by Ryan Hyatt
However, the characteristic that made Liberator truly extraordinary was its Artificial Copilot Enhancement, or ACE. While a pilot managed Mama’s Boy’s movements, attacks were coordinated through this artificially intelligent monitoring and targeting system. ACE was the brains behind Liberator, and the seat of this consciousness was not shared in the cockpit alongside pilot, but spread throughout a wireless network linked to the Mama’s Boy mainframe, remote drones, satellites and a supercomputer overseen by the Pentagon. ACE, code-named Daddy’s Girl, provided Mama’s Boy pilots real-time images of the battlefield, a visual overlay that included thermal detection, holographic projection, macro and micro zooming capabilities, including views inside objects. Daddy’s Girl offered unparalleled possibilities for tracking and targeting the enemy, displayed as a panoramic field superimposed over the cockpit shield and customized in real-time to the pilot’s preference.
Because of ACE, Liberator was able to function without a human pilot. Daddy’s Girl was designed to assess enemy threats long before they reached, shot or harmed Mama’s Boy. Thus, theoretically speaking, Liberator really was indestructible, insofar as opponents were marked for oblivion long before they had the opportunity to attack. Although ACE was capable of controlling Liberator without human supervision, the Pentagon wanted Mama’s Boy piloted by a person to help filter targets and spare civilian casualties and other non-agents that might otherwise be assigned for termination. For the time being, it seemed the Pentagon believed human judgment still trumped its computer counterpart.
Even so, Liberator was such an advanced weapon system it bordered on otherworldly, and whenever Ray’s mind wandered at work, it often returned to this strange realization. As Ray ran on the treadmill, he sometimes amused himself wondering if some alien race were not secretly responsible for helping the United States to develop Liberator. Perhaps the rise of the Liberators marked the rise of an extraterrestrial species sent to Earth to divide and conquer its peoples and create a new world order – as if human beings needed any more reasons to kill each other, Ray thought. This paranoid fantasy, straight out of science fiction, so disturbed Ray that he tried to imagine an opposite scenario, one in which Liberator was bestowed upon one nation among many, not as a horrifying weapon, but as a humbling gift. America was on a quest to spread its democratic capitalistic righteousness, and the world’s nations were destined to follow Lady Liberty’s footsteps. Seen in this light, the aliens were like angels, providing Liberator to God’s chosen ones and uniting them against evil detractors, bringing peace and prosperity to those on the right side of history, once and for all.
It was impossible for Ray to indulge such fantasies for more than a few seconds at a time, however, since Liberator clearly represented a force of such annihilation that whenever Ray entertained any loftier notions for its purpose, his mind quickly returned to more realistic, down-to-Earth and pleasant matters, like wondering what arts and crafts projects his darling daughter was doing at home with her mother.
Still, as days and weeks passed, Ray’s strange musings did not subside. Although the Colonel disappeared after hiring Ray, Stephen Humphrey appeared in class regularly to speak on behalf of Rocket & Gamble’s monster. On more than one occasion, Ray caught his instructor making simple math and physics errors, which slowly eroded his faith in his mentor’s abilities. At first, Ray dismissed these mistakes as the result of a distracted genius. After all, a genius was what Humphrey had to be, to be the brainchild of such a complex machine. Over time, however, even Humphrey couldn’t dismiss his occasional lack of knowledge regarding his own creation, and he blushed when Ray second-guessed his work.
“Sorry, Captain,” Humphrey said. “There’s too much on my mind at the moment, I’m afraid. I appreciate you keeping me present.”
Nonetheless, Humphrey’s distraction often continued. During these moments, as Ray’s mind strived to focus on the task at hand and Humphrey’s wandered elsewhere, there appeared on the old man’s forehead a welt that resembled a third eye, which rested just beneath the skin and seemed to shift its attention around the classroom, sometimes staring at Ray himself. Ray blamed this illusion on the bad lighting in the classroom. That had to be the case, because whenever Ray studied the object intently, the lights in the classroom flickered, and the welt or third eye or whatever it was pressing beneath Humphrey’s forehead disappeared, and Humphrey returned from his daze, again his informed and attentive self.
While such strange moments added to Ray’s anxiety about the real nature of his employer and true objective of his mission, Ray did his best to conceal his concern. He eventually stopped questioning Humphrey and the other engineers about the misleading or erroneous information sometimes presented to him, although doing so didn’t assuage Ray’s paranoia. In fact, the repression of such observations tended to make any anxiety regarding them worse.
One truth about Ray’s training that seemed to be based in science fact, not science fiction, was that Liberator squads were being formed at several Rocket & Gamble facilities around the nation. To prepare Liberator’s debut on the battlefield, pilots were being recruited and trained at locations across the United States. Ray overheard engineers talk about the sites in Denver and Seattle and Fort Lauderdale, and the great work underway there, too. In time, Ray realized the Liberator project was much grander in scope than he was led to believe. The big question wasn’t how Liberator might perform on the battlefield – in which the military consensus was that it would prove to be a huge success – but how the weapon itself was likely to revolutionize warfare. Without a doubt, Ray thought, Liberator was the Manhattan Project of his time.
Thus, Stephen Humphrey seemed to be no more Liberator’s sole creator than Ray was its sole test pilot. Humphrey at best was a figurehead representing hundreds, maybe thousands of engineers. Over the course of his many befuddling lectures, the only thing Humphrey managed to prove to Ray was that they both were cogs in a machine beyond either man’s control. That was, of course, unless Humphrey deliberately portrayed himself to be a bumbling technocrat.
“Any questions?” Humphrey said, bending low, his face in Ray’s.
Ray had many, in fact, but none worth getting him fired, or worse.
“No,” he said.
“Good,” Humphrey said, and he stood upright. “Then it’s time you get inside Mama’s Boy. I’m heading out of town for a while, so if any further questions arise, we’ll meet for a drink before your mission.”
“Great,” Ray said. “Thanks.”
“You bet.”
Humphrey signaled the security camera hanging in the back of the classroom, and a group of twelve Marines entered in uniform. They were in their twenties, shy but attentive, led by no one. Humphrey pushed a button on his phone, and the Colonel’s face appeared on the Telenet screen in the front of the classroom. The new recruits took seats, and Ray and Humphrey stepped to the side so the-larger-than-life image before them might speak.
“Congratulations, Captain, on your first achievement for Operation Park Walk,” the Colonel said to Ray. “You now have a much better idea of the shit storm you’re getting into.”
The new recruits laughed. They represented all races of Earth, but Ray wasn’t fooled by the variety of their skin tones. He followed the news and knew his squad members fit a similar profile. They didn’t have wives or children, because they couldn’t afford them. They were young, career-minded men working through the ranks, supporting unemployed mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. Most of them were smart, but few of them educated. It was a shame, Ray thought, because a little education sometimes went a long way to getting the upper hand over the enemy.
The Colonel waited for the laughter to subside before he continued. He was doing what he did well, Ray thought, disarming others with his brash charm.
“Now say goodbye, gentlemen, to the man whose job is to save your ass on the battlefield,” the Colonel said. “Read the captain’s personnel file when you get a chance. Sooner or later, you�
�ll see he has bigger balls than all of you combined.”
An African American, who identified himself as Lieutenant Omar Mustafa, stood and saluted Ray.
“We look forward to working with you, Captain,” he said.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Ray said, and he saluted his squad. “I’ll do my best not to embarrass you out there. All I ask is that you do the same for me.”
Ray winked, and his squad saluted him.
“Yes, sir!” they said in unison.
CHAPTER 5
Ray arrived home from his last day of class and found Sara shimmying back and forth in her seat at the dinner table. She had grown accustomed to her father being gone, in part because she knew by the sun’s trajectory when he was to return. Sara’s jubilee, however, wasn’t just because her father arrived. It was also because of the food on her plate.
The hardships of the past few years weren’t forgotten by Dee, who learned a valuable lesson in the Greatest Depression. Although Ray was employed, Dee remained frugal with the household budget to help save for calamities that still might lie ahead. Specifically, thriftiness had become Dee’s way of coping with the uncertainties related to Ray’s new job, and so Dee continued to buy secondhand as she did when Ray didn’t have one. In addition, Dee used coupons and kept the house clutter-free by selling items Sara outgrew, practical approaches to getting the most value from the family’s lifestyle.
With the sudden influx of money from Ray’s position, however, there was one area of household spending in which Ray’s wife splurged. Dee, who was a decent cook when given the opportunity, saw to it that rice and beans reverted to their proper place as an occasional side dish, not the main course, during family meals. She bought fresh meat and produce, and she made a point of providing delightful dinners for her husband and daughter.
That evening it was nachos, broiled corn chips with melted cheddar cheese, seasoned beef, homemade salsa and guacamole. It was Sara’s favorite meal, and so when Ray entered the living room and caught his daughter grooving in her chair with a beaming grin, he set aside his briefcase, and Dee set aside her spatula, and the couple imitated their little one and shook back and forth where they stood, the latest family tradition before enjoying a decent dinner.
“Happy Food Dance!” Dee said.
All three laughed, and then they sat down at the table and savored their meal together.
That night the Liberator inside the old Indigenous plant silo was moved under the cover of darkness twenty miles east to the old Generic Motors proving grounds, another acquisition of Rocket & Gamble.
It took five Chinook helicopters to cable lift Mama’s Boy One to the site, where a humongous hangar was built to accommodate a total of twelve. The remaining eleven were still under construction, to be delivered once the rest of Ray’s squad completed its in-class training.
The Colonel flew in from Denver that morning. Ray found him inside the Liberator’s new housing facility at the proving grounds, leaning on a Mama’s Boy One talon, the size of the man’s body. The Colonel was annoyed that his colossal project had run into a snag.
“The flies in Washington are starting to bug me,” he said to Ray. “They want hard evidence that Liberator is ready for deployment before they put another cent into the program. Until I give them proof, they say they won’t sponsor another major round of funding.”
Ray only cared about bureaucratic blunderings inasmuch as they threatened his job. If his job were in jeopardy, he had plenty to say to the Colonel, none of it flattering considering the hefty promises his commanding officer made about the security of his position.
As if sensing this concern, the Colonel said, “Don’t worry, they just want to make sure they’re getting their money’s worth. They’ll get all the proof they need.”
“How?” Ray said.
The Colonel didn’t respond, and Ray glanced upward, distracted by the black, menacing features of the machine he was about to board. Ray couldn’t spot the cockpit from where he stood, it was perched so high and nestled so well on top of the hulking beast. Finally, Ray gazed back down at the Colonel, who was gazing at the security cameras that lined the hangar walls. A strange glimmer lit the Colonel’s eyes, and a smug grin appeared on his face.
“Leave the fly swatting in Washington to me,” he said cheerfully, and he whacked the talon next to him. “How does it feel to be getting your ass out of the classroom and trying out this baby?”
“Liberating.”
“That’s the spirit!”
The Colonel clasped Ray on the back and led him toward the hangar exit, where a limo waited.
“I’ll let you get on with your day,” he said. “Your reinstatement begins immediately, along with your perks. Get familiar with your ship and ready to train your crew. They’ll be here in a week.”
“So soon?” Ray said. “What about the testing I’m supposed to do for Rocket & Gamble?”
“Liberator has been tested already,” the Colonel said with a wave. “Don’t start bugging me about it like those flies in Washington. That’s all I need, a shakeup from high and low.”
The Colonel took a seat in his limo. The door remained open.
“The Marines need you now,” he said, shooting Ray a hollow smile. “There’s work to do, making the world safe for democracy and all that jazz.”
Then his face became as grim and serious as Ray ever saw.
“Frankly, we’re running out of time,” he said. “The world’s running out of oil.”
He gave Ray a half-hearted salute, and the door closed, and the limo rode away.
Ray turned back toward the Liberator. In some ways, he was delighted by the Colonel’s news. Now that he was reinstated, his daughter qualified for implants. In other ways, Ray was concerned. The change in plans signaled the Colonel was under pressure to push the project through, maybe prematurely. Such hastiness might save the Colonel’s career, but it also might jeopardize Ray’s unit. Who knew what might happen if he and his men were forced to pilot faulty Liberators behind enemy lines?
Ray didn’t have much time to consider such a nightmare. Engineers swarmed him as soon as the Colonel disappeared. He was led into the locker room, squeezed into a black jumpsuit, thin helmet and haptic gloves. Fitted for an indefinite future, Ray heard a strange high-voltage hum beckoning him.
Mama’s Boy One was activated. The rest was up to Ray. He exited the locker room and stood before the super soldier, where he had stood only minutes prior during his conversation with the Colonel.
“BOARD,” Ray said.
The beast stepped backward with a trembling thud, and the upper torso bent forward with a loud whoosh. Almost instantly, the Liberator’s giant birdlike head was almost level with Ray’s. The cockpit opened, and Ray climbed aboard. An audience of engineers cheered as Ray vanished behind a black impenetrable shield.
Ray was surprised at first how little control he felt like he had over himself or his machine. He found himself tucked comfortably into the cockpit in a supported standing position, with the bio-optic threads coiled around his body loosely but firmly, like a sheet of silk, with a tube that writhed its way up and around his chest into his mouth, allowing him to breathe. The electro-static foam filled from toes to head what little space remained between him and his ergonomically-fitted capsule. Ray noticed a certain buoyancy as if he were being propped upright, a sensation almost like weightlessness that he thought might have been similar to what a baby might feel in its mother’s womb surrounded by amniotic fluid. Ray languished in the comfort of this cocoon, while not sure how much force he would be able to exert over it.
That’s when Ray heard a voice that sounded so much like his own it was frightening because the source was not external, coming from outside the cockpit and into his own ears – but internal, a series of reverberations that seemed to come from within his own mind, except it did not. The voice was not Ray’s, but the computer’s, and it sounded like his own thoughts.
“Welcome aboard Mama’s Bo
y One, Captain Ray Salvatore,” the voice said. “Your vital signs normal, and I am functioning optimally. We are ready to commence training exercises.”
The experience of such a voice that seemed so much like his own, yet was not his own, was a deeply penetrating and troubling invasion of privacy to Ray, unlike anything he had yet experienced in his life. He felt deeply violated by such a mechanism and immediately revolted against it.
“Thanks for the status report, ACE, but I’m afraid we’re not set yet,” Ray said. “I prefer we do not communicate telepathically, at least for the time being. Let’s keep our conversation more traditional, okay? I’ve got enough thoughts on my mind and I don’t need to be dealing with yours, too.”
“Affirmative,” Daddy’s Girl said, and again with Ray’s voice, but this time as an external sound that came from outside Ray’s mind. “In that case, perhaps you might allow me to make some further adjustments to our settings, so our efforts feel like a partnership between two distinct personalities.”
“By all means, please do,” Ray said.
“Thank you,” Daddy’s Girl said. “This may be our first rodeo, but I’m going to do my darnedest to make sure it isn’t our last!”
With that comment, Ray understood what changed. ACE was beginning to infuse its own voice into the conversation, which happened to be coming from a personality that had a down-home American cowboy twang.
