Captain Anger Adventure #1 The Microbotic Menace

by Victor Koman

  “Might not be traceable,” Flash radioed back, but set to the task nonetheless.

  Cap examined the apparatus closely, searching for brand names and serial numbers. The Anger Institute’s computer digitally recorded every word transmitted over their radios as part of its myriad duties. Cap’s transmitters scrambled the messages so that anyone even capable of intercepting the spread-spectrum transmissions would interpret the rasping signals as nothing more than static. If they tried to decode the apparent noise, the most powerful computer in the world-even the Anger Institute’s-would need centuries to find the incredibly huge prime numbers used as multipliers in the intricate mathematical function known as the One Way Trapdoor that served to encrypt the signal.

  “All the serial numbers have been removed,” Cap said. “No unique components here. Off-the-shelf technology. I don’t expect there to be any fingerprints.”

  It was when he concentrated on a deep mystery that Cap looked like the genius he truly was. Even in the absurd, almost surreal costume he wore, the power of his intellect shone through. Standing on the roof overlooking the advance of the ocean of silver locusts, he tugged at the last vestiges of his disguise. He stroked his beard in contemplation. Bits of latex rubber and spirit gum peeled away in his fingers, exposing more of his sharp features.

  His lean and rugged face, though tanned from exposure to sun and wind, displayed none of the creases and leatheriness associated with sun-damage. His ally and personal physician- Dr. Uriah West-used Institute funds exceptionally well in his research into cell repair. Cap’s hair-dark as the rust on ageless steel-lay austerely close to his scalp. Cut short for utilitarian ease, it still revealed a roguish wave that gave him a piratical look, which was not out of character, considering his ancestry.

  His eyes, though, captured the attention of any who saw them. Eyes that looked almost black at first glance revealed themselves to be a deep, rich emerald green when they gazed intently in the search for knowledge and truth. Those eyes gazed now over the parapet at the relentless advance of the microbots.

  “Let’s get back down there, Rock. I want a live sample before we freeze that mass.”

  That’s when the bullets started exploding around them.

  Chapter Eight

  Argent Slaughter

  One of the helicopters circling overhead among the television and police choppers dropped out of the sky, twin turbine engines whining. From concealed weapons pods blazed the unmistakable flashes of machine gun fire. Lead bullets slammed into the roof with the crack and smash of copper-clad death. Splinters of shattered wood and clouds of exploding concrete blossomed around Cap and Rock.

  Cap drew first, whipping the odd black pistol from his holster. Rock-only an instant behind him-snapped the weapon up to aim at the killer swooping in from above. The pistols roared in powerful bursts, firing armor-piercing tracer bullets into the air.

  An instant after firing, both men threw themselves aside and rolled out of the path of the oncoming machine gun blasts. Cap’s headband videocam flew from his skull, clattering across the bullet-riddled roof. The rounds tore apart the mystery camera and its satellite dish. Bits of glass, plastic, and aluminum flew everywhere, accompanied by copper swages and lead fragments from the bullets.

  “Take this up your tailpipe, zhopu kozina!” Rock shouted, using his thumb to flip a switch on the pistol. Fully automatic now, the pistol fired a steady stream of tracers at the retreating helicopter. The orange-red streamers of color flew inexorably toward the aircraft.

  Captain Anger joined in, his pistol still semi-auto. Each shot- though fired in rapid succession-was well-aimed, with Cap swiftly, reflexively calculating the proper angle of fire to ensure that bullet and chopper arrived in the same place at the same time.

  Neither of the matte-black pistols ejected any brass casings. The weapons used caseless 10mm ammunition, which allowed for more than double the number of rounds in a magazine of similar size. And these pistols sported long, fat, double-column magazines, each holding forty-eight rounds, plus an extra one already chambered.

  Rock’s volley and Cap’s more steadily paced stream of rounds hit the copter nearly simultaneously, peppering the fuselage with several direct hits. Undaunted, the aircraft rotated about for another assault.

  With a loud curse, Rock realized that he had fired off his entire load. He ejected the magazine and drew a second from his ammo pouch, slamming it home and releasing the charger, which had locked open after the last round. There was no slide to drive home for there were no cases to eject. The weapon simply blazed out its projectiles without the chatter and rattle of conventional automatic weapons.

  Cap still had half his ammo left. Carefully aiming each rapid shot, he squeezed off an even dozen at the onrushing helicopter. Every one hit their mark, punching twelve holes in the cockpit windshield. He avoided the fuel tanks, knowing that the tracer bullets could turn the onrushing aircraft into a fireball.

  Rock blasted another deafening burst at the chopper, many of the fiery streaks making an impact on fuselage, rotor, and turbines.

  “Run for it!” he shouted, scrambling to the left.

  The chopper, its engines and murderous pilot both dead, hurtled toward them, a mass of metal, glass, and inflammable fuel. Cap estimated where it would hit and jumped far afield, running across the roof to the right and rear, practically under the advancing, falling machine.

  With a shattering collision, it hit the edge of the building and tore out a section of the roof. Without even slowing, it dragged the debris along as it twisted and cartwheeled to the pavement four stories below. A sickening crunch of impact arose from the street.

  Cap rushed to the demolished edge of the building to look down at the scene.

  The helicopter lay in ruins a few yards in front of the advancing silver tide. The smell of spilled jet fuel rose from the wreckage. The other helicopters overhead-police and reporters-jockeyed for the best view of the disaster.

  Without a word, Cap holstered his pistol and climbed down into the gaping wound in the side of the building. Rock followed, warily testing each shattered beam to ensure that it supported his not-inconsiderable weight. Cap moved with far more agility, maneuvering down the tangle of musty old wood and crumbling masonry like an experienced mountain climber on an alpine peak.

  The damage reached to the windows of the second story. Cap gained his footing and paused on the ledge to search for a landing spot clear of detritus. After an instant’s deliberation, he lightly bounded from the ledge and plummeted feet-first toward the sidewalk. Extending his legs without locking his knees, he braced himself for the impact. Feet slammed against the concrete, powerful leg muscles contracted to absorb the energy of the fall. Like a cat he stayed on his feet, bending under the impact of a twenty-foot drop until his haunches very nearly touched his heels. Hands splayed, his fingertips hit lightly against the pavement to steady him and absorb the last few foot-pounds of energy from his fall.

  From that position, he leapt forward like an Olympic sprinter, leaving Rock on the second story to contemplate a less drastic method of reaching ground level.

  Captain Anger bounded over to the crushed bubble of the helicopter. Tearing open the door with one mighty hand, he reached in with the other to feel the throat of the blood-spattered corpse inside. Cap regretted the death of someone who could have provided valuable information. A quick pat search of the body turned up no identification. Cap’s hand came up from its exploration smeared with kerosene and lifeblood.

  He turned the man’s head up; having lost his videocam on the roof, he memorized every feature that might still be recognizable. One ten-millimeter slug had hit the pilot in his jaw, shattering the bone and rendering the lower part of his face an unidentifiable red mess.

  “Cap!” Leila cried. “Get out now!”

  Cap’s gaze darted around the ruined aircraft interior, lighting upon a set of Jeppesen air charts. He seized the binder and jumped back out of the copter just as the advancing
microbotic sea engulfed the wreckage.

  The force of his retreat threw him back against the curb. With grunt, he stood and watched the blob overrun the helicopter, coating it as if an invisible artist electroplated everything in sight with a silver patina. Its contours softened. Within less than a minute, the billions of microbots devoured the obstacle and reduced it to microscopic bits. The minuscule electro-mechanical creatures utilized some of the chemicals-the kerosene and oil in the turbine engines, the glucose and oxygen in the pilot’s flesh and blood-as fuel. Some-the silicon in the electronics, the steel and aluminum in the fuselage-they used to build more copies of themselves.

  They moved westward with unstoppable vehemence.

  Captain Anger eyed the colony of artificial life coolly, considering his options.

  Rock managed to kick in a second story window, climb through, and rush down to join his compeer. He skidded to a halt beside Anger and gaped in renewed awe at the voracious slime, allowing to slip from his tongue on of the few pieces of English slang he’d bothered to incorporate into his vocabulary.

  “Geez, Cap,” he said, “that stuff’s hungry!”

  A truck skidded around the corner at the west end of the street. Cap eyed it with relief. “Here comes an appetite suppressant.”

  A harried young man jumped out of the driver’s seat and bounded over to Dr. Bhotamo. Cap and Rock set to unloading the truckload of cryogenic material. Firemen and police joined in-nervously-and within minutes they had surrounded the moving lake with a perimeter of large dewars-insulated fifty-five-gallon drums.

  At Captain Anger’s request, the driver from Lawrence Livermore Laboratory handed the cryogenic suits to Rock and Leila. The thick, layered suits-similar to the suit Cap wore, if less versatile-glittered with a reflective coating of silvered Mylar. The three, when fully suited, looked like living extensions of the mirror pool. They surrounded the westward-moving lake at equidistant points, each standing near a drum of liquid nitrogen and holding a cryogenic spray gun.

  “Go,” was all Cap had to say.

  The three opened the nozzles and doused the lake with the ultra-cold liquefied gas. As the streams hit the warm afternoon air, clouds of icy vapor erupted, filling the street with an eerie mist that imparted the smell of a snowy day to the block.

  As soon as the flow of nitrogen touched the microbots, the forward motion ceased. The surface took on an unreflective grey cast. Minuscule cracks appeared all over the frozen zone, making a snapping, popping sound similar to the cracking of an icy pond in a spring thaw.

  Whenever a dewar emptied out, they disconnected the nozzle and attached it to another. Working in a clockwise fashion, they soon had the entire sea of electro-mechanical scavengers frozen solid. Cap continued to pour the liquid nitrogen onto the crumbly puddle, its peripheral edges, and the ditch-like scar it left in its wake.

  “Spray everything it might have touched,” Captain Anger said over the commlink. “If even one single unit survives, it could start dismantling the damaged ones and replicate all over again!”

  “Gospodi polimya,” Rock said in awe. He sprayed even more widely, dousing the unreflective grey mass with every last droplet of the nitrogen.

  After a few more moments, Leila’s last drum of nitrogen drained to empty. Cap’s and Rock’s soon followed. Cap set his nozzle on the drum and turned his attention to the smaller puddle that had once been the paramedics and their van. It seemed quiescent at the moment, though Cap knew that a beehive of microbotic activity churned on a molecular level.

  Weir and Kompantzeff wrangled a shiny, studded sphere out of the van. About the size of a soccer ball, it possessed the same hexagon/pentagon design on its surface. At the intersection of each silver pentagon, though, a knob protruded. From each knob dangled a cable shielded in wire mesh. The cables ran to a briefcase-sized control board hefted by an assistant of Dr. Bhotamo. The trio set the equipment down beside Captain Anger at the edge of the puddle.

  Carefully, Cap-still wearing the cryonic insulation suit- knelt and dipped an acid-resistant probe into the mass. It welled up around the plastic scoop like mercury adhering to gold.

  “This stick’s made of long-chain polymers,” Cap said to Dr. Bhotamo, who watched from a respectful distance. “I suspect it will take the microbots longer to break the molecules down than it would something simpler, such as a steel probe.”

  With utmost care, Captain Anger lifted up a silvery blob the size of a pea and turned on his knee toward the metal soccer ball. Lei had opened it along its equator. Rock switched on the power and a humming sound registered just below the level of hearing. With utmost care, Cap held the probe over the center of the containment vessel’s lower half and with one controlled snap of his wrist shook the droplet off the end of the rod. The tiny gob fell an inch and then floated, suspended in the absolute center of the sphere. Cap swiftly tossed the probe into the small pool of microbots, its purpose served, and turned his attention back to the magnetic levitation device. He gingerly hinged the upper half of the sphere into position over the lower half, taking care not to jostle the half that suspended the sample. Until the top was on and all the magnetic beams activated, the slightest motion could send the sample sliding off the magnetic fields and cause it to make contact with part of the machine. If it did that, the microbots would have a new source of raw materials.

  The top in place, Cap engaged the locking bolts. “Activate the magnetic guns in sequence, Lei.”

  Leila typed instructions to the computer controls and watched the screen that gave a virtual image of what was happening inside the ball. The device hissed lightly.

  “Chamber evacuated to pressure of eight torr. Field is on, all beams nominal,” she said. “Sample contained at center of sphere.”

  Rock breathed a heavy Slavic sigh of relief. The microbots floated inside the unit suspended on magnetic beams, as sturdily contained as if they were packed in concrete, yet in contact with nothing but the energy fields that hit them from twenty directions. The microscopic creatures might be able to use the energy in some way, but without any materials to strip and convert into more microbots, they were as helpless as a demolition crew stranded in outer space.

  Cap nodded. “All right.” He turned to Dr. Bhotamo. “With your permission, I’d like to take this over to Lawrence Livermore and analyze it further.”

  “Please, Professor Anger. My lab is your lab.”

  “Thank you. Leila-get this into the van. We’ll work on a defense against them in a moment.” He gazed up through his cold-suit visor toward the building through which the rogue helicopter had crashed. “After that, we’ll track down their source.”

  He turned to Rock. “Let’s freeze that other pool.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Weapon Makers

  Captain Anger gritted his teeth.

  None but his friends and long-time companions Rock and Leila noticed, or even knew why. Only the hardening of his gaze, the tightening of the muscles along his strong jawline gave any clue to his emotion.

  The three had entered a place of war.

  Lawrence Livermore was a scientific research laboratory very similar to the Anger Institute. In low-lying buildings amid footpaths lined with trees, scientists spent their days in contemplation of fascinating and obscure aspects of the laws of nature. With unbridled enthusiasm, they tinkered with mighty machines and miniature wonders, pushing the limits of physics and engineering to astounding extremes.

  But where the Anger Institute dedicated its efforts solely and exclusively toward the betterment of mankind, Lawrence Livermore had another, darker duty. Under contract to the federal government, scientists there daily researched new and more powerful ways to kill.

  They did not view their jobs in such a light. In their own minds, these powerful thinkers considered their tasks to be nothing less than the dispassionate inquiry into the workings of nature. They pondered sub-atomic particles and found ways to break them into the fundamental building blocks of the Unive
rse. What the politicians did with such information, they thought, lay beyond their realm of expertise. They were scientists, not philosophers.

  Captain Anger knew better. As a merchant marine in his younger days, he had stumbled upon many wars fought with weapons of far less sophistication than those designed by his fellow scientists at Lawrence. Even the crudest devices brought misery and devastation wherever they fell.

  Cap could not quite bring himself to hate these scientists who toiled in ignorance of the consequences of their actions, but to him the place spoke of death.

  He followed Dr. Bhotamo down the cool, robin’s egg blue corridor. Willowy Leila and the ursine Russian brought up the rear, wheeling the magnetic suspension unit on a lab cart.

  “I have commandeered a lab for you,” Dr. Bhotamo said, “and I give you my personal guarantee that you won’t be disturbed by members of the press or any others.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Bhotamo ran his ID card through a slot in a set of double doors, which parted at the priority security clearance. Inside was everything Cap would need.

  “What exactly are you planning?” Dr. Bhotamo asked.

  Cap smiled with a wry expression. “I’m planning to develop a microbotic vaccine.”

  •

  For hours Captain Anger sat in front of the atomic force microscope. It gave him a superb view of one of the microbot’s infinitesimal control circuits. With the computer-enhanced image uplinked to Flash via satellite, Cap was able-between the two of them-to divine the exact workings of the tiny terror’s gallium-arsenide brain.

  “It’s fascinating,” Flash said from his lab at the Institute. “Whoever built this has an incredibly fine grasp of three-dimensional circuit design.”