Cheatc0de Page 7

  “Anyhow, let’s cut to the chase,” Will says. “What does your HUD say? Is the wall taking damage?”

  Kilgore throws Will a look. Who the hell do you think you are, asshole? He opens his mouth to say something but thinks better of it. Not now, he tells himself. Not now. The situation is already unpredictable; a standoff can only make matters worse.

  Kilgore takes a breath and exhales noisily then diverts his attention to his readouts. “Hm. The barricade is taking some damage, but so is your defensive wall. It’s a question of which one cracks first.”

  “OK. All we can do is wait.”

  Kilgore cranes his neck to look up at the drones. The remaining four are swooping toward the barricade. This time, it looks like they’re coming in closer before they release their deadly payloads. He narrows his eyes against the sunlight and studies the sleek gray aircraft. He’s seen drones in the distance but never this close. He’s always been smart enough to keep the hell out of their way, but now, he can’t take his eyes off them. There’s a savage beauty in their sweeping curves, an elegance in the way they carve a path through the air.

  PROXIMITY WARNING: MULTIPLE HOSTILE MISSILES—TARGETS LOCKED

  Kilgore can’t believe his eyes. “What the hell? You said—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got the same warning. AIPR0N just thinks we’re too close. She can be an old mother hen sometimes, but the shield is good. We’re not even here, remember?”

  “I guess we’ll find out in a second.”

  All four Gray Eagles launch their Hellfire missiles at once. The combined roar of eight rocket motors rattles Kilgore’s skull, pushing every other thought from his mind. The Hellfires pierce the air, shrieking through the sky like a Valkyrie’s vengeance. Kilgore watches, an unsettling combination of dread and fascination stirring in his belly. Surely, the combined explosion of eight missiles will be too much for his shield, no matter how fancy AIPR0N is. He looks at Will, and somehow, the look of sheer delight on the man’s face doesn’t surprise him. This is madness. He’s got to say something, before it’s too late. “Seriously, man—the shock wave. It’s going to blast us to hell.”

  Will doesn’t even turn to look at him. “Wait and see, my friend. Wait and see.”

  The Hellfires slam into the barricade, almost simultaneously. The explosion blooms into a seething fireball, and Kilgore has to close his eyes. He braces himself for the shock wave that will pick up his body and fling it into the air like a dead leaf in a gale. He pictures the shrapnel spinning toward him, imagines a hunk of red-hot metal slicing through his body armor and burying itself in his chest. But the impact never comes.

  Kilgore opens his eyes and stares at the barricade. He’d thought the flames spectacular before, but now he has to squint against the light to look into the inferno. White-hot metal blisters and bubbles, spitting out showers of incandescent sparks. Kilgore looks down, expecting to see his uniform scorching, the soles of his regulation boots melting, but there are no signs of damage at all. His HUD isn’t even showing a high heat warning. I don’t believe it, he thinks. Nothing can be this good. But his HUD doesn’t lie. The shield works.

  He glances at Will. What else do you have stashed up your sleeve? he wonders. And where the hell do you get gear like this? But he doesn’t ask. Will probably won’t tell him, and even if he does, what good would the knowledge do? Mods as sophisticated as AIPR0N have to be way beyond Kilgore’s budget. Better not to know and just enjoy the use of it while he can. He looks back to the barricade and watches in wonder as the flames tear into the cars, rendering them down into a molten mass of cherry-red metal, devouring them with a dull roar. No one has ever seen anything like this before. The chances of another player pulling the same stunt are just too small to take seriously. They were breaking new ground, bending the rules in a way that no one could’ve anticipated. “Awesome,” he whispers, and for the first time in his life, he means the word literally.

  The barricade moans and judders, the intense heat warping the metal, twisting the tortured structure beyond the limits of its endurance. Surely, it can’t stand much more of this punishment.

  “How’s it going?” Will asks, raising his voice above the low, rumbling crackle of the fire. “Did we do it? Is my wall mod still in there somewhere?”

  “I don’t know,” Kilgore says. He checks his damage readouts, but something’s wrong. “My HUD’s status reports are on the fritz. Must’ve got knocked out with the first missile strike. Maybe if you’d explained how to use the shield in time, they’d still be working now.”

  Will rolls his eyes. “Just take a look, can’t you?”

  “How? It’s too bright, I can’t see a thing.”

  “What—even with your all-seeing HUD?”

  Kilgore gives him a withering look. “It’s enhanced; it’s not magic.”

  “Whatever you say, Gandalf. But you can pull up a schematic or something, can’t you?”

  How the hell does he know that? Kilgore tries not to show his surprise, but when he answers, there’s an edge of suspicion in his tone. “Something like that,” he says, then he hesitates. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Kilgore cycles through the modes in his HUD. The thermal options are useless in these circumstances, but there’s an electromagnetic probe that he hasn’t used for years. It’s rudimentary, one of the first mods he coded himself, but it’s one way to see inside an object and it won’t be affected by the fire. Select EM probe. Plot schematic. The mod takes a little while to work, and Kilgore purses his lips as his HUD darkens then redraws the barricade as a series of simple yellow lines. Damn! This isn’t what he wanted to see. “Your wall—it’s pretty much gone. There’s just a trace to show where it was.”

  “Ah, well. I kind of expected it. But what about the barricade? That’s all that matters.”

  Kilgore lets out a frustrated sigh. “That’s just it. It’s damaged pretty bad, but I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything on this scale before.” He pauses. The yellow lines showing the edges of the barricade’s internal structure are shifting, redrawing themselves. “Wait! Something’s happening.” A jagged yellow line slices down at an angle across the barricade. Then another. The lines meet at a point halfway down the barricade, and where they intersect, a series of shorter lines radiates outward like hairline cracks spreading out through a pane of glass. Could this be the moment they’re waiting for? “I’ve got to see this,” Kilgore murmurs and switches his HUD back to visual. He nudges Will’s arm then points to the place where he’s just seen the jagged lines converge. “Watch! Right there.”

  The bottom row of vehicles has been almost completely consumed by the fire, and suddenly, it collapses with a hollow, echoing boom that reverberates in Kilgore’s chest. A rolling mass of hot air, smoke and debris billows down road, coating every available surface in a layer of charred dust. Kilgore flinches, but the shield does its job and he doesn’t feel the heat nor breathe in the acrid fumes. He can stand in safety and watch. And what a sight.

  Now that the second layer of vehicles has nothing to hold it up, it tumbles down, setting off a deadly domino effect. In seconds, the whole barricade is collapsing in on itself, crumbling into a furious mess of melting metal. The brutal crackling hiss of burning aluminum batters against Kilgore’s eardrums, and he grimaces. This is a scene straight from hell, a snippet from the end of times, but he can’t look away. There’s a hideous beauty in the chaos of flame and smoke, and it fascinates him. I did this, he thinks. And the thought sticks in his mind like a splinter buried beneath a thumbnail. He unleashed this havoc, and without a glimmer of doubt, he’d do it again. In a heartbeat.

  “Hey!” Will shouts. He points to the sky, and Kilgore looks up. All five drones are circling high overhead, the faint whir of their propellers thrumming in unison. Suddenly, one Gray Eagle banks sharply and splits from the pack. It swoops down in a steep dive, and when it levels out, it alters its course.

  Kilgore stares at the drone, and a savage certainty stirs
in the pit of his stomach. There’s no mistaking the drone’s new course. It’s heading directly toward him.

  CHAPTER 8

  Protocol

  IT’S DARK. And cold. And Mervin is all alone. Some part of his mind reaches out, seeking the light, hoping for some trace of warmth and reassurance. But there’s nothing. No soothing voice to calm him. No gentle rustle of crisp cotton sheets against his skin. Nothing.

  Nothing except for the cold. And that is all too real, all too solid. The cold creeps under his skin and pours through his veins. It bites into his flesh and takes root like an icy cancer, consuming his body, pushing out everything that was warm and soft and human.

  I was here once, he thinks. I lived. My name was... it was...

  A sharp pain rips across one side of his face. It stings, and his cheeks quiver and twitch.

  “Wake up, you useless piece of shit!”

  The pain comes again, though on the other side of his face this time. His lips tremble. His eyelids flicker. And there is light! A wavering slit of light, too bright to look at. He screws his eyes tight shut.

  “Goddammit, I gave you an order, you little bastard! You wake the hell up when I tell you.”

  And Mervin knows that voice. Clyde!

  “Are you deliberately disobeying a direct order, you son of a bitch?”

  The words hit him like a baton round in the chest, and Mervin flinches. He keeps his eyes tightly closed, but suddenly he sees everything: the chaos of the battlefield, Jerry lying wounded on the ground, the flailing tentacles of the shape-shifting bot. His mind recoils from the memories, but still they come, washing over him in a dizzying wave of light and sound and color: scenes of death and destruction, of horror and despair. And all of it, all of it, the fault of one man. He must’ve known! Mervin felt the truth of it in his bones. Clyde must’ve known about the shape-shifter, but he sent the platoon out to meet an almost invincible enemy without a word of warning. It was a suicide mission, but Clyde didn’t care about that. He didn’t try to save the others, didn’t even think about it. No. That cold bastard left them all to die and smiled while he gave the order.

  Another blow lands on his cheek, and now Mervin’s eyes are wide open. I’m back in the War Room. I’m still in my chair! Clyde’s pallid, pockmarked face looms over him, a sneer on his twisted lips. Clyde raises his hand to strike him again, but he doesn’t get the chance.

  A sound erupts from Mervin’s throat, a deep roar of pent-up fury, and he lunges from his chair, hurling himself at his tormentor. His hands find Clyde’s throat and grip it tight. Mervin squeezes for all he’s worth, silencing the son of a bitch at long last. For a split second, Clyde opens his mouth wide and makes a hideous guttural choking sound as he fights for air, but then his battle-hardened reflexes take over and he lashes out, punching Mervin hard in the solar plexus.

  Mervin collapses back against his chair, and his fingers slip from Clyde’s throat. Now it’s Mervin’s turn to groan and gasp. But that’s the least of his worries. I’ve blown it. My life is over. He slumps in his chair. The War Room is Clyde’s domain. Here, the captain is lord and master, judge and jury. And Mervin has just signed his own death warrant. For a moment, as he struggles to breathe, he stares up at Clyde.

  The captain’s pale face is pure white with barely contained fury. His piggy eyes burn with self-righteous rage. “How dare you?” he hisses.

  Mervin looks away. He hangs his head and coughs.

  “You come at me, but you haven’t got the goddamned balls to stand and face the enemy?”

  Mervin shakes his head. The breath is slowly returning to his body, but his mind spins in confusion, his thoughts a jumbled mess. “It wasn’t like that,” he wheezes.

  “Oh, really?” Clyde sneers. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you called in a tactical strike before evacuating the target area.”

  “I had no choice,” Mervin says, his voice growing stronger. “There was a threat we weren’t told about. A threat I couldn’t destroy any other way. Everyone should’ve had time to log off.” Christ! Mervin swivels in his chair, craning his neck to peer around the room. But there’s nothing to calm his fears. The rest of the chairs are empty, their screens lifeless. “Where is everyone? Are they all right?”

  Clyde lets out a bark of dry laughter. “So now you’re worried about the rest of your platoon?”

  Mervin stares at the captain. “Just tell me,” he demands. “Tell me they logged off OK. Tell me they’re all right.”

  “It’s a shame you didn’t think about that when you launched the tactical strike.”

  “But you stopped them logging off,” Mervin says. He’s raising his voice, but so what? He just tried to strangle an officer for Christ’s sake. “They had plenty of time. I know it! But you—”

  “I did what?” Clyde roars. He leans in, thrusting his face close so it fills Mervin’s field of vision. The older man’s eyes are deep, dark wells of despair: the eyes of a cold-hearted predator. And when he speaks again, his voice is a low, threatening growl. “I followed protocol,” he says. “I obeyed the chain of command. I did exactly what I was meant to do.”

  Mervin holds the man’s gaze. “How many?” he asks, then he swallows hard. “How many made it back OK?”

  Clyde says nothing. He lets Mervin squirm, provides a silent space for Mervin’s worst fears to grow until they’re big enough to swallow him whole. And then slowly, Clyde shakes his head. “Not. A. Single. One.”

  “No,” Mervin whispers. He closes his eyes. “No. They can’t... they had enough time.”

  Clyde stands up straight and puts his hand behind his back. He rocks back on his heels, a satisfied smile curling the corners of his lips. “Protocol,” he says.

  Mervin opens his eyes and looks up at Clyde. “What about Jerry? He must be all right. He got out first.”

  “Now, let me see.” Clyde looks up at the ceiling for a second as if trying to recall something, but when he looks down again, Mervin knows there’s no hope for his friend. “No. He didn’t make it.”

  A hard knot of grief forms in Mervin’s stomach. He’s never been much good at making friends, but he and Jerry hit it off ever since they met in basic training. They’ve always been there for each other, watched each other’s backs. Now he’s gone and for no good reason. “Why?” Mervin whispers. “Jerry was wounded, but he was OK.”

  “His code was corrupted. It spread fast. The whole platoon was contaminated. The breach had to be contained.”

  And finally, Mervin understands. His blood runs cold, and for a heartbeat, he’s unable to speak. The chair seems to sway beneath him, and the room grows hazy. “You killed them,” he mutters. “You killed them all.”

  Clyde pushes out his bottom lip and raises his eyebrows in a silent So what? But he doesn’t say a word.

  “Why?” Mervin says. “Why did you do it? And what about me? Why did I survive? Is it just so you can punish me? Is that it?”

  “Punishment?” Clyde scratches his chin. “Oh, we’ll get to that soon enough. You screwed up the whole mission, that’s for sure, but as far as we know, your code was not corrupted in the field. And since you actually engaged with the bot and, by some miracle, you didn’t take any damage, you might have some intel that will help in our fight against the enemy.”

  Mervin’s shoulders slump even farther, as though he’s collapsing, sinking deep into the chair. So that’s it. I’m to be a lab rat.

  Clyde crosses over to the command console and presses a few keys. The click of the keyboard echoes across the almost empty room.

  “I don’t have a choice, do I?” Mervin says, although it isn’t really a question.

  “Nope.” Clyde moves away from the console and turns his head as a door opens. “These gentlemen will take you to your quarters.”

  Mervin looks toward the door and watches the two men as they walk briskly across the room. They are clad in silvery full-body hazmat suits, their faces hidden beneath curved visors. They walk si
de by side in silence, homing in on him. “I don’t want to go,” Mervin says. He turns to Clyde. “Please... I don’t want to go.”

  But Clyde grunts in disapproval. “For Christ’s sake man, how many times do I have to tell you?” He heaves a sigh. “Focus on the task at hand.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Good Question

  “JESUS CHRIST!” Kilgore yells. “The drone—it’s coming in!” He reaches out and grabs Will’s arm, urging him to step back around the corner. “Come on, man. It must’ve seen us.”

  But Will shrugs him off. He isn’t going anywhere. “No way, you idiot,” he snaps. “It’s just checking the kill. Keep your shield on, and we’ll be fine.”

  The drone sweeps in low, and as it passes over the barricade, the tips of its wings send eddies whirling through the pall of black smoke that still curls up from the smoldering ruins.

  Kilgore can hardly watch, but he can’t tear his eyes away. He faces the Gray Eagle head on, staring in horror as the drone’s bulbous nose cone looms larger and larger, carving through the smoke-tinged sky like a winged demon. He can see streaks on the drone’s gray paintwork, dirty marks left behind by the clinging dust from the explosion. Without thinking, he raises his rifle. It’s pointless to try and shoot the drone down, especially from this angle, and anyway, it will only alert the other drones to their presence, but he’s got to do something. Anything is better than standing by and waiting for the inevitable. He takes aim at the drone, tracks its path through the sky.

  “Don’t be an asshole!” Will growls. He puts his hand on the barrel of Kilgore’s rifle, pushes it downward. “Are you trying to get us both killed? I told you it can’t see us. Don’t be such a jerk.”

  Kilgore glares at him. “Don’t tell me what to do. I’ll play the game any way I goddamn want!”

  “Fine. You want me to turn off your shield?”

  Kilgore lets his mouth hang open. “You wouldn’t do that. You can’t do that.”

  “Can’t I? It’s my mod, isn’t it? I just shared it with you. I can do whatever the hell I want with it. Turn it off, turn it on, turn it inside out if I damn well feel like it.”