by Chris James
“Shut up. So, how, exactly, does a Spider target a person?”
“Attack patterns to date suggest numerous methods, including thermal imaging and electronic emissions.”
A plan began to form in Rory’s mind. He said: “In other words, they can see my body heat and detect your contact with the network… So if I switch you off, I’ll halve my chances of getting killed, yes?”
“Deactivating your Battlefield Management Support System is not recommended—”
“And then, if I put on my BHC sleeve, I’ll be in a pretty good state to evac the battle space, wouldn’t I?”
“Your BHC sleeve is designed primarily for static camouflage.”
Rory cursed inside when the Squitch reminded him. He hadn’t put on a BHC sleeve since his basic training, and recalled that he’d barely been able to move in it. However, as he stood and began jogging over the dry rocks and scrub, panic rose like bile and clawed at the back of his throat. In the sky above him raged a battle controlled by super artificial intelligences that considered options and made decisions thousands of times more quickly than his own brain could. He stopped himself from glancing upwards, lest panic cause him to freeze. He knew that his active Squitch—scanning all kinds of frequencies to find out what was happening, to ‘help’ him—acted like a beacon to the hostiles all around him, while his exposed body-heat announced his presence on the night-time terrain to those machines as though it were broad daylight.
He reached an incline, slung his Pickup over his shoulder, and climbed. The violence in the sky lessened. Minutes passed; his panic rose again. How many of the enemy’s ACAs were needed to defend a landing zone? How many would be free to pick off NATO stragglers at their leisure? He stopped, breathing heavily from the exertion. “Right, that’s enough,” he said. “What are the possibilities that the enemy can detect me in other ways, for example by the metallic composition of my Pickup?”
“Insufficient data.”
“So conject—you’re supposed to be smarter than me.”
“It is possible the enemy has built-in redundancy and seeks targets using numerous indicators. However, it is reasonable to believe that the enemy is assured a limited number of established methods that provide certainty of detecting NATO forces.”
“Sweet Christ Jesus, I’d be lost without you, wouldn’t I? Now, shut up and shut down.”
“Deactivating your Battlefield Management Support System is not recommended in your current environment.”
“Even if you might get me killed?”
“You will have no notifications of approaching threats and no way to navig—”
“Okay, have it your own way,” Rory replied. He reached an outcrop of rock under which he could conceal himself. He opened a flap over a small pocket on his right thigh. He pulled out a thin, circular device the size of a large coin. He placed his right thumb in the central depression to confirm his identity, and holding the central part firmly, with his left thumb and forefinger he twisted the outer rim one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, deactivating the Squitch. He put the device back in its pocket and made sure the flap was secure.
He muttered aloud: “Right, time to disappear.” He set his Pickup against the surface of the rocky outcrop and unwrapped the BHC sleeve from its thin pouch in his trousers on the back of his right calf. Memories of his basic training came back to him, and he tried to recall the sleeve’s tolerances. He sighed and gave up. He spread the sleeve on the ground, placed his booted feet on the bottom of the gossamer-thin material, and rolled it up the length of his body. At the waist, he located the two openings for his arms. A memory from years earlier surfaced: at the urging of the training sergeant, he and several other rookies had opened a BHC sleeve and tried to rip it apart. Despite it having the texture and weight of tissue paper, it resisted all of their combined strength to damage it. A half-smile crossed his face when he recalled how they’d tried every possible way to rip it, and had given up in sweaty exhaustion after half an hour of relentless effort.
Rory pulled the hood over his head and wrapped the gauze face covering across his mouth and nose. He sat on a large, comfortable clump of soft grass, leaned back against the rock, and questioned his memory again. The BHC sleeve would prevent his body heat being vulnerable to enemy detection but would keep him at his normal temperature for, what was it? Forty-eight hours? Seventy-two? He couldn’t remember. But now, for the first time since the battle began in the mobile command post a little over half an hour earlier, he could pause and assess the situation. He had no food, but that did not trouble him: he could go without it for ten or more days and his greatest discomfort would be headaches and tiredness for the first few days, nothing else. Water, however, was a different matter. He had two, half-litre NATO canteens tucked away in his tunic, but—
An abrupt change in the air pressure around him interrupted his thoughts. An insubstantial yet unmistakable trembling vibrated through the rocks and ground. Above him, thousands of new lights streaked into view. He caught his breath when a pinprick shot down almost directly at him, stopping at what he judged to be a couple of hundred metres’ distance. Something smaller flew away from it. The Spider swooped towards Rory, and for a moment, he thought it would kill him. But it flew over his outcrop and swung back into view in a graceful arc which he realised was an optimum search pattern.
Suddenly, dull shots popped off distantly, and Rory stared at the green flashes as the shells hit the Spider’s shielding. The Spider immediately dived at the source of the attack; the firing continued. Its eight appendages snapped out from the surface of the flying bomb, and Rory thought he heard a truncated scream before the explosion when the Spider detonated. Orange light flashed over the uneven terrain, and Rory could not think of a worse final image before dying than to see that terrifying machine racing in for the kill.
He had little time to reflect on this morbid consideration. From behind him, the Caliphate’s Blackswans escorted a fleet of the largest aircraft Rory had ever seen. He shook his head in wonder, wishing his Squitch were active and sending what he saw back to HQ, and knowing at the same time that he’d be dead in an instant if that were the case. Flashing red lights betrayed the outlines, and he realised that each one must be able to carry at least a thousand troops. He counted ten of the behemoths as they cruised with ominous potency towards the area that his Squitch had earlier identified as a landing zone. Each transport trailed an expansive cloud of Blackswans, flying geometric patterns around their charges to monitor the maximum amount of land and sky for the least energy expended, and doubtlessly ready to dispatch a Spider to deal at once with even the minutest threat.
The Caliphate’s air transports disappeared over the far ridge, and Rory wondered what he should do next. He did not doubt that the barracks at Grenada had been destroyed, for the basic military strategy of such an invasion would insist on advance forces—in this case, the Blackswans—eliminating all organised resistance. As he himself was part of a defensive force which, he had to assume, had been wiped out, he questioned where he should go now, given that he had no food and only such water as he might eke out for forty-eight hours.
He recalled conversations and meetings since his regiment’s arrival in Spain the previous Monday, and made his decision. He sat still in the darkness and slowed his breathing. He said a quiet goodbye to his beloved Pip and contemplated not only his own bleak future, but also that of Europe’s. A small part of him revelled to be alive at such a time in history, to witness the destruction of Europe. At once, a pragmatic voice questioned exactly how long he would live to see the conclusion of that destruction.
Chapter 2
04.14 Sunday 19 February 2062
PRIVATE PHILIPPA ‘PIP’ CLARKE pressed a metal tube close to the girl’s ankle and reassured her: “Only a few more moments.”
The girl smiled back while her parents stood over them with concerned faces.
Standing over her, Crimble urged: “Come on, Pip. The transport is not going to wait much
longer—”
“I know,” she replied, glancing up at him. “I can hear my bloody Squitch as well as you can hear yours. But I’m waiting till the sprain is fixed properly. She’s got to be able to walk if she’s to stand a chance.”
In her ear, her Squitch repeated: “You must go to the transport now.”
The girl’s olive-skinned father stuttered in heavily accented English: “We thank you. But if you must to go, then go. Please.”
Pip replied in succinct determination: “Just another minute. Her ankle will be fine.” She glanced at the traipsing lines of people of all ages as they filed across the flat rock plateau which led into a valley at the northern tip of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
A new voice spoke in Pip’s ear: “Squad Delta Four-Two, advise the civilians to take cover. We’ve got a ton of incoming; the screens just lit up.”
Crimble spoke: “Pratty, are you on the transport?”
Pratty’s laconic tone replied: “Yup, engines powering up now. Captain says we’re going back, not waiting for any more slackers like you. So I reckon you two are going to be on an AWOL charge before dawn.”
The device Pip held against the girl’s ankle beeped twice, and Pip put it away in her tunic. She helped the girl to stand and said: “You’re all right now. Please go and find somewhere to shelter, okay?” The girl’s glistening eyes showed more gratitude than comprehension. The parents repeated their thanks. Pip turned to Crimble and the pair walked away from the civilians.
“Pickup?” Pip asked.
He handed the rifle to her. “We’re going to be right in the shit if they put us on an AWOL charge,” he noted, running his thumb under his moustache.
Pip shouldered her weapon and replied: “Not sure it’s going to be so important if Operation Certain Death has actually kicked off.” She pointed upwards: “Look.”
Wave after wave of missiles streaked through the sky above them. Pip and Crimble turned with everyone else to witness the clash of military hardware overhead. White and orange flashed off the people and rocks and trees in sudden bursts of light. Vast, angry explosions split the air. Children cried, women screamed, men shouted, and all ran for lower ground in the valley, some discarding their belongings as they did so. Pip unslung her Pickup, unsure what contribution she could make.
She felt Crimble grab her shoulder and he shouted above the din: “If our defences aren’t enough, we’re going to need better gear.”
She nodded and shouted back to him: “Let’s get back to the landing zone in case the transport sets down again.” She tapped her ear and yelled: “Pratty? Where are you?”
Pratty’s agitated voice answered: “In the shit. We’re screaming at the AI to get us on the ground, but it’s flying around in bloody circles.”
Pip ran, sensing Crimble at her side. “Overlay!” she cried, and her Squitch added digital references in the lens in her eye that included details of the terrain around her as well as the location of the transport above them.
Pratty spoke to her, his voice carrying the faintest trace of desperation, “The stats here are starting to look a bit tedious. Seems the PeaceMakers have done all of their missiles and the BSLs are out of line of sight.”
“If the super AI won’t land the transport, why doesn’t the captain override?”
“Christ, I don’t know,” Pratty exclaimed. “I think the super AI and the captain are expecting our defences to get the upper hand, but it’s not happening—”
“We’re almost at your position,” Pip broke in. “If we get overwhelmed, we are going to need more firepower than Pickups.”
“Well, it’s not decided yet—”
Pip’s Squitch reported: “A Caliphate Spider has targeted NATO autonomous aircraft ESP378–002, you should seek cover—”
Thirty metres above Pip, the descending transport containing Pratty and over fifty other NATO troops shattered under the impact of the Spider like an egg hit by a bullet. The ball of orange flame curled in on itself and the broken pieces of the transport tumbled out of it. Dismay swept over Pip. She took a step forward to sprint for the wreckage when Crimble grabbed her arm and stopped her. “What?” she demanded.
“They’re already gone, pal. You won’t help them,” he said.
Pip couldn’t believe Crimble had misunderstood her. She repeated: “We need better gear, and it’s on that transport.” She snatched her arm away, turned, and ran.
In her ear, her Squitch advised: “Danger, you are approaching an unsafe location. You should seek cover and wait for assistance.”
She ignored the Squitch, realising that if it hadn’t been for that young girl’s sprained ankle, she and Crimble would also be dead now. She slowed as she advanced on the burning debris falling from the sky. A gust of wind blew glowing embers into her face and she winced at the pain when a hot piece of wreckage touched her skin for an instant. She paused while the last of the remains hit the ground. Pip knew there could be no survivors. In the unlikely event the Spider blast hadn’t killed all of the occupants, the fall to earth certainly would have.
She reached the edge of the debris field. The Squitch repeated its warning, but Pip replied: “I need gear. Where is the armaments locker?”
“Armaments stored aboard autonomous aircraft ESP378-002 have been subject to pressure and heat levels—”
“Overlay, now!” Pip demanded, but in her vision, nothing changed. “I said ‘overlay, now’,” she repeated with venom in her voice.
The Squitch replied: “Increased enemy jamming is preventing effective communications. However, you are currently in danger from your immediate surroundings and enemy ACA activity. You should seek cover and await—”
“Shut up,” Pip said, stepping gingerly around the wreckage and bodies.
She heard Crimble’s voice in her ear: “Pip? Pip? They’re flooding the battle space and jamming comms. We need to get away from here before they start targeting individuals.”
“Okay, okay,” she replied. On the verge of giving up and unable to do more than skirt around the outside of the debris field due to the heat, she suddenly saw half a dozen metal tubes lying in the dirt. She tightened the strap of her Pickup to hold it close to her back, and then scooped up an armful of the Stilettoes. A glance at the glowing sky and southerly mountain ridge reoriented her after her search among the wreckage, and she hurried away.
“Pip, Pip!” Crimble’s voice rose above the crackling flames, the screams and moans of civilians, and the whooshes of ACAs splitting the night air above them.
She ran towards his voice, noticing the chaos of fleeing civilians as they moved to cover, holding lights to guide their owners down into the valley.
She reached him and asked: “How can they jam our Squitch?”
Crimble’s stubby arms took and cradled half of Pip’s single-shot missile launchers. He said: “Dunno, but if the saturation gets any worse, we could be have real problems.”
“Okay, let’s get to lower ground.”
“Okay.”
They followed the remaining civilians off the plateau and down a narrow path. Pip tapped Crimble on the shoulder and said: “Let’s go through the forest.”
He gave her a half-smile and said: “Quicker?”
“Safer for the civilians if we get targeted.”
Crimble’s moustache slumped as his smile vanished. He said: “Don’t be too positive, will you?”
“Come on, Crimble. We’re trained for this shit; they’re not. And they’re losing their homes.”
They moved off the path and away from the frightened and disorientated civilians. As they trekked, Pip realised that Rory must be dead along with Pratty, as the mobile command post to which he’d been seconded would surely have been a primary target. They came to a narrow, shallow mountain stream and the bubbling water made a vast contrast to the night’s violence.
Pip took out her canteen, drank, and topped it up from the stream, glancing at Crimble as he did the same.
Crimble’s faced lowere
d. He asked: “What happens when they send Spiders after us?”
Pip smothered her own uncertainty and replied: “We’ve got the gear,” indicating the half a dozen Stilettoes.
“How many of them will that lot be able to take out?”
The Squitch interrupted in Pip’s ear, and the reaction on Crimble’s face told her that it had in his ear as well: “Latest battle analyses indicate that only comparable autonomous combat—”
“Where are the closest NATO ACAs?” Pip asked.
“Insufficient data. According to the most recent data, you should find cover and wait until friendly forces retake the battle space.”
“If this is the invasion,” Crimble asked, “how long do you think we might need to wait for that to happen?”
“The current tactical situation is not favourable to a swift resolution.”
Crimble looked at Pip and said: “Diplomatic little shit, eh?”
She shook her head and replied: “No, we need to know what we can do next. We need to help those civilians. We also need to work out how we can avoid those bloody Spid—” she stopped when the view in her lens changed abruptly.
Crimble swore as the Squitch announced: “Two Spiders approaching from the northeast. You are their targets. Distance one thousand metres, approaching in a straight line over rugged terrain. Take defensive action immediately.”
Pip reached down for a Stiletto while loosening the Pickup on her back. She grabbed and activated the nearest single-shot portable missile launcher while keeping one eye on the digital representation of the oncoming Spiders when the Squitch said: “Two more Spiders approaching from the southwest. You are their targets. Distance nine hundred metres, approaching in a straight line over rugged terrain. Take defensive action immediately.”
“Shit,” Pip swore. “You take those two; I’ll deal with the first pair. Mind the back-blast from the Stilettoes.”
