Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  Stepping past an armored personnel carrier that must have sat down here for half a century, there’s an opening in the concrete retaining wall, ahead and to my left. The shifting, bluish light of standing water emanates from it. We’ve run out of parking garage, there’s nowhere else for him to go. I step up to the opening’s edge, ready to step in…

  The crack of Evans’ marksman rifle has me spinning in place, pistol extended. A body slumps over the top of the APC, a modded SMG clattering off its ceramic-armored side and hitting the pavement below. Krayge? No, another merc, must have popped out of the hatch to nail me once I passed. Would have succeeded, too. There’s another one I owe her.

  Pivoting back to the opening, I pause and gulp air, rattled despite myself.

  Rather than step in, I lean out, pistol sweeping over another long section of dimly lit basement, this one dominated by a twenty-five-meter pool filled with clean water. Sensing motion, I jerk back into cover as a pistol cracks twice nearby, the near misses hissing by. To hell with this. I blind fire around the corner a few times, listen as it’s returned, then pull the frag grenade off my belt. Arming it, I give it a toss around the corner, hoping the acoustics haven’t misled me. The sound of it clatter-rolling over tile gets subsumed by a sharp, echoing boom as it goes off, then a splash. Stepping in, a body bobs in the pool past the dissipating debris cloud. A body dressed head to toe in form-fitting, frayed-around-the-edges black – a stealth suit. You can’t hide from shrapnel, asshole.

  More movement catches my eye, near another opening in the concrete retaining wall on the area’s far side. A figure hustles toward it, a pistol dangling from one arm, the other clasped over his midsection. Krayge.

  “Stop!” I yell, pistol trained on his back at thirty meters.

  He stops. Doesn’t turn around, though. Fair enough – I sidestep down the opposite side of the five-lane pool from him, ready and wanting to fire. He doesn’t give me the satisfaction, just stands there, head down and breath labored. Burns from the DD blast marble his head in reddish striations. Blood leaks from his forehead and spots the flannels beneath his black body armor.

  “Time for that choice again,” I say, stopping opposite him.

  He looks over, pain-scrunched black eyes still projecting their casual malice, thin lips twisted in a bitter smile.

  “Where’s Revenant?”

  “Close enough,” he says, voice edged with weariness and pain.

  “Who is he?”

  He chuckles at that before grimacing and spitting up blood.

  “Drop it.”

  He tosses the pistol to the tiled deck.

  “In position,” says Evans, back at the opening on a knee, her rifle trained on Krayge.

  I try to reach Henrikson or Hawk. Nothing but static for reply, comms still useless. Thoughtspeak, too. So, just us, then. As it should be, though I wish Patton was with us. And Worthy, to watch one of his killers pay the price.

  Never taking my eyes off Krayge, I walk the rest of the way around the pool until I’m standing five meters in front of him. His eyes follow me the whole way, likely watching for an opportunity to escape, but his posture and expression say otherwise, implying a man resigned to the inevitable. A man ready to die?

  “What’s it going to be?” I ask.

  “Do your duty, Redeemer.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” He spits up more blood. “I’m dead anyway, what does it matter? Go on – I know you want to.”

  He’s not wrong. Every shred of me, every cell in my body, every desire in my heart, urges me to kill this bastard and be done with it. This monster murdered my brothers and sister in service: Anderson, Murphy, Rollins, Hawkins, Bennett. Worthy. How many others? The eighty-eight innocent lives lost in the memorial bombing can be laid at his feet. He has to pay for that, for all of them. Whether justice or its mad cousin vengeance, the answer is the same: his death.

  But is that the only question?

  “I haven’t got all day,” he says.

  Krayge must be reckoned. But can he be redeemed? Men deserve a shot at redemption, not monsters, but perhaps he’ll choose to die as a man if given the chance.

  “Do you regret it?” I ask.

  “Care to be more specific?”

  “Casey Winters. The way it played out. Do you regret it?”

  Krayge’s face twists, rage and pain warring across it. “Just get on with it,” he growls.

  “I’m sorry about what happened. That was a shit deal for you. Something like that, you just don’t ever walk away from.”

  His eyes proclaim their owner’s damnation while probing mine for deception. There’s none to find. I’d had time to reflect, and he was right about one thing: we do have something in common. Killing his former lover crossed a line he could never step back across, but wasn’t I going to kill Rachel until she stopped me? Without her final act of mercy, I’d be lost, too. Her sacrifice made my redemption possible. Krayge never got that chance.

  His lips part to hurl defiance but then snap shut, eyes straying this way and that, conflicted. Finally, he lowers the arm held against his side, whispers: “Every damn day.”

  “What’s your group’s agenda?” I ask.

  He meets my eyes, gaze steady. Then he shrugs. “What does it matter? We’re both dead anyway.” He reaches a bloody hand up to tap the back of his neck. “It’s already too late. The plan has advanced too far to stop.”

  “The NIDs? Is that the endgame?”

  “They’re the means to get there. Some sort of new world order, that’s the propaganda they’re shoveling. Not that I cared. I know it’s shitty to say, but it was just a job.” His face betrays a long-worried regret. “One I couldn’t get away from.”

  “Who’s your boss, Revenant? Is he calling the shots?”

  “Only on the ground. He reports to the one who is.” Long pause. “You know –”

  He stops, mouth open, eyes rolling back as a shudder passes through his body. Raising both hands to clutch at his head, he screams and goes to his knees. Tears flow from his eyes, blood from his nose. I bound forward as he collapses over, cradling his spasming body while looking in his eyes for hope. There is none – with a final shudder, Krayge dies.

  “Malcolm!” shouts Evans.

  Metal dings on tile as I push the body aside. The snap of coil fire sounds nearby as the crack of Evans’ rifle echoes around me. Jumping to my feet, the grenade skips off the floor again and clatter-rolls right at me from the darkened opening ahead, a figure there lunging out of sight. I take one step and dive away, pushing for all I’m worth to evade the blast. Mid-leap, a bright flash heralds the EMP explosion, the air rippling around me. I try to stick the landing by rolling to my feet, but instead go sprawling, intense pain flaring from my left arm.

  Breathing heavy, I push myself off the deck with my right arm and go to my knees. The left feels like it’s broken again, my chest shuddering with the pain of it. Growling, I extend my pistol at the opening where the figure appeared but see no targets or movement.

  “One target,” shouts Evans, “covering to right!”

  I press the manual release on my helmet and yank it off, tossing it aside. The suit’s fried, no use for it anymore. And no more dodging about for me. I push myself to my feet, legs protesting the weight and left arm dangling useless.

  “Malcolm.” Revenant’s voice, from right around the corner.

  “I’m here,” I say, Krayge’s body at my feet. “Did you kill him?”

  “I’ll need to claim the body.”

  I take a heavy step toward the opening, pistol out. “Afraid of what we’ll find in the autopsy?”

  “He’s earned a proper burial, no matter his failures.”

  Another. “Surrender yourself, and I’ll see that he gets it.”

  “I was ready to accept you into the cause. I’m truly sorry.”

  That stops me. Not the words themselves, but the regret in his voice. “Sorry for what?”

  “You’ve
lost the chance to be on the right side of things. Until next time, Malcolm.”

  An orange glow appears in my peripheral. Glancing over reveals Krayge’s body on fire. Small licks of flame grow in seconds to a human bonfire, oily smoke rising, the flush of heat warming my face and causing me to step back. How the hell?

  Grimacing in disgust, I continue my advance on the opening, flanking wide to allow Evans an unobstructed line of sight. Reaching the left side of it, I step in. An empty corridor terminates in a T-intersection fifteen meters away. Empty save for a discarded coil rifle with a smoking hole in its capacitor. The sound of running footsteps fades into the distance.

  I look back at Evans and shake my head. She rises and hustles over.

  “We can still catch him –”

  “Not without backup,” she interrupts. “You won’t catch anyone wearing a fried rig.”

  To hell with that, but… She’s right. I’m lugging around over sixty kilos of hard suit without strength enhancement. Running’s not an option. Maybe downhill.

  “And how is he still walking and talking?” she continues. “I shot him three times, in the chest. No one survives that. Malcolm, he’s not human.”

  After what we witnessed today… There’s more to it, to him, than the glowing gray eyes. Three rounds at near-point-blank range from her marksman rifle should kill anyone, hard suit or not, yet it only seemed to inconvenience him. And there’s the extraordinary strength and agility he exhibited, more than any normal man has a right to. He’s clearly enhanced, with cybernetics topping the short list of explanations how. Bloody wonderful.

  Evans steps up beside me, puts a hand on my shoulder. “Malcolm?”

  I stare down at the damaged coil rifle. “You worked it out. Damn good shooting, Kari. You saved my ass. Again.”

  She smiles. “Just don’t promote me again, alright? Come on, you’re injured. Let him go.”

  I stare back down the empty corridor. “Next time it is, then.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Bone-tired, I resettle my left arm in its new sling and peer out at the aftermath. The armory looks like the unlucky survivor of a long-lost war, scene lights illuminating the battle damage and decay in harsh relief. Hundreds of bullet holes deface the walls around the shot-out windows of the stadium box where I stand. A star-studded night sky fills the gap in the ceiling, the astroturf below mounded with its steel-girder remnants. Lined up near the debris, next to the unscathed infield groomer, sheet-covered corpses tell part of the score. Nineteen, the bodies of cartel members and the mercenaries working for Revenant. Our own dead were removed with honors, seven in all: three of Henrikson’s, four of mine.

  Was it worth it?

  I run my right hand down my face and turn, glass crunching under my boot.

  The bar’s a lost cause, every piece of furniture and fixture destroyed or damaged. The pool table got buried by ceiling debris. The long oaken counter, riddled and burnt, is fit only for a dive bar in hell now. All the bottles behind it got shot or smashed, shelves too, though a single bottle of whiskey survived, pulled from the debris pile by one of my reclaimers when they took away the bodies. Not a single table, chair, or barstool survived save one, a recliner with its red leather spotted by burns and pockmarked by bullets.

  “Kari,” I say, pointing at it.

  Evans turns from her silent appraisal of the night sky and walks over, dropping into the chair. Even in her hard suit, it holds. “Permission to take the rest of the day off?”

  I pull my long coat close against the chill. “Only if I can.”

  Not bloody likely. No telling how long to get this mess sorted. Four squads of reclaimers joined by the remnants of Henrikson’s force and personnel from other agencies now occupy the armory. Spalleti provides overwatch on the off chance hostiles remain in the area, the sound of her hovership’s propulsion rising and fading as she circles. Spy and scout drones sweep the facility, but by this point it’s redundant. Revenant is gone, vanished like the ghost he is.

  Hawk enters the bar from the blackened corridor and stops before me, bluff face composed though his eyes betray weariness. No surprise given the late hour and after-action fatigue. God, I’d kill for a bed. He’s picked up a battlefield souvenir, a shallow gash in the silvery stubble above his right temple, though I’ll wait for later to grill him about it.

  “Report,” I say.

  “We’ve confirmed it, First Redeemer. He used the tunnel we found in the basement. It terminates at a surface access two hundred meters away.”

  “So he’s gone.”

  “Long gone. Should I assemble a ground team to pursue?”

  “No. But see if you can pick up his trail. Use whatever resources you can grab. And get Keeland on the line, he’ll need help downtown now that this is done.”

  “Understood.” Hawk marches off issuing orders to the reclaimers with him.

  I tap my comm. “Storm cloud, storm leader.”

  “This is storm cloud,” responds Henrikson, “go ahead, storm leader.”

  “We’ve confirmed Revenant used the escape tunnel. He’s long gone. I’ve tasked Hawk to pick up his trail. Can you assist?”

  “Roger that, I’ll put Carson on it.”

  “Have him coordinate with Hawk. What’s your status?”

  “We’ve got the satellite back, but we’re down to the pads your boys provided to handle the feeds.” He growls out a sigh. “There wasn’t time to grab anything when that prototype tactical took out the command vehicle. We barely made it out with our skins.”

  “Was it the same drone that attacked the hovership?”

  “If he’d had two, we wouldn’t be talking. It took Gypsy, Patton, and storm wing to drive that beast off.” He lets slip a sardonic chuckle. “That asshole was really swinging for the fences this time: two squads in stealth suits, enough to pin us down while his drone tried to seal the deal. It was real touch and go there until your boys joined the fight.”

  “You need anything?”

  “A pack of smokes. Did you get the intel we needed?”

  Reaching into my long coat, I pull out Connor’s datastick. “Yeah, we did.”

  “Roger that, storm leader. Storm cloud, out.”

  “Storm wing, storm leader,” I send.

  “Go ahead, storm leader,” transmits Spalleti.

  “We’re just about done here. Coordinate with Hawk for retrieval and return to base.”

  “Copy that. And Malcolm, thanks again for the invite. The crew and I appreciate the chance for payback.”

  The hovership settles overhead, eclipsing the night sky through the ceiling gap, the steady whine and whir of its turbines and blades spawning echoes off the armory walls. An almost-new bird they gave Spalleti after our crash, and it’s already beat to hell, the undercarriage scored by fire and many of its running lights dark.

  “You earned the right,” I send. “You know, I started to wonder whether you’d show.”

  “Sorry for the fashionably late routine, we got tied up keeping storm cloud from getting wrecked.”

  “I heard. And thanks again for the assist. We were just about finished there.”

  “My pleasure, storm leader. Drinks are on you.”

  The hovership gains elevation and moves off, the sound of its engines and rotors fading into the near distance. It’ll take a lifetime of drinks to pay this back.

  Patton hovers into the bar area and sets down next to Evans and me, skin gleaming slate blue and silver in the confluence of star and scene lighting. He fixes an azure eye on each of us. “You have injuries requiring medical attention, First Redeemer. As do you, Reclaimer Evans. I recommend you both evac with the hovership.”

  I hobble over and place a hand on his airframe. “We’ll manage for now.” He’s not wrong, we’re both beat to hell, though I’m the clear winner. A broken arm and gunshot wound – both treated by a field medic – trump her abrasions and bruising, though Evans will be sore as hell come tomorrow. Patton took some cosmetic damage of hi
s own, scars on his skin from deflected fire, though pockmarks along one wing show points of penetration. “How are you doing?”

  “All primary systems are operational, though propulsion and armor were degraded by kinetic damage. I also experienced several weapons systems failures during the battle with the hostile SMART drone. He utilized an unknown attack vector to exploit a targeting protocol vulnerability, allowing my tactical subroutines to be compromised.”

  “He hacked you?”

  His eyes look elsewhere. “His cyber warfare subroutines were superior to my own.”

  “Alright, you need an upgrade. Aubrey can take a look when we get back to DC.”

  “I suggest enlisting Ms. Mathis to assist.”

  I frown and stare into space. “Yeah, good idea. You do the asking, though.”

  Evans snickers and shoots me an amused grin. “Blondie is pissed at you, isn’t she? Made her miss all the fun.” When I scowl, she responds, “Avoiding her won’t help.”

  “Right.” Evans has it wrong. My reluctance has nothing to do with Sam being pissed at me, but just the opposite. She’s sure to be happy at how things went down. Leaking to the press about the NIDs, ensuring the storage facility got dealt with, yeah, those were the right calls, but the way Sam steered me? And all the game-changing secrets she kept? I can’t help feeling used.

  Turning to the pair of reclaimers posted in the bar area, I motion and they clear out, leaving us alone. I hold up Connor’s datastick to Patton. “I need an analysis.”

  A hatch on his fuselage slides open, revealing a group of interface ports. I plug the datastick in and then hobble over to lean against the bar. Even with the pain meds, everything hurts like hell. It’s all I can do to keep from laughing.

  “Analysis complete, First Redeemer,” says Patton. “The storage device contains an audio recording of a meeting that occurred eighteen days ago between Connor and the individual known as Revenant. The recording provides admissible evidence that Jund Ansar Allah, Los Santos, and Revenant were co-conspirators in the terrorist attack. I will play the relevant audio.”

  The recorded conversation plays from Patton’s audio array.