Absorption: Phase 03 (The Eighteenth Shadow)

by Grafton, Jon Lee

  He faced the broad, open field full of pumpkins, voice fearless, “Hold positions. Morning yourself, Abner. Nice outfit.”

  Dax Abner glanced down at his flawless taupe suit made of fine Italian hemplinen, “This old rag? Well, I do like to look my best when company’s over.”

  “No need to get slick on my count,” said Proudstar. “It’s been what? Six months?”

  Dax’s voice was light and gay, “Ah yes, indeed! The chamber of commerce benefit for the new west side preschool. I’m always pleased when I can contribute to the betterment of the community.”

  The sheriff snarled, “You’re shitting felonies faster than euphemisms, Abner. It’s been a good run, hand you that. We bear your people no ill, but you know the law, we’re coming in there. Simple. Or onerous. Your choice.”

  Sheriff Proudstar watched the man in blue jeans kick one of the downed drones with his boot. The burned shell spun on its smooth back, smoke twirling upwards nearly invisible against the gray skies.

  The sheriff spied a silver comdot on the man’s jaw.

  That’s how he and the Mexican kept chatter off the stream for so long. Not wired. Smart. Angevine’s eyes were hidden by sunglasses, impossible to read. He looked quiet, hard and fearless. The Mexican standing to his right was smoking… yes. The bastard was grinning and smoking a joint.

  Play from my own book.

  The arrogance was admirable. This Mr. Gabriel Martinez smoked it casually, too, like he was home with his boots kicked up, projecting the Monday night NSL game.

  Abner said, “Sheriff, are you by chance familiar with that old Kansas law called Stand Your Ground? We’re just trying to make an honest living, after all.” He elevated onto his tiptoes, “But I would be simply delighted to pop into headquarters next week and answer any questions. Perhaps we could do lunch?” His voice was velvety and calm, his diction perfect.

  The sheriff was nonplussed, “You know why those drones came on your property. You got the nuts. But this badge I’m wearing has the bolts. So I’m giving you the opportunity to reconsider. Lay down weapons, spool down that cyborg and surrender peacefully. No one gets hurt. Them’s terms.”

  Dax Abner raised his eyebrows in mock contemplation, “That is an interesting proposition, sheriff. Though from the ground I’m standing on, I believe it is you who should consider a peaceful surrender. Perhaps a return visit to sniper school for your deputies?”

  Azarov’s couldn’t help herself, “Smartass civvy, I’ll…”

  The sheriff turned to shut her up, but Everquist cut him short, “Sir, eyes north. Coming out of the barn.”

  Three additional Rottweilers appeared. As the barn door closed behind them, Everquist caught the flash of a woman’s hand. Unlike the first, these animals made no attempt to hide their nature. Their eyes glowed like hot points of iron. All three dug in and leapt twenty meters through the air in a single bound, landing one after the other with perfect agility. They trotted up beside the first, larger Rott. The four black cyborgs touched noses and sniffed, then formed up in a menacing line and looked down the pumpkin field snarling and flexing their BIOSKIN© muscles.

  Abner’s voice continued merrily, “Deputy Daniel Everquist? A pleasure to finally meet you! I hear the most promising things, young man.”

  “Do not respond, Everquist,” barked the sheriff. “Stream silence.” Proudstar directed his steely gaze back down the field, “Abner, look, slick. I didn’t come out here to trade one liners. Or see who’s got the better IT driver.” The sheriff bowed up and stepped even closer to the pumpkin field, “So fuck the rain, I’ll piss on your parade.” He ticked off points on his fingers, “You’re harboring a fugitive, likely have a still in that barn, unauthorized possession of military hardware, suspicion of rape… Shall I continue?”

  “Rape?” asked Abner incredulously. “I wasn’t aware… isn’t that CNED’s thing?” He donned a falsely stern expression, “Fear not, sheriff. I’ll have human resources look into it first thing Monday!”

  The tattooed Mexican beside him chuckled and finished his joint with a couple of quick tokes, flicking the roach aside. One of the Rottweilers tracked the smoldering roach’s course as it fell to the wet dirt, then turned its fiery gaze back to the hovroad.

  William Angevine’s face evidenced nothing.

  Something off about that son of a bitch cowboy.

  The sheriff continued brusquely, trying to buy time, “You know what Tara Dean did. I have probable cause she’s hiding on your property.”

  Abner raised his eyebrows slowly and dramatically to make sure everyone saw, looking at Angevine, “Well, Tara’s behavior was shocking. Wouldn’t you say, William?” His focus returned to the hovroad, “Though from the vid I saw, it did appear that Lucinda Fossbender rather enjoyed the bit with the cupcakes. Woof-woof.”

  This time it was Brick Talboy who chuckled.

  The sheriff’s voice was ice, “Silence.”

  “Sorry sir.”

  Proudstar crossed his arms, “Abner, no one is above the law. Not you, not me, sure as shit not Tara Dean. We have a system of justice in this country for a reason.”

  Something happened.

  He watched Abner tap his combud abruptly. He spoke to the others, but the sheriff could no longer hear the man’s voice. All three looked towards the woods and one of their dogs suddenly broke from the group and stepped towards the tree line.

  A shot rang out. The Mexican dove in front of Abner.

  The bullet glanced off the Rottweiler’s cranial shield, shredding BIOSKIN©. The creature growled but maintained position, vidorbs glowing with new rage.

  “Source of fire?” barked the sheriff.

  “CNED,” said Everquist. “The hill.”

  The sheriff trained his monocle HUD on the woods. He could see squirrels flitting through the branches, sparrows taking wing. He switched to IR. Where before there had been seven, now fifteen human heat signatures crouched in the thick cover of the woods.

  “Shit…”

  “Oh no!” squealed Everquist. “They shot Martinez.”

  The sheriff retrained his view on the men in front of the barn.

  How did that guy know to dive like that?

  The Mexican had collapsed and lay shuddering. What remained of his left arm was lying on the asphalt beside the wreckage of a destroyed drone. Blood spurted from the stump just below the shoulder. The man was screaming in agony. Everquist trained one of his recon drone’s directional microphones on the scene, but the audio was blocked. The man was trying to speak between screams.

  The cowboy, Angevine, had dropped his rifle, ripped his flannel shirt off and was attempting to use it as a tourniquet, shoving it against the gushing artery. The man shuddered, shock consuming him. Angevine’s hands were slick with blood and he was yelling at Abner, who stood behind him, also shouting, a primitive madness filling his yellow eyes. The Rottweilers surrounded the men, positioning themselves defensively, except for the cyborg which deflected the bullet. It remained facing the hill of trees. Its nose tested the wind, scanning. Its jowls curled intermittently with calculus and rage.

  “Everquist, get a med-vac this way stat! And cut me back through so I can talk to Abner!”

  “Med-vac isn’t responding to ER pings, sir. As long as Joan’s onstream, this is their show. I’m locked out.”

  “Do we have any drones left?”

  “Negative. Not armed at least. Just my sky-eyes, and I’m keeping them out of the line of fire, audio only. Even that’s in and out.”

  The sheriff’s voice was steady and direct, “Keep trying to break in. Azarov, you got the best scope. Patch me your feed.”

  “Done, sheriff. You should have my eyes now,” said the Sergeant.

  Proudstar tapped a button on the side of his monocle, toggling into Azarov’s vidstream. He frowned, “They aren’t gonna kill that man are they?”

  “Just asking myself that same question, sir,” said Azarov. “Check it out.”

  Dax Abner
had removed his fine, tan colored blazer and covered Martinez. He then lay across the man and pinned his shoulders to the ground with both hands, holding his chest firm with one knee. Angevine held his legs. The largest Rottweiler, the one that had taken down the drones, stood over the wrecked shoulder stump where it burbled blood onto the pavement. The cyborg’s jaws dislocated and the retractable laser cannon reappeared.

  “You getting this, Everquist?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Talboy, drop your weapon and get those MARX pups moving. Recon approach for now.”

  “On it!” said Talboy.

  The twelve German Shepherds stood as one and trotted easily across the hovroad and down the other side into the muddy field of pumpkins. It would take them several minutes to reach the barn at a slow gallop.

  The sheriff turned back to the wounded man on the asphalt. Abner’s fine attire was now splattered with red. Proudstar could have sworn he looked directly at him for a moment. Angevine nodded at the dog. The sheriff winced as a controlled blast of particle energy from the cyborg’s TOHO cannon hit the Mexican’s shoulder, boiling blood and instantly cauterizing the stump. The man screamed with agony and lost consciousness. The charcoaled flesh smoldered. Abner held his hands beneath the man’s head and was speaking rapidly to Angevine. The two Rottweilers closest to the hovroad snarled. They had noticed the approaching line of battborgs.

  The cowboy hung his head, still sitting atop the Mexican’s legs. His pale skin and white t-shirt were drenched with blood. He stood and, with obvious effort, picked Martinez up in his arms, dead weight, and began carrying him towards the barn. The large Rottweiler started to follow, but Angevine shouted a command and the cyborg returned to its defensive position with the others.

  Angevine was halfway to the barn when the next shot rang out.

  This time it was Dax Abner who went down. Bullet to the leg.

  Solid point, thought the sheriff quickly.

  Almost as quickly as he had fallen, Abner was able to stand back up, though his face was now racked with pain.

  Proudstar barked into the com, “Dogdammit! Azarov! You and Downs get into those woods and arrest every fucking humdroid you see! Anyone bitches, feed them a bullet!”

  “Yes sir!” said Azarov’s quick, perfunctory voice.

  “I don’t think we’re gonna have time for that, sir,” cut in Everquist.

  Proudstar retrained his HUD on the driveway in front of the barn. Dax Abner was still standing, facing them. The left leg of his suit pants was crimson below the knee. He took a few steps towards the barn, limping. He was shouting something.

  The sheriff trained his focus on Angevine, who held the unconscious body of the Mexican. He was talking to someone, or something, besides Abner.

  Talking to the Rottweilers…

  The cyborgs suddenly broke from their defensive circle.

  “Oh no, sir,” said Everquist, gasping.

  Sheriff Proudstar watched one of the cyborgs, the one that had been shot, charge across the field. The animal moved like a black streak, gaining 200+ meters and disappearing into the woods in a matter of seconds. The other three… were coming straight for their position.

  “Talboy, offensive formation, full velocity charge! Cut those damn bots free!”

  “Assault pattern omega-hammer! There they go!” said Deputy Talboy, unable to contain his excitement.

  The odds were 4 to 1 in their favor. The sheriff’s team held their breath. The Shepherd MARX-bots accelerated, condensing into a tight block with the strategic intent of numbers overwhelming their adversaries. Everquist could see their black polymer chassis moving in his mind under their BIOSKIN© wraps. They crushed any pumpkins in their path and chunks of mud splashed into the air behind their powerful legs.

  The Rottweilers had also condensed, moving side by side at a velocity so great that they looked like smears of light crossing the landscape. In the moment before impact, the two smaller cyborgs flanked in opposite directions. Everquist sat on his hands, mouth agape. The largest Rott leapt, tucking into a ball, which hammered the MARX-bots like an iron wedge.

  Proudstar watched the engagement, steel-faced.

  The Rottweilers showed no mercy.

  They fight with emotion.

  The big one, with the laser cannon for a throat, had unfolded upon contact, using its legs and claws like spiked clubs. It ripped through the Shepherds, cutting five of them nearly in half on the first pass. The remaining seven had barely begun to turn, mired in mud, before the smaller Rottweilers were on them. Their fusion powered jaws ripped the plastic limbs off the MARX-bots with brutal precision.

  They know where to strike. They can predict…

  Through Everquist’s drone, the sheriff could hear the Rotts howling viciously as they tore apart the weaker battery powered cyborgs. The big one’s BIOSKIN© was ripped from the impact, revealing the shining metal beneath. Otherwise it was unaffected.

  In 45 seconds, it was done. The smaller Rottweilers had pinned the last functional Shepherd to the earth. The Fido howled frightfully, as its behavioral algorithms dictated in such a situation. The Rottweiler that Colonel Apollo had called a SIEGFRIED unit walked over methodically, wrapped its massive jaws around the battborg’s neck and removed the head with a single bite and flung it aside. It spit up bits of polyethylene and Kevlar armor as if the plastic left a repugnant taste in its mouth. All three Rottweilers then wailed in unison, a brief and mournful howl, then turned and rocketed away across the field down the long driveway, trails of mud and mist arcing in their wake.

  Talboy’s voice came first, “Sir, Jeezus… I’m sorry. I did everything page to page like in sim. I don’t know wha…”

  The sheriff’s voice was strangely cool, reserved, “No sim could have prepared you for this, Brick. Get your eyes back through a scope. Everyone fucking hold. Backup’s dropping now.”

  Colonel Marcus Apollo’s dual Harrier C17 Globemasters had just broken the clouds, screaming over the treeline and circling Proudstar’s position in a wide lowering arc. The sound from the big planes’ hover jets was deafening. The gray-blue airships came to rest at the end of the pumpkin farm’s driveway, each wide enough to fill all of County Hovroad 1500. The C17’s leveling jets flattened the high grass on either side of the hovroad shoulder.

  The sheriff appreciated Apollo’s strategy. With the wetness and the mud, now no hovcraft would be able to escape the property. Docking supports the size of telephone poles extended with a hydraulic whoosh and the gigantic armored airships came to rest, engines spooling down with a sad, long cry.

  “You bring all of Fort Riley with you? Dogdamn, colonel.”

  “Just the rain, sheriff.”

  “We’re gonna need it.”

  “Happens when you send terriers to fight bears. You got thick fusion trails everywhere. Have my assets beside yours in two. Apollo out.”

  Sheriff Proudstar looked back towards the barn. The Rottweilers had long since regained the end of the driveway in front of the big cottonwood tree. The sheriff magnified. Only Dax Abner remained outside, watching intently with those fearsome yellow eyes. As soon as Proudstar activated his HUD, those eyes shifted directly on him. Abner tapped his combud. The sheriff’s beeped.

  Despite the wounded leg, Abner smiled congenially and cocked his head as he spoke, though a grimace menaced his words, “Apologies, Sheriff Proudstar. I didn’t realize our conversation would be so rudely interrupted.” Abner paused, catching his breath, “Now. I believe you were saying something about there being a system of justice in this country?” Abner presented his blood-stained palms, “I would just love to hear more about that.”

  The sheriff cut the com and sighed, “No more incoming from them, Everquist.”

  “I’ll try, sir,” said Danny demurely.

  New motion at the edge of the treeline caught the sheriff’s eye. He tracked the view as a blood-soaked woman with jet black hair emerged from the forest.

  There you are.


  The woman saw Abner and ran towards him frantically, panic in her eyes as she screamed and screamed words the sheriff could not hear.

  Slopes was right. She’s been here the whole time.

  She stumbled and fell, running barefoot in the chunky rows of mud between pumpkins and vines. Six gray, fox-sized dogs emerged next and followed her warily, running in a single file line. Their dainty paws plopped and splattered through the mud.

  Proudstar drew in his breath. They were what was left of the Darkpool Labs’ Coyotes.

  Who the sky are these people?

  The Coyotes nettled fur was red in splotches. Their hackles and jowls also bore a crimson stain. When the Coyote leading the group turned and looked at the sheriff, standing there on the hovroad with his HUD, the rest of the pack did the same. They all stopped, frozen in a line and fixed him with a gaze the color of a dozen identical blue skies.

  For the first time since Iran, Sheriff Dale Proudstar felt the cold thrill of true fear rising through his veins.

  Chapter 3.7 – The Great Still in the Sky

  10:43 am – One Hour Seventeen Minutes Before Event.

  CNED Special Agent Mikala Gonzales raised her head, startled at something moving low in the trees. It was small, a possum or raccoon. She was crouched in a camouflage jumper beside a large fallen oak, the trunk of which was covered with heavy, dangling moss. Gonzales had prepped right. Her brown skin was painted black and green. Her black hair was cut short like a boy’s. She felt vicious. She would shoot the shiners’ guard dog as soon as the ’noias dimmed.

  I should have popped two tablets. What happened to those gun drones?

  They should burn these shiners out with flame bots. She had heard the explosions on her approach, spats of gunfire. The downed drones looked like pieces of scrap, but she had seen no active shooters.

  Shooting or not, they’re still drug dealers.

  She shook off the rage, the obsession with drunks and money. Voices pulsed through her dreams since the slaughterhouse. It was a fixation. The thought of a drug lab… on the outskirts of her hometown, with a rural elementary school six kilometers away. It was unconscionable.