Retaliate

by Alex Albrinck

  “But more important… more important than us, were three other people. You’d let us suffer if needed because we’d order you to let us suffer, and die if needed, knowing you had our blessing in so doing.

  “But the other three? No, Roddy, no matter how strong you are, no matter how loyal you might be to your cause… even you wouldn’t keep silent to prevent the torture of your first, and only true, wife… and the twin children you had together.”

  —5—

  WESLEY CARDINAL

  THE WARMTH OF THE ISLAND finally hit him, and Wesley ran the back of his forearm—still amazed it was even there—to slick away the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. With an active swarm of Ravagers expanding from the impact zone, there was no time for the temporary blindness from a salty drop of water hitting his eyes. He flicked his eyes to his left, toward where he knew the clear ocean waters would be found, wondering if they could risk moving to the water, but was plagued by a memory now available to him. When he’d risked the ocean waters to drown the Ravagers dissolving his arm away, he’d noted the presence of a pier to his right, a large one, one that hosted a very large ship. That suggested that he’d find no beach and shallow waters to his left now; the drop-off in water depth here would be quite sharp to accommodate a craft of such size.

  He wondered if the ocean floor here had always been that way, or if some calamity—perhaps an ancient earthquake, perhaps humans simply deciding to change what nature provided—had led to an alteration of what had once been.

  He could feel the eyes of the four people behind him, trusting his instincts they’d believed always present in him. For his part, Wesley’s still fractured mind couldn’t remember exactly how he’d learned to pick his way through trees and underbrush without making a sound. No, that wasn’t the true skill he showed here by seeming instinct; it was the ability to do that at such a high rate of speed. Anyone could move slowly and watch footfalls to ensure no contact with a dried leaf or a small twig, neither of those a physical impediment but definite noisemakers. It was no challenge to dodge low-hanging branches or evade thick underbrush if one moved slowly enough.

  But they weren’t moving at the pace of leisurely stroll; they were progressing at a slow jog.

  Why couldn’t he remember how he’d learned to do this?

  The true irony is that the silence wasn’t truly necessary, for their greatest risk came not from other humans listening for the unwelcome traipsing through the trees, but from the deadly swarm. And though the Ravagers were the greatest threat, there were human threats yet unaccounted for on this island.

  He had no desire to taste death, either by bullet or robot, and so he moved silently to avoid the former, quickly to elude the latter.

  He heard the noise before he saw anything. His hand snapped up above his head, and he felt those behind him stop, their eyes fixed on the raised hand, wondering what distressed their leader. Wesley remained still for a moment, ensuring that the new sounds weren’t an imminent threat before turning around. Mary and John, leading and trailing the children, respectively, watched him attentively.

  Wait here, he mouthed. They nodded their understanding, recognizing his need to scout ahead before subjecting the children to a potential threat. The adults moved closer to the children, forming a protective human shield around the party’s most critical members.

  Wesley moved off noiselessly toward the new sound, slithering to his left toward the ocean and the pier he’d seen during his moments in the ocean water, driven by his Ravager-induced torment. He’d not noticed any movement on that pier, but he’d been distracted at the time by the pain, and he knew there were people there now. He’d heard their voices, alerting him that his concern about the threat of bullets was quite real. He reached the outskirts of the forest near the shoreline, and stopped.

  It wasn't the largest he'd ever seen up close, but the pier was still large by any measure, stretching its wooden planks and posts perhaps a thousand feet or more away from the shore into the crystalline blue waters. The ship, though, was certainly the largest. Though not as large as he thought some military vessels might be, the sleek structure was certainly the largest private craft he’d seen, and the most impressive visually. Its smooth, curved lines spoke to the luxurious interior he'd no doubt find inside a vessel that easily reached two hundred feet in length.

  He turned his attention from the sailing masterpiece toward the voices that drew him here, voices from the armed men stationed on the dock, watching the waves and the land for intruders while also monitoring the thick ropes restraining the craft, holding the ship back against the tempting pull of the undulating ocean waves.

  Wesley moved as near the edge of the tree line as he dared, angling ever closer to the pier. He could see through the thinning brush a smoothly paved path leading from the pier further inland, where he assumed he'd find either lodging for the ship's owner or a road leading to a more developed section of the island, perhaps the central social center now suffering the Ravagers' wrath.

  He listened intently, trying to pick up their conversation.

  “—think we should go check it out? Nobody's here, and—”

  “Are you crazy? I’m not risking another punishment like the last one. We're under strict orders to guard the pier and the ship.”

  “From whom, exactly? I see exactly nobody in the water or on the land. Look, there's a key in the bridge to start this thing. If we take the key, the ship is safe from theft. It’s not like you can hot wire this thing and drive off. We take the key, check out what all the shouting’s about, and then come back. Nobody’s the wiser. If it’s a big problem and we help out… well, that could mean additional pay and perks.”

  He could almost feel the first man's hesitation. “Fine. Go get the key and give it to me. Then go check things out with the others. But if anything happens, I swear I’ll rat you out to save my own sk—”

  “Save it. Nothing's going to happen.”

  Wesley’s lip curled. He begged to differ with that prediction. Something would definitely happen.

  Four men loped down the ramp leading from the pier to the path, boots thumping against the wood and then crunching against small bits of dirt and gravel upon the path as they moved. Wesley suspected that the man in the lead was the one he’d heard urging for this clandestine expedition; that man’s face was taut, eyes peering about, seeming to take great care to move in silence, and he clenched a rifle before him, swinging the weapon around in lazy arcs, bearing some of the weight through a strap looped around his shoulders. The remaining trio treated this outing as a social excursion; they took no care to silence their steps or watch for potential threats, and slowed their pace until they fell behind their eager, high-strung leader. The first man passed Wesley, who for his part kept his breathing controlled, his pulse moderated, and his movements non-existent. Wesley let the leader pass; he’d deal with that threat later, but only if necessary.

  He had no weapon, after all. Nor did he have any desire to die.

  Taking out that man was pointless, because, according to the conversation he’d heard via his eavesdropping post, it was the man still on the pier who had what he needed.

  The armed man rounded the bend and vanished from Wesley’s sight, unaware that his companions had fallen well behind.

  He was also unlikely to realize, Wesley decided, that his traveling companions followed along at a safe distance to mock their would-be leader.

  “—thinks he's some sort of Special Forces guy or something. Guy's lost it.”

  “Yeah, but it got us off that pier. I was feeling queasy.”

  “Seriously? It's a pier. It’s basically nailed to the bottom of the ocean. It's not moving or bobbing up and down like a boat would.”

  “I swear I could feel it moving, man.”

  They passed his spot, and Wesley slid silently out, grabbed the heads of two of the men and slammed them viciously together, letting them fall to the ground. The third man lunged at him with a battle cry, b
ut Wesley dodged him and hurled his knee into the man's stomach. As the man bent over, Wesley slammed his elbow into the back of the man's head and glanced at the first two. Both were unconscious. Or worse.

  He dragged each of the three men in turn into the trees, then ruffled through their clothing in the event he’d misunderstood who’d left the pier. None of them possessed a key of any type. Wesley frowned, shook his head, and debated charging the pier right then.

  But there remained one armed gunmen on the loose, a man wildly alert to threats mostly imagined, and he suspected his ambush had made sufficient noise to attract the man’s attention.

  Or at least make him realize he was alone, enough to make him turn back and try to find his would-be friends.

  Wesley slid back into the trees and waited in silence, ignoring the beads of sweat and the random insects that found the salty liquid to be the nectar of the gods.

  He heard the faint footsteps approaching, growing louder as the eager man approached, less concerned here now that he’d already passed by and deemed the space safe. His face held a look of exasperation, and he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. The man shook his head, less concerned than annoyed, and offered an audibly loud sigh. He lowered his weapon slightly. “Come on, guys, stop playing games. Where are you? We really need to go check out what's happening over on the—”

  The man crumbled to the ground, failing to react before Wesley’s silent assault leveled. The wind left the man’s lungs as he landed atop the weapon. He twisted and squirmed, but he couldn’t gain sufficient leverage to dislodge Wesley, who maneuvered himself atop the man’s exposed back. The man tried to call out, but couldn’t gather sufficient air from his compressed lungs to make much noise.

  Wesley straddled the man’s back and pressed a knee into the man’s spine, then slammed the back of his elbow into the back of the man’s skull.

  The man stopped moving.

  Wesley bit his lip, hard, drawing and tasting his own blood, forcing himself to remain quiet and not shriek out in pain himself. That move hadn’t been great for the victim. But his elbow hurt, and he shook his arm, trying to regain feeling and release the sharp pain assaulting his brain. He didn’t need the distraction.

  Once he felt somewhat back to normal, he slid off the man and rolled the body over.

  The man's eyes snapped open. Any thought the man had about the cries being a practical joke by his friends were erased, and the eyes were full of deadly malice. The man snapped the weapon around and aimed it Wesley. Then he pulled the trigger.

  Wesley wasn’t there. He sprang to the side and kept his body low, trying to recall whatever training he’d had in how to dodge rapid weapons fire.

  He’d just remembered the first bit when the sound stopped.

  He risked lifting his head and glanced at his would-be assailant, expecting to see the man cursing the luck of running out of ammunition.

  Instead, the man was laying prone on the ground, a trickle of blood pooling on the paved surface. There was a large rock laying nearby, and Wesley was certain he saw blood on its surface.

  John Smith emerged from the trees, malevolent eyes on the unconscious man before him. He was trailed closely by Mary, Jill, and Jack. “Thought you could use a hand.” He pointed an invisible gun skyward and pretended to blow non-existent smoke emanating from the barrel away. “Or perhaps a properly aimed natural projectile.”

  Wesley scowled. “I told you to wait and stay hidden.”

  “I was never very good at taking orders.”

  Wesley sighed. He nodded in the direction of the pier. “There’s one man still there we’ll need to subdue. He’s got the key to start that beast of a boat. I think we should relieve him of the key and toss him into the ocean before we sail away from this Ravager-infested hell-hole. What do you say?”

  The children smirked. John laughed. Mary trotted forward and craned her neck around the bend. She turned back. “Our foe has set up a cot on the pier and is sound asleep. Now’s the time to move.”

  “Anybody here know how to sail that beast?” Wesley asked.

  “We’re accustomed to smaller sailboats,” John said. “But I think we can muddle our way through it.” He glanced over his shoulder. “We have to figure it out; this island’s not safe.”

  Wesley walked to the dead man and relieved him of his weapon and the extra ammunition stocked on his body. He tossed the strap over his neck and held the weapon before him, just like the dead man had done. He nodded at the family.

  “Let's get, then. I don’t know how fast the Ravagers will get here, but they won’t be stopped by rocks.” He glanced at his new toy. “Or guns.”

  They ran toward the pier.

  —6—

  MICAH JAMISON

  MICAH HAD SPENT his many centuries of living solving problems. It was what computers—encased in humanoid form or not—were designed to do. Micah’s programming allowed him something unique when compared to other machines: he could, largely, choose the problems he’d pursue with his massive computer brain and nearly unlimited ability to store and access data.

  The first problem had been devising a mechanism for making such choices.

  It was the second problem, though, that continued to haunt him, one he’d not achieved to his satisfaction despite centuries of calculations and analysis.

  He wanted to know what it was to be human, to truly feel their emotions, to fully experience the life presented to him through his many sensors.

  He’d somewhat succeeded, encapsulating what he could in what he’d dubbed a consciousness module, one he left running as his primary focus during direct interaction with humans. And it worked, to a degree; his code tended to err correctly on the side of silence versus speaking, on the words to say and the tone to use when verbal discussions were necessary. His so-called body language, so stiff and rigid in his earlier years, now so nearly mimicked that of a real man that he’d not gotten curious glances since before the time of the Golden Ages.

  But he still couldn’t feel any of it.

  And much as he’d wanted to do so, he knew, in that vast array of code that comprised his mind, that there were times when being able to shut off what little humanity he had was a blessing, not a curse.

  One of those times was now.

  He’d lost contact with Sheila when his space station body form died. He didn’t remember it, of course, but there was no other explanation for him reanimating in this Micah Jamison form. Sheila had successfully completed the mission set out for her… and hadn’t returned to Eden through the portal in the time between his demise, his reanimation, and his realization that the Ravager swarm was now under his control.

  He’d known her death would be a possibility, a probability, even. As a machine, he couldn’t feel any sense of loss about it, could just recognize that the probability of her survival had been low, and that his decision to protect Eden from a Phoenix invasion from space had cemented her demise.

  In other words, he’d murdered the closest thing he had to a friend.

  His problem-solving mechanism returned input, noting that this recognition of what he’d done would be a perfect time to feel something. And so he begrudgingly switched his consciousness code unit back on, and let the data flow in, let the realization that he’d sacrificed his friend to save this island—and perhaps himself—wash over him. His body form responded admirably, with limbs shaking, breaths coming in wracking staccato waves, and the small bit of water stored inside leaking out of his eyes.

  He thought he felt something, ever so briefly. Truly felt it, that is, didn’t compute in this code unit that he should feel it. It was… like a bit of code that jumped to the end and reached the correct conclusion before running through all of the logic and data.

  Was that what it was about?

  The robot took over again. He pushed the consciousness unit to the background, made sure that the backup routine recorded this potential breakthrough, and moved on.

  Without any human beings ar
ound, Micah didn’t need to interact with his environment in a way that was, well, human. He didn’t worry about using keyboards to enter commands into his external computer network; he interfaced with it directly. To anyone watching him, he might look to be in a trance, or a deep meditative state, so still was his body and so faint the automatic motions that simulated breathing. He might even look to be sleeping.

  But Micah was doing anything but sleeping.

  He pulled the images transmitted to him from Desdemona during their recent video chat, cleaned them up, and translated them into a digital format recognizable by the global surveillance network he’d set up during his many overseas forays. As a robot without need of sleep, the ability to change his physical body in minutes, and with access to transportation that could move him around the world, he could easily enter any cityplex, business, or military bastion without question, leaving behind video cameras and audio sensors capable of transmitting critical data back to his central network.

  He uploaded the images of the new looks for Mary and the children, and created a few thousand lines of code in mere seconds, tapping facial recognition technology embedded in his own brain to analyze every video frame with at least one recognizably human form, and to alert him immediately upon finding a match to the new images.

  He also hacked into public surveillance cameras in the East and added hidden code to scrape copies of images into his system as well without harming the original data. No reason not to cover every possible situation.

  If Mary and the children were anywhere in the world, anywhere reasonably public, his network would now find them and tell him where they were. He, or someone affiliated with Jeffrey and Desdemona, could go to them and bring them home. It would undo the mistake he’d made earlier, when he’d not recognized Mary’s transformed face or the much older children as they and the man had tried to steal his car to speed their escape from the oncoming Ravager swarm. There had been something about them that day that triggered sections of code shouting that there was something that demanded attention, demanded saving, and he’d responded by giving them access to a different vehicle, a move he wouldn’t have made otherwise. They’d held themselves differently than most people, moving out of necessity and fear rather than panic, as if they knew how to get away with access to the correct tools. Or how the children’s eyes took in more than one might expect from two so young.