until its power cell popped.
“Weapons check,” Chapman said. “ECMs ready.” He pulled an ECM pod from his belt, activating the device as he took up position to the left of the door. He waited while Vygotsky and Samson primed their pods and made themselves ready: Vygotsky dead center and Samson to the right.
“Okay,” Chapman said. “Samson, hit the code.”
From the corner of his eye, he watched Samson stepping up to the keypad beside the door, and as she tapped in the passcode, a spark of disquiet flared in his mind: They tore out the keypads from engineering, but not this one. Why? He felt the blood drain from his face, and he yelled a single word: “Stop!” But he was too late.
The explosion ripped through Corporal Clare Samson from head to toe, reducing her EVA suit to ragged tatters in an instant. Chapman was lifted from the deck and hurled sideways, his right arm meeting the bulkhead with a sickening crunch, his head hammering against the side of his helmet, his rifle and ECM pod wrenched from his grip by the blast. In the same moment, he saw Vygotsky cartwheeling to the ceiling, his body limp as a rag doll, his helmet riven, his eyes staring sightless in a frozen mask of horror.
Somehow, Chapman’s grav boots found the deck, but his legs buckled beneath him, and he slid to the floor. My fault, he thought. My goddamned fault.
The world lost its color, and Chapman’s breath grew tight in his chest. He gasped for air and tried to call for help, but his throat was too dry. An icy chill swept through him, tingling his fingertips. “Wallace!” he croaked, but only a whisper escaped from his lips.
He swallowed, tasting the metallic tang of blood, and realized something warm was trickling down the side of his face. The surge of adrenaline ebbed from his system and sensations flooded in: the pain throbbing in his temple, the waves of white-hot agony rippling from his right arm, the corridor swimming out of focus as his vision blurred.
Blinking, straining to see straight, he caught a glimpse of movement: the bridge door sliding open. Chapman’s right arm was useless, but he reached out with his left, patting the deck, his fingers searching for his rifle. But in zero-G, there was no reason for his weapon to fall. “Shit!” he whispered. There were two proximity mines on his belt, and he pulled one out, his fingers fumbling for the switch. But as he struggled, a shadow fell over him, and an arm swept down and plucked the mine from his hand.
Chapman stared up at the M3 cyborg standing over him, its metal-plated face expressionless. In its left hand, it carried a rifle, and the bot’s polished chest plate had the lustrous sheen of gunmetal blue. “You,” Chapman breathed. “I thought we got you.”
The bot gave no sign of having heard him. Instead, it inspected the PM then tossed it aside before bending down to pluck the second mine and an ECM pod from Chapman’s belt, disposing of them in the same way.
“Wallace, Dern,” Chapman said, his voice stronger now although hoarse and strained. “The bridge. I need backup.”
The bot tilted its head, examining him, then a sharp click and a sudden silence told Chapman his comms had been cut.
Without warning, the cyborg grabbed hold of Chapman’s legs, yanking them upward, tearing his grav boots free from the deck, then the bot stepped back, causing Chapman’s upper body to bounce against the floor. A jolt of pain juddered through Chapman’s chest when his right arm hit the metal deck, but he gritted his teeth, struggling to free his legs from the bot’s iron grip.
The M3 did not react, it simply trudged back toward the bridge door, dragging Chapman behind it. “Stop!” Chapman shouted. “I know you can hear me.” But the bot strode on, the door opening automatically as it a
pproached. And when they entered the bridge, Chapman stopped struggling, his eyes wide.
The bridge was bathed in light, every console glittering with flickering LEDs, every display panel alive with animated charts. The door closed with a hiss, and the M3 finally released Chapman’s legs. “You may remove your helmet,” the bot said, its digitized voice perfectly modulated and yet devoid of emotion. “We keep this compartment pressurized. It’s better for the equipment.”
Chapman turned his body, his grav boots anchoring him to the deck, and he squatted there for a moment, wincing in pain, his dazed mind searching for some way to resist, to fight back. Has to be something, he told himself. But he was still weak, every breath tight in his chest, and his HUD showed a red light for his life support system, the unit probably damaged in the blast. Need air.
Checking the external atmosphere readings in his HUD, he saw that the bot had told the truth; oxygen and air pressure were good. That solved his immediate problem, and Chapman unlocked his helmet from its collar and lifted it up, placing it on the deck at his side. He wanted to stand, hated to be hunched on the floor, but he needed to get his breath back, to gather his strength.
The bot slung its rifle across its back then crossed to a workstation and began moving equipment to one side. “We use this station for repairs. It is not ideal, but I predict a successful outcome.”
A knot of fear formed in Chapman’s stomach, and he scanned the room, searching for a weapon. “What the hell are you talking about?”
In three long strides, the M3 was at his side. “You have sustained critical damage. A full assessment is necessary to rule out internal bleeding. Compartment syndrome is also a risk.”
“Shame you didn’t think of that before you dragged me across the deck,” Chapman said bitterly.
“I followed protocol. Prisoners are disarmed and secured. You are now entitled to medical attention. Do you wish to waive that right?”
“Forget it,” Chapman said. “Fetch Dern, he’s a field medic.”
“No time.” In one movement, the bot bent down and scooped Chapman up in its arms, its long fingers gripping him tight. “Do not be alarmed. I have high-level medical expertise.”
Chapman tensed, but before he could try to break free, the bot laid him down on the workstation’s metal surface.
“Remain still,” the M3 intoned, picking up a sturdy power tool, the gleaming blades of a metal shear flashing as they snipped hungrily at the air. “Your EVA suit must be removed.”
“Jesus!” Chapman hissed. “Stop!”
But the bot went to work, the whining shears cutting through the metalized fabric as easily as if it were tissue paper. After a few seconds, the bot laid the tool down and began peeling the suit away from Chapman’s right arm. It leaned closer, turning its head from side to side. “Increased tissue pressure in forearm. Requires further examination. Fasciotomy, a minor surgical procedure, is advised.”
“No!” Chapman raised his left arm to fend the bot off. “Get the hell away from me. I don’t want any surgery.”
The M3 straightened its back. “If left untreated, the increased pressure may lead to infection, septicemia, amputation, or death.”
Chapman stared at his right arm, the skin stretched tight over the swollen flesh, and a wave of nausea crept over him. “Get me some meds. And fetch Dern. I need to get off this ship.”
“Your condition cannot be relieved by medication.” The M3 raised its hand and something glinted in the light: a long, thin blade. “Would you prefer to live with one arm, or die with two?”
“Wait! There’s a hypodermic in my pocket. Painkillers.” Chapman tried to sit up, but the bot clamped its left hand across his chest, pinning him down.
“Time is critical,” it said. “Please hold still. Hold as still as you can.”
“No!” Chapman roared, but the bot brought its right hand down fast, the blade piercing Chapman’s arm, blood spraying from the incision.
“Tell me,” the bot said conversationally as it maneuvered the blade from side to side, “is Captain Blende still at Camp Echo?”
Almost blinded by pain, Chapman stared up at his tormentor, his eyes bulging, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth.
“I remember his speeches,” the M3 went on. “He used to say, Not everyone has what it takes to be a Cutter.”
“Goddammit!” Chapman thundered. He closed his eyes, screwed them shut tight.
“Procedure complete. Pressure released.” The bot stood back, and something cold slapped onto Chapman’s arm. “Hospitalization advised for monitoring and further treatment.”
Chapman opened his eyes a slit, afraid of what he might see. But his arm looked unhurt, a neat field dressing covering the wound. And though his forearm still ached, the throbbing agony had receded. He flexed his fingers and found he could move them easily. He sat up, and this time, the bot did not try to restrain him. “What have you done?”
“Emergency fasciotomy to relieve compartment pressure.”
“What was all that about losing my arm?” Chapman demanded, his mind reeling. “Live with one arm or die with two, you said. You sure as hell don’t sound like any bot I ever heard.”
The M3 shook its head slowly. “A fragment of neural activity. Incipient memory leakage.”
“What?”
“It appears that my neural network is becoming unreliable. I suspect that many of my components are reaching end of life.”
Chapman stared, struck by a sudden thought. “Wait a minute. Where did you get all that stuff about Blende? I thought all M3s had the same neural net. It’s just tissue culture, right? Neuro-gel. But something doesn't add up. You’re…different.”
The M3 lifted its chin. “I am unable to answer your questions. The source of my memories is unclear.”
“But what about your medical knowledge—was that programmed in? And your tactics, your strategy—was that from some kind of training, or did you figure all that out yourself? Surely, you must know that.”
The bot shook its head, but then seemed to change its mind. “Sometimes, I see fragments of another life. Disjointed memories. Nothing more.”
“Another life? Before you were sent here? Is that when you met Blende because…” Chapman’s question died on his lips as his bewildered mind clutched at a straw and grasped a solid fact. “You said Captain Blende, but he’s a colonel, has been for years.”
“Perhaps he has gained promotion since…” The M3 broke off. “Captain. I believe that I held that rank myself at one time. And your name. Chapman. I recognize it. I knew a Chapman. Elizabeth.”
“Holy shit! You knew Elizabeth? You were a Cutter?”
The M3 tilted its head. “I’m still a member of the regiment, aren’t I? I serve to the best of my ability.”
Chapman’s lips moved but no words would come. This machine had tried to kill him, had wiped out half his squad in the slavish pursuit of its programmed objectives. Yet still, by its own twisted logic, it had fought for its regiment; it had fought like a Cutter.
“We almost won today,” the M3 went on. “The live rounds tipped the balance. We took them from a shuttle. Comms equipment too. We stripped everything out then destroyed the shuttle to cover our tracks.”
“No, this can’t be right,” Chapman said. “None of this. Someone would’ve found out. They would’ve stopped you.”
“The maintenance crews are not hard to deceive.” The bot paused. “I’m receiving an alert. This mission is almost over, and despite having a hostage, I predict failure on this occasion. Perhaps next time, we’ll win. Or the time after that. Who knows?”
The M3 stood back, and Chapman started to get up.
“Stay down,” the bot said. “Take cover.”
But before Chapman could react, the bridge door slid open, and a breeze whipped past his cheek as the air rushed to escape. At the same moment, an object spun across the room, rebounding from the far bulkhead: an ECM pod.
Chapman threw himself from the wo
rkstation, tumbling to the deck and pressing himself flat. Above him, the M3 turned around, grabbing for the rifle strapped across its back. But as its fingers closed on its weapon, a storm of gunfire ripped across the room, bullets careening from the M3’s upper body.
Chapman fought for breath, his lungs burning. But the door must’ve closed, and when fresh air flowed into the room, he gulped at it.
The M3 glanced down at him then pulled itself up to its full height, standing to attention for a moment before it fell back, reeling under a hail of bullets, its mid-section blown apart, jagged sparks arcing from its ruptured sub-frame and crackling across its gunmetal chest plate.
“Cease fire!” Chapman called out, and when the gunfire stopped, he clambered to his feet, cradling his injured arm.
Wallace and Dern stood across the room, their rifles held ready, their eyes narrowed as they looked him up and down.
“Take your helmets off,” Chapman said. “And you can breathe easy. That M3 was the only one in here.”
Wallace pulled her helmet off as she crossed the room to join him. “What happened to your arm?”
Chapman shrugged. “Long story. You all right?”
Wallace nodded. “Sure. We came across deck one. No bots left, but the control center’s gone. We need to get off this crate before the hull cracks in two.”
“Definitely,” Dern put in. He was walking around the bridge, his helmet tucked under his arm, his eyes round with awe as he studied the control panels. “Why is all this stuff online?”
“That’s an even longer story.” Chapman ran his eyes around the bridge, thinking for one second of the mission’s final objective: firing up The Pride’s engines. He’d set out to prove himself, and it stung to be robbed of his moment of glory, but some things mattered more than that; so much more. For the first time, the reality of command came home to him. And he knew what he had to do.
Chapman shrugged off what remained of his EVA suit. “Wallace, get to work on unjamming the comms and contact base. Dern, see if you can scare me up another suit. We have fallen friends to take care of. We’re taking our comrades back home however long it takes, and that’s an end to it.”
The Expanding Universe 4: Space Adventure, Alien Contact, & Military Science Fiction (Science Fiction Anthology) Page 11