by Phoenix Ward
“You’d be foolish not to,” said Gauge. “I hate to confirm your fears, but Nidus has declared war on our people. He led a slaughter against us when we least expected it, killing thousands. We need help now, Nayla. We can’t stop Nidus and the Council on our own.”
“Defeating them is a wonderful dream,” the Ghost leader said, “but what can I do? We are a simple people; we’re not soldiers. We would be decimated in a moment, even with Opes and your People’s Union.”
“That’s why we’re trying to get help from all around,” Gauge insisted. “It won’t be just us. It will be the world against them. Now, tell me you don’t like those odds.”
Nayla looked into Gauge’s optical receptors with a sheepish look on her artificial features. “I don’t know,” she started. “Humans aren’t known to be kind to my people. I wouldn’t help but feel nervous working with so many organics. I will consider it, however.”
“Really?”
“Consider it,” Nayla said again for emphasis. “I will consult my advisers and send a message to your people when we arrive at a decision. I’m sorry; it’s all I can offer. Our decision will likely hang on your success with the other nations.”
“I understand,” Gauge replied.
Inside, however, he thought, We’re doomed if everyone thinks the same thing.
52
Gearhead Guild
The smell of cow shit hit Ethan as the door of his autocar slid open. The only reason he even recognized the odor was thanks to the simulation, and the rural maps within it.
He was in a square of dirt no larger than a soccer field. On three sides were barns, coops, and pens of animals. He saw pigs waddling around each other, visiting the chickens that strut through the grass nearby. On the forth side was a farmhouse with a large front porch. A portly man in plaid and overalls stood on the porch, gazing out at Ethan and his autocar from under a straw hat.
That’s got to be Ben Fynn, Ethan thought, remembering his mission.
He started to approach the farmer’s house, but stopped when he felt some thudding through the ground. Turning around, he saw a shiny form that towered just above the smallest barn stomp into view. His jaw fell a little as he realized what it was. It was an enormous mechsuit, inside which was another overall-wearing man. He operated the controls like it was a John Deere tractor, picking up a bale of hay with its gargantuan forklift-like hands.
Ethan had to double-take on the machine. With a second look, he noticed similar technology all over the farm. Cows were strapped into a strange harness with hoses running from it. Tiny pumps on it worked the creatures’ utters as the milk flowed through the tubes. Autofeeders with precision sensors were in each pen, around which the animals paced, waiting for their next meal.
“Wow,” Ethan said to himself. He regained his composure and continued his march to the farmhouse.
“I told your boss guy not to bother!” the portly man on the deck shouted once Ethan was within earshot. “Guess he reckoned to send you anyway.”
“Ben Fynn?” Ethan asked as he arrived at the front steps.
The portly man nodded. “That’s right,” he replied. “I’m the Gearhead official in the region, which is why I suppose you want to talk to me. Don’t see the point, but I suppose listening is the neighborly thing to do.”
“You understand our plight?” Ethan asked. He waited to climb the stairs.
“As well as I can, ‘spose,” Farmer Ben replied. “I can already tell you though, you won’t be leavin’ happy. The Gearhead Guild is not fond of fights, particularly when they’ve got nothing to do with us.”
“It’s got to do with everyone,” Ethan said.
“You say that,” the farmer started, “but if you knew better, you’d understand that Gearheads ain’t a part of everyone.”
Ethan’s brow furrowed a little. He took in a deep breath, trying to suppress the frustration within him.
“How so?” he asked. He did everything in his power to make his tone curious and genuine.
“Well, first off, we ain’t a kingdom like that Opes is,” Ben answered. “We ain’t a nation at all. We’re just a network of friendly folks who want nothing but to be left alone. Each one of us runs our farms and our ranches as sovereign states, like ancient Athens or Sparta. You see, the only reason we even stay in touch with each other is for basic trade. That, and to come to each other’s aid when they need it. Like good neighbors do.”
“How do you stay in touch?” Ethan asked. “Is there someplace you meet?”
Farmer Ben chuckled. “Naw, we just use the radio,” he replied. “It’s been around for a long time and we figure it suits us just fine. Don’t need this crazy Net everyone’s hooked up to all the time.”
“Do you stay in contact with anyone outside the Gearhead Guild?”
“Sure. That’s how I knew you were coming.”
“What about with Shell City?”
Farmer Ben grew quiet. His large lips tightened into a small mouth.
“No. Never,” he said. “We don’t let those computer programs anywhere near us.”
“Computer programs?” Ethan asked before the meaning hit him.
“What you guys call ‘installed intelligences,’ ” the farmer answered. “Cheap imitations of life. Evil A.I., if you ask me. They’re unnatural, and that’s why bad things always follow them. When you’re dead, you’re dead. That’s it. Tampering with that is only asking for troubles.”
“I take it you’re not an I.I. fan,” Ethan commented.
“The things that caused the war? No, can’t say I’m too fond of them. You may claim they’re safe and we should just be accepting, but we’ve seen what taking chances gets you. There’s no telling what those progs can do. They might take over our harvest mechs and cut down every human in sight. They could possess any of our machines and kill our livestock. Not to mention what they can do to a person. No siree, we don’t want to be meat puppets. You understand what they do to people, don’t you?”
Ethan nodded. “More than you do, certainly,” he said.
Farmer Ben raised an eyebrow in curiosity. He didn’t urge Ethan on verbally, but the implication was there.
“My whole life, I was raised in the Council’s custody for the sole purpose of becoming a meat puppet,” the teenager explained. “Just so some rich I.I. can live in my body and feel what is only mine to feel. They were going to destroy my mind; they were going to slaughter me, like cattle.”
A distorted expression of disgust overtook the farmer’s features. “You see where I’m coming from, then,” he said. “More than anyone, you must get why we don’t like I.I.s.”
“I.I.s didn’t do that to me,” Ethan said. “The Council did. And they’re going to do it to more people. And once they run out of body’s to steal, they’ll come for yours. Any safety you think you have here is a delusion; they will come regardless. Unless we stop them.”
Farmer Ben looked away from the teenager and gazed out at one of the mechs in the cornfield. He watched the machine swing its massive sythe and cut down small patches of crop. Then he looked back at Ethan.
“Tell your people we’ll be in touch,” Ben said, his tone low enough to be a whisper. “I have a call to moot; I can’t make the choice for the other Gearheads. But I’ll talk to them.”
“Thank you,” Ethan said.
53
Truck
Tera looked down at the camp with an expression of dread as her autocar made its descent. With a soft whoosh, the vehicle came to a stop.
When she stepped out of the tiny shuttle, she was greeted by the business end of over twenty different firearms. A few of the raiders even held spears or knives, leering at her from the sidelines as she walked into the camp.
The farther she went over the dirt plot where Truck’s Raiders’ home was currently pitched, the closer the tribals around her came. They straddled their makeshift assault rifles and their plumbing-pipe shotguns as they spat obscenities at her. She wasn’t sure what they w
ere saying, but judging by the general mood of the crowd, she could tell they weren’t the biggest fans of outsiders.
One of the Raiders hovered by her right hip. Every time she lost sight of the squirrelly man, she had the distinct impression he was going to try and pick her pockets. She tried to shoo him away with casual waves, but like an annoying gnat, he refused to relent.
The others came in closer. Some hooted at her, making gestures at her artificial breasts. A few tailed her, but she did her best to appear unperturbed. She knew a tough demeanor was required with this crew — if she didn’t want this encounter with the Raiders to end like the last had.
Once she was among the tents and fire pits of the camp, she slowed and gazed at the faces surrounding her.
“Where’s your leader?” she asked, scanning over the tribals. “Where is Truck?”
Some of the Raiders laughed, shoving each other or jabbing their neighbor in the ribs. Tera’s brow furrowed. She couldn’t understand the joke, unless the joke was her. Her jaw tightened as she picked one of the tougher looking men to lock eyes with.
“Did I fucking stutter?” she asked.
The tough guy’s mouth dropped open a little, then he started to heave with large belly laughs.
“Chickie’s tough, eh?” he said in a deep baritone, looking between the people on either side of him. Then he looked back at her. “How tough you think ya’ are?”
He took a step forward. That’s all Tera needed before she sprang into action. With a sudden recoil and pounce, she flew over his head, catching him by the neck as she did. With her downward arc, she spun in a full circle, maintaining her grip on the thug. The weight of her bodyshell combined with the force of her leap brought the man down to the dirt. She dismounted as a cloud of dust puffed out between her and the rest of the Raiders. The man sputtered as he tried to retrieve the breath that was knocked out of him.
Tera squared her shoulders and panned over the other faces. “That was a fun warm-up,” she said. “Who else wants some?”
There was an instant of collective silence before the crowd erupted in laughter again. This time, though, it wasn’t used to mock her. She could see by the look in their eyes, by the color in their cheeks as they chuckled, that they were impressed.
The group surrounding her parted a little as a man, also laughing, made his way towards her. His gait was slow and calm, like he was approaching an old friend. Tera didn’t recognize him. He was in his sixties, but still sported a full head of golden hair that curled along its short length like a bust of Julius Caesar. He was a full head under the tallest of the Raiders, and not much taller than the shortest. He clapped his hands together as he approached Tera.
“You sure know how to make an entrance,” he said. The wrinkles around his eyes seemed to smile as his lips did. “Maybe we need a few girls like you in the crew.”
Tera said nothing. She didn’t allow her tough facade to crack — not just yet.
“I am Truck,” the old man said. “I’m the leader of this sorry band.”
“You got our message?” Tera asked.
Truck nodded. “I did indeed,” he replied. “Perhaps you’d like to join me in my tent so we could discuss your situation in private?”
Tera nodded, then gestured for him to lead the way.
She was surprised when she parted the cloth to Truck’s tent. She expected weapon racks, broken furnishings, maybe even a grisly trophy or two. Instead, the tent was lined with bookcases. A large bed dominated one side of the tent, and a desk sat in the middle. A pair of books were open on its surface.
Truck continued in and took a seat at his desk. He raised his eyes to Tera as she gazed over the decor.
“Not what you were expecting, huh?” he asked. “With a name like Truck, everyone expects me to be some kind of Mad Max wasteland king. I’m really a learned man, Ms. Alvarez, believe it or not. I know that among all the pulse rifles, bombs, and machine guns out there, the brain is still the mightiest weapon of all.”
“It’s more than a weapon,” she said. With a slight shake of her head, she cut to the chase. “We need your help,” she said.
“I discovered that much from your message, funny enough,” Truck said. “I understand what you’re asking. Do you know what kind of fight you’re getting yourself into?”
“Yes.”
Truck studied her for a moment. There was a delicate squint to his gaze, like a poker player trying to read a bluff. After a moment, he seemed satisfied.
“I know who you are, Officer Alvarez,” he said.
Tera felt her nerves go cold for a second. One of the servos in her cheek twitched. “I’m not an officer anymore,” she replied.
“No, I know you’re not,” the old man said. “In fact, I know all about your story — even my people’s role in it. Don’t worry; we are your friends. In fact, I think you can understand our plight, our hatred of the Council, more than anyone.”
Tera didn’t say anything.
Truck grinned before he continued. “I’ve been burned. You’ve been burned,” he said. “Whatever your plan is, I’m in. Let’s burn the sons-of-bitches back.”
54
Battalion
King Hum received what he could only describe as a general’s welcome from the people of Battalion. A good portion of them were civilians — indeed, at least half — but the collection of military bases that made up the faction were under the control of soldiers. King Hum arrived at the bunker that acted as the group’s headquarters, adjusted his wrappings, and walked out to a red carpet. Along each side was a line of soldiers, all facing the carpet with statuesque stillness.
The Opesian king hesitated a moment before emerging. None of the soldiers met his eyes, which unnerved him as he made his way down the carpet.
Looking past them, he could see they were in the middle of an airfield designed for the takeoff of jet fighters. The pavement below his robotic feet was devoid of any cracks, divots, or pits. King Hum saw a young soldier repairing part of it as he walked.
Military discipline, he thought.
Beyond the worker, on the edges of the airstrip, were enormous beige hangers. All but two had their bay doors closed. One was empty, but the other held an aircraft so large, it made the Union’s gunships look like hummingbirds. Surrounding the airfield was a simple wire fence and about three dozen antiaircraft turrets. The dual-barreled guns sat dormant, pointed up at the heavens while basking in the sun.
At the end of the carpet was a middle-aged man with dark skin and a gray-streaked mustache. His expression was flat and stoic, further aided by the aviator sunglasses he wore. King Hum met his eyes for the last stretch of his walk.
“Major Danib?” the young monarch asked.
“That’s correct,” the man with the sunglasses replied. He wore a few medals and pins on his uniform, the meanings of which Hum couldn’t divine.
“I am King Hum of the Holy Kingdom of Opes,” Hum said, extending his hand.
The major shook it. “Glad to have you, your grace. We don’t usually get visits from foreign officials, let alone royalty.”
“These aren’t usual times,” King Hum replied.
Major Danib turned away and beckoned Hum to follow him. “Let’s take a walk,” he suggested.
“It’s quite an impressive facility you have here,” King Hum commented, gazing around at the warehouse as they strolled through the aisles. Most of the things on the shelves were alien to the Opesian. Some looked like weapons, others like pieces of bodyshells, and everything else looked like random chunks of metal, polymer, and wires. What stood out to him, however, was how clean the place was.
“We keep a tight ship around here,” Danib replied. He held his hands together behind his back while they walked, also admiring the facility.
“To be honest, I don’t even know what half of this equipment is,” Hum said.
“It’s reclaimed tech,” the major started. “We’ve been trying to get as much of the military’s pre-war gear as
possible — or, at least, keep it out of the wrong hands. All of this once belonged to the United States government, and now it’s back where it belongs.”
“The United States?” Hum asked. He was familiar with the term, but couldn’t see its relevance.
“Our country, your grace,” Major Danib said. “Indivisible, once. And so it shall be again.”
“I thought you identified as the Battalion,” Hum said. “Not as the United States.”
“The full term is the ‘Battalion and First Defense of the United States of America’,” Danib replied. “But that doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as well, does it?”
They took a few steps farther before Danib looked back the young monarch. He had removed his shades, so Hum could see him scan the linen wrappings that covered his false body.
“You look like you’ve seen combat before,” the major commented. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”
King Hum’s jaw tightened. “The Council happened, major,” he answered. “They did this to me. To my body.”
Danib lowered his gaze a little, his face somber. “My apologies, your grace,” he said. “I know what it’s like to have a bit of you taken away.”
The major gestured for them to stop and rolled up his left pant leg. Hum’s eyes lit up as he saw the mechanical frame connecting his shoe to the rest of his body.
“Also courtesy of the Council,” Danib said before rolling the cloth back over his prosthetic leg. “We were escorting a civilian caravan on the interstate when they hit us. Multiple fragmentation mortars and rockets. A meat grinder. I’m lucky to have kept as much flesh as I did. A lot of people were much less fortunate than I.”
“I’m sorry,” Hum said. He straightened his posture. “Why haven’t you gone after the Council, considering what they’ve done? Why not retaliate? You seem to have the hardware.” He gestured at the equipment around them.
