Chromosome Quest- a Hero's Quest Against the Singularity

by Nathan Gregory

  Teena looked pensive as she thought about the idea. Petch raised an objection. “Those are armored. Do you think you can throw a rock hard enough to inflict serious damage?”

  “I'm not sure,” I answered, “but we practiced a lot throwing rocks back on Planet Oz, and I got pretty good. I can throw a big rock awfully hard. We have some rope; I can rig a sling too. I also plan to try shooting it with the revolver, although I never got the chance to practice with that sort of weapon.”

  Teena voiced her thoughts. “Once you are inside the minimum weapons range you can climb up the wall. Use the rope, climb up and put this explosive under the camera and the gun. Then climb down and shoot it or hit it hard enough to detonate it.”

  “Maybe. Although I seriously doubt I can shoot accurately enough to hit the target. I can probably hit it with a rock, but I seriously doubt hitting the explosive with a rock or even a bullet is going to set it off. This stuff is very stable.”

  “I can shoot it,” she responded. “I have good marksmanship and lots and lots of practice.” Petch chimed in, “So can I!”

  “Okay, which one of you is the best marksman. And think carefully, as our lives depend on this!”

  They looked at each other. After a second, Petch dropped his gaze slightly. “She is, much as it pains me to admit. Teena is the best shot I know. If any of us can hit something under those conditions, she can. If she can't, then it can't be done.”

  I turned to Teena, “Do we need both of us. How's your rope-climbing skill?”

  “Not as good as yours, and we still might need to throw rocks at it, and I can't use a sling. We need your biceps!”

  “We still need some way to detonate the explosive reliably. We need a detonator. I am pretty certain that shooting it with a gun or hitting it with a rock is not going to do it!”

  Petchy added with deadly seriousness. “I think you're right. I have no experience with the stuff, but I know people that do and they have talked about that sort of thing. Nothing short of a significantly forceful and very hot bang will set it off. Mere impact won't do it. Even fire won't do it. I recall claims that you could ignite the stuff and cook your dinner over it without fear of it exploding.”

  Inventorying our skimpy supplies, I thought a while, and then I hatched an idea. I took out one of the revolvers, extracted a round and looked it over. Picking up the multi-tool and opening the pliers, I carefully separated the lead bullet from the brass. Pinching off a small bit of the C4, then molding it like modeling clay, I rolled it up and pushed it into the shell-casing to hold the powder in place, effectively I now had a C4 “Bullet.”

  Holding it up, I said, “I think this will work as a detonator. There is a tiny percussion cap or primer in the end of this casing that is designed to go bang when hit by the firing pin of the revolver. That, in turn, sets off the gunpowder, and that, I think, will detonate the explosive.”

  Using the multi-tool knife, I divided our meager C4 supply into four equal pieces. One would go under the camera, one under the gun itself, and the other two kept in reserve.

  Petch and Teena examined at my handiwork, then wordlessly Petch picked up the multi-tool and fashioned a second detonator identical to mine. Then picking up two blocks of our C4, he pushed the ersatz detonators into them, much as a typical blasting cap.

  He held them up and smiled. “I bet this will explode, but how are you gonna hit it to set off the percussion cap?”

  While he had been doing that, I had been probing around our cave space for rocks. I found two small stones with sharp edges and just the right shape. I held them up, took some tape and taped them securely in place, almost, but not quite touching the shell's percussion cap. I placed a small strip of folded tape between the cap and the rock, so it could be removed when we were ready to “go live” with the boom-boom-maker.

  “If we can hit these rocks squarely, and drive the pointy edge sharply into the cap, it should act just like a firing pin, explode the cap and set off the chain-reaction.” With that, I placed our makeshift weapons into one of the canvas bags and handed it to Teena. I also put the grenades in the sack.

  “Okay, can we both get under that tarp?”

  We tried it. With a little scrunching around, Teena could get on my back and press herself into me, and Petch could cover us with the tarp, tying it onto us. Teena would hold the smaller canvas bag with the makeshift explosives, a few handy rocks, and the rope sling I had fashioned. The larger rope I then tied around her waist. Then with her as my burden, I would crawl on my belly, very slowly toward the weapon. We hoped the AI would see us as a simple piece of wind-blown debris.

  We speculated a while about the steepest angle the gun could reach to fire downward. We had to be inside that angle before we could reveal ourselves. We finally decided to play it safe and not do so until we were hard against the wall.

  The plan was simple. We would knock out the gun emplacement, and then Petch would trot over and join us, bringing the rest of the supplies, such as they were.

  We set off. Teena's weight drove my knees and elbows into the rough ground; she is a big girl. Despite the pain and damage I was doing to my body, I crawled slowly and carefully toward the objective.

  After several minutes of blind crawling, I bumped my head on the wall. I raised up; we had arrived. Teena climbed off and stood up. I expected gunfire to erupt any instant, but it seems we were unnoticed by the AI. Too close to be seen, I guessed. I motioned for her to sit down by the wall and sit still while I placed our explosives.

  Slinging the rope, I took the C4 pieces in my mouth. We should have brought one of those vests. No pockets, darn it. I had learned to be supremely comfortable nude, scarcely noticed any lack, really, but even once you have abandoned the societal taboos, some things about clothing are still handy. I had occasionally wondered about the practicality of genetic manipulation to grow marsupial-like pockets. That seems like a highly useful adaptation.

  I climbed the rope. Petch had been right about one thing; adrenalin made it a lot easier! I was able to squish the C4 under the gun mount, and under the camera, align our makeshift detonators, pull the plastic tape safety and retreat. Once I was safely back on the ground, Teena pulled out the revolver. We had left the weapon which had sacrificed two bullets to make detonators with Petch. She carefully aimed and fired at the rock under the camera.

  She missed!

  We only had six rounds, now five left. I had always heard that hitting anything accurately with a handgun was difficult. She motioned for me to kneel, and she rested her arm against my shoulder, and whispered: “Don't move!” I held my breath and froze as motionless as I could manage, doing my best to imitate a tripod.

  She missed again!

  We shifted positions, and she took careful aim once again. She steadied, and I held my position rock solid. Time stretched out, and it seemed like it took forever. Then BANG!

  Third time charmed. We were showered with debris and camera parts. I was relieved to know my makeshift detonator had worked.

  We resumed our positions, and she tried again, aiming for the gun mount. She steadied herself against my shoulder and took careful aim.

  Again she missed!

  We were down four bullets. Two left, and we still had to take out the gun, although, with the camera gone, the gun was far less dangerous.

  There were, however, other cameras and we didn't want to take chances on the AI finding targets by other means. It could fly a camera drone to our position at any moment. We resumed positions and steadied again.

  Missed again. Predictable, really!

  We took deep breaths, which induced a spasm of coughing, and the overpowering heat was making everything more difficult. After a few moments, we steadied ourselves into position, and once again she took aim.

  Missed again. We were out of bullets, and we still had a rather ominous gun staring down at us, blinded though the camera may be, it could not be ignored. I got out my rope sling. I hoped I could hit the detonator hard enou
gh to do the trick.

  I picked up a nice sized rock and placed it in the pocket of my sling; then I stepped out to where I could draw a true bead on the target. The gun swiveled toward me, and I hurriedly ducked back! Even though blinded in this eye, I realized the machine could still see us from other more distant cameras, and it seemed to be aware of what we were trying to do.

  I looked around for another drone, but nothing was in sight. Possibly the one I smashed was the only one in this area. Fortunately, we were still within the space dictated by the gun-mount's minimum angle of deflection. It could not quite reach me. It rocked back and forth as it tried futilely to draw down on us. Stepping out again, this time more mindful of the gun angle, I wound up my sling and let go.

  OH! So Close. But no joy, again I missed!

  I repeated the process, wound up and let fly. This time I over-corrected, my missile sailing to the starboard side of my stony ersatz firing pin. Third time's charmed you say? Tell that to the rocks! The heat and pressure were affecting my aim. After flinging five more rocks, each one passing further away from the target, I sat down and hung my head in disgust. I had to calm my racing pulse, relax and mentally walk away from the tension and pressure. Too much adrenalin over too long a period had taken its toll.

  I closed my eyes, concentrating on calm and peacefulness. Ignoring the heat, I focused on my breathing, on finding my spiritual center.

  After several drawn-out moments, I again stood, wound up the sling and let fly. This time I was rewarded with a most satisfying BANG!

  Debris and gun parts again rained down on us. Painful, but welcome. With all six bullets expended, the revolver was now a paperweight. I debated dropping it but stuffed it into the bag anyway. You never know...

  I stood up and waved to Petch, and he came over on the run. Gunfire stitched the ground around him as he ran, barely missing him. It seems the AI had figured out what was going on and was trying to hit him from another more distant gun emplacement. Fortunately for Petch, we were too far away for accuracy. It did liven up his stride though; his feet grew wings that last 50 feet.

  Automated weapons neutralized, we now must get inside the wall. A giant security grate covered the drain. The pipe was huge, big enough for the three of us to walk side-by-side comfortably, although my head nearly brushed the ceiling. The security grate was monstrous. Even if it weren't securely welded in place, the three of us together could not even begin to lift it.

  I pulled out one of the grenades and wedged it between two of the bars. I nodded at Teena and Petch and pointed down the wall. They retreated to safety. I pulled the pin and ran to join them. A few seconds later a satisfying boom rattled our teeth. The debris that pelted us told us we had stayed a little too close.

  Inspecting the results, I was disappointed. One bar was broken, and the other severely bent, but the gap was not big enough to crawl through. We had one more grenade and two small pieces of C4. I considered the bars, trying to visualize the explosive force at various locations. Then I placed our final grenade between an adjacent set of bars and wedged it firmly in place with another of our endless supply of rocks.

  I considered my handiwork and examined the damage the first grenade had done. Giving the matter some thought, I pulled out the two small pieces of C4 and added it either side of the grenade, smooshing it right against the steel of the grate, and again using rocks to confine the blast. I wished I had more explosive.

  Motioning to my companions, they retreated considerably further this time, and I pulled the pin and ran like hell. This time the kaboom was much more satisfactory. Despite being a much greater distance away, we were still severely pelted with gravel and debris. I was impressed by the amount of kaboom in that tiny chunk of 'modeling clay.'

  The grate was still substantially together, but there was a hole big enough, barely, to crawl through. We had access to the inside now, but we had used the last of our explosive. We had a rope sling, a long piece of rope, a few hand tools and supplies in the vests and a pair of canvas bags. No more explosives, but we had a revolver with four rounds. We made a decidedly unimpressive attack force.

  The metal grate was hot after the explosion, and we had no time to wait for it to cool. I arranged the tarp over it for protection and motioned Petchy to crawl through the opening. Teena followed, and I went last. Despite the tarp, I managed to burn my leg on the hot metal. I added the pain of that to the running tab of injuries we were accumulating and did my best to ignore it.

  We were finally inside. Foul smelling water was ankle deep in the tunnel. The air was hot and smelled like something had burned. We did have a stiff breeze, airflow exhausting from the fortress via this large vent. Although the wind was insanely hot its flow helped some with the heat. We sloshed our way along, searching for an opening, any way into the complex.

  We came to a grate, tried to open it. It was secure, unmovable, and we had nothing with which to force it. We continued sloshing along deeper and deeper into the complex.

  We came to a fork, three smaller branches making a trident, a three-pronged 'Y' into the larger drain. I glanced at my companions questioningly, wondering which branch to take.

  I said “Rock, Paper, Scissors” while motioning to Teena to step toward one side and I took the other. “Tie says we take the third branch!” Teena's paper wrapped my rock, and we took her branch. I had to stoop to walk in it.

  Another grill in the floor above, this one also impregnable to our meager resources. We continued onward. Three more grates, three more failures. We reached the end of the tunnel!

  Retreating to the branching point, I glanced at Petch. Another round of Rock wrapped Paper to choose one of the two remaining tunnels. Again, grate after grate, none of which we had the power to breach. Again, we reached the end of the line.

  “Third time charmed,” I said as we retreated to the branching point. No need for further games as only one tunnel remained. We took it.

  As before, grate after grate was impregnable to everything we had at our disposal. This was getting repetitive, boring, and disappointing.

  This time, instead of hitting the end of the drain tunnel, we came to another branch, a 'Y' with two yet still smaller shafts. Another quick game of Rock, Paper, Scissors picked one of the two. We had to crawl on hands and knees now. Creeping along, as before we came to grate after grate in the floor above, all impossible to open. We approached the end of the tunnel and a final grill.

  As we were struggling to move it, suddenly Teena said “Whoa” and put her hand to her belly. “The device is buzzing. It has found a signal!” We froze in place for a few moments. Then she said, “It's no good, the signal is too weak. We have to get closer!” I attacked the grate with renewed vigor. Laying on my back in the muck, I put my feet against the bars and pushed. Not enough leverage!

  I piled our packs, the tarp, some debris in the tunnel, everything I had, directly under the grate, under my hips so that I could gain maximum leverage. I pushed for all I was worth, muscles and tendons straining almost to the point of injury!

  Nada!!

  I pushed again. Teena and Petch positioned themselves either side, although they could not get the leverage I had. We all three pushed for all we were worth!

  Again, Nada. I smacked my forehead and let loose a stream of invective.

  We were so close! So VERY close.

  Nematode

  We regrouped. We were so tantalizingly near our objective. On a sudden inspiration, I dropped to a position of hands and knees. “Lay on my back, and press your abdomen against the grate,” I instructed.

  With sudden comprehension, she grasped what I was suggesting. Place the device as close to the grillwork as possible in hopes it can find sufficient signal to connect and upload its virulent payload. She climbed aboard, and balanced on her back, lying against my back. I arched my back and pressed her into the grate. She shifted a few times, trying to get a better signal. After a few moments, she whispered, “It's working. Don't move!”


  Minutes passed, then Teena unleashed her own invective, impressing me with her vocabulary. The first profanity I had heard from her, but it was unequivocal that she was not ignorant of the art form. After the expletives subsided, she said, “It almost worked, but failed before completing the upload.”

  We repositioned and tried again. “Harder,” she said. Seconds later, “Push Harder.” She exhorted me to press her harder and harder, to push her body against the underside of the grate. I arched my back and thrust her upward with all the strength I could muster. She squirmed around a couple of times, seeking an optimal position.

  A few seconds later she grunted “Right there! Right there!” and we froze, her perfect golden ratio face pressed harshly into the rough concrete ceiling, her torso pressed against the steel grate until it threatened to cut into her flesh. After an endless time, with my back, arms and hips complaining vociferously at the effort, she whelped: “OMG! Done!”

  We collapsed in a heap, huffing and puffing, struggling to breathe without coughing in the heat and caustic atmosphere. Her face was bruised, her nose bloodied, her shoulders bruised, her abdomen crisscrossed with the pattern of the grate above. I wanted to hold her and kiss the hurt I had inflicted. Pressing her against the rough ceiling, pressing her abdomen against the grate hurt me nearly as much as it did her.

  I had to remind myself that I had hardened my heart and she was not my lover. Not now. I wanted to cry. A single touch would violate my sobriety, a false sobriety I really, really wanted to violate! One slip and I would melt, I knew.

  We were so spent we rested a few moments. Then I asked, “So we succeeded. The system is infected?”

  She nodded, wiping the blood streaming from a small but nasty gash in her chin with the back of her hand while rubbing the red welts crisscrossing her chest with the other. “Yes, I believe so. If the software team that built it got it right, we should soon see beginning signs of the system shutting down. It will take hours, days really before it's truly dead, but Nematode should be propagating itself throughout the system even now!”