Assimilated

by Nick Webb

  A tense silence. The two officers locked gazes, the tight handshake frozen. “The Changsha lost crew as well,” said Shao, her hand squeezing his back. “I don’t know what your intelligence corps told you, but we only managed two salvos. The first counter-battery hit us on the armored hull. However, an engineering flaw meant that what we thought was our strongest part was actually the weakest. Eighteen crewmen died and the ship was scrapped.”

  Finally, Mattis released Shao’s hand, and the two stood in silence. If he had hurt her hand in any way, she didn’t show it.

  Pitt glared at him, and Ramirez in turn, then stepped in between them. “Well,” he said, “as you know, we all have so much to discuss. No sense in bringing up the past. On either side.”

  “No,” said Shao, clicking her tongue. “Merely observing a historical curiosity.”

  Mattis inclined his head in agreement.

  “Admiral Mattis,” said Ramirez, “let’s go and meet the base commander. Senator Pitt can show the People’s Republic delegation around and get them settled.” Her gentle voice carried with it the hint that her suggestion was something more. “We can reconvene later for dinner.”

  “Of course,” said Pitt, putting his hand on Shao’s shoulder and pulling her away. “I’ll take these ladies and gentlemen on a grand tour.”

  Physically separated by Ramirez and Pitt, Mattis followed Ramirez away from the Chinese delegates.

  “Well,” she said, once they were out of earshot, “that could have gone better.”

  “Are you talking about the conversation, or the war?” asked Mattis.

  She stepped in front of him. “When did you become like this, Jack?” she asked pointedly. “Grabbing some Chinese officer’s hand, bringing up old battles like the Chinese never lost a soul in combat… Do you want me to send you home?”

  A smirk slowly crept across Mattis’s face as he regarded her. “Honestly, you’re the only reason I’m staying around.” He paused. “And Midway.”

  “Two of your old girls in the same place. Must feel like old times.”

  Like old times. Everyone always said that like it was a good thing. “Definitely, Martha. Definitely.”

  They stood there, in the corridor, enjoying a moment of quiet, until Mattis realized just how close they were. He coughed politely and stepped back.

  She did the same thing, but her obvious happiness remained. “Well,” she said, leading him onward, her professional voice in place again. “Let’s meet the station commander. The People’s Republic have their turn now; in a year’s time, we’ll take over. One year each…that’s how it works.”

  That seemed fair. They headed toward the core of the station, Operations and the CO’s ready room.

  “So,” he asked, “what flinty old warrior have the Chinese dragged out to man this…Friendship Station?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, and right as she did so, Admiral Yim stepped out of the CO’s ready room, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand and a tablet in the other.

  Mattis froze, hardly able to believe it. The man had barely changed in twenty years; he still had the same stubble on his chin, baby fluff, the same round face, the same tall and broad frame. The only difference was the gray that had crept in around his hairline.

  “Ah! Here he is,” said Ramirez. “Admiral Mattis, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to your counterpart, the CO of this station, Admiral Yim.”

  Admiral Yim.

  The man who’d killed his brother.

  Lt. Patricia “Guano” Corrick’s Warbird

  Guano stared at the flashing amber light on her fighter’s console in disbelief, half expecting it to disappear, like the whole thing had been a bad dream.

  Then she realized Flatline was screaming at her.

  “Hey! We need to get the fuck out of here! Wake up! Corrick, wake up!”

  Her hands wouldn’t move. Her feet wouldn’t move. All she could do was look at the blinking yellow light and the approaching green dots on her radar.

  Then, all of a sudden, everything started moving again.

  Guano opened the throttle with one hand, jamming the stick into her gut with the other. “Flares!” she shouted as the g-forces pressed her into her seat. “Chaff! Decoy them!”

  Flatline’s fingers thumped on the keys in the background. “Working. Break right! Turn and burn!”

  She yanked the stick to the right, the inertia tugging at her skin. She thumbed the radio button. “CAP 1-1 transmitting in the blind guard, we are buddy-spiked. Bearing 113 mark 201 from station. Abort, abort, abort. I say again: abort, abort, abort.”

  The Chinese said nothing. The amber light continued to flash. The three craft split up, like an opening hand getting ready to grab them. Crush them.

  What was she supposed to do? Fire back? The thought flashed into her head, her eyes falling on the master-arm switch that would move her missiles from safe to live.

  “CAP 1-1 transmitting in the blind guard, I say again, buddy-spike, buddy-spike. You are engaging a friendly craft. Acknowledge!”

  They didn’t.

  They couldn’t keep turning like this. Flatline was right; the Chinese fighters were able to accelerate better. She had to do something…

  She dumped another load of chaff and flipped her ship, drifting backward, her nose pointed to the closest Chinese vessel. She fishtailed, swinging her ship left and right, and flicked the master-arm switch. The hum of her weapons-lock radar filled her ears. Positive target on the main bird. But there were three of them. If she shot, the survivors would shoot back. That was no good.

  The Chinese could accelerate faster than she could, but her side-thrusters were more maneuverable. She could turn better. She needed to play to her strengths.

  Jamming her throttle to one side, she flung her ship perpendicular to them and accelerated, a maneuver called a reverse hook-stop. The spacecraft’s frame shook around them as the lateral forces strained the Warbird.

  Come on, hold together…

  The Chinese tried to turn with them, but their great acceleration was their undoing. They overshot, and in seconds, Guano’s nose was pointing toward their engines, the infrared-guided system locked on all three of them, humming eagerly.

  “Light them up,” said Flatline, gasping for air from the turning. “Shoot those motherfuckers!”

  She almost did. Her finger hovered over the fire button, but instead, she chose the radio. “Midway, CAP 1-1, be advised. We have been radar-locked by Chinese fighters. Have secured an advantageous firing position. Request permission to engage.”

  “Shoot them!” said Flatline urgently. Already the Chinese fighters were beginning to maneuver out of their perfect firing position. “Do ‘em!”

  The voice of Major Muhammad “Roadie” Yousuf, the Commander of the Air Group, her boss, came through on the line. “CAP 1-1, Midway: Priority alert, weapons safe, do not engage. I say again, you are not authorized to fire on any Chinese vessel at this time.”

  “Shit!” she spat. The Chinese fighters turned, repeating her maneuver exactly. Now they faced each other once again. “Midway, they’re still maneuvering for a shot. CAP 1-1 once again requests permission to engage.”

  “Hard pass on that engagement, CAP 1-1. Do not fire.”

  She ran her thumb over the fire button. So close. She could almost feel the missiles begging to leap off their racks and fly toward their targets…

  “This is bullshit,” said Flatline, and she couldn’t help but, at least a little, agree. So tempting.

  “CAP 1-1,” came Roadie’s voice, suddenly much more stern. “Make immediate heading to Midway and RTB. Switch master-arm to safe. Acknowledge, over.”

  The Chinese were right there, and she had a perfect shot, but…orders were orders. “Acknowledged, Midway, CAP 1-1 is RTB.” She tapped her master-arm switch, flicking it to safe, and broke off the attack. If the Chinese were going to shoot, they had ample opportunity, but as her craft pulled away, she could almost hear the three of them laughing a
t her back.

  Flatline let out a loud sigh that came across as more of a crackle over his microphone. “What the hell?”

  “Yeah,” said Guano, “how did a playful race come to that?”

  “Everyone’s on edge,” said Flatline.

  No kidding. Guano made the final turn through the black, the edge of the Midway appearing from behind the station.

  “CAP 1-1”, said Roadie. He sounded pissed. “You are clear to dock in the main fighter bay. Once complete, power down, and you and your gunner are to report to my ready room immediately.”

  “Shit,” said Flatline, his tone bitter. “Well, I hope you weren’t considering a long and proud career in the military either.”

  Did you enjoy this excerpt? Continue reading here

  This was my first book I ever wrote (under my original pen name), and in parts, it shows. But I love this world, and I love this concept: in 50,000 years, everyone is a robot, but doesn’t know it. And it’s a time of sword and sorcery, but the sorcery is just technology inside every person, unaware and unconscious of what’s really going on inside of them. It’s a fun concept, and a fun world to write in.

  Summary: 50,000 years from now, scattered kingdoms rule the earth by the sword. Aeden, a nobleman’s son, desires to follow in his ambitious father’s footsteps, but is invited to join the secretive society of healers by the master healer, who tells him the great secret: that all mankind are robots, or Rohvim. Seeing his city fall to an unknown northern warlord, Aeden escapes, and with other society members sets off on a quest to master his newly discovered Rohva powers and save the kingdom.

  The Rohvim: Book I

  Metal and Flesh

  Prologue

  He looked down at the hand at the end of the arm connected to his body—a hand that had healed hundreds of the sick and maimed, a hand whose still youthful pink skin now trembled slightly as he held the knife up to a fingertip. A thought entered his mind, unbidden:

  I wonder if it will hurt?

  He pressed the blade into the skin as he methodically removed the final inch of flesh that covered the shining metal bone underneath.

  Curious. There is pain. But I don’t care.

  As the first finger oozed blood, he proceeded to repeat the process on the remaining nine fingers. Finished, he then held all ten fingertips over the nearby torch, scorching the flesh until it sealed shut and bled no more. The metal protruding out from his finger stumps was rounded at the tips, and so he picked up a metal file on the table next to him and set to work grinding them down to sharp points. Great splatters of rain soon washed the hand clean as he held it up and nodded his approval. The grizzly work now complete, he looked out over the edge of the second floor portico.

  Lightning surged across the sky—a storm rising up out of the great western ocean lashed the low foothills of the distant coast. Here, further inland, the storm intensified until by the time it raged overhead, the man could hardly hear his attendants over the howling wind as he looked out over his masterpiece. There was little to hear, really. The hooded man stood near the edge of the second floor portico of a large stone building, looking out over the drab plain before shifting his gaze back to his fingers. He motioned to an attendant—a middle aged woman with an expressionless face.

  “Stand there.”

  He indicated a spot near the wall. She trudged to where he pointed, and he stood near the opposite wall some twenty feet away. He aimed his now steel-clawed hand at her, and shafts of blinding white energy leapt out like lightning from the sharpened tips, instantly striking the woman who crumpled without a noise into a smoking, bleeding corpse.

  A thought echoed through the man’s mind: A wonderful innovation, I should have done it earlier. He looked out again over the dark plain, dotted with hundreds of shacks caked with mud from the driving rain. Lightning flashed overhead once more, illuminating the scene before him—an army of thousands stood at attention—men and women, all equipped with swords, armor, and slight provisions. The raging storm overhead belied the mood of the huge crowd. They stared ahead dispassionately, unblinking, displaying no reaction to the deluge pouring onto them. They neither spoke, nor looked at their neighbors, but stood before the man, patiently (if one could call it that) awaiting his word with faces like stone.

  How long have I labored? How many trials passed? Enemies secretly subdued? How long and deeply have I planned? And now, it begins.

  His gaze focused on a tall man at the head of the army—his lieutenant and most trusted champion, who, unlike the others surrounding him, grinned slightly and squinted his eyes against the driving rain. On the portico, an attendant approached the hooded figure from behind and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, and lifted one hand into the air. There was no fiery speech. No passionate plea for bravery and valor. None was needed. The man simply raised his voice and shouted, “Begin!” Without so much as a murmur, the vast army turned to the south and started running.

  The world will change.

  One

  “… and they did write them, every one their own, so that their sons and their daughters might have the knowledge of their mothers and their fathers …” —Beginnings, 9:12

  Aeden had not expected the halls of the citadel to be occupied so late at night, and yet there he was, shrouded and crouched in a darkened alcove deep within the most fortified structure in the entire city of Elbeth, hiding behind a sack of potatoes. Their earthy smell worked its way into his nose, flared wide from panting—the result of sprinting down a nearly pitch-black corridor away from an unexpected contingent of guardsmen.

  And as if having his plans go awry was not bad enough, a raspy voice whispered in his ear, “See? I told you so! But no, do you ever listen to me?”

  Not bothering to respond but instead focusing on the ominous sounds of the approaching soldiers, Aeden pulled his black hood up over his head and leaned in tight against the stone wall, indicating for his friend to do likewise. Glancing to his left from under the hood, he nodded with approval at Priam’s hiding place next to him amidst sacks of cabbage and onions. With the clomps of the soldiers’ boots growing louder he started to cover his face when he noticed something near his feet glinting in the approaching torchlight.

  His sword. On the ground, just out of reach.

  Eyes wide, he hesitated. It must have fallen loose when they hurriedly rounded the corner, running from the hopefully still oblivious patrol of guards. Would he have time to retrieve it? He listened to the approaching boots, saw the sword glitter a little more brightly, and reckoned he had little choice. Letting go of the black cloak covering him, he leaned forward and grabbed the sword, careful not to let the brilliant metal scrape against the dusty stone floor.

  Holding it close to his chest he wrapped the cloak around himself once more, and not a moment too soon. The guards marched past. Oblivious and unconcerned. They didn’t so much as glance down the alcove at the two misshapen bundles of black cloth nestled in between the sacks of vegetables.

  Aeden held his breath, willing their gaze forward, imagining himself to have some magical power that could divert their attention. It was a game he often played—thinking up new and strange ways to magically manipulate objects and people around him—games his father, Lord Rossam, would surely disapprove of. Moments later, the flickering of the single torch disappeared down the hallway and around a corner, bathing the pair in blackness once more, now seemingly darker than before as the light had now dulled their vision.

  “I can’t believe you dragged me into this. What is it with you and sneaking into places?” Priam, the other boy crouched next to Aeden, scrambled to his feet, and with what Aeden imagined to be a look of extreme frustration, clicked his tongue and began wiping off his cloak. From the smell, Aeden could tell his best friend had sat on a few rotten onions. No bother—one of the servants could clean it when the other boy was done with it.

  “Because, friend, if we can see where we’re placed on those brackets, that ups our chances of wi
nning the sword tournament. If you win, that’s an automatic ticket for you into the royal guard and the nobility. If I win, well, father’s noble already, but at least that would get him off my back. But if I do poorly, it’s off to the priesthood for me. And seriously, can you imagine me as a priest?” Aeden knew Priam could barely see him, but he held out his hands skyward, mimicking the high priest of the city of Elbeth and put on his most grim-looking face. It worked: Priam chuckled.

  “Fine, let’s just get this over with. You know that if we’re caught, you get a slap on the wrist, but my wrists get slapped in irons. I’m not noble yet, remember.”

  “Hey! Don’t sell yourself short! You’re the son of the twenty-sixth duke of Elbeth! That’s not nothing, you know,” Aeden fiddled with his sword, trying to get it re-strapped to his torso.

  “Need I remind you that each city has only twenty-five dukes, and yet father somehow earned the favor of the lord of the city? Trust me, it’s an honorary title only. And by honorary I mean that nobody cares. If they catch me here, I’m a goner. Then what will I say to Geraldine?”

  Aeden smirked, and pulled tight on the strap around the hilt of the sword. He began to wonder why he’d brought it in the first place.

  “Still after her, huh?”

  “Not anymore if we get caught. She’s daughter of the nineteenth duke. I think I embarrassed her when I asked her to the spring ball. Imagine that, a commoner asking a nobleman’s daughter to the ball!”

  “Hey, she went with you, didn’t she? Maybe she felt sorry for you.” Even in the darkness Aeden could feel his friend boil, but with a tug he guided Priam down the hallway, in the opposite direction the guards had come from. With a hand trailing along the cold, stone wall to guide them, he counted the openings indicating the presence of branching hallways and doors. At the fourth opening he paused. “This is where we came in. The Swordmaster’s office should be three down from here.”