She stood back up and surveyed her surroundings. Other humdroids were coming. They had heard the sonic discharges. The new Coyote One whined and bowed her head, pawing the dirt of the trail, then raised her muzzle to the sky and howled. The song was melodious, mournful. The rest of the pack joined in, all yipping shrilly and howling as they encircled Tara’s legs, her fury pouring into them.
Tara snatched up the shotgun and draped it across her shoulder as she had seen William do so many times, then returned into the trees via the southern trail, cooing to her progeny and brushing a blood-soaked strand of raven hair from her eyes, “Let’s go kill some assholes, ladies.”
10:21 am – One Hour Thirty Nine Minutes Before Event.
“Dogdamn bots…” Sheriff Proudstar grumbled.
He spit the tip of a fresh cigar into the mud, eyeing the dozen light armor MARX units crouching in formation on the hovroad. The German Shepherd cyborgs snarled every few seconds following the psych intimidation protocols in their programming. Their heads moved systematically, scanning, awaiting instruction.
Hydraulic critters in fancy suits…
A person could understand a cybernetic tiger, polar bear or black rhino. Or any other extinct species pacing in cyberzoos or hunting ranges for the pleasure of child, adult and civic digidollar. North American kids would otherwise never know such creatures had been as abundant as the stars only two centuries past. A cybernetic killer whale never attacked its trainer. It never got lonely. It never got sick, and dined on sunshine. Fortunately, these exotic beasts could not be owned by the general public. The domesticated Felixes, Tweeties and Fidos available to citizens were plenty. And now every jane-tweaked cop and CNED office within a 1,000 km radius had an order in queue for the new nanocentipedes.
Centibots.
The sheriff looked at his bot-driver and growled, “If a cop needs a solar powered beetle to find a criminal, what’s the point of calling yourself a man anymore, Talboy?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” responded the deputy as he ran a final systems check on the MARX dogs.
Proudstar turned his gaze back to the Shepherds, “Can’t you make those things quit yippin’? I’m about ready to shoot one myself.”
“Sorry sir, don’t have those controls here. Tech-boy would have to reprogram them.”
“Well hell. At least they look kinda mean.”
The MARX units possessed a cyborg strength factor of 3.0. Their skeletal frames were constructed of high molecular weight polyethylene famostone. RIOT class battborgs had a CSF rating of 5.0 and their polyethylene chassis were additionally reinforced with silicon carbide nanoparticles.
Like most medium sized municipalities in the North American United States, The Douglas County Kansas Sheriff’s Department had long since discovered that old fashioned police dogs were the way to go. Flesh and blood officers, flesh and blood dogs. Proven. Successful. A healthy, organic Shep only cost D$2,000. The sheriff gnawed his cigar, considering. The other side of the argument was that a MARX unit could take a shotgun blast to the chest and keep on climbing. They knew no fear.
I saw what the Coyotes did to those guard dogs at Greystone.
His com beeped twice.
Everquist.
The sheriff stood on the hovroad facing the farm, monocle HUD covering his right eye, arms folded across his barrel chest. His M4A2 sat by his boots on a wool Army blanket. Sergeant Azarov and Deputy Murray were laying in position, rifles mounted in their portable sniper bunkers on the hovroad’s far side. Talboy stood behind them, projecting the cyborg platoon’s holocontrols above his tablet.
“Azarov, you in it?” asked the sheriff without turning.
“Ready to fry some sky, sir.”
“Roger that, sergeant. Remember; unless a human fires on us, we do not fire on them.”
“Blastin’ bots only. Heard, sir.”
The sheriff blew a fat smoke ring at the squad of cybernetic German Shepherds and switched streams, “Talk to me, Everquist.”
“Dart drones spooled, sir. But…”
“Out with it.”
“Sir, with all due respect, Joan is going to swat these birds like flies. So after…”
“Hold that thought, Everquist.”
Proudstar shouldered his machine gun by the biogel dampened grips and peered through the sight with his free eye. The high definition HUD showed him the precise distance to whatever object passed the cross hairs. He clocked the environmental factors: wind speed 3 kph north by northwest, humidity 94%, temperature 18.7 degrees Celsius, elevation 206.96 meters.
Motion in his peripheral. He watched Mr. Abner rush out of the barn door and walk towards the woods. The sheriff tracked him in the cross hairs. 1.824 km to target.
Why is that fella dressed in a suit?
Abner stopped running and stared west into the trees for several seconds. Then he turned, just as suddenly, and returned to the barn. All the shiners were inside now. Including the tattooed Mexican fella who had popped out of the trees minutes earlier.
No visual on Tara Dean, though.
The sheriff pulled his eye from the scope and looked up the hovroad. Their six armed bot drones hovered in formation above the county hovtransport. Like enormous, oblong, black rugby balls, they bobbed in formation against the clouds. The county hovtransport was their holographic relay with HQ, and he had docked it close to the trees beyond the barn’s line of sight.
Satisfied, he tapped his com, “Everquist, why are you on a first name basis with a known criminal?”
“I’m not on that basis, I mean, I haven’t…” Everquist stammered. “It’s just what she calls her avatar. I’m almost positive she’s in the barn is all.”
“You’re telling me they’ve got a 120,000 liter fish tank in that barn, powered by a fusion reactor, connected to a supercomputer? This place looks like the splash page of Country Kitchen Holozine.” The com remained silent until the sheriff finally barked, “Everquist!”
Everquist’s voice was shaky, “It might not even be a dolphin, sir. But yes, that would be what I’m saying. In theory… at least.”
“Couple hours ago you were ready to do a headstand about how it’s a dolphin. Now you don’t know?”
“It’s the best, uh, hypothesis I have, sheriff.”
“Well, whatever she is, she can blow me. I need you to calm down and run this game for me, Red.”
“Sorry sir. I’ve got this.”
“All right. Have we pinged civvies on all available?”
“Five times in the last thirty minutes. I’ve tried every override there is. Nothing. They’re not talking. I’ve warned them we’re gonna make it rain. At the moment, I…” Everquist trailed off.
“Speak,” said the sheriff sternly.
“At the moment,” Everquist said rapidly, “I’m more concerned about Detective Slopes. He’s gone dark and is manually blocking my database fetches. I couldn’t ping those CNED agents if I wanted to. He’s had them all go manual dark.”
Proudstar blew out a hefty cloud of cigar smoke, “How many humdroids in Oak Hill?”
“Fifty-two, sir. You’ll be able to see them coming through if you swipe to infrared.”
A muffled boom echoed from the direction of the river. Same as the sonic shotgun from earlier.
“Another sonic?”
“Don’t know.”
“Find out.”
The sheriff dropped the M4 and toggled his monocle to infrared. He immediately saw seven mercs greasing through the trees.
“Shit.” The sheriff switched back to standard view, “What I don’t have is time to babysit…”
A second boom was heard, like far off thunder.
“Everquist, what is that noise?”
“Scans report that is also the resonance blast of a sonic shotgun.”
“Not that noise,” winced the sheriff. “That noise? Just started.”
“Hold on. I’ve got us synced with the drones’ directional mics. Amplifying.”
“Patch
it across.”
A distant, eery wailing grew louder.
“Is that howling?” asked Azarov.
“Triangulating,” said Everquist. “Came from the same direction as the blasts. Boosting stream.”
The howling clarified, multiple, high canine voices raising a sad, wavering chorus.
“That’s some spooky soundin’ bizness,” said Talboy.
“Don’t be such a dixie,” Camilla Azarov’s voice was quick with bite.
“It’s freaky sounding.”
“Stream silence, people. I want to listen.”
“Northwest corner of the property,” said Everquist. “Com is cross-checking, here it comes… 94% complete, almost there, let’s see. Digital modulation signature, canis latrans… I don’t know what that is… translating…” Everquist’s tone quieted, “Oh…”
“Well?” grumbled the sheriff.
“Those were coyote howls, sir. Very loud Coyote howls.”
Proudstar steeled himself, “Everquist, cut that stream.” Fine, gray hairs rose on the back of his neck, “We’ve got enough weird crap going on as is. Azarov?”
“Sir?”
“You and Downs keep eagles pealed. Everquist, send in those armored birds. I wanna see them shoot these out of the sky with a deer gun.”
They watched the drones clear the trees’ edge, accelerate and fan out their formation as they buzzed into the wide open fields sprinkled with ripe, orange pumpkins, their wilting leaves and vein-like vines dying in the black autumn mud.
“Botulinum dart chambers loaded and ready, sir. Altitude 9 meters, speed 85 kph.”
The sheriff magnified his monocle’s view of the barn, “You seeing my stream, Everquist?”
“That and more. You can swipe to any unit as needed.”
“Understood,” said the sheriff, catching motion from the barn. “Here comes that big son of a bitch Rottweiler again. That’s it? One Dogdamn dog?”
“Looks a little too pretty to be real, sir,” said Azarov. “If it is a bot, it’s stepping mighty smooth.”
The muscular, black dog trotted across the driveway at a leisurely pace until it was approximately twenty meters in front of the barn. It paused there on the asphalt, examining the incoming drones.
“Sir, if that’s a regular dog,” said Everquist, “my uncle was President Trump’s hairstylist.”
“Purty fur,” said Murray Downs.
“Look, he’s smiling,” said Talboy. “I bet he’d be a good police dog.”
“A good police dog?” quipped Everquist. “Seriously?”
“Whatta you know? Just wait till my MARX pups get in there!”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You’re an idiot!”
“Pie holes shut!” commanded the sheriff.
They watched the six Kevlar armored drones surround the Rottweiler, hovering above it in a rotating ring.
“Scans are coming back totally organic,” said Everquist. “Six year old Rottweiler, male, annual rabies immunization November 2081, full vet records from Sunflower Animal Hospital. It’s registered as an organic pet named Siegfried belonging to Mr. Daxane J. Abner at this mailing address.”
The sheriff growled, “Put it to sleep.”
“Unit 01 firing,” said Everquist pensively.
A glass encased botulinum dart erupted in a poof of compressed gas from the nearest drone. It lodged in the dog’s ear, delivering its payload straight to the brain stem. The animal shook its head. The needle tip clinked to the asphalt. The dog looked up at the drones and panted happily.
“Jeezus…” said the sheriff. “Those darts armed with soy milk, Red?”
“Sir…”
“All right. Knock that thing into Neverland, empty the magazines.”
“Okay… firing,” said Everquist’s voice, quiet with resignation.
Proudstar magnified the image of the Rottweiler. Thirty-five high velocity botulinum darts slammed into its muzzle, neck and face. The animal made no effort to evade the barrage aside from lowering its head to shield its eyes. When the glass filament of the final botulinum projectile had shattered and delivered its payload, the animal’s bowed head was soaked with enough neuroparalytic to stop the heart of a blue whale. The Rottweiler did not even quiver. Its sable fur bled lightly, bright red in a few spots where multiple darts had torn the skin. Bent needles and shards of smashed green glass littered the pavement around its paws.
The dog looked up. This time it was not panting happily. The animal bore its teeth and snarled at the ring of orbiting drones. Deputy Everquist shrunk away from his holoscreen unconsciously, horrified, but unable to look away. The dog took five steps forward until its paws were free of the shattered glass. It widened its stance, titanalum claws protracted from their sheaths into the asphalt. Its mouth opened impossibly far until its jaw unhinged, compressing backwards against its neck, stretching the BIOSKIN© taught. There was a collective gasp over com as the TOHO cannon telescoped from its throat. Before the sheriff could speak, six short, rapid blasts of red particle energy erupted, one after the other, dropping the drones, one, two, three, four, five and six, from the air in succession. The drones fell to the ground like burning bags of trash. The cannon in the dog’s mouth retracted. Within seconds its jaw had re-hinged and it growled again, jowls slavering as it shifted its focus directly at Proudstar’s team. The Rottweiler took a few steps in the direction of the hovroad and sniffed incredulously at the broken, smoldering drones.
“Holy sky…” said Talboy.
“Talboy. Drop that joystick, grab your weapon and hit your firing dock,” said the sheriff as he watched the cyborg’s holographic eyes blink off, exposing its gleaming sapphire vidorbs. “All right gunnies, let’s see just how deep we are. Light that critter up.”
“With pleasure, sir,” said Azarov.
All three deputies fired. The green stream of particle energy from Azarov’s lightning gun tore past the cyborg’s position first, a near miss. The animal contorted out of the way at the last second and landed with a singed swath of fur across its back. It dodged eighteen more high powered bullets with similar ease, twisting and flipping with impossible, blurring speed. The cyborg looked over its shoulder. The armor piercing rounds bounced off the side of the barn behind it like pebbles. Azarov fired a second round of particle energy while the Rottweiler’s head was turned, anticipating its flip into the air, but it pancaked to the ground instead. The lightning round slammed into the barn and was absorbed, leaving no damage besides a burned streak on the exterior.
“Grounded structural armor on that barn, Azarov?” asked the sheriff.
“Has to be.”
“So that’s how deep we are.”
“We seen worse, sir,” said Azarov curtly.
“It’s dodging bullets! Did you see that?” Talboy’s voice was eager. “What the sky!?” he kept on. “I don’t get it!”
“Talboy, yesterday was a good time for you to shut the fuck up,” grumbled the sheriff, the cigar between his lips being fast mutilated.
They peered through their HUD lenses and scopes, watched the dog slowly rise to all fours. It began pacing, eyeing their position, snarling and snapping.
“He’s challenging us,” said Everquist. “Look at how fluidly it moves! It’s beautiful! There must be 1,000’s of nanogears in each chassis junction…”
“Keep your panties on, people. I gotta ping out,” barked Proudstar. “And no more chatter.”
He turned his back to his deputies and tapped his combud, “You flyin’ yet?
“In the wind, LC,” responded Colonel Apollo.
“Good.”
“How’s the morning so far?”
“Thus far, colonel, it’s a class A shitfest. We gotta skinned bot out here equipped with particle weapons.”
“No kidding?” The colonel’s brusque voice piqued with interest, even as he yelled over the roar of his transport’s turbines. “Throat laser-equipped?”
“Affirmative!” said the sherif
f loudly. “It burned six armored drones. Then we opened fire with Mantis gear. This Fido dodged twenty trans-sonic sniper rounds like they were deflated racquetballs being tossed by a left-handed cheerleader with palsy.”
The colonel chuckled, “Shepherd format? Rottweiler?”
“Rottweiler.”
“No shit,” the colonel whistled. “It’s a German machine. Constructed by the Israelis, armed by the Japanese.”
“No shit.” returned Proudstar.
“Rapid fire TOHO,” yelled the Colonel. “SIEGFRIED class, a fusion powered CIVbot. Don’t worry, CRAB units can take that one out and twenty with it. Hang tough. Be boots on soil in minus ten. Too much background! Apollo out!”
The sheriff tugged his mustache, unswayed by the colonel’s enthusiasm. He sensed something malevolent about that barn.
He shook the feeling and switched back to general com, “Okay, gunnies! The cannons are coming. Bad news is, not soon enough, I want…”
“Sir,” said Everquist. “The barn.”
The sheriff enhanced the magnification in his monocle. Three men strode out, crossing the driveway to where the cyborg was standing amongst the rubble of their drones.
“That’s Mr. Abner again, the man in the suit,” said Everquist. “William Angevine is in the jeans with the hunting rifle and Gabriel Martinez is in the camo pants. Oh man.”
“What is it, Everquist?”
“They’re pinging.”
“Pinging who?”
“Pinging us, sir.”
“General dispatch?”
“Negative. They’re pinging you, there, sir.”
“On our own intrastream?”
Everquist’s voice was sallow, “Uh, yes sir.”
“What a miserable bag of dicks…” The sheriff growled murderously. “I can see the son of a bitch looking right at me. When this is said and done, we’re gonna have a talk about your encryption skills, Everquist. Push him through.”
The sheriff’s combud clicked three times and everyone could heard Dax Abner’s polished voice, “Well, good morning, Sheriff Proudstar. Drizzling and overcast, you say? You’ll be alarmed to hear my view is the same.”
Proudstar walked to the far side of the hovroad nearest the farm. Before speaking, he drew an antique Zippo lighter from his trousers, re-lit his cigar and produced a voluminous cloud of smoke.
Absorption: Phase 03 (The Eighteenth Shadow) Page 17
