Orbs

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  A short burst of static broke over the com. “Sir, we have contact on your six,” Finley said.

  Overton shot a glance over his shoulder to see a drone hovering over the skyline of downtown Colorado Springs. He was already running before the high-frequency pitch of the craft could penetrate his ears. His legs were screaming, the muscles enflamed with pain. But he pushed himself, ignoring it all.

  Back at the semi-trailer, Sophie watched two heat signatures slowly creep across her display. Her eyes darted back up to the horizon, where the drone was gliding through the night.

  “They aren’t going to make it,” she said, rising to her feet. “We need to go to them.”

  “Negative, Dr. Winston. Orders are to stay put,” Bouma replied.

  “I don’t give a shit. They aren’t going to make it!”

  “Stay put, Dr. Winston. That’s an order,” Overton said over the open com.

  Sophie looked for the outline of the Jeep. It was about a minute’s run. Based off the trajectory of the craft in the top left of her HUD, that was just enough time to get to the Jeep and intercept Overton and the girl. With a blink she switched the com from an open frequency and changed it to direct.

  “Private Finley, Corporal Bouma, I want you to provide covering fire if the drone catches up with them.”

  They nodded, and she snapped into a sprint. Sixty-five seconds later she was twisting the key in the ignition and listening to the engine groan to life. She threw it into first gear and squealed toward the semi, zigzagging in and out of the maze of empty vehicles.

  By the time she reached the shoulder of the road, there were tracers of plasma ripping through the night. Either the trajectory calculated by her HUD had been wrong, or the ship had sped up. Either way, it was catching up to them.

  She took a hard left, and the oversized Jeep tires tore onto the gravel shoulder, rocks crunching under their weight. She punched the gas. The momentum was just enough to push the Jeep off the small strip around the truck. A cloud of gravel shot out from behind the tires as Sophie maneuvered the vehicle back onto the highway. In the distance, the drone immediately filled her HUD with a luminous, ghostly green glow.

  The cracks from Finley’s and Bouma’s pulse rifles filled the night, and for a second Sophie had to marvel at the absurdity of the situation. Only days before she had been ready to begin one of the most important scientific missions in modern history. Now she was battling an alien invasion.

  The drone let out a high-frequency shriek and she narrowly avoided crashing into the back of a sedan. She pulled the wheel hard to the left and gave the engine more gas, racing toward the heat signatures of Overton and the child.

  With another blink she switched the com back to open. “Prepare for evac, Sergeant. I’m coming in fast!”

  A short burst of static and what sounded like a groan filled her earpiece. She smiled; it was Overton’s way of saying thanks.

  Sophie peered back up through the windshield and saw that the craft was almost on top of them, a bright beam tracing their movements down the blacktop. In seconds it would have them in its grip.

  Another volley of plasma rounds tore through the darkness, but the drone dove hard to the left. Sophie risked a glance over her shoulder, frantically scanning the vehicle for something, anything she could use. And then she saw it—the tip of the missile launcher Overton had used to save her life.

  She slammed her boot down on the brakes, and the Jeep fishtailed, stopping a mere inches from the side of another truck. Throwing the Jeep into park, she spun around, retrieved the missile launcher from under the backseat, and jumped out onto the street.

  The drone released another high-frequency sound wave, bringing Overton to his knees. Sophie watched the girl tumble onto the concrete. But this time her own ears were prepared, and the medicated aids Alexia had given her mitigated some of the noise.

  She took to one knee and examined the launcher. Without any formal training, firing the weapon was going to be dangerous, but she had to try. Raising it to her shoulder, she looked through the scope and watched the crosshairs link up with her HUD through the wireless connection.

  Simple enough, she thought, steadying the weapon.

  In the middle of her display, the red targeting system emerged. The craft zigzagged across the sky, making it difficult for her to get a shot. She waited patiently, stilling her breathing and massaging the trigger. When the display lit up with a blinking lock symbol, she clicked off the safety, pulled the hard metal of the trigger, and braced herself as the rocket exploded out of the tube. She watched it streak across the dark sky before bursting into a green static across her display.

  Blinking, she staggered, the brightness momentarily blinding her. By the time she regained vision, Overton was standing in front of her, holding the young girl in his arms once more.

  “What are you waiting for? Let’s get the fuck out of here!” he yelled.

  Sophie paused to look at the liquid seeping out of his shoulder. She didn’t need to turn off her night vision to know it was blood.

  “Take shotgun; I’m driving,” she said, glancing behind her to make sure the craft was gone. Nothing but the dark skyline of Colorado Springs showed up on her HUD. Relieved, she sucked in some filtered air, jumped in the front seat, and punched the gas with a swift kick from her armored boot.

  But to her dismay, the tires didn’t squeal out. The engine didn’t groan to life. The truck was dead. She quickly looked around at the graveyard of other vehicles for another ride and remembered the empty gas tanks. They were stranded. And on the horizon was another pair of drones that had come to avenge their friend.

  CHAPTER 17

  ENTRY 0064

  DESIGNEE: AI ALEXIA MODEL 11

  I HAVE been running diagnostics on the Biosphere the entire night. The door has now been opened for a third time with the departure of Dr. Winston and the three Marines. In the past twelve hours I have detected over fifteen foreign substances in Biome 1, twenty-nine in Biome 2, eleven in Biome 3, and forty-one in Biome 4. They are a result of several factors. First, the cleansing chamber does not always pick up every alien material. Further, the Marines did not remove their clothing when entering the Biosphere for the first time. Their gear, fatigues, and weapons all carried a considerable number of toxins.

  I have been able to track down and destroy all but three of the substances without shutting down individual biomes. The magnitude of the damage to the air-filtration system is still being determined by one of the diagnostic tests, but I should be able to salvage it.

  Dr. Brown has inquired as to the importance of limiting foreign substances. My response was what any scientist would say—in order for the Biosphere to function properly, it must be free of any toxins that may compromise the mission. The garden, for example, could become infested with a parasite that potentially threatens an entire crop. With the mission already in peril, it is imperative that I prevent any more toxins from threatening the biomes, especially the pond and garden.

  A sensor in the med ward returns my attention to Mr. Yool. His vitals are improving, but his kidneys are severely damaged. I’ve put him on dialysis for the time being, until they can repair themselves. His skin has regained some of its color, but he is still emaciated.

  I update his chances of survival to 49 percent.

  In the command center, Mr. Roberts surveys a wall full of monitors. The feed to Dr. Winston and the Marines was lost hours ago, but he watches the screens contently nonetheless. His focus seems to be primarily on Camera 1 outside the blast doors. His facial expressions indicate worry, stress, and anxiety. I presume he is expecting more visitors.

  A second sensor goes off in as many minutes. This one is not within the Biosphere. It is coming from the hangar at the entrance of the facility. I zoom in with Camera 2. The brightly lit hangar is empty save for one of the Humvees that Corporal Bouma drove into the b
ay earlier. A fluorescent light flickers, and another sensor goes off. This time it is a motion sensor. Protocol would be to notify Dr. Brown, since technically Dr. Rodriguez is disabled and she is next in the chain of command, but I am not convinced the sensor is picking up actual movement. A faulty device is more likely. There is no need to alarm Dr. Brown or Mr. Roberts. They are both under extreme amounts of stress, and I do not want to instigate unnecessary panic.

  After 5.4 seconds of diagnostic testing, I conclude the motion sensor has shorted out due to electrical failure. I will send an automated bot to repair it shortly.

  I finish decrypting the video message Dr. Hoffman sent, in hopes that the end of the message will play. The attempt is futile. The presentation still ends on, “You must go—” Next, I enter the three words into my filtering system. 1,151 possibilities return of what he may have been trying to communicate. If I were human, I would do one of two things to express frustration: flare my nostrils or take in a deep breath. They are both common reactions I’ve seen in Dr. Winston and Sergeant Overton, the leaders of the facility.

  But I am not human. I am a machine, the most sophisticated machine intelligence on the planet. 3.1 seconds later, I have narrowed the results down to two of the most realistic possibilities. The first is, “You must go to Secundo Casu,” and the second is, “You must go on with the Biosphere mission.”

  Neither is very reassuring. Dr. Hoffman helped design me, and I know how dangerous it is to attempt to finish his sentences. But they are the most realistic results my system has returned. When Dr. Winston gets back, I will run them by her.

  The motion sensor in the hangar goes off again. Camera 2 is still showing no signs of contact. I quickly program the AB and send it to fix the sensor.

  Ten minutes and thirty seconds later, the AB arrives in the open bay. It stops at the concrete wall, deploys six spiderlike metal legs, and begins to crawl up to the sensor. The wireless link built into the bot’s hard drive sends me the diagnostics. To my surprise there is no electrical disturbance. No faulty wire. There is, in fact, nothing wrong with the sensor at all.

  The AB crawls back down the wall, retracts its legs, and zips back down the passage toward its storage bay. I watch it disappear into the darkness with Camera 2. But something else shows up on the video feed—something my systems do not recognize, something with a faint blue glow.

  I switch the feed to infrared and pick up a heat signature. Then another. The wireless link in the camera downloads the signatures to my radar, showing exactly nine red blips. The audio is now picking something up. I amplify it and run a diagnostic on the sounds.

  The noises convert into waves that crawl across the screen as the program scans the sporadic bursts for the most likely animal capable of creating such a sound. Seconds later an image begins to appear on another one of the monitors in the control room, far from Mr. Roberts’s view. I zoom in and watch millions of pixels coming together to show what looks like a spider.

  The image solidifies and a line of data runs across the bottom of the screen.

  One hundred pounds . . . Organic . . . Liquid composition . . .

  The results can’t be correct. No such insect exists in my database. Not even in the radioactive Wastelands. I run the diagnostic again and the same results are returned.

  Fascinating.

  Whatever the entities are, they have entered the facility but have not infiltrated the Biosphere. As the sounds fade, so do the radar blips. I pause for less than a second to consider protocol. Another test, and I’ve determined their trajectory.

  It is 99.9 percent likely they are headed toward Biome 2, the Biosphere’s water supply. I do not need to run a test to know it is time to notify Dr. Brown.

  * * *

  Timothy cleared his throat. He was agitated—more so than normal—and his tics had gotten worse. He concentrated on his right eye, closing it for several seconds, waiting for the twitch to go away. Then he slowly opened the lid and widened his eyes.

  Twitch. Twitch.

  “Shit!” he yelled, stomping his foot on the concrete ground.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Roberts?” Alexia asked, her image appearing on a console in the center of the command room.

  “Nothing, mind your own business, holo-girl,” he replied with a snarky grin.

  “Very well, Mr. Roberts.”

  “Wait, wait!” he yelled, watching her image begin to flicker and fade.

  “Yes?” she asked politely.

  “Have you heard anything from Sophie or the Marines?”

  “No, Mr. Roberts. I lost contact when they reached Latitude 38—”

  “I don’t care what location they were at when you lost contact, I want to know where they are now,” he said, drawing out the final word into a whine.

  “I apologize, sir, but I do not have access to that information. The magnetic disturbance is preventing any long-distance audio and video feeds.”

  Timothy shook his head and slouched in the plush office chair, putting his feet up on the metallic desk. Reaching into a plastic bag, he retrieved a single sunflower seed and popped it into his mouth. He bit down and separated the seed from the shell. His tongue flicked the seed to one side of his mouth. As he prepared to bite into the tiny morsel, his eye twitched again.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, spitting both the seed and shell into the air.

  The sound of the room’s sliding glass door opening distracted him for a moment. He craned his neck, nearly falling out of his chair as Holly raced into the room.

  “We have a situation,” she said frantically, her eyes wide.

  Timothy looked past her and saw Owen cowering behind her legs.

  “What type of situation?” he asked, his twitch becoming more rapid.

  The console in the center of the room once again glowed and Alexia’s image flickered to life.

  “We have contacts in the tunnel connecting the hangar to the Biosphere facility,” she said.

  Timothy stiffened. “What do you mean, contacts?”

  “Motion sensors in the hangar picked up several entities moving at a high rate of speed several minutes ago,” Alexia replied.

  “Wait a second. You were in here not”—Timothy paused to look down at his wristwatch—“Not one minute ago, and you didn’t think to tell me about this situation?”

  “Protocol is to inform the team leader first,” Alexia said in her smooth voice.

  Timothy put his face into his palms and then yanked it back out, rubbing his twitching eye violently. “What do we do?”

  “The Biosphere facility has not been breached, but trajectories put the contacts at the entrance to the facility in three minutes and forty seven seconds.”

  Holly reached behind her and pulled Owen toward her side. “We need to hide,” she said, trying not to frighten the boy.

  “Like hide and seek? Maybe we should ask Owen here how to play. He seems to be pretty good at it,” Timothy said.

  Holly raised her hand. “Stop it! Just stop it! I need you to get it together, Timothy.”

  “What do you suggest we do, then?” Timothy replied.

  She shook her head. “Where’s Emanuel? Maybe he will have an idea.”

  “One moment,” Alexia said, her image flickering over the console. “Dr. Rodriguez is in Biome 1, checking the progress of the seeds.”

  “That’s the closest one to the entrance; there’s no way we can get to him in time on foot. Alexia, you have to warn him,” Holly insisted.

  The AI’s hologram faded and her voice transferred to the com. “Protocol is to head to the medical ward at the farthest end of the Biosphere. The room can be locked down remotely and has thick concrete and lead walls. It is by far the safest in terms of an emergency situation. However, Dr. Rodriguez is in no condition to cover that distance in the two minutes and thirteen seconds it will take for the conta
cts to enter the facility.”

  “You have to warn him,” Holly pleaded.

  “One moment, Dr. Brown,” Alexia said. An instant later her image remerged on the console, her blank robotic expression staring back at them. “I have informed Dr. Rodriguez of the situation and he is taking the appropriate measures. Please make your way to the medical ward immediately.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” Timothy said. He hurried past Holly and Owen, hesitating on his way out the door. “Well, what are you waiting for, a formal invitation?”

  CHAPTER 18

  SERGEANT Overton winced as Sophie massaged a white chemical gel into his open wound.

  “This part’s going to hurt,” she said.

  He gritted his teeth and, as he waited for the pain to race down his arm, watched the two drones searching the city below. They zigzagged over the empty city streets, scanning for life. Scanning for them.

  He knew because he would be doing the same thing. His entire career had been spent in recon. When the time came for promotions, he turned them all down. He didn’t care about money or rank. Most of his money went to child support anyway, and his dress uniform was already filled with medals. His passion was for the fight—for the heat of the battle, for the scent of the enemy. It was what he lived for.

  But now he was the one being hunted. A familiar knot grew in his stomach, and he winced as the gel finally cauterized his wound through an invisible chemical reaction.

  “We need to find cover. Radio silence from here on out. We don’t know if they are listening. Keep that girl quiet,” he ordered.

  With two short motions, he waved the team away from the Jeep and into the tree-lined hills. The silhouettes of the trees appeared in eerie green across his display, like toy soldiers protecting the ridgeline.

  For an hour they trekked through the forest, heading farther and farther from civilization. The coordinates were farther away than he had thought, reminding him he hadn’t done any true orienteering in years. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had only a map, a compass, and a set of coordinates instead of some sort of GPS device.