by Greg Cox
Losenko envisioned a throng of hopeful survivors, desperate for assistance, being pressed into slavery by an occupying force. He couldn’t help being perversely impressed by the speed and efficiency with which the lawn mower factory had apparently been converted into an incubator for killer robots. That bespoke meticulous planning and premeditation, in anticipation of Armageddon. Someone had been looking ahead beyond the initial attack.
But who? What kind of “computer malfunction” was capable of that?
“How did you get away?” he asked.
“Smuggled my wrinkled carcass out of the place along with a load of fresh corpses.” Her casual tone defied the horror she must have endured. “People were being worked to death all the time. What was one more wornout piece of meat?”
“I’m sorry—for everything,” Losenko offered. The words rang hollow even to his own ears. A vision of Alaska, equally devastated by his own missiles, flayed off a fresh strip of his soul. “Are there others like you?”
“A few, hiding here and there.” Grushka lit up a cigarette to steady her nerves, using the same lighter she’d employed to ignite the fuse of her Molotov cocktail. Losenko glanced nervously at the gas-filled bottles boxed over by Josef. “The machines mostly leave us alone as long as we stay away from the factory. At least Who knows what they’ll do once they’ve built more of ‘em.”
“Kill us all, that’s what.” Josef glared at them like they were stupid. He fondled the shotgun in his lap. “Any fool can see that.”
“Probably.” Grushka scratched her head thoughtfully. A loose strand of hair slipped free of her kerchief. Embarrassed, she grabbed the strands and tucked them into her pocket, out of sight. Rough hands made sure the kerchief was secure. She gave Losenko a searching look. “You really got a submarine?”
He nodded. “The Gorshkov.” He felt a sudden urge to report back in to the sub; Ivanov and the surviving officers needed to be informed of the debacle. “Excuse me.” He unhooked a compact walkie-talkie from his belt. Pushkin would be waiting in the radio shack, listening for his signal. “Captain to radio. Do you read me?”
“I don’t like this,” Josef grumbled. “What if the machines are listening?”
“Quiet!” Grushka shushed him. “This is military business!”
Pushkin promptly answered Losenko’s hail, but the captain’s relief at getting back in touch with his boat was leavened by the dreadful news he had to impart. “Get me First Officer Ivanov at once.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Pushkin answered. There was a moment of silence, after which he spoke again, his voice eager. “Good to hear from you, skipper. Is Ostrovosky there?”
The captain winced. The radio operator’s blood was still smeared across his face.
“Just get me Ivanov.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Pushkin replied, his voice flat now. He didn’t say anything more.
The XO was on the other end of the line within minutes.
“Radio to captain. What is it, sir?”
Losenko decided he could give Ivanov a full report later, once they were safely at sea.
“We’ve taken heavy casualties,” he said tersely. “Rig the boat for an immediate departure.” He consulted his wristwatch, which was still set to Moscow time. It would be dark soon. “If we’re not back by dawn, leave without us. The boat is not safe here. This is occupied territory.”
“Casualties?” Ivanov said, and there was new anger in his voice. “Did you engage the enemy?” The hatred was audible even from dozens of kilometers away. “Was it the Americans?”
Losenko allowed himself a bitter smile.
“Not unless they bleed oil now.”
A computer malfunction....
“What?” Ivanov was understandably perplexed by the cryptic remark. “I don’t take your meaning, sir. Can you elaborate?”
Losenko wished there had been time to take a snapshot of one of the robots. How else was he to fully convey the horror they had faced? No longer pumped full of adrenalin, he suddenly found himself unbearably tired.
All those men, shot to ribbons... for what?
Gunfire jolted him from his lethargy. Bullets slammed into the rear door of the armored truck.
“Crap!” Grushka explained. “Guess they really want you Navy boys!”
“I told you we should have left well enough alone,” Josef snarled. He pumped his shotgun. “Stupid old hag! You had to go looking for trouble!”
“Captain!” Ivanov blurted over the radio. “What is it? What’s happening?”
Losenko barked into the device. “Just get my boat ready to sail, Alexei! Captain out!”
More bullets hit the back door. It sounded like a machinegun. Losenko guessed that their attackers were trying to shoot out the truck’s tires. A plausible strategy, despite the tires’ protective casings. But how had the robots managed to catch up with a speeding truck? Surely their caterpillar treads weren’t capable of such speed?
“Who...?” he began.
Josef must have been wondering the same thing. He pounded the butt of his shotgun against the partition behind him and yelled at the driver. “Speak up, idiot! Who’s shooting at us now?”
“A Jeep,” Mitka shouted back from the cab. Glass shattered as a bullet took out his side-view mirror. Angry voices hollered at the truck in Russian. “Two metal lovers. A driver and a gunman. Machinegun mounted in the back.”
Losenko wanted to make sure he’d heard correctly.
“Humans? People are firing on us?”
“Circuit-sucking collaborators!” she spat. “Traitors!”
Not machines then, but humans. And, from the sound of them, Russian conscripts. Losenko was appalled and sickened to find himself under fire from the very people he had sworn to defend. Had Mother Russia—and all of mankind—truly sunk so low?
Grushka grabbed onto his arm.
“Listen to me, Captain. We can’t stay on this road for long. It’s not safe. But there’s a speedboat hidden along the river not far from here. We can get you to that.”
“Grushka!” Josef lurched to his feet, almost hitting his head on the roof of the compartment. Veins bulged beneath his hairless scalp, and he brandished his shotgun. “What are you saying, you old cow? That’s our boat. We can’t give it away to strangers!”
“Shut up, you selfish lummox!” Bloody spittle sprayed from her lips. “These people have a submarine. A Russian submarine. That’s our Navy we’re talking about, maybe all that’s left of it.”
Josef was unconvinced.
“We don’t owe them anything!”
“What about the machines?” she challenged him. “You want those bloodthirsty monsters to get their cold metal hands on that sub?” She pointed at Losenko and his men. “Who do you think is going to stop those things except men like these?”
Josef sneered.
“Don’t you get it? Nobody can stop them. It’s all over now.”
“So you’re just going to roll over and die then?” Grushka pursed her lips, took a drag of her cigarette, and blew smoke at him. “I always knew you were no good for anything!”
“Bitch!”
For a second, Losenko feared that the hairless bruiser was going to shoot the older woman with his shotgun. He weighed his chances of disarming Josef, and found them far from encouraging. And the last thing he wanted was for the gun to go off next to that carton of explosive cocktails.
“I’m right, and you know it,” Grushka taunted him. “Do your duty, you miserable son of a bitch!”
Josef lowered his gun.
“All right, all right! Anything to shut you up!” He pounded his fist against the bulkhead behind him. “Go for the boat!” he ordered the driver.
Machinegun fire peppered the door. A ruptured tire blew, throwing the truck to one side, but it kept on going. A reinforced steel frame allowed the vehicle to roll on even with a deflated tire.
Furious voices called on them to surrender.
“Damnit!” Grushka yelled at the driver.
“What do you think you’re doing, leading them on a scenic tour of the countryside? Shake those leeches!”
The armored truck swerved off the road. It sped across the open tundra, bouncing down a rocky slope. The bumpy ride tossed Losenko and others about the cargo hold, making him grateful for the padding on the walls. Grushka braced herself and sucked on her cigarette. The Molotov cocktails rattled in their carton.
The other seamen braced themselves against the walls as well. The bone-jarring impacts left Losenko battered and bruised.
Then the gunfire abated. Had they lost their pursuers for a moment? Losenko wondered how much longer it would take them to reach the boat. And whether the Jeep would chase them down to the river, over the open country. And in the midst of it all, he was still trying to get used to the fact that his own countrymen were trying to kill him.
On behalf of the robots.
Abruptly the driver slammed on the brakes, almost throwing Losenko from the bench. Grushka leapt to her feet. She unbolted the rear doors, but didn’t yet open them. A wide grin revealed a mouthful of missing teeth.
“This is where you get off,” she announced
Josef slid the crate of bottles across the floor. “Bar’s open, cow. How ‘bout you fix those bastards a drink or two?”
“You read my mind.” She grabbed the nearest bottle and lit the fuse with her cigarette. Losenko watched with alarm as the wadded cloth caught fire. The doors of the compartment were still shut, sealing them inside with the volatile explosives.
Grushka kicked open the doors and hurled the bottle into the moss-covered landscape outside. The bomb went off, igniting a cloud of flammable vapor. The smell of burning gas filled the cool summer air. A wall of fire sprang up to provide cover for the open truck. Clouds of roiling black smoke suggested that sugar, glue, or some other thickening agent had been added to the combustible cocktail. She was busy lighting another bomb before the flames from the first had even died down.
“I’ll hold ‘em off,” she promised. Her kerchief came loose, revealing a bald spot surrounded by tufts of dry, straw-like brown hair. The wind from the fire blew an uprooted lock off her skull, as she let the kerchief fall to the ground. Clearly she thought this was no time for vanity. “Josef, show them the boat!”
Muttering obscenely under his breath, the big man shoved the sailors out of the armored truck.
“Move it, you cock-sucking pains in the ass.” He jumped out of the cargo hold, then hurried down the slope toward the marshy shore of a swiftly coursing river, almost certainly the Ponoy. Swaying rushes sprouted along a narrow strip of beach. A heap of rotting timbers were piled high at the edge of the water. Josef took hold of the wooden planks and started tossing them aside. “I can’t believe I let that witch talk me into this!”
The rushes and timbers concealed a small fiberglass skiff powered by a single outboard motor. The humble craft had room for maybe six passengers. Stagnant water pooled in the floor of the boat, covered in a coat of algae. A topless mermaid was crudely painted on the side of the hull. Cyrillic lettering spelled out the craft’s name: Rusalka. An aquatic siren that lured men to their doom.
Not exactly the Gorshkov, Losenko thought, but it might get us back to port.
Assuming it didn’t spring a leak along the way.
Wasting no time, he and his two men helped Josef get Rusalka into the water. The young sailors, revived by the task at hand, piled into the boat and starting fumbling with the motor. Losenko hesitated before joining them. “Come with us,” he urged Josef. “You and Grushka and the driver.”
What was the driver’s name again? Mitka?
“Come with you where?” Josef challenged, mockery in his voice. His beefy arms were folded across his chest. “Do you know where you’re going in that glorious sub of yours?”
Losenko couldn’t lie to him.
“No.”
“I thought as much.” Josef backed away from the shore. “Go on! I’ve got better things to do than stand around waiting for you to get out of my life.”
“Captain, please!” The men called out for him to hurry. Losenko wondered how long they would wait for him. “We have to get away!”
Bowing to the inevitable, he splashed through the chilly water toward the boat. Mud and silt sucked at his heels. Icy water filled up his boots. An eager seaman helped him aboard, and Rusalka rocked beneath his feet, but, mercifully, did not take on water as he plopped down onto a damp plastic bench. The other sailor fired up the outboard motor.
Josef watched the boat pull away from the river bank. He shook his shorn head in disgust. “You had better be worth this!” he called after them.
Midshipman Blasko manned the rudder as Rusalka motored down river. The rushing current carried them swiftly away from the dismal beach. A white froth chopped up the water at their stern. Josef, Grushka, and the truck disappeared behind a curve in the Ponoy. A rocky ridge, coated with purplish-red lichen, hid the fractious civilians from view.
Climbing balls of fire, however, hinted at the furious conflict the submariners had barely escaped. Gunfire echoed across the water. A distant explosion rippled the surface of the river.
The din of battle receded into the distance, gradually replaced only by the steady chug of the motor. A somber hush fell over the men in the boat. Blasko finally broke the silence.
“You think they made it, sir?”
“I hope so, Mr. Blasko.” It pained Losenko to realize that they would probably never know. He found himself deeply moved by what Grushka and her comrades had risked for them. They were just civilians, ordinary citizens, but they had fought as bravely as any professional soldier or sailor. Looking back toward the shore, he raised his hand in salute.
Your struggle, and your sacrifices, will not be forgotten.
Blasko continued to work the rudder.
“Your orders, sir?”
Losenko turned his face forward.
“Back to the boat. Full speed ahead.”
A determined look came into his eyes. His jaw set firmly. This mission had been a costly one, but not without purpose. He had lost many good men, but he had gained something, too.
A people worth fighting for.
CHAPTER TWELVE
2018
“Shoot, damnit—don’t jam on me now!”
Firing continuously, the Terminator advanced toward the totem pole, which was rapidly turning into a toothpick. Bullets gouged the wood. Molly fumbled anxiously with her own weapon, while searching for someplace to run. Too many yards of open space separated her from the next convenient source of shelter; she’d be cut to ribbons before she got three paces. Her sidearm was still holstered at her hip, but that was just a pea-shooter compared to the Terminator’s Kalashnikov.
She was trapped.
The only consolation was the sound of alarms going off all over the camp. Church bells rung from the chapel steeple, signaling a full retreat. With luck, all those surprise evacuation drills would finally pay off, not that it was likely to do her any good. Molly hoped that Sitka was already making tracks from the camp, dragging Doc Rathbone behind her.
Wonder if Geir has made it to the plane yet.
The Terminator was only a few feet away when its AK-47 ran out of ammo. Unable to reload, it held on to the weapon anyway. A sharpened bayonet was mounted on the rifle’s smoking barrel. The eleven-inch blade was also an effective tool for termination.
Molly got ready to make a run for it. T-600s were slow and bulky; she might be able to get past it. Unless it was bluffing. Terminators could be tricky; she’d known T-600s to play possum during a battle, pretending to be out of commission in order to lure human targets into range. She wouldn’t put it past this one-eyed monstrosity to try to put one over on her. Make her think it didn’t have any bullets left.
Gotta chance it, though.
Before she could sprint out from behind the totem pole, however, the distinctive roar of a chainsaw drowned out the alarms. Ernie Wisetongue charged the invader, ho
lding a whirring chainsaw above his head like a maniac in an old slasher movie. His sealskin parka made him look like Nanook of the North.
“Get away from there, you lifeless abomination!” he bellowed. His muscular arms were used to working with saws and axes. “You don’t belong here!”
Was he trying to rescue her, or just pissed off at the destruction of his sculpture? Molly didn’t know or care.
“Hit it on the left!” she shouted. “It’s blind in its left eye!”
Taking her advice, Ernie lunged to one side and angled the chainsaw at the Terminator’s metal vertebrae, hoping to decapitate the machine. But tooth-edged chain caught on an armored shoulder-plate instead. Kickback threw the business end of the chainsaw back into Ernie’s shoulder.
The artist shrieked and staggered backward. Dark venous blood painted his face incarnadine. He lost his grip on the chainsaw, which landed at his feet, just missing his toes. Ernie flopped over on the snow. He clutched his mutilated shoulder. Blood spurted through his fingers.
No! Molly thought, gasping in horror. Only hours ago, the avuncular sculptor had bestowed his blessing on Roger and Tammi, and—by extension—the entire community. Now he lay thrashing only a few feet away, another innocent victim of Skynet’s brutality.
Discarding the jammed rifle, she angrily drew her pistol.
Damn it! He’s worth a hundred of you monsters! She peppered the Terminator with small-arms fire. He had your number, you heartless fucker!
The bullets distracted the Terminator, who turned away from Ernie for a moment. The injured sculptor dragged himself across the bloody sawdust, taking refuge in a children’s maze composed of linked metal drums. He crawled into the tunnel before the T-600 could impale him with its bayonet. The machine chose to focus on the discarded chainsaw instead. Releasing the empty AK-47, it picked up the lethal tool. It limped away from the barrels without a backward look at the fine old man it had just maimed. Molly prayed that someone would get to Ernie before he bled to death. In the meantime, she found herself in the sights of the last thing she ever wanted to see.
