by M. D. Cooper
An instant later, the chair flew from the downed craft, and deployed a parachute. It settled down to the ground one hundred meters up the road.
“You’ll thank me later,” Rika said, running from the burning drone and ducking into the trees a second before it exploded.
Four minutes later, she arrived at the cars. Leslie was helping Jerry into the backseat of the vehicle she and Barne had brought. He looked a bit better, but was still holding his head with one hand.
Barne had the trunk open, and pulled out a small package. “Hopefully we didn’t leave too much DNA in the villa, but we’d best scrub what we can.”
He held up the package, and then tossed it into the car they had stolen from Cheri. Small silver filaments spread from the kit, sweeping over every surface in the vehicle in a matter of seconds, before retracting into the box.
“Like we were never here,” Barne said with a smile.
He closed the trunk and got in the driver’s seat, while Rika collapsed in the passenger’s side.
“You OK?” Leslie asked. “Your arm looks funny.”
“Yeah, mostly,” Rika replied. “Took some shots to my left arm—not the organic part. Not sure how messed up it is yet, but my hand’s offline.”
Barne backed the car out of the copse of trees it was hidden in, and gave Rika a smile. “You know, being a mech must not be so bad sometimes. No pain, and you can swap that arm out in minutes.”
Rika closed her eyes and sighed. Maybe it isn’t so bad. Maybe not always, at least.
DELIBERATION
STELLAR DATE: 12.17.8948 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Enlisted Commissary, MSS Foe Hammer
REGION: Interstellar Space, near the Praesepe Cluster
David sat in the Foe Hammer’s enlisted commissary, taking a meal at a table with Aaron and Genevieve, two other specialists who worked in the fleet’s CIC on the ship.
“Something’s not right,” David said, and he reached into his pocket, pulled out a dampener, and set it on the table. It wasn’t uncommon for the CIC teams to discuss their work at lunch, and because it got more work from them at the same pay, their superiors allowed it—so long as they took precautions not to be overheard.
David smiled at Aaron’s pet term for his abilities. Aaron wasn’t a P-Cog. His augmentations had been focused on heavy mathematics for close-quarters fleet engagements; the alterations he had undergone at the hands of the GAF were even more extreme than what the mechs had undergone.
Where David’s alterations had been focused on enhancing the interconnectivity in his brain, Aaron’s had been centered on adding raw computational power. In the war, the official term for people like him was ‘Non-AI Sentient Computer’. Just like the mechs, and the others who were heavily modded, the military had both treated and labeled NAISCs as objects.
Unlike David, they hadn’t bothered with saving any visual aspect of Aaron’s humanity, either. His head was a half-meter tall grey ovoid, with two bulbous lenses where his eyes should be—though no organic eyes lay beneath. His face was also devoid of nose or mouth; his air coming through two breathing ports on his upper torso, and his food through the NutriPaste socket on the surface of his stomach.
David admitted that ‘torso’ wasn’t quite the right word for Aaron’s body. Because the Genevian Space Force had treated NAISCs like mobile organic AIs, they had removed all of Aaron’s limbs, and set what remained of his body inside a hard shell.
Though David had never said it aloud, Aaron looked much like a snowman that just needed the bottom ball.
Luckily for Aaron, the Old Man had taken him in right at the end of the war, and had a mobile stand of sorts constructed for him. It had a cup that his body sat in, and six legs—any of which could also double as hands, as needed—stemming from the stand upon which the cup sat.
The level of technology to undo what had been done to Aaron was outside of what the Marauders possessed, and David had been impressed with the level of self-acceptance Aaron managed. David was sure that he’d lose his mind, if he were in his friend’s place.
One thing was for certain; it made Aaron one mean Snark player. He could simultaneously play six games against separate opponents, and typically win five out of the six.
Teams on the Foe Hammer continually tried to beat him—many of their players were heavily augmented as well—but the best contenders had still only managed two wins to his four.
David shook his head. “Sorry, not enough coffee today.”
“A P-Cog’s favorite stabilizer,” Genevieve said as she held hers out to David. “Need my packet?”
“No, I’m OK, just had one—it’ll kick in shortly,” David replied.
“Suit yourself,” Genevieve replied.
David nodded his thanks. Genevieve was the most normal-looking of their little group. After the war, she was able to access her savings and she’d had enough money to get her shark fins replaced. Instead, she now sported a head covered in thick hairs that served the same purpose as his steel ridges.
Not that anyone would mistake the gleaming, white, one-centimeter-thick strands for real hair, but it certainly beat metal fins.
Genevieve was the backbone of their unit. Nothing fazed her; she never became upset, worried, or even agitated. She was an endless sea of calm. David had relied on her more than once to help him through hard times.
She always held herself perfectly erect, and her high, sloped forehead spoke of an origin in New Sweden—though her family had lived for generations in Genevia, on one of the terraformed planets close to a G-spectrum star.
As a result, Genevieve had naturally dark skin that contrasted with her white ‘hair’, giving her an otherworldly look.
David coughed and tried to get his mind back on track, pushing down the excess stimuli around him to focus on what he had discovered. Patterns, analyzing connections—that’s where he found his peace.
“It’s with Operation Phoenix, of course,” he began. “I’m worried about its effects.”
“You mean the change of hands for the Theban stars?” Genevieve asked.
“That’s one way to put it, but yeah,” David replied. “See, I don’t think that this benefits the Septhians as much as everyone would like to think it does.”
“David does have a point, though,” Genevieve said, interrupting Aaron’s spiel. “By that logic, there should just be one team hitting the president, and nothing more—well, maybe her VP, too.”
“OK, so I know it’s all just suspicion and conjecture, and I can’t go anywhere with that,” David replied. “But it did start me digging. I began to look at all the logs for the Old Man’s talks with his Septhian contacts who arranged Phoenix in the first place.”
“I didn’t look at the messages themselves, just the logs in the comm systems.”
Genevieve frowned. “Marauders, t
he Old Man especially, talk to Septhians all the time. Septhia is where our main facilities are. How could you pick out the communication with the contact for this operation amidst all the noise?”
“Because it was different,” David said. “It had a unique pattern.”
“It was in the packet segmentation on the comms,” David said. “Septhians don’t use octal code in their comm systems.”
“Yeah, they use that weird-ass base-9 setup. They folded their parity bit right into the data structure. It’s always a pain in the ass to translate.”
David nodded. “Yeah, and you can see the pattern it creates in the headers alone—you don’t even need to look at the message content. But there was a subset of messages where the pattern was different, and they were all communications sent to the Old Man.”
“I thought about that, too,” David said. “But I really wanted to know how to achieve that pattern. I got kinda obsessed with it. I converted messages from a hundred different source systems into base-9, and then back to base-8. Everything from raw-binary, to SAI analog code systems. A lot were close, real close, and within the margin of error. But there were three that were dead matches.”
“Here goes,” Genevieve said.
“The Tarurae high command’s exalted network, the Trisilieds space force comms, and…the Nietzscheans.”
“I don’t think so,” David said. “See, it wasn’t that the whole message was a red flag—just the parity bits. And not all of them, either; it was a weird pattern that looked almost random. Well, it still does, but I know something’s in there. It’s a pattern I can almost make out, like a detail that, if I just squint at right, I’ll see.”
Aaron said.
David raised his hands and nodded. “Hey, Aaron. I appreciate what the Old Man’s built for us here as much as anyone. But if I have a Nietzschean connection to Phoenix, I have to pursue it. Do you think you could take a look at what I have?”
Aaron didn’t respond for a moment, and then his long head nodded.
David passed his analysis over the Link to his friend.
“Maybe what?” Genevieve asked.
“Simulate it,” David said.
“That’s it, then. There’s a Nietzschean somewhere in the Septhian government!” David exclaimed.
Genevieve sat back and let out a long whistle while Aaron’s ovoid head pivoted.
“I think your findings are sound enough to take it to Commander Siemens,” Genevieve said. “I would, at least. Let her decide if the intel should get pushed up the chain or not.”
RESITUATE
STELLAR DATE: 12.17.8948 (Adjusted Years)
LOCATION: Northern Berlin
REGION: Pyra, Albany System, Theban Alliance
It had taken the team five hours to return to Berlin, and then another three to get the truck and drive it to one of their fallback locations.
It was another warehouse, but this one was smaller and newer—and decidedly cleaner. Leslie had lain Jerry down on a cot in a nearby storage room, and then walked out rubbing her eyes.
Barne was away, taking the car to another storage location. That left just the two women to finish setting up.
“Jerry gonna be OK?” Rika asked as she attempted another reroute to get her arm working.
“Yeah,” Leslie nodded. “I gave him a brainfix. The kit should deal with the swelling Cheri’s methods caused; that appears to be the worst of it. The kit didn’t report any neural damage—thank the stars.”
“What about you?” Leslie asked Rika as she approached. “You took some hits, there.”
Rika shrugged from where she sat on a crate. “I’ve seen a lot worse. Except for the gatling guns on those drones, nothing out there was high enough caliber to really hurt me.”
Leslie gave Rika a smile. “Well, I guess we should unload the truck.”
Rika grinned and held up her left hand. “I’m going to need a hand. Literally.”
Leslie covered her mouth and laughed. “Oh, shit. I totally forgot that—you can’t get your gun-arm off to put on a good arm, because your other arm is shot.”
At first Rika wasn’t sure if Leslie was making light of her plight, but she decided to believe that Leslie was just laughing at the irony of it and chuckled. “Yeah, like I said; I literally need a hand.”
“Where is your other one?” Leslie asked.
“In the cab of the truck,” Rika replied. “Tools are in the back.”
“I’ll have to pull your armor off first, won’t I?” Leslie said as she examined Rika’s arm.
“Yeah, a bit tricky otherwise,” Rika replied.
Leslie met Rika’s eyes, her own showing a look of worry. “Do you mind if I get the rack, Rika?” she asked. “I don’t think I can manage this without it.”
Rika nodded. “No, I don’t mind. I’ll help you get it out…I can at least shove things around, if you need me to.”
Thirty minutes later, Leslie had the rack set up, and Rika stepped back, settling her armor’s hardpoints into the hooks.
Leslie slid a tool into Rika’s armpit and gave a twist, loosening the armor on the shoulder.
“Is that weird for you, Rika?” she asked as she slotted in another tool and opened up the armor around Rika’s bicep.
“What, having someone else take my armor off?” Rika asked. “Not really; happened a lot in the war, especially when I took damage.”
“Well, I was referring specifically to me slotting a tool up into your armpit…”
“Oh, that? No, not really. It does kinda tickle, though.”
Leslie looked up at Rika, their eyes meeting before Leslie snorted. “Rika, the unstoppable killing machine, is ticklish?”
Rika had begun to smile, but the expression faded. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Shit, sorry,” Leslie shook her head. “Sometimes I spend too much time around these guys. Lovable bundles of testosterone that they are, they get me acting like everything is up for being a joke…”
“It’s OK,” Rika said. “Some mechs like being killing machines. I…I don’t really know what I like.”
“Well,” Leslie grunted as she unfastened the armor from Rika’s forearm, pulling it free where the damaged plate had wedged into her arm. “I can tell you this: you’re a sight to behold when you’re at it. The way you leapt from the building and landed on that drone? That was one of the most badass things I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot of badass shit in my day.”
Rika shook her head as Leslie pulled the last of her arm’s armor off. “Last night was nothing. Shoulda seen the time that my team and I took out a nuke-flinging K1R. That thing was a nightmare.”
“How bi
g was the team?” Leslie asked absently as she looked over the damage in Rika’s arm.
“Three,” Rika replied. “Though just two of us were on the K1R. I pulled a move like the one with that drone.”
“Just two of you took out a K1R?” Leslie shook her head in wonder. “You sure you need the rest of us on this mission?”
“Well,” Rika said with a laugh. “Looks like I need a mechanic to keep me running.”
“That you do,” Leslie said. “Let me get your gun arm off, and give you your right hand back. I’m not sure what we should do about that left one. It’s beyond my skill to fix, and we don’t have a replacement.”
“Maybe we could find you a big hook. Arrrrr,” Barne said with a lopsided grin as he walked through a nearby door. “I bet that would scare the shit out of the enemy.”
“Give me a hook, and I’ll use it to give you those friendly punches on the arm,” Rika replied.
“Huh,” Barne said. “Maybe a pillow attachment would be better. Think of it; you could lay that pretty head of yours down whenever you wanted, and take a nice snooze.”
Pretty?
Leslie snorted. “Shut up, Barne. Go make yourself useful, and unload the truck.”
Barne shrugged and walked away. “I’ll take a look at that arm you got shot up when I’m done unpacking. I might be able to get it working again.”
As Leslie removed the armor on Rika’s right arm, she chatted with Rika about the Marauders—describing some of the missions they’d been on lately, and what it was like to work in a mercenary company after being in the Genevian Armed Forces.
“It’s a bit different, for sure,” she said. “Everyone keeps their military rank—for the most part, anyway—but the structure is weird. I mean, Jerry’s a lieutenant. LT’s aren’t usually in charge of four-person fireteams.”
“How does it work when you do platoon or company-sized ops?” Rika asked.
“Well,” Leslie smiled. “We’re spec-ops, attached to Alpha Company in the second Battalion. There are forty battalions now in the Marauders—which the Old Man has split up into four regiments.”
