Mech 2 Page 21

  “I know a place. A bunker farther north. We’ll be as safe there as we can be anywhere.”

  The people of Neu Schweitz had brought with them many habits from the old country. One of them was the digging of bunkers into deep mountainsides. The alps were riddled with them. In the early days, this had been done for protection from meteor showers, which were frequent and violent. Like high mountain shelters kept open for any who needed them in a blizzard, the bunkers were there for anyone who needed them in case of a disaster. Even after the network of moon bases had been built and had become reliable, the bunkers were maintained. They were dusty, but serviceable. There would be weapons and supplies for any emergency.

  They packed up and told Bili the minimum. He quickly guessed they were in real trouble, however. His eyes were big and dark with worry again. Sarah hated to see that.

  Before they had finished packing, another call came in from Droad. Sarah answered it with trepidation. Would this call be worse than the last? Were they out of time? Were the aliens already on this world, eating everything?

  “Lucas?” she said. “What is it?”

  “Nothing terrible,” he said. “I’ve got a new idea. I want you to come up here with me. I’ve got an okay from the Commodore Beauchamp. You’re civilians, but I told them you are a pilot and can serve as an advisor on alien tactics.”

  “But why should I go up there? Can’t we just get out into the countryside here and be safe?”

  “I don’t think so. Sarah—they are throwing big rocks at us. Asteroids, lots of them. If they land... Well, it won’t matter where you are. We’ve plotted the courses now. All the major cities are targeted. And the oceans. Things are going to go badly down there if we can’t stop the attack.”

  “You think we’d be safer on a battleship in the middle of the action?”

  “Maybe. But also, I’d like to see you one more time. You and Bili.”

  Sarah thought about that. It didn’t sound good. Lucas Droad wasn’t a man who talked this way, who spoke of doom. It filled her with dread more than anything else she’d heard. She took a deep breath. Aldo, she knew, watched her. So did Bili.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll come up. I’d rather be up there where maybe I can do something against—whatever is coming.”

  “Excellent. Go to the shuttle station. The next one will bring you up with a load of emergency supplies.”

  “Lucas? Can Aldo come to?”

  A tiny hesitation. “Of course. I can always use another good fighter.”

  “Thanks, Lucas.”

  Aldo agreed to come after a brief conversation. He had no more desire than she to sit this battle out in some dusty bunker. She thought too, he didn’t want to just hand her over to Droad. To separate now might mean the end of their relationship.

  At the last moment, Sarah tried to leave Fryx behind. She thought maybe they could just forget about him on the dresser by the bed, where he floated each night next to Bili. Naturally, her son had different plans for his pet. He grabbed up the handle on top of the tank and lugged it, sloshing, down the hall toward the elevator.

  Aldo and Sarah exchanged glances. They would wait. Now was not the time to add further drama to the evening.

  Under the starry, moon-filled sky, Sarah, Bili and Aldo piled into a rented mech flitter. They were whisked away to the shuttle station. Sitting in Bili’s lap was the fish tank. Fryx bobbed inside, his spines flexing slowly in the saline.

  Sarah gazed out the windows at the looming moons and bright stars. What did those glittering points of light have in store for her now?

  #

  Zuna became frustrated. She had several reasons for this. One was her supply of axes. She only had so many of her precious, red, fire axes. She had stolen thirty-one of them, to be exact, but that supply would run out eventually.

  She simply must stop breaking them every time she killed someone. The handles were the weak point. Why didn’t they make these handles out of durable steel like everything else on this immense ship? The heads were steel, with exquisitely sharp monofilament blades that could chop through metal as if it were whip-pine. But the handles were only a cheap polymer. The axe handles were built to be strong enough for any human wielder, but when she drove them in a wild stroke that clove a victim from head to crotch, they invariably broke.

  That’s where her second frustration lay. She had no self-control when it came down to the moment of the kill. She told herself, every single time, that she didn’t need to strike with every ounce of force her artificial muscles could muster. Even a light tap would kill one of these humans, who seemed ready to explode into red liquid if you so much as jostled them. But she couldn’t help it. Whenever she managed to position herself behind an unsuspecting human, such as she had with Lieutenant Karin Minard at their 0500 meeting, she couldn’t contain herself.

  Zuna was very good at this positioning, and she was proud of her talent. First, she would distract them by pointing at something. She couldn’t really sneak up on anyone, as she clanked with every heavy step. So the trick was to get them to turn away.

  The last time she’d lost control, the last hot joyous moment, had come only this morning. Like every murder, she’d carefully planned the proceedings. She had arranged to meet with Karin early, before the other humans were moving about. The mechs were always active, but they worked below decks in the pits. She met Karin it was at a quiet, deserted station where there was no one around to hear anything.

  The magic occurred as always, in the sweet moment when her victim turned away. That’s what drove Zuna over the edge every time. She lost all control, when they turned and were so—helpless. In truth, she had begun to live for those hot moments. She thought of little else. It was only then that she felt truly alive and whole again. She was her old self in those fleeting moments, and she loved it. She felt like her humanity had returned to her. She felt whole and complete.

  And when she struck, she did it the old-fashioned way. The way she had struck when she had been only a weak bag of human blood and bones herself, so long ago. She did it with a sudden, joyful ferocity. She did it with all the strength in her body of metal, polymers and circuitry.

  Zuna realized she might never be able to control her urges in those moments. She resolved to dig the axe head out of her next victim.

  After this morning’s murder, as was now her habit, she had gotten rid of Karin’s body by dropping it down a chute in the radioactive pits beneath the ship. The next time she would dig the axe head out with her grippers first. She would save it, stashing it somewhere, and later try to build a better handle for it. That way, if she ran out of axes, she could at least build a new one. The idea was comforting.

  She had another problem to consider. Namely, that problem was Rem-9, the mech captain. He was always looking at her, watching her. He didn’t suspect yet, but eventually he would. He was a suspicious bastard.

  Her last problem was perhaps the most serious of all. They had taken away her easy victims. Only combat mechs were left in the pits, digging. Her supply of human-robots had dried up. Soon, she had overheard, another whole squad of mechs would join the first. It was a horrible thought. She didn’t dare take on a combat mech. Not even one armed with only a shovel. Even if she could kill one by surprising it, which she doubted, another would certainly come running. They all had radios built into their chassis and she wouldn’t get far before the entire squad was upon her.

  Frustration. The fun would end soon, no matter how she looked at it. She would be back to her bleak existence.

  Zuna rattled her grippers. They clacked together very fast, like castanets. This was a nervous twitch she only displayed in private. The sight was disturbing, she knew. But no one else had ever seen it, at least no one who lived long enough to tell the tale.

  She looked up the ramps, toward the upper decks. Perhaps she should expand her hunting grounds.

  #

  The fledgling battleship hummed with activity. Every deck was full of struggl
ing workers, checking systems, driving streams of rivets with frictionless hand-accelerators and running cable over open decking. There was no time for finesse. Every system had been assessed and those that were close to completion would be completed immediately. They would be brought online in any fashion possible. Everything else was deemed non-essential. Many decks would not even be pressurized when they launched, if they launched. Crewmen would have to wear spacer gear at all times, as life support systems were to be minimal.

  Frantic crewmen and contractors, stung into activity by their shouting superiors, worked around the clock. Beauchamp had decided to tell them all about the incoming attack, without details. It did wonders for morale and productivity. A week’s worth of work was completed in a single day. A month’s worth of work on non-essential systems was skipped. Still, the ship would only be half-functional by the time the enemy came in range.

  The mechs were pulled from their duty underneath the ship’s belly. Beauchamp and his team had come up with a new, drastic plan. They would wheel one of the ships laser batteries down into the pits to slag the crater into the desirable curvature. It would be dangerous and there would be tons of deadly vapors released, but the work of thousands of hours could be completed in one. Also, there was the secondary benefit of testing the laser weaponry and reactors under load.

  Rem-9 led a column of mechs up from the lower decks. He had recalled them all, saying they were needed above. Zuna was directly behind Rem-9. Behind them the combat mechs, who used to following orders without questions, clanked in a thunderous unison.

  “What are we going to do, Captain?” asked Zuna.

  “Several duties are critical,” said Rem-9. “My unit is charged with moving a heavy laser down here and melting the rock of the crater down into a suitable curvature.”

  “Why did the mechs get that job?”

  One of Rem-9’s optics swiveled back to look at her. Both of hers stared in apparently guileless curiosity. Rem-9 was somewhat bemused. Zuna was much more human than the other mechs he knew. It was as if he spoke to a human female with a credulous personality. He noted that, strangely, she had a large sack on her back. She held the end closed with one of her grippers. Whatever was in that sack, the contents clanked and thumped against her body as she walked.

  “The mechs are well-suited to such a task. The equipment is very bulky, only mechs have the strength to carry it down here without damage to the laser or ourselves. The job is also hazardous. Radioactive dust will fill the lower decks as the rock is vaporized. Only mechs can do the work and not be injured.”

  “Can I help?”

  Rem-9 considered the offer. “No. You have no training with weapons systems or transporting delicate equipment. May I ask what is in that sack you are carrying?”

  “Fire axes,” said Zuna.

  “Fire axes? Why are you carrying a bag of them?”

  “I’m supposed to replace the ones people have been removing down here. Droad asked me to do it.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s not much of a job. Can I help in some other way, if not with your laser?”

  “Possibly. The new mech squad is arriving in a few hours. It’s coming up from Nexus warehousing. The squad is foam-packed and dormant. Would you want to help with the cargo unloading?”

  “I’m yours to command, Captain.”

  “Negative. You are a civilian mech, Zuna.”

  “It was only an expression.”

  “I see. In that case, please report to cargo deck J. The new mechs will arrive there.”

  “Thank you, Rem-9. Has anyone ever told you that—that they found you attractive? For a mech, I mean?”

  Again, Rem-9 swung one optic back to examine Zuna. He could not tell if she were joking, or unstable. Perhaps, as a civilian mech from Neu Schweitz, her reprogramming had only been partial.

  “No,” he said. “No one has ever made such an observation.”

  “It’s your back,” said Zuna, “somehow, I find it attractive. The way it sways in front of me as you march... it is strangely stimulating.”

  Rem-9 made no response. He could not think of one that was necessary or helpful.

  #

  “The patrol ships are reporting incoming missiles sir,” said an officer at the com station.

  “Missiles? Are you sure, man?” said Beauchamp. “We didn’t think the Vlax had any left.”

  “They’ve spotted the heat flares of their engines. They appear to be long range missiles, possibly fired from Minerva. They are continuously accelerating and are coming in at extreme velocities.”

  Droad stood quietly at the back of the bridge. There were cables hanging down from the ceiling. Control equipment that had not been tested, which was not even scheduled for installation until months from now, had been shoved hastily into panels.

  “How many missiles?” Droad asked quietly.

  Beauchamp shot him a dark glance. “It hardly matters, Droad. We’ll burn them all down, don’t worry. I think it’s clear this is the other shoe you’ve been worrying about.”

  Droad could tell that he was going to be rubbing Beauchamp raw if he hung around his bridge demanding things from the crew. It couldn’t be helped, however. He massaged his chin thoughtfully. He just hoped Beauchamp didn’t challenge him and try to throw him off the bridge. Not yet, anyway.

  “How many? How far out are they?” asked Droad.

  “There are about a hundred of them. They are about a million klicks from the patrol fleet, but sir—” said the com officer.

  “What?” asked Beauchamp impatiently.

  The com officer flicked his eyes back and forth between Beauchamp and Droad, then finally looked at Beauchamp. Droad didn’t blame him. He should listen to the Commodore first.

  “They are a million klicks down, sir,” said the com officer, “they are below the plane of the ecliptic.”

  “They aren’t targeting the deep patrol flotilla, then?”

  “No sir.”

  Beauchamp snorted. “Strange thinkers, these Vlax. They might have won the battle with our patrol boats if they had timed the whole mess to hit our ships at once. I suppose the missiles are curving upward, avoiding our patrol ships and coming at our defense bases?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “They are trying to knock out our lasers at the moon bases, then let their big rocks do the job on our cities. Armageddon. But they’ve thrown away their fleet. They think they can win ship-to-ship against us with their rooks? Madness. They simply don’t have the weaponry. They will lose their fleet, and those missiles will be taken out by our bases. I hope this surprise puts you at ease, Droad. The enemy has revealed his cards, and has come up short.”

  “Maybe,” said Droad.

  “What do you mean, maybe?”

  “They may have more surprises, Commodore. In the meantime, I suggest we continue the crash program of getting this ship into action. We might yet be needed to save the day.”

  Beauchamp smiled. Droad knew that he liked that idea. Droad had spent the last few days constantly bringing up the opportunity for historic valor. Whatever kept the Commodore and crew working at maximum, he would do. Even if it meant stroking the Commodore’s sizable ego.

  Twenty-Two

  If one remembers what one truly was—what one truly is—can that be called a form of madness? No, Zuna thought. She rejected the premise. She was what she had always been. The only difference was that now she could remember what she was. In fact, bringing her old personality back to life was an act of rebirth. It was her reincarnation. Nothing could be more pure. She was a murderess, and no one would take that away from her again. She was only being true to herself.

  Zuna unpacked the cargo from the shuttle with only two crewmen. Most were busy working on the upper decks, where the weapons systems were being welded into place and tested as quickly as possible. As soon as the crew chief in cargo bay J learned a mech was going to be helping them with the job he ordered the rest of his men to follow him. There were
much more critical tasks that needed doing.

  She was surprised when a group of civilians walked off the shuttle. A man, a woman and a small boy carrying what looked like a fish tank. They had on vacc suits and rebreathers, but she could tell they weren’t military. There were no rank insignias on their suits.

  Zuna waited until they had gone, then continued carrying item after item off the shuttle. Soon, the work crew got down to the mechs themselves. Zuna helped struggle with the huge, pod-packed mechs. She knew, inside were living things. Things that slept, and couldn’t wake up.

  A thrill ran through her. The sensation, the excitement, was familiar but it was still a surprise. It was the thrill she felt when a potential victim was near. After thinking about it, she realized part of her mind, the murdering part, had divined an opportunity. These mechs were a problem for her. Once active, they would be unstoppable. But now, in their layers of foam wrapping, in their sleeping state, she had the advantage.

  Zuna smiled as she continued helping the men with the lifting machines and the rest of the cargo. She hummed a tune, one she had picked up from the first man she’d killed in decades. The humming man.

  She was going to kill one of the new combat mechs. She was going to kill him while he slept.

  #

  In the silence of deep space, two groups of small ships sped closer to one another. The ships were not arranged into lines, as two-dimensional thinking was pointless in space, but rather into two flat disks. The formations approached one another like two cymbals being brought together for a crashing crescendo. These disks were not tight formations. Both groups were widely spread apart so a single missile could not take out more than one ship at a time, not even a nuclear-tipped weapon. Each ship was several kilometers from the next vessel in its disk.