Slowly turning in place, he made a 360° scan of the forest around him, which revealed something else quite unexpected: he was standing amid a sea of yellow blips, all located just below ground.
The significance sent the boy’s imagination into overdrive.
“How many of you guys are under there?” he muttered to himself. “Is this a...a graveyard?”
A chill ran up his spine and he squirmed in his boots, “Or was this a massacre?”
After a moment or two spent imagining a suitably epic battle between mech suited mutants being pounded to their demise by an “unbeatable force,” he eventually began to notice a larger pattern appearing on the scanner’s display, their source just behind him. Following the trail of blips hoping to find their point of origin, he soon found himself at the edge of a nearby canyon.
With his eyes no longer fixed on the display, it soon became apparent to him that he was not standing at the edge of a canyon, but instead on the rim of a large crater. That wasn’t all. At the crater’s center, hidden by years of forest overgrowth, were thousands of blips, some of which seemed to be floating in mid-air.
He unclipped the telespecs from his belt to get a better look.
Tracing the shape at the crater’s center, he could tell an artificial structure was responsible for the strange mid-air scans.
“It looks like some kind of a tower down there. A real tall one too.”
“It’s probably just another empty landmark,” replied the Lieutenant, trying to discount any possible significance.
But it was too late. The scanner had revealed the unmistakable outline of a tall, and somewhat conical-shaped, leaning structure below. The long, black spires that pierced through the forest canopy led the boy to one undeniable conclusion.
He turned to shout back at his chaperones, using a voice that was deceptively loud for such a small boy, “They’re antennas…I see antennas! Moebi, it’s a big-ass invader spaceship!”
I bet it has what Comet needs inside, too!
“Comet! Wake up and prep a new scooter! We’ve got a salvage!”
Chapter 2
THE WRECK
From the edge of the crater it was easily the biggest crashed vessel the boy had seen to date, and the fact that it was mostly intact and had its eight huge, external engines still attached made it very different from any of the others he’d run across before. Its impressive height was made more so by the boy’s suspicion that there could be even more of the ship jammed underground than there was visible above it.
Without question, finding fresh power cells for everyone was his first priority, but his curiosity engulfed him with a burning desire to discover any other technological goodies that the derelict could be hiding deep inside.
As Comet dispensed the latest in a short line of Zero-Gee Fly-Riders from its external storage locker, the boy climbed up and into the vehicle’s cockpit to collect Talkie-Book, his loyal educator and observer, who not only served as the vehicle’s driver but also acted as his portable tech-hacking toolkit.
The boy sat in silence, taking stock, realizing he had not received any opposition to his planned excursion.
“Lieutenant, how much power does Comet have left in its cells?”
The hand-held device never questioned its new nickname, since its proper name had been, in its own opinion, more of a whimsical oversimplification of its actual purpose than a concise one with genuine dignity.
Its make was Digitome, and although the lettering printed on its durable lifetime casing was branded “Talkie-Book,” it preferred the boy’s military honorific to its original moniker, knowing there were, after all, worse nicknames to be had. Besides, the title “Lieutenant” came with the implied gravitas of earned authority.
“A day or two, possibly more with all nonessential systems offline.”
“So that’s why you’re not trying to talk me out of going down there!”
“The continued viability of this vehicle will be determined by the outcome of this expedition, which in return, will determine your continued long-term safety.”
“And that’s why I should go to look for more power cells, right?”
“As there are no other options available, and you are the only one who is capable of accomplishing such a task, yes, you have to go.”
“Why didn’t you mention this power cell thing sooner?”
“I did, as I recall, but you were somewhat distracted by your...pursuits.”
“Yeah, I guess I was a little bit obsessed,” said the boy, drawing a long, heavy breath, “but I did end up finding this scanner thingy, right?”
“You were fortunate to have not destroyed yourself, Detective.”
“That’s me, luckier than logic, faster than physics, and greater than gravity!”
“No, that would be Johnny Seiko. You are not he, Detective.”
“And yet, I’m still a detective…hmm,” countered the boy with the kind of logic only a child would attempt.
Ignoring the boy’s cheeky reply, Talkie-Book continued, after a brief pause for effect, “Yes, you were very lucky that your reckless attraction to velocity did not fully conspire with physics in this instance. You are aware that none of these risks comes with a guarantee of survival?”
“Yes, Lieutenant...I just wanted to see if I could keep up with it,” offered the boy.
“And the verdict?”
“It worked!” the boy smiled, resisting the urge to boast about his expert scooter enhancements.
“And was the cost worth the loss?”
The boy had no response. He’d worked for two weeks on what was now, after less than a day of use, a twisted pile of metal – and it had taken months of searching to find the correct spare parts. Taking this as the only admission of regret that he was going to get from the boy, Talkie-Book dropped the subject, believing his point had been made.
A few hard metal clangs from outside the cabin told the boy his latest “stock” Fly-Rider was on the ground and ready to go. The boy disconnected Talkie-Book from its cradle in Comet’s drive column and packed it into his backpack, while the toybot watched from his perch by the cockpit windscreen.
“Are you coming, Moebi?” the boy asked.
Sensing it was again time to forgive his young charge for his youthful exuberance, Moebius jumped into the boy’s arms and began to apply a thorough cleaning of his grateful, but still grimy face.
Before disembarking, the once indispensable teaching tool used by all school-aged children – back when there were such creatures – again attempted to file its daily Student Status Update, sending it out into the ether as it diligently had with all previous progress reports.
With the distinct possibility that all proper learning institutions had become a thing of the past, Talkie-Book nonetheless continued to deliver its daily lessons to its only student, hoping to one day deliver the data to the appropriate school administrator for his student’s long overdue performance evaluation, and his much delayed scholastic advancement.
In anticipation of this eventuality, a copy of each entry was also stored internally, for safekeeping, and like all those that went before, today’s update would also go unreceived.
STUDENT PROGRESS UPDATE #1009
D/TB ENTRY #152-43798
USER #03
Provisional Curriculum Progress Report
Botany & Conservation: 20%
Reading & Comprehension: 98%
Written Expression: 28%
Mathematics: 100%
History: N/A (MODULE MISSING)
Civic Activity: N/A (MODULE MISSING)
Puzzlematics: 100%
Current Events: N/A (MODULE MISSING)
Linguistics: 100%
Arts: N/A (MODULE MISSING)
OVERALL RETENTION: 85.2%
COMMENTS: As we end the second year of my charge’s continuing education, his intellect appears to be advancing at an unexpectedly rapid rate. His ability to quickly assess situations both accurately and succinctly has
given him an unflagging sense of confidence, while the constant travel has demonstrated a stimulating effect on both his imagination and his character.
The unavoidable, early exposure to a certain fictional character from his past, has at least come with the unexpected advantage of providing him with a sense of self, but at times this impedes our ability to keep him focused on activities that promote longevity.
While his persistent, whole-hearted embrace of his role model’s ethics and confidence does manage to aid us in distracting him from the harsh reality of his circumstances, it comes with a blatant disregard for his own personal safety. However, with continued assistance from the Catsimile in monitoring his activities, we have been fortunate enough to keep him free from harm. Unfortunately, this task becomes more challenging by the day, as the boy is very quick to act on impulse.
I believe if it were not for his heartfelt desire to keep us near him always, he surely would have discarded us long ago. Beyond survival and educational considerations, our ability to anticipate and counter his actions before he commits to them has continued to diminish – as evidenced by his latest near-death encounter.
Without additional resources, my concern is that these events will only increase in frequency as his self-awareness increases, which could inevitably result in losing him again to the kind of circumstances that have claimed him once already.
STUDENT PROGRESS UPDATE #1009: COMPLETED
• • •
With his portable friends safely tucked into his backpack, the boy ordered Comet back into stand-by hoping to conserve a few more hours of power while they were away. Now, if he were to need the impenetrable safety of the HMT while inside the crater, it would not be there for him.
Over the last year he’d been forced to abandon several pieces of useful hardware along the way, just to keep moving forward. In each instance it was the issue of depleted energy cells that caused the loss. The HMT was the very definition of rock steady reliability. This and the protection provided by its hard, nearly impenetrable outer hull were the two best reasons to keep Comet rolling along.
As transportation, he understood the big vehicle was essential, but it had its drawbacks: it was not very fast, and it didn’t have an autopilot. Running a pre-flight check of the stock Fly-Rider to verify its functionality, he considered for the first time just how dependent he was on his mobile abode.
He couldn’t imagine ever leaving Comet, resolving that if he couldn’t find the energy cells it needed, he would simply park his immobile home someplace convenient and use it as an outpost. But the question of how he would get the HMT to such a desirable location crushed what was the best of all the boy’s possible “worst case scenarios” concerning the ambulatory fortress.
Returning empty handed would not do. He’d promised to keep each of his traveling companions powered and at his side no matter what happened; he refused to lose any of the appliances or utilities that had become the core of his crew. This was the logic of a little boy subconsciously trying to hang on to what little “family” he still had.
“When I find some fresh cells, I’ll be back. OK, Comet?”
“Very well, I’ll be here ‘sleeping,’” it replied.
The boy’s wrinkled brow, a reflection of his growing anxiety, was eased by the machine’s casually unsentimental reply as he climbed onto and powered up the new yellow scooter.
After readjusting his cap to keep his dirty, black, shoulder length hair out of his face, he was off with a flick of his wrist. Hovering a half meter above the ground, he drove the Fly-Rider fearlessly over the sheer edge of the crater, along its high vertical wall of jagged terrain and flora, and passed scores of dead embedded mechs as he headed down to investigate ground zero.
It was a short ride.
Eager to begin, Moebius jumped out of the backpack the moment they stopped moving.
It was a familiar routine. The cat’s nimble reconnaissance and optic feed often revealed safer routes through dark and unknown places.
“I’m right behind you, Moe!” said the boy, looking up at the foliage-covered behemoth. “I wonder why this one isn’t completely destroyed like the all those other ones. It kinda looks like it was trying to land or something.”
The boy walked around the leaning hulk several times until he became familiar with the surface details. Its outer hatches could not easily be spotted for the years of vegetation that cloaked it. Using his telespecs to peer up the side of the towering hull, he spotted a large hole, draped by long vines of ivy that had crawled their way up its length. Upon further optically enhanced inspection, this “hole” proved to be a large, vacated lifeboat bay.
The boy smiled. He knew where there was an empty bay there was also an inner airlock hatch – and almost always a way inside.
He’d only have to climb the ten or so meters from ground level to get to it.
“Moebius, I’ve found a way in,” he spoke, adjusting the headset of his all-spectrum goggles, which were tuned to receive a constant audio and visual feed from his reconnaissance cat, “but see if you can find an empty lifeboat bay that’s closer to the ground,” he added, crossing his fingers and not looking forward to the climb.
Moebius returned a short pair of meows into the boy’s headset. A lower entrance could not be found. Unfortunately for the boy, no other lifeboats had been deployed.
“Nothing, eh? OK then, double back,” the boy gulped. “We’re going up from here!”
He removed a bundle of coiled rope from the Fly-Rider’s utility cubby, and snapped it into the handle of the grapple gun stored next to it. Next, he loaded a barbed electromagnetic talon into the barrel, and carefully took aim. Squinting down the barrel’s sight, he recalled Talkie-Book’s indispensable direction on the use of projectiles, acquired from an old instructional called The Archer’s Eye that they had found on an earlier expedition.
“Compensate for line weight by always establishing range first,” he repeated to himself from memory, “Once established, aim just above the target using basic arc trajectory theorem, take care to apply the proper gravity-to-weight ratios of all projectiles well ahead of firing.”
Using his goggles' distance meter, and employing the memorized weights of both the line and talon to finish the calculations in his head, he adjusted his aim and gently squeezed the trigger. The line shot out, arcing just enough to reach the empty bay where it found purchase in the softer alloys within, just beyond the vessel’s hard outer shell.
Close enough. Now for the tiring part, he thought.
With the cat now perched on his backpack, the boy began to pull himself upward, hand over hand, using the smaller design details along the hull to help his feet gain purchase. More than halfway up, he could not resist the temptation to look down.
“Don’t look down,” reminded Talkie-Book, who was also monitoring the Catsimile’s feed, “or you could experience vertigo.”
“But I already am vertical, Lieutenant,” the boy replied with a giggle.
Talkie-Book overrode his programmed impulse to correct the boy, preferring to ignore the weak pun instead.
“Come on, Lieutenant. You know I don’t get vertigo.”
It was true, the young boy was not afraid of heights.
But what Talkie-Book wasn’t sure of was whether this was a residual reaction caused by trauma or one caused by experience. He had been offline for quite some time before his student had arrived. What he did know was, whatever the cause, it added years of maturity to the little boy’s character, and the only thing that could stop the boy from achieving whatever goal he had set for himself was his own sense of fear or his unchecked imagination.
Now inside the empty bay, the boy looked for anything resembling a maintenance or access panel through which he could run a bypass to release the airlock’s outer seal. Hanging by a rope didn’t help to make this any easier, but it was fun. Spotting a panel on the far side of the hatch, he swung himself over to reach it. Opening it unveiled one fact: it was dead.<
br />
“No juice, eh? I’ve got just the thing for hard cases like you, buddy,” he said with a smirk, delivering one of the many borrowed lines of dialogue he sometimes used, “By the time I’m done, you’ll be paying me to arrest you, creep!”
Reaching down into his coat’s right rib pocket, he produced a small tube of Ohm Alpha Z, a powerful molecular explosive. Carefully removing the cap, he squeezed out just enough to outline the airlock’s explosive bolt releases. Replacing the cap and returning the tube to his pocket, he reached into another for a tiny silver slug.
This was the Ohm Alpha Z compound’s detonator.
He carefully pressed the slug into the lump, and began bouncing away from the hatch like a mountain climber to put as much distance as possible between himself and the blast.
“Lieutenant, stand by to send a pop-pulse on my mark ...” the boy ordered as he looked away.
“Standing by,” replied the backpack-bound gadget.
“One bounce...two bounce...three bounce, MARK!!"
An inaudible sine wave emanated from inside his backpack, causing the fine-tuned molecular structure of the tiny slug to respond by destabilizing the dangerous, goo-smeared areas around it. Powerful subatomic vibrations began accelerating the bolts to the point of molecular decohesion, causing the normally inert substance inside to explode.
BANG!
It took less than a tenth of a second.
The heavy outer hatch blew off, flying past the bouncing boy, and fell harmlessly to the ground below.
As much as he liked to blow stuff up, he did not like the micro shock wave that OAZ explosions created, as they tended to make his stomach feel queasy afterwards.
“See? Perfect! Not too much goo used that time, Lieutenant!”
“Excellent! You haven’t injured yourself. Well done!”
Swinging up through the opening into the cooler, empty air lock chamber, the boy was relieved to see that the inner hatch’s panel was still powered, which meant it was just a few crossed wires away from opening.
The Half-Life of Johnny Seiko_Hard Lessons Page 2