At first I didn’t see anything, just vats filled with brownish sludge. The surface of the far vat rippled, and I caught a glimpse of something incongruously sleek and gray bulging up out of the vat. Brendan and I stopped, and what reared up was hideous beyond description. It was a giant bloated hagfish, four meters long and half a meter in diameter, with an enormous sucker mouth. Its body pulsated and that seemed to be where the gurgling sound came from. Possibly hydraulic musculature? This sounds disgusting enough, but I assure you that it was far worse.
It lunged at me and I shot it with my plasma cannon. In hindsight that was a mistake. It exploded into a hundred tiny copies of itself, and suddenly the damned things were wriggling everywhere. It was pregnant? They gurgled like their parent, but much higher pitched. Two of them landed on my left arm, I swept them off leaving circular burn marks on my armor. Their bodies contained an acid that can score hyper-alloy? These things are bloody dangerous.
Brendan didn’t wait for my orders, but opened up with both of his hand flamethrowers. The binary reactants were in tanks bolted onto his broad weapons-encrusted back, connected to the nozzles on his wrists via dual armored hoses. This style flamethrower will work even in vacuum or underwater, and the flame is much hotter than anything that merely burns in air. The gurgling baby hagfish flashed into ash, along with the vats on that end of the facility, the far wall, and most of the next two sheds over.
Brendan stopped firing and we surveyed the carnage. I picked a stray baby hagfish off of the big man’s left shoulder. “Missed one,” I said. I flung it on the ground and Brendan vaporized it with a brief pulse of his right flamethrower.
I noticed that our armor was becoming discolored, and the surviving walls and vats were starting to melt. In blowing up the big hagfish it must have vaporized a lot of its acid venom; unarmored humans in the area would have had their skin and lungs burned out.
--------------------
We did an extensive sweep of the area, and then swept it again. We analyzed the data from the olfactory-sniffers, and checked all the vats for similar chemicals, just in case these wretched things lay eggs as well, but it came up negative. A close call. If it had managed to multiply and then spread there is no telling how much damage it could have done to the colony.
The five of us wearing armored suits stood on the ramparts overlooking the part of the colony where we had recently been fighting. Already repair and cleanup teams were hard at work repairing the damage.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “I think these armored suits are a success. We’ve lost too many comrades to jaws and stingers and poisons. Now this acid hagfish creature settles it. I’m going to petition the Council of Eleven for the resources to put these armored suits into full production.”
“We’re like the old fashioned Knights of the Round Table,” said Harlan.
“More like the Knights of The Fortress,” said Wolfram.
There were a few stray bits of metal sheeting and pipe near where we were standing. I picked up a piece of the sheeting and, using a fingertip utility cutting laser, carved out a flat plate 30 centimeters on a side. I then dialed down the power, and sketched the image of a chess rook on the side. Spot-welded to a two-meter tall piece of pipe and I had a standard. I planted it into the ground next to me, and struck a heroic pose.
“A chess piece?” said Brendan. “We are the Knights of Chess?”
“No,” I said, “the Rook represents The Fortress. Our current fortress is an ugly five kilometer square of earthen barriers, but I think this looks better.”
“It’s symbolic, Brendan,” said Villers.
“I know what symbolic means,” said Brendan.
I remembered what Sister Pascal had said to me at the council meeting a decade ago. The only thing that really matters is honor. Loyalty, dedication to the entire society, integrity. Without these things no mere system will protect us. With them, all else is hardly more than a detail.
“My fellow knights,” I said, “we are regular military, but we are also now a brotherhood. I propose that henceforth our unit should no longer be listed on the roster as the 3243rd Interstellar Company, but as the Knights of The Fortress. We do here all of us solemnly swear, by all that we value, to preserve and protect this fortress and all those that dwell within, even at the cost of our own lives, and that to this sacred duty I do hereby dedicate myself.”
“OK,” said Brendan.
“Count me in,” said Wolfram.
“Agreed,” said Harlan.
“And I as well,” said Villers. “You know, I believe this is the second sacred oath you have come up with on this planet. You’ve got a knack.”
13. Medusa
“Honor from death,” I snap, “is a myth. Invented by the war torn to make sense of the horrific. If we die, it will be so that others may live. Truly honorable death, the only honorable death, is one that enables life.”
― From “The Girl of Fire and Thorns,Rae Carson, 21st Century Earth
As a submind in a generic android body, cut off from my main hull, I was standing in the office of the acting commander of a brotherhood of self-aware suits of powered armor inhabiting a massive fortress-city on an incredibly hostile planet of eternal night. Yes, that about sums it up.
I was in a command center with Colonel Villers, General Trellen being off on an inspection tour of the west end of The Fortress.
Should I continue working on the wall emplacements?
“Yes, please,” said Villers. “Your assistance in this matter has been much appreciated. The Fortress now has five medium plasma cannons on line, and we could definitely use the firepower.
I’m happy to be of use. My only regret is that out of the hundreds of such emplacements that this place used to have, I am unlikely to be able to scavenge enough functioning components to reactivate more than about 20, maybe 26 with some breaks. And the heavies and super-heavies are, I think, beyond my abilities.
“I’m not complaining,” said Villers. “That’s 20 more medium cannons than we had before. Thank you.”
Again, you are most welcome. In the meantime, is there anything else that you might like my android body to do? It’s not combat grade but I can carry a weapon.
Despite his being a self-aware suit of powered armor, Colonel Viller’s body language conveyed mild amusement. I am still surprised at how expressive these suits can be even without facial features.
“No,” said Villers. “You are too important controlling the drones, and you are our link with your main hull, but thank you for the offer.” Villers pondered for a moment, then snapped the fingers of his right hand (the thick titanium fingers made a sound like a gunshot). “Captain Harlan speaks highly of you. Why not scout around? It would help you become more familiar with the layout of The Fortress, keep you out of harm’s way, and it’s always good to have another set of eyes on watch.”
Auxiliary Scout Old Guy ready and reporting for duty, sir!
Villers laughed. “Well then, auxiliary scout, you have your orders. In the meantime I need to finish revising the maintenance schedules, so if you don’t mind?”
Not at all.
I turned around and walked out of Viller’s office, and walked down a long hall. I checked in with my three repair drones via the local datanets: they were still busy overhauling a sixth medium plasma cannon. Nothing untoward had occurred so they didn’t need any additional instructions, and I left them to their repetitive work.
Free to snoop around in a five kilometer-on-a-side cube of an ancient fortified city! This was shaping up to be a fortunate day for me.
I was in an area near the command center, so I passed several of the suits in the hallway. Some waved and said hello, others nodded, and a couple just ignored me. Soon, however, I entered a deserted part of The Fortress – which was not surprising, as almost all of The Fortress was deserted.
Across The Fortress the lights were cycling into early evening: the main lights dimming, auxiliary blue lights shining on the ceilings to gi
ve the sense of twilight. As combat systems the armored suits could control their alertness directly, but they must have kept the light cycling out of habit, or for psychological comfort. It made The Fortress seem like the world itself, and the outside as something almost unreal, that could be ignored if there were not such threats there.
I came to an enormous swimming pool complex. The water had long since been drained away, and there was only the smooth light blue linings and white tile floor. There were wide long rectangular pools with black lane markings on the bottom, and narrow and deep pools underneath diving platforms of various heights. There was an assortment of soaking tubs rated by temperature and mineral content, and shallow water playgrounds for children with numerous slides, nozzles, and fanciful plastic fish sculptures. The far end had a small bar in the style of a Tahitian village. It was tacky but charming. There were still a few intact bottles of alcohol on the shelves, including an unopened one of “Fortress Brand Whiskey.” My footsteps echoed loudly through the silent complex.
There was an automated machining center, and at first I was excited. If I could get it running, I could really ramp up production! However, as I examined it I become progressively less enthusiastic. Superficially it was intact, but many of the critical components had been made of alloys that were not corrosion-proof, or polymers prone to outgassing and cracking. Centuries without maintenance had rotted the systems to the point of uselessness – it would be faster to build a new machining center from scratch than to refurbish this one.
I was noodling around in the back of a modest stage theater; there were some interesting props and costumes, when I got a call from Colonel Villers.
“Hello Old Guy,” said the Colonel. “We have just received a most interesting message, and I would like your advice. If you would not mind coming to the command center?”
Sure, but wouldn’t it be more efficient talk to me over the local datanet?
“We never use the public nets for military comms, and in the event that our walls are penetrated I’d like you someplace safe. Coming?”
On my way, Colonel.
The command center was not quite in the middle of The Fortress, and about three hundred meters below local ground level. It was a dome-shaped hall, 100 meters wide and 50 meters tall. One side of the dome was covered with enormous video panels, so that everyone could see them. The rest of the walls were lined with hundreds of little enclaves with padded high-backed swivel chairs and smaller single-human-sized computer interfaces. The ceiling was softly lit, with elaborate frescoes of clouds and birds.
There were only three dozen or so armored suits in the room, giving it a typically empty feeling. It was strange to see them actually typing on keypads and using multi-axis manual joysticks with their heavy armored gauntlets – why didn’t they just interface to the control systems directly? But of course – the suits are not general-purpose computers, but specialized artificial neural networks that had synchronized with humans for so long that they had effectively become human, and they had no more insight into their own internal systems than a human being could directly access the individual neurons of their cerebellum. The suits were never designed to run something as large as The Fortress, nor was any of the machinery smart enough to run itself. Amazing what they have achieved with such limitations.
General Trellen and Colonel Villers were on a raised dais sticking out of the wall opposite the large video screens. Trellen motioned for me to join him, and I walked up four meters of stairs to stand next to him. A medium regular suit, Lieutenant Duchamp, was sitting next to him in front of an especially elaborate control console. Duchamp had decorated the polished titanium of his suit with elaborate fleur-de-lis patterns near the edges of the plates. It reminded me of a ceremonial suit of armor from the late middle ages that I had seen in a museum once.
An impressive command center.
“This little place?” said Trellen. “It’s an emergency backup center. There are two much larger than this, but with our modest numbers we find this more practical.”
I keep forgetting just how big this fortress is. A room a mere 100 meters across could easily get lost inside it.
“General,” called out an armored suit that was sitting down at a communications alcove, “I think I have a coded signal from the cybertanks, but the encryption is strange. I can’t decipher it.”
“Do you have a location?” asked Trellen.
“Deep space, I think,” said the suit. “Not local.”
“If it’s from one of your fellows, could you decipher it?” asked Trellen.
I can try. Show me what you’ve received.
Duchamp’s fingers flicked across the control console as he began relaying the Colonel’s commands to the different units. It turned out that, in fact, his original biological self really had been a concert pianist. I reviewed the data that Duchamp had pulled up. My humanoid body has limited data processing abilities, but if it was a message aimed at me, that would have been allowed for… I tried several decoding methods, and one of them clicked.
General. I believe that this message is from my main self. If it is valid, he is part of an armada of my peers that is invading the dust cloud cloaking this planet. Our forces have taken heavy losses, and are apparently being herded here. They expect to make planetfall shortly.
“Unfortunate, if true,” said Trellen. “I would have hoped not to have drawn allies into danger. But if we could link up, that might be advantageous.”
Trellen and Villers continued talking. Their conversation shifted more towards a tactical analysis of the past battle and making contingency plans in case of another attack. I watched a screen showing some damaged suits being repaired, and I had an idea.
Excuse me, but I could not help watching the repairs. I believe that I and my repair drones could be of assistance.
Trellen thought about this for a moment. “Yes, your skill at repairs is notable.” The General turned to Lieutenant Duchamp. “Contact Scout Captain Harlan, and tell him to escort Old Guy to the Field of the Fallen.”
--------------------
Captain Harlan retrieved me from the command center, and we began our trek through The Fortress to this “Field of the Fallen” place.
“From what I heard,” said Harlan, “your main self - that’s what you call it, right? Your main self? - fought well.”
Thank you Captain Harlan.
“There is even talk of making you an honorary Knight of The Fortress.”
I have previously been made an honorary human. I would not count being an honorary suit of powered armor a lesser accolade.
Harlan nodded. “Nor should you.”
Eventually we arrived at a large open space on floor 132. There were several hundred boxes, each three meters long, two wide and one tall, lined up neatly in rows on the floor. The walls of the room had a mis-matched set of paintings and photographs of historical martial scenes. There was General Washington of the 18th century American Empire crossing the Delaware river; a large mural of the aerial forces of the 20th century empire of Japan during their brilliant attack on the island of Hawaii; a matched pair of elite 25th century razorships slicing through the clouds of a gas giant; a 1st century Roman soldier with a javelin and shield.
Harlan gestured at the boxes. “These are the remains of our brothers who fell in honorable combat and could not be repaired. Their names and deeds are listed on the end of each sarcophagus. And of course, they are also recorded in the Book of Honor.”
Sarcophagus?
“OK,” said Harlan, “they are only shipping containers. Ideally we would have liked to have carved each fallen brother a unique tomb of flawless marble, but we cannot spare the effort. Still, it is the thought that counts.”
Agreed.
Harlan began to absently tap out a rhythm on one of the shipping containers with his left hand, but the other suits stopped what they were doing and swiveled their armored heads at him as if staring. Harlan’s hand froze in mid-tap, and he slowly steppe
d back and clasped his hands behind his back.
Several injured suits were wheeled into the room on flat utility trucks. I noticed that many of them were still functional.
But these do not seem to be beyond fixing. Is there really no hope for them?
Harlan acted surprised. “What? Oh, I see, I should have explained. When one of us falls, we save the body, both in reverence, and as a source of spare parts. Watch.”
One of the suits, whose right hand had been crushed, was wheeled over to lie next to a box. The cover was lifted off by two suits, one at each end, and lying inside were the partial remains of a dead armored suit. It must have suffered a catastrophic blow to its upper body, because all that remained was the legs, most of the right torso, and the right arm.
“Here lies Brother Stephen Hammond, of the Knights of The Fortress. He fought valiantly in over 100 combats, all detailed in the Book of Honor, until he finally fell at the Battle of Seven Demons. His actions that day saved four of his comrades, and he will be missed and he will be remembered.”
The other suit then spoke up. “Brother Hammond, we apologize for disturbing your rest, but Brother Yishida has need of some of your parts. Please forgive us, and we thank you, that even in death you continue to serve.”
Everyone in the room bowed solemnly, even me. Then one suit began unfastening the right hand of the deceased suit, and the other the mangled hand of the still living one.
Parts must be getting hard to come by.
“Indeed,” said Harlan. “There was never just one factory making parts for us, it was an entire industrial ecosystem with a thousand supply chains, but it’s all shut down now. As combat systems we started out with an abundant stock of replacement components, but as the centuries have come and gone these have started to run out.”
Old Guy and the Planet of Eternal Night (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 6) Page 20
