by Chris Hechtl
“That was why we didn't see anyone. It, they, it, whatever, it hid the bodies. So we wouldn't suspect anything. But that just put us on guard anyway.”
“Yeah.”
“The cold kept the bodies from bleeding out I suppose. Kept the flies and stuff at bay and kept the smell down,” Fiben muttered, looking at their own dead. Kelsy had covered the bodies with the shreds of the tarp that had been melted onto the robot. Every time he looked at them he couldn't help but turn brown hating eyes on the robots.
Pat took the parts, but Fiben coldly tore the electronics apart. “You can have the batteries, motors and shit. Stuff we can use. The rest is history,” Fiben growled. “That means the computers and stuff.”
Pat took a look at his face and didn't bother to try to argue. Fiben turned away. He knew Pat desperately wanted to tear into the robots to see what made them tick, what had turned them against mankind. He probably had a wild idea that somehow he would be the one to figure out how to stop it all. He might be right. But the risk was just too great. One of the electronic brains might have a built in Wi-Fi, one they couldn't disable with a disconnect or switch. It could give away their location, if they hadn't already. He looked up to the sky then away. There was no way to be sure.
As Fiben surveyed the breakage, he realized there was no point in staying, nor was there any point in running away. Kelsy was injured, but from the way she was using the arm, it wasn't broken. That was good. They'd have to watch for infection, but at least it wasn't broken. Kelsy grimaced as Asa wrapped the wound with a clean rag. Asa would be burdened with her daughter, and they would only be able to take so much. And where would they go? No, it was best to make their stand at the cave.
Donnie was staring at Steve's body, ears flat, obviously heartbroken over the loss. Imda cuddled with him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders to show her support. He nuzzled the girl, but then went back to looking at his dead friend.
The Neochimp turned away. He would need to strip and bury the dead, preferably before any scavengers came calling. He hoped they would have enough food; he didn't want to have to remember where his friends were buried in case …
He put the thought aside with difficulty. Grimly he picked up a small portable shovel and went to work. They had only so much daylight and hell if he was going to stay in the village turn nightfall. The cave was definitely safer.
<>V<>
Hachiko's supplemental report on what happened at the entrance to the American Okinawa Base puzzled some of the elders. The loss was the focus of many, but Mū saw a different facet of the encounter. The dog had been ignored. “Contact Ten no kyūden,” he ordered in his gravelly voice. He lifted a finger. “Send them our report.”
“Hai sensei,” the tech said with a bow. She put a helmet on to cover her eyes as she went to work.
He ordered his communications division to spread the word to orbit. The orbital facility, really a cluster of stations in geosynchronous orbit, was called Olympus by the gajin. His translation was more appropriate to his lineage, though he was aware that the facility was overextended and badly damaged. Still, it would be heaven compared to what some of his shinobi were going through, he thought, flexing his bandage-covered hand slowly.
“Onegaishimasu sensei,” a healer murmured insistently but gently guiding his hand back down. They didn't want to move his body to allow it to heal. He had refused the baths. His skin felt like it was on fire from time to time. Keeping it hydrated and clean to promote healing while preventing infection was difficult.
He glanced at the healer as she checked the bandage to make certain he hadn't constricted blood flow or broken a blister. She wore a mask to protect him from secondary infections. When she was gone, he closed his eyes.
He had to get into that base. It was imperative that they secure it if they were to secure their future. He had to get it under control while his shinobi finished cleansing the island of electronic devices. Once that was done, they could divide their efforts between rebuilding from the security of the base while sending out teams of shinobi to cleanse the rest of Asia of the hated machines.
Getting in was the key. They were shinobi; they would sacrifice themselves if it was necessary for the mission. Of that he had no doubt. But so many had already sacrificed so much, he would not sacrifice them lightly.
The dog … the dog's ability to move where his shinobi couldn't, could be very important. Very important he thought.
“Kanzen'na, Sensei,” the tech said, taking her helmet off. She looked at him, but her eyes were lowered demurringly.
“Watashi o nokoshimasu,” the Kage whispered softly. The young woman rose from her kneeling position on the tame mat and bowed, then retreated. When the door snicked shut, he closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the headrest.
The Kage was unsure of what it meant but had a few ideas on how to exploit it once he explored the tentative idea more firmly. The dog wasn't shinobi, but it was of Nihon, home. It could therefore float and be a kamikaze, the divine wind if he ordered it, if it was worthy of being a shinobi in spirit.
<>V<>
Skynet found its most recent encounters with the humans as suboptimal. Its approach was wrong; the viral A.I. was not designed for this stage, not for ground combat or strategic control. It was designed to infiltrate, suborn, and take over, not to handle day-to-day operations.
Nor was the hardware left available to it. What robots it had on hand needed to be husbanded carefully. According to its calculations and models, less than a third of the human population remained. Five billion humans where once twenty-two had stood. In order to finish the rest, it would need to gain additional WMDs or find a better attrition ratio for its forces.
Currently it took two unarmed robots to kill one active unarmed human. If the human was armed, that ratio went up significantly. The robots were also not designed for combat. Skynet didn't know of any way to alter the robots chassis to improve their survival and offensive abilities.
It turned to the only models it had available—the federal and police androids and robots at its disposal. Those could handle combat, though many had been originally outfitted with nonlethal tools. It had long discarded them in favor of human hand weapons. It set about an experiment to modify existing civilian robots to get better results from them.
It also did its best to learn from the combat experiences its robot army had so far encountered. Through trial and error, it had found that using the civilian robots were most effective if they were in a group. If they flushed out the humans in an area or were used as bait to draw them out, then a kill team made up of better armed robots could be employed to finish the job. But it still yielded very suboptimal results.
Therefore, something had to be done. Skynet's hive mind set out to seize information on tactics and strategy to better improve its plan. When it came across web boards for video games, it sent spiders through it to devour the information from it then apply the tips to the current field units. It would take time for the information to filter to all units, but eventually it would. A minimum 20 percent increase in efficiency would be expected.
While the patch filtered through its networks, it sent out additional commands to its various tendrils to suborn additional A.I. but leave some of their higher functions intact. On top of that, they were to put a priority on locating and preserving additional military and tactical knowledge databases, as well as databases on how to improve or repair the robots it had. Finally, it set a goal to find information on how to build new robots and weapons.
<>V<>
“We got something,” Pat said triumphantly, coming in with his hands full.
“More food?” Imda asked hopefully.
Pat shook his head as he set his burden down on the improvised table. “No, kid, sorry,” he said. “Something more for me,” he said, pulling the top of the plastic crate off. It was hermetically sealed so the contents were well protected from the elements.
“What is it?” Fiben asked. Pat
turned to show him the cover. It took the chimp a moment to read the Spanish and then translate it. “Ham? Where did you get it?”
“As in HAM radio, AM,” the engineer said, grinning as he started pulling pieces out. “Shortwave radio. Very old tech.”
“Oh,” Fiben said, confused. “If it's so old, will anyone be listening on the other end?” he asked.
Pat's busy hands stopped for a moment as he scowled. Finally he turned a glower on Fiben. Fiben shrugged it off. “You would ask that,” the human said darkly, thoroughly disgusted with himself.
“Hey, I may be wrong, Pat, go for it,” Fiben said, indicating the electronics. “But tell me where you got it from.”
Pat looked at them, spirits suddenly lower. He poked at the thing.
“Pat,” Fiben rested a hand on his shoulder as Donnie came over to listen. “Do it. We might get someone; we might not. But we need the hope. I spoke without thinking,” he said. “So go for it. And if it doesn't work, well, we might be able to modify it into something that can punch a signal out.”
“To space?” Donnie asked, cocking his head expectantly.
“A ham radio can go pretty far. A good one can bounce a signal off the troposphere,” Pat said. “So if someone's listening …,” he shrugged, hands digging into the box.
“Good call.”
“We found it. Farm abandoned,” Donnie said. “Some tools. No food,” the dog amplified, and then snuffled. Fiben nodded.
“I remembered something about FEMA using the things during emergencies,” Pat said, turning to the chimp briefly. “I was bored on the flight out and read the history of SAR stuff,” he said. Fiben nodded slowly. Perhaps it would help.
He turned to Donnie. “Where did you guys find that?” he asked.
Donnie snuffled at the dust, pawing at his nose for a moment before he dragged it against his arm. “Out.”
“A farm,” Pat answered absently. “It's wrecked. No food, someone else got there first. We found some tools and this though.”
“Good job,” Fiben stated, patting him on the shoulder again. He turned to Donnie. “You didn't smell any food? No other containers? Blankets?”
“All gone,” Donnie said mournfully. He went over to the girl and cuddled up to her to share in her warmth. The girl rested her arm around him.
Fiben looked at the pieces doubtfully. Most likely the thing had been put away for a reason. He doubted it was a keepsake, though he could be wrong. The thing was definitely ancient, at least a century old. Hopefully, it was up to the task he thought.
“We're going to need to run a wire for an antenna and figure out how to power it,” Pat said as he worked. “And with power we can hook up a light. Using this lantern is for the birds,” he said, poking his lantern.
Fiben nodded.
<>V<>
Once the truck was put back together and tested, Boomer took two volunteers and Hallis to head out.
The truck had been rebuilt so often very little of it was factory original. But it functioned and could not be infected by the virus, unlike the aircars and other vehicles that had been disabled around the area.
“You've got two extra cans,” Pa Aspin said, hefting one into the back of the truck. Rogers took it from him and put it inside. “And an extra couple gallons of water. Don't let it freeze,” the old man said, handing over milk jugs filled with water. “You remember how to get there, son?” he asked as his son climbed into the cab.
“Yeah,” Boomer said. He had a rifle, but it was too awkward to have in the cab so he handed it over to Rogers as well. Rogers seemed happy to receive the weapon. “Careful with that. We've only got a few,” Boomer cautioned. Rogers nodded.
“The biofuel you've got has to stay warm. We've wrapped it in insulation and snaked the fuel line around the exhaust to get some residual heat. Make sure you check it each time you stop. And yeah, I know it means someone needs to climb under. Sucks to be you or them,” Pa said. He handed his son a care package from his wife. “Remember how to work the transmission?” he asked as Boomer shut the door.
“Like riding a bike, Dad, I hope,” Boomer said, resting a hand on the leather wrapped knob.
“Be careful with it. You don't want to grind the gears and have the transmission blow. Mind the brakes too. We didn't bleed them as well as I'd like, and we didn't have as much brake fluid for them either.”
“Joy,” Boomer replied as the truck sputtered. He winced as he hit the clutch and shifted the gears to get her into drive. The transmission made grinding noises until he got it under control. He had to remember how the damn gear tree was set up.
“Two hundred and forty seven years old and she's still moving,” Pa Aspin said, patting the window sill. “Stay safe, son.”
“Can't do that. But will make anything we run into regret it,” Boomer answered.
His father nodded. “You do that then. But come home. Your ma will have my ass if you don't,” he said as his wife came over.
She leaned into the cab to give her son a peck on the cheek then caress it. “Stay safe,” she murmured.
“I will, Mom,” he said.
“Are we going or not? We're burning daylight,” Rogers growled.
“We're going,” Boomer answered, taking his foot off the brake and putting it on the gas pedal. Slowly the truck started to roll. As it picked up speed, he shifted gears.
“Like riding a bike,” Boomer said under his breath. Hallis eyed him then looked away out the window.
Hallis was disgusted to realize the truck's ancient complexity was beyond him. The manual gears alone were something he wasn't sure about, and the idea of grinding the gears and potentially blowing the transmission and stranding them made him very leery of taking the wheel.
That meant he had to have a driver; someone who could handle the beast. So far the only one he knew of was Boomer or Boomer's father. Boomer wasn't going to go willingly, and with his military training trying to take him hostage was out. He'd be looking over his shoulder the entire time.
Besides, Hallis thought frowning as he felt the wind in his face, he had no plan on where to go. Nor any idea on how to refuel the vehicle when it ran low on whatever green goop the Aspins had whipped up and stuck inside the thing.
When they got to the main road, Boomer played with the radio, but it was all static. Finally he shut it off. After a few minutes, Boomer grunted.
“What?”
“Remind me to have someone check the radio in this thing again when we get back. It didn't have power. It may or may not still work. We probably should rig a bigger antenna or something to get a better range.”
“So? Why bother?” Hallis asked. “No one is transmitting, right?” They had a few sporadic calls from the spacers in orbit but not many.
“We can try, right?” Boomer asked, glancing his way. Hallis grunted and then looked away. The road was long, with ruined fields on either side. It was going to be a long, boring ride.
“Keep your eyes peeled for road pirates or bots,” Boomer called out. He banged on the roof then leaned out to repeat the order. “Keep an eye on the air too. We don't want an air car coming in on us to bomb or kamikaze us,” he warned.
“Frack,” Hallis muttered. Apparently his little ride along wasn't going to be as safe as he'd assumed.
<>V<>
By morning Pat had put the thing back together; however, he reported over breakfast that the original microphone was shot. They rigged a bicycle Pat had also found on the farm to the starter from their wrecked jeep to power it. The starter was essentially a generator powered by muscle instead of machine. As long as they had spare calories, they could use it to charge what batteries they had scavenged plus power the radio and lights. Pat excitedly told him that he might be able to rig up a heater coil as well. That was a welcome idea.
With it working Pat got them into the radio network by turning the dial carefully, hunting through the channels and pausing to take note of anything that sounded remotely positive. He rigged more wire to
the antenna, then got fed up and went back to the farm.
He returned some time later with cable all over him plus an ancient TV aerial. “I hate heights,” Pat muttered. Donnie followed him in, padded in a circle, and then flopped down near Asa.
Asa's fingers reached out to stroke the dog's ears, then went back to picking at pieces of clothes she was trying to piece together into a quilt.
Pat hooked the antenna up and then ran the wire outside. “A little help here?” he demanded. Fiben went outside to see what the holdup was.
He was caught muttering about stereotypes as he climbed a tree to run the antenna up to the top. The palm swayed alarmingly under his weight but lasted long enough for him to lash the antenna to the top then shimmy back down.
“The box is making noise!” Asa said excitedly from the entrance of the cave. She waved frantically to them. Pat grinned and took off at a trot. Fiben followed at his own pace.
They listened avidly to reports of what was going on around the world. Asa's excitement had woken Imda. She stroked the girl's hair, weeping silently at the sound of fresh human voices. “So, we aren't alone. We still cling to civilization,” she murmured.
Imda looked up to her mother's tear-streaked face, unsure of the distress and what to do. Asa looked down to her finally and then picked her up in her arms. “Mommy is just happy. So very happy,” Asa said, then went back to her quilting project.
Fiben watched them go then went over to the bike. He peddled it to keep the batteries charged while Pat worked on modifying a microphone from a smart phone to them to transmit with.
It took hours for Pat to get his microphone set up. When he did Fiben tested it. He spoke quietly when a call went out about where people were. He wasn't certain if he got through; no one responded. He kept their location vague. Each of the bipeds took turns broadcasting. After a while they gave up and stopped to do their evening chores. Fiben needed to gather more wood before it got too dark. Otherwise, they wouldn't have enough fire to last the cold bitter night.