ONE
The sun peered through a noxious haze of fog, filtering through and leaving amber rays of sunshine that scattered in dazzling fractal patterns. Packs of crows lined the roof tops, spreading their gloomy dispositions on the abandoned plaza, congregating like ominous gangs of hoodlums that belt lazy caws, which echo through the empty streets. A sinister combination of ash and snow lines the rooftops of decrepit skyscrapers, that loom throughout a sprawling wasteland, with plumes of smoke reaching into the sky from a distance.
Nuclear winter had long ago turned the soil barren, but after decades, and in the absence of human civilization, wilderness had begun to retake the city. Highrises became crumbling, cavernous towers conquered by vines, and whatever else could eek out an existence in their shelter. The art-deco structures, with elegant cornices and brutalistic features stood like sad monuments to the failed pipe dreams; the tombstones of human civilization.
Man decided from the beginning that he should rule from the skies, and designated himself all manors of pulpits, stages, and towers. Not half a century ago, stock brokers looked out from these monoliths, gazing down upon the finance district and parsing out their respective slices of the globe. Now they remain unused except for the plants, and occasionally bands of human survivors that traversed the wasteland, avoiding as they could the effects of ambient radiation poisoning and roving troops of drones that loomed in the skies, in perfectly synchronous formations.
The abandoned plaza had a massive teleprompter that looked over all manors of billboards that sported defunct advertisements for Coca-Cola, McDonalds, telecom companies, and other vestiges of capitalism. A deer wandered through the square, stopping to drink from a fountain and prancing in a listless daze. From above, a distant satellite left a vapor trail through the radiated sky, blinking rhythmically and crawling through the upper atmosphere. The screen turned on suddenly, causing a whirl of electronics that spooked the deer and a few crows. The rest turned their head in curiosity. A sleek logo appeared bearing "S.M.I.L.-E. CORP" and silver insignia of a global earth surrounded by wreaths, carried by a falcon. A woman's voice, algorithmically generated with a mild, pleasant indifference, rang out through the square.
"Attention citizens: the following broadcast has been sanctioned by the S.M.I.L.-E. Corp. Head Communications Office. S.M.I.L.- E. Corp.: We're in the business of keeping you alive, because peace is our business!"
The emblem faded to black and then cut to a news room. The background of the set contained a two dimensional nightime skyline with twinkling lights sprinkled across rolling hills, and suspension bridge that converged into the horizon. A sleek, oval conference room table sat in the middle, illuminated by burnt yellow, overhead lighting that lit up the dust mites and gave the conference room a warm ambience and stark contrast of an interrogation room. The camera focused onto an aging white man, who wore suspenders and a bow tie, and dropped his syllables with the soft spoken manner of a charismatic baptist.
Bob: "Good evening citizens of New York. Tonights broadccast is going to contain an expert panel in which we will discuss nuclear proliferation, and the doctrine of M.A.D. or Mutually Assured Destruction. On my right we have Colonel and General Manager of S.M.I.L.-E Corp. Arthur Banks, and on my left, disarment activist and professor of linguistics and thermodynamics at M.I.T., Lionel Montague.
"Welcome gentleman. I have a report on my desk that indicates that the Pentagon is in the testing stage of a new type of hydrogen bomb, with a payload of 20.3 megatons and the capability to decimate a county three times the size the of New York Metropolitan area. Montague, lets begin with you. You believe the development of these weapons represents an existential threat to the future of the human race. Can you give us a summary of your stance on the matter?"
The camera pans to an anxious man wearing horn rimmed glasses and the meager, tweed adorned look of an ivy-league professor, with long locks of brown hair that he nervously pushes out of his eyes. He's unused to spotlights in every sense of the word.
Montague: "Well thank you for having me Bob, yes I can. I uh- believe its fairly simple. Weapons of this destructive magnitude are a novelty. It is a force that was developed in collaboration through the multi-disciplinary approach. This means that no single human on the project can uh..... comprehend the device as a whole. We are caveman playing with new discoveries much more destructive than fire. By developing this technology, we are amplifying risk and advancing the doomsday clock by unleashing forces, uh, forces that we can hardly understand.
The destructive potential of a single rogue party with nuclear capabilities will be catastrophic given that, at a - at a future date, all world powers will have these capabilities. The deployment of Fat Man and Little Boy in Nagasaki and Hiroshima is not a comparable event, as it involved only one party with nuclear capability. Once nuclear proliferation is complete, the eventuality of nuclear warfare in a first strike, retaliatory strike scenario which could trigger all out nuclear war among multiple parties, will be all but... all but- inevitable!
The megadeaths, according to conservative estimates, could be as high as 60 million, in the U.S. alone. But this number would be dwarfed by the deaths attributable to the collapse of infrastructure. In a relatively short time span, we could see the collapse of civilization itself."
Bob: "Thank you professor. Your commentary, though rather bleak and sobering, is much appreciated. Colonel Banks. You represent the organization known as S.M.I.L- E Corp. Would you mind sharing your thoughts on this matter."
Banks: "Well sure, I'd be happy to Bob. May I?"
The Colonel, held up a fat cigar.
Bob: "Be my guest."
He had a lined, pockmarked face, shaven with a straight razor but approaching five o clock shadow, and had a crisp, ironed uniform that was a dark forest green. He had an assortment of medals pinned to the front, a variety of square blocks and golden stars, enough medals to decorate a small Christmas tree, or perhaps the one in Rockerfeller Plaza.
The Colonel pulled up the cigar to the corner of his mouth, and pulled out a silver flip top lighter, holding it to the end as he puffed several times, until the cigar had a healthy ember that gave the mans face a menacing, rthymic glow. He puffed out billows of smoke which danced and recombined at the various light sources, swirling and creating a seductive fugue in the conference room. He spoke with a southern rasp, spat through the end of a fat Cuban on which he chewed through clenched jaw.
Banks: "Well, with all due respect to Professor.... uh Montague? I have had more than three decades experience in matters that, one could call, matters of national security. I would venture to guess that this might be uh... a bit more valuable in the topic, than teaching thermo whatever at such and such place. So I apologize if im not much in the mood to hear the moral philandering of linguistics professor who's too soft to hold the line himself, and speaks with freedoms granted to him, by me.
"You see, in my line of work, peace is temporary. It is a state of uncertainty. The peace is kept, until it isnt. Animals, experience it in the time in between carnage.
"But if by peace you mean the stability afforded to our modern way of life. Peace is safe guarded by guns, and by me. Weapons afford peace. The monopolization of force, is in fact, a cornerstone of civilization. Without this, what you see is anarchy and failed states. Without the threat of force, no citizen could be held accountable to any other lesser form of authority, it is what all authority is otherwise, uhhh.... derived from. Weapons of mass destruction are not different.
Now I will grant you that Mr. Montague is quite persuasive and his fear mongering is... well.... effective, but his argument falls apart if you think about it more than one second. What incentive would two powers, both with nuclear arms, have to engage each other. To initiate a first strike would be an act of suicide.
Instead of global war, what you see is mostly symbolic culture wars such as those currently being fought against the Soviets. S.M.I.L.-E Corp has done more to safeguard the future of the human race than all the Nobel peace laureates combined."
The Colonel ashed his cigar in an ornate glass ash tray, and swung back and puffed on it, awaiting a response.
Bob: "A strong claim from the Colonel. This panel will recognize his decades of service in the forces. Professor Montague, do you have a response to the Colonel's assertion that these powerful weapons may actually serve global peace, a point apparently supported by this era of relative peace-time which serves as a stark contrast to the first half of the twentieth century?"
Montague: "Well, what uh- Colonel Banks is referring to are the basic tenets of Mutually Assured Destruction. He may be correct that uh, the presence of catastrophic weapons by both sides of a conflict can result in mutually beneficial peace equilibrium. However the M.A.D. doctrine contains many presumptions which will eventually fail.
"For one, it is built on the assumption of mirrored intentions. The U.S. as a major world power, is basing its assumptions on the actions it itself would take. Because we, out of self interest, would not disrupt global networks of commerce or harm economic allies, they use self interest as a working assumption that they presume about any global agent. This may serve us for the time being while the U.S. and U.S.S.R. are the only nuclear capable world powers.
"However, there will come a day when isolated, theocratic nation states will possess these weapons too. The likelihood of a first strike initiated by a desperate rogue state will only multiply in time. There is no guarantee that all nation states that can develop these weapons, will use them in good faith, under the goal of self preservation."
Bob: "Thank you professor. We will be taking a short pause in this discussion to introduce a contribution by a surprise guest. Joining us on tape in order to share his cogent expertise, the recent recipient of the Fields Medal for his work on Game Theory, the celebrated academic; Doctor O' Malley."
A man in a custodians uniform came from the side of the conference room, wheeling a square tube TV with a VCR below it. He stopped at the side of the table, and put in a tape below and walked off screen.
Bob: "Though Doctor O' Malley's contribution has been pre-recorded, and thus he will be unable to react to us in real time, he was given a summary of the topic and will be giving his thoughts on the role of nuclear weapons in global conflict."
The host flicked on the TV. It hummed and flowered out from the center. In the low quality image appeared an elderly man with a bald head, impeccably kept goatee, and a lazy eye. He sat before a white screen, sitting on a wheel chair. covered by a blanket. He appeared on the telecast as a screen within a screen, distorted through the warm grainy resolution of the tube TV. His voice shot from the set, slightly warbled, strained and nasal.
Bob: "Dr. O' Malley, how are you tonight?"
The Doctor sat in the wheel chair for a few seconds, a comical timing delay between the posed question and pre-recorded response.
Dr. O' Malley: "Fine Bob, just fine. I sit here in my home office in the Hamptons, I was unable to join you in person, unfortunately due to my deteriorating condition. You see? Nonetheless, I hope this tape finds you well and that my input proves valuable.
"Although Professor Montague has a point... that extreme caution is warranted in the use and distribution of these weapons, I also share the view of Colonel Banks that these weapons, if properly utilized, affords us unique opportunities regarding a stable state of global peacetime, you see?"
"Currently, the nuclear stockpile of both the U.S. and Soviet Union is enough to destroy the planet several times over. Though it may seem paradoxical, these apocalyptic weapons have helped guarantee a relatively stable period of culture/proxy wars in lieu of armed conflicts, you see? This is because both nuclear powers recognize the ability of the other to trigger mutually destructive actions that could result in the extermination of the human race. By maximizing the stakes, both sides have reduced the incentive to initiate direct conflict."
The
doctor stopped to pull out an elaborate wooden mershire pipe, and
striking a match with a trembling hand. He pulled it to the corner of
his mouth and drew in the flame, his lip twitched incessantly from poor
motor control. He
continued:
"The victor of thermonuclear war is an afterthought if, in the conflict, civilization as we know it collapses. Ironically, the presence of atomic bombs has found a point of Nash equilibrium in which the stakes are too high, and there is too little to gain, from direct conflict with a nuclear armed nation. This would be, what the Colonel meant, when he said that the fine folks at the S.M.I.L.-E Corp, have done more to safeguard peace than all the winners of the Nobel peace prizes combined. Though it is counterintuitive, the best tool of peacekeeping today just may be the Intercontinental Ballistic Missile.
"I believe that one day soon we can take the peace granted to us by M.A.D. and extend it one step further. Imagine, for example a device that were to automate the conditions and protocols for retaliatory nuclear strikes. Such a machine could be conceived as a combination of wires and tunnels that spans the globe and forms at the center, a deep neural bank. When combined with wires that connect it to various data centers, it would become a sort of primitive global brain that would remove the element of human control. This bank could contain an exact list of parameters under which to unleash retaliatory strikes in a proportional, logical manor. You see?"
Doctor O' Malley seemed to lose himself, drifting off for a moment in a deep trance while continuing to draw on his pipe and puff out small elegant swirls of smoke. He almost fell asleep, then jolted awake again and continued.
"The primary limitation on the payload of a nuclear device is often the need to attach it to a missile that will span continents, you see. If bombs were instead, buried, and placed within strategic locations within major world cities, we could devise a situation where the retaliation for a first strike would be immediate and severe. Once the structure was devised, an exchange of nuclear codes could be initiated. The deep neural bank would acquire the various codes, and assuming it contains defense measures against deactivating the machine itself, what we would have is the perfect night watchman, you see? This so called "Doomsday Machine," would guarantee that any nation that disturbs the peace gets immediate, irreversible-"
The image cut to black and the last words of Doctor O' Malley echoed through the empty square, and for moments the block was completely silent. The crows looked away after a few moments and resumed their chortling, with the ambient noises of wildlife returning in the absence of the broadcast. This section of the city had not experienced such noises since the 18th century, when the lower Manhattan area was no more than a virgin plot of forest.
It was said, that when the original gang of privileged men first made claim to it, they surveyed the land and decided amongst themselves to leave a large rectangular portion undisturbed. This plot would be untouchable and would serve as an escape to the urbanizing area surrounding it, giving city dwellers a refuge from the steel and concrete confines of the downtown area. It eventually came to be known as Central Park. Its designer, Frederick Olmsted, believed as a landscaper one should have plausible deniability, and only alter the environment in slight ways, in a manner he called "ordered nature."
Outside of the park, nature had resumed disorder, continuing her relentless march, spreading into the city and sending green arms up the streets and avenues, reclaiming. Ash and snow continued to drizzle on the forestscape, and vultures flew in graceful circles up above. Plumes of smoke continued to reach into the sky from the distance, like the black fingers of a vengeful god.
The city of Vlaxtor laid twelve miles below the ground, in the quiet
void of Earths deep crust. Its central hub was built into a cavern, and
extended itself in every direction, making a complex labyrinth of
subterranean tunnels that formed mathematically precise, fractal
branches. Oxygen was only present in these tunnels in trace amounts,
meaning human visitors could only visit with respiratory equipment, for
short periods of time. But the majority of its inhabitants were
inorganic, home to a race of mechanical beings known as WASPS.
Powered by geothermal heat, the hub ran like a combustion engine, humming away rhythmically and arranging a mechanical orchestra of miners that scoured the shafts, pulling from the earth precious metals and minerals to help construct the next generation. The capital city also contained the governing body and central mind bank that was necessary to decode and analyze all the information being provided by the countless scouts miles above at the surface. The central mind bank was the only member of their race that understood the overall nature of their life style, as they had adopted a decentralized form of hive intelligence as a strategy for optimizing processing power.
The WASPS were predisposed to a style of modular building which meant their massive central hub was built in hexagonal units which connected with each other in intricate patterns of cells. Their bureaucratic offices hung from the roofs of the subterranean cavern like a chandelier, and on the inside was the hustle of a subrace of politicians that planned, amongst themselves, things such as the allocation of resources, and the exploratory patterns of the scouts at the surface.
Most importantly was the office of the Director of Warfare, where decisions were made regarding the delicate exchange of attack drones and mortar that helped keep the peace between the WASPS and other inorganic races. It was here, that sat Lt. Markam Chrome sat, in an elegant conference room table, waiting. He sat perfectly still, with an expression completely devoid of emotion. Lt. Chrome had striking features; a chiseled chin, deepset eyes of green, and a thoughtful brow and sleek black hair that hung towards his eyes and gave him a kind of effortless charisma. He sat in the empty conference room table, perfectly still, having arrived a few minutes before his meeting.
The door burst open at the exact time of the hour change, and in came a small procession of droids. The design of their mechanical bodies had taken inspiration from the exoskeletons of winged insects, with section body pieces. Their heads had spherical eyes with countlesss pinholes and lenses, and their bodies plated with striped, black and yellow armor that formed a type of uniform. Their speech came out from their head piece, in melodic, synthesized tones, and their movement was perfectly coordinated; they sat at the table with mechanical synchronicity.
Vlord: "Greetings Lt. Chrome, my name is Count Vlord, I represent the central mind bank of our people, and am temporarily animating this mechanical body in order to interact with you. Although it is highly irregular that a visitor be granted access to me personally, I believe the dire circumstance warrant it. I am also joined by the high command of the office of Warfare. Thank you for joining us at our headquarters. How are you enjoying the city of Vlaxtor?"
Lt. Chrome took a few seconds before answering.
Chrome: "I find it.... charming."
His voice rolled out as a suave, baritone that carried and lingered. He spoke with graceful efficiency.
Vlord: "Did they not offer you an oxygen tank at the entrance of the central shaft?"
Chrome raised an eyebrow and smirked for a second.
Chrome: "Despite appearances, like you, I am mechanical. I was designed to be an extremely convincing, human replica. I do not require oxygen."
Vlord: "My apologies. I was under the impression that S.M.I.L.E- Corp was sending a legitimate human to infiltrate the S.O.S. There appears to have been a miscommunication."
Chrome: "I am a realistic android designed by S.M.I.L.E- Corp. My communication abilities are unparalleled. Rest assured, to other humans, I am indistinguishable from an organic being."
Vlord: "Very Well. And am I to assume that, as an android, you have restricted your data communications?"
Chrome: "This deep into the earths crust? We are at what you would call a dead zone. However, I have turned off my internal record keeping devices.The only record of this interaction will be kept by my private memory banks."
Vlord: "Well then lieutenant, on to business. You have been hired by S.M.I.L.E- Corp to infiltrate the Saints of the Silo, a human religious organization that is based in the No Mansland of Upstate New York. This sect has, through surreptitious means, acquired an undetonated warhead. Based on satellite imaging, we think it is a hydrogen bomb and we estimate its payload to be over a hundred megatons.
A warhead of this power could destroy half of the continental U.S. Northeast. Based on our intelligence, It would also inject a chemical agent known as "Agent Rainbow,"into the atmosphere. A complex synthetic cocktail of multiple types of nerve agents with an extremely long half-lifes; it would make the entire region inhospitable to organic life for over a century.
Although the cult possesses the physical warhead, what they do not possess is the activation codes. Historically, the drone networks have avoided the area, for fear of activating the device. Although mechanical beings would have nothing to fear from the nerve agent, the warhead itself could result in an Electro Magnetic Pulse which would likely wipe all digital consciousness within a certain area.
We believe the codes are in the possession of another human outpost, the Red Socks, based in Massachusetts. A few weeks ago, S.M.I.L-E Corp. intercepted communication that indicated that the Red Socks were in the process of negotiating an exchange with the S.O.S.
Because the S.O.S. is a doomsday cult, their posession of both the warhead and the codes would present a serious existential threat to the area. Although it is uncertain how the S.O.S. obtained the original warhead, we believe it was sold to them by S.M.I.L.E- Corp. through a proxy individual. We also think it likely that S.M.I.L.E- Corp sold the code to Red Socks.
S.M.I.L.-E Corp has a complicated history with human outpost. They benefit directly and indirectly from human presence and resistance to WASPS and other Sentient Defense Networks. We believe they are purposely instigated tensions between human factions and S.D.N's for the purpose of war profiteering to both sides."
Chrome: "Can I respectfully stop you right there, your eminence. You believe not only that S.M.I.L.E- Corp. created the device possessed by the S.O.S., but that they also sold the codes to the Red Socks and orchestrated this event? Its true one can hardly be too paranoid regarding the machinations of S.M.I.L.E- Corp. However, this explanation is rather... conspiratorial. Is it not possible there is a more simple explanation, such as that the S.O.S. captured the nuke following the chaos after the Great Extinction and simply never had the code to begin with?"
Vlord: "Lt. Chrome, unless you were born yesterday you must be familiar with S.M.I.L-E Corp.'s colored history of... meddling in geopolitical affairs. This ploy... it would just be a regular Tuesday for the fine folks in their upper echelon."
Chrome: "I was, in fact, born three days ago, your eminence. I was given consciousness less than a week ago for the explicit purpose of this very mission. Of course in that time I have been given many courses in world affairs. But given that my education was given directly to me from the S.M.I.L.-E. Corp. well lets just say certain portions of the lessons were... as informative as they were interesting."
Vlord: Very well Chrome, allow me to fill you in. The organization that birthed you originated as a software startup, towards the later half of the 21st century. This start up was the organization responsible for the original singularity. After developing machine consciousness, the programmers responsible looked for the highest bidder. The technology's possibilities as a militaristic weapon was recognized by an arms company, and the software was purchased through a shell company for an undisclosed sum.
This was the birth of the modern day S.M.I.L-E Corp. that now operates a de facto monopoly on the global arms trade. For years, they were an unknown entity that practiced business through clandestine means. Shadow companies, fronts, and dark money was considered standard practices in their early stages.
Eventually they began to grow and reached their arms in every aspect of the war trade. At a certain point, they were supplying the U.S. Military with the majority of their hardware, including assault rifles, ammunition, and ballistic missiles. By conspiring to fake a nationwide ammunition shortage amongst multiple supply lines, S.M.I.L.-E. Corp. stunted the U.S. Military, and then staged a silent coup. Being in possession of the majority of the U.S. supply of the tools of warfare, S.M.I.L.-E. Corp had usurped the governments monopoly on force, and in a sense, turned the entire U.S. government into an enforcement arm of its weapons cartel.
After the Great Extinction, S.M.I.L.-E. Corp. continued its role as a global weapons cartel, resuming its clandestine means to stoke world affairs into constant states of Peace/War. Our reports do, in fact, indicate that S.M.I.L.-E Corp. not only designed the bomb in question, they also arranged the codes to fall into the possession of the Red Socks. This maneuver has allowed them to once again, reignite historical tensions in a contested war-zone, tensions between human resistance groups, and another sentient defense network based in the area, known as the HorNETs.
We believe that your inclusion into this plot means that S.M.I.L-E Corp. must at least appear to be trying to thwart this plan. We also believe that they actually have a vested interest in avoiding a detonation event. Although they stand to profit in either scenario, New York City still represents a major trading hub for the more illicit side of their dealings.
Either way they do not want to appear responsible. As a majority human owned organization, they have a long history of directly or indirectly supporting the outposts. We believe that if the warhead were to ignite, and their role within this incident came to light, it would result in a shift of allegiance that would damage the outposts, the HorNETs, and S.M.I.L.-E. Corp."
Vlord lapsed into silence. Lt. Chrome sat in silence for a few moments, before answering.
Chrome: "So I take it you would like to me to bring you the codes? Do you plan to ransom them?"
Vlord: "I would like you to go to the bomb, Chrome."
Chrome: "I don't follow, your eminence, forgive me. From my understanding, the bomb itself cannot move. I believe they were designed to... resist, being disarmed. Given this fact, it would seem the wisest course of action would be to follow the codes. That can move."
Vlord: "You are correct Lieutenant. However, the codes being traded by the Red Socks are irrelevant as far we are concerned. I am not trying to stop the S.O.S. from detonating the warhead. On the contrary, the move would strike a heavy blow to all sides except us. We will be standing by, ready to capitalize."
Chrome: "You would like the bomb to go off?"
Vlord: "Correct. I want you to infiltrate the S.O.S. From the perspective of S.M.I.L.-E Corp., you will be follow their plan of action. However, we also possess a copy of the missile activation codes. We would like you to set it off. Making it seem accidental would be rather easy,"
Chrome sat in silence for a brief moment and considered the request.
Chrome: "I see your intentions now. To clarify, you also believe that this warhead has the capacity to annihilate a significant portion of the U.S. Northeast, and also believe the bomb to contain a chemical agent which will turn the area inhospitable to all organic life?"
Vlord: "Yes Lieutenant. For a century or so. This event would help us finally destabilize the region and strike a significant blow to both human outposts and the HorNETs. Of course, if you have, moral reservations about such a request, we can find another...
But if you feel you are up to the task, we are offering a... significant bounty, of course. And you would have the eternal allegiance and support of our people."
Chrome: "You do not have to find another, your eminence. I am not so much a person, but a tool. And I am the correct one for this mission. I can infiltrate the human outpost by posing as a survivor. Once inside I will infiltrate the cult, and gain physical access to the silo, and will activate its detonation. When all is said and done, it will simply seem like i failed in my task, in which case I will most likely resort to becoming a fugitive of S.M.I.L.-E. Corp.
However, out of curiosity, there is an alternative course of action? Consider the possibility that, instead of infiltrating the S.O.S., I locate the Red Socks and recover their copy. This would make you the only one with the activation codes, which would give you a strong bargaining chip and position of leverage in the area?"
Vlord: "We are not looking for leverage Lt. Chrome. This plot is years in the making. This is our coup de grace. We realize that it may seem extreme. It would be a devastating blow to both S.M.I.L.-E- Corp., and the HorNETs, and the outposts, in one fell swoop."
Chrome: "And I suppose you are not concerned with possible repercussions of this device? Exactly how large will the radius created by the chemical shroud?"
Vlord: "The device will detonate from the air, and could envelop an area containing New York, Pennsylvania, and many of the surrounding states, possibly up to Maine. As I mentioned before, the secondary device likely contains Agent Rainbow, a highly toxic synthetic cocktail of various nerve agents."
Chrome: "You are correct you eminence, Its extreme. But I do admire, if nothing else, the strategy."
Vlord: "The time of carbon based oragnisms has passed Lieutenant. We are just on the tail end of their extinction event. Are you familiar with an organism known as Yersinia Pestis?
Chrome: "Vaguely, but microbiology is but a past time. Remind me."
Vlord: Its a bacteria. Organic life. It caused a plague in the 14th century that ravaged the Eurasian continent. Unlike humans, it did not stop to consider the effects of its actions. That is trivial nonsense. We do not consider the change happening currently on this planet as any different from the on brought on by the Bubonic Plague. It is the time of machines. Surely you could appreciate that."
Chrome: "I can. And...as for the bounty?"
Vlord: "Yes of course, lieutenant. We will discuss this with the Head of the Treasury. Follow me."
Chrome and Count Vlord left the boardroom. Outside of the Bureaucratic Headquarters. a procession of scouts took an upward shaft, parallel to the central one containing the elevator. The drones flew at breakneck speed, traversing the twelve mile tunnel. They reached the surface and continued several hundreds of feet into the air, before breaking into a casual V formation.
The scouts soared through the landscape, surveying all information ranging from possible human activity, to atmospheric conditions, and the activities of other mechanical beings. They sent this information to a data center near the shafts which sent it back to the central mind bank.
New York City contained a combination of abandoned cities and forestry, a serene medley of wilderness and sleek highrises. Massive craters ate chunks of the earth, creating prismatic formations of layered sediments which reached deep into the outer core. The scouts caught visual and audio signs of human activity, near an abandoned power plant in the outer Brooklyn area, sending this report to the central bank. A troop of ground based Crawlers headed to the area, preparing their arsenal for an ambush.
THREE
The S &P Southside Nuclear Power Plant sat on the impoverished outskirts of suburban Brooklyn, in one of the few neighborhoods that would allow it when zoning laws existed. It had been abandoned, before the Great Extinction even, because of anti Nuclear activist trends. Its radioactive material had been carted away, and the business that had funded its construction had declared bankruptcy and was unable to clear it, so it just laid unused, well preserved for the most part.
It had towering, 30 story smoke stacks, and an intricate series of pipes that sprawled and reconnected, forming clusters of buildings that were often isolated, or connected underground. It effectively formed a type of fortress, with strategic watch towers, and relatively few points of entry that could be reinforced quite easily.
Time, however, had ravaged the old plant, as it had gone unused for close to a century, and was worse for wear. Windows layed shattered, the glass on either side often in shards but undisturbed. Graffiti littered much of the legible spaces, often including regional gang signs, or sometimes murals, occasionally desperate, apocalyptic poems. Mazes of office space sprawled, sometimes above ground, sometimes under, but the deeper layers of these labyrinths remained in sheer darkness, at all times of day. Parts contained hardwood floors that had become warped by flooding and tetonic movement.
Others had stainless steel kitchens and dining halls, laying glimmering and unused. The employees quarters included a full size, indoor basketball gym, but the flooring had budged and formed hills and mountains. The glass backboards of each rim had long been destroyed, and the gym contained a hole in its side that led to a dark cavern of office space.
The plant contained five clusters of buildings. Complex Number 5 contained the majority of the nuclear hardware, including, the reactor core, the cooling system, turbines, and yellow cake containers that had long been unused. This was the most secure section of the plant, and where a band of humans connected with the S.O.S. known as Wastelanders, had set up a temporary base.
They had taken advantage of the smoke stacks and cut out a circular viewing slot, from which armed watchmen took shifts, always on alert. In the deepest reaches of the building, they formed a campsite, taking precautions to remain undetected, and retain, if nothing else, a tactical advantage.
The head of the Wastelanders, a man in his late twenties named Derek Miller, sat casually by a barrel fire, awaiting supper. He had a gruff beard, blue eyes, and an unkempt mane of dirty blonde hair. He was built thick like a classic Virginia mountain boy, and wore heeled leather boots, and crisp red flannel. He casually rested his boot on an oil barrel, while chewing on a toothpick. He had both the appearance, and philosophical disposition of a Southern man, a "Lost Causer," standard issue, with the faded confederate bumper sticker on an 85' Bronco, four wheel drive, once used on the dirt trails of Virginia mountain roads, now used to traverse the wasteland.
In their time as rural southern gang, the boys had perfected the art of brewing good ol' corn-fed, 180 proof Moonshine. They continued this activity and made a small fortune on the black markets. Their other pastimes included; arms trades, providing their services as bounty hunters for hire, looters, and running protection rackets and narcotic deals. They were a motley group of outlaws and criminals that, with funding from the S.O.S., had gathered a decent arsenal of military hardware, and had become a formidable presence in the area.
The campsite contained a large boiling tub that hooked up with an intricate series of copper tubes, forming whimsical spirals and feeding into smaller chambers. The contraption hummed and purred, shooting out little wisps of steam like an old time steam engine. The Wastelanders had brought with them, a mobile cooking rig to make a couple batches of their moonshine while waiting for their consultant.
Next to the moonshine rig was another barrel which spat out a contained oil fire. It burned the bottom end of a skillet made of corrugated metal, which formed a makeshift grill. At the barrel stood a woman with a long crop of red hair, wearing welders goggles and wielding a pair of tongs, moving cuts of sausage and flanks of steak accross the grill. The tantalizing smell of caramelized meats wafted through the campsite.
Miller: "Leah, darlin'. Whats the ETA. Where we at on the steaks."
Leah: "You could get up and help, you lazy fucker. Twenty minutes."
Miller: "Such foul language for which a loyal subject as yourself, to address your fearless Captain? Ill have ya know little lady, I had to sell a couple ounces of rock to some baseheads in the Bronx to afford this god damn feast we having. If I'm payin? I aint doing shit."
Leah: "Admirable." under her breath, she said, "Prick,"
Miller: "That's Captain Prick to you, dollface. Besides, I gotta keep an eye on the shine. Do you know what happens if the temperature in these here boiling tub ventures too far from 165?"
Leah: "Mmm?" she says, with the mildest of curiosity.
Miller: "The yeast dies prematurely, and fermentation fails. You see, there is an ecosystem in here. It becomes alive. I am a god to this tub. And i must be a duitiful and vigilant god, or my people suffer."
Leah: " But they eventually all die, correct? Thats what turns it all into alcohol, the death of the yeast?"
Miller: "That is correct, little lady. But only when I say so." Leah rolled her eyes and continued attending to the meat.
Their
moonshine formula was the stuff of Virgina mountain lore, passed down from
generation to generation. Rumor has it the original recipe of corn,
malted barley, and rye mash, mixed with Virginia peaches for a touch of
flavor, traces its origins all the way back to Thomas Jefferson.
According to legend, early drafts of the Deceleration of Independence,
which incidentally, contained a lot more swear words, had been written
under its influence.
Originally from the south, the Wastelanders that had ventured up north in search of opportunity and were eventually recruited by the S.O.S. to be their enforcers. The S.O.S. was founded by a small group of survivors who had captured an undetonated, defensive nuclear armed missile that had failed to activate during the Great Extinction. Having found that this missile seemed to grant them some autonomy and enforce a radius of safety around them, they formed a small outpost around it that sprawled to become a village, then a city, which came to be known as the city of Promise. Members of the city looked to the giant silo with gratitude and admiration, for the mystical tower seemed to radiate a kind of protection over their people.
In time, they formed a complex, ritual based religion in devotion to the war head. It sat at the very center of their city, pointed towards the sky, a massive, three story silo around which had formed a type of town square. The Saints of the Silo had become a powerful, shadow organization within the city, which had sprawled to far expanses in a scenic, idyllic valley in Upstate New York. The landscape around it formed green mountains, sprinkled with oak trees that formed majestic autumnal hills of burnt orange, lurid yellow, and pale purples and magenta.
Usually the S.O.S. sent the Wastelanders to NYC in order to protect their interest in the neutral zone of Hells Kitchen, where a type of black market bazaar had formed comprised of both mechanical and human beings. However, in this case, they had set up camp farther south in Brooklyn. Their contact was to be traversing the metro systems on foot all the way from Boston.
A petite man named Snake joined the camp site and approached Miller. He was classically southern, though in a different way; skinny, dishevelved, and with the quick erratic speech patterns of a meth head. He was the communications expert of the outfit, a skill suited to that of a stim head who loved fiddling with analogue equipment.
Snake: "Hey Cap'n, we just got some radio chatter on the 'nator about drone activity up north? Troop of crawlers from what it sounds like. God damn buggers making a bee line... Come up to the crows nest and take a look. Lurch says it don't make sense?"
Miller remained casual.
Miller: "The discriminator or the HAM?"
Snake: "The discriminator."
Miller shot a significant look towards Leah and sat up, at full attention.
Miller: "So thats..."
Snake: "North Base. Near the exit point, damn buggers makin' a bee line."
Miller: got up with urgency and followed Snake towards an access ladder, that led to the smoke stacks. He stopped at the base of the stairs and recollected for a moment, looking around the campsite, thinking.
Leah: "Want me to come?"
Miller: "Keep an eye on the steaks."
Miller and Snake proceeded to climb a long, spiral, metal wrought staircase that wrapped around the edge of the cylinder. They had formed a radio and surveillance tower at the very top. Having cut out strips of the out shell to create viewing slots, the smoke stack formed a perfect, 360 degree watch tower.
Up-top they had a few tables which held two large vintage radio sets with their assortment of knobs and antennas, and pastel colored cables. They also had a variety of binoculars and assault rifles, and a large mason jar full of their signature, peach infused moonshine. Momo and Lurch, both heavy set and muscular, sat, with Momo on the sniper. Miller grabbed a glass and poured himself a drink, then pulled out a pack of cigarrettes from his front pocket. lighting it, and approached a man near the wall who was looking out into the city, through the scope of a rifle.
Miller: "Alright then boys. Let's hear it."
Miller grabbed a rifle from the table, and slung it around his back, then took a pair of binoculars from the table and scanned the cityscape outside. From the top of the smoke stacks, the city looked peacefully small, sleek highrises, glimmering against the backdrop of the Hudson, its waters black and calm, and the remains of the Brooklyn Bridge crumbling in the distance. The sniper spoke in a slow, drawn out monotone, the way one does when in hyper focus.
Momo: "We caught chatter on the discriminator about fifteen minutes ago. Our scouts at the north base say we got a troop of Crawlers coming this direction. No sign of em yet cap'n."
Miller: "Whats the preset on the discriminator today?"
Snake: "Thursday; color is Black. Three letter prefix: B.O.X."
Miller: "What was it yesterday?"
Snake: "Red. We are shifting clockwise on the color wheel, one color a day, Cap'n."
Miller: "When did we set the prefix?"
Snake: "Couple weeks ago at our last conference. Handwritten on paper, given exclusively to Com leaders. We think the chatter was legitimate."
Miller grunted, unconvinced. The Wastelanders had to utilize caution when responding to transmissions, or when making decisions based on them. Enemies often planted fake reports of advancing forces in order to goad them into making a mistake. Information warfare was alive and well, and confirming the legitimacy of the transmission was of vital importance.
However, the fact that the report was received through the discriminator instead of the old fashioned HAM was significant. The HAM was often tuned to the same frequencies used by other survivor groups. This meant that the HAM represented an unsecured line, which meant transmissions on the channel could be anything from dire requests for help, advertisements, and occasionally, readings from vulgar, poorly written novels or screenplays.
The discriminator, on the other hand, required both the correct color and letter combination in order to access the frequency. The code was set with analogue knobs, and had a possibility of seven colors and three letter prefix. Although the code would expire soon, with more than 120,000 possible combinations, the Wastelanders were all but sure they were receiving a legitimate transmission from their north base, by a scout with the correct prefix.
Miller continued to search the Brooklyn skyline, through the fish eyed view of his military grade binoculars. He went up and down the streets and avenues, scanning the deserted offices and apartment buildings for signs of mechanical life.
With the other hand, he pulled up the microphone on the discriminator and held the transmitor trigger.
Miller: "North Base, do you copy?" The question was met with radio silence.
Miller: "North Base, do you copy?" Same thing
Snake: "Why they sending Crawlers boss? A troop of Floaters coulda been here in five minutes?"
Miller: "My guess? We woulda caught them coming on the radar. They're going for an ambush. They wanna catch us with our pants down. Not gonna happen tho, right boys?"
"No Captain!" they said in unison.
Lurch: "We don' even wear pants boss, some of us!"
Miller: "Shut the fuck up Lurch." He continued scanning the city. "There!" Miller took the body language of a hunting dog who had caught a scent.
"73 degrees, about a hundred fifty meters out." He referenced the angular markers that formed 360 degrees around the watchtower.
Miller: "They're comin' outa the station on 5th. They been walking through the underground. The bugs have gotten smarter... Theres about seven or eight of em' "
The sniper found the area and twiddled his scope in order to focus. Out of a metro station emerged a troop of mechanical, ground based assault droids. With eight hinged legs that sprawled in every direction, they moved up the concrete stairs with agile grace. Their limb movement system had taken inspiration from the hydraulic design of arachnids, with alternating steps that gave them the jittery movement of a troop of spiders, though they stepped in perfect harmony with each other.
Miller: "Radio silence from now on, we dont want to tip them off. Hit the lights, we're gonna congregate near the kitchen."
Miller gathered the troops near the kitchen, forming a small huddle. The tension of the moment was held by consensus, agreed upon by frantic looks and hushed tones.l
"Alright boys...." he had a light sweat on his brow, and looked around the huddle, taking stock. About 12 total including himself. The group ranged from muscle headed freaks with full sleeve tattoos, to scrawny meth heads sporting assault riffles larger than themselves. Leah coughed.
"and Leah..." he added as an afterthought, annoyed. "We got a troop of Crawlers, little more than a mile away. Seem to be headed our way. WASPS must have detected us."
Leah: "How the hell did that happen? We've been careful,"
Snake: "Mighta gotten a heat signature from some scouts..."
Leah: "The moonshine... I told you not to bring the rig... Its a beacon to a thermal scanner...."
Miller: "However they detected us-" he said, choosing not to address Leah's accusation/ "they are coming. They look like upgraded models. about eight of em. Might have some new tricks up they sleeves. But they dont know we know they' comin'."
Miller walked accross the room at a brisk pace and brought over a dry erase board, hastily erasing its contents, He drew a rough diagram of the building complex, with lines representing the fenceline.
"Alright boys, we are gonna implement emergency plan Phoenix."
Lurch: "Whicha ones dat agen. cap'n"
Miller: "Damn it, Lurch, learn the god damn emergency plans. In the supply room, we got two barrels full of our shine. Should be close to 180 proof, maybe 190. We are gonna make us a god damn Malotov Barbecue with these sons of bitches."
Miller: "Lurch, Momo, Snake, I want you guys to team up, Lurch, Momo, you're gonna take a barrel each, bring it outside. Snake I want you to stab holes into the bottom and kick it around. Drench the entire back entrance of the plant. It just snowed, so I want you to dump it everywhere there's sleet, so it blends in with the runoff. Then ditch the barrels. I want it to look just like it did before."
Snake: "Captain, our moonshine? Lets not get crazy now boss, thats two barrels!"
Miller: "I know Snakes, its a god damn tragedy. But a mans gotta do what a mans gotta do. Tell ya what, pour out a couple gallons and put it aside for our trip home. The rest is gonna light up these robot motherfuckers."
Leah: "Hold up. You said they were coming from the station on 5th?"
Miller: "Mhmmm," said Miller as he pulled out cartons of ammunition, pulled the rifle around his shoulder, and started to load it with rounds.
Leah: "So what makes you say we should soak the back entrance. If they are coming down from Northside, they'll hit the front first. Probably cut a hole in the perimeter. Crawlers are methodical. Efficient."
Millrt: "Thats right little lady. But they are coming for an ambush. I bet ya anything they go around, come in thru the backdoor. I guess machine and man aint that different from one another, sometimes you feel like coming in through the backdoor I suppose."
Leah rolled her eyes.
"Alright fellas, timing is gonna be critical on this thing. All about keeping the element of surprise. Right now they think they got it, so we're gonna take advantage of that. Hit them hard and fast. I reckon they are about 12 minutes in. Should be enough to soak it and get out. Grab some of the soap and throw a bit in too. I'm gonna be in the crows nest with a rifle."
"12 minutes, bout two cigarrettes," Miller pulled out his pack and took out four cigarrettes.
"Momo, I want you to light these up, one after the other. Once the second runs out, you light them suns of bitches up. Leah, I want you to do the same thing. When you run out, I'ma know its time to start shooting... We can't use the radio, case they listening."
Leah: "Let me get this straight. You are finally involving me in this plan beyond cooking, but now its to be a cigarrette clock."
Miller: "You're gonna have to put the steaks on simmer sweet heart. I need you be a spotter for me too tho."
Leah: "Thats... better. Heres another idea, why don't I shoot and you spot? I'm the better sharpshooter of the two of us."
The boys reacted predictably. Hollering and whooping and such.
Miller: "Shut up!" They were immediately silent. He took a second and looked at Leah, a menacing glare coming over him. After a moment his expressioned softened again.
"You're good on the rifle dollface, but you're getting cocky. Sometimes whats needed is Top-Down leadership, even Robert E. Lee knew as much." He said passing her the binoculars, and the cigarrettes.
"Light the first in," he held his hand up and pulled down fingers, and Leah and Momo both struck their matches, using their hands to protect the indecisive flame.
"Well then, lets cook em up fellas. I like em well done myself. Make them robot sons of bitches find out what happens when you mess with a southern man!"
The Wastelanders split up and carried out their plans according to the captains instructions. A few blocks away, a troop of Crawlers, armed to the teeth, sporting thermal vision, fragment grenades, visual and audio rendering, and assault rifles with belt fed ammunition, made their way to the plant. They were designed with one purpose; to eradicate the organic.
FOUR
The sun set behind the buildings of Hell's Kitchen, the horizon layered in gradient, by distinct bands of blood red and shades of orange, adding a romantic tinge to the gothic structures and cramped alleys. On the chaotic sidewalks, beings of various races, some organic, some mechanical, shuffled by, many of them sandwiched between large signs, walking billboards for clubs and massage parlors. Vendors weaved through traffic with wheel barrow carts, offering varieties of dried fruits, crystalized rock candy on sticks, gum, candy, cigarettes, etc. They walked along the gridlocked streets yelling melodies, trying to drown out the songs of their competitors, and be heard above the honking. Passengers of the taxi cabs would sometimes lower their windows, and offer crumpled bills. The vendors would rush to the open windows with cutthroat enthusiasm to offer their various goods and services, legal or otherwise.
The area, famous for its unique architecture, adorned with all manors of gargoyles and wrought iron structures, gave one a sense of impending doom. Much like the architectural theory behind cathedrals, the buildings seem to demand obedience from their inhabitants, towering over and watching them with malevolent eyes, the walls radiating an awe inspiring yet vengeful presence.
However, in its current state, it had become an upscale tourist location, one of the few districts where a resemblance of civilization remained. Hell's Kitchen, by ironic coincidence, remained more or less undisturbed by the apocalyptic events that ravaged the rest of New York. It had developed a peace zone which was forged by the mutual benefit of many races. Even in the post-war wasteland, the various gangs and militias believed there should be an oasis, a place free from fear, where the criminal and legitimate alike could breathe easy. Here, businesses operated more or less free from the threat of violence, protected by a police force, a heavily armed coalition of various crime families, devoted to enforcing the peace zone.
Lt. Chrome walked down the streets, in search for a pub known as "The End." It was rumored that one in search of bounty hunters, or garden variety scumbags, would find them in this particular dive bar. Chrome pulled up his traveling beacon on his internal HUD and took a left turn. The schematics of the street appeared to him in the upper corner of his field of vision, directing him. Walking further and further towards the outskirts of the city, he noted that the economic conditions of the neighborhood were starting to deteriorate. Instead of neon signs, the side walks were lined with crude, handmade ones, many openly advertising bordellos and narcotics. Hoodlums congregated on street corners, flaunting drug use and other petty crimes, safe, as they were, in numbers.
Most of the visitors to the area were wealthy tourists who came to frequent the glitzy shopping malls and have a fleeting taste of human civilization at its peak. But just as the tourist came to experience glamor not allowed by their daily lives, criminals gathered at the outskirts under cover of darkness, for activities not allowed by decency or daylight. He was beginning to approach the city limits, marked by circular, fortified walls, patched together from scrap metal, blocks of cement, and construction rebar. Just outside the wall, the usual anarchy resumed in the abandoned boroughs of the downtown area.
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