by Geoff Brown
General Edgers laughed and shook his head, motioning toward the screen. “Engineers and technicians. Hell, we barely combat train them in Basic anymore.”
“General Einhart, do we have a more immediate plan?” The drone carrying the minister’s face hovered in place as the front-mounted cameras panned the room, likely using advanced facial-recognition software to gauge the room. No one in the room flinched, such was their comfort with the perverse mockery of human behavior by the robotic sentinels. “If not, we need to think about… we need to consider the possibility of writing this one off.”
General Einhart shook his head. “Sir, you don’t understand. When we say we have nothing on this enemy, we mean it. We cannot destroy them with no data collection. What if this is not an isolated event?”
“I need to contact the President. We need to call an emergency conference to consider our options.” At the other end of the video feed, Minister Dawn stood, preparing to end transmission. “But the only options I see are sending in men or sending in ordinance.”
“I see one other option.” General Edgers turned his eyes on Max.
* * *
Nikki shook off the impact and got to her feet. She had not taken a hit like that since her first day in the Recycling Bay when she got confused and let a crane slam a steel beam into her from behind. The pretense of being a normal human was impossible for her to maintain after that.
The creature scurried down the side of the bay wall and dropped to the floor like a cockroach. It did not hesitate or act confused by her survival. It sensed only prey and did not overanalyze the situation.
Nikki reciprocated.
It moved like a bullet, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Nikki dove out of the way as razor-like claws sliced the air above her. The tail came next, following up the attack with a stab meant to impale her like Sergeant Kaminski. She parried the blow, but the force was enough to stagger her. She dropped to her ass and scrambled back, sliding out of the creature’s reach.
Nikki halted right next to the closed-arch plasma saw, a high-grade steel cutting tool that resembled a flaming chainsaw on a lever arm attached to an 800-pound, mobile surface that she used to cut through old tank barrels.
As the creature charged, she ripped the saw from its hinges and fired it up. She took the enemy’s fingers with the first swipe. As it retreated, the tail came at her again. It did not learn quickly; Nikki did. She dodged the strike, and her left hand shot out, grabbing the tail as it passed. The blade blazed through the steel-like armor of the monster’s tail like a dry twig.
Nikki over-extended and the creature’s reflexes rivaled her own. The swipe caught her from behind, slicing into her back and sending her tumbling across the floor. She still gripped the saw, but the creature bore down on her with the frantic haste of an imminent kill.
Instead of getting to her feet, Nikki pushed herself backward and swung the saw above her head. The tool cut halfway into the sturdy pylon, but it was enough considering the weight atop it. With a loud groan, the metal gave way to drop the front end of the shelf.
The monster paid no heed to the shelf above; its focus fixed on taking her while she was still prone. At the last second it looked up and tried to reverse its momentum, but the rack of saw-cut artillery barrels rained down on it like a volley of quarter-ton arrows.
Nikki climbed atop the pile of steel tubes and looked down at the insectoid head of the creature. It focused on her and tried to move, but the wreckage had mangled its body. Nikki flared the plasma arch on the saw and bent to her task.
* * *
“I’m sorry, but… what on earth is an ASH Soldier?” General Stinson glanced around the room, flummoxed.
“Advanced Synthetic Humanoid.” Max pulled out a data card and plugged it into the table, throwing a general outline of the project up on the screen. “Genetically engineered and trained from birth to be more human than a human. Then, before seeing her first battle, we replaced her with the WASP and sent her to an outdated munitions surplus to be a glorified janitor.”
“The WASP has saved countless human lives, including those of your obsolete abominations.” Minister Dawn had taken offense to Max’s statement, as expected.
Max did not back down from the argument. “68 dead, Minister, all by suicide. Seven remain. Is that what you mean when you say you saved them? We nurtured them into warriors from conception. When we took that job away from them we took away their reason for living.”
The minister smirked, the drone camera focusing on Max even as the image on the screen remained facing forward. “Then I guess they weren’t as tough as you say.”
Max clenched his fist. “If any of my girls were on Ishtar 4, you can bet your damn company they would be fighting these attackers, not hovering overhead in indecision.”
“Actually, Mr Ishikawa, your statement is about to be put to the test,” General Einhart said. “There is a single ASH soldier stationed at Fort Preston. She works deep under the surface, away from the public.”
Einhart slid a photo of a pale, athletic woman with short, crimson hair onto the screen and Minister Dawn scoffed. “That Amazonian stripper is supposed to be some sort of super soldier? She belongs on a stage at a porn club that caters to freak fetishists, not in the field.”
“Nikki… the Beast,” Max whispered as he stood and stared at the girl on the screen.
“Was she yours, son?” the Commander General asked.
“Lieutenant Ishikawa piloted Ryoko, the Death Angel; the only ASH to see real combat.” General Edgers slid a dossier cover sheet into the lower corner of the screen. The picture was of a black-haired, East-Asian woman with a scar over her nose. The letters MIA were stamped over her face.
Max flinched at the sight of his ASH soldier. “Sir, I can pilot Nikki… if there’s still an operational Chair and we can form a connection. With a Pilot guiding her, we might turn this from disaster. If she’s there, in that hell-hole, I guarantee she’s already fighting.”
* * *
Nikki ripped her bed from the brackets that anchored it to the ground then slammed the forty-pound sledge into the wall behind it. With her adrenaline still spiking from the battle, it only took a few seconds for her to smash through the concrete. She reached into the hole and pulled the sturdy cargo chest free from where it slumbered. What remained of her combat gear was still serviceable. She wished she still had her tech or some of her weapons, but at least they’d allowed her to keep the Aerolite knife she was issued upon maturity.
She stripped out of her maintenance overalls and stretched the snug, polymer combat suit over her legs. The green and slate material reminded her of training and her skin tingled as she zipped the front over her breasts and up to her neck.
Without warning, Nikki's body locked up and an intense pain washed over her with dim familiarity. She could barely remember what it felt like to experience a forced link. The neural connection was no longer strong; a muscle she could not exercise to keep it operational. She fought her brain's reaction to the foreign Pilot and tried to relax.
Nikki? Nikki, are we linked up?
The voice was in her head. For a moment she thought it might be Gavin and elation filled her. But the voice held a different accent, sounded older. It was not her Pilot.
“Connection is green. Nikki, call sign: Beast, awaiting orders.”
Maximus Ishikawa, call sign: Shogun, assuming Pilot Chair. What is your status, Beast?
She recognized her Pilot as soon as he stated his name. Lieutenant Ishikawa had piloted Ryoko throughout the training. “I am five-by-five, sir. I encountered an unidentified Tango seventeen minutes earlier. Tango was threat level red; it killed Sergeant on Post and came at me.”
Where is the Tango now, Beast?
“Tango neutralized, sir. I subdued it with an improvised trap of old artillery barrels and then decapitated it with an industrial plasma saw. As the Tango was unknown, I quartered it and inspected its internal structure to ensure death.”
You cut it in
to pieces?
“I had to be sure, sir.”
She could feel his laughter in her head.
Beast, I will upload all the intel we have. The higher-ups are still crafting your mission parameters, but here's the situation: as far as we know, the base is overrun. We have little intel on the attackers, and that’s the problem. However, the drones keep all recorded info and reports on a shared data cloud. If you can make it to the hangar bay on the top level, there should be ships with AI on board who have access to this data. That’s your way out, Beast.
Nikki finished gearing up and returned to the recycling bay. No other creatures had entered yet. “Sir, all I can tell you is that the enemy is incredibly dangerous and its internal makeup is biotechnological. Sending you images now.”
Nikki looked through what remained of the creature. Through the Neural link, her Pilot uploaded the feed from her eyes into the computers at Central Command.
Beast, right now we must assume the WASPs will never break free from this glitch that keeps them from recognizing the Tangos. If there are any survivors up top, they are not equipped to defend against something like this. I will upload the mission parameters as soon as I have them. For now, I want you to locate weapons – anything you think will be effective against these things, and button up. You're going into combat.
* * *
Sergeant Lancell checked on what remained of his staff as a few of the heartier engineers worked on the barricade at the only entrance to the Human Resources office. His secretary, Private Fialto, lay across a cot, her left leg shredded from the ankle halfway up her thigh. The painkillers helped, but every time Fialto glanced at what was left of her leg, Lancell could see the havoc it wreaked on the private’s mind.
“Why aren’t the WASPs firing?” Lancell looked up into his subordinate’s frenzied eyes. Though numbed to the pain, she gripped the side of her cot until her knuckles whitened. “They just floated there, Sergeant. That thing sliced Renfro right in half then came straight at me and tried to filet me like a damn halibut… the WASPs didn’t do a damn thing. I thought they were supposed to protect us.”
Sergeant Lancell gripped her shoulder but he had no answers.
He stood and looked around at the others. When he spoke, he kept his voice just loud enough to be heard. “I need someone to take inventory – anything and everything we have available. Prioritize tech and communications… we need to find out who else is out there.”
“Sergeant, uh… shouldn’t the Colonel be giving the orders?” Private Holiday had been in his office for sporting a non-regulation Mohawk when the invaders hit.
Lancell straightened and took another look around. A female in an officer’s uniform sat along the wall, staring off into the distance. On her collar was a subdued black bird with spread wings. Amid all the chaos, he had not immediately noticed her.
He walked over to where she sat and stood at attention. “Ma’am, it appears you are in line for command—”
“I’m not, Sergeant.” The woman cut him off and broke out of her stare to look up at him. Her eyes held as much fright as Private Fialto, if not more. “I… can’t. You, Sergeant… you’re doing well. Please, whatever you need to do… you’re in command.”
Sergeant Lancell nodded. He did not bother with a salute and, considering the combat zone they found themselves in, figured he could argue his decision if needed.
He turned from her and made his way back through the cramped office. “I need some kind of communication, soldiers. Get me something I can reach out with.”
As if on command, a voice drifted from near the back of the office, near Private Holiday. “Beast to Home Station, calling anyone up top.”
Sergeant Lancell snapped his gaze to where the voice emanated. “What is that, the intercom? Private, find it and drop the volume, now.”
Any of the survivors who could still walk crowded around as Sergeant Lancell took control of the comm link and answered. “This is Sergeant Lancell; I copy. Who am I speaking to?”
“Call sign: Beast, Sergeant. I am currently in the Recycling Bay. Give me your coordinates and I will make my way to you. Over.”
“Someone’s still alive in the Recycling Bay?” Sergeant Lancell looked over at the green Private. “That’s deep below us; at least a thousand feet.”
Sergeant Lancell depressed the comm button. “Negative, Beast… whoever you are. Topside is overrun. I say again, topside is overrun. For your own safety, stay put and do not rely on the WASPs; they are on the fritz.”
The voice came back, cold enough to match the attitude of the invaders. “Sergeant, if you want to live, you will tell me where you’re at and then keep radio silence until I reach you. Do you copy?”
Sergeant Lancell glanced at the other soldiers gathered around the comm link. They all wore puzzled expressions. If this were a drill, they would laugh their asses off at the jack-ass who had watched too many action movies during R&R. Whomever spoke on the other end of the link seemed to know they were under siege and by something sinister, yet they still insisted on emerging from what had to be the safest place on base.
He depressed the link once more. “Soldier… who are you?”
* * *
“It doesn’t make any sense. Why females?” Max could hear Minister Dawn’s drone hovering behind him as he fine-tuned the synaptic calibrations to strengthen his link to Nikki. They had wasted too much time talking already, but the Minister still worried about his corporate interests and would not let his skepticism rest. “You make men for combat; anyone knows that.”
“We tried males first,” Max said. “The genetic treatment kept causing them to process protein incorrectly. They naturally bulked up too much in training, which caused their mobility to plummet.” Max finished his work and launched himself into the Chair. “The females did not have this issue. Since we were, at the time, warring with Fundamentalists, we also speculated the enemy would underestimate female soldiers… as you just did.”
“Well, it doesn’t appear this enemy goes easy on either gender.” Minister Dawn’s drone glided over to the uploaded photos of the alien creature and the man on the screen shuddered. “She’s a hell of a killer, I’ll give you that much, Lieutenant. But if she had a time with just one of those things, what can she be expected to do against a dozen?”
Max fitted the cranial controls into place and stared forward, bracing himself for the link. “Find a good seat, Minister. I’m about to show you what an ASH Soldier is capable of.”
* * *
A sword?
Nikki lifted the blade and then slapped it to the electromagnet on the back of her harness; it snapped into place and held. “I needed a hobby. It’s antiquated… like me.”
But you have a gun, too… right?
Nikki buckled the prototype 30mm, cylinder-fed shotgun to her harness and holstered a 50-caliber Harkama Juggernaut to her thigh. “Of course.”
She started the GravLift on the manual cart and pushed it into the elevator.
Is that what I think it is? Where did you even find that?
“In the back,” Nikki replied with a smile. “Let’s hope there’s ammunition left for it in the ordinance bay on level two.”
Why is it still in the protective case?
Two Tangos entered the elevator as the doors opened, searching for the occupants. When they noticed the opening in the ceiling, it was too late. Nikki cooked off her improvised incineration grenade and dropped it into the carriage, kicking the hatch shut after it.
The aliens screeched and thrashed below her and the soles of her boots smoked against the metal roof. After a few minutes, when the thrashing stopped, she opened the hatch and dropped down into hell. One Tango still scratched at the walls of the elevator, its metallic exoskeleton blackened and warped. Her knife penetrated its bulky skull and shut down its brain with ease. The other Tango took the brunt of the initial flare and lay in the corner, resembling the remnants of tunnel rats that had strayed too close to the recycling pi
t.
The protective case of her big gun, designed to endure the extreme heat of the lower levels, was slightly compromised, but still operable. She grabbed the cart and pushed it out of the flaming carriage, turning her head and blowing out a small flame that had caught on her shoulder.
* * *
Sergeant Lancell leveled the carbine at the door alongside five other men. They had found an old cache of emergency weapons and ammunition; a throwback to the days when the drones were new and untested. The log registry on the cache showed a name he did not recognize, and he had worked this area of the base for over five years.
Sergeant Lancell placed Holiday in charge of servicing the weapons and making sure they were in operation. The man still had his mosquito wings and his full combat training amounted to two weeks of voluntary training in Fort Kyle, Texas, on Earth –learning how to fire and clear jams on old bull pups. That made the private the most experienced weapon specialist among the group.
“Sergeant, I can’t do this,” Private Holiday wheezed. His knuckles glowed white as he gripped his weapon to his shoulder. “I shot at fragging holograms on Earth. I wasn’t even a squad leader in Basic.”
Sergeant Lancell grabbed the skinny kid by the lapel and yanked him close. Outside the door, the creatures tore at the metal, clawing their way in through reinforced steel like plywood. “Lock it up, Private. Fate doesn’t give a shit about your readiness; it calls you up regardless. You are the most experienced among us; I don’t need you to be a squad leader; I need you to remember how to clear a jam and to shoot straighter than you’ve ever shot in your short life. That is the extent of your responsibilities at this moment. Now can you do that, Private?”
A metallic claw punched through the steel of the door and tore a diagonal line across it. Alien hands pulled on the weakened steel, widening the breach. Green, drone-like eyes peered in at them, taking in their numbers and resistance force.
Sergeant Lancell lined up the quick-sight apertures on the hole in the door. “On my command! Select your target. Alternate your fire. Ready?”
The sergeant’s finger slipped over the edge of the trigger and he wiped the sweat off against the side of his uniform before replacing it. He might have worried about normal things like recoil or ricochet if it were not for the face of death glaring at him from behind the six-inch gorge in the top half of the door.
