by Dan Davis
The Wheel groaned and hissed into life as the servos and gyroscopes whirred inside the limbs of the mechanical alien beast. The yellow skin over the surface was some sort of ballistic gel material covered with a textured layer that would precisely record the strength of blows it received and the depth of cuts into the gel beneath.
Onca flexed his arms, looking across the area as the arms rolled toward him. The blades on the end were removable but he was trying to prove his worth beyond question. So there was no room for doubt. No room for any civilian to say “Yes, but…”. It had to be unequivocal. Still, he was wary of those six long blades and the danger they posed, even with his armor.
He slipped sideways while the machine was still five meters away and it moved to match him, rolling over like it did in the replays.
It rushed forward, accelerating up to the full speed recorded all those years ago.
Onca could have programmed it to run at half speed or at any percentage but he needed it to be realistic. He could have warmed up to the full speed. Could have started at ten percent and built up to one hundred to give himself practice and ease into it. But when he got to the alien space station he would have to walk into the arena and start the fight at full speed right away. So that was how he had to do it now. He had to remove any doubt from anyone’s mind. His own included. His own most of all.
It whipped toward him, motors screaming as the wheels inside spun, the replica arms rolling over and over.
Onca moved, darting back the other way and the machine alien flipped over to match him.
So fast. Faster than he could believe.
Inhumanly fast.
Time only to roll his shoulders and fend off the incoming blow from the triple bladed threat, the power of it sending his offhand weapon flying, not deflecting the blow enough and the machine-alien hand smacked him on the arm, smashing on through to his shoulder. His armor took the full force but the mass and momentum were impossible to resist.
Onca rolled with the blow, letting it throw him over and coming up to find the arm ripping into his chest. It was there, looming over him, a terrifying machine programmed to kill him.
The reality of it flicked through his mind. The fleeting thought.
This is a mistake.
It hit him so hard in the chest that he could not get a breath, the impact shocked him through his whole body. As it yanked back the mechanical arm, the bladed fingers caught his anti-stab armor plates across his chest and ripped them apart, tearing away the outer layer.
Pain.
Something had gone through, deeper, cut his body.
No time to think, he slashed at the arm as it withdrew, catching something at least, hard enough to jar his arm.
The parameters for victory were simulated injuries to the Wheel. It would assess the total newtons of impacts received and the total depth and volume of cuts and gouges to the ballistics gel. The parameters were by necessity somewhat arbitrary but the project scientists had set them on estimates. He had to do more damage. A lot more.
Still moving, always moving, he stepped back and ducked the follow-up, stabbing with his offhand blade up into one of the foot pads and transferring to the other side. He swiped both blades as he went, carving chunks out of the gel covering the feet and hub. The arm on the other side connected to the top of his helmet, staggering him, blinding him. He twisted away to the sound of the machine pursuing him and the impact on his back sent him sprawling onto his face, arms spread wide with the machete combat knives gripped in both hands.
Fear built as he scrambled aside, the whirring and juddering chasing him. A mechanical claw caught him in the heel as he rolled away, tearing his leg armor away and gouging a wound through his calf.
You’re going to die.
Onca leaped up, spinning and hacking at the arm that came toward him and forced it aside with rapid strikes and charged in close. He could not get a breath, his leg almost buckled under him.
Alright, enough now.
The wheel kept spinning, the six legs hammering down as it rolled at him and Onca cut and cut the limbs within reach and forced his way to the center, to the hub section. He stabbed into it, punching his blades into the middle over and over.
The machine whirred and juddered, slowing and stopping until it was no more than an electrical hum.
Onca collapsed onto it, chest heaving and wheezing, blind to anything. He dropped both weapons, clanging to the floor and hung on to the warm synthetic flesh.
Clapping.
He twisted his head to the side, pain shooting through his neck.
Through watering eyes, he saw a blurry group of people applauding.
He licked his lips, sipped in air through the tightness in his chest.
“Help.”
He fell.
***
“What were you thinking?” General Richter said from behind her desk.
“I’m fine. Completely recovered. Near enough.”
“Are you joking? I read the medical reports, I had hourly updates. I know how you are. That’s not what I asked.”
Onca smiled. “What was I thinking? That I would remove any lingering doubt as to my suitability for this mission.”
She nodded. “Well, you’ve certainly done that. The Selection Committee is ecstatic. The UNOP Board could not rubber stamp the decision fast enough. You are guaranteed a place on the mission.”
Onca could not fight the grin that spread across his face. “You don’t seem happy. I would have thought you would see this as a success. A vindication of your systems and processes and choices.”
“It is, yes. And I am gratified that you survived your off the books encounter with the Wheel. Unfortunately, you inspired three of your colleagues to attempt the same thing last night. Lieutenant Nguyen was killed. Almost immediately, unfortunately.”
Onca threw up his hands. “You cannot blame that on me. That one is not on me. Why did you not put security on the Wheelhouse? Why not power it down for good?”
She nodded. “Yes, of course. Colonel Boone had posted two guards on the Wheelhouse but they were talked around by the candidates. They will be court-martialed. It seemed like they were having a high old time and they were convinced it was their route into the mission. Unfortunately, they did not appear to appreciate the risks.” She shrugged. “Perhaps they did. And no, I do not blame you. It just seems as though the bodies stack up behind you.”
Onca took a deep breath. His heart raced. “I am a soldier.”
“You are.”
“And you have left plenty of bodies behind you, also.”
“I have. That’s true. And I have spent a long time working on myself to overcome the emotional difficulties that resulted from my experiences with violence.”
Onca snorted, genuinely amused. “That is the difference between women and men.”
She seemed amused by that, also. “So your position is that men do not experience mental health issues following high-stress experiences?”
Onca shrugged. “Some men. Not me. You seemed convinced that I am broken. I am not. Your own scientists and doctors report that I am an outlier, that my genetic structure and environmental influences have resulted in a body with all kinds of physical traits unusual in themselves and unheard of all together in one man. Is it not possible that my mind is the same? That I am not weakened by distressing experiences but in fact, am strengthened by them? Surely, in the range of individual variability, there must be some people like that. And if that is likely then surely I am one of those people. The evidence suggests that this is the case.”
General Richter sighed, leaned back in her chair. “Alright. Fine. My instincts have been wrong before. I just hope you can hold it together during the years we are journeying through space in a tin can the size of a barracks block.”
“We? You’re not going on the spaceship?”
“I certainly am. We’re going to have to learn to get along, Onca. And it’s time for both of us to pack our bags. Shortly, we will b
e relocating to Florida. From there we’re going into orbit and docking with the ship, the UNOPS Nemesis. The largest space craft ever constructed and our new home for twenty-nine years. The rest of our lives, most likely. Time to say your farewells to Earth. And before all that, it is time for you to say goodbye to Brazil.”
“General?”
“Your government has requested you return to Brasilia. I’m sure they want to congratulate you and so on. And although this entire project is officially a secret and you will not be publicly acknowledged until later, I’m willing to bet you’ll have politicians queuing up to get their picture taken with you. For posterity. You might one day be the most famous Brazilian in history.”
“Christ, save me.”
***
It was as the General had predicted in Brasilia. Senior Generals escorted him between meetings in government buildings and secure sites and, more often than not, they wanted a picture or video of the meeting. Onca was utterly miserable. Fighting the desire to slug every politician in their grinning, idiot mouth.
At the end of the trip, his colleagues invited him for a quick drink in a hotel suite before the transport took him to the airfield. They said it was to toast to his success. Onca sat in the too-soft, cracked leather chair and waited for the conversation to turn to the real reason they had accosted him.
“You did well today, Major,” General Alvarez said as he filled his tumbler with single malt Scottish whisky from the side cabinet. And another one for General Branca. “Do you still not drink? One for the road, perhaps? For old time’s sake?”
Onca shook his head.
“Well, I hope you don’t mind if we indulge ourselves,” Alvarez said as he passed General Branca his glass. “I know how much you despise those politicians. But they certainly liked you.”
“Politicians like to attach themselves to success,” Onca said. “Especially when there is no risk to them.”
Branca looked surprised as he nodded in agreement.
“How is there no risk to them?” Alvarez said, settling down in his soft chair opposite Onca.
“If I beat the alien then they share the images publicly and claim responsibility. If I fail or am not selected for the final fight, the images are simply not released and they have lost nothing.”
Alvarez puffed out his chest. “But you have already been selected.”
“For the mission, yes. But as General Richter enjoys pointing out, there are years between leaving Earth and arriving at the Orb. There are twelve candidates setting out and one of us will be chosen to fight the final fight. I am the best candidate now. I am the only one to have defeated the mechanical wheel device on the full settings. That does not mean I will be the man chosen at the end. Anything could go wrong, I could be injured or develop an illness. My performance could drop off and one of the others could improve. It is a long trip, Generals.”
The two senior officers exchanged looks that we full of meaning.
Branca, the General from Military Intelligence and Brazilian liaison to UNOP, shuffled himself forward in his seat and leaned in.
“You must win, Onca.”
Onca fought down the violence rising inside him. “I intend to.”
“Easy, Major,” General Alvarez said. “We know that you understand your duty.”
“My duty? Sir.”
“To the Army,” Alvarez said.
“To Brazil,” Branca cut in, speaking over the senior General. “You must do this for all of us, Major. We are one of the top states financing the Orb Project but we are still regarded as junior partners to the Americans, the Chinese and the Russians. Even the Indians. Already, with your selection as the number one candidate our stock has risen considerably within the Project. And it would fall in the same fashion should one of the candidates from the other nations be the victor in the arena. God forbid one of the Americans or the Chinese.”
“I understand,” Onca said. “But the final selection will be out of my hands. General Richter will be on the ship, the UNOPS Nemesis. And the ship will be far away but in constant communication with the UNOP Board. All I can do is continue to be the best candidate.”
“Quite right,” Alvarez said, swirling his drink. “Quite right, indeed. And yet…”
Onca looked at him, waiting.
“And yet,” Branca said. “You could help to ensure the others do not succeed.”
They watched his reaction closely.
He laughed.
“You want me to sabotage my comrades? In an enclosed space, where I have to live and work, for fifteen years? And perhaps fourteen years of the return journey? I don’t think so, sir.”
Alvarez scowled. “What did you say?”
“Comrades?” Branca said, gesturing to the senior General to be quiet. “I have read all of General Richter’s reports. You’re the most unpopular man in the Project. And it looks to us as if the feeling is mutual. You have no love for those people. In fact, you seem to despise them. You have worked to undermine each of them. You have injured many of them in the last six months, beating them to a pulp on the practice mat, putting them in the infirmary. One of them you threw from a third-floor window and the woman still cannot walk. She may never recover. You did that to ensure you would come out on top. You did. Do not pretend you have any morality, Onca. We know what you are.”
Alvarez hushed the other man up as he was speaking but the words were still spoken.
“You know what I am?” Onca said, speaking quietly. “And what is that?”
“A patriot. A proud member of our armed forces, despite a temporary disagreement when you went private. But you are one of us and we know that you will do your duty.”
Onca nodded. “If you read the reports, you know that Richter already has doubts about me. Taking out the other candidates would only mark me as a man to not be trusted with the final challenge.”
“She is irrelevant,” Branca said. “You overcame her absurd opinions with your sheer ability. Your sheer force of will.”
Alvarez drained his drink and set his drink down on the table, clinking with crystal solidity.
“No one is asking you to take them out,” General Alvarez said. “Merely that you remember your duty to your country. That’s all we ask.”
They expected him to say something. They were not going to let him leave until he agreed so Onca decided to what he always had done with senior officers. Tell them exactly what they wanted to hear, then do as he saw fit.
“Of course,” General Branca said, speaking into the silence before Onca could respond. “I would normally encourage a man now by vaguely threatening something that mattered to him. Unfortunately, in your case you don’t have anything that matters to you, do you, Major? Your legacy, perhaps. Your famous name. We backed you after Sao Paulo. We looked after your name, briefed the media that you were a hero. It would be trivial to let them know how it was all your fault. That you let a woman into your organization who was a terrorist. How you personally led your men into an obvious trap and yet you somehow managed to survive. It wouldn’t take them long to ask questions about your own loyalties.”
Onca smiled, nodded.
“I knew you were a piece of work, General. I expected you to go down this road earlier. But fine. You got me. I’ll do whatever you say.”
It was Branca’s turn to smile. “I know you don’t care. What does a slum kid care about what the country thinks? The elites, the politicians? You hold them in contempt, as you should. If only you had a living legacy that you cared about. Sadly, you have no family. And no friends left alive.”
Onca returned his look with what he hoped was complete blankness.
“Or have you?” Branca said, a little smile twitching the corner of his mouth.
General Alvarez got up to pour himself another drink. Branca kept speaking.
“We all thought it was quite touching, the way you looked after your men’s families after the Abora Biopharma Sao Paulo disaster. Especially the late Captain Matos Hernandez. You
even went to visit his wife before you transferred to the United States. Such dedication to the wellbeing of your best friend’s wife and his daughter is not remarkable in itself. In fact, it is perfectly common. But we were investigating you closely and I’m afraid we discovered your regular transactions to Camila Hernandez’s account. I’m sure you thought you covered yourself thoroughly but my men are professionals and they flagged it as possible terrorist funding activity. Of course, that was ridiculous. Once we tracked the payments back through the years, we saw that they started seven years ago. And we tracked the payments from Camila’s account into her savings account for her daughter. Little Lena, who is aged seven years old. Did you ever get a paternity test? Well, in case you were wondering, we obtained some of the girl’s genetic material and you are undoubtedly Lena’s father. Just in case you had any lingering doubts, I just wanted you to know that. To have the certainty. I wonder what Matos’ family would say if they found out the truth about the precious little darling? About the perfect daughter-in-law, the dutiful Camila. We would stop the payments, of course, and certainly the Hernandez clan would disown the poor woman. Who knows what would happen to the mother and child at that point? You know what these Mexican immigrants are like, they’re obsessed with honor and so on. Quaint, really. But quite brutal.”
Onca sat perfectly still.
Alvarez lurked in the background, obsessively swirling his drink. Branca sat back, his threat delivered.
“General Alvarez,” Onca said, speaking softly. “I swear to you that I will be the man that defeats the alien at the end of the mission. Please see to it that Ms. Hernandez and her daughter continue to be supported for the duration of the mission and that the terms of my will are carried out, should I die during it. You are a military man. An honorable man at heart. If you give me your word, soldier to soldier, I know that you will hold yourself to it because honor and duty are important to you.”
“Alright,” Alvarez said, speaking slowly, eyes flicking to Branca. “I give you my word.”
“And one other thing that I need from you. Considering that you need me, that Brazil needs me more than I need you, I would appreciate this other favor. Considering what is at stake here. Considering that I could turn my will against the military and against anyone who might do harm to people I care about, I would argue that I’m not asking for much.”
