by Isaac Hooke
Almost like mountain climbing.
Those rungs led to the top of the fin formed by the starboard and port flanks. When he reached it, he pulled himself onto the thin walkway on top and rejoined the waiting team.
Dunnigan had already reached the top, thanks to his jetpack.
Eric turned toward the Hopper. “Thanks for saving me.”
“Of course,” Dunnigan said. “I had to. We can’t lose your energy launcher after all.”
“Ah. That somehow cheapens the rescue.”
“I know,” Dunnigan said. “But that’s all you get from us English robots. The truth, and only the truth.”
The autonomous warship accelerated toward the main fleet. Overhead, the stream of nukes subsided. Eric glanced at the horizon behind him, and saw the different black clouds that had appeared near the horizon, where the termite swarm was a thin black line that enveloped the ocean from north to south. The clouds looked mushroom-shaped when viewed from the ocean surface.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Traps said.
“It’s not something I thought I’d ever see,” Bambi said. “Not something I’d want anyone to see.”
“No, it’s not,” Dickson said. “What you’re witnessing, people, is quite literally the end of times. And we’re the only ones who can stop it.”
“Maybe,” Eagleeye said. “There’s no guarantee our plan will work.”
“No,” Dickson said. “But it’s the only shot we have.”
“Ah man!” Slate said. “I’m so frickin’ excited. I just love using alien technology against the same aliens that made it! Man, I love it! I only wish I could see the faces of those chickenshit bitches that are hiding behind the moon… when they realize what we’ve done, they’re going to go poopy in their pants!”
“Just like you’re already doing now?” Eagleeye said.
“I’m not poopin’ my pants, bitch!” Slate said.
“Could have fooled me,” Eagleeye said.
“Why, I’m going to knock you right off this ship.” Slate charged forward.
But Marlborough intercepted him. “At ease, Corporal.”
“Yes, Sarge,” Slate said, shrinking away. “You know we was just playing, right?”
The warship weaved between the other autonomous vessels composing the fleet, and in a few moments, the Poseidon reached the aircraft carrier that served as the flagship. The design was similar to carriers from Eric’s day, except the aircraft were completely different. They were all essentially big multi-rotors, similar to the transport, except that instead of four motors, there were eight. It was an octocopter fanatic’s wet dream. Eric used to have a Phantom IV, which was a small commercial quadcopter relatively popular in his day, but he would have killed to get his hands on one of these.
The Poseidon positioned itself alongside the flagship, and, using their robot strength, the Bolt Eaters leaped across in turn to the edge of the flight deck, which had been cleared for them.
A ten-robot team waited nearby, watching their every move. The fact that they all had retractable laser weapons—currently deployed—embedded into both forearms indicated they were MAs—masters-at-arms. An ID scan confirmed as much. They were likely autonomous units, and had to be babysat by a Mind Refurb or human operator before they could fire. The MAs, while slightly intimidating with those weapons, had nothing on the sheer menace of the Cicadas, who were all at least two heads taller. Not to mention the Ravager mechs, double their size. That would explain why some of the deck cannons had been reoriented toward the team. The muzzles on those cannons were lowered, but they could be lifted to target the team in a heartbeat.
23
When Eric and the Ravagers had joined the Cicadas and other robots aboard, the MAs parted to allow a man dressed in a white admiral’s uniform to approach.
Admiral Grass didn’t seem intimidated by the Cicadas and the bigger Ravagers in the least; though of course, he had four MAs of his own escorting him. Plus, the turrets on the nearby deck cannons remained fixed on the team.
The admiral walked right up to Marlborough, who stood at the forefront of the Bolt Eaters.
“So this is what Mind Refurbs look like,” the admiral said. “I’ve seen a few early models, of course, but they weren’t war models. Not like you.” He waved a hand dismissively beside his head. “But you haven’t come here to chatter. You claim you can save the world. Let’s see this alien technology of yours.”
Marlborough nodded at Eric, who commanded Massacre to turn around. Accompanied by the four MAs, the admiral walked up to the Ravager, and peered at the termite that was bound in between the parallel plates.
“Other fleets have reported capturing micro machines in a similar fashion,” the admiral said. “Usually at the loss of several ships. So far, this is the first I’ve heard that anyone has been able to trigger their adhoc communication systems. I’m sure it’s happened, but the news hasn’t been reported to us.”
The admiral walked toward the next mech. Eric had Slaughter bend over slightly, so that the double-barreled canon on the back was more visible. Then he glanced at Eric, who oriented the shoulder that carried the energy launcher toward the man.
The admiral nodded. “I reviewed the detailed report you sent on how you acquired and reprogrammed these weapons. I can see the brain tissue you mentioned, hanging down. That tissue hasn’t degraded at all?”
“It hasn’t,” Marlborough said. “In the report, I mention how the tissue is self sustaining, with specialized cells containing chlorophyll to serve as a backup energy source, in case of injury.”
The admiral shook his head. “I could only imagine how advanced these aliens must be, to create such incredible sophisticated bioweapons in such a short time. And yet they failed to properly lock us out. This is what you call a design failure, probably a consequence of their short production time. Simple hubris was another factor influencing that design, no doubt.”
The admiral stepped away from Eric and returned to the front of the Bolt Eaters to stand before Marlborough.
“I’ve been in touch with Central Command,” the admiral continued. “They’ve agreed not to launch more nukes at the storm until we’ve had a chance to do what we need to do.”
“What kind of a window are we talking about?” Marlborough asked.
“They’ve given us two hours,” Admiral Grass said.
“We’ll need a lot more than that,” Marlborough said.
“They’ll be monitoring the situation from shore and updating appropriately,” the admiral said. “I’ll also stay in touch—we’ve got ships spread out all the way between here and shore, with comm nodes ready to act as repeaters. Feel free to begin, whenever you’re ready. I’ve already issued evacuation orders to my crew. They’ll be transferring to the other vessels, which I’ve instructed to leave the area. Most of the stations on this ship are manned by autonomous robots anyway, so there aren’t very many crew to evacuate. We’ll keep two aircraft behind to service your plan, of course. I know you only asked for one, but I always like to keep a backup.”
“Smart policy,” Marlborough said. “Which of these aircraft are you leaving us?”
“Two of the octos,” Admiral Grass said.
Marlborough glanced at a pair of nearby octocopter transports. “The military grade fuselages should be able to withstand the forces we’re going to inflict... though I’m a bit worried that the rotors will be up to par.”
“The rotors are rated to withstand the stresses you transmitted,” the admiral said. “As is the fuselage.”
“I hope you’re right,” Marlborough said. “I guess we’re good. But what about you? You’re evacuating as well, of course?”
The admiral grinned. “I’m staying with you, along with the captain. We’re here to the bitter end, for good or for bad. Besides, someone needs to man the weapons.”
“We Mind Refurbs have full fire autonomy,” Marlborough said. “We can operate any turret you have aboard.”
“All the sam
e, the captain and I have elected to stay,” Admiral Grass said.
“Sarge, can you get me permission to top up?” Eric asked Marlborough on a private line. “You never know when jumpjets will come in handy. Well, as soon as my waterlogged units dry out.”
“I’d like permission to refuel my Ravagers,” Marlborough promptly related to the admiral.
“Granted,” Admiral Grass replied.
Eric walked toward one of the nearby fueling ports reserved for the octocopters; the port had a universal nozzle, and attached easily to his jumpjet. He had Slaughter and Massacre attach nozzles as well.
As Eric waited to refuel, he gazed at the surrounding ocean: already, the nearby ships had begun to depart.
On the flight deck of the flagship itself, he saw robots and human crewmembers rushing to board the different octocopters; those craft took to the air, and headed toward nearby vessels. Several autonomous bombers also began queuing for lift off as well.
“All right, boys and girls,” Marlborough said when Eric and the Ravagers had finished refueling. “It’s time to show these aliens we don’t appreciate being invaded. We head to the aft section!”
Accompanied by the admiral and his escort, the Bolt Eaters wended their way between the different aircraft still parked on the flight deck, and then passed the tower containing the bridge and flight control.
The admiral left them at the tower to make his way to the bridge. Meanwhile, the team continued rearward.
They reached the aft quarter, and stood behind the six inch high scuppers that overlooked the sea. The dark line of the storm on the horizon hadn’t changed in size—the flagship mirrored the speed of the micro machines. The termite storm had swallowed some of the more distant mushroom clouds, however.
“All right, we’re in place, Admiral,” Marlborough transmitted.
“I’m ordering the captain to cut our speed by half,” the admiral responded.
The minutes ticked passed. Eric watched as the thin band on the horizon grew to a towering, swirling black storm.
“If I were human, I’d probably be vomiting right now,” Traps said.
“That’s because you’re a wuss,” Slate said.
“I think we all feel the same, Traps,” Bambi said.
“No we don’t,” Slate said. “Ooo wee, I’m so looking forward to this. These bitches are going to pay for what they’ve done. We’re gonna shove them up their own assholes!”
“Uh, the micro machines don’t have assholes,” Mickey said.
“Yeah whatever,” Slate said. “I was speaking metaphorically. ’Sides, when we’re done with them, assholes will be all that they have!”
Marlborough waited until the storm front was seven kilometers away. By then, it literally reached to the top of the sky, and nearly blotted out the sun. Several tentacles advanced ahead of the main storm, acting as feelers ready to destroy any nukes or other bombs they thought the humans might toss at them.
The crew had all evacuated by then, and the rest of the fleet had moved well away to the east. Marlborough had obtained permission to receive positional updates from the rest of the fleet, and he shared it with the Bolt Eaters; Eric glanced at the overhead map, and saw that the warships remained just above the eastern horizon, ready to reverse course if needed. Overhead, the bombers from the flagship hovered at high altitude, well above the height of the storm, also ready to intervene as necessary.
“All right, that’s close enough,” Marlborough said. “The admiral’s reporting that there are thousands of outliers ahead of the main storm and its projected tentacles. We can’t see them, but the precision LIDAR units of the flagship are picking them up, starting at roughly two kilometers away. It’s time to shake things up. Mickey, call our alien friends.”
Mickey had his customized LIDAR unit secured in a contraption he’d attached to Massacre’s back near the parallel plates of the containment field; it was pointed at the termite suspended between them.
“LIDAR unit is activated,” Mickey said.
Eric couldn’t see any difference, because the wavelength of the emitted high-energy photons was well beyond the visual spectrum.
“Is our termite transmitting?” Marlborough said.
“It is,” Mickey said. “The termite is calling its friends.”
“Now we see how they respond,” Marlborough said.
The minutes ticked past. Nothing seemed to happen, except the storm continued to approach.
“See?” Slate said. “I told you this wouldn’t work. It’s probably going to bring down a shit-ton of those diamond ships on us, though. But that’s about it.”
“Admiral, match the speed of the storm again, please,” Marlborough transmitted. “We don’t need any of those outlying termites to reach the flagship.”
“Increasing speed,” the admiral returned.
Marlborough glanced at Mickey. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” Mickey said. “I’m detecting multiple echoes of the termite’s transmission from the storm, which tells me that the other termites have picked it up, and are retransmitting. But they’re not acting on it themselves. Slate could be right… the signal could be intended for the diamond ships we encountered earlier. Maybe we’ll see more of them shortly.”
“Not quite what we wanted…” Marlborough said.
“No,” Mickey said. “Let me make some adjustments… tweak the frequency a little bit.”
Again, nothing happened.
“This is such bullshit,” Slate said. “We came all this way for nothing."
“Not for nothing,” Marlborough said. “We had to try, and you know it. But we still have Plan B.”
“Opening wormholes all along the storm front?” Tread said.
“That’s right,” Marlborough said.
“But we already agreed that we wouldn’t be able to cover the full distance in time,” Slate said. “Some of the termites will still make landfall.”
“Yes,” Marlborough said. “But would you rather we did nothing?”
All of a sudden the storm to the north and south began to billow and shift. The black masses there swerved inward, toward the flagship; Eric was reminded of cumulonimbus clouds forming as hot air met cold, except these were no ordinary clouds.
“Okay, that did it,” Mickey said. “I finally found a higher frequency that got their attention.”
“Keep transmitting on that frequency,” Marlborough said. “Draw all the bastards in.”
“Will do,” Mickey said. He paused. “From the echoes, I can confirm that the micro machines have picked up the signal, and are retransmitting it up and down their ranks. The entire storm front from North to South America will soon be folding inward, bearing down on our position.”
“Brings whole new meaning to the phrase, ‘careful what you wish for,’” Slate said.
“All right, Scorpion,” Marlborough said. “Open up the wormhole.”
24
Eric accessed the double-barreled cannon on Slaughter’s back, and directed the crosshairs over the ocean behind the ship. He tilted the aim upward, and then fired.
The bolt launched.
Eric was relieved that the neural tissue still functioned, because neither he nor anyone else knew how long the makeshift connection would actually last.
When the bolt was a hundred meters away on the diagonal plane, it vanished. The tear in reality replaced it, distorting the air roughly seventy meters directly above the water. The ocean below seethed and rocked from the tidal forces, but because of the distance the wormhole resided from the sea, the surface tension, along with the density of the water, prevented any of the liquid from actually being siphoned upward. The water directly below did form a visible hump, however.
Eric could feel the wind pick up, and the flag upon the carrier whipped backward, toward the wormhole.
“All right,” Marlborough said. “That’s not bad for a first run. Admiral, let’s put some distance between ourselves and that wormhole, please.”
“Understood,” the admiral said. “By the way, it’s one thing to hear the weapon described, and to watch footage of it in action, but another thing entirely to witness it firsthand.”
“It certainly is,” Marlborough agreed.
“Why do you call it a wormhole, anyway?” the admiral said. “Because technically if it was a wormhole, wouldn’t that mean it enabled travel to somewhere else? It’s more like a black hole, I think.”
“For our purposes, you’re right,” Marlborough said. “But the name stuck.”
“I see,” the admiral said. “I’m letting the fleet know it’s time for them to go.”
The ship moved away from the wormhole.
“All right, people, magnetize your soles,” Marlborough addressed the platoon.
Eric and the others magnetized their feet, gluing themselves to the deck as a precaution.
Meanwhile, the ship continued to travel away from the wormhole. According to the overhead map, the remaining ships of the fleet were moving well beyond the horizon, putting as much distance between themselves and the flagship as possible.
At the five hundred meter mark Marlborough said: “All right, by my calculations, based on the previous effects of the wormhole, and the speed of the ship, this will be our sweet spot for the time being. Scorpion, enlarge the wormhole.”
Eric charged his energy launcher for a full twenty seconds, and the cannon grew successively brighter until the illumination it emitted was blinding. Smoke began to issue from Eric’s shoulder.
He aimed the weapon crosshairs that overlaid his HUD at the rent in reality, and fired.
A thick beam of energy erupted, colliding with the wormhole five hundred meters behind. The tear in reality enlarged to a black sphere the size of a thumbnail. The wind increased, and the hump on the water below rose even higher.
“Again,” Marlborough ordered. “I want the water touching the wormhole.”
Eric kept firing until the wormhole had grown to the size of a bowling ball. By then the pull had increased dramatically, with hurricane force winds gusting past him toward the tear in reality. He was firmly rooted to the deck, of course, thanks to the magnetization of his soles.
