by Isaac Hooke
The platoon retreated into the forest, and waited until the thirty-six hour day became night.
When it was fully dark, Bambi commented: “Well, at least it’s not snowing tonight.”
“Who’s to say it won’t snow yet?” Mickey asked.
“That’s true, there’s no guarantee,” Bambi said. “The temperature has still dropped below the freezing point of the alkane composite prevalent here, after all.”
“You know, if we fuck this up, we have to wait fifty-two hours until morning, right?” Traps said.
“Which is why we’re not going to fuck it up,” Dickson said.
“We could wait forty-five hours, so we have a shorter time period before recharge...” Brontosaurus suggested.
“No,” Marlborough said. “If the shit hits the fan in there, it won’t matter whether we have only two hours to recharge, or fifty, the daylight won’t help us. We proceed now. Let’s get this done.”
Slate took point once more, and led the way forward. Eric followed fifty meters behind, and Tread fifty meters after him. The remaining members of the Bolt Eaters maintained that fifty-meter separation as they in turn left cover, and began the trek toward the alien city. The platoon was using a more spread-out formation for stealth reasons. They would still appear as Sloth units to any Banthar that detected them, and hopefully the potentially strange formation wouldn’t attract any adverse attention.
Eric gazed at Slate ahead of him. Slate’s unit definitely looked alien in nature, and was only recognizable as a mech because of the blue outline his comm node specifically generated on Eric’s HUD. This was due to the fact that in addition to transmitting the necessary IDs the Banthar might expect from Sloth units, the 3D-printed exoskeletons also generated thermal emissions approximating the heat signatures of the aforementioned robots.
Eric was running in stealth mode, meaning his servomotor power output was dialed way down, and he moved slowly, generating as little noise as possible. Also, he carefully planted his feet, so as to reduce the clanking thuds produced by each footfall. The platoon had kept their transmission range limited to fifty meters, with their antennae set to directional mode and pointing solely along the scattered line formed by the mechs: as Marlborough had said before, while they might have thermal signatures that were the spitting images of Sloth units, if there was one thing that would give them away, it would be generating comm signals that were non-Banthar in origin. The Bolt Eaters had programmed their transmitters to auto shutdown if any tangos approached within fifty meters.
The trees thinned out, until they fell away entirely. Ahead awaited the outlying farms, and the city beyond. He zoomed in on the city—the streets were deserted at this hour. However, he could see the thermal signatures of airships as the craft continued to rove the night sky above the alien metropolis, but there were otherwise no running lights to mark them. And though the alien buildings below emitted no light on the visible spectrum, the team was able to use thermal vision because of the heat energy generated by the structures both in the city itself, and the hydroponics farms adjacent to it.
Speaking of those farms, as Eric made his way quietly between the estates, he spotted alien robots still working the fields, despite the hour, the machines fully visible on the infrared band thanks to their thermal emissions. They looked like floating torsos without legs or heads.
“Kind of like the Headless Horseman, but without the horse,” Frogger commented.
“Hm, I don’t really see it,” Mickey said.
“If you bitches don’t stop with the ancient cultural nonsense,” Slate said. “I’m gonna kick your ugly asses so hard your hulls melt!”
“Hear that?” Traps said. “Better watch out, Slate’s going to melt down your hulls with a single kick if you don’t behave. Powerful stuff! Powerful, powerful.”
“I’m gonna kick yours, too, at this rate,” Slate said.
“I had a prof back when there were still physical universities who used the word ‘powerful’ almost every lecture when he was describing one particular scientific formula or other,” Traps said. “Some enterprising students recorded a few of his lectures, and one of the clips went viral, becoming an Internet meme. Powerful, powerful.”
“Still gonna kick your ass,” Slate said.
“Let’s get some quiet on the comms,” Marlborough said. “The less comm chatter we emit at the moment, the better as far as I’m concerned.”
The Bolt Eaters made their way forward in silence. There were aisles between the estates—Eric hesitated to call them roads, because they weren’t paved in any way, and he suspected any traffic flow was airborne. The aisles were probably there in case emergency landings were needed. Then again, maybe the robotic farmers transported their crops to the city on the backs of alien pack animals, or maybe mech equivalents.
A couple of times the machines beyond the fences seemed to pause, as if watching Eric and the others go by. But they usually resumed their work after a few seconds, seemingly satisfied that the passers-by were Banthar units.
In short order the team reached the last farm situated on the outskirts of the silos.
“So did we ever decide, do we place the nuke here in the aisle, or inside the farm?” Slate said.
“Has to be in the farm,” Eagleeye said. “If we leave it in this aisle for ten hours, it’s possible it might be discovered.”
“But if we put it in the farm, it might also be discovered,” Traps said.
“I could put it on the roof of one of the outbuildings,” Bambi said. “I do have jumpjets. Not sure it will help hide it, though, given how many aircraft the Banthar have patrolling the skies.”
“How about there.” Frogger highlighted an area of the HUD, near the corner of the estate, where three cylindrical buildings were placed in a close, triangular pattern. “Between those buildings. It looks like it would fit, and it’ll be well hidden by the surrounding buildings. It wouldn’t be visible from the ground, or the air.”
“Bambi, what kind of signature will the nuke give off once it’s armed?” Marlborough asked.
“None,” Bambi said. “It will emit an obviously nuclear signature when the internal systems activate ten seconds before detonation, but until then, nothing.”
“Good,” Marlborough said. “Use your jumpjets, and place it between the three buildings Frogger suggested.”
“Will do,” Bambi said.
“I’m transmitting the secondary codes you’ll need to arm the warhead, Bambi...” Marlborough said. Then, a moment later: “The rest of you, hold your separate positions, but keep weapons trained inside the estate. Let’s try not to trigger any alarms the estate has rigged.”
Bambi arced into the air, flying over the estate, and landing gently on top of one of the three silos located on the far side of the hydroponics farm. Eric expected a klaxon to sound, but the farm remained quiet.
Bambi descended the silo, using the magnetic mounts in her feet to keep her attached to the surface. Luckily, the silo was magnetic, otherwise she would have had to create her own footholds by crunching the metal and her descent would have been far noisier. As it was, Eric still cringed whenever she attached each foot, because he could hear a soft, audible clang even from where he stood outside the estate. She moved slow enough, and randomly enough, that it hopefully wouldn’t draw attention. The robotic workers on the farm continued their tasks without pause.
She reached the ground between the three silos, and separated her carapace from the rest of her body, leaving her only two pincers for arms, and two segmented legs. Even without the exoskeleton portion wrapped around the carapace, the remaining segments were able to generate the necessary thermal signatures to compensate: Frogger had specifically designed Bambi’s version to function without that detachable piece, so she still gave off a Sloth thermal signature.
Bambi remained next to the carapace for several moments, obviously arming the warhead contained inside using the secondary codes Marlborough gave her along with her own co
des, and then she clambered up to the tail to remove two of the spears that composed the tri-pronged barb. She inserted them into the slots in her right fore claw that were designed exclusively for that purpose, and then leaped onto the closest silo and began climbing via her magnetic mounts. She pulled herself to the top and then maneuvered next to the edge. Then she vaulted off, jumping over the fence that enclosed the estate, and landing in the aisle between it and the next estate with a loud thud.
A couple of the robot workers in the camp turned toward her position, but she remained motionless—just a Sloth out on a nighttime patrol run.
The workers soon returned to tending their crops.
Bambi took a side aisle back to the main platoon. “It’s armed. I set it to detonate ten hours from now.”
“All right Bolt Eaters, we’re done here,” Marlborough said. “It’s time to get the hell out.”
15
Eric and the others retreated at a speed of five kilometers an hour until they reached the forest, and then upped their pace to fifteen kph. They continued in their zig-zag single file formation, though the separation was down to twenty meters per mech.
The city was well behind them, and Eric was feeling good about their chances of making it beyond the radius of the firestorm in time, especially if they kept up their present speed. Whether or not they’d actually get home or not, he wasn’t entirely sure, but he wasn’t about to lower morale by voicing his doubts.
Overhead, the boughs of the tall trees occasionally intruded on the stars, a testament to the well-spaced trunks. While refraining from the use of LIDAR or headlamps, the platoon maintained thermal and night vision so that the boles and terrain around them appeared as varying gradients of green.
“You know, did I ever mention what a relief it is not to have to drag those damn alien wreckages around?” Slate asked.
“You did,” Mickey replied. “A few times.”
“Actually he didn’t,” Eagleeye said.
“I know, but now we’re going to have to listen to a sermon about him complaining about how heavy the tanks were,” Mickey said. “And how he never wants to drag an alien tank ever again. His sermon will include some name calling involving the word bitch, a few F bombs, maybe some fecal references, and then finally he’ll shut up.”
“Bitch, you know what?” Slate said. “I’m done talking to you guys.”
There was silence on the comm for several moments.
“I think you made him mad,” Eagleeye said.
“Hey, I just tell it like it is,” Mickey said.
“Well, that’s real high and mighty of you, Mickey Mouse!” Slate said. “Or should I say, Mighty Mouse! That’s right, bitch! I’ve been honing my twentieth century cultural references, all the better to mock your sorry excuse for a Bolt Eater!”
“Calling me Mickey Mouse isn’t an insult,” Mickey said. “In fact, I kind of like it.”
“As you wish,” Slate said. “Mickey Mighty Mouse.”
“Now that’s just wrong,” Frogger said.
“Mighty oaks from little acorns grow,” Eric said.
“Huh?” Slate asked.
“Nothing,” Eric said. “Just a proverb that popped to mind when you said Mighty Mouse.”
“Man, you twenty-first century people and your slang and proverbs and dildonics,” Slate said.
“What do dildonics have to do with the twenty-first century?” Tread asked.
“Dunno,” Slate said. “But it sounded good. Actually no, I do know. That’s when dildonics were first invented. And we’ve been fine tuning them to the state they are today. When you’re lonely and need a little bit of loving, you can’t go wrong with remote dildonics.”
“When the conversation drifts to the subject of dildonics, you know it’s time to change topics,” Crusher said. “On that note… so Bambi, how’s it feel to have two legs again?”
“Weird as hell,” Bambi said. “I’m still getting used to it. I’ve been experimenting with switching out my walking subroutines, but it hasn’t helped.”
“You’ll adapt,” Brontosaurus said. “We always do.”
“It’s certainly what we do best,” Dickson said. “Adapting to changing situations, worsening battle spaces. It’s why we were picked to be Mind Refurbs. It’s why we’ve survived this long on an alien colony.”
“Okay, staff sergeant,” Slate said. “Let’s not be jinxing our situation now, kay?”
“Uh, better watch yourself, Slate,” Brontosaurus said. “Talking back to the staff sergeant isn’t the best idea.”
“What?” Slate said. “Me and Dickson are good friends. He knows I was very polite in how I went about phrasing the situation.”
“You were indeed,” Dickson said. “And you do have a point. It’s best not to dwell upon our situation for very long. We have to concentrate on putting as much distance as possible between ourselves and that bomb. When that firestorm erupts, things aren’t going to get very pretty.”
The trees around them had suddenly grown very dense, Eric noted, so much so that he could no longer see the stars above.
“Is it just me, or did the forest suddenly get very thick all of a sudden,” Dunnigan said.
“It’s not you,” Hicks said.
“It’s not you, it’s me,” Slate said in a high-pitched voice. “Our relationship just isn’t working for me anymore, my lover Dunnigan. I’m not a one man, man.”
“Is that supposed to be my voice?” Hicks said.
“You got it, bitch,” Slate said. “Because it’s certainly not mine! I ain’t sleeping with Dunnigan.”
Hicks chortled. “Neither am I. No one is.”
“Aw, poor Dunnigan,” Slate said.
“Why is he so antsy all of a sudden?” Dunnigan said. “Settle down, Slate. Stop attacking us other blokes, kay?”
“I didn’t attack you,” Slate said. “I complimented you. You should feel happy that your ass is so well-desired.”
“We’re all antsy,” Frogger said. “So it’s not surprising that Slate is, too. We just planted a nuclear bomb. We’re trying to escape the radius of the coming firestorm. Of course we’re all going to be antsy.”
Before anyone else could respond, shapes moved within the tree line.
“The hell was—” Slate began.
Something hard slammed into Eric’s chest assembly, and he was thrown backward against one of the trees. The bark seemed to spread apart behind him so that in moments he was engulfed, and trapped inside a tomb made of wood. He couldn’t move, and when he fired his weapons, they produced no discernible damage.
Marlborough’s voice came over the comm. “Bolt… trapped… get out…” Those words that got through distorted badly.
Eric glanced at his overhead map. It updated intermittently, judging from the occasional flash of the different indicators. As far as he could tell, the team members were embedded inside nearby trees, like himself.
“Sarge, do you read?” Eric said. “I’m trapped inside one of the tree trunks. Can’t move.”
No answer.
“Internal accelerometers are detecting downward motion,” Dee announced.
His hull creaked as the pressure increased, and then he slipped through an opening, landing in what looked like a cold, damp grotto. He could move freely again. The first thing he did was activate his headlamps.
He was indeed inside some kind of cave. The walls were made of a slimy material, and glistened when his headlamps passed over them. His feet were ankle deep in liquid.
“The liquid is slightly corrosive,” Dee said. “If you remain in it for more than an hour, your foot armor will begin to degrade.”
Overhead, organic-like tubes opened up, squeezing out the other Bolt Eaters one by one. The mechs landed splashing into the liquid beside Eric.
“We’ve just been shat out of the sphincter of the Forest Queen,” Slate said. “Gotta love it.”
“Actually, we haven’t been shat out yet,” Bambi said. “I think this is a stomach
. We’re standing in mildly corrosive acid, and the walls are sheathed in the same material.”
“What are you saying?” Marlborough said. “The ‘trees’ on the surface were part of a bigger organism? And we’ve just been swallowed?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Bambi said.
“Then it’s time to give this fucker indigestion.” Marlborough deployed his Wolverine blades. “Rip and tear, Bolt Eaters!”
Eric walked up to the wall and sliced his alien blades through the surface. He cut two parallel gashes, but otherwise got no response from whatever creature was harboring them. So he kept slicing, again and again, opening up a small cavity in the tissue. He paused occasionally to rip the loose skin away, so he could dig deeper. But always there was more flesh within.
Around him, the other Bolt Eaters similarly tore into the organic walls.
“Switch to main weapons!” Marlborough pointed all of his remaining weapons at the wall.
Eric fired his main weapons into the gap he’d torn, and while he and the others were able to cause significant blast damage, digging deep into the tissue, they never got through to the other side, even after combining their fire to target the same area. Nor did the creature react in any way.
“Cease firing,” Marlborough said after a time. “We’re only draining our batteries.”
Slate walked up to the big gap their combined fire had formed in one of the walls, and he stepped inside. There was a loud suction sound, and he vanished. Eric heard the soft susurrations of alien metal passing through tissue, multiple times. And then it ceased. Slate emerged a moment later, covered in red goo, his blades dripping blood.
“Well that only ends in more muscle tissue,” Slate said. “Whatever the hell swallowed us, it’s big.”
“Maybe we should concentrate our fire on the openings that brought us here,” Eric said.
He and the team fired at the ring of muscular tissue just above, and it spiraled open upon impact, as if by reflex. The floor rose, too, smashing them into the ceiling. Multiple rings opened and Eric was pushed into one of them. Darkness enveloped him, even though his headlamp was still active. Once more he couldn’t move, as the hard tissue of an esophagus pressed into him from all sides.
