Advanced Hazard Response
Planet 9, 3rd Moon, “Urvashi”, 2314 AD
“Gigafauna spotted: bearing Red 061, speed, 35 klicks.”
It had been a factory once, in the early years before the beam rider lasers. Hopping moons, it mined ice sludges to make plastics, sugars, and obsolete, methalox fuel. It was its own client: methane, not hydrogen, was the preferred sustainable fuel of the Ice Planetary Age.
Then progress came, and the beam rider network made engines and fuel, vintage. The ship became a building, then bankrupt, sold, and finally forgotten. Hydrocarbon snow covered its portals for decades, until new, earnest, gloves wiped them clean. The giant ship flew again – but this time as something the beam riders could never compete with.
An apex predator.
“Show me,” a gray-haired man leaned forward, metal fingers clinking as they gripped the chair. His uniform was too serious for medals.
A screen appeared in the bridge crew’s shared augmented view. It showed an ice coastline spiking into a methane sea. White-crested the giant, low gravity waves, boiling out. Something below was pushing them aside, its wake, skyscraper-sized.
Murmuring broke out on the deck. Someone did a holy shit!
“Biggest we’ve seen yet,” said a one-eyed man, the other orbit was fitted with a data port. It looked less by design, and more by unplanned opportunity. “Attention all crew,” he spoke into a mike, “Action stations, Gigafauna spotted.”
“Alert our ground force, and get me the alderman,” said Steel Arms.
The screen shifted to a woman in battle armor, rail gun folded and stowed on her back. Behind her, house-sized transports climbed up a road, red, tholin snow pouring off their wheels.
“Alderman Steinham, this is Commander Ames,” said Steel Arms. “Our friend we’ve been tracking since the Posthuman Ecological Zone has finally shown itself.”
“That’s good news Commander, I guess. Where is it?”
“Heading straight to Stillwater. We don’t know yet if it can make landfall,” he frowned. “Looks like your people are still evacuating.”
“Yes Commander, we still have almost a thousand more to go.”
“A thousand?” he raised an eyebrow. “That’s no good.”
“These transports are pretty old,” she shrugged. “They keep breaking down. You need to buy us more time down here.”
“Stillwater doesn’t have any time,” whispered One-Eye. "We need to pull our ground teams out of the area."
“That’s alright Alderman, you just keep moving your people. Big Game Hunter will get you the time you need.”
“Good luck to you, Commander.”
The screen went out.
Crew members turned, looking to Steel Arms.
"What are your orders?" asked One-Eye.
"Pull back the mortar and the heavy tank platoon, twenty kilometers. They'll have to schlep it; I want the carryalls assisting the evacuation, instead. They have a thousand people to move."
"And 1st and 2nd?"
"1st Platoon stays on crowd control: we don't need panic. They evac with the last carryalls, tell them to dump their spiders and heavy weapons. 2nd Platoon is to plant spikers throughout the town, and then join them."
"Spikers won't stop that thing."
"No, but they'll wipe the colony's data storage devices. If this thing can read, it's ten times more dangerous. Where are the destroyers?"
"Romulus is still on the far side of the world," One-Eye shook his head. "Remus comes over the horizon in two hours, twenty-three minutes."
"We're on our own then. Weapons Control, launch the Fascinator, bearing Red, 120.”
"Aye sir," said an officer boxed in by holograms. One grew red crosshairs and a flight path. "Fascinator away."
From a pipeline converted to a missile tube, a drone flashed out. It popped out wings and rose in the thick atmosphere. It began pulsing bright, yellow light: 1, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17 pulses. It did the same thing in ultraviolet and radio. Then it began again at new wavelengths, as a function of the next prime number.
“Is it biting?” asked One-Eye.
“Nothing yet sir,” said the officer.
“Send it closer,” said the Sheriff. “Fly a loop over it, if you can.”
The drone did a slow circle over the sea. It sent back images of giant, white, fish things breaching to the surface. Below was a darker mass.
“Are we sure it's one critter?” asked One-Eye.
“Could be a distributed colonial intelligence. It doesn't really matter, either way, Jacob. It's not buying our little trick. ETA to landfall?”
“At its current speed, about 22 minutes sir.”
“Colton,” said Jacob quietly, “There’s no way those people will get out in time.”
“It may not be curious, but maybe it can understand danger. Weapons Control, drop an Ice Breaker in front of its path.”
“Yes sir, launching Ice Breaker.”
What had once been a cargo bay, opened its doors. There was a flash and it poured out smoke - the missile already miles away. It hard-burned into the sea and kept going. The giant fish twisted and circled, then dived after it.
The explosion lit them, 500 meters below, before dissolving them. A hydrocarbon mushroom cloud blew out, raining tar and posthuman debris.
All eyes watched the display.
“Something's happening.”
The surviving fish shapes moved aside, and the huge mass below rose through the surface. It looked like a colony of tangled worms, each the size of a train. They dripped methane, glowing parasites decorating their bodies like Christmas lights. The front of the tangle rose, like a cobra’s head, and faced the ship.
First Contact.
“It's firing!”
Lights appeared along the tips of the bundle, then shot towards the Big Game Hunter.
“Countermeasures! Combat climb, five kilometers!”
Methalox engines bloomed white fire, metal screeched up and down the ship’s spine. Through the portals, spinning chaff canisters popped like champagne, spraying dull glitter into the air. Flares streamed from bays, reaching minimum clearance before igniting, hotter than the sun. Two, point defense guns started, they drew snakes in the air with tracer rounds. The charging lights exploded into smoke clouds.
They felt the impact in their guts, the whole ship shook.
“Cargo Bay B is hit!”
“It didn’t explode?” Jacob One-Eye’s one eye was large.
The commander made a face. “You’re disappointed?”
“Sir, we have movement in B, but there’s no one down there!”
“We've been boarded. Get us out of range of that spitting cobra thing.”
“I’ll take care of this,” Jacob drew a hand cannon, it lit up, insta-booting.
“I’m coming with you.”
“I can handle it, Colton.”
“I want to see what this is. You two,” he pointed to two guards locked in combat armors. “Come with us.”
“Override emergency seal, authorization Commander Colton Ames.”
“Authenticated,” said the blast door. It cracked open, ultra-cool Nitrogen hissed in, their helmets frosted, instantly. An alarm sounded: down the tunnel behind them, another blast door slammed shut. The door before them slid open, and flashing yellow warning lights pushed out. Ames looked in; walls and crates dripped with deep red, tholin slime-snow. At the far end, imploded hull plates were bending themselves back into place.
Ames stepped in, the others followed.
“Where is it?” Jacob looked about, hand cannon held with both hands. “What is it?”
“Maybe it was just a kinetic round, sir,” said one of the guards.
He pitched forward, gagging, a chrome-bright metal spider on his back. It stabbed its legs through his armored suit, like needles through warm butter, again and again.
“Little fucker!” Jacob opened up, three rounds hit its thorax. The first stopped, hard, crumpling like paper against a wall. The second punched half into the creature and stopped. The third tore through it, spraying glistening wet threads and metal shell.
Three spiders came running over piled crates. Ames shot one’s leg off, then another leg, and then splashed its head in. He shot the second back into the air, it fell scrabbling in the low gravity, like a roach on its back. Then Ames shot it in two. He missed the other one: it leaped at him.
The second guard smacked it away with a staff and pinned it to the deck. He pushed down with both arms, like a peasant trying to stake an iron-chested vampire. It thrashed and stabbed, but couldn’t get free. He hit a control, and the staff head sprayed the spider with a green liquid. Its body began to hiss and steam, its legs went limp. The joints dissolved and the needle limbs clattered apart and rolled.
He turned and look back at Ames, smiling.
“Above you! Move!”
He looked up instead, and the bigger form landed on him. It was the size of a car, with giant, spring rear limbs, like a mantis. The guard screamed as it bit down, and tore his head off. The blood sprayed froze in a stretching spiral.
Ames and Jacob fired, but their rounds just sparked off its chrome.
“They’re adapting!” Jacob drew a new clip.
The mantis-spider leaped at him.
It misjudged and shoved him, slamming him into the far wall. Jacob coughed, blood spraying his helmet visor. He slid down the wall.
Commander Ames landed on its back. It spasmed, but his legs were locked around its waist. It reached behind to tear him off with two razor-bladed arms.
Ames caught its arms with his metal ones. Servos whined and smoke rose out of his shoulders. He tore the razor arms from their sockets, the creature screeched, spraying wet threads. It spun round and round, trying to throw him.
Ames grabbed its neck. Vertigo pressed down on his skull, the beast’s screeching pressed into his ears. He gritted his teeth and pulled, pulled, pulled. The head began to turn: it was studded in red, compound, eyes. It opened serrated jaws, inside were throat-teeth like the drill bits of a rock borer.
Snap.
The head came loose like a child’s building block. The body collapsed, legs splaying out.
Reflected in the red eyes, Ames saw Jacob. He looked up at him.
“Come on,” Jacob held his hand out. “I think that’s the last one.”
“Sir?”
“We’re alright, sit down,” Ames climbed back into his chair. Jacob grinned through bloody teeth at anyone who looked at him.
“Fill me in.”
“We’re flying away from Stillwater sir, the Gigafauna is in pursuit. We are out of range of its fire - though it’s shooting higher and higher, every time.”
“Well, did you shoot back at it?” asked Jacobs.
“Another Ice Breaker, straight to the - to the head. No effect.”
“It’s adapting,” said Ames. “There’s no point screwing around. Let’s hit it with the X-ray laser.”
“Yes sir, one-third power? Should be enough, given its estimated mass and density.”
“No, go to full power. We’re not taking any more chances.”
The ISRU factory, the heart, and bulk of the ship, had been scrapped. The void left was then filled with capacitor banks, floor after floor of them. One, two, three, fusion reactors lit up blue. Lead plates closed over the spinal housing. Tech crew pulled blast doors behind them and waited for the All Clear.
The X-ray laser lanced down from the Big Game Hunter. Superheated gas shockwaved off the beam, the thunderclap was heard right around the moon. It struck the Gigafauna, pinning it. Visible light sparked off the impact, blinding those refugees looking back. Then the shockwave hit Stillwater, knocking over microwave towers and wind turbines.
The carryalls got everyone out before the tsunami hit.
"Well, we don't get to do that every day."
Jacob Weiss opened a crystal bottle and poured gold measures into two glasses. Commander Ames, sitting across from him, waved away the ice. The two men toasted and looked out of the wall-window at the icescape below. They were at the edge of space: the world curved below them and stars peeked above.
"What? Firing the main gun? Or getting attacked on our own ship by a posthuman boarding party?"
"The crew have started calling it 'Giving the Finger.' I meant that, but really all of it." Jacob sat in front of the table and faced the window. "You did good today. You saved a lot of lives."
"We did good today. These kids are smarter than we are, and harder working. Just look at Polaski. Only a matter of time before they have our jobs."
"Ah," Jacob smiled, his crow’s feet crinkling. "But we have experience. That's something you only value, once you have some."
"Have you ever wondered Jacob," Ames sloshed his bourbon around gently, "if we're the old farts and the fuddy-duddies?"
Jacob looked back over his shoulder, frowning. "What do you mean?"
"Remember before we had command when we were junior officers? How we always thought the seniors were stupid and conservative?"
"But they were."
"Well, what if we're no different? What if we should step down once we hit 35?"
Jacob turned away from the window. "You thinking about stepping down?"
"Not yet," he took a sip. "But someday. Before I get asked to, that's for sure."
"I hope I never see that day," Jacob poured himself another glass.
"The day I resign?"
"The day I resign. I'll die doing this job, Colton. I want nothing else."
"Surely that's not true."
"A few years ago I would have agreed and said sure, I can go and start a little farm, maybe get my own habitat and raise mega-Tilapia, and write. But I've been myself too long, to change. The service is my life, Colton. We stand here, looking out over that world, trying to keep back the monsters it keeps spawning. Just us, under-funded and criticized, in the butt crack of the solar system. If we fail here, no one outside the Planet 9 system will know, and fewer will care. These worlds will go full posthuman, just one more place in the solar system that's not for us anymore. And I'm okay with that fight being my life. When I die, I want it to be in the line of duty."
"This is about the Do Not Rebirth, isn't it? You’re really going to go ahead with it?"
"The next time I die, it'll be my last."
"Don't be a fool, Jacob. You're literally choosing death, over life."
"Am I? Wasn't that long ago that it was the other way around. Like you said, Colton. One day, a bunch of young pups we have no respect for, will look at us and have even less. They'll see stupid, conservative officers – who won't step down. We can't afford to fill Advanced Hazard's ranks with curmudgeons."
"You mean spry officers in their twenties again."
"They'll still think like curmudgeons. That'll cost us on the battlefield one day, Colton. We can't stand in the way of our own young people. They're our most annoying and greatest asset."
"Whatever. I just hear your Viking blood, trying to make excuses so you can get into Valhalla."
"What's a Viking?"
"Never mind."
The two drank in silence. In the window, a string of bright lights came out from behind the planet.
The door chimed.
"Come in," said Colton.
It slid open and a young man with a tablet stepped in. He looked at the men, then the liquor, then back at the men.
"It's alright Polaski, what do you need?" asked Colton.
"Commander Ames, there's something we picked up on the bridge. I thought it best to come and show you."
"What is it, Lieutenant?"
"We picked this up during the engagement," he showed him the tablet. "It's a tight-beamed encrypted message sent to the Posthuman Ecological Zone."
"Hang on now," Jacob frowned, "if it's a tight-beam Lieutenant, how come we managed to pick it up?"
"Because it's dissipated and spread out sir, it's come that far."
"How far?"
"We believe it came from Saturn."
Smiles died.
"That's the last thing we need," said Colton, taking the tablet and peering at the data. "Guilty parents reaching out to their thuggish street children."
"More like bachelors checking to see what molds are growing in their leftovers. Do we know who they were trying to contact, specifically?" asked Jacob.
"No Sir, the whole Zone could have picked it up. I did some checking and asked for radio logs around the system. An old radio astronomy probe at the edge of 9's gravity well, picked up similar messages, coming from Saturn, over two months ago. And someone replied."
"Who?"
"All we know is that they're from within the Posthuman Ecological Zone."
"More like what," said Jacob. " Nothing good can come of this. Saturn's interference has cost us an entire moon, now run by science probes turned unfriendly war machines. And that was back when Saturn was transparent. You've seen the news coming in, this ‘Council’ that’s in charge there, a posthuman-friendly, military alliance. If they're sending secret messages to an entity here - who knows what their game is?"
"There's more," said Polaski. "So we requested the last six month's departure logs of vessels from Saturn registering a delta vee change, sufficient to put them on an orbital maneuver for planet 9."
"And?" asked Jacob.
"There's only one. A light sailer named the Ramanujan. It'll get here in 13 years."
"Were you able to find out anything about the ship?" Asked Colton.
"The Ramanujan is a century-old, deep-space trading vessel, it's specially designed for particularly long-term voyages, like Earth to Kuiper, or Kuiper to Oort. It has been traveling between Earth and Saturn for the past four years, commissioned to a single client."
"So who's the client?" Asked Jacob.
"That's been kept confidential."
"We have 13 years to figure out who the client is, and what Ramanujan’s mission is," said Jacob.
"We could try to communicate with them," said Polaski.
"No," said Colton, "that will tip them off that we’re on to them."
"But Sir, they could just be a merchant run - "
"Then we'll find out when we board them," said Colton. "They are obviously connected with the messages. Who sends a message into the Posthuman Ecological Zone? No one who has human interests at heart. We get one chance at this: I don't want them tipping off whatever they’ve been communicating with, out here."
The other two officers nodded.
"Let's find out what we can. When the Ramanujan arrives, we'll be waiting for it."
Azima Al-Mukhtar, I
North Africa, the Sahara
The drone flew up high over the Sahara jungle.
Down below, leafy green stretched thick as elven forests. It was broken by small lakes laid out in a fractal pattern, repeating off into the horizon. Elephant paths cut between them: the drone zoomed on a small herd of 30 making their way along the corridor. Retro-evolved mammoths led them like teachers steering children at a school outing. Their short haired, tropical coats were black and cut with gray fighting scars. The bull in the front turned its head and looked up at the drone. It stared at the operator across a second chance, and 10,000 years.
The operator poured herself some tea from an antique brass pot. She sipped it as the drone came upon the blinking pylons at the far edge of the reserve. The green continued past them, turning into savanna. The grasses stretched for miles, their backs to a regenerated aquifer. The only feature that broke them were the humps of long snakes buried underneath, highway-thick pipelines running all the way to the Mediterranean.
She put down her tea, frowning.
Camels and men were clustered over one of the buried pipelines. They swung pickaxes up and down. Tiny geysers sprayed in the air like the wasteful outdoor fountains of the old, rich, Gulf Arabs.
"Send a warning," said the operator.
The drone began flashing red and yellow lights on its wingtips, and issued legal notices on several frequencies. In response, one of the men lifted a box to his shoulder, and out fired a missile.
The video feed spun across the sky as the drone jinked. The missile was smarter, slowed down and unfolded wings, and tried hacking. The drone wasted precious operations-per-second fighting that, and simple physics did the rest. The dead drone feed was swapped out for a camera on one of the boundary pylons. It showed smoking debris falling out of the sky and crashing into the savanna.
The operator stood up. On the table beside her was a matte black assault rifle and a bandolier of grenades. She wore the bandolier, the grenades immediately self-configured to her presets. The rifle recognized her palm's DNA and wished her a good evening. She slung it over her back, finished her tea, and went outside.
"Hurry the fuck up," one of the Berber tribesmen said over his shoulder. "There's going to be more of them. And they'll have guns."
The sun had set, the stars were coming out, elbowing each other for room. Hundreds raced across the sky - satellites and ships. They winked out briefly as schools of giant bats passed beneath.
"Relax and have some faith," said another, pressing the plastic explosives into place along the sintered stone pipeline. "Mohammed has done his part, the drones are busy trying to save their precious baby mammoth. We have an hour at least before they realize they’re chasing ghost signals. We’ll be long gone by then."
The first man shook his head and gripped his rifle, warily. Little spider drones walked around him, flashing lights and chattering to each other. One got stepped on by a camel and crumpled like a beer can. The camel kicked it away and went on eating grass. A guard passed another a handmade cigarette, smoke rose as they took in what had become of their world.
Two of the camels looked up, heads turned towards the dark jungle.
"What's that?" said the gunman.
All the heads turned.
"Basem, go check it out," said the bomber.
"Why me?"
"Because I'm older and I said so."
The gunman glared, and started walking towards the jungle. The grass grew thicker, taller. He went as far as he dared.
"There's nothing here."
"Are you sure?" One of the smoking guards yelled back.
"Yes I'm fucking sure!” He turned to face them. “You want to come here and look for yourself, without standing around doing nothing?"
"He's older, too," said the other guard. "And so am I."
The gunman turned back to face the jungle - and froze.
Standing before him was a woman in camo-adapting body armor and a bandolier of grenades. She had data ports in her head and neck. One eye had been replaced with a black, all-wavelengths, sphere. Her arms had seam lines that glowed blue, on her shoulders were two hard points. One mounted a 360 camera. The other mounted a micro missile launcher.
It fired soundlessly - the warhead struck under his chin, drilled its way into his brain, and exploded. She was already moving past him before he fell.
“Basem?” asked one of the smokers. He saw her break through the tall grass. "Holy shit!"
They opened up, three round bursts. She dived, bullets passing over her head. The camels howled and bolted. Lying prone, she fired at one guard. He spun away, blood erupting from his shoulder. The other fired; rounds punched and sparked off her armor.
The shoulder missile dispenser coughed. The darkness split into blinding light as one of the ground spiders fired its one shot, point defense laser. The missile exploded like a sparkler.
The bomber threw himself prone on the ground and opened up with his own assault rifle. Dirt erupted as bullets stitched towards the woman's face. She rolled out of the way, bullets kicking off her armor. It shed black flakes.
She raised her gun and shot the second guard twice in the chest, and once more in the head, as he fell.
"You demon bitch!" Spat the bomber.
"Put down your gun," She said in Arabic, French, and Machine Interchange."Surrender, and you won't be harmed. Your friend will get help."
She winced with her one eye as the world went blinding white - a spider drone fired, hitting her gun. It exploded in her hands, knocking her backwards and taking two off fingers.
The bomber drew a short sword and rushed at her.
She parried with her gauntlet, the blade sparked off against it. The bomber punched with his other hand, hitting her in the throat. She staggered back, He stepped in and tripped her, she fell backwards.
He was on top of her, sword raised in both hands, Blade downwards to strike. He stabbed down.
She caught the blade in one hand, it quivered, blood dripping down onto her face. With the hand missing fingers, she reached about, found a shard of her gun, and shoved it into his eye.
He screamed and let the sword go, hands clutching his face, blood between his fingers. She threw him off, grabbed his sword, and got to her feet.
The man held out his hand at her, the other over his face. She grabbed him by the elbow, yanked him forward, and shoved the sword into his back. She twisted it this way and that before yanking it out. The man gurgled, fidgeted, and then stopped.
"You monster," said the other man in French, clutching his wounded shoulder. "What have you done? Look at what you've done."
She went over to him, unclipping a water bottle from her belt. He took it and drank, water pouring down his chin and neck.
"Pour some on the wound," she said. "The nanites will stop the bleeding."
The man obeyed.
"What will you do to me?"
"I’m not sure yet,” she took the bottle back and poured it over her own wounds. Carbon meshes were already growing into end caps over her severed fingers. “But if you run or fight, I will kill you.”
One by one, the spider drones timed out and deactivated. The camels didn’t come back. The woman went to the explosives on the pipeline and studied them. She jacked a wire from her skull into the housing, found an exploit, and deactivated it. She peeled the bomb off, threw it aside, and set it on fire.
“Why were you trying to blow up that pipeline?” she asked at last.
The man stared at her.
“No really, why?”
“Look at what your kind have done.”
“My kind? We created rainforests in the Sahara. The Chad and Algeria Seas. We saved Africa.”
“You destroyed Africa.”
She began dragging the corpses together, her optics taking pictures. She piled their equipment and drones on top and broke a capsule of grey slime over it. Almost immediately, it began hissing and burning through.
The man covered his mouth and nose.
“It’s fine,” she shook her head. The man didn’t remove his hand.
“You really think that, that we destroyed this world?”
“Why don’t you ask my people?”
“These dead ones?”
“All my people. The Berbers. This was all our land.”
“This is Libya.”
“Words on maps mean nothing. This was the land of the Berbers, of the Sahara and Sahel tribes, since before the Romans. You people have come and gone, in your legions and your tanks. Just words on a map.”
“But not now.”
“No, not now. Now you have created - this. You fill it with your trees and animals. Your farms and villages. Your resorts and factories. Now it is full of your kind.”
“The desert peoples have always been welcomed here. It is you who choose to live outside, to die out with your way of life.”
The man laughed. “Our way of life is thousands of years old. What makes you think you’re not the ones who are dying out? There's so many of you, you go rushing into space now.”
The corpse pile had turned into a grey pool, metal parts sticking out and rib cages dissolving. She watched a skull staring at her turning paper thin, the cranium collapsing in like a condemned roof.
“The desert is gone forever. If you want it so much, you can always leave the planet. There are orbitals you can apply for. There are desert worlds no one wants. We would help you.”
The man snorted.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Yes,” said the man. “That’s all I have to say.”
Her eye slitted.
“That’s all you ever have to say. I patrol 400 miles. Every day, I kill people like you. Every day. Every now and then I waste my time trying to talk to one. You just won’t stop coming. You won’t stop dying.”
“If you hate it, then why do you stay?”
She paused.
“There,” she pointed into the jungle’s darkness. “Do you see that? That’s why I stay.”
Slow and utterly soundless, the spying mammoth moved back into the jungle.
“I am here for my people, but you are not here for yours. That creature, you can’t protect it,” said the Berber. “We’re not its enemy. People are its enemies. It doesn’t belong here. None of this belongs here. Today, it’s us who want it gone. What about tomorrow? When will your people change their minds? That’s why that monster is still alive. Because people haven’t changed their minds yet. They will, killer. And all your killing will be for nothing.”
She said nothing.
“Instead of asking me questions, maybe you should ask yourself why you are out here, when you do not even want to fight for your own people. You are on your own, yes? No one patrols with you, just machines? So you are out here all alone, with nobody to talk to except, sometimes, someone you didn't kill?"
The grey pool began to dry itself out. It left gleaming crusts of minerals and water-soaked earth.
“You should go now.”
The man turned, cradling his arm, and walked off into the desert.
“Tell their families they died for nothing!” she yelled after him.
“They died for our way of life!” he yelled back. “It is you who live for nothing!”
She tracked him on infra-red till he was a kilometer out. Then, far away enough for his pride to permit, he collapsed into the grass. His body went cold.
She felt a tremor. She turned, the mammoth was back. A solitary male juvenile, it approached slowly, as if shy about appearing rude. She kept still, and it walked up to the mineral crusts. It studied them with its trunk, but soon lost interest. It regarded her, eyes set between man-length tusks.
“You need to find your place.”
It flapped its ears. “And you need to find yours,” it said in classical Arabic, and walked away.
Udmurt, I
A Fast-Time Environment, 70 accelerated years ago
The sun climbed slowly over the permafrost hill - lighting but without warming. The night's rain had frozen on the few scattered trees, like ice in a children's fairytale of wolves and lost children. Hiking up the hill was a man wearing thick furs. He had a spear in one hand, an axe in his belt, and a leather bag of what he most needed to stay alive. Running ahead of him was a gray wolf, it stopped to sniff the ground and bark.
The man stopped to rub fat on his cheeks and nose. Ahead of him was the summit - he could see the standing stones atop. He picked some red berries from a bush, they were sweet with hard seeds. The wolf, perhaps trying to help, urinated proudly on the bush. The man sighed and resumed climbing.
He reached the summit. The hill was flattened on top, perhaps by the hands of humans. Huge gray stones, tall as a mammoth standing on its hind legs, formed a ring. Inner to it were smaller stone rings. Lintel stones created archways, he passed between them, eyes wide at the work of his ancestors.
He stopped at a smaller, freestanding stone covered in gray and green lichen. Runes and pictures of great animals had been carved into it. He opened up his bag and pulled out a roll of tightly bound leather. He unfurled it against the stone - runes and pictograms had been written on the leather in charcoal and plant dye. He tried matching what he saw: vellum notes against the standing stone and the fast-dimming stars.
The wolf growled.
The man looked up. Coming from inside the grand Neolithic calendar, was a giant. He wore black mammoth fur over dragonhide leather, and carried a staff clattering with strings of animal bones. His beard hung down to his belly and was set with polished river stones. His head was shaved, and covered in blue and black tattoos. His eyes were blackened with kohl. He smiled, showing yellow teeth and orc-like tusks.
The man grabbed his spear and held it ready to throw.
"Do not worry, young Udmurt," the giant held up his hand. "I mean no harm, nor will I ever visit such on you and yours."
"How come you by my name?"
The wolf bared his teeth, its hackles raised.
"Because it is my business to know your name. As I knew your father's, Murdu, and your grandfather's, Grodak Mammoth Hunter."
"You speak honored names as if they were but casual friends."
"Nay, I speak them as an elder, who has watched children turn into men. Your grandfather, I called ‘friend’."
He held out his hand to the wolf and snapped his fingers. The wolf went over to him slowly, wary. He let it sniff, and then it licked his palm.
"Who are you?" The man lowered his spear.
"I am your Ancestor."
"Which ancestor?"
He smiled. "The Ancestor." He pointed to one of the largest standing stones. On it was a carving of a giant carrying a staff.
Udmurt got down on his knees.
"No, no, there is no need for that. Come, let us walk. There are many things you need to know, and I have little time to tell you."
They began to walk around the calendar stones. Each stone showed the rising and setting of the moons and the stars. Meshed with the astronomy was history: accounts of the coming and going of great persons, livestock surveyed, the devastation of plagues, contracts mediated by sages.
"What is beyond the tundra?" The giant asked.
"The ices."
"And what is beyond that?"
"More tundra. On and on, to the mountains on the other side of the world. That is what I have been taught."
"And do you think that is where the world ends?"
"Of course not. I know the world goes on much further. Many said the world was flat, but the sea tribes tell it is round."
"They speak truest words. And there are many more worlds, and they have many more tribes."
"Where the heroes of the True People come from."
"The heroes come from this world as well, though your tribe has not given one, for some generations. Your grandfather was supposed to come, but he did not. His path took him elsewhere."
"Are you going to break words upon my grandfather?"
"No, but I will share with you what I told him, in this very same place, before your father was born. There is another world Udmurt, beyond even the worlds of the True People. It is a world filled with people with the power of the gods. What happens in this world of Outsiders, decides whether we in here, live or die."
"This is where you take the heroes? Is this ‘Outside’ the fields of heaven?"
"It is not heaven, far from it. In ages past, it was filled with True People like ours. Men and women who followed the herds, took only what they needed from the land, protected the water and the air. They are all gone now."
"What became of them?"
"Destruction at the hands of the Outsiders, often most foul. Some died in battle. Others fell to terrible plagues wrapped inside blankets with sweet promises. Those who survived chose to live among the Outsiders as their servants and scavengers. Without pride and without land, their lives are ripples fading in the great sea."
"It seems these Outsiders make terrible gods."
"All gods are terrible, otherwise, we would just call them seasons. But they are not gods, and now, they would make attempt at smallest correction, for poor decisions made by past elders. Here, our heroes present them with valued example."
"They instruct the gods to live as herders and hunters?"
"In a sense. The Outsiders knows only to consume. Give them good land, and they will fill it with livestock, until it becomes a desert. Our peoples do not do such things. The Outsiders are setting forth from their world, to the very stars themselves. Worlds without number will be theirs. Some amongst them would that they could be guardians of their new lands, and not plagues, as they have been in the past."
Udmurt paused. "Surely the matter is not so simple. If we too were given the power of gods, would we not do exactly as they do? We will prove no different from them."
"You are a clever one. Yes, it is feared that we would end up just as they. The solution is to deny us knowledge. This is how you live now, Udmurt. Deliberately deprived of knowledge, to force you to live as you do. You must understand this. You are not as a god, because those who are, would not have it so.”
Udmurt raised an eyebrow. “Then the Outsiders are our enemies!”
"Nothing is so simple with them. In this world, none have knowledge. In their world, all do. What if there were some way to balance this? The purity of one, with the power of the other? This is what the heroes of the True People are. They are raised in our worlds, and given knowledge in theirs.
"As such, it is hoped people like us could go amongst the stars, protected by those who wield great power, but only as needed. Then humans could become guardians of all the worlds, even as they rule as gods."
Udmurt frowned. "It is hoped, you said? It is not known?"
"It is not. This is something we seek to prove." He stopped and turned, looking down at the young warrior, directly. "This is why our worlds were created, Udmurt. Just to test this idea. Can you imagine now, the power of the Outsiders?"
Udmurt fell silent.
"But Ancestor, what if they are wrong? What if such a balance is not possible, or leaves much to be desired?"
"Then we flee, and take our worlds with us."
"I do not understand."
"What would you do, if I told you that all the worlds that all the heroes come from, can fit in a chest the size of a chieftain's tent?"
"You are the Ancestor, I would believe it."
"Your grandfather offered me no such respect, in such respects. But, it is true. I bring the heroes into their world, to protect that chest. We go to put their idea of balance to the test, but we will also take that chest far away, where the Outsiders cannot harm us."
"You think we are in danger?"
"I think a chest is a very bad place to keep a universe. And understand, they had to create us, because they had already destroyed all the true people in their own world. And so, we come to purpose: why I have met you here, in the temple I helped to build."
"Break words and hear them considered."
“I would that you join the heroes. Leave this world to go outside, where there is truest danger, but also wonders beyond reckonings of mortal mind. Stand beside me and prove both the wisdom of our ways and the power of our restraint.
“And if we should fail, then help me take all our peoples where they can never be harmed again, or be the playthings of those who would count us as lesser. Are you with me, young warrior? Will you answer, where your grandfather did not?"
"You would have me leave not only my tribe, but this very world?"
"And to return I know not when. When and if you do, all you love may have passed into the afterlife."
The wolf looked up at Udmurt and wagged his tail.
"It is a great sacrifice you ask."
"Yes, but can you think of any sacrifice that matters more, now that you know the truth behind your very creation?"
The climbing sun lit up a wide avenue of standing stones. They were standing in the center, exactly halfway between the year.
"It is time to decide. Will you join the heroes going to the stars?"
266 Years Ago
2061 AD, Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of Congo
The Land Rover muscled through the barricade. Wooden carts were shoved aside, an oil barrel fell over and rolled across the street. Stray dogs yipped and ran away. The Rover advanced down the street, its windows down. Inside, flak jackets held rifles at the ready, looking for targets.
"Take the second left," said a bald man studying a blue dot on a ruggedized tablet. "It's a shortcut."
The driver gave him a dirty look. "You better fucking be right this time, Stockwell!"
"If I'm wrong, you can leave me behind."
"Deal."
In the distance, small arms chattered. An explosion marked an IED going off. They looked up as a pair of jets streaked by.
"Government?" Asked a man in the back seat.
"The Government's done," said Stockwell. "Those are Chinese Navy J-31s."
"Look sharp," said the driver, "We got foot mobiles."
"Desmond's people?"
"No."
Blocking the street up ahead, a crowd of armed young men were chanting. Several carried the old, blue flag of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Others waved assault rifles and machetes. A group came out of a store with Chinese and French lettering on its sign, it's windows broken into glass swords in the street. They carried 3d printers and a safe they beat with crowbars. A boy came running out, cheering, a Chinese flag in his hands. They mobbed around it, hands reaching and pulling. Someone lit a lighter.
"Nice seeing that happen to someone else's flag," said Stockwell. The crowd cheered as the flag caught. Eyes shifted to the oncoming Rover.
"Don't slow down Mickey," said Stockwell. "They'll take that for weakness."
"They're in a rival warlord's territory and looking for trouble," said the man in the back. "I'll pop a smoke grenade at them."
"Don't you dare Hausner," Stockwell held up his hand. "Who knows what kind of mess that might create. Remember, we're not the enemy today! Just heavily armed bystanders."
The crowd parted at the last moment for the SUV. They passed close enough to reach out and touch: eyes locked as the richest and poorest people in the world slid past each other.
Another time, yankees.
"Told you! Take the next left. We're almost at the compound. Ortega, Any word from Silverfish?"
"No, but his signal is stronger than ever," said the other man in the back, patting a small, black, radio on his lap. "I don't think he can talk, but he's very close."
"As long as he's ready to move."
"I feel like a dirty merc," said Mickey, quickly glancing in the rearview mirror. It noticed, and overlaid in green the crowd's distance.
"We're worse, we're pretending to be dirty mercs. Alright, game faces everyone. This is it."
The Rover stopped before the corner. The remains of a wooden barricade were burning on the side of the street. Across it, a mural of the Chinese premier had been highlighted with bullet holes. In the middle of the street was a charred body, its wrists and feet bound with blackened wire.
They dismounted, moving in pairs, one covering while the other ran ahead and signaled. Their camouflage changed color, trying to blend with the dirty white walls and the dusty ground.76% charge remaining Stockwell's fatigues told him.
Around the corner was a compound with a twelve foot high wall. The top was lined with coiled razorwire and dotted with security cameras. Parked outside the compound blocking the gate was a black MRAP. Men mixing camo fatigues and civilian clothing stood outside, they wore body armor and carried rifles.
"See?" Stockwell grinned. "They're pretending to be dirty mercs, too!"
They're not abandoning this place in panic, just look at them!" said Mickey. " They're so cool, they could be posing for a chewing gum ad."
"This is bullshit," said Hausner, crouching behind a small mountain of garbage bags. "Silverfish is playing us."
"Relax guys, they may not be running, but they will be soon," Stockwell pulled out his radio. "Hot Chocolate this is Fatty Pie. Hot Chocolate, do you copy, over?"
"Fatty Pie?" Hausner gave him a look.
"Solid copy, Fatty Pie," said the radio in a refined, Congolese accent. "Dinner is ready to be served. Repeat, Dinner is ready."
"Roger, Hot Chocolate. We got six freeloaders up here and they have one sweet ride, over."
"Copy that, Fatty Pie. We see eight freeloaders and two sweet rides on this end. The icing bags are in position though, we can help with your ride, too."
The Chinese paramilitary contractors started talking excitedly and cocking their weapons.
"They know something's up," said Mickey.
"Serve dinner! Serve dinner! Fatty Pie Out!"
One of the Chinese paramilitaries in sunglasses and a keffiyeh pointed to where the men had taken cover. The MRAP started its engine and pushed forward. The gunner on top aimed his 50 caliber machine gun towards the Americans.
Fire and smoke flashed out of a broken window: the front of the vehicle erupted, metal and debris flew over the crouching men's heads. Stockwell looked up, his ears ringing. Some of the paramilitaries lay still on the ground while others ran to cover. Small arms lit up from the surrounding buildings, bullets punched into sandbags and kicked up dirt in the street. The machine gun on top of the MRAP lit up like a flare. Stockwell winced, when he looked back the gunner lay over his gun, his head smoking. His helmet came loose and tumbled into the street, the edges of the entry hole still melting.
"They're not getting out of the MRAP!" Yelled Mickey.
"They have to!" yelled back Stockwell. "Their engine block is on fire!"
They watched as the MRAP's doors remain tightly closed. Bullets plinked off its reinforced glass harmlessly. Militiamen appeared in ground floor doorways firing 3d printed rifles. They swarmed into the street, using burned-out cars for cover.
"They're just sitting pretty, waiting for support," Said Mickey. "We don't have time for this."
"No, we don't," Stockwell stood up and unclipped a black pouch from his belt. "Cover me!"
"What? What the hell are you doing!" He heard behind him.
Stockwell ran for the MRAP.
The bullet fire from the buildings wavered. Then the Americans opened up, light but precise fire making targets duck. He reached the vehicle, from inside the driver and front passenger stared at him, open-mouthed.
He felt a bullet flying past his face. Another hit him in his backpack spinning him around. He reached out to stop his fall and gashed his hand on jagged metal.
"Son of a bitch!"
He gritted his teeth, put his hands on the oil fire-hot hood, and climbed it. With a burned hand he slapped the black pouch against the glass, gave a bloodied finger to the driver, and jumped off.
The Chinese driver and passenger looked at each other.
"They're dismounting!" yelled Ortega.
Working in pairs, the Chinese covered each other as they fell back into the compound. The Congolese militiamen cheered and fired another rocket at them, they swarmed the Chinese sandbag positions and climbed on top of the MRAP.
"Gentlemen, this street has been decolonized!" said Stockwell, walking back to the MRAP.
"What was in the pouch?" Asked Ortega.
"A peanut butter sandwich," he put it back on his belt. "Hey, Mickey? You alright, Buddy?"
"I'm okay," said Mickey, unsteadily. Still crouching, he looked down at his leg.
Hausner went over to him, then made a face. "We got exposed bone over here," he crouched down and pulled out pliers and a roll of gauze from his pack.
"Just give me a splint, I'll be fine."
"You're such a dumb Marine stereotype. What? You planning to walk this off?"
"Ortega, help Hausner get him to the exfil."
Ortega frowned. "Are we aborting? What about Silverfish?"
"Hell no we ain't," Stockwell slapped in a fresh clip. "But the last day of the Chinese Transitional Authority's control over Congo, is not the day I want to risk losing two agents, because I didn't make them three."
"We can't leave you on your own."
"I'm not alone, I've got Desmond the Warlord, and all his friends."
A pair of child soldiers were pounding on the MRAP's horn.
"Stockwell, I-"
"Look, the decision has been made. Get in the Rover, I'll radio when I'm out with Silverfish. We'll take the secondary exfil, through local assets."
They splinted Mickey's leg with a piece of broom handle, and carried him into the backseat of the Land Rover.
"Here," Ortega rolling down the window. "Take this."
Stockwell caught it one-handed and stared at it.
"I won't need this."
"Then don't use it. But if what Silverfish says is true, then maybe a quantum entangled line to an AI missile submarine off the coast, is exactly what you do need."
"Get going already," Stockwell turned and ran past the gateway and into the compound.
"Mister! Mister!" One of the child soldiers waved over to him. "You okay, USA?"
"Nope. I'm pretty fucked, kid. Want a sandwich?"
44% Charge Remaining.
The militiamen pushed forward into the compound. They seized buildings one by one, surrounding them and bashing in doors, tossing in flash bangs and then storming in. They found no resistance: just room after room of well lit, air-conditioned offices, freezers, and labs.
"Don't go in there!" Stockwell grabbed the arm of the kid now with peanut butter wiped on his shirt. The kid frowned and shook him off, and walked into the biohazard-marked room with the other militiamen. They looked about, like astronauts boarding an alien spaceship. One opened a fridge -inside, the shelves had been stripped bare. Another crouched down beside a computer table - only the screen and keyboard were left of the system.
Stockwell looked at his tracker: the signal for Silverfish had grown stronger.
"They have taken everything," said one of the militiamen in French. "Our people control all the compound's exits, but if helicopters are coming, they will escape with their research."
"They'll have helicopters," said Stockwell taking a picture of a DNA sequencer. "But they'll still leave things behind, we've forced their hand."
The militiaman looked about uneasily. "I would rather they take everything."
"I don't blame you. Come on, we won't find shit here. We need to get to Silverfish."
"The Chinese have fallen back to the northeast of the compound. There is no cover approaching it, and they have deployed smoke and chaff dispensers. We don't have the equipment to see through the smoke, and they are defending it with heavy weapons."
"Then that's where they're holding him."
The militiaman scowled. "Did you not hear me? We can't assault that, it will be a bloodbath."
"I don't need you to, just make a lot of noise and try and draw their attention."
"You're going to do that dumb trick with the sandwich again? They will see you, and they will kill you. Don't waste the sandwich."
"Who said they'll see me?" He pulled his hood over his head, and his fatigues blended in with the wall.
Outside the last holdout was a smog cloud thick enough to kill a Victorian poet. It glittered; spiced with mica. Moving slowly, his rifle covered in active camo netting, Stockwell entered.
26% Charge Remaining
The implanted infra-red kicked in and showed him a world of false color. Ahead was the mostly cool, central administrative building. Spots along the roof and outside the entrance flared up into bright yellow-white: automated machine and rail guns. Warm figures hunkered down behind sandbags and a metal barricade lined with razor wire. Flanking it on both sides were exo-armors with shoulder-mounted missile launchers. They carried chain guns like they were baseball bats.
They looked through the cloud, their helmet optics scanning. One stopped and stared right at Stockwell. Stockwell froze 22% Charge Remaining.
The armor kept staring.
Stockwell could hear his heart. Not like this: he had so much work to do!
The armor looked away. Then, it turned and walked behind the building.
He let out the breath he had been holding, and began moving again. He went around the sandbags, approaching a side only covered by gunmen and snipers on the roof. He found an open window and pulled himself, his burned and cut hands screaming, up and inside the building. 11% Charge Remaining.
"Leave it," said a tall, middle-aged woman in Mandarin. She wore a white lab coat and thick, computer-enmeshed, glasses. "When the jets bomb the facility, nothing will survive."
The two lab technicians nodded, and put down the portable freezer they were carrying. A group of white-coated lab staff and body-armored contractors hauled crates of documents into the center of the room. One of them opened a gas can and began dousing the pile. Petrol fumes filled the air. A lab tech was pulling out hard drives and throwing them into a backpack. Some he just passed to his partner, who passed a powerful magnet over them before dropping them and stamping them with his boot.
Stockwell checked: Silverfish's signal was even stronger.
A contractor came running into the room, the other ones immediately stood to attention and saluted.
"Doctor Qin, our evac will be here in 28 minutes. We have to get the children out, now."
"No," the woman shook her head. "They stay here."
The soldier looked stunned.
"But Doctor, they're just children."
"No, they're not. Not anymore. The subjects will be destroyed with the facility."
The soldier seemed uncertain what to say. "Mingxia," he tried again, "at least let them go. Let them take their chances in a country that's falling apart."
"I said they're not children!" Her eyes flashed. "They're monsters. We are just insects to them." Her eyes narrowed and she jabbed her finger at him, "if you let them free, that's exactly what they want. Have you been talking to them?"
"I thought it was important to make sure -"
"I said, have you been talking to them?"
He paused. "Yes."
She gritted her teeth. "See? With geniuses like you, no wonder we have to keep them in the basement behind bars. Now get out, we have 28 minutes to destroy a decade of research."
5% Charge Remaining.
Stockwell went downstairs and into the basement.
A guard stood at the entrance with an automatic rifle: Stockwell held his breath and sneaked past. Inside, emergency lighting lit the corridor in shadows, the PA system came through a speaker in the ceiling. Along the corridor were a series of cell doors. Kicking and pounding came from behind them. Through five inch-thick doors, he heard the screaming of children.
He stopped to look inside the reinforced glass of a door. Inside, a Congolese child no older than eleven was beating against the door with his fists. He had a tag around his wrist and wore white shorts and a shirt.
He checked the signal: it was almost at 100%. He went to the next door and peeked in.
Kneeling by an overturned spring bed, a cardboard box in front of him spilling out wires, components, and batteries, was another child. He looked up at the glass and smiled with milk teeth.
"I know you are there," he said in BBC English. "Thank you for coming. I am the one you have been calling 'Silverfish'."
Stockwell stared.
"You must hurry," the child went to the door. "They are going to kill us all. We have information your government wants. We'll tell you everything they were doing here. What they were doing to us." He peered through the glass and looked down towards the entrance to the corridor. "The guard has the key card to the cells. You have to get the key card. He is not a nice man, it is alright if you kill him."
Stockwell jerked back.
"It is alright, I will make it easy for you," said Silverfish. He began tapping out a series of beats on the door, again and again.
Almost immediately, all the pounding on the doors and the screaming stopped.
The guard poked his head round, frowning. Then he began walking down the corridor, looking through each cell window.
3% Charge Remaining: His camouflage flickered for a moment revealing a lone agent well out of his depth. The guard did a double take and raised his gun to his shoulder, his knuckles whitening around the trigger.
Red sprayed the walls and he fell backwards, a new third eye staring out of his forehead. Stockwell's gun muzzle poked through the sparking camo netting. He flickered twice more, then became fullly visible again.
"The key!" said Silverfish. "Quickly get the key."
"Just what the hell," Stockwell ran over to the corpse and began feeling around the dead soldier's combat webbing, "is going on here? And why am I talking to a kid? Where's the real Silverfish?"
"I am the real Silverfish."
"And I'm Winston Churchill."
He found the card and ran to the first door, swiping it over the pad. The door clicked open and the child stepped out, a little girl dressed the same as the others.
"Hey!"
She snatched the card out of his fingers, and went to each door, swiping. The doors clicked open and out of each stepped a small, Congolese child. None of them were crying. None of them were cheering. They looked about the corridor and at each other, and nodded. Some went back into the cells and overturned their beds, and came back carrying shivs, bent iron bars, and forks. One had a patchwork device that looks similar to Silverfish's radio transmitter.
"You've been preparing for this?"
Two of the children went over to the dead guard. One pulled off his combat webbing, the other picked up the gun and peered through the sight.
"Hey, put that down, that's not a toy!"
"It's alright," said Silverfish suddenly standing behind him. "He knows how to use it, we have watched them all carefully, for a very long time."
One by one, the children began streaming out of the corridor and up the stairs.
"What are you all doing down here? What have the Chinese been doing to you?"
"We are all subjects of germ-line genetic engineering experiments. Successful experiments. We do not precisely know what has been done to us, but we have picked up enough to attempt replicating the work."
"Attempt? Just how old are you? How can you understand any of this? You're a kid."
Silverfish smiled. "Yes, I'm just a kid. You should leave now, whatever your name is. They're going to blow up this facility to try and hide what they did here. But if Doctor Mingxia Qin returns to China, they will allow her to start her research again. We can't allow that."
"You kids need to stay here, I'll get some help. This changes everything; a lot of people are going to want to know what happened to you and your weird little friends. We'll get you out safe, all of you. It's going to be okay, Son."
"But why would we want people to know about us?"
"What?"
"We don't want that. But we know how to contact you and your government now. If we need anything, we will let you know."
Silverfish turned and walked past him towards the stairs.
"What - what the hell just happened?"
Silverfish stopped and turned and looked at him from the stairs. "Please understand we are grateful for what you have done here today."