Bonecrusher: A Kaiju Thriller (The Armageddon Tetralogy Book 1)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  Wincing, feeling the needle in his spine, Silvio grit his teeth. “Now what's the big idea with all of this?” he asked.

  The doctor went on silently, puncturing his spinal column several times with long, terrible needles. When her work was done, a small clamp was fixed to each needle, which in turn was fastened to a thick wire. He glanced over his shoulder when she was done, glimpsing the very edges of what appeared to be a second, metallic spine overlapping his own. This, she explained, was a necessity. The electric impulses generated in his own body would help to inform the movements of the machine. When the thing had been fully attached to his back and his mood had been sufficiently soured, a number of sensors were attached to his wrists, temples and chest with sticky patches. These were then hooked up directly to the mess of dangling wires. The sensors, too, were to provide biological feedback to the machine's computer.

  After forty minutes and not a little bellyaching, Silvio was strapped into the black seat with a rigid harness. Then, the doctor stepped back out onto the cherry picker and appraised her work with a great smile. “We're all set. That wasn't so bad, huh?”

  He could have reached out and shoved her over the railing for that comment. Not so bad? It's absolutely freaking bad. What the hell is this, strapping me in like a prisoner, poking me like that, again and again? He felt like a proper guinea pig, a prisoner of war about to be subjected to hours of torture.

  Dr. Deal lowered the cherry picker and disappeared into some hallway. Dr. Conway, stern-faced, soon replaced her. He peered into the cockpit, and then, without warning, he reached up and shut it.

  Silvio stirred, breaking into a cold sweat as every trace of the fluorescent lighting was blotted out and he was inundated in perfect darkness. “What the hell?” he muttered. He half-wondered whether they were playing some sort of cruel trick on him. Surely none of this could be legal. He thought back to the paperwork he'd signed, to the conversations he'd had with Aderhold. What the fuck had he agreed to? Surely he didn't remember anything like spinal taps and isolation in a darkened cockpit. He trembled a bit, sought to calm himself. No need to worry, they're professionals here. They know what they're doing. But then he recalled with no little horror the words of that laboratory worker. “What does he want on his tombstone?” she'd said. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he going to end up dead?

  A voice broke into the cockpit from some recessed speaker. “Mr. Echegaray, are you ready?” It was Conway.

  He couldn't find it in himself to speak, but quivered in his seat and made some small vocalization that was apparently sufficient to indicate assent. Lights flickered on above him, and the space before him, where the metal wall of the hatch had been closed, flickered with something like a display. Squinting, Silvio gasped. It was clear as day; he could see the hangar before him as though the hatch had been opened and he were looking out upon it with his own eyes. For that matter, the effect was stranger still. He could see dim shapes in his right eye where previously there'd been only blindness. He couldn't properly see, but picked up on some subtle feedback that answered for sight in his brain. It was a strange sensation, both uncomfortable and startling. He remembered what Dr. Deal had told him, about the “Bio-feedback” system. While his own impulses and movements would provide cues for the machine to follow, was it possible that the hulking thing would do the same for him? That was the only way he could explain it; something outside of him was stirring that part of his brain, those selfsame nerves he'd once used for sight in his dead eye.

  He couldn't see in the normal sense, but ARTEMIS' computer was bridging the gap, feeding his brain the data he needed to process visuals. It was the next best thing, he wagered, to a fully-functioning eye. It was miraculous, the most spectacular thing he'd ever witnessed.

  From all around him, strange noises could be heard. Doubtful whirrings, beepings and chirpings. What they meant he couldn't say. The console before him, filled with buttons of different shapes and colors meant nothing to him, but many of them now lit up as if beckoning for a push.

  Conway's voice broke in again. “You have been made one with ARTEMIS. Your brain waves will be doing much of the work, so I recommend you lay back and not stress yourself. The electrical impulses in your spine will help to inform the unit's movements and reactions. Your own senses are amplified, tied to the unit's complicated sensory apparatus and giving you a window into the world outside. You are standing well over forty stories into the air.”

  Knowing himself strapped into the thing so high up made him want to piss himself. He tried to gulp, but found all of his spit had evaporated. Trembling, Silvio nodded. “Yes, I can... I can see outside.”

  “Very good. Let's try something simple to begin with. The unit's left arm. Move it. I want you to will it to move.”

  Silvio peered around the cockpit stupidly. “M-move it? How?” What combination of buttons or levers he'd have to tinker with was a mystery to him. Did Conway really expect him to just step into the cockpit and know how to work this thing? It wasn't nearly so intuitive as that. The controls were absolute Greek.

  He looked downward, the display tracking a subtle shift in movement. ARTEMIS was looking down at its own body. Then, as Silvio's thoughts wavered further and he considered the left arm, the view changed once more. The machine's sights had zeroed in on its left arm, the thick metallic limb featuring at the center of the display before him.

  Then, to his horror, it moved.

  The arm lurched forward slowly, grasping at the air. One by one the fingers came to life. They flailed independently of one another before coming to match the positions and movements of his own fingers, which trembled.

  He'd done it. He couldn't say how, and wasn't sure whether he could repeat it, but he'd somehow managed to move the arm. “I... I did it,” he muttered in disbelief.

  “Very good,” said Conway. The change in his voice gave the impression that he was genuinely pleased with this development. “That means that the connection is strong.” The doctor took a deep breath. “Now, something a little more complicated. Make a fist.”

  Silvio narrowed his gaze and looked down at the unit's left hand, still quivering slightly. As he tried to rein in his nerves, he slowly pulled his own hand into a fist, his arm hovering just above the nearby control panel. The electrode patch on his wrist felt warm.

  Then, in the next instant, ARTEMIS' fingers closed into a fist.

  Silvio burst out laughing, unable to contain himself. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “It's a fist! I made a fist!”

  The machine's arm seemed to tremble for all of the nervous energy that flowed through him. Silvio couldn't keep himself still, couldn't keep his own hands from shaking like windblown leaves.

  “Excellent,” came Conway's voice. “Now open your hand and make a fist again.”

  Breathing quickly, Silvio focused on the left hand. He opened it, closed it, opened it, closed it. It was working. And each time he did it, it was becoming a bit easier. He could feel the cold metal contracting as though it were his own flesh, could feel the occasional jolt working its way up his spine and collecting in his brain stem. It felt like sheer adrenaline, leaving his bare torso dotted in gooseflesh.

  “Good, keep going.” Conway sounded amused. “Do it a thousand times.”

  Silvio flinched. “W-what?”

  “Keep going. I'll tell you when to stop. I want to cement this connection, make sure it's bulletproof. You'll continue until I tell you to stop. You will become ARTEMIS' left arm today. Do you understand?”

  Silvio tensed, then looked back to the arm, which stiffened and flexed in time with his own.

  ***

  Training went on for nearly eight hours, and by the end Silvio was suffering. Accosted by a terrible nausea and pouring with sweat, his arm had begun to cramp. The movements had become easier; he almost didn't have to think about it by the time he was allowed to stop. However, there were some moments where he'd lose his focus altogether, or would take long breaks to give his
hand and arm a chance to recover, and would be unable to resume the movements without great mental strain.

  When it was done and the unit powered down, leaving him once more in darkness, he was a sweating, shuddering mass. His entire upper body felt like jello, like he'd spent the whole day hitting the bag at the gym. His head was pounding and he could hardly think. He wanted out, was ready to claw his way out of the restraint and would even have climbed down the length of the machine if the hatch hadn't been opened to the smiling face of Dr. Deal a short while later.

  She happily unlocked his harness and took to gently removing the medieval-looking apparatus from his spine. An intense soreness worked its way through him as she did so, and he felt himself bleed through the small holes the grasping claws had left in his skin. He felt on the verge of vomiting. “You did well,” she said, almost as if she were surprised. “It seems you really are a good match for ARTEMIS. Far better than any of the other test pilots we've had.”

  Silvio tugged on his black locks, shoving the matted hair out of his eyes and sniffing the air. His face was ghostly white, and his muscles seemed to hiccough and misfire. His heart, too, was skipping around in his chest, flopping unsteadily. “Yeah, and how'd they measure up?”

  Dr. Deal declined to answer, instead giving a sheepish sort of look that said “not so well”.

  “Does it get any easier, this piloting thing?” he asked.

  This, too, she didn't answer outright.

  When he'd been freed of the cockpit, Dr. Deal led him back out onto the cherry picker and lowered them to the hangar floor. A small team of medics was waiting there, and they took to dabbing his back with a sharp-smelling antiseptic that left the skin red and stinging. He was offered a grey T-shirt and then escorted in a daze through a hallway back to the little room Horace had shown him earlier. Inside, a plain-looking meal of roasted chicken and steamed vegetables awaited him. He eyed it with disdain, didn't want anything to do with it. The door was closed behind him and he was advised by some worker or another to get some sleep.

  The door slid shut with a dull metallic thud.

  Just like the door of a jail cell.

  He was effectively their prisoner.

  Lowering himself onto the bed, he collapsed in a shuddering heap onto the starchy bedclothes.

  Three months. His sentence was three goddamn months.

  He just had to make it for three months, put up with this same sort of shit day in and day out. He'd be paid well, would have the money he needed to support his family. And hey, there was that stuff, too, that Conway had talked about. He'd be helping to advance science and technology. Or something.

  None of that shit mattered.

  Silvio quivered against his bed, clutching at his gut and trying not to throw up.

  11

  Three months had passed since the first attack, and still no progress had been made in dealing with the threat. Committees had been formed, coalescing into a single task force dubbed “The National Defense Coalition”. It was a generic, nondescript sort of name, making it sound like the sort of group that drafted plans for fighting foreign terrorists or drug cartels.

  What it really meant was that they were committed to fighting the enormous, terrifying creature that even then threatened to wipe out the species.

  Thankfully, the creature had not shown much interest in areas outside of Michigan, venturing only slightly from the ruins of Nanterre to destroy another small town that no one much cared about, and which had been largely evacuated already.

  Members of the task force had been appointed by the White House. High-ranking military advisors, the director of the CIA, director of the Department of Defense and others were thrust onto the panel that would deliberate on how best to deal with the monumental threat posed to the public by this monster. Among the officials were General Coleman, Director of the CIA Wesley Smythe, Secretary of War Byron Nicholson and the head of the Department of Defense, Leonard Burrell. Dozens of advisors from other branches of government were also in attendance at each session.

  Their meetings, of course, yielded little of substance. Short of nuclear weapons, nothing in the American arsenal would work; and even then, warheads themselves could not be ruled out as risky and ineffective countermeasures. What if, it was theorized, the creature thrived off of radiation like the monsters in film? What if they managed to poison a good deal of land in trying to kill it, but the nukes failed to do the job? It was for this reason only that the committee stayed its hand and avoided the use of nuclear arms.

  During the creature's most recent rampage through the small Michigan town of Brixton, but a few miles from Nanterre, the military had been hideously routed. Save for a handful of servicemen, none had survived the encounter, which had involved several squadrons of jets and bombers, tanks and more. It seemed all humanity could do to throw missiles and bullets at the thing, with all measures proving criminally ineffective. And so more lives were thrown onto the sacrificial mound and no damage to the beast was recorded. Its powerful hands had swatted planes down like flies, its tail had speared tanks like kabobs and when it deigned to rush, the creature flattened everything in its path with ease. Nothing could stand in its way.

  Foolish proposals, such as the construction of an enormous wall around Nanterre to keep it confined, were made, however it was blatantly obvious that men could never construct so powerful a barrier as to keep the monstrosity in check. Lasers fired from satellite installations, chemical weapons, and the development of pathogens were all considered but summarily dismissed. These measures were too risky or carried too little a chance at success.

  Already the beast was figuring into the campaigns of presidential hopefuls, each of which vowed to take a hardline stance and dispatch the creature with more prejudice than their rivals. Memes circulated widely on the internet featuring the image of the creature taken from collected media. It was endearingly called “Colly”, short for “Colossus”, by foreigners who felt more or less insulated from the threat it posed by two oceans. Late-night talk show hosts had no shortage of barbs for elected officials and their seemingly ham-fisted responses to the crisis thus far.

  The world wanted to know what the most powerful government on Earth meant to do about Colly, but officials waffled, refusing to give any definitive statements. The clock was ticking. The creature's emergence from Michigan and its passage into more populated areas seemed a certainty, a matter of time.

  It was not until one member of the committee chimed in, a junior senator by the name of Roger Trask with ties to the Aderhold Corporation, that the committee found itself entertaining a new and novel idea.

  He'd been sitting in on an NDC meeting as an advisor, and spoke up just as desperation was nearing its peak. “Gentlemen,” began Trask, standing up and giving as warm a smile as someone of his batrachian features could muster, “I believe I may have a solution to this very urgent problem. A solution that eschews the bombs and guns we have hitherto relied on, and which may provide a relatively speedy resolution. Without the drawbacks of nuclear or chemical weapons, of course.”

  Arching a silvery brow, General Coleman gave a nod. “Oh? And what might that be, Senator?”

  Trask cleared his throat. “I am not seeking to show preference to a company with which I am personally affiliated, however my business partners at the Aderhold Corporation, specifically in the robotics department, have been developing an interesting new piece of technology. It is my belief that this machine, a war machine, is capable of taking the Colossus head-on.”

  A few groans circulated about the room. From nearby, one advisor shook his head. “That's a conflict of interest, big time.”

  The General proved amiable to this kernel of information and prodded Trask for more. “Tell us about it, Senator. At this junction we must use everything at our disposal.”

  Trask nodded. “Indeed. I'll tell you what, I can put all of you in contact with Mr. Aderhold himself, if you wish. I'll set up a video call with him immediately.”
>
  Secretary Nicholson waved him to a wall-mounted monitor and ordered one of the aides in the room to allow him access. After some fiddling, Trask brought up a chat window. Outlined dimly in the frame was Mayer Aderhold. The connection lagged a bit, weighed down by the heavy encryption. “I present to you Mayer Aderhold, CEO of the Aderhold Corporation,” said Trask, pointing to the monitor and returning to his seat.

  “Gentlemen,” began Aderhold, folding his hands beneath his chin and shooting them a winning, magazine-worthy smile. “You rang?”

  Less than pleased with Aderhold's manner, the General furrowed his brow and placed his elbows on the table before him. He cracked his knuckles and sized up the man on the screen. “Mr. Aderhold, we're speaking to you today because your business partner here, Senator Trask, has filled us in about some new piece of technology you're developing? A supposed war machine? We'd like to hear more, and to ascertain whether it would be of use against the Colossus in Michigan.” He narrowed his gaze, adding, “Of course everything that goes on here is to be kept strictly confidential. This connection is being monitored and the data is being heavily encrypted. You are not to tell anyone about what is being discussed here.”

  Aderhold chuckled. “Of course, of course.” He leaned back in his chair, allowing a better look at his surroundings. It was a simple little office space, with a dim light burning on the desk nearby and a potted plant stationed beside a shelf of books. “I'm sorry that I cannot be there in person. I am currently on business in Iceland. Nevertheless, I can give you all of the details you need on my project. That is, the X-001 ARTEMIS unit.”

  Director Smythe weighed in, crossing his arms. “What is it, and how can it take on this threat? Sell it to us, Mr. Aderhold. We're short on time.”

  “To put it simply, it is a robot, a massive one. Built up of a patented alloy it is virtually unbreakable. I doubt that even the beast ravaging your country should be capable of harming it. Moreover, it is outfitted with a powerful engine and a system that allows it to connect on an intimate level with its operator. I'll have you know I've just had a capable operator trained on the thing, and that it shows great promise. I am willing to tell you more, and perhaps even to loan it to you, provided that the US government, in return, is willing to provide funds for further research and development.” Aderhold smiled with his eyes as the meeting room erupted into a mess of boos and groans. His accent slipped into something more German as he continued. “It is, of course, your decision. If you think you can contain the beast by other means, then do so.” It was worded as a challenge. He knew damn well that the NDC had nothing up its sleeve.