Ravagers [05.00] Eradicate

by Alex Albrinck

  She sighed. “We’ve just gotten word that several Phoenix dignitaries will be descending from the space station to keep us company here. I doubt it’s anything more than interest in watching the terraforming in person, perhaps making early land claims, but… I can’t see how it would be safe to meet here. Or more accurately, I can’t see how there aren’t better options.”

  Micah frowned. “If there are dignitaries coming to you…”

  “I know what you’re going to ask,” Desdemona said. “We don’t know if they’re party of the Thirty. We suspect they are. Which means that we can’t really take action until we know for sure. Because if others die in an uncoordinated effort…”

  “It tips off the real leaders that something’s wrong,” Jeffrey finished.

  “I was going to ask if it was safe for you to leave to meet with us,” Micah replied. “But I think you’ve answered that question by raising a different point. We will need to convene without you. I have made contact with members of the old guard, enemies of Phoenix in philosophy driven into hiding for fear of discovery.”

  “It’s like the Hunters are back,” Jeffrey murmured.

  “One of them is still around,” Desdemona reminded him.

  “I will recommend to Roddy and the others that they pick me up here and get us close to them. Once we have identified the confirmed list of thirty—and I suspect those old timers will have their own insights on that topic, we will figure out a way to get word to you.”

  “I hate that plan.” Jeffrey said. “But I can’t find the flaw with it. Other than that I hate that we’re playing to friendly hosts while the rest of you risk your lives.”

  “Maintaining appearances and avoiding the creation of useful counterintelligence for the enemy is valuable… and dangerous.” Micah studied their faces. “You’ll have your part to play when it comes time to bring the final survivors together. Don’t underestimate the importance in that.”

  The couple frowned.

  Micah offered a thin smile. “I’ll reach out, via audio only, once we get more information. Until then, I’ll maintain silence to avoid suspicion.”

  “Understood, Micah.” Desdemona sighed. “Tell my grandchildren and my daughter-in-law that we said hi. And… thank your friend, Wesley, and the other man for all they’ve done to keep our family alive.”

  “I will. Stay safe.”

  “You do the same.”

  Micah terminated the connection and activated the communications network direct link into his brain. With the video calls ended—for now—he had the option to bypass physical actions like typing that slowed communication down. He often opted to remain in human mode in these circumstances, for it gave him practice for times when such actions weren’t optional.

  In this case, he had too much to do, and too little time to do it, to concern himself with such details.

  His situational and communication analysis programs had reviewed the responses he’d gotten back from the group he’d come to call the “old guard,” the survivors from Ashley’s pre-Golden Ages group who’d opted out of this era’s civilization. Those bits of code had been fine-tuned over centuries of computational analysis to identify the key messages—both direct and implied—and to assess the points he’d need to address in a response. For verbal communication, he didn’t have the luxury of devoting minutes or hours of analysis to get everything perfect. Here, he could take advantage of the fact that the old guard didn’t know where he lived, didn’t know, therefore, when he slept, and thus, a multi-hour delay in response wasn’t unreasonable. He could also tell them his communication window was limited by the need to keep things hidden from the all-seeing digital eyes of Phoenix, something the members of the old guard could appreciate.

  He noted with interest their report that someone had appeared near their territory. They’d never identified a specific time and place to meet him, and they’d been understandably angry at him, thinking that he’d both tracked them down and arrived unannounced—until they realized their visitor wasn’t connected to Micah at all. They didn’t give any more details, but Micah was certainly curious… and concerned. Who would be roaming around the lands in the West in the aftermath of the Ravager devastation?

  He couldn’t conceive an answer that didn’t involve Phoenix.

  They’d need to be incredibly cautious when he and his friends finally met up with the old guard. And he’d need to be even more precise with the language in his response in the event the visitor meant infiltration by Phoenix, even if that infiltration proved subtle.

  With his messaging subsystems fully engaged in preparing his next message to the old guard, Micah turned his attention back to Sheila.

  The incoming call from the Wileys interrupted his efforts to insert Sheila’s robot brain into the body form he’d selected. As he moved back to that room to complete the process, he traced back through the steps he’d taken to reach this point, ensuring he’d missed nothing.

  He hadn’t.

  Sheila had been concerned about her body’s survival, unable to grasp the idea that if her entire essence moved into that robot brain, she’d live as he did. It was an understandably human reaction. But he’d noted she couldn’t fight in her current condition, and her choices were to remain in a coma and not fight, or to remain in a coma and let her digital self fight Phoenix.

  When they won, when she’d healed physically, he’d be able to “upload” new memories of the battle to her human brain. She’d remember everything just as if she’d been there, all in her fully healthy human body.

  Left unsaid was the fact that if they lost, if Phoenix completed its conquest, there wouldn’t be much left worth living for in human form anyway. She might as well exist as a perpetually reincarnating robot committing guerilla-style violence against the true ravagers of the planet.

  With Sheila’s robot brain in hand, Micah stood before the body form he’d selected. She’d jokingly asked him to make sure she looked good. He was no expert on human attractiveness at a biological level, but centuries worth of data suggested most would find this woman attractive. That hadn’t been the reason he’d chosen her, though.

  Her appearance would strike fear and confusion into the hearts of his enemies, and that hesitation might be just enough to tip a key battle ahead.

  It might also rally the troops to keep fighting when all hope might seem lost.

  He slid around to the back of the body form and pushed Sheila’s brain into the waiting slot, closed the compartment door, and ensured that the artificial skin showed no obvious gaps.

  It was an odd experience, watching another robot “boot up,” watching the artificial skin-covered metal alloy body transform from an immobile status into something that could—and did—fool humans into thinking it was one of them. The process played out in a familiar manner, as the boot routines in the body form meshed with the brain, testing and calibrating every possible movement, “learning” about how far an arm could reach or the proper length of a stride, how the distribution of the body’s mass might impact balance while standing, walking or running. The body practiced common mannerisms and quirks stored in the brain, which might be something like chewing a bottom lip while thinking or shifting to a specific foot and looking down when nervous.

  If he was human, he knew, it would “feel” like this process took hours, but it was streamlined to run to completion inside twenty minutes. The very last part, the part he’d been waiting for, came when the robot’s head lifted up, stiff and machine-like at first, supple and human-like at the end.

  Her eyes opened.

  He saw in those eyes recognition of being awake, saw in the face of the body she occupied the digital equivalent of shock and surprise. It had to be odd, waking up in a new body, but even stranger waking up with a brain that didn’t process information in the biological manner experienced throughout one’s life.

  He wouldn’t know.

  Her head turned, not as Sheila’s would, but in a subtly different manner, and her e
yes fell upon him. Her face continued to register confusion, at least until her processing recognized him in the form to which she’d become so familiar.

  The body form’s face smiled. Not Sheila’s smile. He’d need to remember that as well.

  She opened her mouth and spoke, and he could see in that continued confused expression how odd it was for to speak without drawing air, by projecting specific audio frequencies rather than expelling air and contorting muscles to create specific sounds. “Hello, Micah. This is… different.”

  It wasn’t her voice. But it was her. Micah smiled back. “You’ll have to tell me how it’s different. But that can wait. I need to explain who it is you look like, and why that’s important for the next phase of our effort to rid the planet of Phoenix.”

  He told her, in the manner of machines, in a manner that took only seconds to relay a lifetime that had lasted centuries.

  When it was over, Sheila Clarke understood perfectly. She let that other personality and all its mannerisms take precedence over her own, practicing movements and speaking to ensure she played her part well.

  Micah watched and talked and took it all in, wondering if the real Hope Stark—wife of the man he’d portrayed aboard the space station, wife of the man whose mere presence had triggered Oswald Silver to murder—would approve, knowing she would, and hoping her apparent return would have the desired effect on friend and foe alike.

  The only thing he knew for certain was that robot Sheila would play the role to perfection.

  Chapter 7

  Near Eastern Territory Subcontinent

  Roddy hit the deck hard, wincing at the sudden impact. He’d been surprised, hadn’t connected the whistling sounds in the distance to the low shrieks that grew progressively louder to the missiles he knew the armies kept stashed away in secret.

  He wasn’t worried that his slow thinking had caused him pain. He worried that it had led to injuries among the others.

  “Mary! Jill! Jack!” He projected his voice, projecting it above the sounds of other projectiles flying at them, straining his ears to hear the replies as he scrambled back to his feet.

  He could see smoke billowing up from the side of the ship nearest them; the missiles had hit prime targets. The smoke made it difficult to see everyone, but he could make out just enough to confirm there were no major injuries, just a few bumps.

  He could also see the sphere.

  “Get to the sphere!” he screamed. He moved to the nearest person—Mary—and grabbed her, but she pushed his hand off; she didn’t need his help. They sprinted forward… until the screaming sound of another missile gave them pause.

  The impact knocked them all to the deck once more, and Roddy grunted again. Louder this time, because it hurt more.

  He scrambled to his feet as another pair of airborne screams reached his ears, and he looked in horror as the pair of missiles adjusted paths directly toward them. One dove for the waterline.

  The other made for the main deck.

  He couldn’t get to them all in time, couldn’t even shout warnings. He watched as everyone’s survival instincts kicked in, and they all dove as far from the path of the incoming projectiles as they could.

  The higher missile ripped a path through the decking, shredding the wood like a knife through butter. He felt a sensation like tiny nails puncturing his flesh, realized that the missile had turned the wood deck into shrapnel, and kept his eyes closed. He thought he heard Jill cry out in the distance, and felt his anger boil over.

  Then the ship, battered by the attack, listed to the side, and pitched him toward the water.

  The deck—what remained of it—was smooth and polished, offering little in the way of friction to slow his descent. There had once been a railing near them… but that had torn away in onslaught. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his slide with the soles of his boots or his fingers scrabbling for a handhold that didn’t exist. The angle of pitch continued to increase.

  He looked up and watched John slide off the deck into the water below, followed in short order by Jill, Wesley, Jack, and Mary.

  He stopped fighting the slide. If they were in the water, then he would follow.

  He slid over the edge, took a deep breath, and held it as he hit the water and plunged below. He kicked his boots off to help his ascent back to the surface, and let the air trickle out slowly. He opened his eyes in a tight squint to make sure he was rising rather than falling, ignoring the pain of the salt water and the scrapes he’d suffered in the past few minutes.

  He breached the surface, fully exhaled, and gulped in air. Then he checked for the others.

  He saw Mary. Then Wesley. Then John.

  He looked around.

  Where were…?

  He dove back below the surface, looking around, desperate for any sign of his children. Had they been knocked out during the slide and fall? Had they been pulled down deeper? Did they even know how to swim? He should know that answer… but he didn’t.

  He looked for any sign of them until his lungs neared bursting in their thirst for air. He darted back up to the surface to refuel, to figure out where to search next, to bring Mary and the men into the rescue effort, to…

  He felt gentle fingers grip his waterlogged shirt and tug him up and as he gasped for air, he looked into Mary’s face.

  She was smiling.

  He frowned.

  She laughed. “They’ve been swimming since they could walk.” She slicked the water from his eyes and pointed. “Smart kids are getting away from a burning, sinking ship that might explode. See?”

  He looked. Sure enough, the twins were easily treading water a hundred yards away, waiting for the rest of them. Mostly for their father, who was slowing them down looking beneath the surface for what were likely the best swimmers in the group.

  “Right.” He grinned. “Ready?”

  “Always.”

  They swam out to the children, who gave Roddy a curious look. “Find what you were looking for, Dad?” Jill asked.

  “I did.” He looked around. “This doesn’t seem like a good permanent solution to our problem.”

  “Got a better option?” John asked. “We can’t really get back aboard the yacht at this point. More likely to get burned to death, die of smoke inhalation, or be aboard if the thing explodes. Given the latter point, we need to figure out how to get as far away as possible as quickly as we can.”

  “The sphere,” Roddy said.

  “But that’s aboard the yacht.”

  “I can summon it to us with the remote.”

  He reached down to pull the remote free.

  But it was gone.

  “Oh, shit,” he whispered. He glanced at the twins. “Sorry.”

  “Heard worse, Dad,” Jack snickered. “Where’s the remote?”

  “It fell off.”

  “You didn’t set it down somewhere?” Wesley asked.

  He checked his memory. “No. I used it to call it to us back on the mainland and then reattached it. It must have fallen off during our fall into the water.”

  “What’s it look like?” Wesley asked. “Small, silvery disk?”

  “Yes.” Roddy paused. “You see it?”

  “Yeah.” Wesley pointed. “But you’re not gonna like where it is.”

  Roddy and the others looked in the direction Wesley pointed, and Roddy could make out the familiar shape of the remote. It was much nearer the ship. But that wasn’t the biggest problem.

  The pair of dorsal fins breached the surface, blocking the path between them and the remote. Their dance, partially hidden by the salty water, grew wider, wide enough to encircle the injured humans and block their path to the device that would bring them freedom.

  “Great,” Jack muttered. “So we either eventually get too tired to stay afloat and drown, the sharks decide to eat us, or the yacht explodes and kills us.”

  Wesley started swimming toward the remote. Mary lunged after him, caught his leg, but he kicked free and kept going.

/>   “What’s he doing, Mom?” Jill asked.

  “Being stupid,” John quipped.

  “Or brave,” Mary offered.

  “Often the same thing,” Roddy murmured, watching Wesley move closer and closer to the remote… and the circle the sharks made around them.

  Wesley slowed as he neared the remote; one of the sharks was swimming its patrol too close for him to approach. He let the fish continue along past the floating disc, then quietly slid in behind, grabbed the remote, and started swimming back.

  The shark altered course, turning back toward Wesley. “Look out!” the entire group screamed.

  Wesley heard them and looked up in time to see the shark bearing down on him. His face went pale. He contorted himself and threw the remote toward the group. It landed twenty feet from them with a gentle splash and floated atop the surface.

  The jaws opened wide and the shark lunged.

  Wesley dodged to the side. They heard him cry out—one of the shark’s teeth had ripped a gouge through his skin. Before the shark could turn, Wesley wheeled around and jumped on its back.

  Roddy swam to the remote as fast as he could. He reached it and screamed, “Get down here!”

  As you wish, Roddy. You seem in distress.

  “We’re getting attacked by sharks!”

  The sphere rocketed toward him. I shall arrive in two point three five… no, I have arrived.

  The floating sphere dipped low, the bottom just below the surface, and the door opened. They scrambled inside and Roddy ordered the ship toward Wesley. “Ship, do you have any handguns? Preferably loaded, preferably large caliber?”

  I have in my stores a weapon with sufficient power to fell a shark, Roddy.

  “I need it.”

  “Got it,” John said from deeper inside the main cabin. He sprinted to the ramp area near Roddy and handed him the gun. “Here.”

  Wesley was quickly tiring, trying less to crush the shark than to prevent the beast from unseating him and then turning upon him. His weary eyes looked up as Roddy and John floated nearby; Mary had, wisely, pulled the children further inside. “Could use some help,” Wesley murmured.