Bio-Weapon ds-2

by Vaughn Heppner

  A door swished on the last tube-car and out fanned a ten-man bionic commando team. As on so many of these posts along the way, General Hawthorne received the all-clear signal minutes later.

  Five bionic men stayed behind at the post or switchyard, with the subdued PHC major to answer any calls from higher headquarters. Whenever the PHC major spoke by comlink or holo-transmission, an ugly hand cannon was aimed between his eyes. So far, the ploy had proven effective. Thus for the last two hundred kilometers, ten of these squads, fifty bionic warriors in all, kept the link to New Baghdad open for Hawthorne to his nearest Army Command Post.

  “Let’s hope the next part is as easy,” Colonel Manteuffel said.

  “You know it won’t be,” Hawthorne said.

  17.

  “She won’t budge,” Director Gannel said. He hunched over a communicator in his inner sanctum. Outside his door waited his Venusian security team, people who had been with him since his thorium mine days.

  “Tell her the Highborn plan another asteroid attack,” answered Yezhov, Chief of PHC. “That they’re targeting New Baghdad.”

  “I did,” said Gannel. “She doesn’t believe it. She asks why I don’t flee then.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  Gannel laughed. “Oh, no, Yezhov. We’re partners, but no more than that. I’m not putting myself in your custody.”

  “A little more faith on your part would greatly oil our plans, Director.”

  “So would divine power. But I don’t see any.”

  “Then we’ll have to squeeze her,” said Yezhov.

  “Dangerous.”

  “Yes, at least until the new conditioning is implemented.”

  “True, true,” said Gannel. “But…”

  “What troubles you, Director?”

  “Do you trust the cybertanks?”

  “Of course I don’t trust them.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Gannel. “It’s a dangerous expedient using them.”

  “Oh, but the mobs fear them so. Frankenstein monsters, they say. Once you’re in charge you must order the Military to turn over all the cybertanks to PHC.”

  “Certainly,” said Gannel, who had no intention of doing so. He already feared Yezhov more than any man. Only his lust for the chairmanship kept him working with such a devious schemer.

  “Yes, it’s time to squeeze Blanche-Aster,” said Yezhov. “We have to finish this before the mobs become used to running amok. Call her in… an hour.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “Then we may be wishing that the Highborn really do drop an asteroid.”

  18.

  After inexplicably failing to gain control of a selected cybertank, Colonel Manteuffel tucked the compucase under his arm and sprinted down the street as if the devil himself chased him. The small officer dove behind an overturned car. Behind him, rounding the heavy building’s corner where he’d just been, clanked the 100-ton cybertank he’d failed to control. Bricks and twisted girders exploded out of the building’s corner. The edge of the metal monster simply shouldered through, heavy treads crunching over the debris. The 100-ton cybertank then wheeled in its uniquely ponderous way toward Manteuffel

  Manteuffel crawled madly, tearing and scuffing his black tanker’s uniform.

  Two bionic men lunged from behind another building. They grabbed the Colonel by the arms and pulled him behind their corner. At the same instant, one of the cybertank’s six warfare pods aimed its cannon. A deafening roar issued. The overturned car exploded. Explosive pellets ricocheted off the street, as two antipersonnel pods chugged a thousand rounds.

  The bionic men didn’t hesitate. They ran. One of them threw the small Manteuffel unceremoniously over his shoulder. Gears and bionic parts whined as they pumped their legs like pistons. Manteuffel clenched his teeth. The jar of the bionic man’s shoulder thrust against his gut threatened to tear Manteuffel’s stomach muscles loose. Thankfully, however, the heavy, clanking sound of the cybertank receded. They fled several blocks, zigzagging through the city, until they reached where General Hawthorne waited with the bulk of the commandos.

  Dumped onto his feet, Colonel Manteuffel leaned against a nearby wall. His pale face winced horribly. When he straightened, it felt as if a knife slashed through his gut. A MI operative thrust something in his face. Oh. Manteuffel nodded, and with a trembling hand, he accepted a bottle of medication.

  “Well?” asked Hawthorne. “What happened?”

  They stood in a brick-laid plaza, open-air shops surrounding them. Overhead the level’s sunlamps shone at ‘daytime’ brightness.

  Manteuffel sipped the soothing liquid.

  “If you could spare us a moment, Colonel.”

  “It’s like we thought,” Manteuffel said between gasps. “The cybertanks have been tampered with.”

  “Yes,” said Hawthorne, “I can see that. But tampered how? You told me before that if anyone tried to breach their brain-case that it would detonate.”

  Manteuffel grimaced. “Just like the Air Marshal.”

  “Now isn’t the time to get sentimental, Colonel.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Hawthorne waved it aside. He paced as his bionic commandos waited in their teams. They were on the ninth level, very near the Directorate Building and Madam Blanche-Aster’s residence. Unfortunately, cybertanks kept anyone from approaching too closely.

  “How did PHC sabotage the CT codes?” asked Hawthorne.

  “I’m not sure they did,” Manteuffel said.

  “But you just said the cybertanks have been tampered with.”

  “Yes, but maybe not in the manner we first envisioned it.”

  “Explain.”

  “The cybertanks are human.”

  Hawthorne raised his eyebrows.

  Manteuffel pushed himself off the wall and lowered his voice. “Are the bionic warriors human?”

  “Of course they are.”

  “But they’re part machine.”

  Hawthorne frowned before nodding. “You’re saying that the cybertanks are part machine, but also partly human?”

  “Entirely machine,” Manteuffel said, “except for the brain.”

  “But not a real brain,” said Hawthorne. “The brain tissue is from various donors and set in programming gel.”

  “Don’t be deceived, General. Each cybertank quickly gains its own personality. They begin to think of themselves as human.”

  “Oh very well, Colonel. Now get to the point.”

  “I think PHC convinced the cybertanks to go along with whatever it is they’re planning.”

  “They’re part of the coup?” asked Hawthorne.

  “No. Not that far in. The Mark 2042 I spoke with believes that he’s protecting the government.”

  “You spoke to him?” said Hawthorne. “Then why didn’t the override codes work?”

  “I think we’ll find that a new input plug was inserted.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “The fact that the override codes don’t work seems to prove it.”

  Hawthorne paced. “What if we yanked the new input plug?”

  Manteuffel nodded, and then he winced because the head motion made his stomach rip with pain. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Maybe pulling this new plug would allow us to use the CT codes. But how would we get in close enough to pull it?”

  “You’re the expert!” shouted Hawthorne. He frowned as bionic men turned toward him. “Sorry, Colonel. But that’s your area of expertise. Don’t you know of a way?”

  Manteuffel sipped from the medical bottle. He considered his torn stomach muscles. Then he studied the bionic men. Soon he said, “Yes, I think there is a way.”

  19.

  The Mark 2042 Cybertank prowled the area of the subterfuge attack. He seethed with rage, but not enough so that he disobeyed orders and left the perimeter given him to guard. In the background rose the monumental Directorate Building. Around it fanned broad streets, plazas, fountains and squat, pen
tagonal government buildings.

  The Mark 2042 exalted in his might and ability to destroy. In all human history, no warrior could do what he did. He was 100 tons of lethality, 20 meters by 12 by 5. Heavy tracks and a Zeitzler 5000 Electromagnetic Engine provided him motive power. He loved the sound of his clanking tracks as he chased the primitive bio-beasts. He had six interchangeable weapons pods, giving him more firepower and flexibility than any warrior ever born or made. To protect him from missiles and cannon shells he had “beehive” flechette launchers, exploding shrapnel that knocked them down before they could strike. The forty beehives also made excellent antipersonnel systems. Earlier this week he’d exploded one of them into a crowd, killing five hundred at a single blow. How the others had fled after that! He’d recorded it, and replayed the video whenever he was bored. That’s how he knew it was 500. Well, precisely 489 dead and wounded. He’d shot the wounded one at a time or smeared them into the pavement with his treads.

  On open terrain, his great weight allowed him to fire his magnetic force cannons and heavy lasers even when he moved at top speed. The 100 tons and uncanny shock systems provided the needed stability. And to finish his uniqueness and near invulnerability was his covering of 260mm-thick composite armor.

  No one in New Baghdad could take him, and he knew it. The great threat of air attacks and worse, space lasers, ha, they couldn’t touch him down here on the ninth city level. Oh no. If everything worked out right, it was city duty from here on in.

  He shot off fifty tracers to punctuate his thought.

  Tremble, worms. Hear me roar and flee like the vermin you are.

  His radar and visuals had picked up movement and weaponry. He knew that several bio-beasts with strange mechanical readings prowled his precinct. What the Mark 2042 didn’t know was that he’d fallen prey to one of man’s oldest vices, arrogance.

  Suddenly, three of the strange bio-beasts rolled onto the street, heavy rocket launchers aimed at him. Whooshes and rocket ignition sped the missiles on their way.

  How pathetic, a rookie’s assault.

  The Mark 2042 chugged shrapnel from a single beehive. He meant it as a shrug. The missiles blew apart. Then he revved the mighty Zeitzler 5000 and let his treads rip, tearing chunks of pavement as he gave chase.

  But these three were different then other bio-beasts. Their legs pumped fast, and they moved. Each time he shot at them, they zipped around another corner.

  Well, watch this.

  He swiveled his 100-ton bulk and charged into a building. Masonry exploded. He plowed, his treads churning over desks, chairs and waiting sofas. Glass shattered and walls disappeared. Bricks rained on him.

  I am unstoppable.

  He burst through the rear wall and onto the next street.

  The three bio-beasts had nowhere to hide. He had them dead in his sights. Usually bio-beasts gaped in horror right about now, or they started crying. He got a kick out of that. But these three were different. It’s why he’d gone through the building. They dropped to their bellies and aimed their rocket launchers.

  Now that’s a sweet try, rookies. But I’m the big boy.

  A thousand antipersonnel shells disintegrated them.

  Hey, where’d you go?

  As a joke, pretending he was looking for them, he clanked atop their gory shreds and then wheeled, smearing them into the pavement.

  Then his sensors pinged with a new attack.

  Twenty of them popped up from twenty different locations, firing lasers and rocket launchers. He shrugged off their feeble efforts, but it was nice to see they were trying. Then his probability indicator flashed a warning.

  Why were they all ready for him here? Why was this particular spot seemingly point-zero?

  Are you rookies trying to trap me?

  Twenty of these tougher, weird-reading bio-beasts dropped from the ceiling. They dropped from the sunlamps way up there. Oh, this was going to be rich. He knew bio-beasts, what their water-sack bodies could take and what they couldn’t. From that high up…

  I have to get this on video.

  They would go splat, gushing organs and blood everywhere.

  The probability indicator flashed another warning.

  Pipe down and let me have some fun, will you?

  Radar and visuals showed that the twenty falling bio-beasts lacked weapons or breaching bombs.

  It’s raining men.

  Slam, slam, slam, they dropped atop him. But they didn’t go splat.

  Warning!—that from the probability indicator.

  Servos in the bio-beasts whined. The Mark 2042 could hear them. A few of them had broken limbs or hands, but now they started crawling over him.

  Die!

  All forty beehives exploded shrapnel, lifting and killing fifteen of them.

  Now let’s try the new grid, shall we.

  An electrical grid had been installed onto him twelve days ago. He charged it with power. ZAP!

  Two of them actually screamed.

  It was a dance of death.

  But one of them still crawled.

  A pesky rookie, aren’t you?

  A camera showed him the bio-beast’s screwed up face. That was beautiful. This one was really trying, fighting through the pain and everything.

  Warning!

  He understood. The beast crawled for the crevice where the red suits had put the new server.

  ZAP!

  The bio-beast bellowed, but he kept crawling. And then he dropped into that crevice.

  “DON’T TOUCH THAT!” The Mark 2042 cranked his speakers to full volume.

  The bio-beast didn’t listen.

  And suddenly the Mark 2042 felt disoriented, dizzy, and not so certain about everything.

  “Cybertank 2042,” said someone via comlink.

  “Yes?”

  “Prepare for transmission.”

  “I… 2042 ready,” said the Mark 2042.

  20.

  Colonel Manteuffel typed in the CT code and pressed transmit. Then he studied the return reading before looking up at General Hawthorne.

  “He’s ours.”

  “Yes, after twenty-three good men died,” Hawthorne said.

  “We can use the Mark 2042 to approach the other cybertanks.”

  “But we could still lose more men,” said Hawthorne. “I wasn’t counting on those electrical surges.”

  “PHC must have put that in,” said Manteuffel. “It’s clever. You must give them that.”

  Hawthorne stared at the small Colonel. Finally, he forced a smile as he patted the man’s shoulder. “Well done, Manteuffel. Now let’s convert the other cybertanks.”

  21.

  The old woman in the wheelchair heard gunfire.

  She peered over the balcony railing and at the squat buildings below. Fruitless apple trees lined the empty streets. Well, empty of people, at least. Dropped placards and crumpled papers lay everywhere, but that no longer concerned her. She counted five cybertanks. Like giant watchdogs, they surrounded her building. An hour ago, she had considered them protection from the protesting mobs that had been chased away by PHC shock squads. After listening to General Hawthorne, she wondered if the cybertanks were the final move in an intricate PHC plot to overthrow the government.

  She was one hundred and sixty-two, kept alive by longevity treatments and her special chair. She sat in a bulky, gleaming-white unit. A withered old crone, said her detractors. The medical unit in back of the wheelchair gurgled. Tubes from it snaked into her. Fluids surged through the tubes. Her unnaturally smooth face seemed brittle, although it was dotted by several stubborn liver spots that none of the skin specialists had been able to remove. She wore a white turban to cover her baldness, while a red plaid blanket hid her useless legs. A jutting, narrow nose and bright eyes, dangerously vibrant, belied any idea that she was senile.

  Madam Director Blanche-Aster wasn’t native to New Baghdad, the famed city of seventy-seven levels. She cocked her head. There it was again. Gunfire! According to Chief
Yezhov of Political Harmony Corps, the rioting had been spontaneous and sudden, catching everyone by surprise. PHC most of all.

  Dropping her trembling hand onto the chair’s controls, she wheeled around, off the balcony and into her office. It was minimalist, with a few white cubes randomly placed as objects d’art and her chrome desk that was keyed to her voice.

  General James Hawthorne sat on one of the cubes. He was flanked by someone he called Captain Mune. She shivered. She didn’t like the bionic men. It was unnatural doing that to a person. The General against all the rules of someone in her presence wore a holster and sidearm. His face that her profilers had called granite gave little away. But she was practiced in body kinetics and read the tension in him.

  “It’s most incredible,” she said. “Air Marshal Ulrich. How were they able to turn him?”

  “Does it matter?” asked Hawthorne.

  “But Yezhov is mad if he thinks he can just send an assassin and shoot me.”

  “How many directors are in the city?” asked Hawthorne.

  “What? Oh, um, Director Gannel, for one.”

  “The Venusian?” Hawthorne asked.

  “What difference does that make?”

  “He’s Yezhov’s puppet.”

  “You’re shooting in the dark, making unsubstantiated accusations.”

  “Director Gannel has flooded my headquarters with demands that I launch an immediate, all-out Fleet attack against one of the systems.”

  “The majority of the Directorate backs him on that,” said Blanche-Aster.