Warsuit 1.0

by James Lovegrove

  If you need a hint, just remember the proudest day of my life and the first day of yours.

  Best of luck. I have every faith in you.

  Dad

  Od checked the time. It was ten to four. Ten minutes till the soldier made his rounds. He’d better hurry.

  Od arrived at the quarry’s edge cold, bedraggled, damp, footsore, exhausted, but pumped with adrenaline. He found a hiding place with a clear line of sight to the hut, which butted up against a sheer cliff-face, a rugged dark curtain of stone. Now that the rainclouds had cleared the moon shone down, gibbous and bright, illuminating the scene. The radiance from the floodlights at Selston Tor helped, too. Od could see everything almost as well as if it was daytime.

  Not a chink of light glimmered through the boards that were nailed over the hut’s windows. Could there really be a soldier in there?

  3:59. In a minute’s time, he would know.

  Sure enough, at 4am precisely, the hut door rattled open and out came a man. He wasn’t dressed like a soldier. Didn’t look like one in the least. If anything, he looked like a tramp, a homeless person who’d taken shelter in the hut for the night. His clothing was ragged and ill-fitting. Plastic carrier bags were wrapped around his shoes as makeshift waterproofing. He wore a grotty old baseball cap on his head, and both his jeans and his jacket were full of holes. He paused to allow his eyesight to adjust to the darkness, then started to walk away from the hut, and away also from where Od was hiding. He moved as a tramp might, bent over, dragging his feet.

  And yet…

  The way he kept looking around him did not seem tramp-like. His head turned left and right with rapid, alert movements as he shuffled across the quarry. He seemed wary, vigilant for anything out of the ordinary.

  That and the fact that he had emerged from the hut exactly on the hour, just as the text from Od’s dad had predicted, told Od that he should not be fooled. The tramp was a soldier. And under those tatty, threadbare clothes there surely had to be a gun in a holster. The message had said “armed”, hadn’t it?

  The tramp-soldier had gone perhaps a couple of hundred metres from the hut. Od stirred himself to get going. It was now or never. He broke from cover and darted towards the hut. He ran on tiptoes, avoiding heaps of loose broken slate and sticking to firm ground. He reached the door and dived through. There was a second, much newer door just inside, and he dived through that too.

  The hut turned out, like the soldier’s clothing, to be a disguise, a false front. It was a shabby timber shell that had been erected around a windowless prefab unit. Inside, the prefab was bright and blissfully warm thanks to an electric space heater. Od saw a canvas chair, a stack of magazines, a Nintendo DS, a lunchbox and a thermos flask, which showed how the soldier occupied his time between patrols. There was also a circular steel door filling almost all of the wall on the side of the prefab that lay adjacent to the cliff-face.

  Od went straight to the door, which reminded him of the entrance to a bank vault – it was that massive and sturdy. It lacked any kind of handle but an electronic keypad lock was mounted at its centre. Od fished out the pass-card and swiped it through the slot. On a tiny screen above the keypad, a message appeared:

  PLEASE ENTER YOUR CODE, PROFESSOR FITCH

  Below were eight empty boxes. An eight-digit number had to be inputted.

  Just remember the proudest day of my life and the first day of yours, the text had said. His father clearly meant the day his only child was born. Od was strangely touched by the choice of wording.

  He tapped in the date in numerals – day, month, year. Something clunked deep within the door. Then something clanked. Then the door swung ponderously inward.

  Ahead lay a broad, dimly lit tunnel that seemed to go on forever, hollowing into the hillside.

  Od entered. After a few steps, he hesitated. He had no idea what lay ahead. The tunnel reeked of damp, dirt, and the dusty residue of eons of geological time. Its rock walls were like the gullet of some vast mythical beast that could swallow a teenager whole without even noticing. He was – he couldn’t deny it – scared.

  Then the door thudded shut behind him, with firm finality.

  That was that. He was committed. No going back now.

  Chapter Seven

  The tunnel wasn’t a secret back entrance. It was an emergency exit. Signs posted at intervals along its length bore red arrows pointing urgently back the way Od had come. The signs also advised people to stay calm and not run. Should something go wrong at the installation, workers were supposed to use this tunnel to get out, and do so in an orderly fashion.

  Od supposed it was best not to panic if disaster struck at a nuclear research installation. Still, he didn’t think he would be able to keep a clear head under such circumstances. He’d be scrambling over everyone else and elbowing slowcoaches aside to reach safety.

  That was assuming what they did at Selston Tor was nuclear-based stuff. Od wasn’t convinced about that any more, or about anything. What if it was worse than nuclear? Biological, for instance. Something with military applications. Genetically engineered killer viruses, maybe. New and ever more horrible ways of wiping out your enemies.

  Oh Dad, what have you been up to? What the hell have you got yourself involved with?

  The tunnel terminated eventually at a door similar to the first, with an identical electronic lock. Od guessed he must have reached the installation itself. He was directly below the surface buildings, deep underground.

  On the other side lay the truth. Once through this door, Od would discover what had been keeping his father so busy these past three years and why they’d moved to this godforsaken part of the country and why they’d been living a life of such suffocating separateness and solitude. The real reason for all those things.

  Od hesitated. He almost didn’t want to know the answers.

  But then, he had no choice.

  The echoes of the door closing boomed hollowly through a cavernous space, soon getting lost somewhere up among the steel crossbeams in the ceiling. A handful of low-wattage red lights silhouetted banks of machinery, computer consoles, workbenches, lathes, cutting gear, welding equipment. Od felt as if he had walked into an industrial plant, a high-tech factory for constructing large and elaborate metal artefacts. Or perhaps a sculptor’s studio.

  Confirming this impression was the fact that everything in this chamber was focused around a central platform and what stood on that platform.

  It was a bizarre kind of statue, at least seven metres from top to toe, a chunky, robot-like representation of a human being. Od moved closer to it, both puzzling and marvelling at once.

  The statue had a squat head the size of a space hopper, inset with glassy black eyes like two snooker balls. Arms protruded from beneath bulky, out-jutting shoulders, each as broad in diameter as a beer keg and as long as Od himself was tall. A tapered waist led to powerful-looking legs that seemed to be sheathed in knee-length buccaneer boots. The one human attribute the statue lacked was hands. Its right arm ended in a profusion of different-sized tubes, like pipes ranging from pea shooter to rain gutter. Its left arm sported what appeared to be a cross between a satellite dish and a set of pincers.

  In all, with its beetling brow and weightlifter’s build, the thing gave off an air of might and menace. The lighting lent a blood-red tinge to its shiny orange and black striped surfaces. There were slots and flaps all over its torso and recessed vents in its legs. Cables of varying thickness were attached to it in different places, like a host of umbilical cords. The statue – if that was what it was – seemed to be waiting for something. To be born, maybe.

  Yes, thought Od. That was what was so uncanny about it. It was an automaton that looked ready to move, to act, to function, completely independently. All it needed was some kind of spark to set it going, a bit like the patchwork monster in those old horror films that was nothing but dead body parts sewn together until Dr Frankenstein called down the lightning and gave it life.

 
; Tremaine Fitch was a software expert primarily, although he had a degree in engineering too. This was what had preoccupied him for three years? This was what he had been devoting himself to? This was why terrorists had taken him hostage?

  Od hopped up onto the platform and walked warily in a circle round the robot statue. At the rear he found a small stepladder which led up to an open hatchway in the back of the thing. He couldn’t resist the temptation to climb up and take a peek inside.

  The moment he did so, everything made sense. In the interior of the statue there was a person-shaped space, a metal support cradle with just a small amount of padding for comfort. Facing this was an array of screens, interspersed with readouts and displays, like a control panel, an elaborate dashboard.

  Not a statue.

  Not a robot.

  A vehicle. Something you piloted.

  A walking, four-limbed tank.

  A war machine.

  So no wonder his dad had been kidnapped. No wonder government military officials were in such a flap about it all.

  Tremaine Fitch had been helping to build an extraordinary new form of battlefield weapon.

  Od was stunned by the revelation. He’d always thought of his father as a peace-loving guy. Liberal in outlook. The sort who avoided conflict and abhorred violence. A live-and-let-live type.

  How wrong could you be?

  He felt dizzy, a little sick. He had to place a hand on the war machine’s cold metal skin in order to support himself and not fall off the stepladder.

  As he did so, it seemed he jarred something. The machine’s interior lit up all of a sudden, as if roused from slumber. The screens flickered into life. A deep, heavy hum began, filling the war machine’s frame.

  From within came a voice, buzzy and artificial. “Presence detected. Identify,” it demanded.

  Od gaped.

  “Repeat: identify,” the machine said.

  “Uh…”

  “Voice recognition running. Identity confirmed as Odysseus Fitch.”

  “What?”

  “Hello, Od.” The voice abruptly altered. Its tone was more youthful now, and less abrasive.

  “Me? You know who I am?”

  “Of course I know who you are,” the machine said. “And surely you recognise me?”

  “Er, no. I mean, this is the first time I ever set eyes on you. Five minutes ago I didn’t even know you existed.”

  “But my voice. Familiar, isn’t it?”

  It was. Od just couldn’t work out why.

  Then he got it.

  “That’s… that’s my voice,” he said.

  “Bingo. Synthesised by your father, an exact simulation of your pitch, register, timbre and speech patterns.”

  “Not that exact. ‘Bingo’?”

  “He tried his best,” said the machine. “The point of it is to provide reassurance and establish an instant rapport between the two of us.”

  “Look,” said Od. “What’s going on? This is all a little bit nuts. I’m talking to a, what, a computer program – some kind of artificial intelligence software that’s talking back to me in my own voice. I shouldn’t even be here. I’m just following my dad’s instructions.”

  “Yes, Professor Fitch had a feeling there was a chance you and I might meet one day. I just wish it was under better circumstances. I can only assume something bad has happened to him.”

  “If by bad you mean pigging disastrous, then yes, it has.”

  “Then your next step should be to climb into me.”

  “Huh? Come again?” Od scowled at the machine.

  “Climb into me. Your father needs me. Needs us.”

  “Us? In what way?”

  “To retrieve him from wherever he’s being held prisoner.”

  “You…” Od began, now nothing short of flabbergasted. “You mean me in you? You with me? Together?”

  “That’s the general meaning of the term ‘us’, Od. Both you and I, working in tandem, can get the professor out of the fix he’s in.”

  “You want me to get into you and – ”

  “Is the concept really so difficult to grasp?” said the machine, with something close to a sigh. “I need a pilot. Your father needs a rescuer. You are the man for both jobs.”

  “But I can’t even drive a car,” Od protested. “How am I supposed to be able to work a complicated piece of kit like you?”

  “Don’t be so modest. You’re super-smart, while I’m actually surprisingly straightforward to operate. My control interface, designed by your father, is very user-friendly. You can walk, right?”

  Od nodded.

  “If you can do that, you’re halfway there with me. So get in.”

  “No, I…”

  “I don’t think we have time to debate this. Do you want to help your father or not?”

  “Dumb question.”

  “Then get in. The sooner we start to bond, the sooner we can – ”

  The machine broke off.

  “What?” said Od. “The sooner we can what? And what do you mean by bond?”

  “Uh-oh,” said the machine.

  “‘Uh-oh’?” echoed Od.

  “Trouble. Upstairs. I’m registering automatic rifle fire. Multiple sources, multiple locations.”

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Forgive me, but you don’t have the sensory resources I do. It appears to be some kind of incursion. Numerous hostiles. Their forces are attacking the installation’s defenders. And, I’m afraid, overwhelming them.”

  Faintly now, Od could hear a sporadic crackling noise. It originated from overhead, far away, muted by thick walls and floors. But it did sound, to the best of his knowledge, like exchanges of gunfire.

  Then an alarm began to whoop, resounding through the chamber like the braying of a frightened donkey.

  “You have no choice, Od,” the machine said. “They’re heading this way, and I’m the safest place you can be, believe me. Perhaps the only safe place.”

  “But aren’t these – these hostiles coming for you?”

  “A sensible deduction. More than likely they are. But that doesn’t change the truth of what I said. If anything, it reinforces it. Hurry. Move. Now.”

  Od didn’t see that he had an alternative. He bent his head and clambered in through the hatch. He lowered his legs into the two cylindrical cavities provided.

  Almost immediately, the hatch sealed shut behind him. A set of sliding plates hissed together like the shutter of an old-fashioned camera.

  “Welcome aboard,” said the machine. “Before we go any further, I should introduce myself properly. My official designation is Warsuit One Point Oh. But you can call me Wes.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Wes?” said Od.

  “It stands for Weaponised Exoskeleton System. Wes is less of a mouthful.”

  “Fair enough, Wes. I’ll call you that if you’ll do one thing for me.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Can you somehow change your voice? It’s creepy being spoken to by myself.”

  “No problem. I’ll go back to my default setting.” The voice became the synthetic, impersonal one Wes had first used. “How is that?”

  “You have anything else?”

  “I have a library of over four hundred voice simulations to choose from. Reconfiguring. How about this? An improvement?”

  Wes sounded human again but now his voice was that of a small girl, a lisping primary-schooler who spoke at piccolo pitch.

  “Yeah, that’s also creepy. Sounds like you should be playing with Bratz dolls or Sylvanian Families or something.”

  “What would you prefer?” Still the little girl, Wes spoke with a touch of petulance. “The prime minister? The president of the United States? Angelica W-K?”

  “No, no, and definitely no. Dad programmed you with her voice? He’s been single far too long. Tell you what, can you do his?”

  “Your father’s voice? Accessing Tremaine Fitch file. All right? This more like
it?”

  It was eerie, hearing a perfect replica of his father’s voice coming out of Wes. But it felt somehow right, too. Fitting.

  “It’ll do,” said Od.

  “Well, now that we’ve got that sorted, let me show you what we’re up against,” said Wes. “I’m patching myself wirelessly into the Selston Tor security camera feeds.”

  Crisp CCTV images popped up on three of the screens in front of Od. They showed people clad in grey one-piece battle fatigues, running through corridors, firing strange stubby machine guns. Soldiers were shooting back with assault rifles, but it was clear there were far fewer people defending the installation than there were attacking. Not only that but the intruders’ guns seemed superior. Heavily outnumbered, the soldiers were going down.

  “Who are they?” Od said, horrified.

  “Their garb is distinctive,” replied Wes. “The squarish helmet, the mask with inverted-triangle faceplate, the grey jumpsuit with chunky polyethylene-fibre panels – it’s the signature uniform of the paramilitary arm of the global terrorist network known as T-Cell.”

  “T-Cell? Never heard of them.”

  “Nor should you have. Every legitimate government in the world has done its utmost to deny and suppress all evidence of their existence. They’re dangerous fanatics with a mania for high-tech inventions.”

  “Like those guns of theirs, for instance? The ones that look a bit like dust busters?”

  “Yes. Wave cannons, they’re called. The Ministry of Defence is working on its own prototype for use by the British army. Instead of a single stream of bullets one after another, the wave cannon fires a dozen simultaneously in a horizontal S-shaped burst. Hard to miss with that.”

  “So what’s their angle, this T-Cell lot? Their political ideology? What do they want?”

  “Plenty of things. But right now: me. They’re coming down here, to this very chamber.”

  On one of the screens, two of the T-Cell operatives were outside a large steel door, setting up some sort of projector device on a tripod.