by Jay Allan
She crouched to keep herself low, and she ran, diving headfirst into the trench. Code Orange alerts were serious, and they rarely gave much lead time. Her landing was less graceful than befitted her position, but at least she’d gotten into cover in time. Marine fighting suits were tough. With a little help from the terrain, they could protect their wearer even from nearby nuclear explosions. But no armor was going to save a slow Marine who was caught out on open ground too close to a detonation.
She pulled herself partially up, looking around the trench. The rest of Callahan’s Marines were sitting prone, heads ducked and waiting for the nuclear blasts or the all clear. She was aware of the casualties suffered by the entire expeditionary force, but she was still shocked to see how few remained from two full battalions. Numbers on a screen were one thing; actually seeing the men and women – and the massive gaps in their ranks – was another. Callahan’s people were part of Heath’s vanguard, and they’d paid a high price for that honor.
“General Gilson?”
The voice was on her com, but the speaker was crawling up right beside her. She glanced up at her projection, but there was no ID displayed. One look at the man’s antique armor told her why.
“Lieutenant Paine?” She’d almost forgotten that she’d allowed the two Columbian officers hook up with Callahan’s bunch.
“Yes, sir.”
“What are you still doing this far forward?” She was surprised to find the envoy from General Tyler in a trench along the very edge of the front line.
“This is where the fight is, General.” It could have been a flippant remark, but it wasn’t. Paine was deadly serious.
“Where is Lieutenant White?” She hadn’t expected the two envoys to dive headfirst into the fighting when she’d allowed them to hook up with Callahan’s people.
“He’s down the trench a ways.” Paine gestured vaguely off to her right. “Have you heard anything from our people to the south, General?”
She was just about to tell him that Tyler’s army was advancing north, supporting Major Mandrake’s Marine battalion, but she was interrupted by a bright flash. Her visor blacked out automatically, and an instant later the sound and shockwave hit.
The ground shook like an earthquake, and sections of trench caved in, piles of rock and dirt sliding down like small avalanches. Structural supports were shattered like twigs, and dugouts all along the line collapsed. A few Marines were buried, but they managed to climb out from under the mounds of debris. Men and women ducked away from collapsed sections of trench, seeking better protection from the flying debris and the blasts of radiation they couldn’t see but knew were there.
Another flash, more distant this time. Then another. The nukes were coming in.
“Issue the order.” Sarah Linden was sitting outside the isolation chamber, watching Anderson-45 through the clear hyper-polycarbonate. He was sitting quietly, wearing only a set of surgical scrubs. There was a Marine standing next to him, fully clad in powered armor. There was padding affixed to his fighting suit, heavy wadding fastened all across the chest and torso.
“Issuing order now, Colonel.” Alicia pressed a button on her console. Inside the chamber, the AI spoke, issuing a command to the sitting Anderson-45. It had taken a number of failed attempts to get the procedure down, and after every failure, Sarah had tirelessly reworked the formula. But now she had it figured out. She couldn’t stop Anderson-45 from following an order, but she could issue one herself.
They were both expecting what happened, but they were still surprised at the ferocity with which Anderson-45 leapt up from his seat and ran toward the Marine, grabbing a chair as he did and swinging it into the armored form as hard as he could. He ducked to the side, as if he was expecting a return blow. He worked around the back of the Marine, grabbing a piece of the shattered chair and jabbing it at his adversary.
Sarah watched for a second in stunned silence then she yelled, “Issue the stand down order.”
Alicia pressed a button on the console, and the AI’s voice filled the room again. “Cease combat. Stand down.”
Anderson-45 dropped the chair leg and stood at attention, making no hostile move toward the Marine standing less than a meter away.
“Anderson, are you OK?” Sarah leaned over and spoke softly into the microphone.
“Yes, Dr. Linden. I am fine.” The Shadow Legion soldier stood where he was, making no move to sit down or renew his attack on the Marine.
She flipped off the microphone. “You see, Alicia. Right there.” She was pointing to Anderson-45’s total body scan. “I was right. It piggybacks on the immune system, triggering an automated response, much like the creation of antibodies. Except instead of fighting invading organisms, it suppresses the subject’s ability to resist the command.” She turned toward her assistant. “It’s like turning off free will and replacing it with a compulsion to obey.”
Her eyes moved up to the brainscan. “It’s all done through involuntary systems. The subject never has any control, not even a conscious knowledge of the effect. He just obeys, without even knowing why.”
“You were right, Colonel. We should be able to customize a drug to counteract it. Like an immunosuppressant, but targeted at this specific effect. It would block the compulsion, leaving the subject to decide how to respond. They could still obey, but they would have to choose to do so.” She sighed and looked at Sarah. “Considering their level of discipline, it doesn’t seem likely they’d simply begin disobeying orders, even if they had the ability to do so.”
Sarah took a deep breath. Alicia was right. “They might ignore suicidal orders or something of an extremely brutal nature, much like a Marine would.” She looked down at the table. The Marines were extremely disciplined. An order would have to be highly immoral for most of them to disobey. But the Corps had an esprit de corps the Shadow Legions couldn’t match. Perhaps the clone soldiers would be more likely to rebel against authority if their conditioning was neutralized. It was worth a try, at least.
“Let’s move forward along this line. If we can punch in our parameters, the medical AI should be able to come up with a formula in a few hours.” She turned and looked back into the room. Anderson-45 was still standing in place. He’d made no effort to sit or make himself comfortable. Sarah shook her head. The clones had no experience at all exercising free will. If she suddenly gave it to them, the results might be unpredictable.
She turned toward Alicia. “Synthesizing the drug is the least of our worries.”
Her assistant looked at her with a quizzical look.
“Even if it works, how do we administer it to thousands of clones buttoned up in armor all across a battlefield?” She sighed. She knew she could beat this problem and help Stark’s clones claim their free will as sentient beings. But she was starting to realize it wasn’t going to help win the war.
She could treat any prisoners who were captured, but she couldn’t think of any way to “weaponize” a cure and use it to disable the enemy in the field. And since, the Shadow Legions didn’t surrender, that could mean all her work was for nothing.
Tara Rourke sat at her workstation, staring at the strange memo on her screen. There was no sender listed, and the message was brief, just six words. The ides of March are come.
Her eyes were fixed on the message, and she was unable to turn away. It felt like a bomb had exploded in her head. She wanted to scream, but she sat there silently, under the control of some strange compulsion. She didn’t understand, but she couldn’t make herself cry for help. Her head pounded, and she felt like she was losing herself, her consciousness slipping away.
She felt her body stand up, but she wasn’t controlling it. She tried to force herself to sit, but she couldn’t. Her body turned and walked slowly toward the hatch. “I will be back in a few minutes. Greaves, you’re in charge while I’m gone.” She didn’t know where the words had come from.
She could hear her own voice, but she wasn’t controlling it. She could see the main
hatch ahead of her, but she had no idea what was happening. She felt waves of emotion – anger, fear, frustration. She couldn’t make her body stop moving. She couldn’t do anything but watch helplessly as something she couldn’t see or feel controlled her.
She walked into the corridor and down to the bank of lifts. She waved her hand over the panel, and one of the doors opened. She stepped inside and said, “Level 9.”
What was going on, she wondered helplessly, what am I doing? Her quarters were on level 9. Why was she going to her quarters?
She walked slowly down the corridor, her head nodding greetings to crew members as they passed each other. She tried to shout out to them, to plea for their help, but she was locked away, unable to control anything. She watched helplessly as her body walked to her quarters. Her palm pressed against the ID pad, and the door slid open. She could feel the cool glass of the pad on her hand, but she couldn’t control her movements.
Her body walked inside and over to a small bank of drawers. She opened the bottom one and reached to the back, pulling out a small box. She recognized it immediately. She’d brought it back from her last leave, almost four years before. She hadn’t touched it since, hadn’t even thought about it, and now she realized she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten it. She thought about it, and as she did, she realized she had almost no memories of that leave. It was all a blur. She remembered arriving on Armstrong, but the next thing she could picture was reporting back for duty two weeks later.
Her hand reached inside the box, pulling out something cold and hard. A small pistol. Her consciousness struggled, trying desperately to regain control of her body, but to no avail. Her hand slipped into her uniform’s utility pocket, dropping the gun gently inside.
She turned again and walked toward the door and out into the hallway. She was screaming inside, trying to break out of the strange prison in her mind, but whatever was controlling her was too strong, and all her efforts were in vain.
She saw the bank of lifts ahead, and she felt herself touch the plate again and slip inside one of the cars. “Level 3,” she heard herself say.
What is going on? Her thoughts were racing, frantically trying to figure out what was happening to her. Questions swirled in her mind. Why can’t I remember that leave? Where am I going? How did I get this pistol?
The lift stopped, and she stepped out onto the deck, walking slowly down the short corridor. There was a door ahead with a Marine guard standing in front of it. Admiral Garret’s quarters. What the hell was happening? Why was she going to see Garret with a gun in her pocket? She let out a primal scream, but her mouth remained still, silent.
“I would like to see the admiral if he is available, Corporal.” She heard her own words, and she struggled again to take control, to scream to the guard for help. But she was still trapped.
“Yes, Commander.” The Marine turned and punched a button to the side of the door, activating the AI. “Commander Rourke is here, and she wishes to see the Admiral.”
Rourke still didn’t understand what was going on, but she was beginning to panic. She tried again to break out, to control her body, to shout out, but to no avail.
The door opened a few seconds later. “You may enter, Commander.” The guard stepped aside.
She tried to hold her body back, but she moved forward anyway, stepping into Garret’s quarters. Space was at a huge premium on ships, but a fleet admiral warranted a sizable suite. The main room was about 8 meters long, with a small food station to one side. The space was divided roughly in half, with a living area on one side and a large workspace on the other. Garret sat at the desk, staring at his computer screen with a distant look on his face.
The admiral looked up and smiled. “Hello, Tara. What’s up? Is anything wrong?” He stood up slowly and started to walk around the desk.
“No, sir. Nothing is wrong.”
She felt her hand slip into her pocket. No, she thought. Please, God, no! She struggled, her mind throwing itself at the strange mental barrier. She focused on her hand, trying to pull it out of her pocket away from the gun, but no amount of effort made a difference.
She tried to shout out a warning, but she couldn’t control her mouth either. She could feel her lips pursed lightly together in a faint smile.
“Well what can I do for…” Garret saw the pistol in her hand. “What is this, Tara? What are you…”
The first shot rang out, and Garret fell back over his desk, rolling to the side and falling off. By the time he hit the ground, she’d shot him twice more.
Tara screamed, but not a sound escaped her lips. She was overcome with the horror of what was happening, and she looked distantly through her eyes as her body walked around the desk, extending her arm toward Garret’s unmoving form. She struggled and focused on pulling back, but to no avail. She could feel her fingers tightening to fire again, shooting again and again. Then the door slipped open and the Marine guard came running in. His assault rifle was leveled at her, firing.
She felt the impact, more as a piece of information than pain, and her body pitched around, the gun falling from her outstretched hand. She felt another shot, and another, and then she was back to normal, unrestrained and in control of herself. Waves of pain swept through her stricken body.
She held her hands out in front of her, screaming, “No,” but the Marine fired again. She felt the impact on her chest, like a sledgehammer, and she fell back, landing next to Garret, her hand falling back into the pool of blood spreading out from the admiral’s savaged body.
She heard the shouts of the Marine, his frantic calls for help, but it was all far away, dim and distant as she slid into darkness.
Chapter 20
Bridge
MCS Sand Devil
Just Off Asteroid 175405
Sol System
“Twenty seconds.” Lieutenant Verason was counting down in five second increments, staring at his scope, watching as the enemy vessel made its way closer, coming around from behind the asteroid.
“Gunners, check your firing solutions.” Jennings sat in the command chair, calmly watching the enemy approaching. The two ships would be nose to nose in a few seconds, and within a minute after that, only one of them would be left. “We’re only going to get one chance to win this.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
Jennings pulled his helmet down over his head, snapping it shut. The other officers on the bridge had already sealed theirs. The emergency suits they all wore would keep them alive if the hull lost its integrity. The slim pressure suits weren’t good for extended use in the frigid vacuum of space, but they would give their wearers fifteen minutes or so to get to an escape pod.
“Ten seconds.”
Jennings tightened his safety straps and opened the valve on his supplemental oxygen. If the hull was breached, his suit would automatically switch from outside air to the small tank.
“Five seconds.”
He took a deep breath and locked his eyes on the screen, watching the small oval move slowly out from behind the gray image of the asteroid. Three, two, one…he counted down the last few seconds in his head.
The lights went out, leaving only the dim red hue of the battlestations lamps to light the bridge. Jennings knew his gunners had fired immediately as the enemy ship came onto their targeting screens, and every spare joule of output from the reactor had been diverted into the laser blasts.
An instant later, the ship shook hard, and damage alarms went off in every compartment. Jennings looked down at his screen, pulling up damage control reports. Sand Devil had been hit. It was bad, but Jennings could tell immediately it could have been worse. His ship was hurt, but she was still in the fight.
“Damage assessment,” he snapped to Verason.
“Uncertain, Captain.” He was frantically working the scope, but there were intermittent power failures in the system, and he was having trouble getting reliable data. “It looks like we scored at least one solid hit, sir, but the scanners are damaged,
and I can’t get a solid read.
“Engineering, more power to the guns.” Jennings knew it would take about 30 seconds to recharge Sand Devil’s lasers, and he was afraid the next shot would be the last.
“Negative, sir. We’ve already got all non-essential output routed to weapons.”
“Cut all systems ten second prior to firing. Including life support.” His people had their survival suits. Twenty seconds without vital systems was tolerable. And every joule pumped into to the lasers counted right now.
“Yes, Captain.” The engineer’s voice was tentative, but Jennings knew he’d obey the command.
“Firing in ten seconds.” The chief gunner’s voice echoed throughout the ship, just before the com shut down with every other system. Only the battery-powered lamps remained on. Even the workstations went dark.
Jennings counted off the seconds in his head. He knew his gunners were pros, veterans with years of service. But it was still hard sitting in near darkness, counting on someone else’s skill to save your life. He was down to three on his countdown when the lights and computers came back on. The extra power had shaved a couple seconds off the recharge time.
“Yes!” It was the junior gunner, and his shout blared from every speaker on the ship. “Got him, sir.”
Jennings looked down at his own screen, just as he heard a muffled explosion, and Sand Devil lurched hard and went into a fast roll. His straps held him in place, but it was a rough ride nevertheless. He turned toward Verason, who was frantically working his board. “Let’s get that roll stabilized, Lieutenant.”
“Working on it, sir.”
Jennings could feel the thrust as Verason fired positioning engines along carefully calculated vectors, slowing the ship’s vicious spin. He was staring at his screen, trying to focus. The enemy ship was gone. He worked his controls, rewinding the scanner data, trying to see if the vessel had engaged its stealth systems and slipped away.