Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  “Congratulations, Malcolm,” says Patton.

  Evans shoves the half-full bottle back at me. “Congrats. You won’t let it go to your head, will you? No, you won’t. Will you?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “If the Director gave you a thicker shield, he must think you need it. He knows things, Malcolm. Not that you haven’t earned it – you have – but it, well –”

  “Yeah, it occurred to me as well.”

  She smiles. “We’ve already rattled the right cages, haven’t we?”

  CHAPTER 15

  An alien landscape in every shade of green surrounds us and our target. Seen through the night vision on my spectra goggles, the darkened cottage huddles within a mist-shrouded hollow some fifty meters away, wild grasses and scrub covering the gradual slope down to its porch. On all sides, the trunks and branches of conifers and sweetgums form a dark latticework, the spaces between a shifting montage of pale green foliage and dark sky. The susurrus of the tree canopy rises and falls with the scent of salt from the breeze off Chesapeake Bay, cold and remote.

  Krayge must have chosen this place for its isolation – the nearest neighbor is at the edge of shouting distance. With the trees stirring and crickets chirping, it’d need to be a good shout. No line of sight to any other dwellings, either, despite the cedar-shingled cabin being elevated above the damp loam by thick posts. Only one way in, too, a muddy road wending down to a detached, open-sided carport, an old four-by-four parked beneath it. With the overgrowth and lack of tire tracks, it’s sat there for months. Whether truly abandoned or meant to appear that way, this’s just the sort of place a former operator turned asshole would lay low.

  That also makes it a dangerous place for uninvited guests like us. Krayge doesn’t need to be present to kill us here.

  Anything? I thoughtspeak.

  Negative, replies Patton, circling on overwatch about two-hundred meters above, close enough to scan for electronic and heat signatures but far enough that the sound of his lift fan might not be heard. However, at this range, my scanners may not detect passive signals.

  Meaning stationary cameras and motion detectors. We already found and looped two cameras that were aimed at the road. Or old-school traps – leg catchers, snares, and the like – assuming Krayge would resort to those. Being ex-spec ops, he might. I’m surprised we haven’t found any mines or IEDs. Yet.

  Feeling a touch on my shoulder, I glance over to see Evans hold up a gloved palm and lever it toward the cabin. Dressed down as I am in dark-colored street clothes and a DRR long coat, head concealed by a balaclava, it’d be hard to spot her without gear like ours. If someone is here, though, there’s been no sign. We’ve already made a full pass around the place, weaving in and out among the trunks and scrub, seeing nothing to indicate anyone’s home. Still, I hold up a fist and shake my head at her, not yet ready to commit to an approach.

  “There’s nobody home,” she whispers.

  “Maybe.” But my instincts scream that the place is booby-trapped. We’ll have to risk an approach at some point, though. We? No, just me. And Patton, of course. If the place goes up in flames, better she not be in on that. “Alright, time to switch out with Patton. Go grab your gear and find a good spot.”

  “Keep your comm line open.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She twists away, stalking back up the gradual rise toward where our sedan is parked.

  Much of the Delmarva Peninsula is like this, a backwoods of small forests and salt marsh riddled with secluded dwellings. The portion of it where we’ve come to call is like something out of the colonial past, a dark hinterland of secluded farmsteads connected by lonely roads crossing black rivers. That such a large rural backwater exists less than two hour’s drive from DC is due to the region’s value. Without it, the Capital might have starved during the nuclear winter. The fishermen and farmers here get cut a lot of slack by the bureaucrats in DC, public surveillance systems being almost non-existent, perfect for people who value their privacy.

  And good for us, too – even late at night, attempting this in a populated area without better gear and ops support would be tricky. Well, trickier.

  Patton, I thoughtspeak, move in close and scan for everything.

  Understood.

  Screened by foliage, I watch as Patton descends to conduct a close-in sweep of the place, a rectangular single-story of timber frame and thick wooden planks. He stops before the covered patio, searchlight activating to reveal a deadbolted front door and the exterior shutters over its flanking windows. A single chair occupies the deck. From there, Patton hovers down one side, sweeping lights and sensors over more shuttered windows. He maneuvers around back where a rear door leads to a standalone tool shed.

  “Tactical drone detected,” transmits Patton.

  The tool shed bursts outwards, the walls spinning away. From the wreckage, a V-shaped drone ascends into the tree canopy, the flare from its thruster almost blinding me. Pushing my goggles up, I pull my pistol and sight in, but the drone is already behind tree cover, banking laterally as it exchanges streaks of traced rail fire with Patton.

  “Can you handle it?” I shout.

  “Affirmative, Redeemer,” he transmits, composed as ever. “However, your assistance will minimize the probability –”

  “Copy that,” I interrupt. “Kari, what’s your status?”

  “Moving into position now!” she transmits, sounding like she’s on the run.

  I continue to sight in, waiting for a shot, but Patton may have to fight this one on his own. He’s already joined the enemy drone among the tree canopy, the concealment benefiting both. Storming fire at each other, they dodge and weave, targeting versus evasion subroutines, filling the wooded hollow with the strobing thunder of their rail racks and the searing whine of their propulsion. Throughout the hollow, their fire shreds the tree cover, shorn branches and foliage raining to the dark loam below.

  The tactical drone appears to be a VX-series like the ones Enforcement uses, though given how it’s holding its own, it must be upgraded. Why hasn’t it gained more elevation? Fighting among the tree canopy limits its options. It also limits Patton’s. Ah…

  “It’s been optimized for this environment!” I shout.

  “Affirmative, Redeemer,” transmits Patton. “So long as the battleground is confined to this locale, its evasion subroutines are superior to my own.”

  The enemy drone does seem to be bopping and weaving among the trees with a sliver more agility than Patton, enough to compensate for his superior targeting subroutines. We need to give him an edge to finish this, but if Patton can’t hit it, Evans and I won’t have much luck. What, then? As I watch, Patton tries a missile, but the tactical drone shoots it down. Why is it even here? Then the obvious hits me: It’s guarding the cabin.

  “I’m moving on the cabin!” I shout, jumping up and hustling toward it through the undergrowth. “I’m the rabbit, don’t make me regret it!”

  One eye on the ground ahead and the other on the tree canopy, I hustle forward on a surge of adrenaline. It’s only fifty meters to reach it, but that’s an eternity with a hostile tactical in the vicinity. Switching to flare rounds, I fire a few shots into my path to light the way with a final shot at the cabin, illuminating its front porch in actinic red. The tactical drone converges on me from the trees beyond it, banking nimbly among the branches while dodging Patton’s fire. Seeing it about to perforate me, I dive and roll to the side. The ratchet of its coil assemblies presages the thwack of rounds pocking the earth. I clamber up with my back to a tree trunk as more rounds pock into it from the other side.

  “Firing,” transmits Evans. The crack of her DMR sounds three times in rapid succession.

  The roaring thunder of Patton’s rail racks fills the hollow, followed by the searing whoosh of another missile launch.

  The enemy drone surges past about ten meters overhead, its airframe sparking and flight profile wobbly. Then a missile nails it from behind, prope
lling it forward to fireball through a group of trees before slamming into the earth.

  Enemy drone neutralized, says Patton as Evans transmits, “Target down.”

  “I can see that.” Stepping out from around the tree, its trunk riddled with holes, I march toward the cabin. “Good work, but we made enough noise to wake the county. Patton, any other readings I should know about?”

  “Negative, but I do not advise proceeding inside without –”

  “We’ve no time,” I interrupt, “emergency responders will be on their way. Kari, hold position. Patton, monitor their channels.”

  I raise an arm against dead leaves and debris scattered by Patton’s lift fan as he sets down between me and the cabin. First Redeemer, I advise against this course of action.

  “More shielding?”

  “Affirmative. The shed was shielded to prevent the VX-33’s detection until its activation. There are portions of the structure’s interior that my sensors also cannot penetrate. Another drone unit or explosive countermeasures may be concealed within.”

  “Noted.” I nod at the cabin. “Blow the door.”

  Patton lifts off, rotates in place, and fires a precise series of coil shots to blow the door’s lock and hinges off. The door falls inward. I move around him and step up to the porch as he engages his floodlights to bathe the cabin’s interior in argent illumination.

  Entering the cabin, pistol readied, my shadow precedes me. I shoot out the single camera in the living room – no time to loop it. A table, leather chairs, bookshelves, an entertainment center: all have a thin layer of dust. Spider webs crisscross in the air. Nobody’s been here in a while. If there was more time, I’d go through the bookshelves – a lot of military fiction and history there. Instead, I continue past, being careful not to step on any of the rugs.

  “Cut the lights,” I say, and darkness returns.

  Pulling the spectra goggles on, I activate thermographic imaging. Shielding technologies can defeat most scanners, but only without line of sight. My own thermographics should detect things Patton’s scanners can’t from outside. Sure enough, an electric eyebeam crosses a foot above the floor. I step over it, passing into the central corridor bisecting the cabin’s back half.

  “Redeemer,” transmits Patton, “emergency responders are on their way. Police bands are advising a code three response for a shots-fired scenario. ETA six minutes.”

  “Copy that.” Bloody hell. I was hoping for more time.

  I pass by an opening to a small kitchen – let’s hope Krayge’s not the sort to hide things in his freezer. The doors to a bathroom and guest room are both open, nothing special there. I duck down beneath another eyebeam, this one at waist height, to reach the final two doors, both closed. Growling, I yank the goggles up and activate the pistol’s weapon light, no time left for subtlety and caution. I step up and turn the knob on the first door. It’s unlocked, so I push it in.

  His bedroom. Vacant, of course. A bed, nightstand, chair, dresser, closet, and bookshelf. No personal effects, though, no pictures or framed awards on the wall, nothing to tell who lives here. Strange, that. No, wait, there, stuck to the mirror above the dresser, a bunch of three-by-fives – I’ll come back for those after I clear the place. Turning to try the other door, it’s locked. Bingo. I activate armor-piercing rounds and put one through the lock.

  When I push the door in, the sound of a fan spinning up comes from within.

  The weapon light reveals a study with a desk and shelves against the opposite wall. No fan on the desk, though, its surface cluttered with magazines, tools, cleaning kits… and a laptop parked on a stack of books. Military-grade. The unseen fan spins faster, the hum becoming a whir. That’s no office or ceiling fan. Another drone? If so, it’s too quiet for a sentry, maybe a spy drone of some sort, waiting for me to give it a smile. So be it: I’ll be wanting that laptop.

  I step in and pivot right, pistol out.

  Fuck me.

  Hovering not five feet in front of me is a black sphere fitted with fins. Glowing red sensors pulse to life as my eyes go wide. An activated detonation drone. And my death.

  I spin around and vault across the hallway into the bedroom, banging the door shut behind me. The angry buzz beyond it means the drone tried to follow but couldn’t. MOVE! I launch myself toward the bedroom window, snatching at the photos above the dresser along the way. I hit the glass with my shoulder just as the world explodes behind me.

  A hot force sends me flying, dark forest and gouts of flame spinning around me. On instinct, I cover my face and bring my knees in before hitting the ground, tumbling and rolling through the scrub brush and tall grass that cushion my landing. A tree trunk stops me, my back fetched up against it. Lowering my gloved hands, smoke tendrils wafting off them, I gulp air and see the cabin I was just in reduced to burning wreckage scattered across the hollow’s floor. What remains of the structure – portions of walls and the foundation – burns furiously.

  “Shit,” I mumble between gasps for air, “shit, shit, shit.” If I’d been half a second slower…

  “Malcolm!” I hear shouted through the comm. “Malcolm! Are you alright?”

  “Malcolm, you have injuries requiring medical attention,” says Patton, setting down beside me. A hatch on his undercarriage opens and an articulated metal arm extends, holding an injector of some type. Before I can resist, he hits me in the neck with it.

  “Uhh!” I get out. “What the…” My heart races even more. Andronisol. My doing – I gave it to him after LA. My head begins to clear up at once, while the dull pains threatening to turn into sharp ones change their minds. With only minor tremoring in my lower back, I manage to get to my feet. Nothing seems broken. “Thanks.”

  “Are you all right?” says Evans, tearing up to me and stopping to put a hand on my arm and peer into my eyes.

  “Yeah, sure,” I lie. A chuckle slips out. “You?” Then a laugh. I can’t help it. God, even with the andronisol, it hurts all over. That was too close.

  I start to check for burns and note my hands are still full. Holstering my SWAT pistol, I smooth the crumpled picture in my hand. It’s scorched around the edges, and the crumpling doesn’t help, but in the reflected light of the fires around us, I can make out Krayge posing with two other men, all in army green. One of the others is Muirland, the one found in the stolen enforcer hard suit at the ambush site. He and Krayge both have personal insignia and ranger patches on their uniforms. The third, in unmarked camos, I don’t recognize.

  “We need to go,” says Evans, her face full of concern for the demented madman laughing after getting blown out the side of a building. “The police are almost here.”

  Sure enough, sirens sound in the distance.

  “Alright, let’s go.”

  Patton ascends as Evans assists me up the slope and beyond to where our car is parked. Not that she needs to – my legs work alright – but I have the distinct impression that without her guidance, I’d likely just stand there until the police came to arrest me. Even with the andronisol, my head is muddled. Feels like I’m walking underwater. As for burns, my body feels fine – the DRR long coat is woven with ballistic and flame-retardant fibers – but my head got a bit cooked. I’ll need a mirror to confirm how bad.

  “Looks like you get to drive,” I tell her when we get to the car.

  We pass a parade of police and paramedic vehicles when we pull onto the two-lane road leading away. Any slower, and they’d have met us on the muddy access road instead. Our luck, such as it is, has held.

  “What were you thinking?” grits Evans, throttling the wheel as she guns the engine.

  “Hmm?” Lowering the visor, I activate the light and check myself out in the mirror. Yeah, some first and second-degree burns, looks like. Eyebrows singed, too. And my stubble is uneven, some of it burnt away. I look like something Hell coughed up.

  “Malcolm?”

  “What?”

  We lock eyes and she starts laughing. At me, no doubt. Yeah, I d
eserve it.

  Another successful mission.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Malcolm. Malcolm! You’ve got a call.” Blinking my eyes open reveals Evans standing over me, holding out a phone. “Time to talk to Cato.” She slaps it into my hand and then stalks out of the room in her camo pajamas.

  Sighing, I push the blanket off and sit up. She has a comfortable couch. Peering at the clock on her entertainment center and noting the light streaming in around the closed blinds, I’ve been out for the last eight hours. Stifling a yawn, I poke at my face – still tender, though the dermal regenerator and burn cream she used last night helped.

  Putting the phone to my ear, I croak out, “Hello?”

  “Malcolm,” says Cato. “I’ve been trying to reach you. Good thing I knew you’d take Kari with you to check out that lead we talked about. You’re shacked up with her, then? You do realize you’re almost old enough to be –”

  “Master Tech,” I snap. Deep sigh. I need a strong cup of coffee before dealing with this. “I was in no shape to go home last night, that’s all. What do you have for me?”

  “Oh, nothing much, just some intel on a certain someone you’re keen to meet.”

  Groaning at a quick throb of migraine pain, I clutch at my head. Ouch, bad idea. I’ll have to get Kari to use that dermal regenerator on me again. An ER would have taken care of it, but that wasn’t an option for obvious reasons. She insisted we stick together after our mission last night, offering her apartment up for the job. A good plan since mine is being watched. Hers might be, too, but the attached garage meant she could smuggle me in without detection.

  “Malcolm?” says Cato. “Are you there?”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re encrypting this call, right?”

  “I was no’ born in a barn! Anyway, our, uhmm, friend has just made a reappearance on the national ID registry. His ID started transmitting this morning.”

  Within a day of our raid. Coincidence? No bloody way.

  “Anything on that picture scan I sent over?”