The Northern Star Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by Mike Gullickson

  Tank Major Janis jogged around the room, passing the hamster cage. He then sprinted back and forth in a ladder drill, stopping and starting, showing the strength and impressive agility of the Tank Major platform.

  His legs and feet were heavily armored, yet dextrous. As he created a mini-earthquake trundling around the room, his feet constantly adjusted to maintain full traction.

  His legs were connected to the outside of his hips and this allowed the suspension built inside the thigh to move up and down, while keeping the leg a consistent length. Hung slightly back on each shoulder were gigantic metal boxes mounted on rails. It was clear they could be removed. His shoulders looked like what they were: an artillery chamber. His arms were long for his body and as thick as his legs. His hands were boulders. Each one could pick an engine out of a car. A massive anvil-like bridge of armor ran along his knuckles protecting the incredible architecture of his mechanized hands.

  “Please put on your ear protection,” Lindo said. The stunned crowd did as they were told. They could hear Evan through built-in speakers.

  “Tank Major Janis can run at a sustained speed of twenty-five miles an hour. He weighs eight thousand pounds and is primarily built from depleted uranium armor. He can lift his body weight over his head and he can run through cement up to two feet thick.”

  “He is powered by a hydrogen fuel generator that charges a deep storage battery. This battery can last for two days at full operation. At normal operation, it lasts ten days. As long as the Tank Major has access to water and electricity, it can perform electrolysis and recharge itself indefinitely.”

  Janis walked downrange to the hill of sand bags. Two soldiers walked out to the machine gun and RPGs.

  “He is essentially bullet proof,” Lindo said. The machine gun erupted into chatter, spilling brass around the soldiers’ feet as they fired. The armor sparked and some of the camouflage paint got mired, but the Tank Major stood unmoving, like he was being pelted with rain. They stopped firing and both of the men put an RPG to their shoulder.

  “The Tank Major platform is blast proof both from direct projectiles and concussive blasts in its vicinity. While it can be blown apart or damaged, the current stock of weapons that our enemies have are unlikely to do so.”

  The men fired the RPG’s at Janis. One hit flush and exploded, doing nothing. The other hit his chest and ricocheted off against the back wall, creating a five-foot crater.

  “Oops,” Lindo said. The crowd let out a dazed laugh. “You may have noticed that his fists are heavily armored. There is a reason.”

  On cue, Tank Major Janis ran up to the Humvee and scissored his hand down onto the hood. It was like a meteorite had struck it. The front of the Humvee crumpled like tin and the axles snapped, sending the wheels to the sides. Janis continued to pound his way through the Humvee, smashing it down into scrap.

  “Each fist weighs five hundred pounds. This is his most basic strength. He is only using the high torque electric motors located throughout his body,” Lindo said.

  The entire audience was frozen in a scream. They couldn’t believe what they were seeing. When Janis was done with the Humvee, he flipped it away from the hamster cage like it was made of foam.

  “The large metal boxes on his shoulders are artillery magazines. In each are six artillery rounds that have no projectile. The artillery charge is used to fuel his most devastating attack: the hydraulshock.”

  Janis turned to Lindo and Lindo nodded. Janis ran up to the gigantic cement block and moved like his was going to punch it.

  BAM!

  The noise was indescribable. Even with the Plexiglas case and the hearing protection, Boen’s ears rang. It was like a thunderbolt had gone off in the room. Boen didn’t see what had happened. The Tank Major ran at the block and then cocked back its right arm like it was about to throw a straight, and then suddenly the room was filled with dust. The Plexiglas fractured into a spider web from the concussive blast and debris.

  Boen heard gigantic exhaust fans spin up. The thick brown air thinned out into a light fog and Boen could see the outline of the Tank Major. When the air cleared out further he saw that aside for jagged leftovers at its base, the entire cement block was gone. With one punch the Tank Major had turned it into dust.

  “The hydraulshock delivers three and a half million foot pounds of energy in a controlled delivery system, guaranteeing almost zero percent collateral damage, unlike traditional ordinance.”

  Lindo nodded again at Janis. He went to the tank with its foot thick armor. He reeled back.

  BAM!

  This time Boen saw (and didn’t see) what happened. For a split second, the gigantic soldier vanished in a blur, moving as fast as a rocket. And then it was back with its fist inside the tank. The tank shuddered and warped inward as if it got cleaved with a gigantic axe. Out of the Tank Major’s shoulder, a spent artillery shell ejected end-over-end in a backwards arc. It clanged to the ground forty feet away.

  Boen saw the shoulder mechanism reload. Tank Major Janis pulled his fist away from the tank and walked over to the glass, just behind Lindo. Everyone watched in awe.

  “This is our future, gentlemen. This is the eagle that carries the olive branch to all terrorists and enemies of the state. Wherever they are, wherever they hide, we can get them. And there isn’t a damn thing they can do about it.”

  The crowd erupted into applause. Some of the men, hard men who had dealt with life and death on a grand scale for decades, cried. It was clear to them what Dr. Evan Lindo had created. It was clear to them what Dr. Evan Lindo was: a savior to the United States way of life. A savior for all of those who feared the end.

  = = =

  The presentation couldn’t have gone better. Representatives from each military division congratulated Evan afterwards. They all wanted to discuss the Tank Major’s effect on their current operations.

  What they didn’t know was that Ward Williams and Evan had come to an agreement before the presentation. Evan had brought him back to meet Tank Major Janis and to understand the technology.

  Evan had learned six weeks before that Ward didn’t like him, never had. Felt that he was a little fucking nerd who wanted to wear big boy pants. Probably guzzled WarDon’s load. All good stuff to know. Evan didn’t hold grudges. He let the King Sleeper massage those synapses to make Ward a bit more amenable. After a few weeks Ward thought his first impression of Evan was a bit harsh. A month later, he had called for advice.

  While before Ward would have vehemently opposed what Evan wanted to control, now he was finishing Evan’s sentences.

  “. . . as I designed and implemented the technology . . .” Evan said.

  “It would only make sense that you were at the helm,” Ward nodded enthusiastically. “Totally. There’s been nothing like this before. We’ve had weapons, we’ve had soldiers, but never this gray area.” Ward cocked his head like he just had a whiz-bang of an idea. “General Boen should be a part of this. He could help train the soldiers and coordinate the missions.”

  Evan feigned skeptical. “You think?”

  “Definitely,” Ward said. Evan looked deep in thought. He rubbed his scruffy chin.

  “You know Mr. President, that would be best. It would allow us to play to our strengths. I can focus on the technology and the overall health of the soldiers, and General Boen could focus on the operations, training, and integration with the other military branches.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Ward said. They were both nodding like pigeons in the park.

  “It’s perfect.” Evan checked his watch. “Almost time. Thank you, sir.”

  “Glad I could help.” Ward flashed his bleached choppers.

  Evan had planted that suggestion in fuckface’s head about a week ago. It would be odd to not have a high-ranking officer on board and General Boen, while an obstacle, was a lesser evil than some lower ranking military advisor who was climbing up the career ladder. And he was temporary and less adept with the technology. Maybe
in a few months he’d die in his sleep.

  = = =

  General Boen waited while the various high ranking officers congratulated Evan and the place cleared out. Jan said goodbye and hobbled away shaking his head at what he had just seen: a movie come to life. Ward had pulled Boen aside after the demonstration and briefed him on his upcoming duties.

  Evan shook the last General’s hand and came over. “I need to pack Tank Major Janis up, shall we?”

  He and Boen walked out of the hamster cage and across the destroyed landscape left in the colossus’s wake. Boen stopped and looked at the Humvee wreckage. The truck was completely flattened. He had to step over shards of engine block.

  “So he did this without the artillery discharge?”

  “Correct. Electric motors have one hundred percent torque at one rpm and each major motor in his body has at least one thousand foot-pounds. Think two V-8’s are swinging his thousand pound arm.”

  “Unreal, Evan. Truly.”

  They made it through the garage door. Tank Major Janis sat to their left on what looked like a huge gothic throne. Technicians scurried over him like spiders.

  “We’ve had the mechanical technology to build a bionic for some time, but it was the Mindlink that made it truly possible,” Evan said, attempting modesty.

  “Science fiction has talked about this for a hundred years, but talk is cheap. You did it,” Boen said. They were now in front of Janis. Seated, he somehow appeared even more hulking.

  “How are you soldier?” Boen asked.

  Janis crooked his head down to see them. “Doing fine, sir. Doing fine.”

  “How does it feel to be the most powerful man to ever walk the earth?”

  “Just happy to be of use. I think Dr. Lindo could hit a switch and turn me off if he wanted to, so I’m not going to get too cocky,” Janis winked. Evan mimed pressing a button.

  Two technicians muscled off the artillery magazine from one of his shoulders. Another two on a hydraulic lift guided it onto their platform.

  “General Boen will be heading the strategic aspects of the Tank Division,” Evan said to Janis.

  “Excellent, I’ve heard great things about you, sir. My team leader used to take direction from you.”

  “John Raimey, I know,” Boen said.

  The gothic metal chair hissed and clanked. The technicians up top gave thumbs up.

  “Step back,” Evan said to Boen.

  “Excuse me,” Janis said. He stood up. A truck designed to transport him reversed in. Even five feet away, Boen couldn’t see Janis’s face due to the girth of his chest. It was what awed children to their fathers.

  Janis walked away and his body was surprisingly quiet. When he climbed into the rear of the truck’s trailer, it buckled under the load but the grace in which the Tank Major got up and in was remarkable. It truly moved like a man.

  “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen,” Boen said. Evan smiled. “How many are you planning to build?”

  “This model? None. Janis is the prototype and already I’ve learned a great deal from him. He’s ninety-five percent of what I want out of the battle chassis. Depleted uranium armor—as you well know—is the strongest armor we currently manufacture, but it does have vulnerabilities.”

  “Not many,” Boen said. “Are you talking EFPs?”

  Explosive Formed Penetrators were a type of bomb used by terrorists in the Middle East to breach tank hulls. They used a convex copper plate that on detonation became a molten slug moving at incredible speeds.

  “See? Exactly. Right away you went to it. So would our enemies,” he continued. “I’m working on an osmium and depleted-uranium alloy encased in a revolutionary ceramic.”

  “I’ve never heard of osmium.”

  “It’s actually quite common. The rolling ball in ballpoint pens is osmium, but it doesn’t play nice with others. And alone it’s brittle. But the properties of this armor are astounding.”

  “It would stop an EFP?” Boen asked skeptically.

  “An eight inch thick plate is equivalent to six feet of rolled homogenous armor,” Evan replied. “How would you like to proceed?”

  “Well, I see the Tank Major as intelligent support for a special forces unit. If they were breaching hostile buildings, the Tank Major could act as a cow catcher breaking through, with the team right behind using him as a smart shield, fanning out when they went in. We should start with about twenty guys. I’ll pick them if you don’t mind and we’ll get training, learn the strengths and weaknesses, adapt from there.”

  “What about the press?” Evan asked. “Ward wants the world to know about this.”

  “There are terrorist acts every month nowadays. I say we make an example of one and let some footage leak out. That’ll get everyone’s attention just fine.”

  = = =

  In his private cabin two train cars down from his creation, Evan dreamed. In it, an army of Tank Majors stretched into the distance, lumbering into a city. Columns of nuclear fire littered the landscape and a Tank Major turned to regard one as it rose, its pulsing mushroom cloud reflecting off his helmet. The Tank Major was unmoved. Unconcerned. He continued into the battlefield.

  Evan dreamed of Beijing covered in the hottest fire; he pictured Britain with buildings crumbled to ash. His giants occupied both, fully exposed, peppered with mortars and missiles and lead, their armor ashen and beaten, but not broken. The enemy surrendering at their feet, heads cowered in submission.

  He dreamed of a caravan of millions crying in each other’s arms, dragging whatever they could with them as they evacuated their burning city, understanding that it was all over, that the U.S. had won. More. That Evan had won.

  The world as mine.

  He looked down on the cities from the clouds. He hovered over the destruction like he was omniscient and omnipresent. Like he was a god who no longer hid behind faith.

  = = =

  After the demonstration, Cynthia let Evan take the acclaim. She was the first to leave. Since Sabot’s departure two weeks before, Evan had assigned her two bodyguards that worked in shifts: Edward Chao and Alan Kove. Chao was an asshole, but Kove had a sweetness to him. Kove led her through the doorway to the waiting car. He seemed genuinely concerned with his charge.

  She didn’t understand what had happened. The night Sabot vanished, she noticed his absence an hour afterward. She looked around the room for him, went out into the hall, and then assumed that he had left to handle some work minutia that he didn’t want to burden her with.

  When she got to the penthouse, the lights were off. “Sabot?” The dark room absorbed her voice and answered it with silence. She called him. Straight to voicemail. She called down to the front desk and the receptionist said she hadn’t seen him that evening.

  For two hours she waited, compulsively checking her phone and e-mail. She called again. Nothing. Maybe something happened to his mom. She called Linda, Sabot’s mother, who lived in a house outside the city. She had visited it with Sabot a year before.

  Linda answered the phone. “Cynthia,” she said. “Unknown” on the phone pad was always her.

  “Is everything okay?” Cynthia asked.

  “Yes. Why?” Linda sounded concerned.

  “I don’t know where Sabot is,” Cynthia said. “He isn’t answering his phone. I thought, well, the worst. Maybe something had happened to you or Trina.”

  “When did you last speak to him?”

  “Three hours ago,” Cynthia replied. She heard Linda sigh with relief.

  “Oh good. I spoke with him about an hour ago. He’s coming over tomorrow. Are you guys okay?”

  Cynthia didn’t respond right away. She held the phone loosely in her hand. Tomorrow was Thursday. Nothing was wrong at home but he wasn’t coming in to work. Her stomach ached.

  “Cynthia?” she heard the tinny phone say.

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Sabot. Please have him call me.”

  He never did.

  They pulled up to MindCorp.
Cynthia turned to Kove. “I’m dropping you off.”

  “Ms. Revo, I’m supposed to be with you at all times,” he replied.

  “Those aren’t my orders and I’m a private citizen.”

  Kove didn’t move. He wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Alan, do I have to open the door for you? Call Evan if you want, but do it outside. I’m not asking.”

  Reluctantly he got out. Cynthia pressed a button near her seat.

  “Take me to one-nineteen Pine,” she said.

  They idled outside of Linda Sabot’s house. Cynthia was paralyzed. One half of her was mournfully sad, the other was furious at the way Sabot had discarded her without an explanation. After the years together, she deserved more.

  Finally she got out and walked to the door. She pressed the doorbell and heard its echo inside. She listened for the low thump of footsteps approaching. After a minute, she stepped over into the bushes and peered into the house. It felt empty.

  “You’re messing up my mom’s bushes,” Sabot said from behind her. She turned and saw him. His shirt was soaked in a V from a long run. He was breathing heavy. She went over to him and punched him on the shoulder.

  “What are you doing to me?” she asked. She felt the comfort of being around him, even now, just as old ex’s still invade each other’s space unknowingly. But she was confused. He didn’t seem angry.

  “I needed time to think,” he said. He walked to the door and took out a key. He held the door open. “Let’s talk inside.”

  She sat at the table and he poured both of them lemonade. The kitchen area had Midwestern touches. A corner shelf with porcelain figurines and antique knick-knacks near the floor. Flower print wallpaper that was accented with a white wood baseboard. It reminded Cynthia of her childhood home.

  He gave her a glass and sat down across from her. He didn’t speak right away. He took big gulps of the lemonade and looked at the outside patio.

  “Please,” she said.

  He put his glass down and watched her the way he looked at her guests.

  “Do you love me? Did that go away?” she asked.