Machines Of Eden Part 1

Machines of Eden.

a green military techno-thriller by.

Shad Callister.

1.

The discharge clerk looked up, tired and sweaty. The soldier standing before her looked like all the others, and the lines still stretched across the dusty staging ground behind him. The clerk wondered how bad it would be if she just didn't show up the next day. Certainly no one would go after her. Would any of her remaining superiors care enough to record it somewhere that might bite her later?

The soldier cleared his throat politely. "Here for my two-fourteen, private."

"You and the other six thousand," she yawned. The man's uniform said he was a staff sergeant, but the clerk didn't care much anymore. n.o.body did. "Card, please."

The soldier handed over the small datacard that hung around his neck, and the clerk touched it to her terminal. Data popped up on the display and she eyeballed it wearily, poking at the controls to start processing him. When she saw the name at the top of the screen, however, she stiffened.

She raised her eyes, awe lighting them up. "Staff Sergeant John Fletcher? You fought at Buenos Aires?"

The soldier nodded.

"I heard about you. You shut down the entire Green bot advance in the middle of an EMP blackout! Saved your whole battalion, right?"

The sergeant shrugged.

The clerk made a half-movement, as if to rise and offer a handshake, then thought better of it. She turned to her terminal and began spinning it through a hundred rapid-fire functions, fingertips dancing.

It was an effort, John knew, to impress him. He wasn't impressed by the show of efficiency, but he was grateful. It was nice to have a fifteen-minute outprocessing done in five.

The clerk finished and held out the card. "A real privilege to meet you, sir. If anybody around here deserves an Honorable, it's you. Good luck, sir."

"Not a sir, honey," John said, nodding his thanks. He plucked the card from her hand. "Especially not now." He moved away from the stares and murmurs collecting behind him. He enjoyed his notoriety, but wasn't in the mood to regale them all with war stories just now. Not today.

Newly discharged soldiers flooded the tarmac, some loading into troop carriers, others migrating toward the rail terminal where rumor had it a train would arrive sometime later that afternoon, city-bound. John wanted no part of that. He'd had enough of cities.

A corporal wandered past, pay voucher crumpled in one fist. A warm breeze gusted past and s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper out of his hand, but he didn't look back, just kept walking. John watched the paper, at least two years worth of pay, skip and flutter across the asphalt until it disappeared in the weeds on the far edge.

That's what it was worth. Nowhere left to spend Green money, outside of the now empty commissary.

He spotted a warmed-up troop transport a few meters away and ambled over, duffel over one shoulder. The woman in the driver's seat was big and mohawked, chewing gum. She gave him a wary glance as he approached.

"Help you, Sergeant?"

He shook his head. "No more 'sergeant'. Where you headed?"

"Portland." She cackled. "What's left of it. Word is, Restoration isn't even close."

Cities. He shook his head. "Thanks anyway."

It was the same story with the other vehicles. Most were headed north, up the coast. A few were going inland; Vegas, Denver. The three-hour-late train, he learned from a crowd of young ex-tankers, was Mexico-bound.

More cities.

He moved on.

The air s.h.i.+mmered at the far end of the tarmac as John approached the hangars. This was one of the few operational airfields left on the West Coast, and security was tight. Several anti-aircraft batteries were placed to cover the hangars and runway, and a checkpoint was the only way through the fence surrounding the control tower. The top of the tower still bristled with heavy guns, this long after the cease-fire.

The duty sergeant looked up from his datapad as John walked over. His eyes were calm, but his hand rested lightly on his sidearm. "What can I do for you, Sergeant?

John nodded in the direction of the hangars. "Any transport flights?"

The sergeant shook his head. "Last one left yesterday."

"Anything else flying? Anywhere?"

"Let's see." The duty sergeant consulted his datapad. "Got a cargo plane going west to the islands. Refuels in Hawaii, then on to the Philippines. But I doubt he'll take a pa.s.senger. Our remaining freight jocks don't like live baggage."

"I'll give it a try, anyway. Thanks, Sergeant."

In the nearest hangar he found the cargo plane. It was an older model, still using liquid fuel. The fuselage was battered and scarred from more than a few close calls, and John noticed a fifty-caliber bullet hole in the rear tail section. He approached slowly, sizing it up. If it was going to carry him over the open ocean, he wanted to be sure of its st.u.r.diness.

An Asian man, mid-forties, walked out of the rear cargo door and down the ramp, putting away a pocket comm unit. When he saw John, he shook his head.

"No pa.s.sengers."

"I'm pretty quiet," John said. "Won't be any trouble."

"Sorry." The man looked him up and down. "There's not a square inch in there for you, and I'd be summarily shot for allowing it. Nothing personal."

John drew a long, slow breath, reached into his breast pocket, and drew out his pay voucher. His showed over three years of officer pay piled up, but he had no use for it. Not where he wanted to go. A pilot might, though, with connections at Green bases all over the world. He held it out.

The pilot looked it over, glanced around, then rolled it up and stuffed it in his coveralls.

"Leaving in ten. This all your gear?" he asked, nodding at the duffel.

"Not much for five years, is it?"

"52nd, huh?" the pilot grunted, eyeing John's shoulder patch. "What unit?"

"Hackers."

The pilot eyed him dubiously. "Heard the 52nd got chewed up bad."

John nodded. "We sure did."

"What did you say your name was?"

"John Fletcher."

The pilot's eyes widened slightly. "Battle of Buenos Aires?"

John shrugged. "That's what they called it. Felt more like a ma.s.sacre."

The pilot grinned. "They were all ma.s.sacres, one way or the other. But you made Buenos Aires a two-sided one. The name's Mochizuki. Welcome aboard, Sarge."

Ten minutes later to the second, the engines rotated and kicked on in vertical position, building quickly to the steady drone John had heard so many times before. The pilot, Mochizuki, had installed him in the cargo area with a pile of ratty blankets and netting and a canteen of stale water. John settled back against the cargo and slipped in his last pair of earplugs. The roar of the engines dimmed to a low drone. He closed his eyes, and was asleep before the plane lifted up off the ground.

An hour after take-off Mochizuki turned the plane over to his co-pilot, Lucky, and reclined his chair for some sleep. He'd slept for only an hour, however, when he was awakened by the sky-bot's voice, rapidly escalating in decibels to get him up quickly without shock.

"Captain. Captain. Captain Mochizuki."

"Yeah, what is it?" Mochizuki yawned. "Please no storm warnings."

"Priority transmission, Captain, from Pacific Command."

Mochizuki sat up. That sounded interesting. He glanced over at the portable sky-bot. Lucky was fairly primitive, little more than a heavy cylindrical box with cabling that reached into the instrument panel. He was quick, though, and he seldom questioned Mochizuki's judgment. Unlike most pilots who relied on their sky-bots for ninety percent of the flying, Mochizuki still liked to do his own pre-flight checks as a matter of form. If there ever was an error, though, Lucky would catch it.

"Put it through."

"It's coded to Level Three, Captain. Excuse the delay."

The delay wasn't much longer than the time it took Lucky to say the words "excuse the delay", but it betrayed Lucky's age, which other pilots poked fun at. Current sky-bot models could decode several incoming and outgoing lines in milliseconds. It might take Lucky a little longer, Mochizuki liked to say, but he always did the job right the first time.

The transmission was an audio feed direct from the nearest satellite. That and the Level Three encryption made Mochizuki perk up even more. For PACOM to route whoever this was through one of the precious few satellites still in the sky meant it was urgent and heavy.

Lucky's electronic "decryption" tone cut out and was replaced by a voice unlike any that Mochizuki had heard since the draft ruined his life. The voice was female, dusky, cultured, and pure honey on the ears.

"Please verify Captain Lee Mochizuki."

"Lee Mochizuki here," Mochizuki said. The voice recognition system apparently got what it wanted because he wasn't required to key in his code.

"Fragmentary Order for Captain Mochizuki of PACOM flight 117-T. You are to alter course and proceed to the following coordinates." Mochizuki listened to the numerical coordinates in disbelief; they were perpendicular to his present course. He waited for an explanation. Sometimes they gave you one, sometimes they didn't.

"Once in your target area, you will maintain alt.i.tude at 11,000 meters and circle the target zone in preparation for HALO insertion of cla.s.sified freight. Will advise cargo number in separate transmission, upon arrival. Once payload is delivered, you will proceed to intersect your previous flight path and continue to your destination. This mission is cla.s.sified and any mention of it, whether verbal or written, will result in the maximum penalty permissible under current law. End FRAGO. Please acknowledge."

Mochizuki waited a long moment before responding. "Roger that, PACCOM, but I'm not sure I will have enough fuel to reach target zone and return, over."

The voice came back instantly. Mochizuki knew it was a bot, but the voice was still warm and rea.s.suring. "Concerns understood, Captain. Will schedule a mid-flight refuel. Stand by for refueling rendezvous coordinates."

Mochizuki was amazed. This mission, whatever it was, had pulled out all the stops. Mid-flight refuels had become progressively rarer as the war dragged on. He knew of only one such plane PACCOM had at its disposal, and it was supposed to be undergoing repairs for the next three weeks.

Lucky received the coordinates and indicated the transmission was complete.

Mochizuki looked at his little copilot and swore under his breath. The war was supposed to be over! He didn't like cla.s.sified orders given in code after take-off, and he didn't like breaking from his flight plan so far from the nearest airstrip. It stank of cloak-and-dagger puppetry, and he hated it. When you had flown as many combat hours as Mochizuki had, you just learned to trust your gut. This was all wrong.

"I'm impressed, but I don't like it, Lucky."

"Your concerns are understandable, Captain, but you needn't worry," Lucky responded, always eager to keep his pilot's stress level down. "A mid-flight refuel will enable us to comply with PACCOM's orders and still arrive at our destination with only a 3.4 hour loss."

"Okay." Mochizuki sighed. "Alter course according to coordinates received. Let's go dump whatever it is we've got back there. I hope that Sergeant is sleeping well."

High above the dark sea, the plane banked left.

2.

John woke in the darkness and knew something had changed.

He lay still, trying to recover from his dream, sorting out dream from reality, hunting for the stimulus that woke him.

The steady drone of the engines was unchanged. The cargo bay where he lay was cold but not frigid. It was night, and as he stared through a small porthole he caught a glimpse of the moon. They'd refueled in Hawaii around 2100, and he'd fallen asleep again shortly after takeoff.

What had changed?

Then he knew. He was lying on one side of the blankets, as if he had slid, or been pushed. Centrifugal force. He rose and stumbled to the small window, gripping the fuselage for support. John knew he was a little rusty in his celestial navigation skills, but he was fairly certain they were no longer heading in the same direction that they had started in.

The plane's mid-flight course change bothered him, and he didn't know why. Logically, it could be any number of things, but it didn't feel right and his gut had him on high alert.

He stood still and breathed rhythmically, forcing himself to calm down and let the agitation drain away.

The war had officially been over for quite a while. Now it had to be over for him inside. Life would go on and he needed to let go of the fear, the paranoia. It was time to lay those to rest.

John made his way to the blankets and stood over them, trying to make himself lie down, trust the pilot, let go of the instincts that had kept him alive but haunted for the past five years. Something kept him on his feet anyway.

Maybe it was the emptiness of the cargo bay. It was the first time he'd been so alone in a long time. He hadn't even seen the pilot since takeoff.

Maybe it was the thought of the endless, dark ocean below. A change in course would multiply with every meter traveled until he did not know where or when he would land. That shouldn't matter; he didn't care where he was going as long as it was away.

Perhaps it was the voice of the man he'd replaced after Buenos Aires, Sergeant Wiley. The bravest man he ever knew.

It is always dangerous to remain in ignorance when you have the option of knowledge.

John headed for the c.o.c.kpit. He expected it to be locked, but his sharp knock resulted in the door sliding open almost immediately.

Mochizuki faced him. "Yes?"

"We've changed course," John said.

"Correct." The captain was frowning.