Reactivated (Bolt Eaters Trilogy Book 1)

by Isaac Hooke

  That was another thing setting him and the Bolt Eaters above and beyond humans: Mind Refurbs could have long, involved sex in VR during the middle of a mission, with only a few actual seconds passing in the real world, thanks to their accelerated minds.

  He dismissed the thought, and focused on the women his current reality presented to him.

  Crusher seemed very still beside him, whereas Bambi was gently nudging his chest with her cheek.

  He glanced at Crusher. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she murmured.

  Eric shrugged. She’d tell him when she felt the moment had come.

  “So, when are you going to become a real boy, Pinocchio?” Bambi said, apparently trying to lighten the mood.

  “I don’t know why I ever let you two watch that with me,” Eric said. A few months ago, he had gone on a childhood memories binge, watching all his favorite movies and shows, and playing all the favorite games from his youth—those that had been preserved, at least. He let Bambi and Crusher participate in a few of his marathon sessions, because they were wondering what he was doing with all his free time, and they wanted a better insight into the man they both loved.

  “So, when?” Bambi pressed.

  He sighed. “I’m already real, as far as I’m concerned. As are you two.”

  “When we leave here, we’re machines,” Crusher said. “That’s the only reality there is. This is the fantasy. It always has been. We really have to stop with the VR porn.”

  Eric pushed away from her. “Is that what you think this is? Just porn?”

  “What else would you call it?” Crusher said. “We’re robots. We can’t have children. The whole point of biological sex is to reproduce. Having sex in here, with no purpose, is just a waste. It’s just porn. Literally mental masturbation.”

  “Is that really how you feel?” Eric said. “What about the sense of pleasure, the feeling of bonding we get when we make love.”

  “An illusion of algorithms and subroutines,” Crusher said.

  “But it’s also a temporary reprieve from the daily grind,” Eric said. “We need those reprieves.”

  “She’s having one of her moods,” Bambi said.

  “Well, at least he didn’t try to convince me that I was still human.” Crusher rolled over onto her back. “He’s done that often enough in the past, when I get into one of my ‘moods’ as you call it.”

  Eric lay on his back, too, and cuddled with Bambi alone. He stared at the ceiling. Bambi gave him a mischievous look, and began to pet his erogenous zone, but he disabled his pleasure center. She frowned when he didn’t react, and lay down in a huff beside him.

  “Do you ever wonder if we’re simulations living in a simulation?” Crusher asked, still gazing at the virtual ceiling.

  “What do you mean?” Eric replied.

  “When we leave VR behind and enter the real world, is the machine reality just another simulation?” Crusher explained.

  “That’s a question I can’t answer,” Eric said. “None of us can. Scientists and philosophers have debated it for centuries. None of them have ever produced any conclusive evidence either way. Most debates on the subject almost always touch the realm of Theology.”

  Crusher remained quiet for several moments. Bambi tested Eric again with a few quick strokes of her fingers, but he still had his pleasure center disabled, and didn’t respond.

  She whispered in his ear: “Turn on your pleasure center.”

  He ignored her.

  “We’re going to die here, aren’t we?” Crusher said suddenly.

  Eric turned toward her. “So that’s what’s bothering you.”

  “And it’s not troubling you?” Crusher said. “I almost died already. Like you said earlier, just a few more millimeters and I wouldn’t exist right now. It’s inevitable that we’ll face more attacks. Not just from these bioweapons or whatever they are, but from the Banthar themselves—assuming they’re actually here, and this is some kind of outpost or colony world. And I doubt we’ll be prepared against their superior weaponry. The technology we stole from them is twenty years old. They would have had some time to make modifications, don’t you think?”

  “We’ll deal with any attacks as they come,” Eric said. “During the invasion, we faced a changing battle space all the time.”

  Crusher rubbed her eyes. “Yup. I’m going to die.”

  “Even if you do, when we return to Earth, we’ll restore you from your backup and—” Eric began.

  “That wouldn’t be me,” Crusher interrupted. “And you know it. Sure, if Arnold makes a clone, it’ll have my memories, my personality, and maybe even my joie de vivre, to quote Bambi, but it won’t be me. I’ll be gone, and I won’t ever be coming back.”

  “At least then you’ll learn if the real world is a simulation or not,” Bambi said casually.

  “Oh sure, of course you’d treat this subject lightly,” Crusher said.

  Bambi shrugged. “I do not welcome death, but I also do not fear it, for precisely the reasons Eric mentioned: a part of us will still live on, even if we are gone. But seriously, I meant what I said: if you die, at least you’ll have the answer to your simulation question.”

  “I’m not sure I want to know” Crusher didn’t say more for a long moment. Then: “I died during the invasion. That was hard enough, having to wake up in a new body and being told I didn’t have to worry because all of my memories had been restored into a fresh AI core. Don’t you remember the existential angst I went through at the time? I’ve hid it well since those days, but I’m still going through it. And honestly, I don’t know what I’ll do if I die again. I should have never accepted this mission. I should have walked away, and let Arnold create the damn clone from my twenty years old backup.”

  Eric wrapped an arm around her hip and pulled, turning her toward him. “Whatever happens, we’ll get through this. Live or die.”

  She nodded grimly. Her gaze went to Bambi, who was peering over his shoulder.

  “We’ll always fight at your side,” Bambi said. “In battle, and in life.”

  Crusher’s eyes became moist, and when she blinked a tear fell. “Thank you both. I can’t tell you how much I love the two of you.” She glanced at Bambi. “You’re the sister I never had.” Her gaze fell on Eric. “And you, you’re the man I wish my husband was.”

  “I liked my husband,” Bambi said.

  Crusher rolled her eyes. “You would. Way to go and spoil the moment.”

  Bambi shrugged. She wrapped her arms around Eric’s muscular chest. “But I must admit, I do like this man, Eric Scala, just as much. If not more.”

  Eric reenabled his pleasure center and gave both girls what they wanted—needed—in that moment.

  15

  Eric returned to reality shortly thereafter, and returned his time sense to normal. Only a few minutes had passed in the real world. The Accomps had spotted nothing unusual through the trees, and the Raven scouts hadn’t detected anything out of the ordinary ahead other than the usual tracks that indicated where smaller herds of creatures had fled from their paths.

  “Scorpion, it’s about time you checked above the canopy again, isn’t it?” Brontosaurus asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Eric replied. “Hang on, people.”

  “Why does Scorpion always get to do it?” Slate said.

  “You like climbing trees?” Eric latched onto the closest tree and began pulling himself up.

  “Yeah, why not?” Slate said.

  “All right, if you can beat me to the top, you can take over lookout duties,” Eric said.

  “You’re toast!” Slate said.

  He grabbed onto Eric’s leg and ripped him from the tree. “Hey—”

  Eric hit the ground, and by the time he got up, Slate was already scrambling up the tree.

  “Cheater!” Eric said.

  “Cheater,” Slate giggled. “Who over the age of ten years old talks like that? Come on now, don’t be a whiner like Traps.”


  Bambi grabbed onto Eric, and launched upward with her jumpjets. She moved slowly, because of the weight.

  “This isn’t going to work,” Bambi said.

  As she flew past Slate, she tossed Eric upward. He latched onto the tree three meters above him.

  “Hey!” Slate said. “No fair!” He redoubled his climbing pace.

  Eric matched his pace, switching to Bullet Time, and amping his servomotors to maximum; he dug hand and footholds into the wood with his machine strength as he went. He couldn’t help the feeling that Slate was going to grab onto his feet and tear him from the trunk at any time.

  “Don’t you dare rip him off the tree at that height,” Dickson said. “I don’t want to waste materials on unnecessary repairs.”

  “Who me?” Slate said all innocently. “I’d never do that!”

  Eric felt a metal finger brushing his heel as he lifted his foot at one point, and he tried to increase his pace further, knowing that Slate was just below. Finally he reached the upper branches. He wrapped his hands around a thick one, but before he could pull himself up, he felt a pull at his ankle.

  Slate had reached him.

  Eric glanced down, and kicked at the arm that held him. He got Slate to release him.

  “Geez, calm down!” Slate said. “You’re going to knock me off!”

  “That’s what you’re trying to do to me!” Eric said.

  “So?” Slate finally released him.

  Eric quickly pulled himself up, and continued climbing until the branches became impenetrable, at least without opening fire or breaking away some of the wooden limbs. So he jettisoned.

  As he emerged from the cockpit and unfolded in Bullet Time, he saw a sphere beside him, and he realized that Slate had jettisoned his Cicada at the same time.

  Eric finished unfolding and grabbed onto the central trunk.

  “Ha! Sucker!” Slate said, landing on a branch just above. He vaulted onto the next one.

  Eric leaped from branch to branch in his smaller form, trying to catch up, but he couldn’t reach Slate.

  Slate leaped through the purple canopy and vanished.

  “I win!” Slate said.

  Eric pulled himself through the canopy, and balanced on the branch beside him. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

  Slate didn’t say anything. He was gazing to the southeast, over the treetops.

  Eric followed his gaze. “Guys, looks like the forest finally ends up ahead, giving way to a plain of some kind.”

  T1 proceeded to the forest edge. Eric and the others huddled a kilometer away from the eaves while the Ravens moved forward. He enlarged the viewpoint of one of those Ravens, letting it fill his vision, and watched as the scout approached the forest edge.

  The tree trunks immediately lining the edge were a strange gray in color, and seemed thicker than the previous boles. They were also far closer together, almost like a fence of some sort. As the Raven got closer, he realized those weren’t trees, but the legs of massive quadrupeds: the limbs were connected to huge, barrel-like bodies, with long necks and tails. Those necks reached all the way to the canopy: at the end of each was a square-shaped maw the animals used to bite into the upper branches. The tails had similar maws, which they used to feed on the plant material at the same time as the forward mouth.

  “Is it just me, or do those things have two heads?” Bambi asked.

  “It’s just you,” Slate said. “Those ain’t heads. They’re arms with mouths on the tips. Or trunks, whatever you want to call them. Look at the main body. You see those eyes? That’s where the brain has to be located. And that’s where we fire.”

  “Can’t go wrong shooting at the center of mass,” Brontosaurus said.

  Slate was right, on the torso were two evenly-spaced white orbs; they were likely eyes, with the whites probably sclera equivalents. There were small black dots near the centers that could be pupils.

  As Eric watched, one of the quadrupeds finished eating all the leaves from one of the trees and promptly wrapped its neck and tails—or trunks—around it, and pulled at the tree, snapping the base. The tree toppled, and the creature simply walked over it to begin dining on the upper boughs of the next bole inside.

  The snow had melted entirely beyond the forest edge, allowing Eric to see the trampled logs that lined the length of the eaves; further into the plains, wood chips mostly covered the land, indicating where trampled logs had been crushed and pulverized by the movements of the huge beasts. Beyond the wood chips were bare stumps; these were successively worn down the further away from the forest Eric gazed, until he saw only gray, uninterrupted plains. There was no grass or other foliage—it had probably been devoured by the creatures.

  Eric dismissed the Raven’s viewpoint so that he was back inside of himself, and regarding the eaves from a kilometer away.

  “Well, that’s natural clear cutting for you,” Mickey commented.

  “I want one as a pet,” Slate said. “They look a little like the dinosaurs of Brontosaurus’ namesake. Well, if you imagine those trunks are heads and tails. The name Brontosaur doesn’t really work, though. How about we call them Huggers, because of the way they hug those trees when they rip them down.”

  “That’s a terrible name,” Mickey said. “Sounds like a pair of diapers.”

  “That’s what I was thinking!” Frogger transmitted.

  “I don’t get the correlation,” Slate said.

  “There was a certain diaper product…” Frogger said. “Never mind, before your time.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Slate said. “Well then, I’ll be happy to hear whatever suggestion you might have, Mickey Mouse.”

  “Mickey Mouse,” Mickey said. “Nicely done. You’re starting to target your insults based on my cultural time period. Rather than calling me Bitch every time.”

  “Oh, I’m not done calling you Bitch,” Slate said. “But you’re right, I’ve been doing my cultural homework. I want my insults to hit home.”

  “Well, aren’t you just Wile E. Coyote,” Mickey said.

  “Who?” Slate pressed.

  “Wile E. Coyote,” Mickey said. “To my Roadrunner.”

  “Okay bro,” Slate said. “Over my head now.”

  “So much for doing your research,” Mickey said.

  “Hey Scorp, what’s he talking about?” Slate said.

  “Never mind,” Eric told him.

  “No, seriously, tell me!” Slate said.

  “All right, but you won’t like it,” Eric said. “Wile E. Coyote was always hunting a character named the Roadrunner, and always dying in the process. The Roadrunner always outsmarted him.”

  Slate spun toward Mickey. “Time for you to have a taste of my metal fist. The Roadrunner is soon to become Roadkill.”

  He stomped toward Mickey.

  “Stand down, Slate,” Dickson said.

  Slate halted. He continued to stare down Mickey’s Devastator, though.

  “Only you would want to fight over a cartoon character,” Mickey said.

  Slate started to growl some caustic reply, but then quickly turned around, and said instead: “You’re lucky we’re on mission, Bitch!”

  “Back to bitch again,” Mickey said.

  “So, Sarge, what do you want to do?” Dickson asked.

  “We’re going to stay inside the forest and follow along the eaves,” Marlborough answered. “It’s the safest course of action. We’re here to perform recon, and there’s no way I’m going to walk out in the open if I can avoid it.”

  “This is odd,” Mickey said.

  “What?” Marlborough asked.

  “I’m detecting a microwave signal, sourced from somewhere due east,” Mickey replied.

  “Damn,” Marlborough said.

  “So much for not walking out into the open, huh?” Tread said.

  “We can send the Ravens east to scout?” Eagleeye suggested.

  “Do it,” Marlborough said.

  “Uh, given the way the signal is attenuating, I doubt
the source is anywhere close,” Mickey said. “I’d say it’s somewhere between fifty to a hundred kilometers away.”

  “Send the Ravens anyway,” Marlborough said.

  The scouts moved forward, out of the forest, and past the big creatures. When they reached the limits of their comm range, Eagleeye had one halt to act as a repeater, while the second moved forward. When that one, too, reached its limit, Eagleeye reported that it was clear out there, and he recalled the units.

  When the scouts returned, Marlborough spoke immediately: “There’s nothing for it. We’re leaving the forest, and heading east to investigate that signal.”

  “We leave the forest here, or further north?” Dickson asked.

  “Further north,” Marlborough said. “Look for a gap in those creatures. I want to give them a wide berth.”

  Dickson led T1 to the northwest, away from the Huggers that were eating along the edges of the forest ahead, and then turning east again to emerge between a small gap in the Hugger numbers, with creatures feeding a short way to the north and south on either side.

  The Ravens led the way, and were the first to emerge; the team moved carefully after the scouts, doing their best not to draw the attention of the big feeders. T1 maintained their zig-zag formation. T2 and T3 followed, leaving fifty meters between each team.

  One of the bigger Huggers directed its torso, and hence its eyes, toward the mechs, but then promptly returned its attention to devouring the leaves at hand.

  “They’ve never met our kind before,” Tread said. “And haven’t learned to be afraid of us.”

  “It’s probably us who should be afraid of them,” Bambi said. “Those maws could probably squeeze through our chest assemblies like a wine press.”

  “Nice metaphor,” Slate commented.

  “Thank you,” Bambi said. “I thought you’d approve.”

  “Except it’s wrong,” Slate said. “These bitches couldn’t do shit to our armor. Chewing through branches takes a lot less force than chewing through metal polycarbonate composites.”

  The forest looped back on itself to the north, encroaching on the plains so that the team was passing closer to the Huggers.