by Isaac Hooke
“This from our lead drone operator,” Braggs said. “A man who commands support robots while embedded in the platoon. And a man who builds robots on the side, for fun. Is that irony I sense in your voice?”
Bender shrugged.
“Maybe we could pilot the ATLAS mechs remotely?” TJ, our other drone operator, said. “Like starfighters. We string out HS3s behind them to act as network repeaters, that way the mechs never leave signal range. The best of both worlds: we have human-controlled mechs without really putting the humans at risk. Not that I’m advocating it, of course. I’m all for getting up close and personal with the enemy. But I’m just saying . . .”
“Won’t work,” Braggs said. “As I mentioned, the enemy horde destroyed Bravo platoon’s HS3s almost to the last drone. If we want to do this without arousing suspicion, we have to do it without drones—the EM emitters won’t fit on the basketball-sized scouts, which means we can’t hide them from the enemy. So no remotely controlled mechs.”
“Which mission is harder?” Lui said. “Digger’s? Or Outrigger’s?”
I knew why he was asking: most of us wanted the harder mission.
“Both missions are of equal difficulty,” Lieutenant Commander Braggs said. A political response.
“You’re just trying to avoid rearranging the squads,” Lui said.
“I wouldn’t change the assignments even if you asked,” the Lieutenant Commander said. “The squads have been carefully balanced to suit each of your unique skill sets. These are the best possible teams for each target. Now if you are finished interrupting . . .” He waited, and Lui shrugged. “The inserts of both squads will be coordinated: Outrigger’s shuttle will depart a day in advance, arriving at Bogey 2 above Tau Ceti II-b shortly after Digger penetrates the warrens of the opposite moon. The fleet will remain hidden beyond the gas giant until the last moment, so as to not alert the Skull Ships. Once both squads are in place, the fleet will begin its diversionary offensive against the two bogeys. Keep in mind that because of the interference the Skull Ships produce, you will not be able to communicate with the fleet once you have achieved your respective inserts. There will be no further support troops. No quick reaction forces. No CASEVACs. You’ll be on your own until extract.”
“Extract,” Lui mused. “And what’s the retrieval strategy, exactly?”
“For Outrigger, once the nuclear asset is placed aboard and the timer is activated, you will retreat to the insertion point on Bogey 2 to signal pickup. Because of the interference, you’ll have to send it the old-fashioned way: Morse code via your helmet headlamps. When the insert shuttle, which will remain in orbit around Tau Ceti II-b, detects the signal it will dispatch booster rockets toward your position, facilitating the ride home. We’ll have EM emitters installed in the rockets so that Bogey 2 allows the things near, though we might not have to worry about that by then if you’ve succeeded in the mission.
“As for Digger’s extract, the usual ATLAS 5 booster payloads will travel down with the mechs and it will be up to each squad member to retrieve them. Once the two nuclear assets are in place and programmed to detonate, return to the surface, retrieve the booster payloads, and launch. You will rendezvous with the pickup shuttle waiting to collect you in orbit. We’ll go through the full insert and extract strategies during your respective prelaunch briefings. Any more questions until then?”
I was sure there were many, but no one said anything further.
The Lieutenant Commander stepped down from the podium and walked among us. “This is truly a momentous direct-action operation, one that could change the entire course of this invasion. Your two squads will achieve with stealth and ingenuity what a full army could never hope to do. You will succeed, because you must succeed. You will win, because you must win. Good luck to you all.”
That evening, my brothers of Alfa gathered for our final meal together in the mess before the platoon was to split apart. Because of our MOTH status we had a priority pass on the food line and were able to skip to the front. I felt sorry for the bastards who had to stand in the queue for hours, though it seemed that was the only exercise some of these crewmembers ever got, judging from the generous girths of a few people in line. The mess hall was one of several onboard, which served, collectively, around eighteen thousand meals a day to the more than five thousand crewmembers of the Gerald R. Ford.
There wasn’t any place to sit down, so after I got my plate, I began eating while standing up, tray balanced in one hand.
I scanned the area while I ate, searching for signs that a table was about to free up. Most of the crewmembers seated around me kept to themselves, wearing that far-off look that came with Implant browsing. Hardly surprising, given that they’d probably seen the others at their tables day in and day out since the start of their tour, and they’d already spoken about everything there was to talk about. Using your Implant to watch a movie, play an interactive game, read a book, check messages, record a vid to loved ones . . . all that was far more preferable than actually having to talk to the person seated beside you, especially when he’d only rattle off the same stories and complaints you’d heard a thousand times.
My brothers and I were guilty of the same “shutting out” behavior at times, but never before a mission. When we ate together before an op, camaraderie ruled the day. Which was why it was so important that we got a table.
A seated group of Marines chatted loudly and amiably nearby—likely they had a mission tomorrow as well. Maybe they were members of the very same company that would support Digger Squad.
One of the Marines met my eyes. He surveyed the rest of my platoon before turning his gaze back on me. “You were at Operation Crimson Pipeline?”
I nodded cautiously. “I was.”
“Holy shit! These are the guys!” He got up and shook my hand eagerly. “You saved our butts back there!”
The whole group of Marines got up and let us take their seats. They all shook our hands, telling us how great we were, and thanking us profusely.
I received the bulk of the thanks for whatever reason and I felt a little embarrassed, telling them: “You guys saved our hides back there, too, don’t worry.”
We all settled into our seats, feeling a glow inside. The Marines finished their meals standing up and waved us farewell.
Sitting near me, Fret was staring into space, obviously inside his Implant. I snapped my fingers in front of him, bringing his eyes back into focus. “This is our last meal together as a platoon,” I scolded him. “Let’s all try to be present, all right?”
“I was just watching the Lieutenant Commander’s briefing again,” Fret said. “You know, I could swear I heard doubt in his voice at the end. The skipper doesn’t think we’ll succeed.”
Trace laughed. “And so our resident purveyor of doom and gloom ruins our collective moods once again. We just got congratulated by a bunch of Marines and you have to go and say something like that. What nationality did you say you were again? Ukrainian?”
Fret made a face like he was offended. “Moldovan.”
“Figures,” Trace continued. “You New Eastern Europeans are all an unhappy, low-spirited bunch. Pissed off that the UC passed you by for membership and all. ‘The skipper doesn’t think we’ll succeed.’ Blah. He wouldn’t send us if he thought we’d fail. He has absolute faith in our abilities. Absolute.”
“Oh I’m sure he has no doubt about our abilities,” Fret said. “But what he’s not sure about, what I’m not sure about, is that nukes are enough. What if these Observer Minds can’t actually be destroyed? Like Phants?”
“Then we have other problems to worry about than failing the mission,” Manic interjected.
“I’ll say.” Fret shook his head theatrically. “If nukes don’t harm the Observer Minds, we die for nothing.”
“And Petty Officer Doom and Gloom steps into the ring with the gloves off once again,” Tra
ce chuckled.
Facehopper set down his fork. “Bollocks. None of us are dying this mission.” Our leading petty officer, he hailed from England. He had a roguish charm about him that made him instantly likable to most people. He had a sharp wit, and was always willing to lend each and every one of us his ear. The men loved him. Well, except for Tahoe maybe, who seemed a bit standoffish toward the LPO. “I don’t know why you’d even say that. ‘Die for nothing.’ Bloody hell. You know how I feel about morale leeches, mate.”
Fret crossed his arms. “Remember what I told you once, boss? How a hefty dose of pessimism is healthy for us spec-ops people?”
“I’m not backing down on this,” Facehopper said. “We’re going to complete our respective missions, no matter the outcome. And none of us are going to die along the way. Don’t let me catch you saying that again.”
“Damn right none of us are going to die,” Chief Bourbonjack said, approaching our table with a food-laden tray.
“Chief!” Facehopper said.
Another man gave up a chair at a table nearby and our fearless leader took it and sat down with us. Bourbonjack reported directly to Lieutenant Commander Braggs. Streaks of gray ran through his hair and beard, and his dark eyes were always observing, taking in and measuring not only the situation at hand but also the temperament of the men around him. He had a nose that matched those hawkish eyes—hooked, like a beak.
The Chief swallowed a chunk of chicken. He rarely ate with us, but today was a special occasion. “No more talk regarding the mission, boys. Not a word. Facehopper is right, now is not the time for morale leeching. Hell, there’s never a time for it. If you don’t like it here, Fret, you can pack up your belongings and head back to Moldova.”
Fret lowered his gaze, staring at his plate.
The Chief nodded to himself. “It’ll be quite a while before we see each other again, let alone eat borderline-decent food. Let’s enjoy our last meal together as a platoon.”
We dined in silence. The clang of utensils against plates rang out across the mess hall. Muted conversations echoed here and there.
“I’m certainly going to miss y’all,” Manic said. He had a port-wine stain just above his eye, vaguely reminiscent of a moth (the insect), which he often liked to brag was the reason he’d joined up with the MOTHs in the first place. It was prophetic, he claimed.
“Since when did you start saying y’all?” Snakeoil said. The short, buff comm officer frowned. “Lui and I are the ones from Tennessee.” The two of them were among the few of us who weren’t immigrants and actually fought with the army because they wanted to be here, rather than because of the EEI Act—the Enforced Enlistment of Immigrants and Illegals.
Manic smiled halfheartedly, swallowing a portion of his baked potato. “Been hanging around you two dimnuts for too long I guess.”
“Dimnuts?” Lui said, pausing with his fork a handspan from his mouth. “What the hell is a dimnut?”
Manic shook his head. “Never mind.”
“I want to know.” Lui scowled at Manic. “And why the hell were you calling me one?”
“Like I said, never mind.”
Lui gave him a dark look and then stuffed the contents of his fork into his mouth.
Bender gazed at Manic, snickering behind his hand.
“You going to be okay?” Manic said to Bender in mock concern.
Bender finally couldn’t take it and erupted in a loud chortle. “I think Manic’s tied with Hijak for the ‘pussy of the month’ award.” He laughed some more. “If you’re gonna talk shit, better be ready to back it up, bro.” Bender shook his head and muttered, “He’s going to miss y’all. Gayest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Hijak frowned. “He’s not the one who wears gold chains.” Hijak was a newer member of the platoon. Like Lui, he was Asian American, though he’d had extensive plastic surgery done to hide his Asian features. I used to resent him because he’d taken the vacancy left by my dead friend Alejandro, but Hijak and I had gone through hell together and thoroughly bonded. He’d been a caterpillar when he joined Alfa but he was a seasoned MOTH now. I couldn’t imagine the platoon without him.
Bender scowled at Hijak. “Shut your skinny ass, caterpillar.” The drone operator wore only one gold chain today. This was unusual, as he typically wore several when off duty.
Hijak shrugged. “Just saying.”
Bender set down his fork. “Just saying? What are you ‘just saying,’ bitch? That I look gay?” For a second I thought he was going to stand up and throttle Hijak. “Take a look at your skinny bitch arms. Or the womanly face you paid your plastic surgeon for. You’re the one who’s gay.”
Trace patted Bender mockingly on the shoulder. “Maybe you should take your lover outside, Bender.”
Bender shrugged him off. “Gay,” he spat.
“Easy, Bender,” Chief Bourbonjack said.
Bender gave Hijak one last glare before picking up his fork and continuing his meal.
“I wish there was a flesh cantina aboard,” Manic said abruptly. “Or a Skin Musician rental shop. Seeing all these untouchable Navy girls is too much sometimes. I’ve had blue balls since the day I came aboard.”
“Watch porn on your Implant or something, bro,” Hijak said.
Bender smirked. “We know what kind of porn you like.”
Hijak rolled his eyes.
“Untouchable Navy girls?” TJ, our other embedded drone operator, said. An olive-skinned Italian, he was just as muscular as Bender, and his left arm was tattooed to look like the limb of an ATLAS mech, replete with rivets, servomotors, and weapon mounts. His right arm was inked with a slew of military robots, such as Centurions and Raptors, which competed for every square inch of skin. He had an Atlas moth tattooed to his neck, and the wings extended down his chest. “Taken or single, officer or astronaut, it doesn’t matter. Give the girl the adventure she’s looking for and she’s yours. Trust me, you can have more than your fill of sweet treats aboard this carrier if you manage things properly.” He took a sip of milk, then seemed to remember that the Chief was among us because he added hastily: “Not that I’ve ever done that.” He was careful not to glance the Chief’s way.
“What you do in your spare time is your business, TJ,” the Chief said. “And make sure it stays that way.”
“I’m with Manic,” Fret said. “I could sure use a sex robot right about now. You know, I never really understood why Fleet doesn’t provide Skin Musicians for all serving members, free of charge. That would solve a lot of problems.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” Hijak said. “And not just because of the exorbitant cost. Some people can get very attached to Skin Musicians, to the point of distraction. It would interfere with our deployments just as badly as any liaison with a real woman would.”
“Just put it in your house, then,” Fret said. “That way you got a robot wife at home, not work. Everyone wins.”
“Everyone except real women,” Snakeoil said. “This is no joke, guys. There are millions of young men who won’t even look at real women anymore. Why? Because of the robos they have access to, and the porn. Why do you think guys like us kill it when we hit the nightlife? Because we actually go out. Because we actually get turned on by real women. Seems to be a rarity in today’s almost asexual world.”
“Hey, if women are feeling lonely, they can get robots for themselves too, bro,” Fret said.
“And that’s exactly my point,” Snakeoil said. “A lot of women do, which is why our society is cracking at the seams. No one loves real human beings anymore. No one is having real sex. Birthrates have plummeted across the colonies; even Africa, that former bastion of population growth, has suffered a drastic decline.”
“Well, the Sino-Koreans are to blame for Africa,” Hijak said. “Ever since they took over the place and started implementing their infamous population control me
asures.”
“You can’t really blame Sino-Korean policy for that,” Lui said. “Longevity treatments have a lot to do with it, not just in Africa and other Sino-Korean territories but the rest of the world and the colonies, too. What incentive do people have to make little copies of themselves when they can live upwards of a hundred and fifty years? Good quality years, mind you, not the crappy, stay-at-home-all-day-inside-your-Implant kind.”
“Getting back on topic,” Hijak said, “I have to disagree with the whole women-are-buying-sex-robots thing. It’s the guys who are doing it, mostly. We’re aroused by visual cues: big breasts, wide hips, dainty feet. Women are turned on by other things. Sure, looks can help, but they also want someone powerful. Dominant. And for all that, a man who desires them immensely.”
“Like you know anything about women,” Bender chuckled. “Mister Gay Caterpillar. Besides, robots can be programmed to do all that stuff you mentioned. Being dominant, desiring.”
“You can’t program a robot to be a billionaire,” Hijak said. “Or the CEO of a company.”
“Some robots are billionaires and CEOs,” Lui said.
“Well, since we’re back on this topic . . .” Fret piped in. “Just think for a moment if we all had robot wives. It would be marital bliss. You’d never have to worry about her cheating. You could turn her off when you were on deployment or if she ever started to nag you or act in other annoying ways. Hell, keep her off all the time, except when you want sex.”
Hijak shook his head. “All you’re doing is marrying a glorified masturbation device, then. I’d rather take the real thing, thank you very much.”
Fret frowned. “You’re new, so it makes sense that you don’t know this yet. But let me clarify something for you. The divorce rate among MOTHs is extremely high. As in, roughly ninety percent of us who marry get divorced within a year. The fact is, we’re away too long. Far too long.” He glanced at Tahoe, and referred to him by his callsign. “Cyclone here is the only one of us who has kept his wife. Three years in the service, and still married. That’s got to be some sort of record. The rest of us have tried marriage here and there, but the fact is, we’ll probably remain single until our service terms are up.”
