Founding of the Federation 3: The First AI War

by Chris Hechtl

  “We could also write some of the war effort off with whatever nation we are incorporated under I assume,” Chester mused. He glanced at the two bankers. Both shrugged off such considerations. “But we do need to keep an eye on the future. The future markets that will arise from this once the … unpleasantness is over,” he said stubbornly.

  “We can deal with that at a later date. Jack is right; we've got to deal with the here and now. Kill this thing. Then we can fight over the ashes, if there is anything left,” Lynn stated, tapping her manicured index finger into the top of the table meaningfully. “Otherwise, there is no tomorrow.”

  “I think you've made your point, Lynn,” Chun said with a nod. “I'll talk to my board.”

  “I will talk to the board. We don't have the resources the rest of you do,” Phil stated. “If it is up our alley though, we will look into it. I guarantee that much.”

  “Medical supplies, medical care, hospital staffing,” Piotr suggested, ticking things off, “for a military group? Army? Just how are we dealing with all that? Are the security forces and MFI supplying their own gear and medics or …,” he turned to look expectantly at Phil. Phil blinked then frowned thoughtfully. Slowly he nodded.

  “Food for thought I suppose,” Lynn said, pushing her plate away from her as she tossed her napkin on it. “Once more unto the sally and all that, ladies and gentlemen?” she asked, smiling.

  “In a bit,” Phil said, indicating his plate. “Some of us have healthy appetites,” he said.

  “And some should know better than to eat all that red meat,” Chun teased him. He snorted. “We will see you in the board room, Lynn,” she said looking up at Lynn.

  Lynn nodded. She'd intended for them to leave with her, but it was just as well that they stayed and considered their options. They would do that anyway, and even later, jockeying for the best position. If she couldn't have the top seat like Jack had, she intended to have the best she could get. Let the rest of them fight over what was left when they finally saw the writing on the wall.

  Still, Phil's idea had some merit. She made a note to bring that up to her board as well as to Wendy and the others during the financial talks. Restructuring like that would be agonizing, but it could be beneficial too she thought as she left the restaurant.

  Chapter 17

  Each time they went out to get wood or scavenge for food, they had to go further and further away from the cave. Consequently, they couldn't bring back as much; it was just too tiring and too much of a risk. With the stream frozen over, they had resorted to melting snow for their water needs but that meant they needed more firewood.

  The team had their backpacks, but to supplement that Pat had taught them how to turn a couple of poles and some lashing material into litters to carry more. They could carry it as a team or one could drag it behind them.

  Donnie had volunteered, but Fiben had refused. He wanted the dog to stay on alert as security. He appreciated the sentiment, but with Donnie on guard, the rest of them could gather quickly and get back home all that much quicker.

  Pat didn't resist his insistence on the adults taking turns hunting and gathering with Donnie. At least one adult remained behind with Asa and Imda. Whenever Pat went out, he invariably headed to the nearest building to scrounge. Which meant he and Donnie brought back bits of this or that, most of it comfort items, tools, or useless bits for Pat to tinker with, but nothing that they critically needed.

  That meant it was up to Fiben to do the bulk of the true scavenging they needed to do. He was ever aware that they were falling behind in their race to survival. Every day that passed, it only got darker and tougher. Staying motivated was also an increasing concern. Kelsy tended to malinger from time to time with bouts of a stomachache.

  On his second trip out during the day, he noticed a set of tracks in the snow. He stopped, studying where they were going before their shape and significance hit him like a bolt. His brown eyes turned to study them as adrenalin started to course through his system. He'd left Donnie behind, Donnie had been dog tired, pun or no pun. He'd seen a fallen log nearby and had intended to try to roll it closer to the trail and snap some branches off with his simian strength. Now he rather regretted his lapse.

  He'd forgotten the damn cat—the jaguar. That was terminally stupid of him; he scolded himself blackly, swearing under the cloud of his breath. He looked around, fur rising in distress. He wasn't too far from the plains and jungles of Africa to not instinctively fear a big cat. And a Jaguar was a little too much like a leopard for comfort.

  He considered going back to the cave, but then had second thoughts. They needed the wood. He hefted the hatchet in his hands. It was getting dull, Boyd had been the one to have the sharpening stone and he'd lost it when he'd died, but it was a weapon.

  He didn't see anything though, so he warily stalked on, keeping half an eye on the trees and any shadows he found. It seemed a lot of eyes lurked in their dark recesses but when he got closer, it was just his imagination.

  He had just started to relax when he got to the trunk. He looked over his shoulder to check his six when he heard a scrabble. He froze then turned as something rushed him with a roar.

  His martial arts training took over as he went on his back. The creature was trying to rip his throat out and claw him, but his improvised poncho layers were sheltering him. That wouldn't last though. They were also getting in his arms way however.

  But they weren't in the way of his legs. As the cat rolled with him he tucked his legs up and kicked with all his might, continuing the roll. The cat flipped off of him, taking some of the clothes off with it.

  Fiben shook the poncho off and hefted the ax. He studied the jaguar as it righted itself and turned back, golden eyes glaring at him in hunger. It seemed a bit off, like it was underweight. It moved slower than it probably should have. But the intent from that cold intent gaze and soft growl was crystal clear, kill or be killed. When it licked its lips, he smiled grimly, hands gripping the hatchet tighter. “Well? Come on then,” he whispered, lowering his posture and widening his stance. Surprise was gone for the predator. The ball was now on his court, though he knew it didn't know that.

  When the animal charged, he swung the hatchet hard from below, screaming his defiance. His long arms got past the paws and claws of the beast to ram the blade up under the soft center of the jaw and into the animal's throat and head. It's roar was cut off as he pulled, twisting to keep out of its grasp as he swung it around to slam into the trunk.

  He'd gone in from below instead of on high because it was least expected and because he'd expected to rip the bastards throat out or at least hook the jaw and rip that out. But the geometry had been wrong. He'd hurt it, so now he had a wounded predator to deal with.

  The animal was briefly stunned, stunned long enough for him to get in and finish the deed. He didn't bother to yank the buried hatchet out. Instead his simian hands reached up to grab the cat's neck and twist. Muscles far stronger than a human's came to bear, snapping the animal's neck with an explosive crack.

  The jaguar slummed. After a moment its eyes lost their glitter and took on the glassy-eyed look of death.

  Fiben sat down panting next to the beast. He looked around, and then shrugged off any concern. “I hope you don't have friends, but at this moment I don't give a shit. I'm pooped,” he said, slapping a paw.

  <>V<>

  When Fiben recovered he took a long moment to study the predator turned prey. It was rather sickly, a starving animal, he could tell from the ribs. But it was meat, and they needed whatever it would provide. Food was food at this point.

  He tried to use the axe to gut the thing but then gave up. He realized if he did it he'd be covered in blood and too damned exhausted to get it back to the cave. So instead he gathered his things, belted the hatchet to his side, and then tried to drag the cat by the tail.

  That didn't work, so he groaned and took it up on his shoulders. “You better be worth it he growled.

  <>V<>r />
  Pat finally got a response on the radio. Elliot answered him from orbit, surprised that someone could punch a signal through. Pat practically begged for a relief mission to rescue them before Fiben got there and took over.

  “Fiben, that you?” Pat demanded. “We've got one! A live one! Get here quick. It's the boss on high, and he wants to speak to you!” Pat said his voice was rather excited. He chattered on to Elliot as Fiben trudged up the last remaining length of path to the cave entrance.

  His shadow momentarily blocked out some of the ambient light coming from outside. Donnie looked up and whined in concern and at the scent of blood. Fiben panted but waved the dog's concern off as he dropped the carcass near the entrance.

  “You okay, Fiben? You look a little worse for wear,” Pat said, eying the chimp. He motioned to the radio but then back to the chimp.

  Fiben panted, hands on his knees.”It's been a rough day. Jaguar. It's outside. Go get someone to gut it. We'll need to skin and cook it before it freezes,” Fiben ordered slowly as he got his breathing and energy levels to normal. Pat looked at him with wide eyes. “Well? Go on now! I'm looking forward to a cat steak!”

  “Me too!” Donnie barked, rising to his feet.

  Fiben looked at the dog and then to the humans expectantly. “Hey, I killed it. Someone else can clean it, right?”

  Pat licked his lips and then motioned to the others. He turned back to point to the radio. Fiben waved him away as he staggered over to it, shedding some of his outer gear. The blood had frozen in the cold, but it still stank. He flopped in the chair and then bent over the radio as he picked up the improvised transmitter. He had to be careful; the wiring was delicate.

  “This is Fiben Bollinger the fourth. Who am I speaking with?”

  “This is Elliot. Good to hear your voice, Fiben. Damn good to hear.”

  Fiben's mouth curved in a reflexive smile. Everyone knew who Elliot was. His little island misadventure had become legend among the Neo community. It had also hammered home their dislike of the name Moreau, probably for all time. “It's good to hear someone from the company. Now tell us some good news that we're getting out of here soon. Donnie and I have fur, but it's getting cold even for us. No one here has winter gear obviously,” Fiben said, teeth chattering despite the fire behind him.

  “Look, I can't make any promises, but you know the company line. We don't leave anyone behind. Hunker down, it might be a while, but we'll get there.”

  Fiben grunted. He could see Pat wasn't happy at the news; he wasn't either. But he knew that was going to be said anyway. He was glad he was getting it straight from the heavens.

  “Dig in. Find a good place to hold up if you haven't already. Prep for winter and defense the best you can. Save those you can,” Elliot ordered.

  “We're doing what we can. We're not running into a lot of people or food,” Fiben answered. He turned to see Imda struggling to bring a bucket of snow in to melt by the fire. He nodded to her. She grunted but didn't look up. He didn't envy her or her childhood—one big nightmare. He vowed to take her with him to orbit.

  When he got to orbit.

  “Hunker down and ride it out the best you can. Ration what you've got. Distribute blankets and cold weather gear, any you've got.”

  “I just said we don't have anything,” Fiben growled, rolling his brown eyes.

  “Understood. Do what you can. How many personnel do you have on site?”

  Fiben's eyes turned to Kelsy. She was awake, wonders of wonders. “Four. Three Lagroose, one Pavilion. Two civilians,” he said.

  “Understood. Who um …”

  “Clive Newhaven and Boyd Silest had been with us. Both died at the hands of the blasted robots,” Fiben growled. “So did Steve Brunswick, Donnie's partner.”

  “I'm not seeing Boyd on our roles,” Elliot replied a moment later.

  “That's because he wasn't. He was our team's liaison. I thought someone else should know in case …,” he let the thought die a natural death. After a moment he cleared his throat and squeezed the transmit trigger again. “The Pavilion gal is Kelsy Nelson. We call her Babycakes sometimes. She's injured.”

  “Understood. We're about to go through LOS due to time constraints,” Elliot warned. “If you know of anything we need to know, write it down. Do not transmit data! Period! It will give you away to the robots. Understood?”

  “Got it.”

  “Keep your chin up. When we get to the ground, we'll send a signal. Until then do what you can with what you've got or scrounge for more.”

  “Understood. Good luck,” Fiben said, sending the shot out there.

  “We make our own,” Elliot growled. “But you too. Out.”

  <>V<>

  Elliot made a note of Fiben's team and their location. Hopefully he'd kept the transmission short enough that the damn robots wouldn't hone in on them. It was close to where they were planning on sending a team in. He redirected one team to Fiben's location. Fiben's knowledge of the local area and conditions would be helpful. Eventual evacuation was also something of importance. The company had a policy of taking care of their people. He had no intention of forgetting that or letting anyone else forget that.

  <>V<>

  Roman received the request to change landing targets in South America. They weren't too far off from where they had originally planned. Besides, he wasn't going to jog Elliot's hand from so far out, so he signed off on it immediately then sent a note along with hit. “Elliot, you, Charlie, and the general are the commanders on the spot for the moment. Do what you see is right but keep us in the loop.”

  He got a one word reply nine minutes later. “Understood.”

  <>V<>

  Lagroose Industries had commandeered another large freighter, the Svetlana Savitskaya, named after the first female to walk in space, to transport the first soldiers to Earth orbit. The shuttles were commandeered from the stations in geosynchronous orbit, replaced with transhab habitats to help with the population issue.

  Unfortunately, what the ship lacked was shuttles to land the force. The shuttles designed to land on Mars wouldn't stand up to the rigors of landing on the Earth and its higher gravity well, especially with the current atmosphere. Therefore they had to recondition and appropriate any shuttles left in orbit.

  Some of the shuttles were old; they had been independent or small company outfits. They had ceramic or carbon tiles. Other more modern craft had a composite of carbon aerogel for tiles. Each shuttle was serviced and crewed by a trio of volunteers before they were released for the drop.

  Each flight would be lettered with the designated landing area. So North America became November Alpha flight, South America became Sierra Alpha flight, and so on and so forth.

  It took a week to get the shuttles sorted out. A week for the teams to train while getting more and more nervous. Also time for the DIs and civilians on the station to become more and more nervous about the four squads of dirty dozen recruits segregated but still on the station with them.

  It was a relief to everyone when the brass finally gave the green light to go.

  <>V<>

  Harper grimaced as he checked the team one more time. They'd had a hell of a time in boot, but they'd survived it. Now they were here—excited, scared, and ready to get down to business.

  Each shuttle had one squad. They were armed, though he wasn't so keen about arming the felons. Dirty dozen he snorted at the outlandish concept. There were plenty of people who'd volunteered, why send inmates? Were they that hard up? Or … his thoughts turned dark. Did they plan on sending them on suicide missions? Were they on a suicide mission?

  He turned to check his rifle, then the gear. Each squad had their own personal gear, weapons, plus survival gear to hand out. They also carried up to ten tons of material to drop on the nearby community to get them started. Water purifiers, tiny heaters, MREs, first aid kits, radiation treatments, survival booklets, Mylar blankets, and winter coats all vacuum sealed to contain their bulk.

&nb
sp; It was a drop in the bucket compared to what Earth's population truly needed. But it was a start. They were the first drip in what would hopefully turn into a steady deluge of support.

  Once they secured the beachhead of course.

  He liked his shuttle crew even though he didn't know them. They had a professional air and knew their craft. They didn't appear nervous even though they were taking their craft down on manual. Apparently pilots were all hotdogs to one degree or another; they loved the challenge of flying manual.

  In some ways he wondered how far away a pilot was from the days of the Wright Brothers.

  Twelve teams were going to be sent down—one squad per shuttle for a total of twelve shuttles. Each shuttle had a flight crew of three. Since North America seemed the least affected by the violence, half of their force was tasked with landing there. They would create a clean zone and tap the man pool on the continent to use to free and save the rest of the planet. That was the plan at any rate. His buddy Paul was going to be in that group. He wished the man all the luck in the world.

  His squad was tasked with South America, specifically Columbia. He wasn't certain why; if he had been in charge, he would have sent everyone to one continent initially. Something about a team there that they needed to extract? He didn't care; he wasn't in charge. He was a soldier so he planned to do as he was told. He was a medic but also his squad's team leader. Ace was his acting noncom, having refused any sort of promotion beyond that level. They were still trying to work out a rank structure. Now that the other security organizations and megacorps were getting involved, it was all up in the air. Just before they had docked with Olympus, he'd heard a couple of the shadowy merc groups had stepped up to offer their services.

  He wasn't certain if he liked the idea of them backing him up or not. The mercs had sketchy honor, their services going to the highest bidder. Some of them didn't care about casualties, sacrificing anyone for the sake of the mission.