The Alien Creator

by Michael Miller

  Sweating and huffing, Jacko inhales deeply as the unbelievably tough robot absorbs 0.50-caliber rounds and shoulder-held rockets from multiple directions. Its return fire, often shooting incoming rockets like a fly swatter hitting mosquitoes, is intense once locating shooters, many of which are injured or killed due to incredible precision. Repeating instructions to Davis, Jacko tells the soldier to be ready once he darts across the street and draws fire.

  Petty Officer First Class, Brad Davis, a high school football star from Oklahoma, watches as Commander Jacko puts himself in harms way and draws an immediate response. Able to dive behind an expensive jeep instantly hit with piercing energy that sets it ablaze, Davis steps from behind the parked car and lets the shoulder-mounted modern Raytheon FM-92 Stinger fly. Thirty-feet tall, the war-bot is easy pickings for the twenty-two pound infrared five-foot 3-kilogram high-explosive flying the short distance fifteen-hundred miles an hour. Instantly striking the large metallic alloy monster less than a hundred feet ahead, a thunderous explosion along with fire and smoke fill the airspace. Parked cars nearby explode due to the intense heat and disrupted laser fire by the shaken robot. As dust and smoke lift, combatants watch as the robot appears dazed and injured with one knee joint touching the street as if absorbing a knockout punch. Soon however, the fierce machine stands then proceeds firing from two extended arms. Quickly, the enraged war-bot reverts to an offensive posture as surviving Seals retreat, amazed the amount of accurate firepower didn't stop the beast.

  White House PEOC

  As the unprecedented scene unfolds from the Predator cameras zipping across the blue sky, White House bunker participant hearts sink when the fiercest warriors on the planet retreat. Immediately, President Wilford slams the table announcing he's seen enough.

  "Let's implement Billy Goddard's plan. If we have to airlift the tanks to each location, let's get moving. Contact every local company for access to delivery trucks and liquids. Tell them I don't want to hear about resistance or delays. I want to see caravans within the hour."

  Chief of Staff, Charles Brody, speaks first as military leaders grab landline phones and dial subordinates. "I talked to Dr. Metz and Billy Goddard a few minutes ago, Mr. President. They are sending instructions for amounts of liquid we'll need per location. They recommend focusing on liquid nitrogen since it's readily available."

  "Good work Charlie; get them on the line again so we hear it firsthand. Whatever they come up with, add twenty five percent to be safe."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Alien Spacecraft

  nce Army Captain Alvin Beck has his strike force standing and ready to follow Zote, they turn eyes away as the efficient minion handles a sizeable laser cutting device normally mounted on drill presses or factory equipment. Lowered by Zote through a hydraulically sealed hatch connected to the mother ship surface, the amazing box-shape android uses the fiber laser torch to cut a neat three-foot diameter hole in the hull. The precision plasma technology, too dangerous for humans handling without donning heavy flame and spark resistant garb, is a laborious process due to thickness and density of Navi's alloy hull, a poured honeycomb substance unknown on Earth. Tougher than alloys combining tungsten, titanium, magnesium, and chromium, the unusual manufactured material isn't brittle or heavy despite tensile strength above 100,000 psi. Able to slice through hardened steel like butter, the determined minion holds the device steady as a razor thin beam, exceeding a million degrees Fahrenheit, burns through the tough surface.

  After the hole is finished, Zote uses two manual hydraulic clamps that lock onto the dense material before moving it aside exerting considerable force equivalent to several strong men. Avoiding unnecessary vibrations and noise that might echo inside the ship, Zote signals he's ready to lead them into the mighty vessel. Once dropping safety goggles over eyes then switching to infrared on ballistic helmet cameras, gloved hands drop onto a grated floor using braided 12-strand plasma rope extending twenty feet. Nervous White House PEOC, Area-51, and Global Space Company spectators grow tense as the brave invasion force assembles inside a large neatly stacked room of unusual shape parts and components. Once all are on the floor, the team follows Zote and minion after an electronic door retracts and exposes a dark hallway. Passing by a series of heavy metal compartments spaced evenly apart, Beck is relieved Zote is leading the way through the maize.

  One by one, the eight-strong contingent moves slowly, careful not dropping or banging weapons and making unnecessary noise. Traversing a labyrinth of passages and locked doors, all are impressed by the level of automation. Robotic arms and small machines moving in and out of hallways toting parts initially disturb the soldiers until Zote explains their limited, docile roles. Once satisfied the moving minions aren't a threat, Beck uses hand signals to the trailing team putting them on a knee as Zote and his multi-talented minion examine a lengthy grated bridge or ramp guarded by alternating motion beams protecting the route.

  Moving close to Zote, Beck questions the alien's intentions. "How do we get over the span bridge? It looks impassable without tripping sensors."

  "This is new protection," Zote answers. "I suspect Cyborg became more cautious after my escape. It probably has limited minions in the helm which is good news once we're past this protection."

  Whispering, Beck is worried they can't reach the target without sacrificing men. "Yes, but how do we do that? I assume these red beams will alert Cyborg of intruders."

  "Correct, these beams are trip wires, Captain. Cyborg also probably installed lasers at each end that locate and eliminate objects attempting to navigate the span. I will find and destroy the lasers once the minion shorts the system."

  Beck's worried glance at his men makes them concerned about the roadblock. "All right; then how will you escape? Won't your presence be detected?"

  "Once eliminating the weapons, I will rejoin you," Zote replies ignoring the direct question. "They will find only remnants of the minion. Before the system is back up, we will take a clear path. Be prepared to move across quickly. It will not take long to reset sensors."

  "Is your minion going to die?"

  "Die?" Zote ponders the question, one never considered before meeting humans. "The minion will no longer be of service after lasers are identified. Cyborg will assume it is a renegade robot, maybe adding to its paranoia. I put a laser cutter on the minion that will tell Cyborg it's a suicide mission. I would like Cyborg to believe other minions are also programmed to terminate him."

  "All right; that sounds like a reasonable plan. How long will it take eliminating the laser guns and what if you're seen?"

  "Then it is up to your team to finish the mission. Other minions from the level-three science laboratory are reprogrammable. I entrusted computing schematics, system sequences, operation protocols, and guidance plans to Dr. Metz and Billy Goddard. They can guide this vessel if I am lost but you must promise to try making it back to Andromeda with medical staff. My duty is saving Creators."

  Beck lets what he heard sink in. "I understand, Zote," he nods extending a hand with a tactical glove pulled off. "You have my word as officer and gentleman of the most honorable nation on the planet," he murmurs as President Wilford and others consider ramifications of the unexpected bargain despite his pay grade. Beck's determined stare into another helmet cam for the benefit of viewers yield spine tingling shivers despite the distance. "Anyone not honoring this agreement will have this Delta team to deal with," he whispers eerily into a nearby helmet camera as if threatening everyone in leadership, including President Wilford.

  Chicago City Streets

  Like wild-west gunfight scenes, Navy Seal Commander Jacko and Petty Officer First Class Davis are dismayed when the Stinger missile explodes before reaching the capable war-bot despite the short distance from their target on North Lincoln Street. With ringside positions behind damaged parked vehicles, Jacko orders teams to withdraw. With an overhead drone showing soldiers scurrying to escape reigns of precise beams of energy nipping at heels,
White House officials sigh at the ineffectiveness of conventional weapons in hands of the best fighters on the planet.

  White House PEOC

  "Where are the nitrogen trucks?" Wilford scolds the team rubbing hands on his face. "We need to see them tested before the other three locations waste time."

  "We have six tankers staging about eight blocks away and two aerial cranes loading as we speak," Bull Greer answers. "We'll have a drone overhead any minute to guide them."

  "How will we know where to put them?" Charles Brody pipes. "Staging tanks around the robot won't be easy. The darn thing adjusts tactics pretty fast."

  Everyone pauses as Greer offers more bad news about moving 18-wheelers with enormous liquid nitrogen tanks in tow. "Unfortunately, these streets aren't wide enough for several tankers. We'll have to move in behind the robot once a couple tankers spill contents, thereby diverting attention. Overhead aerial cranes dumping tanks is probably the best way. We'll drop them and if they don't crack, we'll hit them with RPGs and heavy weapons."

  "What happens if these tanks are hit by the robot before dropping contents? I can't imagine being on the ground if they explode prematurely. We'd be killing our own," Brody whines.

  "Let's cross that bridge if and when we get there, Charlie," Wilford breathes. "We can't second guess every decision and this robot must be stopped. We're getting reports of mass casualties, shortages of emergency vehicles and overloaded hospitals."

  "Mr. President," a Joint Chief says putting a palm over his secure landline handset, "I have crane pilots on line. They're five miles out carrying 7,000 gallons apiece in cryogenic tanks."

  "All right, tell them we're moving the trucks to .... hang on a second," Wilford hesitates. "Where's our next best guess for where this monster is heading?"

  William Bull Greer, DoD Secretary, pulls up the East Chicago lakeside street view near Lincoln Park using an interactive data screen. Pointing to the N. Orchard intersection at W. Belden Avenue, he turns and faces Wilford with steel resolve. "This is the next place we can park three to four nitrogen tankers. The buildings are mainly restaurants and bars that are empty by now. I think we should draw the robot toward it."

  "How do we do that without losing men?" Wilford rebuts his Secretary. "Do we know the range of these laser blasts?"

  "Not for sure, but our boys know the risks. Let them figure how to do it. I'd give the order now."

  "All right, give tanker drivers and aerial cranes the exact street and GPS coordinates," Wilford advises moving to the all screen. "Link them into the drone. Block each street and have the cranes ready to dump contents. Make sure all tanks fracture. What about sharpshooters on roofs here, here, and here," he asks about buildings near the intersection. "Can we get more aerial cranes? I like that idea in case we need to keep dumping liquids."

  "I'm working that angle, sir," another Joint Chief answers succinctly. "Two Sea Stallions are in route and will be overhead in thirty-two minutes. A third aerial crane is picking up a tank from a construction site at Indiana Harbor. That's father south and could take a little longer."

  "All right, thanks General Wright; if successful, we can duplicate efforts in the other locations. Is somebody looking where we get nitrogen tanks at these other sites? I have a good feeling about what Dr. Goddard told us. He may be young, but his idea might save the day."

  "If it doesn't work, we're going to need heavier weapons, Mr. President," Bull Greer murmurs, his voice trailing off as if a dire prediction.

  "Heavier meaning what," Charles Brody presses the Secretary. "We can't go nuclear; it'd be unethical."

  "I'm not talking nuclear, Charles. "I'm thinking MOABs and Daisy Cutters. Of course, we'd have to evacuate whole sections of cities if used. It'll cause massive damage to the infrastructure."

  "Dropping MOABS on American cities is a horrifying thought," Wilford shivers. "I don't want to go there right now, Bull."

  "We'll need time to prep delivery, Mr. President," Joint Chief General Wright explains. "They're limited assets with H-6 explosives, maybe ten in stock, dispersed at air bases far from Chicago. I can call Eglin in Florida and the plant McAlester in Oklahoma for updates in case we need them."

  "All right but at this point, General, let's get MOAB locations and delivery times to each of the four sites. Don't we need C-130 Hercules for delivery?"

  "Yes sir, but the eleven-ton ordinance is precise despite release at high elevation. We'll guide it to within a few feet using drogue parachutes and GPS satellites."

  "For some reason, dropping the mother of bombs doesn't give me a lot of confidence, General. Knowing we're killing American isn't an image I want to take to my grave. Yet, I know your heart's in the right place. Let's hope we don't need them. Maybe, Zote and company will be able to shut them down," Wilford sighs. "Being out of touch with Joe and Ray is giving me heartburn."

  "Me too," Greer grumps. "What they're attempting is nothing short of spectacular."

  "What about driverless semis?" Brody adds to the conversation. "Let's call Tesla and see what's available in each city? We can airlift them if necessary."

  "Great idea, Charlie; I'd like you handling it personally."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Alien Spacecraft

  fter Captain Beck and troops retreat into a dark corridor out of immediate danger, Zote and the loyal translation minion move to the wide grated opening. As dozens of red light beams pivot and dart back and forth in random sequence across the thirty-foot expanse leading to the bridge, the minion enters the grate and immediately trips alarms. Meanwhile, Zote watches inside the tunnel for anticipated laser bursts expected to destroy the faithful servant. Moments later, two spits of energy strike the moving minion, rendering it sparking, smoking, and motionless.

  Once seeing the mounted lasers emerging after alarms tripped, Zote takes careful aim, hitting each object with a thin, crisp purple beam of plasma. Returning the long thin weapon, shaped like a pointer, into a concealed arm storage compartment, the cautious android quickly retreats to join the soldiers.

  Soon after, a heavy door retracts followed by weighty metallic shuffling noises moving over the alloy grate. Beck and Zote watch as Cyborg and smaller helm android investigate the unexpected disturbance. Finding the toasted, flickering, stiff minion with a laser tool dangling from a charred limb, the bio-cybernetic oddity ponders how it overlooked this unit. Assuming others like it might still be loyal due to the renegade's imbedded instructions, Cyborg decides to remedy the mistake once repairing the lasers and resetting the security system.

  Moving slowly across the metallic grate and more fully investigate the failed intrusion, Cyborg kicks the smoking android over the unguarded edge. Falling a long way to the level below, the machine smacks the surface with a loud bang, likely losing major pieces in the process. Continuing across the expanse into the opposite corridor, Cyborg looks and listens for signs of additional threats.

  When Beck sees what's they're facing, he swallows hard as Cyborg's piercing cobalt-blue eyes, significant size, obvious strength, and angry demeanor plays on his mind. He notes its webbed polymer skin, mesmerizing eyes, vice-grip hands, and dexterous fingers while the solid creature searches corridors. Its prosthetic limbs and strong jaw are more like a Frankenstein creation than what Zote described during in-flight preparation.

  Once the grated passage is clear of debris from minion remnants that won't trip alarms, Cyborg returns to the bridge for updates from the four battlefield war-bots before ordering laboratory minions to remove internal memory boards from units not in use across the massive vessel.

  "It may be paranoid," Beck whispers to Zote, "but I didn't sense fear on Cyborg's face. We got our job cut out for us. By the way, I'm sorry you lost the android."

  "I could have repaired it," Zote laments, moving fully into the hallway. "Follow me over the grate, quickly, before the motion alarm resets. We have no time for regrets," it adds striding toward the dangerous expanse.

  Once the six warriors and
Zote pass over the elevated grate with dark empty voids on either side, finally huddled tightly together on a small landing area near the reinforced bridge door, they sweat and wait as the confident android removes a wall plate and tinkers with components and wires. As Zote works to defeat the door's latch system, the team grows edgy when the dizzying array of motion beams switch on again. From here on, they're at the point of no return.

  Chicago City Streets

  At the intersection of N. Orchard, W. Belden, and N. Lincoln in Chicago, three nitrogen liquid tankers park the hefty vehicles in ways that blocks traffic including two additional smaller side streets. With the multi-ton eighteen-wheelers riding on sidewalks, the long vacuum-sealed cryogenic tanks reverse course until pointing toward the wide junction like spokes of a wheel. Meanwhile, high above two helicopters, dangling heavy cryogenic tanks of similar size above the streets, remain away from the 5-way intersection out of sight from the raging war-bot. As the Andromeda war machine destroys what it likes with seeming endless plasma power and recklessness, Navy sharpshooters hustle atop red brick multi-story roofs toting rotating bolt, semi-automatic sniper rifles and anti-armor, anti-personnel shoulder fired rockets. The violent scene is set for a final showdown without viable options should the tactic fail.

  "Maintain radio silence once I'm finished," Jacko demands addressing helicopter pilots and ground troops listening to his no-nonsense instructions. "The attack will commence as follows," he explains. "I want the semis hit with RPGS after I fire the first round," he winces and grimaces as an NCO wraps the officer's bleeding free hand with Celox Rapid Gauze and cloth medical tape. "Once the liquid stream hits the robot's feet, aerial cranes will move overhead and drop payloads. Don't jump the gun until the robot is preoccupied and don't wait for my command to drop the tanks. Stay out of the other's way on your approach and get out of there once dropping packages. Once liquid nitrogen hits the target, there's no telling how it will react, so be ready. Shooters will guarantee the tanks crack open. Finally, I don't want any mistakes. Keep heads in the game and remain out of sight until it's time to hit the tankers. Wait and listen for my signal. Jacko out!"