Insidious

by Michael McCloskey

  The Vigilant latched onto Tanelorn like a metal scavenger nestling against the sleek body of a synthetic shark. Bren felt the vibration of the contact through the metal decking of the Guts. The ASSAIL units didn’t move.

  That’s a good start. At least they’ll let me give the word. They’re smart, but they don’t yet realize that they’re vastly smarter than I am.

  “Okay team. Let’s hit it.”

  The ASSAILs moved out, picking their way through the Guts. Bren glanced at the green UNSF emblems on the armored sides of his machines. His universe accelerated. He believed in their mission to bring the deep space stations of the megacorporations under control of law. Without the UNSF, humans might go extinct. He wanted some order over the chaos. There had to be a balance between the world government and the corporations.

  Once the clanking of the machines started to diminish, Bren centered Meridian’s forward cam in his PV.

  He saw the breach point, a forced double airlock. Meridian’s cam view shuddered with the stride of the machine. He noticed batches of airscrub grass ahead with banks of storage lockers interspersed along the walls. Meridian charged past several of the lockers into a larger open area strengthened by massive structural columns.

  A flash of movement flickered across the cam. Something black. Bren heard a thump from the audio feed.

  Oh, no…

  “What was that?” Bren asked.

  “A person … several, actually. They’re on Meridian’s leg,” Hoffman reported. He sent out a pointer to a side cam. Bren accessed it.

  Bren saw people in the strange black suits clambering over Meridian like ants holding onto a giant beetle.

  “Dammit. What’re they doing?” Bren watched a cam that focused on one of the suited figures. At first, the person seemed to cling to the ASSAIL leg with his arms and legs wrapped around it. Another person, also suited up, came into the camera view long enough for Bren to watch him swing a metal club into the camera lens bubble. It left a tiny scratch. A second later, he heard it again. Thwack.

  “There are about a dozen of them in the atrium now,” said the calm summary of a female handler. “They’re all engaging the ASSAILs.”

  Surely, they don’t hope to stop the ASSAILs? Unless one of them has a bomb.

  “Progress is blocked,” Meridian broadcast. “Cannot proceed without causing severe injury to one or more of the station inhabitants.”

  Of course, Bren thought. They couldn’t hurt the ASSAILs. They would just inhibit the machine’s maneuverability. The robots could not move freely for fear of harming the people. Which left the machines open to attack.

  Bren switched between several cameras. The armored people clustered around a couple of the ASSAIL units holding onto the legs and one another.

  “Colonel Henley, are you seeing this? The locals have all gone malcon on us. None of them look armed beyond a few pieces of furniture.”

  “Affirmative. My men will clean your ASSAILs.”

  The ASSAIL units overheard the conversation and seemed to accept the solution. Marines poured into the atrium pointing their weapons and yelling for surrender. A couple of the suited people charged the newcomers. One marine shot the leg of an attacker with a rubber bullet. The crack of the weapon stirred the entire group of black-clad inhabitants. They let go of the machines and turned on the marines.

  The marines started to curse and hurl insults on their channel. They shot rubber bullets at the people in the suits. The heavy black gear seemed to protect those inside to some degree, but the slugthrowers still dropped them eventually. Once they’d taken several hits each, the attackers were incapacitated, rolling about on the floor clutching their limbs or heads in pain.

  “Fuckin’ loony malcons!”

  “Buckle-bulbs!”

  Bren saw one of the inhabitants trying to get up on one knee, but a marine dropped him with a single smack across the helmet with his rifle stock.

  “Glue ’em up!” yelled a sergeant. “Fucking glue them up now!”

  The marines started to drop glue grenades onto the suited figures. Bren watched a marine toss a grenade onto a group of three struggling suited figures before dropping back. The grenade erupted like a high-speed film of an opening flower. Glue tentacles sprung out to stick onto everything nearby.

  But the many-armed glob of glue rolled off and attached itself to the floor.

  “What the fuck?” Henley said.

  “They aren’t sticking, sir,” said the voice of a sergeant on the scene.

  Bren didn’t like that news either. If the glue didn’t stick, then the people would be that much harder for the marines to control. He remembered that the glue grenades had clung to the suits at Thermopylae.

  “I expect a Red to show any second now,” Bren transmitted. “We’ve got the station people and marines crammed in there, there’s no room to maneuver. If we have to engage another Red, there’s going to be injuries to the people in there.”

  “Get some more solvent and clean that machine up,” the sergeant ordered.

  “Belay that order,” Henley transmitted. “The machines are strong enough to deal with the glue. They’re made to handle the security robots, remember? Get those malcons back into the holding tanks. Forward team, secure the bridgehead.”

  “Yessir! You heard him you space dogs!” yelled the sergeant. Marines stepped toward the doorways and erected waist-high security icons to guard the entrances. Gleaming red beams from the crowns of the devices scanned the entrances searching for intruders.

  “Lieutenant Hoffman. Why does he call his men space dogs?” asked Meridian.

  “It’s a nickname, Meridian,” Hoffman said. “Not pertinent to the mission. Think about how you are going to complete the incursion with these people in the way.”

  “I am thinking about that Lieutenant. May I request additional clarifications simultaneously?”

  Bren watched Hoffman push back a lock of sweaty hair. They exchanged glances. Bren nodded.

  “Yes, you may, as long as it may affect the mission,” Hoffman said.

  “What’s a buckle-bulb?”

  “A crazy or desperate person.”

  “Why hasn’t the ASSAIL team been supplied with these nicknames and terms in our mission data?” Meridian asked.

  “They’re not relevant to the mission,” Hoffman said.

  The answer was true enough, Bren thought. But somewhat deceptive. The real reason had more to do with hiding human flaws from superintelligent machines.

  “If we get attacked by other robots while those malcons are all over my machines, people are going to die,” Bren said. “We can’t go in here without the weapons free. The ASSAILs have to be able to maneuver.”

  “Admiral Jameson has already made the call,” Henley said. “We’re going in. The ASSAILs are cleared to fire if engaged by other heavies, even if it risks killing civilians. The entire station was warned to stand down and they’ve disobeyed. The station is under martial law, which makes all these loonies target practice.”

  “And your marines?” Bren said.

  “This is dangerous work, Bren. I trust the ASSAILs will do their best to limit the harm to the marines on board Tanelorn.”

  I’m glad someone trusts them, I sure don’t, Bren thought to himself in a half-joke.

  Bren knew it wasn’t as bad as that. He figured the ASSAILs would avoid hurting too many people. But it would limit their combat effectiveness. If a machine couldn’t maneuver because it had a bunch of people holding its legs that it didn’t want to crush, then it would be an easier target for enemy robots.

  Jesus. Each mission it’s something unexpected. What the hell?

  “I’ve got a problem with Nerad,” an operator broadcast to the ASSAIL team.

  Bren ground his teeth and took a breath.

  He flipped over to focus on Nerad in his PV. The machine had stopped in the first room refusing to move farther into the station. Its internal hardware diagnostics looked green, so it appeared the chassis w
as working correctly.

  “Nerad. Damage report,” Bren transmitted.

  “No damage. All systems online.”

  “Nerad. Provide action status,” Bren sent.

  “Assimilating mission data module,” Nerad replied.

  Bren didn’t like that one bit. The ASSAIL machines always finished this stage quickly. The mission data was selected very carefully and despite its prodigious size, the incredibly fast machines had always absorbed the contents and been ready for the mission in around a minute’s time.

  Bren decided that if Nerad was malfunctioning, maybe the best way to find out about it was to ask another machine. After all, they were smarter than Bren was.

  “Meridian. What’s wrong with Nerad? It isn’t performing as expected.”

  “Nerad has low cognitive capability relative to the rest of the team,” said the reply. “Nerad is still trying to absorb mission background data and formulate a plan of action.”

  Bren traded looks with Hoffman from across the Guts. Hoffman silently mouthed a curse word.

  “Nerad’s seed was identical to your own. If you can tell us what’s different about Nerad, perhaps we can make critical adjustments to prevent this malfunction in the future,” Bren said.

  The reply came without hesitation.

  “During the second culling phase, a flaw in the isolation system allowed Nerad to see out of its memory sandbox and observe the rest of us. It used that advantage to get selected as a final candidate, even though it has inferior intellectual capabilities.”

  “Meridian. Can the rest of the team direct Nerad? Nerad. Follow the instructions of the other ASSAIL units.”

  Both machines acknowledged Bren. Nerad surged forward finding its way through the marines struggling to clean up the scene of the initial melee.

  Bren sighed. So, they had a bug with the core selection process. And for now, they had one machine way down in the brains department.

  I hope the rest of the team can pick up the slack. If nothing else, maybe Nerad can be a decoy.

  As soon as Bren had the thought, Nerad moved up to the far end of the room to take the lead.

  Have we done enough? There’s going to be another Red in here, I just know it. What else can I do? We started the machines earlier, and we have twelve this time. I didn’t expect the locals to take such an active part. The security guys, maybe, but I think these are just ordinary RMI employees. He wiped more sweat off his face and kept watching the info feeds from his ASSAIL team.

  “We’ve cleared out the locals. Bridgehead is secure,” the sergeant’s voice said across the marine’s channel.

  “I think we should leapfrog ahead,” said Henley. “We’ll send the ASSAIL units ahead a little, then the marines can come in and clean out the wackos and secure the perimeter. It’ll be slower than before, but—”

  “Sounds good,” transmitted Bren. He added in his ASSAIL channel and transmitted again.

  “ASSAIL team, move farther into the station. We’ll be leapfrogging with the marines, so clear the next section of security hardware and then wait for them.”

  Meridian’s camera view moved through an archway into another wide corridor. At the far end, Bren could see a larger room. He cross-referenced the route with his map of Tanelorn and saw that they were heading into a supply dock.

  Bren checked the ASSAIL distribution. The machines had split into three groups of four. He stuck with Meridian’s group. The view swept across the dock. Bren saw a massive portal in the floor and stacks of airtight containers. A small-windowed control tower extended over the open space of the dock. A door opened at the base of the tower.

  Meridian moved closer to investigate. Suddenly Bren saw several people in full gear charging toward the camera from the doorway.

  “Here they come again,” he said aloud to the others in the Guts.

  Then the first person flew away and bounced against the wall. Meridian’s camera view bobbed down and twisted. Bren saw another local slide away long the floor.

  “What’s doing that?” asked Bren.

  “The protective suits worn by the indigenes allow us some leeway in methods of control,” Meridian transmitted.

  Bren switched views to Mournblade. He caught sight of Nerad booting aside a suited attacker with one of its legs. The gear looked thick enough to keep the person from serious injury.

  “Good, good,” Bren whispered to himself. Perhaps things would work out after all. The assault machines didn’t detect security robots or unknowns in the dock.

  The four ASSAILs halted in front of the people they’d pummeled.

  “Shall we await the support units?” said Meridian.

  “On our way,” answered Henley.

  Meridian’s camera centered in on a hatch that led deeper into the station. It settled at the position covering the door.

  “I have a message for the UNSF,” Meridian transmitted.

  That got Bren’s attention. He instantly thought of the Marseilles Purge.

  Oh, shit. A message for the UNSF? Is Meridian rebelling? Could it have been taken over by the enemy? Impossible!

  “What is the message?” Bren asked.

  “The message is, ‘They await you in the factory wing.’”

  Bren blinked. “Who sent the message?”

  “It’s anonymous. We received it from a link port in the supply dock.” “Someone on the station must be on our side. Or it’s misinformation.”

  “Stick to the planned incursion order for now,” said Henley. “When the second group arrives at the spindle leading into the factory floor, they can wait there to rendezvous with the others before we go in. The marines can stay on the heels of the ASSAILs.”

  Bren thought about the message while the marines moved into the supply dock. He brought up schematics of the factory wing. The floor was long and wide, filled with the machines that produced the extremely light and strong plastics in the zero-G chamber. Bren suspected a trap. His data didn’t indicate that the materials used in the production facility were explosive or particularly toxic. As large as the factory was, none of its walls directly bordered onto space. Bren supposed that the entire room could still be evacuated of air, if that proved to be the defender’s plan.

  “It’s time to move this ASSAIL group to the factory entrance,” Henley transmitted to the Guts channel.

  The ASSAILs heard the announcement. Meridian’s head tentacle slid forward and pushed open another metal door. An atrium led into three long, wide corridors with conveyor belt floors running from the dock toward the factory. Bren assumed that large amounts of raw material usually flowed along these corridors toward the factory for crystallization into the final products.

  No one occupied the corridors. The vacant section made Bren nervous. Too quiet, he thought, even given the UNSF boarding warnings. There were security robots, armored locals, and maybe more Reds somewhere on the station, and according to the anonymous message, their enemies awaited them beyond the next bulkhead.

  “If it’s an ambush as we’ve been warned,” Bren transmitted, “Don’t hold back. Watch out for our marines, but don’t hesitate to fire directly on the locals if they charge you again in the presence of robotic enemies.”

  Bren selected the marines’ channels and continued.

  “Since there may be an organized force awaiting us inside, we may need to put both the marines and the ASSAIL units in there together. But I think it could be a trap. I suggest that the marines seal up their vac suits before we probe the factory. It would be a logical place to prepare a surprise atmosphere evacuation.”

  Bren took a deep breath.

  “Agreed. We’ll need a few minutes to prepare for zero-g.”

  Bren’s mind raced.

  Did they prepare the ambush there assuming that the marines would be less effective in the absence of acceleration? Surely, the marines are extensively trained to orient themselves and move about in such an environment. What else about the factory is unique?

  Bren looked
at the schematics. The factory was complex. Large.

  Its size, maybe. Or its centrality. I don’t know.

  “Move in,” said Henley on the ASSAIL channel.

  Meridian entered the factory first and secured itself to the floor with its magnetic feet. Bren examined the massive facility through the lenses of the ASSAIL machine. Soft lights on the walls illuminated large rows of ore processors that floated in the large space, stabilized by metal struts. Gaping intake portals faced forward; ready to accept raw materials to be transformed into high tech building materials for space habitats being constructed throughout the solar system. Bren knew from his study of the area that each row had fourteen separate machines to perform each stage of the manufacturing. He supposed that the factory equipment must be rife with niches and alcoves that could conceal combatants.

  “Scout the factory,” Bren transmitted.

  “Further reconnaissance is unnecessary,” Meridian responded.

  Why is it always Meridian that responds? They must be aware that I’m watching this channel.

  “Explain why,” Bren said.

  “The factory contains many station malcons. They are hiding beyond the first set of ore processors. There are also security robots here. The warning was accurate.”

  “Hold your positions. Shall we call in the—”

  Two ASSAIL units went offline. Nemain and Nerad. Bren barely had time to blink before dozens of people in black gear leaped forward from hiding places twenty or thirty meters into the factory. They floated through the air toward the ASSAILs.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  “Henley …” Bren said.

  “Move in! Move in and assume defensive positions behind the ASSAIL units!” cried Henley. Bren wasn’t sure if the marine commander realized that two of their machines had gone down.

  More ASSAIL units stomped in through doors farther down the factory wall. Bren heard yells from the inhabitants in plastic suits, the stutter of the marines’ slugthrowers, and the louder hammering of the 12mm weapons on the ASSAILs.

  Boom. Boom.

  Bren felt sure this was what battle had been like in centuries past. The noise, the chaos. Uncertainty everywhere. The only thing he could see at a glance from his overview displays was the number of disabled ASSAIL units—three dead now.