Part 11 (2/2)
As they ran down the checklists, Bren monitored the Vigilant's progress toward the target. Bren half listened to the effort to attach to the hull through reports and radio traffic flickering by in his PV. His part of the mission started once the s.h.i.+p had latched onto the station and forced a breach. It sounded like they had only a few minutes left to wait.
Bren linked to his old favorite, Meridian, with nothing more than a casual thought. He realized that only the hardware remained the same (and not even all of that) between runs, but he liked to link into the cameras of the lead unit.
Bren saw Hoffman had already connected to Meridian more than an hour ago to complete the checklists. Hoffman had the experience Bren needed in a lead operator, and Hoffman oversaw Meridian, so it always. .h.i.t the breach first.
The Vigilant latched onto Tanelorn like a metal scavenger nestling against the sleek body of a synthetic shark. Bren felt the vibration of the contact through the metal decking of the Guts. The a.s.sAIL units didn't move.
That's a good start. At least they'll let me give the word. They're smart, but they don't yet realize that they're vastly smarter than I am.
”Okay team. Let's. .h.i.t it.”
The a.s.sAILs moved out, picking their way through the Guts. Bren glanced at the green UNSF emblems on the armored sides of his machines. His universe accelerated. He believed in their mission to bring the deep s.p.a.ce stations of the megacorporations under control of law. Without the UNSF, humans might go extinct. He wanted some order over the chaos. There had to be a balance between the world government and the corporations.
Once the clanking of the machines started to diminish, Bren centered Meridian's forward cam in his PV.
He saw the breach point, a forced double airlock. Meridian's cam view shuddered with the stride of the machine. He noticed batches of airscrub gra.s.s ahead with banks of storage lockers interspersed along the walls. Meridian charged past several of the lockers into a larger open area strengthened by ma.s.sive structural columns.
A flash of movement flickered across the cam. Something black. Bren heard a thump from the audio feed.
Oh, no...
”What was that?” Bren asked.
”A person ... several, actually. They're on Meridian's leg,” Hoffman reported. He sent out a pointer to a side cam. Bren accessed it.
Bren saw people in the strange black suits clambering over Meridian like ants holding onto a giant beetle.
”Dammit. What're they doing?” Bren watched a cam that focused on one of the suited figures. At first, the person seemed to cling to the a.s.sAIL leg with his arms and legs wrapped around it. Another person, also suited up, came into the camera view long enough for Bren to watch him swing a metal club into the camera lens bubble. It left a tiny scratch. A second later, he heard it again. Thwack.
”There are about a dozen of them in the atrium now,” said the calm summary of a female handler. ”They're all engaging the a.s.sAILs.”
Surely, they don't hope to stop the a.s.sAILs? Unless one of them has a bomb.
”Progress is blocked,” Meridian broadcast. ”Cannot proceed without causing severe injury to one or more of the station inhabitants.”
Of course, Bren thought. They couldn't hurt the a.s.sAILs. They would just inhibit the machine's maneuverability. The robots could not move freely for fear of harming the people. Which left the machines open to attack.
Bren switched between several cameras. The armored people cl.u.s.tered around a couple of the a.s.sAIL units holding onto the legs and one another.
”Colonel Henley, are you seeing this? The locals have all gone malcon on us. None of them look armed beyond a few pieces of furniture.”
”Affirmative. My men will clean your a.s.sAILs.”
The a.s.sAIL units overheard the conversation and seemed to accept the solution. Marines poured into the atrium pointing their weapons and yelling for surrender. A couple of the suited people charged the newcomers. One marine shot the leg of an attacker with a rubber bullet. The crack of the weapon stirred the entire group of black-clad inhabitants. They let go of the machines and turned on the marines.
The marines started to curse and hurl insults on their channel. They shot rubber bullets at the people in the suits. The heavy black gear seemed to protect those inside to some degree, but the slugthrowers still dropped them eventually. Once they'd taken several hits each, the attackers were incapacitated, rolling about on the floor clutching their limbs or heads in pain.
”f.u.c.kin' loony malcons!”
”Buckle-bulbs!”
Bren saw one of the inhabitants trying to get up on one knee, but a marine dropped him with a single smack across the helmet with his rifle stock.
”Glue 'em up!” yelled a sergeant. ”f.u.c.king glue them up now!”
The marines started to drop glue grenades onto the suited figures. Bren watched a marine toss a grenade onto a group of three struggling suited figures before dropping back. The grenade erupted like a high-speed film of an opening flower. Glue tentacles sprung out to stick onto everything nearby.
But the many-armed glob of glue rolled off and attached itself to the floor.
”What the f.u.c.k?” Henley said.
”They aren't sticking, sir,” said the voice of a sergeant on the scene.
Bren didn't like that news either. If the glue didn't stick, then the people would be that much harder for the marines to control. He remembered that the glue grenades had clung to the suits at Thermopylae.
”I expect a Red to show any second now,” Bren transmitted. ”We've got the station people and marines crammed in there, there's no room to maneuver. If we have to engage another Red, there's going to be injuries to the people in there.”
”Get some more solvent and clean that machine up,” the sergeant ordered.
”Belay that order,” Henley transmitted. ”The machines are strong enough to deal with the glue. They're made to handle the security robots, remember? Get those malcons back into the holding tanks. Forward team, secure the bridgehead.”
”Yessir! You heard him you s.p.a.ce dogs!” yelled the sergeant. Marines stepped toward the doorways and erected waist-high security icons to guard the entrances. Gleaming red beams from the crowns of the devices scanned the entrances searching for intruders.
”Lieutenant Hoffman. Why does he call his men s.p.a.ce dogs?” asked Meridian.
”It's a nickname, Meridian,” Hoffman said. ”Not pertinent to the mission. Think about how you are going to complete the incursion with these people in the way.”
”I am thinking about that Lieutenant. May I request additional clarifications simultaneously?”
Bren watched Hoffman push back a lock of sweaty hair. They exchanged glances. Bren nodded.
”Yes, you may, as long as it may affect the mission,” Hoffman said.
”What's a buckle-bulb?”
”A crazy or desperate person.”
”Why hasn't the a.s.sAIL team been supplied with these nicknames and terms in our mission data?” Meridian asked.
”They're not relevant to the mission,” Hoffman said.
The answer was true enough, Bren thought. But somewhat deceptive. The real reason had more to do with hiding human flaws from superintelligent machines.
”If we get attacked by other robots while those malcons are all over my machines, people are going to die,” Bren said. ”We can't go in here without the weapons free. The a.s.sAILs have to be able to maneuver.”
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