by T. R. Harris
“What about evacuation?” Joanie Hollis asked.
Zac turned back to the monitor, and using a laser pointer in his hand, outlined a series of red dots surrounding the Solar System. “Although the Antaere chose not to continue their attack on Earth a few months ago, they did leave enough units in place to effectively blockade the system. None of the larger refugee fleets have made it out, although individual units have been more successful. Most of the ships that get out are heading to Dal’mar, about twelve light-years from here. As you know, it’s not a formal member of the Grid, being an Earth-like planet we discovered farther out in the Arm. But even if a significant portion of the population could be moved there, there’s nothing to stop the Antaere from attacking Dal’mar next. Unfortunately, Sergeant Hollis, it seems we’re stuck here for the duration.”
“And that duration is getting bloody well short,” Angus threw in for punctuation.
“So, what is CENTCOM planning to do to keep the Antaere out of the system?” asked another officer at the table.
“At this point, they’re concentrating on solidifying the defensive screen with more mines and missiles. A lot more of these can be built in the time left than can be full-blown warships. But with the Qwin planning to use their conscripted fleet to blaze the trail, regardless of the casualties, it’s a given the Antaere will make landfall. And after that, well, you know.”
“What about the REV program?” asked a Marine colonel, one of the officers running the program at Groom Lake. “We’re flooding the base with new AC-3s. That’s a force to be reckoned with.”
Zac nodded enthusiastically. “That’s right, colonel, and CENTCOM realizes that. REVs will still be vital in the surface defense of the planet. Although we now believe the landing is only a feint by the Antaere, we can’t simply roll over and offer no effective surface defense. Command wants you to continue—”
“But, sir,” Joanie said, “as always, it’s not the number of REVs that’s the problem. It’s the Controllers. We have thousands of people training the best they can. And as you’re probably aware, we’re streamlining the process, cutting the teams down from seven to three. We’re no longer concerned with recovery or medical rehab of Runners. As you said, if we don’t stop the attack, there’s no point in nursing them back to health. But currently, we’re about a quarter-million people short of forming effective teams. We may end up with a couple of hundred thousand REVs and no one to run them.”
Zac looked around the table. The grim looks on the faces had only grown darker as a result of his briefing. He knew he had no good news to give them, but it was his job to lay the cards on the table, no matter how bad of a hand Humanity was holding. Now, he’d reached the point where the only thing left was the idea he had kicking around in his mind. He turned to Major Perry.
“There is one other topic I’d like to discuss—”
“You mean before we all go outside and blow our heads off?” asked First Lieutenant. Angus Price in his thick, cockney accent. Zac smirked.
“Hopefully, it won’t come to that, Lieutenant.”
Zac took a deep breath. His thoughts were racing around in his head in such a jumbled manner that he hoped they would make sense when he let them out.
“On the trip back from D.C., Major Perry said something that triggered an idea I wish to investigate today,” Zac began formally. “As I said, CENTCOM now believes that no matter what we do on the planet, the Antaere fully intend to use their nukes on us. Even if General Cross and his REVs can kill every last invading Ha’curn, it won’t stop the Antaere. All that would do is speed up the Antaere deployment of the nukes. So, what we need is a way to stop the Antaere from breaking through the screen and getting to Earth. Not only that, but we also need a breakout, breathing room and time for us to rebuild our forces.” He looked to Perry. “Major, can you put the schematics for the 308 up on the screen?”
A moment later, a line graphic of the starfighter appeared on the monitor behind Zac. “This is the spacecraft Major Perry piloted on the way here. It’s our most-advanced form of space fighter, with capabilities far beyond anything the Antaere have—”
“Most of us in the room are familiar with the capabilities of the 308, Captain,” said a Naval officer, Captain Morris Anson. “We’ve factored in the fighters in all our estimates. This is nothing new.”
“Understood, sir, but for the sake of the others in the room, I think it would be enlightening for Mr. Perry to give us his report.”
Anson shrugged and leaned back in his chair. He had the look of someone with more important places to be.
Zac nodded to the Air Force officer.
“Well, gentlemen—and ladies—as Captain Murphy said, the Summerlin Industries M-308 Starfighter is simply the most advanced fighter craft in the Grid, better than anything the Antaere have. It was designed that way, built not only to outmatch opposing fighters but also to overcome any numerical advantages the enemy may have. At full capability, simulations show kill ratios of ten-to-one, if not more. In addition, it can match speed with the fastest ships in the Antaere fleet and carries enough armament for a single 308 to take out an enemy class-three battle cruiser. Operating in squadrons, even the big carriers are vulnerable. Also, the effective operational range is out to five light-years before requiring refueling. There are currently five hundred thirteen units in the fleet, as part of the carrier task force, even though they can also be flown from cruisers and transport platforms. They’re flown by a two-person crew; a pilot and an R.I.O.” Perry looked to Zac and shrugged, not knowing how much more he should say.
“The drawback with the 308 is full capability,” said the Army officer, Jack Travis.
“Why is that a drawback, sir?” asked Angus Price.
“It’s the pilots,” Perry answered for Travis. “We aren’t capable of surviving at full capability.”
Angus buried his chin in his chest. “And why the hell not … sir? Why build a spacecraft that no one can fly?”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?” Perry asked General Cross. The senior officer nodded. “Quite frankly, the 308 is a great warship—the best—but it’s as if an engineer and a computer geek hooked up and had a baby. During planning, they asked what features would have to be included in a starfighter to make it the most advanced spaceship ever designed, one that would run rings around anything the Antaere have. After years of trial and error, they came up with the M-308. And lo and behold, the ship performed just as expected, even beyond expectations in many ways. It was faster, more maneuverable and more powerful than anything in existence, and with the most reactive controls ever created. And in combat trials, it blew away anything sent against it. The 308 is a sea change in military technology and the answer to all our prayers. The only problem; when the engineers and computer programmers were done, only an AI could fly the spacecraft. Weak-bodied and slow reacting Humans weren’t capable of surviving the stresses involved or operating the craft at full spec. At first, no one thought that was a problem, not with the advances in AI tech. But then a few were put into actual combat operations on Menkar and in other trial situations. Almost immediately, the damn Antaere found workarounds, flooding the tactical AI with thousands of combat scenarios per second, confusing the computer and sending the ships off on wild goose chases. Every ship placed in combat was summarily blown out of the sky.
“Now don’t get me wrong, the 308 is still a magnificent war machine, the best I’ve ever flown. But only flesh-and-blood pilots can operate them in real combat situations, and that greatly reduces their effectiveness. As operated today, they’re a very expensive, slightly more advanced fighter, and not much better than the Bandits or 940s. However, if they could be flown at full spec, each 308 is comparable to ten to fifteen Antaere Glorybats, their most-advanced fighter. And as I mentioned earlier, 308s can take on any of the larger warships in the Antaere fleet, and at only a hundredth the size.” Perry looked at Zac and sighed. “I see why Captain Murphy became excited when he learned we had
a fighter that—theoretically—could blow the wings off anything in the coming fight. But the 308 just isn’t a practical spacecraft, not for what he has in mind.”
Zac wasn’t deterred by Perry’s presentation; rather, a thin, wry smile remained painted on his face. “So, in summary, it’s not the ship that’s the problem; it’s the pilots.”
The Air Force officer recoiled slightly. “I wouldn’t term the pilots as being a problem,” Perry said defensively. “The ship was designed beyond our ability to fly it at peak capacity. That’s not our fault. We didn’t design the damn thing.”
General Cross was shaking his head. “I think I know where this is going. I believe Captain Murphy is suggesting that the 308 could be operated at full spec if there was a quicker, more resilient pilot at the controls. Someone like a REV.”
“Is that even possible?” Perry asked. The concept wasn’t new to him; he’d been the first to mention it during the flight from D.C.
“I can’t see that happening,” Joanie chimed in. “And for a variety of reasons.”
Cross nodded. “Why don’t you outline those for us, Sergeant?” His face was impassive, unmoved by the idea. “You have the most experience running operational REVs.”
“Thank you, sir.” Joanie looked directly at Zac. “First of all, once activated, REVs don’t retain high motor skills or other such training. All they do is become susceptible to overseer commands, and only the most basic. Besides, even if they could pilot spaceships, it’s never been possible to run REVs at distance. We need an instantaneous and continuous link with the REV to pass along commands. Space operations have never been possible because of the lag-time in communications, as well as the possibility of interference and jamming. And besides that, the Controllers themselves would have to be skilled pilots for the commands to have any effect. And then we have the issue of Twilighting and recovery of the pilots. That would have to be done before they burnout to keep from making each sortie a one-way ticket.”
“And even if all that could be overcome,” an Air Force colonel began, “it takes literally years to train a combat pilot in a 308. They’re the most sophisticated weapon in our arsenal, and only Top Guns are capable of flying them. So, even if REVs could be trained as pilots—and it doesn’t sound as if they can—we don’t have the time before the Antaere attack. In fact, this whole discussion is a waste of time, in my opinion.” He looked to General Cross for confirmation, hoping he’d put an end to this folly.
“I’m afraid they’re right, captain,” Cross said. “There’s never been any evidence that REVs retain prior skills while activated. And the time crunch we’re facing makes this conversation a non-starter.”
“Excuse me sir, but how do we know that for sure?” Zac asked.
“Know what? That they don’t retain prior skills or about the time?”
“The skills.”
Cross huffed. “You—better than most—should know that’s true. You’ve been on more Runs than anyone.”
“Sir, most candidates come into the REV program straight out of high school and with no advanced skills to speak of. Until now, that’s been fine, considering the missions assigned to us. Our enhanced strength, senses and reaction time tend to make us experts at such things as hand-to-hand combat and marksmanship, among others. We Run, because that’s what we’ve been asked to do. Even so, we once trained constantly with our weapons packages as NT-4s, and the AC-3s do the same today with their weapons arsenal. Isn’t that right, Sergeant Hollis? Why do that if we don’t retain any of those skills?”
“Yes, they do drill, but that’s simply to develop muscle memory and instinct. That’s nothing compared to piloting a state-of-the-art spacecraft.”
“Then let me ask you this: Have you ever noticed any difference between a REV who came into the program already knowing how to shoot—for instance—compared to one who’s never handled a firearm before?”
Joanie thought for a moment, shaking her head before answering. “I can’t say I have. But to be fair, we never looked for that. At the level of efficiency between a REV and a normal soldier, the difference is so stark that we never paid any attention as to whether or not one REV was better than another. We just compared them to standard troops. And we never ask the REVs to do much beyond the basic mission.”
“And speaking of that, when Running a REV—an AC-3—you don’t have to tell them how to do everything, do you? You don’t have to tell them how to move, how to aim or how to trigger their weapons. They even have rudimentary situational awareness from what I understand.”
Joanie snorted. “Rudimentary; hardly. They have exceptional battlefield awareness. Their heightened senses and reaction time give them that.”
“And they use this latent awareness to survive in combat? That ability—that memory—had to come from somewhere.”
“I guess so.”
“So, some natural abilities are retained, and even used in real-time situations. How do we know it wouldn’t be the same for a REV pilot?”
“It’s not the same,” Joanie said. “You said it yourself. Those are natural abilities, not learned.”
Cross waved his hand. “Captain Murphy, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but beyond all this, I think you’re missing the point,” The general said, his tone impatient. “Even if what you say is true about retained skills—and there’s no hard evidence to support your position—we don’t have the time to train several hundred REV pilots.”
Zac’s eyes were aglow with an internal excitement, appearing almost manic in their intensity. To those around the table, it was as if he hadn’t heard a word the others had said, lost instead in his own wild fantasy. Now he grinned even wider. “Sir, you’re correct; however, I believe you’re missing my point. We don’t have to train REVs to be pilots. What we have to do is train pilots to be REVs.”
Zac was relieved when a blank stare washed over the general’s face. Cross began to tap the table with his fingers, his eyes steady, his mind suddenly lost in thought. “Now, that’s an interesting proposal.”
Mark Perry cleared his throat for attention. “Eh, excuse me, sir, but is that even possible?”
Zac took the initiative, carried along by his enthusiasm. “It could be—with AC-3. That particular Rev formula is less intrusive on the body than NT-4. That means a candidate could retain more past skills, while not having the drug overwhelm them in a mix of exploding emotion. That’s not how AC-3 works.”
“But isn’t it dangerous? Only certain people make it into the program. Most don’t.”
Zac smirked. “Major, 308 pilots are the cream of the crop, Top Guns, as Colonel Travis said. I’m sure you wouldn’t have any problem passing the screening.”
“But aren’t there other … side-effects?”
“You mean the addiction, Major Perry?” Cross asked. “There’s no getting around that. The reason Rev is so effective is because it enhances and stimulates bodily functions to an extreme degree. That comes at a cost. Addiction results from the fact that a small residual amount of the drug must be retained at all times to sustain the body between activations, and if it isn’t periodically replenished, the system will burn itself out. Unfortunately, a person becomes addicted to Rev with the very first dose and will require maintenance boosts for the rest of their life.”
“Sir, we don’t even know if this will work,” Joanie protested. “As everyone has said, there’s no proof of retained skills, so this is all just speculation. I don’t think we need to build our hopes around something that’s completely hypothetical.”
“You’re right, Joanie,” Zac agreed, reverting to her first name in the heat of his passionate argument. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do some tests … just in case. And we just happen to have a trained 308 pilot with us, along with his spacecraft.”
All eyes shifted to Major Perry. He slowly scanned the faces of the people around the table, looking to see if they were playing some elaborate joke on him. To the contrary, the expressions ran the gamut.
Some were morose, others anxious, almost excited.
After a moment, Perry blew out a deep breath while shaking his head. “General, you’ll have to shoot me up with this drug to do the testing, won’t you?”
Cross nodded.
“And that means I’ll be hooked on Rev from then on?”
Again, Cross agreed.
“Will it hurt?”
Angus laughed. “On the contrary, mate, becoming a superman is quite the rush. You’ll love it … at first.”
Perry smirked and looked back at Dr. Cross. “So, a lifetime of addiction, whether this works or not?” He sighed deeply. “Well, the way I see it if we can’t stop the Antaere from reaching Earth, my remaining lifespan is something like ninety days, so no great loss there. And if this does work—and you can turn me into some kind of super-pilot who will help save the Human race from extinction—then I think it’s worth the risk.”
“The odds are definitely against it working, sir,” Joanie stated, not giving up on her argument. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
“I realize that, sergeant. But we all have to do our part. I’m willing to give it a go. I just hope you don’t screw up my memory with your Rev drug, so I won’t be able to go out with the rest of my squadron when the time comes.”
Zac looked to David Cross. “So, sir, is it a go?”
Cross shrugged. “Seeing that all of our lifespans are now measured in days, rather than years, I don’t see that we have an option. It should be a simple process to test your theory, so we don’t have to drag this out for long. And if it works, we just may have a way to shock the hell out of the Antaere and come out of this in one piece. Yes, Captain Murphy … it’s a go. Now let’s see if we can make a bunch of super-pilots for our super-starfighters.”
3
After the meeting broke up, Zac was anxious to speak with Joanie. His time in the hospital in D.C. gave him time to think, and the feisty blonde tech sergeant played a leading role in his fantasies.
