Chameleon

by E. R. Torre

  “Take a look at this,” General Spradlin said.

  Becky leaned down next to Spradlin. The corpse lying on his stomach before them appeared to be like the others, with one big exception. The corpse’s shirt was ripped and, instead of skin, his chest was made of shiny silver.

  “What the hell?” Becky muttered.

  “It’s quite heavy,” General Spradlin said. “Help me turn it over.” He reached down and paused. “If it moves, even a little bit, run. Fast.”

  Becky nodded. The two grabbed the corpse’s side and, with a mighty thrust, turned the body over.

  When they did, they both jumped back. Instead of a bloody face, the corpse sported a grinning, shiny metal skull. The creature’s hands were filled with gore. Bullet holes littered the creature’s midsection. All those things were quickly ignored. In the center of its chest, protruding like a mighty sword, was a black blade!

  Spradlin let out a sigh of relief. Becky stared at the weapon, the expression on her face muted. Only seconds before, she wanted so desperately to find this weapon and here it was.

  “It came from the old man,” Becky muttered.

  “What?” General Spradlin said.

  “The blade. It came from the old man.”

  “Which old man?”

  “Back there,” Becky said and pointed to the corpse in the white lab coat.

  General Spradlin looked over and saw the man she was pointing at. From this distance, his lab coat was even more evident.

  “He’s dead,” she said. “Just like the others.”

  General Spradlin’s eyes remained on the old man. Sadness appeared just below the surface of his face.

  “You knew him, didn’t you?” Becky said.

  “Yeah,” Spradlin said. His one word response hinted at a very long history. Longer, perhaps, than the one he had with Alan Robinson.

  “He went down fighting,” Becky said. “He had a holster. I’m guessing this blade was his.”

  “It was,” General Spradlin said. His attention returned to the creature. “Killing this…thing…might have been his very last act.”

  General Spradlin grabbed the blade by the handle. He pulled at it, hard, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Let me help,” Becky said.

  General Spradlin paused. Surprisingly, a smile appeared on his face.

  “Sometimes I forget I’m not alone,” General Spradlin said.

  “No one is ever alone.”

  “So says one of the most independent soldiers stationed on this island.”

  “I may keep to myself, but I’m here to help.”

  General Spradlin nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  Together, they pulled at the blade’s handle. They gritted their teeth and used all their strength. After much effort, the blade shifted ever so slightly before sliding out of the creature’s chest. Both General Spradlin and Becky Waters stumbled backwards.

  “Damn,” Becky muttered. She released the handle of the blade and allowed General Spradlin to examine it. The blade was smaller than the one either General Spradlin or Doctor Evans carried, but made of the same black ceramic-like material. It appeared intact. Neither the blade nor the creature had crumbled to ash.

  “This thing is different from the one we killed back in the jungle,” Becky said.

  “It's a robot,” Spradlin said. He shook his head. “I suppose when you come down to it, they’re all robots. But the thing we encountered in the forest, that’s a true chameleon. They’re the...primary...creatures. They’ve been known to create these clunkier units to aid them in whatever tasks they’re up to. Near as we’ve been able to tell, they function primarily as servants to their masters. As such, they’re far simpler in design and capacity.”

  Spradlin closely examined the blade.

  “They’re also much easier to kill, even with standard weapons. The blade does the trick, too.”

  Spradlin touched the blade’s surface with his free hand.

  “As you’ve guessed by now, several of my people were stationed here, working at Bad Penny,” he continued. “Given the unique threat we’re facing, trusting your fellow man or woman is not the…easiest thing to do.”

  General Spradlin let those words die in the still air. He leaned in close to Becky.

  “You've used the blade already, and that makes you more special than you know,” he whispered. “The chameleons act like humans in many ways, but they have never –ever– destroyed one of their own. That’s why I know of everyone here, you’re the one I can trust, Private Waters.”

  The blade was at his side, hidden from view. He handed it to Becky.

  “Take it,” he said. “Hide it. Keep it to yourself, just in case.”

  Becky felt a pang of guilt.

  “You’re sure about this?” Becky whispered.

  General Spradlin smiled.

  “In this line of work, I’m never sure about anything,” he said. “Remember, the creatures are chameleons. They can substitute themselves for anyone in this group. Anyone.”

  Becky Waters felt a chill pass through her body.

  “Do you mean?!”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” General Spradlin said.

  Becky slowly nodded. She took the blade and hid it at her side and under her shirt.

  “When are you going to tell us what we’re dealing with?”

  General Spradlin wiped the sweat from his forehead. Instead of answering Becky’s question, he motioned her to follow him. The two walked to Samantha’s side.

  “I'm sorry for your loss, Captain,” he said. “But we have to move on.”

  Samantha released Warren’s hand. Reluctantly, she rose to her feet.

  “Thank you, sir,” Samantha said.

  “For what?”

  “For giving me a chance to…to say goodbye.”

  General Spradlin laid a hand on Samantha’s shoulder.

  “Let's get back to the group,” he said. “It's time I explained everything.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  It took them a half hour to barricade the doors leading into the mess hall. They placed tables, chairs, and whatever other heavy furniture available against those doors until they were sealed tight. The mess hall windows were too high off the ground to effectively barricade but, fortunately, they were framed with metal security bars.

  General Spradlin examined these bars as wearily as he did the barricades. The others knew what he was thinking. If any of those creatures attacked, the barricades would hold them off, at most, only a few minutes. Worse, they might hinder their group should they need to make a quick escape.

  By the time they were done with their work, the morning sun fully illuminated the interior of the Mess Hall. Waves of heat radiated from outside and there would be no air conditioner relief. The place was turning into an oven. By midday, if they survived that long, the mess hall would be unbearable.

  After setting up the barricades, the group rested. General Spradlin’s mood, they noticed, grew progressively darker. Becky worried the carnage in the kitchen had shaken the General. Though he was familiar with these creatures, perhaps only now he realized the odds of their survival was very slim.

  When their work was done, the group huddled in the mess hall’s southern corner. Samantha, Jennie, and Becky took turns peering through the windows and searching for any sign of outside movement. Doctor Evans continued to attend to Frank, while General Spradlin sat next to the injured pilot. After several long minutes of silence, the General spoke.

  “You're a good soldier, Frank. I'm sorry I got you into this.”

  The hours since the crash had weakened the co-pilot. His features were very pale. Despite this, he grinned.

  “T...thank you sir.”

  Spradlin lowered his head. His hands slipped to his side.

  “I appreciate the patience you've shown up to now,” General Spradlin continued, this time addressing the entire group. “You're owed an explanation for what is going on, and its time you got
it. First thing's first. We were not shot down.”

  General Spradlin paused to examine his audience’s reaction to those words.

  “By the lack of surprise on your faces, I’ll assume you figured this out on your own. On Tortuga, I ordered Captain Masters to plant an explosive device near the helicopter's tail. It was designed to damage but not destroy, the craft. Truth to tell, it was my intention all along to land in that clearing and walk to Bad Penny.”

  Frank Masters squirmed in the stretcher.

  “I'm...sorry,” he whispered to the others.

  “There is no need for you to apologize, Captain,” Spradlin said. “You were following orders. Your actions were entirely my responsibility.”

  General Spradlin let out a sigh.

  “I'm sure you're wondering why I chose to engage in such a reckless action,” he continued. “The answer, by now, should be obvious: Had we landed at Bad Penny, those things would have attacked us. We’d have flown right into a massacre and our bodies would have joined the others. Now I know you all have questions and I know you want answers. Now’s the time to give them to you.”

  General Spradlin paused and collected his thoughts.

  “I said this before and I’ll say it again: The information I'm giving you is classified. Apart from the President of the United States, my group, and I, there are only twelve other people in the entire world who know what I'm about to tell you. The things that attacked us, that massacred the soldiers of Bad Penny, we’ve known about them for quite some time. We call them Automated Chameleon Units, or ACUs. As you’ve seen, they have the ability to change their shape, skin color, and voice to approximate anyone they come in close contact with. The units require time to adequately perform these actions and this skill is far from perfect. You can tell you’re dealing with an ACU because their skin almost always has a plastic sheen. To put it bluntly, it’s a little too perfect. Of course, by the time you realize this, it’s too late. There are other ways to tell the difference between them and us, but those methods aren’t as practical. X-Rays, CAT scans, or MRIs will reveal them, but try to get one of those things to sit down to take any of those scans. Other ways of telling the differences involve long term contact and careful observation. The ACU’s do not need food or drink. They do not require air to breath, and they don’t sweat or smell like humans.”

  “So they are robots?” Jennie asked.

  “Not entirely. They're hybrids. Their skin, despite the plastic sheen, is indeed organic. It stretches and twists and conforms to whatever it is the creature is trying to replicate. It’s like a living, breathing costume draped over the machinery that makes up their inner workings. And this is the best part: Not only can this layer of organic skin replicate the look of another person, if the creature spends enough time with the subject it is emulating, the skin can be altered to replicate the individual's DNA.”

  Once again General Spradlin paused. The group was dead silent as the implication of this revelation sank in.

  “In our modern society we use machines both large and small,” Spradlin continued. “We’ve got aircraft carriers, cars, refrigerators, televisions, you name it. In most machines, there are essential as well as non-essential components. If you were to remove a car’s lighter, lights, seats, and stereo, it would still function. If, however, you were to slice this same vehicle in half, right down the middle, it becomes a useless piece of metal. In the case of the chameleons, their internal mechanisms operate…differently. You cut them in half or into thirds and, if the pieces are close enough and they’re given a little time, they will repair and reintegrate themselves into what they were before.”

  Skeptical stares were directed at General Spradlin.

  “Have you heard of nanotechnology?” he said. “No? It’s a relatively new field of science. Just about everything society has created can, over time, be made smaller. In some cases, like with cell phones and computers, this is highly desired. Nanotechnology involves the control of matter on a microscopic scale. We’ve already managed some strides in that area. You’ve probably seen images of tiny needles poking into cells. This was just the start. For years, the scientific community has researched how to go about working with objects on a cellular level. To that end, they have theorized about the possibility of creating nano-robots. As the name implies, these robots would be so small that the only way to see them is through a microscope. Their use, particularly in the field of medicine, could be tremendously beneficial.”

  “How?” Jennie Light asked.

  “With the aid of nano-robots, there might come a day in the future when invasive and therefore potentially dangerous surgeries become a thing of the past,” Doctor Evans said. “In this future, a Doctor who discovers their patient has, say, a congenital heart defect or a cancerous tumor could inject a swarm of pre-programmed nano-robots into the patient’s blood stream. These machines then swim through the patient and eventually reach the tumor or heart defect. Once there, the robots can do anything they were programmed for. They could dissolve blockages or burn and cut tumors apart. All within the confines of the patient’s body and all done without cutting our patient open.”

  “But, like most technologies, there are other far less benevolent uses,” General Spradlin said. “What if, instead of creating a nano-robot that attacks a tumor, it is instead programmed to block an artery?”

  “Microscopic assassins?” Samantha said.

  “Why stop there?” Doctor Evans added.

  “Exactly. If you can create nano-robots that swim through a person’s body, why not create nano-robots capable of infiltrating and sabotaging equipment? And why stop there? You could create a nano-robot capable of swimming through telephone or electrical lines, one that could infiltrate buildings or computer hard drives for the purpose of spying on unfriendly governments or businesses. You could disable vehicles, from cars to aircraft to nuclear missiles. The possibilities are truly endless. Which brings us back to the chameleons. As I said before, their outer layer consists of organic flesh. Underneath their skin is no single machine. Within their husk are several hundreds of millions of these very small individual robots. Though not quite microscopic in size, they are no larger than a flea. Near as we’ve been able to tell, they function individually and as a whole.”

  General Spradlin addressed Becky.

  “That’s why I knew the creature you shot was disabled but not dead,” he said. “You likely destroyed many thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands of the smaller units within the creature’s body with each shot, but many, many times more than that survived. Give them a little time and the surviving robots will repair and rebuild their destroyed members. Humpty Dumpty will put itself back together again.”

  “And the black knives—?”

  “Once inserted into the body of a chameleon, the blade triggers an electrical overload that fries every last one of those tiny robots. Now, the blades aren’t the only way to kill a chameleon. You could blow them to bits with high explosives and spread those individual robots so far they cannot come back together. You could temporarily stop them by freezing them. You could permanently stop them by melting them down. The knife, however, is the only way a single person in a combat situation can effectively kill them.”

  “What about the black chameleon, the one that I killed? Why did it look like that?”

  “It didn’t have its organic skin membrane,” Spradlin said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps in time it grows a layer of skin. Then again, maybe it wasn’t programmed for that.”

  “Who created them?” Becky asked. “The Russians? The Japanese? The Chinese?”

  “None of the above.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

  “You’re not saying we created them?” Jennie Light asked.

  Spradlin shook his head.

  “You saw what they could do,” Spradlin said. “The way this country’s going, we’re lucky to make a stove that lasts beyond its two y
ear warranty. What country on this planet has the capacity –the ability– to create a being with that level of sophistication?”

  The group was very silent for several seconds.

  “You’re not saying they're aliens, are you?” Becky said.

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” General Spradlin replied. “These creatures, ladies and gentlemen, are the first wave of an alien invasion.”

  The group held their tongues. There was disbelief in their faces, but they could not deny the incredible things they witnessed.

  “I don’t understand,” Becky Waters said. “If we’re being invaded, why haven’t we heard about this before?”

  “The chameleons were never intended to exterminate, or even hurt, a large number of us. Not unless it can't be helped. As I said before, they’re infiltrators. They’re here to—” General Spradlin stopped and let out a soft laugh. “—they're here to sniff around our back yard, to figure out what exactly we're capable of, and then send that information back.”

  “To whom?” Samantha asked.

  “To the invasion fleet, of course.”

  The mess hall once again became very quiet.

  “You're joking,” Jennie Light said.

  “During the Second World War, we had agents throughout Europe feeding us information on everything from Nazi troop strength and movements to each country’s general mood. We had information on where tanks and aircraft were hidden. But we also knew the price of milk on the black market. This went on for years and helped us plan and implement the Normandy invasion. Our success in the European theater was as much due to brute force as it was to volumes and volumes of good intelligence.” General Spradlin looked the group over. “Are you still with me?”

  “Go on,” Samantha said.

  “Our first hands-on encounter with the ACUs can be traced back to late October, 1925. A half-crazed prospector leads his mule through the Blue Mountains, some fifty miles south of Pyramid Lake, in the state of Arizona. He was one of the last of his kind, an old-time prospector still stubbornly searching for a fortune in gold in a land picked clean of such ore years before. I won't bore you with the details, but on that day in October he made a startling find. Half buried in the sand in a ravine, he spotted what at first others thought was a ‘wooden Indian.’ A closer examination revealed that the object was not made of wood. It was metal.”