END POINT
by
Michael Campling
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Indulge Your Inner Awkward Streak
End Point
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END POINT
Squad Transport Shuttle Bravo-Three-One
Two hours out from Earth, Sergeant John Chapman glared at the message on his helmet’s HUD, his gaze lingering on the final line: Not everyone has what it takes to be a Cutter. He rubbed his thumb across his gloved fingertip, swiping the message away. Thanks for the pep talk.
There’d be more messages from the Colonel during the exercise, and whether the team passed or failed, the debriefing session afterward would make root canal treatment seem like a holiday. It was almost reason enough to make it through this task: succeed and he’d get to walk away from Camp Echo, and Colonel Blende’s tender mercies, once and for all. And the only obstacle between him and that golden day of deployment was an eighty percent score on this exercise: the culmination of three months of blood, sweat, and finely honed aggression. I’ll do it, he told himself. If it takes my last breath. He focused, running through the mission in his mind, recalling his preparatory research: enemy capabilities, theater parameters, threats, and opportunities. It was all in there, waiting to be put to good use.
Sitting next to him in the cramped compartment, Corporal Nate Parker nudged his arm. “Hey,” he said, raising his voice instead of using comms. “You read the love letter from our favorite officer?”
“Oh yeah,” Chapman replied. “Only two threats to send us all back to basic. I think he’s starting to like us.”
Parker grinned. “No worries for you, man. Your sim scores are through the roof. The son of a bitch bots won’t know what’s hit them.”
“This is no sim,” Chapman said, and as if to prove his point, the shuttle swayed and shook, a hollow thud thrumming through the steel deck. Six men and women stiffened their spines, exchanging meaningful glances, game-faced behind their tinted visors, ready to rock.
“There she is,” Parker said, pointing to the viewport. “Our home for the next twenty-four hours.”
“Forget twenty-four hours. We’ll be done long before then.” Chapman peered out through the grimy glass, watching as the gray hulk of a battered destroyer slid past the oblong viewport. The Pride of Titan, a legendary ship in its time, now serving out its days as a training ground for all those driven enough to try out for the Cyborg Tactical Response Regiment: the Cutters.
Chapman searched The Pride’s flank. He’d spent many hours studying the destroyer, learning its specs inside and out, and he soon found what he was looking for: the gash in the ship’s hull, scorched metal curling outward in ragged shards of twisted alloy. The place where it had happened. The place where his sister Elizabeth had drawn her last faltering breath.
“Are you okay?” Parker asked.
Chapman fixed him with a look. “Never better.”
“That’s cool.” Parker’s eyes flicked to one side, distracted by his HUD, and Chapman focused on his own display:
> Docking Sequence Initiated.
As one, the squad went into action, hitting the quick release catches on the racks alongside their seats and grabbing their rifles. Chapman ran his fingers over his weapon, setting it for three-shot bursts. Live rounds. The bots on The Pride were at a disadvantage, armed only with plastic-tipped sim rounds and held back by their hard-wired protocols. The bots weren’t permitted to shoot at the candidates’ visors or life support units, but Chapman knew that the cyborgs’ non-lethal rounds, custom-built for the Cutters’ training program, were powerful enough to punch the breath from his lungs. And every hit he took would be registered by his EVA suit; take a critical hit or too many minor ones, and he was done. Washed out. Not going to happen, Chapman told himself. I know these bots. I know the way they work. Still, this exercise wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. The bots were programmed to hold the ship at any cost; they wouldn’t go down without a fight.
“I heard they put more than thirty bots in there,” Parker said. “Could that be right?”
Chapman allowed himself a grim smile. “Doesn’t matter to me. We take them out one at a time, my friend. One at a time.”
From across the compartment, Corporal Lucille Wallace caught Chapman’s eye. “Sergeant, can we run a comms check? I’m getting an error. Low signal strength.”
“Affirmative,” Chapman replied, tapping his forefinger and thumb together to open a channel to the whole squad. “Sound off, people. Let’s put Corporal Wallace’s mind at rest.”
Parker and Wallace responded first, closely followed by Sergeant Leo Vygotsky, and Corporals Gus Dern and Clare Samson.
“Anything I need to know?” Vygotsky asked, and Chapman detected an edge of resentment in the man’s voice. Although they held equal rank, Chapman had been designated squad leader for the exercise, and Vygotsky wasn’t about to forget it.
“No. We’ll stick to the plan,” Chapman replied. “Wallace and Parker, you’re with me. We’ll take the control center and run diagnostics on critical systems. Sergeant Vygotsky, you’ll take Dern and Samson and secure the engine room. We’ll mop up the bots as fast as we can, eliminating all threats, then we’ll rendezvous at the bridge.”
“First team to the bridge fires the engines,” Vygotsky put in, and the answering chorus of cheers was suddenly loud on the comms. Firing up The Pride’s engines would signal the end of the exercise, and although there were supposed to be no individual winners on this mission, regiment lore said otherwise. Being the first to take The Pride’s bridge was a badge of honor, and back on the base, the champion would have a good night in the bar without spending a cent.
“Don’t even think about it,” Chapman said. “We play this by the book. I want a complete diagnostic on the bridge before we risk firing the engines.”
“Are you serious?” Vygotsky asked. “You want us to cool our heels while Wallace checks every goddamned nut and bolt?”
“Absolutely,” Chapman insisted. “Right now, the bots have the run of the ship, and God knows what kind of shit they’re pulling, but it isn’t going to be good.”
Nobody spoke, the only sound in the compartment made by the spasmodic rumble of the retros easing the shuttle closer to The Pride’s dock. They all think I’m some kind of paranoid nut, Chapman thought. Let them! He didn’t give a damn. He’d read the report on his sister’s death, and there was no way he’d ever accept it. Elizabeth hadn’t died in a training accident; she’d been murdered by the bots, blown through the hull by an improvised device. No one believed him, but they weren’t going to argue. Not here. Not now.
Vygotsky glared, but Chapman didn’t blink. “Are we clear, Sergeant Vygotsky?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Vygotsky said. “Understood.”
“Good.” Chapman had more to say, but the message in his HUD persuaded him to bite back his words:
> Docking in 5 seconds. Prepare to deploy.
Chapman released his safety harness, planting his grav boots firmly on the deck and pushing himself to his feet. “Let’s move it, people. Into position.”
Vygotsky took his place at Chapman’s side, the teams forming up directly behind their respective leaders. Vygotsky flashed Chapman a knowing smile. “Ten credits says I’ll be the first to put a bullet in a bot’s brain.”
Chapman shook his head. “No bet. M3s are the only bots with anything like a brain, and anyhow, it takes a team to make a kill, Vygotsky. Shared kill, shared credit.”
“Brain, neuro-gel, whate
ver they’ve got, I’m going to be splashing it all over the walls.”
Chapman busied himself checking his scope, switching on his mounted tactical light. “Sure. We’re all on the same page.”
A resounding thud ran through the shuttle, and Chapman’s HUD told him the vessel had docked. “Hatch open on three,” he called out, his hand on the release lever. “One, two, go!” Punching the lever downward, he darted forward as the hatch shot open, its movement fast enough to fool the eye; the solid sheet of armored alloy blinking out of sight as if it had never been there. Chapman leaped onto The Pride’s deck, his boots taking hold as he turned to scan the corridor, his rifle at his shoulder, his finger on the trigger, but the dimly lit, airless corridor was empty. He stared into the gloom, his sharp eyes piercing the pools of flickering darkness that remained untouched by the ship’s feeble emergency lighting. Ready for anything, he played his tactical light along the bulkheads, the ceiling, its blue-white beam stabbing into the shadows, searching for any sign of movement or the tell-tale glimmer of an LED. But there was nothing; nothing but dust and debris floating in zero-G, long strips of plastic paneling trailing like broken teeth from bullet-pocked bulkheads, frayed bundles of cable dangling from the ceiling.
“Parker, Wallace, with me,” Chapman said, turning to his right and breaking into a jog, his grav boots grating against the scored metal deck. “Vygotsky, we’ll keep our teams together until we hit the midship intersection. Keep an eye on our six as we go.”
“Affirmative,” Vygotsky said. “My team are scanning our six now.”
Hearing the man’s self-assured tone, Chapman breathed an inward sigh of relief. Most of the time, Vygotsky was an asshole, but once a mission was underway, he’d do his job, and that was all that mattered.
“I’m reading activity behind us,” Corporal Dern put in. “Three Hundred meters. Closing.”
“Confirmed,” Vygotsky responded. “Let’s pick up the pace. Make the intersection before they catch us.”
“Agreed,” Chapman said. “We can’t get pinned down here. We need to control that intersection. Let’s move!” He found another gear, powering forward, sensing his team keeping pace. In the distance, the intersection with the midship corridor was just visible through the gloom, its dark mouth yawning wide. The corridor was vital, leading directly to the control center, the beating heart of the ship’s critical systems, and that made it essential to Chapman’s simple plan: own the midship corridor, take the control center quickly and defend it, wiping out every bot that came near. Vygotsky’s team would do the same in engineering, and after that, gaining the bridge would be relatively easy. Don’t get too cocky, Chapman scolded himself. The bastards may not be smart, but they don’t know when to quit. And he recalled the lesson drummed into every candidate on day one at Camp Echo: A bot never surrenders.
Chapman fought the urge to look over his shoulder. It wasn’t easy to cast a backward glance in full EVA gear, and anyway, the bots would be there all right; he could count on it. In pursuit mode, cyborgs hunted like a pack of hounds, running their quarry to ground, never slowing nor losing the trail, relentless. And Chapman’s instincts kicked up a flurry of worrying whispers in the back of his mind: Why haven’t they attacked already? They must’ve known we were on board from the second we docked. They should have us in their sights by now.
He double-checked his HUD, searching the way ahead, but the corridor was clear; no motion, no threat. All they had to do was make the intersection, and then they could defend their position before making a clean run to the control center.
“Something’s wrong,” Corporal Dern said. “My HUD just glitched.”
“What do you mean?” Chapman demanded. “It’s out of action?”
“No, it just jumped, like…I don’t know.”
“Like a freeze-frame?” Wallace asked, her voice hesitant.
“Yeah,” Dern said. “How did you know?”
“Shit!” Wallace hissed. “Mine too. We’re getting jammed.”
Chapman’s step faltered, but before he could slow down, something thumped into the bulkhead right by his side, the plastic panel buckling, cracking apart, and Vygotsky’s voice boomed on the intercom: “Contact! Six bots right behind us. M3s. Two hundred meters. Closing fast.”
A rush of adrenaline coursed through Chapman’s veins. M3s already! The most advanced bots they’d meet, the M3s were stripped down for speed and agility: an organic central nervous system hard-wired into a sleek alloy frame. Armed with assault rifles, they could run faster than any soldier, shooting all the while, and at close quarters, they were strong enough to tear a man limb from limb. But their lightweight frames were more vulnerable than the older, more heavily armored bots, and Chapman had expected the M3s to hang back, only weighing into combat after the sturdier M1s and M2s had softened up the opposition.
Hell of a way to start a mission, Chapman thought. We’re on the run before we’ve fired a shot. But he couldn’t let the squad get bogged down with a skirmish while they were in the open. He needed to dictate the terms of his first fight. “Get to that intersection!” Chapman commanded. “Do not return fire until I give the order.”
A volley of sim rounds raked the bulkhead at his side, and Chapman ground his teeth together, his mind fixed on a single thought: Keep running! It was only their speed that was keeping the squad from being mown down.
“I tossed a PM,” Vygotsky said. “Just one.”
“Good call,” Chapman responded. Vygotsky’s proximity mine wouldn’t be enough to take out all six bots, but it should slow them down. “Come on, guys. Almost there.” The intersection was just ahead, and when they’d made it around the corner, they could regroup and return fire from an optimal position.
From behind him, a light flared: Vygotsky’s mine detonating. I should’ve called that shot myself, Chapman chided himself. He’d let the squad get caught on the back foot, the heat of the moment overwhelming his tactical judgment. But he had to let his error go, keep moving, take control; the battle had barely begun. And now the intersection was only ten meters away. Nine. Eight. But before he could reach it, a red light blinked in his HUD, a warning flashing across his field of vision:
> ALERT - MULTIPLE THREATS.
Chapman’s eyes went wide, and he skidded to a standstill. “Halt!” His HUD showed a group of bots lying in wait around the corner, and he knew with a sickening surge of certainty why the M3 bots behind them had so far been unlucky with their shots: they were aiming to miss, herding the team forward, knowing they’d run straight for the control center and into the ambush.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Not on his watch.
“Turn around!” Chapman barked. “Return fire!” Dropping to one knee, he tilted his head to his rifle’s scope and focused.
All six bots still raced toward them though two were moving awkwardly, perhaps damaged by Vygotsky’s mine. Chapman targeted the nearest bot and aimed for its lower body, firing a three-shot burst, but his shots went too high, ricocheting harmlessly from the bot’s smooth chest plate. Chapman adjusted his aim and fired again, breathing out as he pulled the trigger. His rounds kicked up sparks as they smashed into the bot’s pelvic sub-frame, fragments of alloy flying out to pepper the bulkheads. The bot lurched sideways, its shattered hip giving way. For a split second, it struggled to remain upright, and Chapman fired again, his rounds knocking the bot from its feet. Free from the hold of its grav boots, the bot flew back against the bulkhead, arms thrashing violently, one leg twitching. It wasn’t dead, but it was disabled, and Chapman selected another target.
The squad had already taken down most of the others, but one bot hung back, dodging erratically from side to side. Its chest panel gleamed, gunmetal blue, and it seemed uninjured. Chapman took aim, but as he fired, the bot ducked down, diving headlong to the deck and lying flat, sheltered by the bodies of two of its stricken comrades. Chapman hesitated. He’d logged more hours on the sims than anyone on the squad, and he’d never seen an M3
take cover to save its own skin. But if the rest of the squad had noticed anything strange, they weren’t letting it slow them down. A hail of gunfire rained down on the cowering cyborg’s position, the fallen bots twitching as live rounds slammed into their metal carcasses.
“Cease fire,” Chapman called out, and when the squad’s guns fell silent, his HUD showed no motion from the downed cyborgs. “They’re done. Good work.”
“Control center?” Vygotsky asked.
“Didn’t you see what’s down there?” Chapman said. “Take one step into that corridor, and we’ll be cut to pieces.”
Vygotsky took a step closer to Chapman. “What are you talking about? Your HUD must’ve glitched. I’ve got no warnings on mine, and anyhow, if there were bots down there, they’d have come out shooting by now.”
“I’m telling you,” Chapman insisted, “there’s a bunch of bots between us and the control center. They’re standing too close to each other to count, but they haven’t moved an inch.”
“Sergeant, I could use the worm,” Wallace put in. “That way we’ll know for sure.”
“Go ahead,” Chapman said. “Relay the feed to the whole squad.”
“Got it.” Wallace edged toward the intersection, at the same time pulling a short, snake-like flexi-cam from a pocket on her suit’s leg. The cam’s body, little bigger than a man’s hand, twitched as Wallace laid it on the deck, and when she unclipped a control pad from her belt, the flexi-cam straightened and set off, sliding smoothly over the surface, hugging the bulkhead. A second later, it slipped into the midship corridor, and a video feed appeared in the bottom-right corner of Chapman’s HUD.
At first, he could make out nothing in the feed except for the litter of debris floating eerily in the gloom, and he frowned, a single drop of sweat trickling down from his left eyebrow. Dammit! Vygotsky was right. If there were bots hiding in the dark recesses of the corridor, he’d have seen their LEDs. Every bot in the exercise had a green light on its front panel: a sign that it had been put into non-lethal mode. But here, there was nothing, so his HUD must have glitched after all, and now he’d have to admit he was wrong. Vygotsky’s going to love this, he thought. But then Chapman saw what was lurking in the shadows, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention.
End Point Page 1