The First Protectors: A Novel

by Godinez Victor

  “You pushed for that?”

  “Simple logic, Lieutenant. You and your men are by far the most advanced weapons in the human arsenal. Even with these drones, we’ll face a tremendous challenge to overcome the enemy. Why cripple our chances further? Plus, your actions in Shanghai were not forgotten.”

  Ben, Nick, and Eddie felt 543 connection points suddenly open themselves to their minds as the Chinese drones rose into the sky. The team quickly divvied up the reinforcements, with most rocketing toward Nick and Eddie, who were now battling in the skies over South America. Thirty of the ships veered off to Ben’s location in DC. Then he reconsidered.

  “General, I’m sending five of the drones to Cheyenne Mountain, or what’s left of it. Alert the rescue team from Peterson that they’re going to be getting some company, and not to shoot at it. The drones will provide cover for the rescue team. Dr. Ying, do the drones have any passenger capabilities?”

  “I’m afraid not. They are purely weapons platforms.”

  “Well, if the president is still alive, hopefully the runway and jet are still useable. Okay, let’s go.”

  Rickert signed off from his bunker in the foothills of South Dakota, but Ben kept his connection open with Nick and Eddie a bit longer. Through their eyes, he could see them fighting through the cloud of mrill ships. A bolt of enemy fire carved a precise, black streak down the edge of Nick’s ship. Then the cavalry arrived, cutting in from the east like a silver hailstorm. There were too many for Nick and Eddie to control directly, so their internal computers instantly distributed a series of orders and guidelines, turning the drones loose as autonomous weapons. Nick and Eddie kept a handful to fly a protective formation around their own ships, and with that, the largest vehicular battle in human history was underway.

  Ben pushed the feed to the background of his mind but didn’t cut it off. He needed to deal with the mushrooming mrill presence down on the ground, though he had a feeling he would be needing backup soon and in some form. The twenty-five drones he’d commandeered would be there in five minutes, but he had to hold the fort until they arrived.

  At that moment, Sergeant Daniels and his marines came into view. Daniels whistled softly, unable to see Ben, who was still cloaked. Ben ducked down behind the wreckage of the tank and deactivated his invisibility cloak. The marines, weighed down with missile launchers and various explosives, hustled over, weapons and ammo clinking softly, and squeezed up against the twisted metal.

  “What’s the situation, sir?” Daniels said.

  “A bit more complicated since you left, but nothing we can’t handle,” Ben said. “We’ve got two squads of mrill robots half a block away, and they’ve got a hell of a lot more air cover now thanks to some reinforcements that just parked themselves about 500 miles above our heads. And unless I’m very much mistaken, they just took out the USS Anzio, so no missile support.”

  Every man in the squad glanced up involuntarily and muttered a soft curse.

  “Good news is we’ve got some reinforcements of our own inbound. Made in China, and I think they commandeered every manufacturing site in the country, so I hope y’all aren’t planning on buying a new phone anytime soon. More than 500 drones to call our own. Most of them are dispatched to help with the orbital battle, but we’ve got twenty-five inbound to provide us some air support. And we’re mostly facing mrill robots down here, not foot soldiers. The robots are tough, but they’re a damn sight dumber and slower than the mrill themselves, so we’ve got a fighting chance.”

  “How’s the rest of the world doing, sir?” one of the soldiers asked. “Is there anything left out there?”

  Ben decided not to say anything about Lockerman.

  “We’ll find out once we kick these shitheads off Earth,” he said. “So, same drill as before. I’ll draw their attention, you plant claymores at the intersection to the south and set up missile teams on the roof. I’ll draw them in, you’ll cut them apart. Things go pear-shaped, rendezvous point is the White House lawn. We’re running out of real estate to retreat to, and we’ve still got to protect that cannon. Drone ETA 45 seconds.”

  As if to offer a reminder of its existence, the cannon fired three times into the sky. They were close enough now that they could feel the jolt in both the ground and the air. The mrill robots and handful of remaining infantry were clawing closer to the weapon, bulldozing their way through the city. The marines dispersed to set up their explosives and move to the rooftops of the adjacent buildings. Ben suspected the mrill would be wise to the maneuver this time, but they would definitely not be expecting the drone attack from above. The marines were moving silently up the fire escape of one of the buildings when one of them, Private Robert Black, slipped and clattered down a few steps. He caught himself quickly, but it was enough to attract the attention of the mrill force, which swiveled as one toward the sound. The marines were caught, exposed in an indefensible position, their heavy weapons useless in the tight, confined, twisting space of the staircase.

  Five blips streaked into DC airspace.

  The only one who noticed was Ben, who had been tracking the signals from the Chinese fighters on his internal feed. Now it was a party. The five drones, designed in a distant star system by a dead race, assembled on the other side of the world, guided by a man who was no longer certain whether he still qualified as human or not, responded to a thought and opened fire on the alien invaders.

  Crackling darts of energy sawed through the mrill robots and soldiers, drilling deep craters in the surrounding streets and buildings. The mrill drones were already responding to the attack, flying in from the east, presumably the same drones that had taken out the Anzio. Ben sent the Chinese drones around for another pass, moving well over the speed of sound to avoid the return fire from the forces on the ground. A clutch of sonic booms rattled the few windows that were still intact. At the same time, the marines reached the rooftops and unleashed their missiles and rockets. Though less lethal than the ion guns on the drones, the conventional explosives found their marks. It was nearing 3 a.m. now, but the glow of battle and trail of fire extending back to the original mrill insertion point made it look like feeble dawn.

  Four mrill drones arrived just as the Chinese drones began their second attack run.

  Two of the drones were picked off as they strafed the mrill position. Ben turned his drones to engage the enemy ships. Despite the hundreds of reinforcements engaging the mrill fleet in orbit, Nick, Eddie, and their machines were still outnumbered nearly four to one. The ground defenses had to hold.

  Ben and the remaining military forces on the surface would have to deal with the mrill ground forces directly. Even as his nanomachines took over his body, his mind was already mourning the deaths to come. In his previous life, the chaos of combat had required him to focus both his mind and body on the task at hand. Now the machines in his body handled the fighting, leaving his mind to agonize even as the battle still unfolded. He was still unclear if this was an improvement or not.

  From the rooftops, missiles and rocket-propelled grenades whistled and hissed. Beautiful red, orange, and yellow fireballs blossomed where ordnance was planted: in the ground, on top of buildings, inside shattered vehicles. As the mrill struggled to pivot from the air attack to this new ground assault, Ben wondered again if they felt any emotions at all. Did they question and hesitate? Did they mourn? Fear?

  It didn’t matter. They would.

  32

  As thousands of starships skittered and skirmished around him, crisscrossing on chaotic vectors, pairing up, splitting up, regrouping, some exploding into temporary starbursts, others withdrawing, charging, and circling back to do it all again, Eddie observed and recorded it all with some detachment. Even amusement. The human brain really wasn’t meant for this sort of thing.

  It was enough to make you crazy if you thought it about it too much. Eddie had a brief flashback to his childhood struggles with basic algebra and geometry and how he’d had to sweat through the underwater mappi
ng and distance calculations early in his SEAL training. Through raw sweat and will, he’d figured it out, but it had never been anything close to second nature. The brin technology had changed his nature. So here he was commanding a fleet of spaceships whirring through a three-dimensional battlefield and his heart rate was as steady as a metronome and his brow was a dry as a desert.

  Well, I’ve still got blood and tears to give. At least I’m still human enough for that. He picked off three mrill ships, trailing the third so closely that as he rocketed through the wreckage, he could hear pieces ping off the hull of his own ship. He knew Nick was similarly bemused and horrified at what he’d become. Ben’s connection was more distant, but Eddie wasn’t sure if that was simply due to physical distance or if Ben kept his emotions on a tighter leash.

  Eddie knew Ben had hoped to be rid of fighting, to be left alone. He also knew there was no one better at the art of war, and no one he’d rather follow into it. And if Eddie was being completely honest, there was nowhere he’d rather be. A failure in everything but soldiering, civilian life held only debt, failed relationships, and boredom. Eddie was a Navy lifer. Am I still in the Navy? We might need to think of a new branch of the military for what we are. Space Rangers? He could sense Nick chuckling.

  Three more shots. Three more kills.

  What really bothered Eddie was the total lack of fear he felt. Prior to his transformation, every firefight, every demolition mission, recon assignment, and protective detail had been fueled by a cocktail of unequal parts fear, adrenaline, and pride. It had probably been that way since the first caveman picked up a stick to fight off the neighboring clan. SEALs were, by nature and training, better able to control those emotions, but the fear was always there. The experience of seeing your friends and comrades ripped apart in combat was never something you got used to. There was no way of preparing for the things you might see. The things you might become.

  No longer. Whatever electrochemical reaction in the brain that was responsible for fear had been erased by the brin nanobots—or at least suppressed. Eddie reflected that this was probably the most sought-after weapon in all of human history: the ability to send men to battle who would obey any order, advance on any position, and throw themselves against any defense, regardless of the cost.

  A wall of mrill drones swept into view, firing as they came, a flying battering ram. Nick directed a detachment of his own drones to meet the assault, and the two forces slammed into each other. The mrill drones flung their nano bombs and the Chinese drones destroyed them—except one. The lone shot sped through the green blasts and burst open like a pregnant spider. The gray blob of miniature robots coated one of the Chinese drones and began eating it. They devoured the outer armor, exposing the bones of the unmanned craft, which was still dodging and firing as it was disrobed. Then the nanobots began to chew through the powerful support structures under the skin. The glow of the guns and engines pulsed through the drone’s exposed skeleton. The growing gray swarm of nanobots moved over the ship like an infection. Mrill drones kept firing at the limping Chinese drone, which had all but disappeared inside the blob. Occasionally flashes of light escaped, like lightning from a thundercloud.

  The nanobots started chomping on the central computer system of the craft. Nick, who had been watching the entire cannibalistic ordeal as he fought his own battles, suspected the nanobots were trying to break into the drone’s communication system to hack into the secure network connecting the humans and the machines. Not happening. He ordered the wounded drone to self-destruct. The craft immolated itself in a green and yellow fireball, consuming the ravenous nanobots and one mrill drone that had gotten too close.

  Nick knew the mrill were happy to make that trade. The drone reinforcements had only slowed the pace of mankind’s defeat. The supply of mrill ships seemed endless, as wave after wave poured out of the mothership and broke against the human defenses. Each wave consumed a handful of defenders. Nick had a vision of a sand castle, slopped together with plastic pails and shovels, erected in a panic as the only line of a defense against a tsunami. It was a cruel joke. So be it. If sandcastles in a storm were their last, best line of defense, then they’d shovel until the water washed them away.

  Nick ordered a hundred of the drones to form up in two wedges and attack the mothership. “We’ve been playing defense too damn long,” he said out loud to Eddie. “If we’re going to do any damage, we’ve got to turn this thing around.”

  “Copy that,” Eddie said. “I’ll take this group from the bottom, and you run the top. Godspeed, man. Let’s kick some alien ass . . . or whatever they sit on.”

  Nick laughed, cranked his engines up to full thrust, and charged.

  33

  Leonov watched the television with growing alarm, although he kept it well hidden. The 2nd Red Army was still camped in Volgograd. He had planned to continue their march to Moscow that morning, but the assault playing out on the TV was impossible to ignore. There wasn’t much to see of the space battle. But the ground war was playing out live to the world, as a few reporters were still broadcasting scattered, confused coverage from Washington. It was impossible to tell propaganda from truth. Maybe it always had been. He doubted anyone could track everything that was happening right now.

  His own spies reported that the cannon in Moscow was firing nonstop, apparently targeting the alien ships up above the planet. The General had gone dark for the moment. Leonov’s men remained loyal and obedient. No desertions. They were waiting for orders. For guidance. He knew he couldn’t remain glued to the TV or wait around for his laptop to buzz much longer. He suddenly realized the satellite that provided the computer’s connection might have been destroyed. Rodchenko and a few others were in the room, and their gaze was locked on the flickering, fiery images, just as Leonov’s was. They didn’t have the burden of command. They didn’t have to make decisions.

  Deciphering the correct next move was difficult, given the destruction unfolding on the TV screen. The reporters and their cameras were having a hard time grasping the flow of the battle on the ground. Part of it was that they were afraid to get too close to the firefight. Several reporters had already been killed in the crossfire, live on the air. It was like nothing Leonov had ever seen. One idiot reporter, decked out in military-style cargo pants and a blue bulletproof vest, had accompanied a squad of soldiers directly to the front. The journalist had been incinerated where he stood when a group of alien soldiers materialized out of thin air and launched a flurry of green fire at the American detachment. Leonov suspected the unsecured wireless transmission from the camera back to the studio had drawn the enemy fire, but it was impossible to know. At any rate, he couldn’t believe the United States military would allow reporters into battle, and broadcasting live!

  Still, he had to admit he could not tear his eyes from the calamity unfolding on the screen before him.

  It should have been a rout. The Americans were obviously outgunned. They were nevertheless fighting an effective, orderly retreat, inflicting heavy losses as they fell back in formation. Their weapons were clearly primitive compared to those of the enemy. And yet, every time the smoke cleared on a skirmish, alien bodies and shattered alien weaponry were nearly as numerous as American casualties. The American military wasn’t that good. The human with the alien machines in his body must be among the defenders. There were glimpses of a shape flitting through the chaos, quick fire directed toward the aliens and then a second volley from hundreds of meters away just seconds later. It was far too fast for any human infantryman to move.

  Leonov couldn’t get a clear look. The reporters and camera operators obviously had no idea what was happening. All they saw in the retreat was defeat. They couldn’t grasp the tactical brilliance of the maneuver or the heavy toll it was taking on the mrill. The media then babbled their gibbering ignorance out to the world. Still, even the TV idiots understood where the mrill were going. The cameras occasionally cut to shots of the defensive cannon sending thunder a
nd lighting up into the night sky, another security violation that Leonov found both bizarre and enlightening. It looked like the mrill didn’t have enough troops to make it before the last of them were destroyed. This American soldier with the alien technology was obviously good at his job.

  Leonov looked down at the chunk of debris he had rescued from the destroyed station in Gorkovskiy. He was an intelligent man, educated and well-traveled. The technology at play here was slipping beyond the grasp of human understanding. He wondered if even the Americans were truly comfortable with the weapons and tools they had been given. What was that saying? Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic?

  “Arthur C. Clarke,” Rodchenko said, and Leonov was startled from his reverie, thinking for a moment his friend had read his mind. “That quote is from the science fiction writer Arthur C. Clarke.”

  Leonov realized he must have muttered the phrase quietly as it had run through his head.

  “I didn’t know you read such decadent literature, Vanya,” Leonov said with a friendly smile.

  Rodchenko shrugged, not looking away from the TV.

  “It always seemed a bit ridiculous to me . . . apparently I was wrong.”

  They were quiet for a moment. On the table, two cups of long-ignored tea had gone cold. Leonov absently picked up one of the cups, sipped, and grimaced at the taste.

  “There must have been truth to the reports,” Rodchenko added, nodding toward the screen. “The Americans should have been defeated otherwise.”

  He handed Leonov a flask without looking away from the TV, and the older man poured a splash into the tea cup. A sip, then a sigh, and he set it back down. Later.

  “And they must have more than one of these guardians,” he said. “We cannot see the space combat, but if the Americans have engaged the aliens up there as well, then they must have a similar force piloting their space craft.”