by Isaac Hooke
“It’s fine, Bender,” Facehopper said. “Send the remaining HS3 forward, with the Centurions after it. Let’s move up, people.”
As they neared the compartment, they had to climb over the wreckage of three Centurions and two enemy scorpions.
“So long sons of bitches,” Snakeoil said.
Inside, they found four lifeless scorpions, and the remainder of the downed Centurions.
“Well that’s handy,” Fret said, sounding pleased. “This is great. We get paid the big bucks, and we don’t even have to do a thing.”
“You like that? You think it’s handy?” Bomb abruptly kicked one of the Centurions. “Goddamn robos stealing our kills. I thought the enemy resistance here was supposed to be, and I quote, ‘overwhelming.’ I wouldn’t call five scorpion units overwhelming.”
“That could be you lying there on the floor, Bomb,” Fret said.
“Not a chance,” Bomb said. “I fight better than a metallic piece of shit any day.”
“I for one am happy to let robos fight one another,” Trace said. “Where’s the sport in killing robots anyway?”
“I take issue with both comments,” Harlequin said.
“Ooo, you take issue, do you?” Bomb said. “I’ll show you an issue.”
Bomb started toward Harlequin.
“Not during the mission, Bomb...” TJ said.
Bomb seethed behind his faceplate, but he halted. “We’ll talk about this later, Artificial.”
“We’ve got a hatch,” Bender announced.
Rade glanced at the overhead map. The HS3 scout had continued forward and discovered a hatch embedded within a bulkhead on the left side of the passageway. The corridor itself continued onward into unmapped territory.
“Have the Centurions open it up,” Facehopper said.
Rade waited for several moments until, on the map, the inner compartment abruptly filled out. The two combat robots had moved inside it at the same time.
“Centurions are reporting the compartment beyond as clear,” Bender said. “It’s completely empty. No crates. No furniture. Nothing but those black bulkheads.”
“All right,” TJ said. “Have them return to the passageway and continue forward.”
The party resumed its advance.
Rade, still on point, reached the compartment shortly. He shone his headlamp inside.
“Chief,” Rade said. “Looks like the Centurions were mistaken. I’m seeing an open passageway on the far side.”
“Bender, recall the Centurions,” Facehopper said. “Let’s get that compartment properly secured.”
But before the Centurions could obey, previously hidden hatches activated in the passageway, instantly sealing the way forward and back, cutting off Rade from the rest of his platoon.
“Rage?” the chief’s voice came over the comm. The digital warping was severe.
“I’m still here, Chief,” Rade said.
“Can’t.... video signal from you,” the chief said. “Nothing at all.”
“There must be some kind of shielding in these bulkheads,” Rade transmitted. “Lowering the bandwidth. Because I’m still transmitting video.”
The compartment remained open beside him, as did the passageway beyond it. The enemy was trying to herd him.
Rade refused to take the bait.
“Going... cut you out of there,” Facehopper said. “Keep... from the bulkheads.”
Rade suddenly heard footsteps echoing from the passageway on the far side of the compartment, as transmitted to him by the internal speakers of his helmet. The tread was slow. Calm.
“Someone’s coming!” Rade said.
He glanced at his overhead map. There was nothing.
He assumed an attack position, crouching down on one knee and aiming his blaster into the compartment.
“Hang...” the chief said.
The footsteps grew louder.
A red dot appeared on the overhead map as a humanoid silhouette took form in the shadows, just beyond the range of his light cone. The visitor appeared to be unarmed. Then again, that didn’t mean a thing—if Rade faced an enemy robot, it could fire a laser at him directly from its chest piece.
But if it was a robot, I would already be dead.
Maybe it was a lost Marine? But then why the red dot on the overhead map? Red didn’t necessarily mean an enemy, of course—it was used to represent any unidentified individuals or machines. Even so, a Marine would definitely appear as blue.
“Freeze!” Rade said.
The newcomer paused, but then the footsteps started up anew.
Rade prepared to fire, but when the individual stepped into the light he nearly dropped his blaster in disbelief.
“Hello, Rade.”
twenty-six
Rade stared blankly at the figure before him.
“What is it?” Facehopper said over the comm. “What... you see?”
“I—” But Rade couldn’t form the words.
The man wore a UC-issue jumpsuit, along with a jetpack. He wore no helmet, so that his head was plainly visible. He had the thick beard of a special forces soldier. The crown of his head was shaved. He had a broad-angled, tanned face, with eyes that possessed an oddly glassy quality to them, as if bioprinted. They also had another quality: that dead look common to those who had lost their humanity.
At first Rade thought he was mistaken. It had to be a member of Bravo platoon. But then the man stepped forward another pace, his features becoming even more distinct under the glow from Rade’s headlamp. Yes, the resemblance was unmistakable.
He was Rade’s spitting image.
“Surprised to see me?” his twin said.
Sparks came from the hatch beside him. The others were cutting through.
Rade switched to the external speaker system of his helmet. “What the hell are you?”
The impostor cocked his head slightly, and smirked.
Keeping his blaster aimed at the man, Rade stepped into the compartment.
A metallic blur struck him from the side.
In seconds Rade found himself lying on the deck, disarmed; a humanoid robot stood above him, pointing his own blaster down on him.
Rade raised his hands and slowly clambered to his feet. When he got up, he saw that a panel in the far bulkhead had opened up, revealing the alcove where the robot had been hiding.
The impostor held out a gloved palm toward the robot, and the machine backed away from Rade and transferred the blaster to the man.
“Thank you,” the twin said, and promptly shot the robot. It clattered lifelessly to the ground.
The impostor turned the blaster on Rade.
“Take off your helmet,” the man said.
“Chief, there’s—” Rade began.
“No contacting your chief.” The impostor waved the blaster menacingly. “The helmet. Now.”
Rade reluctantly removed his helmet.
“Toss it over to me,” the impostor ordered.
Rade complied. “What do you want?”
“I should kill you,” the impostor said. “But we have a rule. When we get a body, we get the mind, too.”
The latter was nearly identical to what Adara had told him earlier. Seeing the twin in front of him, he thought he understood what it meant.
“My blood,” Rade said. “You used it to sample my DNA.”
“Very good,” the impostor said.
Human red blood cells had no nucleus, of course. But there were probably over a hundred million leukocytes—white blood cells—in the sample obtained from Rade’s body, more than enough DNA to clone him.
“So, while I may be reluctant to kill you,” the man continued. “I have no qualms in regards to killing your brothers. In fact, that is exactly what I plan to do. I’m going to infiltrate your unit. And then I’m going to terminate them one by one when they least expect it. And there will be nothing that you can do about it.”
“Why are you attacking our colony?” Rade tried. “What do you want?”
“I want you to stand over here.” The impostor beckoned with the blaster toward the far side of the room.
Rade sighed, then obeyed.
The impostor gave Rade a wide berth, and approached the entry passage, where sparks were still shooting forth.
“Now move in front of the other exit,” the twin said. “But remain facing me.”
Rade began walking toward the indicated opening.
The imposter donned the helmet. “There.” His voice sounded tinny coming from the external speakers. “Now my disguise is complete.”
“They’re never going to believe you,” Rade said.
“Oh, but they are,” the man said. “I can already hear your chief.” He paused. His mouth moved, but Rade heard only muted, unintelligible words—the impostor had disabled the external speakers.
Rade took his place in front of the exit passageway. “What are you telling him?”
“Nothing important,” the impostor replied. “Only that, I have dealt with the threat.” He nodded toward the wreckage of the robot on the deck.
Incredibly strong arms abruptly grabbed Rade from behind, and began dragging him into the second passageway, away from the impostor.
Rade struggled as the darkness of that corridor began to envelop him, but he couldn’t break the grip, despite the strength bestowed him by the jumpsuit. He glanced down: the arms wrapped around his chest assembly were made of metal. Another robot.
“Farewell, Rade Galaal,” the man said. “Soon you will be one of us. And you will understand everything.”
“You’ll never get away with this,” Rade said. “They’ll never believe you’re me.”
“Oh, but they already do,” the impostor said.
The exit slowly shrank. Rade knew that if he allowed the robot to take him any farther, he would never see his platoon again. He concentrated all of his hatred on the receding impostor.
Threaten to kill my brothers, will you? With plans to wear my face while doing it, so they think I’m the one killing them?
The thought filled Rade with immense anger.
In a fit of outrage he twisted his body to the side, curled in his legs, and struck out against the bulkhead. His legs contacted the hard surface and his upper body propelled backward, slamming his captor against the opposite bulkhead.
Rade twisted once again, using his weight to drag down his opponent; he aimed his body so that he fell with his head facing the distant opening. When he struck the deck on his side, he activated his jetpack via the manual switch inside his gloves. Full power.
He and the robot were dragged through the passageway. The left side of his jumpsuit scraped along the deck, producing a loud screech.
Ahead, the hatch to the compartment had begun to seal. Fast. Already there was only a small portion still open.
He fired a quick dorsal burst to move his body toward that clear section. The robot, clinging to him behind the jetpack, struck the hatch and was torn from his body, while Rade passed clean through.
He emerged, scraping along the deck, and cut power to the jetpack. One of the robotic arms, severed from its main chassis, still hung from his chest assembly. He cast it aside as the hatch sealed with a resounding thud behind him.
He began to stand, but then he saw three of his brothers pointing their blasters down at him. Tahoe, Grappler, and TJ. They stood beside the impostor, who yet wore Rade’s helmet.
Rade lifted both hands in tentative surrender.
twenty-seven
Two more members of the platoon crowded inside—Mauler and Keelhaul.
Rade heard the muted voices as they talked behind their faceplates, exchanging words with the impostor. Rade couldn’t understand a word.
“Don’t listen to him,” Rade said. “He’s an impostor.” He lifted a hand toward his collar, but paused when he realized his brothers might believe he was reaching for a weapon. “I have my aReal glasses here. Just inside my collar. May I put them on?”
There was a pause as the platoon members once more exchanged words he could not hear.
“You may,” TJ said, using external speakers.
Rade retrieved the goggles from where he had stowed them under the collar of his torso assembly. He put them on.
Immediately the overhead map overlaid the right side of his vision, along with the blue dots of his platoon mates. He also saw a duplicate of his own dot, thanks to the digital copy of his public profile stored in the helmet the Imposter wore. That nano-machine brain could have probably transmitted the profile, too, but the imposter was pretending not to have an Implant, like Rade.
“There, see?” Rade said over the comm. “I’m already on the same encrypted communication band as all of you. If I was with them, would that be possible?”
“There are a hundred possible reasons why that’s the case,” the impostor said. “The most obvious being that the enemy has cracked our comms.”
“Tahoe. It’s me.” Rade focused on his friend. “Your one-rep-max on the bench press is four hundred pounds. You have a wife and two kids. We border-hopped from Mexico together. Trained in bootcamp together. Went to MOTH school together.”
Tahoe shook his head. “All of that could have been gleaned from public databases.”
“I don’t know,” Manic said. “The bench press one, he’d have to have spied on our workouts.”
“There are cameras all over the gym,” Tahoe said. “Maybe the enemy tapped in somehow.” He turned toward Rade. “If you really want to convince me, you’ll have to tell me something only the real Rage would know. Something I only ever told him.”
Rade considered. There were many things Tahoe had confided in him. What could he pick that wouldn’t be too embarrassing to his friend...
“Your wife thinks all we do is spend our days in strip clubs,” Rade said. “She thinks the navy has installed strippers aboard its ships.”
Tahoe pressed his lips together behind the faceplate, and then glanced at Rade. “That’s definitely something only you would know.”
“They must have performed some sort of brain scan on me when they had me in custody,” the impostor said.
“Ask him to tell you something only I would know.” Rade nodded toward his twin. “Go on.”
“This is ridiculous,” the impostor said. “I’m the one wearing the helmet. This alien creation suddenly shows up, bursting through the bulkhead, and you’re going to take its word over mine? I refuse to play this game. Tahoe, you know me.”
“Humor me,” Tahoe said. “Tell me something.”
The impostor hesitated. Then: “Do you remember when Alejandro died, what you told me? That we have to fight on. For him. And that we’d have to continue fighting for the rest of our lives. Otherwise, his death would be for nothing.”
Rade stared at the impostor in disbelief, and then said to his friends: “I told that to a woman I met when I escaped enemy custody... she turned out to be one of them. That’s the only reason why he knows it.”
Tahoe glanced at his platoon mates. “I don’t know what to think. As far as I’m concerned, they’re both Rage.”
“Get him to tell you something else,” Rade said.
“I think we’ve heard enough from the both of you,” TJ said.
“Wait, look through his faceplate closely,” Rade said. “Can’t you tell? His eyes, they have that dead look in them.”
Grappler glanced between Rade and the impostor. “Both their eyes look the same, far as I’m concerned. I can’t tell them apart. Then again, bio-printed eyes all look dead to me.”
“Snakeoil?” Facehopper said over the comm. He had obviously been observing the proceedings remotely from the passageway outside.
Snakeoil squeezed into the compartment, then approached Rade. He produced a small scanning device.
“Exhale.” He told Rade.
Rade complied.
Snakeoil turned toward the impostor. “Open up your faceplate.”
“If I do that, I’ll be stuck in the dollhouse
again when I get back,” the false Rade complained.
Snakeoil grimaced. “I said open up your faceplate.”
The impostor glanced at the others; he seemed to be assessing the situation. For a moment Rade was almost certain he would attack.
But then, abruptly, the impostor opened his faceplate. Snakeoil had him exhale into the device as well.
Snakeoil shook his head. “Their DNA is an exact match, Chief. Technically, they’re both Rage.”
“We’re going to have to bring them back to base,” the chief said. “Bind them both.”
“Chief, you can’t do this.” The clone shut his faceplate; his mouth moved as he communicated privately.
“I’ve made up my mind,” the chief said over the main band, which Rade heard over his aReal goggles. “Bind them. We’re going back.”
“Wait, what?” Bomb said over the comm. “We don’t all have to go back, do we? TJ can still lead us, here. We haven’t even had a chance to kick alien ass yet.”
“I’ve spoken to the LC,” the chief said. “The mission is a scrub. All members of Alpha Platoon are to return to the forward operating base immediately. The other platoons have the situation well in hand. They won’t miss us.”
“Just when I was starting to have some fun,” Bomb grumbled. “Why’d you have to go and ruin it, Rage? Whichever one of you is the real Rage, that is. What a drag. What a frickin’ buzzkill.”
Snakeoil removed a pair of flexicuffs from his utility belt and bound Rade’s arm assemblies behind his back. Those electromechanical cuffs were designed to resist pressures up to ten times what traditional arm assemblies could put out: enough to bind Centurions and even certain mech models. Rade couldn’t simply slide his arms upward out of his gloves, either, like he had done when secured to the operating table as a captive—because of the positioning of the binds on his forearms, and their tightness, he had no wiggle room whatsoever.