Rogue Command (The Kalahari Series) (53 page)

“And the grenades!”

“Better do what it says.”

Paul unclipped the two grenades from his belt and threw them onto the ground.

The shape twitched towards Tom.

Tom held his arms up. “I’m unarmed,” he said.

In the murkiness Tom saw a tiny red light moving left and right where the figure’s head would be.
It’s running a scan,
he thought,
but what kind . . . X-ray, infrared . . . contour?
Tom decided to take a chance and keep quiet about the pistol. Imperceptibly he turned his right side towards the figure in order to shield his left leg. In the silent stillness, the purr of tiny motivators seemed amplified.

“What do you want . . . there is nothing here for you!”

“I seek information. You will tell me how you opened the stone door. You will tell me what you have found here.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Tell me or die!”

Paul looked sideways at Tom and wondered if this was the right course of action.

“Who programmed you?” continued Tom. “Who’s controlling you?”

“I am autonomous!”

“No machine is autonomous; you have a controller.”

“Silence!”

Tom surreptitiously pushed Paul to the side, and then pressed on him again with the back of his hand, indicating for them to spread apart. “Move,” he whispered over the intercom.

“Stop!”

With that, the machine stepped from the shadows. Tom raised the Illuminac to waist height. It was evidently a Humatron, but Tom instantly noticed its facial features, and the width of its shoulders, two factors that indicated it being another upgraded model. In its right hand it held a Lurzengard pistol and it was pointing directly at Tom.

“You are an HU50 model. Who programmed you?”

The ‘X’-shaped head with its flat screen face seemed to look Tom up and down. With the apparent lack of any discernible facial features, Tom knew that the machine was using another system to ‘see’; he surmised that it was an infrared system, or at least in combination with synthetic retinas, as the robot appeared to shy away from the light.

“You will tell me how you gained entrance to this pyramid. You will tell me now,” it said, and then it stepped towards Paul and stood above him in a most intimidating way.

Paul held his ground and looked up at the screen face. The robot was much bigger than him, wider, probably twice his weight and with a shoulder height halfway up Paul’s helmet. But it was the long flexible neck of interlocking metal rings that afforded another metre in height that made the machine look both frightening and menacing. The machine hinged its face down and peered intently into Paul’s visor. It stared at him for several seconds in the dim light, and then its face screen morphed into a hideous shape, becoming a skull shape first and then an exact replica of Paul’s – as if he was looking in the mirror. Tom’s eyes widened in amazement. And then the machine’s plasmoltec ability allowed subtle changes to take place, as if Paul was ageing before their very eyes. Finally, his skin peeled from his face and there was a skull again. Paul stumbled backwards, clearly shocked.

The robot slowly pointed its revolver at Paul’s chest and Tom saw its finger tighten on the trigger.

“Wait!” Tom barked. “Give it the notebook . . . Paul, give it the notebook now!”

Paul looked hesitantly at Tom – he had no clue as to Tom’s intentions, but he pulled the small computer from his pocket and offered it to the Humatron.

“The information is in this computer,” Tom said. “You can download it.” Tom recalled the technology in the robot’s landing vehicle; he knew of their USD port compatibility. “There’s a USD port in the side; you can plug in there.”

The machine turned its head slowly towards Tom and then back to Paul, and then it looked down at the notebook. It was impossible not to be unnerved by such a malicious creation.

“Where is the outlet? Hold the computer!” it screeched.

Paul hesitated. He didn’t know where this course of action was going. But he offered the Humatron the computer with the connection port uppermost as directed. The robot pushed the tip of its right, claw-like little finger into the port. Instantly it began reading the data stored in the notebook and an accompanying red light flashed in the corner of its screen face, which had by now returned to a flat screen with two bulging, red, teardrop-shaped eyes.

Suddenly the machine pulled its hand away and turned the gun on Tom. “There is no relevant data here, only images!” it shouted, clearly demonstrating anger.

“Sorry . . . sorry, wrong computer. It’s this one. There was a mix-up. It’s this one,” replied Tom with a pleading tone, and he pointed to his thigh pocket.

“Get it!” demanded the robot, changing weight impatiently from one leg to the other.

Tom unzipped the pocket and slid his hand inside. He grasped the handle of the revolver and flipped off the safety catch – there was a click! The robot’s head twitched in response and it extended its neck towards Tom in an ungainly movement and then studied him suspiciously.

It’s now or never,
Tom thought, and in a calculated response he withdrew the weapon, dived to the ground, took aim and fired. The short volley took the Humatron by complete surprise as armour-piercing sublets pummelled a hole in its chest. The machine fired back but the sublets went high as it stumbled backward. Paul dived forwards as Tom opened fire again with a sustained volley that had the machine’s chest cavity breaking open and components shattering. A line of sublets tore into the celluloid material of its leg and electrolytic oil immediately spurted out under pressure. Instinctively, Tom rolled two or three turns to his right just as the robot aimed a counterattack – the stream of sublets narrowly missed him. Tom scrambled to his feet but Paul was up first and rushed for his baton. Tom put three more shots into the face screen; the robot squirmed on the ground and fired blind shots into the air. Tom was about to empty his magazine into the beast but then Paul shouted, “
Clear
!” and simultaneously he dove forward and rammed the baton into the hole in the robot’s chest and delivered the high voltage static charge. In a wild involuntary jerk, Paul’s arm immediately recoiled from the charge and spun him onto his back, but the robot’s body coursed with electricity. At first it shuddered, as if feeling the effects of a defibrillator machine, and then it quivered and vibrated as its motivators shorted and burnt. And then, as a thin column of smoke rose from its power pack, it fell back, paralysed. The hand holding the Lurzengard slid from its body and fell limply onto the ground. Silence descended on the cavern again.

Tom crouched and tentatively made ready to fire by holding the weapon in both hands and at arm’s length. Paul, rubbing his arm, climbed to his feet. He adjusted his helmet position and recovered his flashlight. He glanced at Tom, who seeing that the Humatron was completely deactivated, lowered the revolver. They both stood for a moment in silence, simply staring at the machine. And then, as their heart rates subsided and their breathing rhythm settled, they both became aware of a quiet whistle of escaping gas. Tom checked himself over and so did Paul, but it was only on turning his back towards Paul that they realised that Tom had been hit. An examination quickly revealed a tiny stream of condensing oxygen. It leaked from a hole in Tom’s backpack – the internal tank had been perforated. Tom immediately checked his life support panel. On the screen, the pictorial representation of a gauge indicated twenty-one per cent and edging into the amber zone, but the red, decimal place digits were counting down quickly.

“Better get going,” said Tom, casting a final eye over the Humatron and picking up the notebook.

“How quickly is it going down, Commander?”

“Enough . . . come on!”

Controlling his breathing as best he could, Tom and Paul covered two stone steps in each stride until they reached ground level. On the inclined walkway the going was easier but Tom was using his oxygen quickly. Paul called the PTSV, but to no avail; there would be no trace of his signal outside the thick walls of the pyramid.

“How much have you got left?” asked Paul, as they hurried side by side up the ramp.

Tom checked his forearm. Between pants he said, “Nine per cent . . . I’m breathing hard, so there’s a high demand.”

The two men retraced their steps to the entrance. The steady incline made the distance seem more than a kilometre; they half-walked, half-ran. When he was behind, Paul could clearly see the tiny spout of milky-coloured gas escaping from Tom’s backpack and he was visibly relieved when they dashed through the gaping hole in the stone wall and into a flood of natural light. Outside, the far off sun was lower in the sky and there was a constant barrage of windblown sand. Tom dashed to the head of the steps while Paul quickly crossed the platform to its edge so that he could see the PTSV and be sure of a radio signal. The vehicle was momentarily obscured by a turbulent cloud of reddish-brown sand, but the strong wind soon blew it away, revealing the PTSV’s stained, elongated tube – with its antennae and protrusions. In the reduced visibility it resembled a spiny caterpillar. It was then that Paul saw the shattered remains of another Humatron. The carcass was burnt and blackened, two limbs were missing and the head was severed. Blowing sand was already building against it, and he caught sight of a forearm and hand that was nearly covered.
Clearly it had suffered a direct hit from the pulse cannon,
thought Paul, but he had no time to loiter and Tom had disappeared down the steps.

“Open up, Lesley, emergency oxygen situation!” called Paul over the radio.

“You’re back . . . thank goodness – say again . . . emergency?”

“Oxygen! Oxygen! The boss’s oxygen is nearly out . . . open up for God’s sake!”

There was a pause of realisation. “Copied . . . Emergency Code Red – deactivating hull electrification, discharging airlock and opening portal . . . Veronica is suiting up!”

Tom hurtled down the steep external flight of steps with Paul in hot pursuit. It was a headlong dash and one slip could bring disaster. Halfway down Tom checked his gauge – it read one per cent.

“I’m out!” he called to Paul. There was desperation in his tone.

After another few metres Tom started to wheeze. He was out of breath and breathing hard. Moments later he heard his helmet’s shuttle valve squeak – he was drawing on the dregs of his cylinder. After a further few breaths the squeaking stopped and his chest suddenly felt restricted. All that remained now was the gas in his helmet and soon that would be predominantly carbon dioxide.

With ten metres to the ground and with his chest feeling tight, Tom made a wayward leap to the side and skidded down the smooth face of the pyramid on his back, only to finish seconds later in a heap on a soft sand dune. With the momentum he continued to roll, tumbling over the dune until he landed on the hard paving. He felt himself becoming light-headed, but he stood and quickened his pace towards the PTSV. He saw the rear portal rotating upwards and then locking into position. He saw an astronaut coming to his aid. A flurry of sand passed and Tom heard the grains raining on the side of his helmet.

More than halfway, but struggling, Tom held onto each breath as long as he could. He staggered a few more steps but fell to his knees – now his head was spinning. Exerting his self-control, he moderated his breathing to avoid this effect of asphyxiation; he tried short, sharp, pants, but the level of carbon dioxide inside his helmet was becoming poisonous.

Tom climbed to his feet and managed to stagger forward another few paces. A strong gust of wind blew him off balance and he fell to his knees again. He became disorientated and unsure as to the correct direction. His lungs were bursting.

Then Tom felt someone pull at his arm and suddenly he was standing. Paul tucked a shoulder under his and dragged him the last few metres. Veronica was there to operate the airlock and no sooner were the three of them inside than the portal began to close. The twelve seconds felt like an hour. Tom was on his back, and Veronica could see he was turning blue.

The portal locked into position and there was a violent inrush of air. Paul went for the visor first, releasing the safety clips and then pressing the two side buttons simultaneously. The visor flipped open and Veronica pressed an oxygen mask over Tom’s nose and mouth; the flow was under pressure and it helped Tom to suck his lungs full. His chest filled. Three or four rapid breaths followed and Tom held onto each for longer than normal. Then his head began to clear. His breathing settled and he tried to nod his recovery within the confines of his helmet and under the mask; eventually he raised a hand and gripped Veronica’s forearm to indicate it, as the inner door opened. Paul released the helmet clips, rotated it and pulled it clear of Tom’s head, who then sat up and leaned forward against the weight of his pack and rubbed his brow.

Lesley, Anna and Veronica looked on apprehensively. Paul stood, offered a hand and then pulled Tom to his feet. Tom gestured his thanks to Veronica and with his fist prodded Paul on his shoulder in a friendly way. “A successful day then,” he said and smiled.

CHAPTER 28

Taking Stock

Andromeda – The Fresnel Lunar Hospital
4 January – 13:12 Lunar Corrected Time

Richard looked out through a circular porthole window and peered in a north-westerly direction across the drab, undulating plain. In the far distance he could see the high rim of a giant crater and for a moment he reflected on the memory of Diomedes: was it fate or pure coincidence that this impressive geographical feature be called by the same name?
The old man certainly had an impact on me,
Richard thought, as he smiled to himself. Closer, he thought he could see the smoke haze that still loitered above the Freight Terminal.

Outside the hospital wing, on the surface, it was a mess. In fact the entire area was trashed. Abandoned equipment, broken antenna masts, a vehicle overturned, the carcasses of two Humatrons, some mechanical body parts, the countless spent sublet cartridges he could see close to an observation point, and near the airlock to his left there was a dark violet coloured stain in the grey sand that Richard knew was blood. He breathed a sigh and scanned the area to his right. The low hills that rose from the plain in a northerly direction were much closer – not more than twenty Ks – and there was the pass through which a platoon of robots had streamed and attacked the main complex.

By all accounts they were still retrieving dead troopers from the 1st Regiment in that area, and also from other outlying areas and assessing the wounded – the ward outside which he stood had been allocated to less serious cases. Elsewhere, the hospital was overflowing.

Richard walked across the corridor and peered out through a window that was orientated south. He craned his neck in order to catch a glimpse of the Earth. It hung in Space as a white reflective crescent; silent, even serene, but without any blue. He didn’t like the thought of living there any more, and today he didn’t like the Moon either. Just then a stretcher appeared from around the corner. He shuffled closer to the sidewall as it passed and acknowledged the orderly – who was dressed in hospital whites – with a nod. On the stretcher there was a young man with his head in bandages. He lay staring blankly at the ceiling. As he watched the two green swing doors close behind the orderly, Richard took stock of his war. Miraculously they had all survived the battle, and relatively unscathed, although Mayard had broken his arm during his ejection, Tardier had been quite seriously concussed by crash landing his Delta and then skidding off into a building, and Chris Quarrie had been burnt after he was brought down. Richard had heard that Tardier was already out of hospital and booked on a shuttle flight home. There was a queue of people waiting for a lift home and a priority list. As a result, the two remaining S2 shuttles were on continuous turnaround. Although well equipped, the Lunar Hospital lacked specialist facilities in some fields and so injuries with difficult complications, such as severed limbs, would be treated on Earth.

Only one of the S2s was fitted with a MEDEVAC Pod. The other ship, the LSS
Ares
, retained its Assault Pod, but that pod’s twenty seats were good for the walking wounded. Unfortunately, Richard had ordered that the
Ares
be pulled from the programme for a few hours in order to have an area of blast damage repaired.

Richard checked the time; his duty day would start at eight o’clock, which gave him plenty of time to visit Chris and John and finalise his report – he would mention all of his team in dispatches – and then get back to his Unit for a shower, a bite to eat with Rachel and a change of clothes. He was expecting to fly two round trips to Earth.

Richard had also decided to recommend all the pilots of Black Formation for permanent residency in the colony as a result of their actions – should they wish to move from Earth – and he knew Chris would be very interested in an appointment to Andromeda’s Shuttle Wing. Certainly he would be glad to have him in the squadron.

Disturbed from his thoughts as one of the automatic swing doors opened with a whoosh, Richard turned and looked back at the middle-aged nurse who was now standing in the doorway. She looked tired. Richard smiled at her.

“You can come in now, Commander,” she said, her Scottish accent pronounced.