Ben could see a ring of troops and armor closing in from a few miles away. They wouldn’t get here in time to engage the last few mrill before they reached the White House lawn. Fighter jets streaked across the sky, pursued by the last few mrill drones over the city. He knew the bulk of the force was still above the planet, tangling with Eddie and Nick. The cannon, less than half a mile away, continued to pump out concussive bolts of energy. Ben sensed that the battle above was slipping away.
He ingested all this information in less than half a second. His jamming signal took over, the remaining mrill became visible, and Ben fired. Two of the three remaining mrill soldiers went down before the last zeroed in on his position and returned fire, along with the two robots. He tumbled back from the edge of the roof as their shots punched into the building, ripping out concrete. Even with Ben out of visual range, they continued to fire into the wounded building and he realized they intended to demolish it and crush him in the debris.
He rolled backward, away from the edge of the disintegrating building, as wads of masonry hurtled in all directions. The structure was collapsing beneath him. He swung his left hand out to grab onto an exposed girder while his right hand flipped his rifle onto his back, where his internal nanomachines grabbed it in a magnetic embrace. The building looked like Swiss cheese, with more holes being punched open every second. The floors below were collapsing into a growing bonfire fueled by chairs, papers, and desks, while the bitter smell of burnt plastic filled the air. A “Hang in there, baby!” motivational poster of a cat dangling from a rope swung on its hook, came loose, and somersaulted down into the flames.
“Sorry, kitty,” Ben said, feeling the girder in his hand begin to come loose.
He started to pull himself up until one of the energy blasts sliced across his left shoulder. He cried out and lost his grip, falling. He landed with a thud on the sharp edge of a desk perched on a chunk of the floor below that was still intact and felt several thick shards of glass puncture his back. He rolled to the floor, groaning, trying to move to the rear of the building as it continued to collapse around him. Had to get out of here. He staggered to his feet just as another energy blast cut through his right thigh. He fell again, and a massive section of ceiling slammed into his head, driving him to the floor. His body was already repairing itself, but there was no time to wait.
Off the ground, dazed, leaving a thick trail of blood. Almost to the window, his right leg dragging. Flames engulfed him from the rear, the heat burning his skin. He threw himself at the window with all his strength, feeling the damaged muscles in his leg and shoulder tear further.
He struck the glass at the same moment as the fireball. He was only three stories off the ground, but it gave him enough time to realize he was going to land on a small iron fence on the ground below. As the firelight twinkled through the fragments of spinning glass, Ben tried to twist his body to avoid impaling his head on the iron spikes. His lower body crashed into the fence, his nanomachines trying to harden his skin against the impact even as they struggled to repair his other wounds. The spikes didn’t completely penetrate his body, but Ben felt them slice deep. The building finally gave up, like a dizzy child wobbling off a merry-go-round, and came down with a whoosh. Gray air and gnarled fragments of debris sprayed out like a shotgun blast. A chunk of meat was ripped from the back of Ben’s right leg, the protective nanomachines overwhelmed, and he stifled a scream while smaller fragments peppered his back and shoulder. He pulled himself to his feet using the last remaining fragments of the fence that were still standing. His vision dimmed and he slipped to one knee, forcing himself back up.
Ben hopped on his good left leg as he turned and pulled his rifle from his back, which seemed undamaged. He sensed the last soldier and two robots working their way through the rubble. He was suddenly back in New Mexico, on that absurd moonlit night when this had all started. He was back in Pakistan. He was back in Afghanistan, Iraq, and every other warzone he’d ever gone to. He was back in boot camp. Nothing ever changed. There was always another war, another battle, another fight. What was it Santayana had said? Only the dead have seen the end of war. Ben wasn’t so sure. If there was a hell, or at least a place more hellish than Earth, then surely the eternal punishment for all dead soldiers was eternal war, a never-ending battlefield where the dead were endlessly stitched up, resurrected, and shoved back into combat.
He could sense, in the brief lull, the waning struggle above the atmosphere. Nick and Eddie were not doing well. The enemy’s numbers were simply too great. Their last charge had almost failed, and the Chinese drones were being plucked like feathers on a goose.
The trooper and robots rushed over the rubble of the collapsed building, firing as they charged. Ben, his leg already knitting up, rolled sideways, returning fire, his machines uninterested in his despair. One of the robots slipped in the loose debris and a concrete slab shifted and slid down onto its leg. The slab pinned the robot down for just a moment, long enough for Ben to draw a bead and fire, obliterating its upper body. The explosion knocked the other robot sideways, but it recovered in midair and landed neatly on the side of an exposed segment of shredded concrete and steel rebar, clinging to the mangled metal with its metallic claws, its eyes glowing red. But again, that was just enough time for Ben, who fired two shots into its body. The machine blew apart like Legos.
The last mrill soldier had momentarily disappeared in the dust, but Ben spotted it with his upgraded eyes. The mrill still seemed to not fully appreciate that this human was as capable as they were. The arrogance struck him again, and Ben wondered if they had never truly encountered a similarly advanced and equally warlike species. He looked for one last shot to end this battle.
Just as his finger curled around the trigger, the briefest flicker of a gray dart plunged into the thirty feet of jagged terrain between Ben and the mrill soldier and exploded. In the fraction of a second before both combatants were hurled from their feet, Ben realized that the AC-130 must have dropped a GBU-39 bomb out of an excess of enthusiasm. Known as a “Small Diameter Bomb,” the weapon was designed to focus the destruction in a limited area and minimize collateral damage. That was not much consolation if you were inside the impact area of the 206-pound warhead, he realized in that moment. The light from the blast was the first thing to hit Ben, he noticed in almost slow motion. The shockwave and debris then hit next, almost simultaneously, at the speed of sound. Ben felt his eyeballs flatten under the pressure and his skin quivered and flapped before the nanomachines were able to link together and harden. Even with the protection, the force of the detonation still lifted the human and mrill off their feet with ease, like dandelion seeds in the breeze.
As Ben looped through the air, his mind slowing down, he realized he was traveling in a predictable and calculable arc. Simple Newtonian physics.
And he still had his rifle.
Particles of concrete, fragments of steel, bits of paper, dirt, and a thousand other unidentifiable pieces of debris all moved through the air with him like dancers at a waltz. They slid and spun as the universe demanded, the already diminishing force of the explosion and the relentless tug of gravity prescribing their paths with precision. Ben knew he was being driven back toward the spikes of the iron fence and wondered if his tiring body would be able to fully protect him. Probably not.
He brought his rifle to his shoulder, his body about fifteen off the ground, flying backward at about thirty feet per second. He sighted down the barrel, between his feet, waiting for a spinning planetoid of asphalt to clear his view. Time barely seemed to exist anymore, and his senses felt amped even beyond what they’d been before. If he concentrated hard enough, Ben felt like he could count the molecules in the air. The chunk of what had previously been a parking space rotated as it moved through its brief trajectory, ancient clots of gum dotting its surface. A quarter was embedded in one of the pink blobs, and George Washington seemed to nod as he spun, unable to tell a lie.
A thousandth of a secon
d later, the pavement and the former president slid out of the way, and Ben finally had a clear line of sight to his enemy.
The mrill soldier had apparently noticed the same opportunity and was bringing its weapon up as well. Through a thin corridor in the dust and the flame, the two faced each other down the long barrels of their guns. Ben smiled. For one of them, this battle was blessedly over. The faintest puzzled look passed over the face of the mrill soldier at the sight of Ben’s smirk, and they both fired. The beams crossed in the thick cloud of dust and smoke, vaporizing particles of concrete and debris. As the bursts of energy passed within inches of each other, they interacted briefly; sizzling bolts of electricity arcing from one beam to the other for the barest fraction of a second. The two beams went their separate ways, leaving swirls of superheated gas behind them. Each fighter was struck by the other’s shot and, with that, time seemed to notice the two soldiers again and sent them crashing down out of their slow dances and slamming them into the ground.
Ben landed in a jumble on the ground and cried out, a deep cut burning the side of his torso. Instinctively, he tried to sit up to examine the wound, but his nanomachines had immobilized him from the neck down to minimize additional injury so they could try and seal the gash. He sensed it wasn’t a sure thing. The beam had gone deep. He turned his head to the right, the only movement he could make, and saw the mrill spread on the ground. Ben’s shot had hit him directly in the chest, punching a hole straight through. Green blood trickled from the alien’s mouth. It looked over at Ben, its fingers twitched, and then it was still.
Ben looked up and realized thick, heavy clouds had moved in. The sun was gone. He could hear fires raging everywhere. There were sirens in every direction. Hundreds, if not thousands, of American soldiers were dead.
But it wasn’t over.
“Ben, you still there?” Rickert’s voice filled his head.
“For the moment,” Ben replied. “We got ’em all on the ground, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Hold on.”
Ben, who had been following only peripherally the battle above the planet, connected fully to Nick’s and Eddie’s internal computer systems. The gloom from the gathering rain clouds was replaced by the black of space and the pinprick of a million stars and the fury of the alien armada.
Nick and Eddie sensed the link, and Ben could feel their relentless determination but also their quiet acknowledgment that they were fighting a battle they could not win.
“Hey boss, welcome to the main event,” Eddie chirped.
“Yeah, we’ve got them right where we want them,” Nick said, racing beneath the tangled structure of the mrill mothership, firing at anything that looked like critical machinery. A small swarm of Chinese drones covered his attack run, but the mrill drones and defensive weapons on their ship picked them off methodically. Plus, the shots on the mothership seemed to have no effect. Nick and Eddie’s scanners couldn’t penetrate the shielding around the ship, so they had no idea where they should be targeting their attack. They were essentially firing blind.
“We’ve hit it at least two dozen times, from every angle, but they’re fixing it as fast as we tear it apart, and we’re not sure where the weak points are or even if there are any weak points,” Eddie said. “Our drone fleet is about gone. We’ve seen them launch seven additional troop dropships, and so far we’ve managed to destroy them before they get past us. But I—wait, hold on”—Eddie took three quick shots—“I get the feeling they’re just waiting to finish smearing us before sending in the real reinforcements.”
Ben grunted in pain as his nanobots pulled another piece of his torn flesh together.
“We got all the ones down here, but just barely. And if they land anywhere else, where I can’t help out, we’re done,” Ben said. “And not sure how much help I’d be if they landed five feet away right now. I’m leaking pretty good.”
A Chinese drone on Nick’s starboard side blew apart and he angled off to avoid being vaporized himself.
“I don’t suppose the Chinese are sending us any more presents,” he wondered.
“Afraid not,” Ben said. “General, you got any good news we don’t know about?”
Rickert sighed.
“No. We still don’t know if the president and SecDef survived the attack on NORAD. We’ve got no reinforcements to send up. Comms are spotty, but it looks like most of the world is in various stages of either civil unrest or complete social collapse. Half the world seems to be fleeing from the cities and the other half fleeing into them. Just . . . just chaos. It’s not surprising, but we couldn’t send in more ground reinforcements to DC because every highway is clogged. We’re airlifting in a marine battalion to the area, but it’s just messy as hell. I’m not sure what they’ll do when they get there, but everyone’s flying off half-cocked. The VP has disappeared. Don’t know if he’s been killed or just in hiding. I guess I’m pretty much in charge, for whatever that’s worth.”
Ben felt his nanomachines return some control to his muscles as his body began to heal. He pushed himself up on one elbow as it began to rain. Soldiers—human soldiers—were now picking their way forward through the rubble, rifles raised. He sat up completely and waved them over. Their rifles swiveled to face him, then lowered as the men recognized him and began running over.
Ben turned his attention back to the skies above, the smoking, subdued streets of DC disappearing from his vision, replaced by the fury of battle at all angles. Attacks and retreats unfolded above and below, at every speed, the ships firing and dodging and regrouping too fast for any normal human brain to grasp, much less direct.
Any purely human technology guided by a purely human pilot would have been destroyed in an instant. This was the last line of defense now . . . and Ben knew what had to happen.
He’d known for a while, suspected since the first moment he’d stood in the cold New Mexican desert and understood what the invaders wanted. A sacrifice was required—a blood sacrifice. But not his own. Ben’s punishment would be the fulfillment of Abraham’s nightmare, murdering the one closest to him at the command of a mysterious, otherworldly entity. Unlike Isaac, though, there would be no reprieve. The vision would become the reality. He had not been able to save his father. That failure, that weakness, had now led him inexorably to this moment where he must cast his brother over the side, as well, into the uncaring void.
Nick and Eddie sensed the situation before Ben could articulate it. Their wireless link made it almost impossible for one to conceal anything from the other two.
“You don’t need to give the order, boss,” Nick said. “We’ll take care of it.”
“Yes, I do,” Ben responded without hesitation.
“What order?” Rickert asked. “What’s going on?”
Ben calculated in a moment which of the two men was in a better position to carry out the final strike.
“Nick,” Ben said. He could feel raindrops pattering his face while his eyes stared into the beautiful vacuum two hundred thousand miles above. “I need you to fly your ship into the mrill mothership and activate your self-destruct and detonate your nuke. I’d tell you to fire your Tomahawk, but it’s simply not precise enough.”
“Aye aye, Lieutenant,” Nick said without hesitation.
“Eddie, withdraw about two hundred klicks and observe. If they shoot Nick down before he can get close enough, it will be up to you,” Ben continued.
“Copy that.”
“Wait,” Rickert said. “Don’t the drones have self-destruct mechanisms?”
“Yes, but they’re not powerful enough. We need to blow the warhead on the Tomahawk as well, and the drones aren’t armed with those.”
Ben and Eddie linked their minds to Nick. From here on out, whatever he felt, they’d feel. Whatever he thought, they’d share. They were all one mind from this point forward.
Nick could finally see all the things Ben had been holding back. All the memories—a lifetime of them—filled him in a m
omentary flash. Over all of them lurked the memory of the struggle on the boat. Nick thought he could see it clearer than perhaps Ben ever had, without the tangled knot of guilt and fear and deep shame that had wrapped itself around Ben’s mind.
The water is smooth as liquid glass as they leave the harbor. No clouds. No birds. Just sea and sky and a rising red sun at their backs. Such a setting was perhaps more ominous in the days of sailing ships, but it is perfect weather for a diesel-powered craft. The catch is plentiful, and the ship soon is slung low on the water, weighted down by good fortune. They eat fistfuls of hard biscuits and crumbly cheddar as fast as they can, enjoying the hard and simple work beneath the warm sun. As they putter through the dark blue water, the father shows his son how to mend the nets, read the sonar, work the pumps. Only when the last slip of land slinks from view behind them does the flat air begin to fold. A small breeze and a gray cloud chugging over the western horizon, slow and fat. Plenty of time to finish the catch.
“Should we go back now, Dad?”
The man seems unsure, perhaps weighing the racing clouds against the responsibilities and debts the child can barely understand. He pulls his tattered Giants cap, the orange SF logo now faded, up and down on his head, sweat glinting in the retreating sun.
“One more catch. Hold is almost full. Easiest hunt we’ve had in months.”
They drop the nets one more time, as the tall and deep cumulonimbus clouds get faster and blacker. The boy sees the man whip his gaze back and forth between sea and sky, a jittery cigarette sending up a jagged distress signal.
“Okay, that’s enough. Pull up the lines.”
The whine of the electric motor as the full, squirming nets are brought up, the last load of yellowfins are dumped in the hold. A rumble of thunder from no more than a mile or two to the west, Neptune clearing his throat. The man races to the cabin and pulls on the throttle. As they turn the boat back to the east, to home, the engine stalls; a clog in the fuel line.
The First Protectors: A Novel Page 33