The Gordian Protocol

by David Weber

  An unblemished bridge appeared within his mind’s eye. He could now “see” his surroundings, if only as a guestimate of what was actually there.

  Perhaps that was for the best.

  Acceleration pinned him against the back of the bridge, but the fusion thrusters weren’t operating at full power. Gravity was close to one gee.

  He could climb this.

  He released his harness and stood up on the chronoport’s rear bulkhead. Air whistled out of his helmet, and he began to feel lightheaded. Time was running out. He waved his arm through a virtual seatback and found the real one bent slightly downward. He clenched his fingers around the handholds built into each seatback for zero gee, and climbed.

  The two pilot stations were at the front of the bridge, directly above him. If he could reach them, he could establish a direct interface and regain control of the chronoport.

  He scaled one seatback, stood up with arms to his side for balance, then reached out quickly and grabbed hold of the next. He hooked an arm over the side and found something slick with rows of hard protrusions.

  A ribcage.

  Someone’s ribs had been blasted open. He grimaced, found another spot to hold onto, and pulled himself up. It took him several minutes to scale the bridge, but he eventually reached the copilot’s seat and the slack body still restrained there.

  “Sorry,” Kloss wheezed, then sucked in a labored breath.

  He unstrapped the corpse, shoved her out of the seat, and pulled himself into it with a groan. He sighed with relief as the ship’s primary functions lit up in his virtual vision. The top half of the chronoport flashed red and yellow, and the impeller shuddered worryingly as it maintained the ship’s phase, but the fusion thrusters and weapon pods under the delta wing were undamaged.

  “Pathfinder-2 to Pathfinder-Prime,” Kloss dictated for the telegraph. “Boss, can you hear me?”

  “Kloss, is that you?” Shigeki’s synthesized voice asked in his virtual hearing.

  “Yeah, it’s me.” Kloss took a few deep breaths before continuing. “I’ve regained control of…the ship. Ready to assist.”

  “Hurry and join up with us. We’re going to come at the TTV from two temporal directions at once.”

  “On my…way.”

  He located the other chronoports, swung the Pathfinder-2 around, and sped to meet them.

  *

  “What do you mean they’re not phase-locking with us?” Elzbietá demanded.

  “Three of them flew right past us,” Philo reported. “They’re slowing now…matching speeds and holding position at plus one day. The other three are still at negative six days.”

  “What are they doing splitting up like that?” she asked.

  “I wish I knew.”

  She glanced around, checking the estimated physical positions of each ship. Both groups of three had what might have been triangular formations that kept the TTV in the center. Were they trying to box her in?

  Perhaps she’d used the trick of switching time-travel directions too often, and this was their counter. Admin impellers were faster; they chose when to phase-lock, not her. She’d been able to break away by quickly reversing directions, but not this time. It didn’t matter which group she engaged first. When she reversed the impeller to flee, she’d run right into the second trio.

  “Not good,” she exhaled through clenched teeth. Microbots hadn’t finished resealing the breached sections of the hull yet. She’d wanted to hold back until Kleio healed the gash in their side armor, but the Admin wasn’t giving her that chance.

  “Trio at plus one day decelerating,” Philo stated. “They’re coming for us.”

  “Get ready!”

  Three chronoports flashed into existence around them, forming the points of an equidistant triangle with the TTV very close to the center. Railguns blared away, and hits stabbed into the Kleio’s hull.

  “Graviton thruster three damaged!” Philo reported. “Compensating!”

  “There!” She charged the closest chronoport, swinging the nose around as the TTV sped sideways, and Philo fired the mass driver. The shot punched a wicked channel down the seam where the hull blended into its wing, and then the payload exploded. The force of the blast shoved the chronoport down. Its wing supports cracked, and the craft folded in on itself.

  Missiles sleeted in on her from its consorts, and she pulled at her controls. The TTV sped through rapidly moving cloud banks as it climbed steeply, but the controls responded only sluggishly and the missiles screamed in faster than before. More cannon fire struck the hull, and more indicators flashed yellow and red on her displays.

  Philo swiveled the guns, and a rain of 45mm shells intercepted the incoming missiles. Some of them blew apart, but not enough.

  She had to get out.

  Elzbietá flipped their temporal velocity again. Explosions erupted from the closest missiles, and shrapnel rained against the hull before they completely phased out.

  “Minor damage to the impeller!” Philo reported. “It should be okay, but those two chronoports are coming around!”

  “I can’t deal with them yet!”

  The TTV raced backward through time, and the other three chronoports phase-locked with it. Like the first group, they formed a wide triangle, but they’d positioned themselves high above the TTV.

  Right where she was heading.

  “Damn it! Take the one to port, Philo!

  “On it!”

  Gatling guns bellowed, their massed fire drawing a cone of flame across the heavens, and one of the trio above her staggered, then fireballed and fell off on one wingtip, but its companions fired back with equal fury. Twin streams of railgun slugs wracked the hull, and missiles sprinted out of their launchers as Elzbietá pulled back on the throttle and dived away from them. Philo worked his controls and kept the missiles at bay until one of his displays flashed urgently red.

  “Gatling Two is down!” he reported. “Something’s jamming the ammo feed!”

  “Fix it! We’re not going to last long without those guns!”

  “Redirecting repair swarms now!”

  Two chronoports phased in beneath her and launched their missiles. The collision warning sounded, and Elzbietá knew she couldn’t phase out fast enough to avoid them entirely.

  So instead she closed with them, angling just enough to cut inside the missiles’ arc. One detonated from proximity as she overflew the chronoports, and the TTV shook as fragments battered its hull. She passed cleanly between them, then angled back and around until she was suddenly closing rapidly with one of them.

  “Take it down!” she cried as she spun the TTV so their Gatling guns had a clear line of fire.

  “Aiming!” Philo swung two 45mm and both 12mm Gatlings around. The top of the chronoport had been blasted open in a previous attack, and he manually set half the mix to incendiary before he issued the fire command.

  The guns poured 167 rounds a second into the chronoport, and the entire top half blazed with self-immolation as tiny explosions tore the time machine apart.

  *

  Hellfire burned Kloss alive.

  His helmet burst apart and he opened his mouth to scream, but all that did was set his lungs on fire. He convulsed and thrashed in his seat, flesh crisping until finally a piece of debris the size of a sharpened baseball bat impaled his skull.

  Death came as a sweet, sweet mercy.

  But Kloss had set one last navigational command before he died, and when the TTV reached the specified distance, the chronoport executed his final will. Safety parameters disengaged. Fusion thrusters blazed with suicidal power and the chronoport shot forward on a collision course.

  The TTV darted to the side, but not before the chronoport’s wing struck the nose and tore a deep gash through one whole side. The TTV spun away, falling out of control, and three other chronoports dove after their wounded prey.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Stendal, Germany

  1940 CE

  Raibert snatc
hed a red-striped magazine off the corpse of one of Klaus-Wilhelm’s men and slotted it into his submachine gun. The wreckage of a second STAND spewed sparks and spurts of oily goo into the air next to him, and blood from special operators soaked the soil near the bottom of the hill. The Admin had pulled back, but he knew they were gathering for a decisive push on their position.

  “Is it time yet to use that damned gun of yours now?” Benjamin shouted from behind a tree almost completely denuded of bark. He stabbed a medibot shot into the stomach of a wounded soldier, then tossed the empty tube aside and offered a hand to urge the man back to his feet. The soldier stumbled upright, and Benjamin caught him, then guided him to the tree’s cover where he pressed his back against it, chest heaving as he fought for breath.

  “Yeah, I’m thinking it’s time.” Raibert retrieved one of the rockets from his backpack, loaded it into the Panzerschreck, and raised the weapon to his shoulder. He spied a plume of smoke on the far side of the forest where two of the Admin’s transports had crashed. Tiny outlined figures gathered ahead of the downed transports, their locations illustrated by data from remotes he’d deployed.

  “What support do you need?” Klaus-Wilhelm growled, reloading his weapon.

  “None. I’ll move up and get off the best shot I can. Everyone else stay back.”

  “We’ll hold this position as long as possible.”

  “Wish me luck.” Raibert rose from cover, submachine gun in one hand and the rocket launcher in the other.

  “Luck?” Benjamin replied. “What are you talking about? Schröders don’t need luck!”

  Raibert glanced his way, brow furrowed. “But I’m not a Schröder.”

  “The hell you say! I’m naming you an honorary Schröder right now, friend!”

  “I like the sound of that.” He flashed a lopsided grin beneath his mask. “Friend, huh?”

  Benjamin waved him on. “Now go out there and kick ass like a Schröder!”

  “All right, then.”

  He charged down the hill with long, powerful synthoid strides. His boots crunched through underbrush at the bottom, and he dashed forward through the thick forest, the red icons of his foes glowing ahead.

  His feet pounded the ground, and he raced forward faster than the best natural athlete. He sliced through the trees like an earthbound comet, sidestepping trunks at the last possible moment, using them for cover as he sped through. He’d covered almost half the distance to the crash when a rail-rifle dart hit the side of his helmet and sent it spinning off his head.

  He tripped forward, but managed to turn that into a lurching dive for cover behind a stump.

  Two outlines of special operators materialized to his right. Another shot clipped his leg, and the rest blew splinters off the stump.

  “Where did you two come from?” Raibert tucked his leg in and rose into a crouch.

  The special operators split, flanking him. Another target split off from the forces near the downed transports and headed his way. Fast.

  Faster than a drone or operator.

  “Aw, hell!” he exclaimed and raised his submachine gun. He spun out of cover and sprayed one of the operators. The variskin illusion warped and vanished, and the armored man in black went down hard. Raibert kept firing, and tiny explosions severed the operator’s leg and both arms in sprays of gore.

  A hit thumped him in the chest, and he stuck out a leg to brace himself. His gun blasted in response, and the second operator’s torso blew apart.

  He’d just turned back to the downed transports when the STAND boosted into view, then sped past him. Its incinerator flicked on, and blue flame washed over Raibert.

  “Won’t work on me!” he shouted, firing his MP40 until it ran dry.

  The STAND dashed out of the way, rounded the rotted remains of a fallen tree trunk, then darted deeper into the woods with precise spurts of thrust. Raibert, still on fire, pulled out a grenade, but the STAND shot first. Enemy grenades detonated around him, and he found himself flying through the air. He hit the ground, rolled, and quickly surged back to his feet. One of Klaus-Wilhelm’s men would have been stunned by the blast—assuming it hadn’t just knocked him completely out—but Raibert’s onboard systems kept functioning. Parts of his coat’s façade dropped off, revealing the gray prog-steel weave underneath.

  He raised his arm and tossed his own grenade. The weapon ignited and tracked the STAND down. It boosted for cover, but the projectile swerved to hit it, and the two met with a loud, explosive crack that blasted the forest floor clean and stripped leaves off branches.

  The STAND crashed to the ground and plowed a shallow groove. Variskin around its body failed, and one of its arms twitched erratically. It pushed itself up with the other and boosted away. One of its shoulder boosters burped loudly, then wheezed clear exhaust, and it tumbled to the ground again. The machine fired its arm and leg boosters and righted itself.

  Raibert pulled out another grenade, then realized this one didn’t have a red-stripe. He checked his belt for a replacement and realized it was all he had left.

  “Oh, what the hell!” He didn’t know how to arm the period grenade’s fuse, so he simply tossed it at the STAND. The thirtieth-century killing machine boosted back, then spun around and fled from a weapon only slightly more threatening than a wooden stick.

  “Ha!” Raibert used the short reprieve to sprint forward. He wormed his way through the forest, casting quick glances over his shoulder for the STAND’s return, then came close enough to the crash site to see the gathered troops and drones through breaks in the trees.

  His remotes counted fifty drones, thirty-one operators, and three STANDs in the vicinity.

  “This’ll do.” He dropped to one knee and raised the Panzerschreck. A rail-rifle round whizzed by, then another chipped bark off a tree. He armed the replicators, set the dispersion and generational limits, then angled the launcher up and fired.

  The rocket shot out of the barrel, spun rapidly as it powered upward, then arced gently down until its course straightened. It flew over the crash site, and its twentieth-century exterior split open to reveal an inner mechanism that resembled a bundle of oversized grapes. A powerful explosion flung the “grapes” away from the central shaft in a carefully designed dispersal pattern, the globes all burst at once, and weaponized self-replicators showered upon the Admin troops like rusty snow.

  Raibert set the launcher aside and reloaded his submachine gun.

  STANDs boosted clear, and Admin operators scattered. Their version of the thirtieth century was a rougher place than his own, and he suspected they’d encountered weapons like this before. Perhaps in armed combat, but more likely in terrorist strikes.

  Their familiarity changed nothing. The touch of a single flake could kill, and the operators scrambled to remove infected armor or toss aside blighted weapons. Rust grew into fluidic beads and expanded hungrily wherever they landed. This wasn’t some cocktail a terrorist cell had developed in isolation. These microbots had been developed for the armed forces of an entire planetary government—one that had openly scoffed at that Yanluo Restrictions—and their lethality showed.

  Drones slumped into oozing puddles. Operators collapsed and frantically stripped their armor. A woman near the epicenter tripped and fell into a puddle. It splashed over her, engulfed her, consumed her, and then the vague shape of her dissolving corpse ballooned outward and burst open in a fountain of mutilated viscera. Rusty spray and spongy bits of meat splattered more people and equipment, and the cycle of consumption continued.

  “Oh, God,” Raibert breathed. “I hope I didn’t set the number too high.”

  He had a strong desire to be somewhere else, so he picked up the launcher and turned to flee the scene of blood-soaked nano-blight.

  The STAND he’d wounded boosted into view, and grenades exploded underneath him. The blast sent him flying once more, and the Panzerschreck tumbled through the air with one of his arms still attached. His weapon and limb landed in a fold between tree r
oots. The STAND boosted over, picked up the launcher in one claw, then hurled it toward the crash site where the released microbots would undoubtedly consume it.

  Raibert raised his submachine gun and sprayed the STAND with automatic fire. It dashed away, but its damaged boosters slowed it, and Raibert kept it in his sights. Bullets pummeled its armor, tore through it, and shredded vulnerable internal systems that caught fire.

  The STAND flew out of control, crashed headfirst into a tree, and its head crunched under the impact. Boosters sputtered, and the wreckage collapsed into a sparking, fuming junk pile.

  “Raibert, we need everyone at the downed chronoport!” Benjamin called in. “We’re heading that way now!”

  “Be right there!” He took one last look at the STAND as if expecting it to get back up. It didn’t, and he turned and ran toward the railroad tracks.

  *

  Bullets perforated the armor of one of Klaus-Wilhelm’s soldiers, and he fell back.

  Benjamin swung out of cover and fired on the two Raptor drones. Shots sparked against their half-seen bodies, and they crashed into a dry leaf bed. He retrieved a medibot tube from his belt and bolted over to the downed soldier, then crouched down next to the man.

  And then he stopped. Tiny explosions had torn the man’s chest open, and shrapnel had scrambled his insides. Benjamin grimaced, slotted the tube back into his belt, and raised his weapon.

  “Sir!” Anton signaled. “Half the assassins are dead and the rest are fleeing to the south.”

  “Excellent work,” Klaus-Wilhelm replied evenly.

  “However, sir, I am less pleased to report why they’re fleeing. A lone STAND engaged them and did considerable damage, then attacked us. We managed to drive it off, but the enemy returned in force. They’ve occupied the crashed time machine—I believe in an attempt to secure their wounded.