To their collective credit, the squad didn’t say a word, but more than one sharp gasp was heard over the intercom.
“How?” Vygotsky asked. “You figure on going back up to zero and trying to break through from above? Only, we’re not exactly equipped for a demolition job.”
Chapman gestured to the console beside him. “This controls the power grid for the whole ship, and it’s still online. I wondered why, but these bots have been aboard for years. They’ve got to recharge somewhere, right?”
“Right,” Dern said. “Especially the M1s. They still have the second gen power cells. Third gen and up, the cells weren’t backward compatible, so the M1s were never upgraded. They need downtime every couple of days. But I looked under the hood of these M2s, and they’ve been retrofitted with 4.1 hybrids. They can go for a week or ten days without a recharge, but it depends how they’re deployed. Send them on a route march and they won’t get far.”
“Thanks for that,” Chapman said. He knew that Corporal Dern was regarded as the squad’s resident nerd, but now the others were looking at him with a newfound respect. “From what I picked up before we got here,” Chapman resumed, “the only things keeping this ship in orbit are the auxiliary engines. They run on autopilot, keeping the ship on track. At the same time, surplus power is diverted to two storage sites.”
“Fore and aft batteries,” Dern chipped in, a smile spreading across his face. “They store juice from the photoelectrics too. And they’re on either side of the control center.”
“Got it in one,” Chapman said. “Reckon we could do something with that?”
“Definitely.” Wallace exchanged an enthusiastic look with Dern. “Just a matter of overloading the batteries. The safety controls won’t be a problem. I looked through the schematics just yesterday, and on a ship this old, the electrical systems…let’s just say they aren’t rocket science.”
“And the electrolytic oxygen generator is in the next compartment,” Dern put in. “It might be offline, but we can restart it, and then it’ll start producing hydrogen as a by-product. All we’d need to do is create a spark in the right place and boom.”
“That’s good,” Wallace said thoughtfully. “Even a small blast would help to send the batteries over the edge. And that way, we’ll get to trigger the explosion exactly when we want.”
“Can you control the blast?” Samson asked. “It’s no use if it takes us with it.”
“Each section of the ship has its own fire suppression systems, and they should still be operational,” Dern said. “Plus, we can wait until you’re in position before we light the hydrogen. We’ll be okay here in engineering, and the bridge should be safe too, but I wouldn’t bet on anywhere else.”
“I’m guessing we’ll be hitting the bridge just after the explosion,” Vygotsky offered. “Should be fine.”
“That’s right.” Chapman felt a fresh surge of optimism. “That settles it. Wallace, Dern, you’re our demolition team. The blast should take out the M2s around the control center, and it’ll create a distraction. Vygotsky and Samson, you’ll come with me to take the bridge. Something tells me there’ll be a welcoming party waiting for us.”
“Count on it,” Vygotsky said. “Looks like these bots have learned the drill. God knows they must’ve been through it often enough.”
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.
&
nbsp; “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 approached. 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 h
is 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.”
End Point Page 3