Machinations

by Hayley Stone

  “Yep. Should be interesting.” It feels strange without the weight of a rifle and a few pistols, but that’s one less thing to slow me down. Plus, Zelda insisted I would be considered less of a threat if I were unarmed. Of course, this is all based on the assumption I’m worth more to the machines alive than dead. If I’m not…Well, then.

  I inhale deeply, letting the chill settle comfortably in my lungs. “All right. Let’s do this.”

  Before I march into the unknown, Ulrich embraces me, and I’m struck by the familiarity of it. I close my eyes, and the rustic soldier smell of him brings an image of my father to mind. “Be proud,” he says. “I am, to have known you twice.”

  I smile privately, but pull away with a chastising look. “Hey, stop that. You’re making it sound like I’m not coming back.”

  He shrugs, returning to the same old Ulrich I know and love. “Just in case.” He waves me off. “Go now.”

  Stepping out from the dusty protection of the building, I’m initially blinded by the morning light. I put my hands in front of me, feeling along empty air until the street materializes. Even after I can see again, I keep my arms extended, palms out, in a universal sign of surrender, as I take my first steps into the open. I confront the moment of truth with a fire in my belly, and a sort of to-hell-with-it mentality. I have everything to lose, but even more to fight for.

  Nothing shoots me immediately, so that’s a good sign.

  I walk forward with a little more confidence. I have to watch myself around the pockmarked asphalt and other hazards. Main Street, like most other avenues in downtown Juneau, is littered with the debris of old battle, the perfect backdrop for a new one. We might have lost the last war, but the winds are changing. And I don’t mean that in just the metaphorical sense either. Just then a breeze catches my red hair, blowing it to one direction, thankfully out of my face. If there were any doubt as to my identity, the machines should know full well by now, with my hair waving brazen as a resistance fighter’s flag.

  I don’t approach their front lines without taking stock of my surroundings. Much of the city in this area has been demolished—which is why I chose it. There won’t be anything to break the snow when it comes down. Bad for machines and people alike. There are a few places I think I can reach, once the signal’s given. I have to trust that if the buildings can survive a fire bombing they can survive some ice and rock, but there’s no real knowing. There won’t be until it’s too late to find different sanctuary.

  Ultimately, I settle on a sturdy-looking building whose upper level has a window with some colored glass still intact. Maybe a library or museum of some kind. It’s got the height I’m looking for, and the bones to stand fast. I hope. With my exit plan decided on, I come to a stop within a reasonable distance of the place, forcing the machines to move toward me.

  They shudder to a start, lurching forward as one unit. More come into view behind them, and still more behind them. They’ve concentrated their forces in the place they anticipate doing the most killing today.

  “How’s it looking, Eagle Eye?” I ask Rankin, who’s with the most important squad there is, and has to be my eyes and ears while I’m on the ground.

  “There’s still some stragglers here and there throughout the city,” he answers in a voice partially obscured by static, “but we’ve definitely got their attention, that’s for sure. The main host is headed toward you now.”

  “Great,” I say. It has to be the first time in my life I’m sincerely pleased to hear machines are headed my way.

  “Just tell us when, Commander.”

  “Stand by. I want to draw as many into the open as I can.”

  “Roger.” A pause. “Goes without saying at this point, but be careful, ma’am. Don’t think for a moment that programming of theirs won’t change. The higher echelon are slippery bastards.”

  “So am I,” I say and let the conversation end. I have to focus. I have to time this just right. Everything hinges on the timing.

  The machines close ranks, pressed in by the confines of the street. They stop some yards away, and one breaks from the congregation. It’s a predator model. I feel my heart hammering in my chest, two beats for each step it takes toward me. I instinctively reach for a weapon at my waist, but my holsters are empty. Right. I’m unarmed. That seemed like a better idea before.

  “Rhona Long,” it says through a speaker in the area of its throat. The voice is completely artificial this time around, like an old smartphone. “You have been convicted of war crimes under the Nuremberg Principles and have been summarily sentenced to death.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say interrupting it. “What happened to surrender? As I recall, you said I could surrender, and my friends would be spared. I was hoping that offer was still good.”

  The predator angles its head, red optics eying me. “That agreement was made in the location of operational facility Churchill. It does not apply here.”

  “Tell us when,” I hear Rankin say anxiously in my earpiece.

  “I don’t think you understand the situation,” I speak through the predator to its masters—what we’ve termed the higher echelons, in whatever massive computer system they’re currently residing. “Right now, we have our entire force surrounding your little army. At least two to every one of yours.” Another model of machine might have been able to detect my deception, but not a predator. They’re not built for interrogation, only elimination. “And trust me, those humans out there? They are really pissed off. You destroyed their homes. We hate when you do that.”

  Silence masks the processing as the higher echelons ponder this new information. “You are lying, Rhona Long,” comes the thought-upon answer. “Humans are liars. Thieves. Killers. We know this, because we know you.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “We’re not perfect, I’ll admit. We have our flaws and our vices. But we also have our virtues, and one of those is protecting the people we love.”

  “The machines are pulling back from the west and south, moving to your location now,” Rankin says, amazed. “Whatever you’re doing, Commander, it’s working. They’re preparing for a massive punch through our defenses.”

  I continue, being as provocative as I can. “And that’s just one of many. Make no mistake: you don’t know any of us. And you sure as hell don’t know me or what I’m capable of!”

  Before I have a chance to react, it fires at me. The slug catches me in the gut, putting me down.

  “Don’t,” I murmur through a locked jaw, directed at those listening in. The pain of being shot is extraordinary, and I worry the vest didn’t do its job until air rushes back into my lungs. Coughing, sputtering, I struggle to my feet, and surprisingly the machine lets me get back up.

  “You fear death,” the voice says—and even though it has no inflection, it manages to sound mocking. Shooting me was a test. “Every human fears death. Even you, Rhona Long. Correction. We do know you and your kind. Surrender now, and we will make the deaths of your friends quick. We are not without mercy.”

  I think the bullet may have broken a rib, but I can’t help but smile, wishing them all to hell.

  “Shake on it?” I say and extend my hand.

  The signal.

  EMP-Gs take out my predator, along with the first two columns of machines on both sides of their phalanx. At the same time as I dive away, a well-coordinated sniper shot destroys the core processor of the predator. I keep low to the ground as gunfire erupts all around me, crawling to cover behind a derelict tank. It’s actually not in bad condition, considering the wear from the weather and the war it went through. Bullets ping around it, bouncing away from me.

  Over the din of combat, I barely make out the thump-hiss of the antiaircraft artillery. It takes out huge chunks of machines, but that’s not what I’m waiting for. I peek over the massive treads of the tank, and watch several hiss toward the mountaintop. They connect in silence, from this distance, throwing up puffs of white.

  I don’t wait to see what happens
next. I move toward the building that will be my lifeboat when the flood comes. The machines are too occupied with the human resistance to notice the missiles targeting the mountain. We maintain the element of surprise.

  I just reach the inside of the building when my comm crackles to life. Dozens of voices talking over one another; I can’t make heads or tails of what’s happened. I start to climb the stairs, shouting into my earpiece. “Didn’t get that. Repeat. Over.” Finally, Ulrich manages to wrest control of the channel, silencing the other voices with some angry German. I’m sure most of them can’t understand it, but they stop to listen, confused, giving me the quiet I need. “Ulrich, what was that all about?”

  “It did not work. The mountain. The missiles. It did not work.”

  My stomach hurts, and I don’t think it’s only because of the gunshot. “Fire again,” I tell him. “Fire until it does work!”

  “We have no more ammunition for it. We used it all.”

  I curse, kicking the base of the stairwell’s railing, venting my frustration. I can’t think with all the anger and fear buzzing in my head. Steady, I think to myself, moving back to the door. I take a breath, peek out. “Okay. What’s our contingency plan?” I ask Ulrich, because I don’t remember devising one.

  “Retreat,” Ulrich answers, sounding more disheartened than I’ve ever heard him.

  “We can’t,” I say. “That’s not an option. If we fall back, it’s over.”

  “Ja. That is why no one is interested in the contingency plan.”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “Pray. That might suit us better.”

  “Rhona!” I barely hear my name through the noise. I stare across the street, where I find a familiar person hunched behind the body of a car. He’s pinned down by gunfire. What’s he doing out here at all?

  “Samuel?” I shout back, although I don’t think he can actually hear me, except through comms, maybe. “Stay there!” I say, aligning my words with the appropriate hand gestures. “Don’t move!”

  To his credit, he proves a decent shot. Must’ve been all that training with Rankin. He deactivates several machines as he makes his way toward me, but they’re overwhelming his position. More and more are identifying him as a threat to be eliminated. Self-preservation tells me to stay put, but my heart acts counterintuitively. I don’t think, I just run out to meet him halfway, dodging gunfire as I go.

  One machine gets a good shot off, catching Samuel in the arm or maybe the chest before I reach him. I don’t know which. I don’t know how serious. My mouth opens around his name, although the sound dies in my throat.

  I throw myself in front of him, just as the predator goes for the kill.

  My body clenches against the coming pain, but nothing happens. The programming, I think, half-hysterical, the programming must still be in effect! Just because it doesn’t want to kill me, though, doesn’t mean it won’t try and capture me.

  While this thought is just occurring to me, Samuel grabs my shoulder, flipping us over in time to fire at the still-attacking machine. Its chest explodes, showering us in metal and sparks. There’s no permanent damage, though, only some superficial scrapes.

  I don’t waste any more time. “Come on, over there.” I drag myself and a grimacing Samuel toward the nearby tank, hell continuing to break loose around us.

  “What were you thinking?” I demand, removing his helmet to better see his face. Half of the visor’s broken off, anyway, and the rest of it isn’t going to provide much protection against a bullet, either.

  “I wasn’t there last time,” he says.

  “Samuel, what are you talking about?”

  “At Anchorage. I wasn’t at Anchorage and you died. Instead, I was miles”—he gestures wildly at the distance—“miles away, and absent in your life long before then. I know I probably couldn’t have done anything to save you, but still…I don’t want to make that mistake again, Rhon. Not when I can do something this time.”

  “God, Samuel. Your guilt has impeccable timing.” My adrenaline’s high, and I’m still upset over his recklessness. The emotion ends up channeled into a bear hug as I grab my careless, idiotic friend tight. “Are you okay?” I ask, looking at his arm, the sleeve dark with blood.

  “I thought you were in trouble,” he says.

  “Not what I asked. Besides, now we’re both in trouble.”

  “Yeah, but we’re together. Oh! And I brought you a gun.”

  I take the extra pistol, holding it aloft in my hands. “I guess I can forgive you, then. Not that it matters much at this point. It’s doubtful we’re going to live to see another day, let alone fight one.” He’s quiet, pensive. “What? No brilliant, million-dollar idea when I need one?”

  He looks at me, smiles in a way that dislodges the fear from my heart. “Rhon, I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker.” I give him a blank look. “Star Trek. You don’t remember Star Trek?”

  We both have to duck as a dying machine flails, releasing a stream of bullets.

  The machines really start to swarm us now, the human defenses breaking. “We’re sitting ducks here,” I tell him, looking all around, but I can’t see anywhere else we can go. Except…

  “I have an idea. Keep your head down.”

  I lie back and slip beneath the tank. There’s an access hatch at the bottom. It takes some jiggling at the locking mechanism, but the cold has done its job weakening it and I manage to pry it open. “Samuel, here!” I shout at him. As soon as I’m sure he’s making his way, I wriggle up into the belly of the machine. It’s more difficult for Samuel with his injured arm, but he manages to get inside, too. I close the hatch behind him.

  We must trigger some automatic sensors because electric lights flicker on, filling the interior with a cool aquamarine. The lighting is uncertain as it clicks off and then back on, not the most prodigious start. After so many years of being inactive, though, I’m just happy to have any of the systems operational. In the meantime, the world outside shrinks to a muffled roar at the back of my head, like a television screen left on in another room. In the muted quiet, it feels like I’m partially deaf, so I clear my throat a couple of times to confirm otherwise.

  “By the look of things, I’d say it’s running on reserve power,” Samuel says, holding his shoulder tenderly as he gets some diagnostic information up and running on a previously blank screen. “Whoever was last in here had the foresight to at least leave a nice setup behind.”

  “Maybe they planned on coming back,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he agrees solemnly, neither of us venturing to guess what happened to them. It’s not hard to figure out. “Anyway, I’m just surprised this thing still has any power and functionality at all.”

  Something bangs against the hull outside, making me jump. “Is there any way we can get a visual of the outside?” I scan the board of blinking lights and wires, but can’t make heads nor tails of any of it. It might as well be in another language. This just adds to my frustration. Why does technology always have to be so complicated? Why can’t it just have a big, red button that says PUSH ME? That always seemed to work well enough in cartoons. And while we’re at it, reality should adopt the policy of no one ever dying, too. That’d be swell.

  “Let me see.” He runs his hands across the console, lightly, so as not to hit the wrong buttons. The blood running down his arm drips off his fingertips onto the controls.

  “Samuel, your arm…”

  “Got it!” One of the half-dozen screens crackles to life, displaying a colored version of the outside world, as seen through some exterior camera. He presses another button, and it cycles to another image, this time from a higher vantage point. The mountain sits neutral over the battle, and I want to scream, “You were supposed to be on our side, you stupid hunk of rock!”

  But then I think, Maybe it still is.

  While I try to attend to Samuel’s arm, first by removing his sleeve, I ask him, “Can you get this thing moving?”

  His confus
ion shows clearly. “I think so. But where would we go?”

  “What about the weapons systems? Are they still active?”

  He tries to pull his arm away from me after I touch a tender spot, but I yank it back in place. “Easy does it, Florence,” he says through gritted teeth. The name’s lost on me. “It looks like everything is still in working order. We’re lucky the tank wasn’t destroyed like the others we’ve seen; it was just switched off when its occupants fled. That being said, I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

  I frown, thinking.

  “The bullet’s not in deep,” I tell him. “I’m pretty sure I can get it out safely, but it’s going to hurt, and I need you conscious right now. I hate to ask you this, but think you can stick it out for a little while longer?”

  Samuel nods and points to the first-aid kit on the tank wall, a luminescent blue, like a jellyfish. “Bandage me up. I’ll be good to go, Commander.”

  “It’s weird when you call me that. Don’t do that.” He smiles and I collect the scarce medical supplies left. “While I work on you, check and see what ammunition we’ve got to work with.”

  Using his good arm, he types out some basic commands on the console. I hear the mounted turret screech as it swivels, the metal groaning after such a long sleep. “The good news is the turret works. The bad news is we don’t have much ordnance left. And the worst news is I’m not sure what any of what we do have does, exactly. How to launch an armored offensive wasn’t covered in my biology classes. Go figure.” He grimaces as I apply some disinfectant and begin wrapping the wound. I try to be gentler.

  “Let’s phone a friend,” I suggest. “My earpiece isn’t working, so we’ll have to try some other way.”

  “Mine, either. The tank’s probably got some natural firewall interfering with the signal.”

  “How do we get around it? This thing has to have some kind of comm system, right? Can we patch into our channel?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Actually, I think I remember a way to do it. I had Zelda give me a beginner’s course before we left. Move over, let me.” My hands are slippery with blood, making it difficult to handle the smooth surface of the console. The system is more intuitive than I anticipated. It’s a simple matter of linking up to the frequency. It’d be almost impossible for someone who didn’t know the number, such as the machines, but thankfully my short-term memory is solid. “Here goes nothing.” And by nothing, I mean everything.