Part 1

Standing on the helicopter landing area of the air base, Reisman looked up as the Apache flew over the base, fast and low. The downdraft from its rotors blew the litter from the landing pad as the deafening throb of the engines echoed across the tarmac. The dark glass of the windshield glinted in the bright hot sun as the 'copter set down gently on the sunbaked landing pad, undercarriage groaning as it took the weight of the helicopter.
Technicians, mechanics and landing crew ran over to the machine as the rotors slowed. The downdraft of the rotors plucked at the tight overalls of the mechanics as they dragged a fuel line over and attached it. Riesman turned and limped inside, looking at the war machine sitting, squat and powerful, on the black tarmac. He turned away suddenly, angrily, the helicopter seeming to mock him as he limped inside.

The pilot of the Apache, Michael Zewer looked at the retreating back of Reisman through the thick armoured windshield. Unwanted, targeting information and feedback flashed up onto his HUD, the IR image of the man blurred with heat rising off the landing pad. Annoyed, Zewer flicked the eyepatch-like HUD up onto his combat helmet.
Poor Captain Reisman, he thought.

Around the base, the green, lush, and somehow slightly alien countryside of the area once known as Glasgow rippled in the light wind.

The CORE Colony Ship 00-22-109, better known as the CCS Barathrum, sliced smoothly through space, the three gigantic fusion engines pouring plasma out of the drive nozzles while the raw material, hydrogen, was sucked in through the front of the craft via a massive magnetic scoop. The rest of the ship's hull was entirely made of water ice, gathered from a thousand comets and asteroids by long-range nanolathes, the frozen structure pitted and scarred from myriad micrometeorite impacts over the years.
As the ship drifted through space, now decelerating after its journey of almost three thousand years, an asteroid floated into the path of the ship, passing within metres of the midsection housing the maintanance Kbots. A thin, almost invisible laser beam lanced out from a periscope-like robotic arm, vaporising a little of the asteroid. The arm launched a small grapple, the nanofilament line behind the mechanised grappling hook glinting in the light from distant stars.
Juddering as the grapple struck it, the asteroid was gently pulled into the ship while the robotic arm retracted into its protected capsule.
Minutes later, the icy hull was just a little bit larger...

Zewer walked into the Temple of the Ancients and dedicated a small prayer to the Rocket Scientist, kneeling before the monolithic altar decorated with the image of the Science Gods. The Rocket Scientist was there in the picture, one pincered hand holding an Apache and the other holding a thermonuclear missile. The tall, metallic Iron Man was there as well, and the slim, willowy and slightly alien form of the Mother Breeder. At the top was the flying image of the Explorer, forever searching for new heights. But over them all towered the spectre of The Metropolis, the Scientist of the City.
As he stared at the gods, the bell for dinner came and he hastily packed up his flightsuit into his backpack, hoisting it onto his leather-jacketed back. He ran to the dining hall...he musn't be late - it was his Dedication today!

Reisman heard the bell stop as he lunged for the doorhandle. He swore silently and ran along the short corridor, flat Habitat slippers slapping on the hard floor as he raced towards the closing door of the dining hall. Why hadn't he heard the bell?
He knew the answer without even thinking - he had been Out again. It was getting worse these days, the periods of nothingness. They were lasting longer and were more frequent. He cursed whatever freak of chance that had brought him into being like this - disabled and dishonoured by a faulty mind.
He reached the door just as the last latecomer dived through and turned to grin ruefully at the door-holder. His face fell when he realised it was Zewer...that goody-goody could do with a lesson, he thought, as Zewer retuned the grin with a wide smile of his own. Zewer slammed the tall doors and ran to his seat as the big brass gong rang and the Habitat Engineer walked into the room.
The entire room fell silent as the tall man silenced the gong with his hand and started to dedicate a prayer to the Breeder. Reisman bent but kept his eyes open, not praying but watching Zewer opposite him. Pious ponce, he thought. Zewer was silently moving his lips, eyes shut and a smile on his face. He looked utterly sincere, like always. Reisman gritted his teeth as the prayer finished with a chorus of "Amen!". He bent to his food.

Inside the cavernous belly of the Barathrum, military units stood or parked, lifeless and deactivated. Although their weapons were safely stowed inside the units they still looked as lethal as they always did, the tanks squatting on the metal, icily-rimed floor near to the tethered Kbots. No decay had occurred during their millenia of storage, nothing disturbing the rest of the war machines.
Almost at the very end of the ship, near the huge fusion chambers, five massive mainframes slumbered, only a single AI running the entire colony ship. Inside the megacomputers slept millions of lifes, thoughts, dreams...millions of people Patterned for the long journey through space. Undisturbed by anything but the whisper-silent conveyors feeding powdered ice into the fusion chambers to make plasma, the minds waited for the time when they would be needed again.

The genetically-engineered plants were being tended by the metal servants of the Breeders. The robots moved slowly over the soil, scanning a plant here, sampling a leaf there, as the light overseer plane hovered overhead. Jets held up the lightweight body of the aircraft, buffeted by the gentle breeze.
A few hundred metres away, the airbase sat, square metal-and-permacrete buildings gllittering in the bright sunlight. Not far from the base, the massive metal circle that was the door to the Habitat was partially concealed by vegetation, but it was wide open as the Habitat's inhabitants took advantage of the warm sun.
The overseer plane moved off almost silently, its stubby wings tilting as the arrowhead body, scarcely ten centimetres long, moved over the pool. Under the warm blue waters, more Breeders were busy in the hydroponics farms making food for the colony. Swimmers slid into the water from the steep banks or dived cleanly from a rock outcrop. All in all it was a beautiful sight.

Part 2

Hrax punched the cat-like achtral in the muzzle and it leapt away, screaming, as he raised his other hand to plunge his heavy, sharpened steel spear into its body. As he readied the strike, he felt a breath of air behind him. He spun, spear still descending, and impaled a rival tribesman who was thrusting a dagger towards him. He pulled the spear out of the writhing body and swung it at the achtral, one end connecting like a club. Something cracked in the creature's head and it slumped to the ground. He quickly looked round to check no-one else was around before plucking his dagger out of its scabbard. The dagger glistened in the sun, its coating of old engine oil slicking the brown glass. Hrax slid it underneath the giant cat's skin, stripping it effortlessly. As he slung the reeking skin over his shoulder he stood up, sniffing the air. Nothing else was about. Time to go.
The squat, humanoid creature bounded across the ruined city, finally disappearing into a large derelict building, its walls almost black with carbon. Hrax sheathed the dagger and grabbed a pipe with his long, lanky arms, quickly scaling it to his nest above. As he reached a hole in an internal wall, he removed the animal skin and threw it through before leaping into the hole himself. Quickly he undressed, removing the toolbelt with its knives and the spear which he had slung across his back. The skin went into a freezer which he had rigged up on one wall, already almost full. Hrax looked in and grinned; he would have to sell the skin soon. More money!
He flicked a small lump of concrete across the room, hitting the TV's on switch dead-centre. It flickered into life, the flat screen showing the view from the roof. Hrax spoke, his creaky voice sounding loud in the empty building.
"TV, channel twenty. Volume six."
The picture flickered again, now showing almost nothing. In the centre of the screen was a small rectangle of light, and beyond that was the city. As Hrax fiddled with a control box, the view started moving, the rectangle growing onscreen as a throbbing noise echoed across the car-strewn street far below. He ran to the window just in time to see his remote controlled aeroplane emerging from the window far above and plunging towards the ground.
Hrax laughed, a clear, bell-like sound, and pushed a joystick upwards. The plane swooped towards the grey sky, propeller a solid circle as the plane ploughed through the air. As it disappeared from view, Hrax picked up a pair of goggles from an old, tattered sofa. Handling them almost reverentially, he fitted them to his eyes, gritting his teeth with concentration as the neural interface read his brainwaves, converting them to radio signals.
At the moment, one eye was showing the cloudy grey sky, not moving, and the other eye showed computer readouts. Hrax ignored them and thought: Both!
The view switched to a binocular image, both eyes now filled with the image of the sky. He tried to move his arms and the view tilted downwards. The neural interface was reading directly. Good. Now he could begin.
Hrax checked his fuel before increasing speed. The plane shot forwards as the small booster jet in its rear lit up, pushing the small aircraft through the sky. The cameras showed the city below, and Hrax spotted a gang of Roamers riding through the streets. He banked and sideslipped, losing altitude rapidly. The plane dropped like a stone, and soon Hrax could see the biker gang clearly. It was the Freestones, realised Hrax with a shudder. The achtral-skin jackets showed the flaming boulder design that all the city-dwellers had come to fear. With horror, Hrax noticed that each one of the improvised motorcycles and motortrikes had its weapons out, ready for combat. Someone was going to get seriously messed up that night.
As one of the Freestoners heard the plane and looked up, Hrax pulled up sharply. Not quick enough - a machine-gun swivelled towards the sky and a hail of tracers leapt towards the fragile aircraft. He could hear the splintering of his painstakingly crafted boards, as the engine detached from the main plane. Fuel spurted out of the rear of the aircraft, crystal droplets falling towards the ground as fire roared from the fuel tanks. Hrax hurriedly disconnected and degeared, pulling off his goggles. He could hear the machine-gun firing in the distance, then it stopped. He swore violently. That plane had been six months work! Then he froze. Now he knew who the Freestones were coming for. He had to get to Poul quickly!

Poul looked up as Hrax clambered through the window. Sweat-slicked from his rooftop scramble, Hrax ran up to Poul.
"You've gotta get out of here, man! The Freestones are coming for you!" The expression on Hrax's face made Poul shudder.
"God, what's up with you? What's this about the Freestones?" Poul looked at his friend worriedly.
"I told you. The Freestones are coming! They shot down Little Bess, too."
Poul cursed. "Where am I meant to go? All I have is here."
"I dunno, just get out of here! I'll come with you if you like, but I'm not risking you being killed. Get your furnace and come with me. We'll need Big Bess..."
"That far to save my life, huh?" Poul dragged his squat iron furnace out of its place in an alcove cut into the wall, heaving it onto his back. He picked up two thick leather straps from a nearby table and wrapped them round the furnace, before motioning Hrax to the alcove, now emptied of its main occupant. Hrax peered into the deep hole, mystified.
Suddenly he straightened up. "My God, Poul, where'd you get them?" He held up the two heavy machine-guns, resting them on the floor with a thump.
Poul grinned weakly. "I had an idea I would need them someday. After all, I might need them to fight the people I took them off. Why do you think the Freestones are coming after me?"
"You took these off of the *Freestones*?"
"Yes! They bring them in for repair. But recently one of them didn't pay me, so he left."
"Let me guess. He left...with about two hundred bullet holes in him?"
Poul grinned. "How did you know? Anyway, his battletrike was about the heaviest armed in the whole gang. Besides them, I've got two rocket launchers and a few mines, too."
Hrax gasped. It was more weaponry than he had ever seen. "Makes my spear and dagger look pretty primative!"
"Are you coming or not? You were the guy who wanted me out, after all."
Hrax seemed to remember what he was doing and slung the guns over his back, staggering momentarily under their weight. He dove back into the alcove and came out with the rocket launchers, plus a box of ammuntion which he added to his load. Finally, they walked next door.
"Thanks for keeping Big Bess for me, Poul."
"No problem. After all, I do depend on you to defend me, sort of."
"Well, this time you really do..."
"Come on, let's get going!"

As the sun set, the sound of huge engines resonated across the wide street. Twenty battletrikes screeched to a stop outside the tall building, just in time to see a smoke trail leading across the sky, with the rumble of a jet engine following seconds later. Big Bess was on her way out of there.
A single gang member noticed two smaller smoke trails heading towards the gang, and tapped the leader nervously on the shoulder. But he was much too late...

Poul grinned evilly at the explosion far below. He touched the controls and two more rockets slid into position on the launchers. As he whooped in delight, Hrax turned in the front seat and smiled widely at him.
"My favourite pastime," Poul said. "Smashing baddies. Preferably with the biggest weapons available."
"Well, don't waste too many rockets. We've only got three more, not counting those ones you've got in there."
"I can rig some more up from the landmines. Maybe ten or twelve more rockets, as long as we don't want any more mines."
"How many mines have we got left, anyway?"
Poul glanced at the metal box beside him. "Well, we've got two anti-tank mines, about six anti-vehicle ones and sixteen anti-personnel nailmines. Oh, and two runway denial mines. I can't do anything with the RDs, though. Not enough explosive. Now the nailmines...they would be fun to tip a rocket with."
"Jesus, man, you are *evil*!"
"No, I just like to protect myself..." Poul grinned.
"While killing as many others as possible, ya?"
"You know me too well, Hrax!"
 

Part 3

The plasma quickly cooled into tiny water droplets in the darkness of space, as the massive thrusters deactivated. For the first time in hundreds of years, the hull of the gargantuan ship was not illuminated by the glow of the plasma, the white-hot gases lighting up the ship's skin like fireworks in the silky blackness of the vacuum.
Inside the ship, two fusion reactors shut down, venting their last supplies of plasma through the thrusters in a final splutter. Then everything was silent, disturbed only by the muted roar of the third, and smallest, reactor. But elsewhere in the ship, a long-sleeping entity awoke...

Pattern CBCS(CCS Barathrum Colony Ship)-23578807 woke with a start. She checked her systems and sighed with relief. Nothing was wrong. She was where she was meant to be. It was just like the simulations had said. CBCS-23578807, better known as Lucy, looked out of her armoured shell at the planet she was speeding towards. Somehow it didn't seem worth the millenia of waiting.
She'd heard that the CORE had originated from this planet, but that was a load of meat, according to her tutors. The CORE were from CORE Prime, and nowhere else. Of course, she'd had suspicions, so she looked it up one day.
She had been shocked to discover that the CORE were indeed from Earth, but not as shocked as she was when she found where their ancient enemy was from, too. The terrorists called the Arm were also from Earth? What had happened to them to make them leave? To this day she pondered that.
But no time for pondering, she told herself with the brisk efficiency that had got her promoted. Time for some action. Lucy snapped on the ship-wide systems, and throughout the ship, lights flickered into life while air slowly flooded the compartments. In seconds, the ancient ice that had formed on walls and floors melted, turning into a mixture of water and other chemicals.
While the mainframes were busy booting up, Lucy ran a variety of diagnostics on her systems.
Let's see now...
/Fusions, A-OK.
/All construction units operational, same for dropship launchers.
/Weapons...OK (Lucy shuddered as she thought of the awesome destructive force she possessed) and all fighting units on standby.
/Ready for Pattern transfer...
/Patterns transferred.
/Ready for system-wide consciousness boot-up.
/Boot-up commenced...
In the myriad compartments and hangers around the massive ship, units juddered into reluctant life. KBots flexed their stiff limbs, memcomposite warming up after millenia of disuse. Tanks rolled back and forth on still-frozen treads, the ice snapping and crackling as it was shattered.
/Boot-up finished.
/Colony ready for deployment. Welcome to Earth, Lucy.
Lucy did a virtual double-take. Surely that couldn't be right?
/Well, how do you like it? Is it worth the wait?
Lucy linked into the mainframe.
}Ian? Is that you?
/Who else would it be?
The image of a grin floated into Lucy's mind, and she sent her own image back.
}Hey, I didn't think I would see you until we landed!
/I...persuaded the systems to let me out.
}Ian! You know fine well you're not allowed to use your special skills in here!
/I also know fine well that I never take any notice of what I'm allowed to do.
Lucy laughed. Ian was one of her best friends, but he was completely irresponsible - the opposite to her.
}Well, let's see what we can do...

Thirty bays opened in the front of the ship, now almost stationary relative to Earth. Inside, dropships were being readied for launch, three to every launch bay. As the ship fired boosters to align itself, the dropships floated free of their parent. Each contained one construction vehicle plus an assortment of other combat units. The largest contained twenty Advanced Construction Vehicles, equipped with all normal nanolathe patterns plus the blueprints for three extra facilities - an orbital communications device, an orbital shuttle factory - and a Surface-to-Orbit missile launcher. The CORE were taking no chances...
A cloud of Vamps poured out of bays further along the ship, along with smaller space vehicles and space construction units. Spacefighters - Thunderheads - roared from the rear of the mothership, quad jets flaming and laying streaks of cold vapour across the sides of the ship.
Finally everything was ready.
}Now, let us start.

Part 4

Sorry, I just realised that the Thunderheads have miraculously switched sides! But I'll make allowances, since I like them. You'll just have to bear it. [grin]

Note: As for slang and terms used, here's a small explanation.
Meat - a swearword. As the CORE obviously consider the Arm's flesh boadies to be below their much better ones, "meat" is a term very like our "sh!t". You get the point. Plus I can type it without triggering the filter!
Simtime - the CORE's currency. This is time on the massive mainframe simulators. All units have computers built in, but only the mainframes can handle totally realistic simulations.
Jacking in - the Arm's term for connecting into a neural interface. Because the Arm soldiers have the interfaces built in they have an external "jackplug" into which the lead from any unit is fitted.
Degearing - to remove VR or neural interface gear. The same as "Jacking out".
Tick - what we'd consider to be an ingame second. In the story it means a standard second. It's really in so I can compare production rates with the game.
I hope these terms aren't too much to remember - I just put them in for clarity.
Final note: For thoughts and interunit comms, I use [,{,},],\ and/. These show that a unit is communicating with another unit by direct link.
----------------------------------------------------

The patterns of CORE Observational Satellite 99189274 gazed in bemusement at the virtual photo that Pattern OSO(Observation Satellite Observer)-92398470 had projected into their consciousness. OSC(Observation Satellite Captain)-32309178, the commanding pattern - not that it meant much in a satellite only three inches across - took over.
OSC-32309178: What's this meant to be? A duststorm?
OSO-92398470: Um...sir...look closer.
OSL(Observation Satellite Lookout)-11192830: I hope that's not what I think it is.
OSC-32309178: What is it, then?
OSO-92398470: I believe it's a cloud of dropships, sir. And Vamps, too.
OSL-11192830: A *cloud* of dropships and Vamps?
OSO-92398470: Well, that's what it looks like from here. Have a look.
[picture zooms in to reveal individual units.]
OSO-92398470: I estimate over 90 dropships, plus six hundred Vamps and three hundred of the larger spacefighters.
OSL-11192830: Isn't the word normally 'fleet'?
OSO-92398470: Fleet? I think 'cloud' seems more appropriate here.
OSC-32309178: I agree...and I also notice that if we don't move soon, we...
[Data recording ends due to hostile action]
The small observation satellite disintegrated as the rocket slammed into it. The Thunderhead that launched the rocket paused long enough to read the fading IFF (Identification Friend/Foe) signal.
]Oops...

PO-22938103 moved into position miles above the Earth, his thrusters shoving the bulky orbital construction vehicle into position. Peter, as he was better known, extended his nanolathe and started work on a Model 1 satellite. The Model 1 was a combined spysat and attack satellite, mounting three tubes of titanium/ceramic tipped uranium bolts. These could be launched at almost any coordinate the M1 drifted over, creating a 'hail' of the bolts. The effect was similar to a Gauss cannon, the bolts achieving speeds of over Mach 15 thanks to their railgun launcher. The M1 was also equipped with a solar collection mesh, the glittering threads spreading over a wide area and providing 250 energy units per tick.
As the M1 was completed, Peter drifted over to assist six other OCVs in nanolathing an orbital spaceyard. As it completed, the long nanolathing arms folded out from the asteroid-like main body and started nanolathing an AOCV. The massive spacecraft's powered skeleton flashed into view as nanobots poured metal onto the wireframe. Within a few ticks the AOCV was ready and activated its manuevering jets, pushing itself out of the spaceyard. The OCVs changed direction and matched speeds with the AOCV, helping it nanolathe.

Martin "Doc" Steele shoved the Thunderhead into a lower orbit, massive orbital engines flaring. The four engines could be used at maximum efficiency as they didn't need VTOL thrust capabilities. The Thunderheads would enver go through the atmosphere, nor would they ever land on anything but a spacecraft carrier. He watched, almost envious, as the Vamps sped towards the Earth below. Suddenly he felt a radar trace sweep over him. He queried its IFF and got no reply.
]Meat...I hope that's just someone who forgot their IFF...
]If that's something else, I am in deep.
]Seriously...
He overlaid the trace onto his display, while he sent a signal to the mothership.
]]Lucy, there's something here. A radar trace.
}}Doc, don't call me Lucy when you're on the job, laughed Lucy.
]]OK...but seriously, there's something here. Look at coordinates x0298309y1036703z620840500. See?
}}What?
The radar trace had gone.
]]It was there...
}}Doc, you're imagining things.
Lucy cut off before he could protest.

In the abandoned AWACS room, a radar screen displayed a mass of blips, and the needle radar was already activated, the centre running on AI control. A klaxon sounded, the overhead light flashing red to attract attention. Thousands of years ago, people would have run in to attend to the screens. But nobody was there any more...

Part 5

The air rushed past the conical dropships as they ploughed through the atmosphere, hulls glowing red-hot. Inside, AK-17729910 was feeling nothing, as usual. Conditioned to feel nothing but the instinct to fight, he didn't feel fear. Around him he saw the other Kbots standing in the stiff posture people tended to use when they were accessing VR. But they had not invited him in, so he never thought to ask.

ZP-08105173 dropped out of the sim, his credit exhausted. The feeling of the Commander frame dropped away and his view changed from the overhead satellite view, with its rows of buttons and tiny, squat units, back into the shaking interior of the dropship. Zack unlocked the controls of his Pyro frame and flexed his stiff arms in the confined space. There was hardly any room - how did the designers of the dropships think that thirty vehicles would fit in them? There was hardly enough room with the Construction vehicle plus fifteen KBots.
]Hey Zach, you there? came the mental signal from Mike, the Pattern who inhabited the Construction Vehicle.
}I'm here alright, he replied. /much rather not be here, though. Oh, for a nice sandy beach and a cool fruit juice.
]Zach, you've never seen a sandy beach in your entire life, unless it was being turned into glass by weapons fire.
}No, I haven't have I? he said, sadly. }I haven't.
]Cheer up, Zach. We'll be on land soon. Terra firma in the real sense.
}Sorry, said Zach. }I'm just depressed. You'd be too, if you were inside a unit which tends to be used as cannon fodder. And I've got an A.K. sitting on my knee, or near enough.
As Mike started to speak, a rumble signalled the activation of the retro-jets, the massive boosters slowing the dropship before its thrusters took over.
]See? We're almost there.

The dropship landed with a heavy jolt, throwing the KBots inside to the floor or sending them careering off the walls. Zach landed on Mike's tread and painfully pulled himself up.
}Oh, we're here. I never realised, he said sarcastically as the loading ramp swung outwards. As the first AK trooped down it, the ramp sunk into the swampy ground by a foot or so. It made a sucking noise.
}We have to go through *that*? This is going to be even worse than I thought.
]Zach, come on! You're making me depressed now!
The Pyro trudged over to the door and down the ramp, thick legs sinking into the marsh as it walked. Zach narrowed his flamer to a thin beam of plasma and aimed it at the ground, but the only result was to create a massive cloud of steam and to create a trench in the ground. He sighed.

Patrick swore under his breath as the stilo rolled off the desk with what sounded like a massive clatter. He bent to pick it up and as he straightened up he saw the beady eye of the examiner on him. Patrick flashed a weak smile at the examiner, who scowled back. Hastily he got on with his work.
Easiest questions first, he thought. Nothing hard or I'll waste time. Oh, here's one I know...
He bent to his work, the stilo seeming to trace his writing onto the flatscreen embedded into the desk and scratched from many years' use. As he continued with the examination, he could hear a booming noise outside. It sounded like weapons fire. A demonstration, he thought disappointedly. Just his luck to be inside on a demo day!

Zach dived behind a small ridge as another flight of old-fashioned bullets sang overhead. He punched through the earth wall and shoved his flamethrower arm through, letting a stream of plasma loose. When he withdrew his arm the hole was baked solid and glassily smooth. All the men were gone now - no more bullets. As he thought that, a small black object flew overhead and impacted on a Can that was waddling towards the military school. The school was simply a few buildings, slightly dilapidated, and a few 'copters and aircraft resting on launch pads. Now, it was the site for a battle...
The shaped charge inside the rocket punched a twelve-inch uranium rod through the Can's head armour, the empty rocket casing clanking off the white slab of armour. The Can wobbled for a second then returned fire, its heavy laser scorching a nearby launch tower.
The tower creaked, the sound turning into a rumble as it toppled. Concrete rained down on a group of Freakers, the light KBots exploding and shattering as the heavy tower smashed down into their midst.
Zach felt an impact on his chest and looked down to see bullets spanging off his reinforced breastplate. His onboard computer calculated their aimpoint just as his breastplate's independent Heavy Armour generator gave up the ghost and the armour plate disintegrated, exploding into uncountable dustmotes which clouded his vision.
Then his vision turned red as klaxons screamed in his mind. His computer sensed him falling unconscious and ejected his AI core, just before his plasma tanks ruptured.
The small cylinder shot upwards, wreathed in smoke and lit by flame, as down below a minature mushrooom cloud erupted through the group of units. The KBots rocked under the blast, and the nearest ones exploded. Then the battle stopped as 20 Apache heavy attack helicopters throbbed over the horizon, flying low and fast. All the lightly-armoured anti-aircraft units had been destroyed early on in the battle, but a single Freaker fired its laser into the air in desperation, downing an Apache. Side doors blew out on the chopper's body and the ejection seats flew out sideways, rocketing upwards once they were clear of the rotor disc. Bullets thudded into the units while explosives lobbed from improvised grenade launchers tossed the KBots around like toy soldiers. Hellfire missiles screamed down from the helicopters, burning their way through any units in their way.
The helicopters stopped firing and the dust cleared. Nothing was left, apart from two parachutes high in the sky, and a single black speck, still curving upwards, containing an entire mind...

Part 6

Reisman let the chaingun clank backwards on its tripod and slumped into the hard metal chair. He looked at the ammo box beside the long, bulky gun - 1500 of 1600 rounds expended. His foot was giving him hell, too. He rubbed his forehead with on rough hand, the greasy skin feeling slack and cold. Outside, the sky was grey with the smoke, and the concrete guard tower was freezing.
Reisman reached behind him for his cup, still lookin out of the window.
"Sh!t!" The coffee cup dropped to the hard floor, shattering into five or so pieces, and the coffee splashed over his trouser leg. Reisman mopped up the mess - yet another of his little comforts gone, too. His last measure of grain spirit had been in that coffee, too. D*mn, he thought, getting painfully up from his chair and limping out of the room onto the battlement-like wall between the two guard towers. A noise from above made him look up, and he saw the small object falling towards him just in time, diving out of the way as the squat padded cylinder thudded down onto the exposed wall.
The cylinder rolled onto his arm and he picked it up, gazing in wonder at the symbols and stripes on it, stencilled in red. He couldn't read the lettering, but he could see the red colouring - the universal colour of danger. Better take this to the Prof.

Professor Tanck examined the capsule minutely, finally conceding that the language was none he had seen before.
"I'll do a computer search on the thing," he said, "but I can't promise any results."
"That's OK with me," said Riesman. "How's things going, anyway?"
"Nothing much up. How's the foot? Still acting up?"
Riesman grimaced. "Uh-huh. I've run out of spirit, too. Giving me hell."
"Well, I can give you something herbal for it, but you're not even meant to touch that spirit without a really good reason."
"Yes, Prof. Don't worry about me, I can handle it."
Tanck handed him a tube of some paste. "I don't know what it is - one of the Breeders said it's good for pain. Something like poppy extract or something."
"OK. I'll see you sometime."
Reisman looked the tube over as he walked out. Just an ordinary grey tube, the kind you got S-rations in. The stuff inside didn't look or smell like the compressed algal composite of the survival rations, though - it smelled slightly sickly, and it tasted bitter. He smeared some on his finger and licked it off. It didn't seem to have any effect for a moment, then he felt a bit light-headed. It seemed to be working, then.

The rhythmic throb of the Apache's engine was muted through Zewer's helmet. He shifted slightly in his uncomfortable G-suit and gazed out of the window. His sight was flicked up and he was just on patrol - one of the most boring jobs in the world.
After the Scientists had analysed the data from the battle, they had come up with solutions. The Apache's weapons had been updated to help pierce the impossibly heavy armour of the alien robots, and the Apache's armour ahd also been updated.
Now the deadliest fighting machine in the world was even deadlier...

The Scientists indeed! God, it was amazing how much these gullible fools believed. The computer would have laughed, but its speakers had broken thousands of years ago. The externals in the "prayer hall" still worked, though...

The fighter was now festooned in weaponry, missiles hanging from every single possible mounting-point. As it shot through the sky, the air rushing through missiles, machine-guns, rocket launchers and missile racks whistled in an eerie high-pitched shrieking. Inside the cockpit, though, Hrax was almost asleep.
For the twenty-third time, he checked the autopilot was on, and the altitude was constant. Behind him in the gunner's seat, Poul was also falling asleep. Maybe going to sleep was not a good idea in the circumstances, he thought, and jerked himself awake, rubbing tired eyes with oil-stained fingers.
"SH!T!!" The plane rocked and pitched as something flew past, the autopilot giving up under the fierce movement. The aircraft started to dive steeply, plunging through the low clouds towards what looked like a  farm colony.
"Poul, wake up!" Hrax turned in his seat, still tugging on the controls while his friend slumbered on. Hrax punched him lightly on the arm. "Poul!"
Still no result. "POUL!!! WAKE UP!"
Poul spluttered and jerked forward, against his webbing. "Sh!t, Hrax, what'd you...ohhh sh!t..."
The plane gradually curved upwards, the controls vibrating under Hrax's hand. He punched the controls and feedback switched off. The joystick was now operating smoothly, but nothing was happening...

Reisman looked up from the side of the runway as the rumble of jet engines sounded above. A slim black shape screamed down on him and he sprinted for the concrete bunker. As he dive through the doorway and landed painfully on the floor,  he could feel the heat on his back. The plane rocketed down the runway, brakes screeching, and as he looked back he could see it slewing across the black tarmac. A massive bang startled him and he looked again. One of the tyres had blown! The plane's nose pitched forwards and almost touched the asphalt before the plane slowed. Sparks spat from the metallic ruin of the wheel and one wing contacted the tarmac, swinging the plane round and off the runway.
It bounced across a field before the landing gear caught on a stone and it flipped over into an algal lake. A massive waterspout of green liquid jetted up, and steam hissed out of the algal pond as the engine cooled down. After a few seconds the plane emerged, completely covered, and bobbed on the surface of the calm lake.

Part 7

[Docu-Diary!]
[Welcome to your new Docu-Diary! This diary will be your constant...]

[OVERRIDE WELCOME READOUT]

[SYNTAX: SQUARE BRACKETS - [] - INDICATE SYSTEM COMMAND, CURLY BRACKETS - {} - INDICATE THOUGHTS AND TILDES - ~ - INDICATE EMOTIONS]

[DIARY MODE]

[ENTER PASSWORD?]
{******}

[PLEASE CONFIRM NEW PASSWORD]
{******}

[PASSWORD CONFIRMED]

[DIARY ENTRY #1]
{Hey there! This is my first entry into my oh-so-brilliant Docu-Diary. Brilliant. At least this one can manage exclamation marks! Sorry. My name's Hrax, Hrax Salmon. Funny name, huh? Well, not really. My...guardian gave it to me, seeing as how I didn't have parents and that.
Currently I am in a plane covered in this green slimy stuff. It does not smell particularly good in here, due to Poul - my friend - not really liking the emergency rations I brought. More to the point, his digestive system doesn't like them. Thank goodness for chemical toilets.
I cannot see out of the windscreen, so I'm kinda peering around the place with my fingertorch - I knew it'd come in handy someday. Almost everything does if ya sit and stare at it enough.
~grin~
Well, loks like Poul's got over his...little discomfort...and the airconditioning is finally working. I can see the bubbles from my wind...&&^&$**%&£@@~%$*
Sorry. Thought processes interrupted by something that sounded like either a giant burp from Poul or us being dragged outa here. I hope it's the second one.
Hrax out
~smile~
Did that sound cheesy to you? To me it did, and it's me who counts here. OK, I'll try again:
-Hrax
Better.}

The twin engines of the winch lorry whined as the massive tyres sqealed over the tarmac. Motors straining against the green gloop of the algae pond, the winch lorry slowly drove forward, the taut and vibrating line still not showing what was on the end of it. As the line moved forward, a green monster emerged from the sludge and waved to Reisman who scowled back. The monster shook its head, algae flying everywhere as it removed its facemask and the grinning face of Michael Zewer peered out at him, wrinkling its nose as the diver detected the smell of the algae.
"Hey Reisman! Give us a hand here, will you?"
Reluctantly, Reisman proffered his hand to the suited figure, noticing the strings of gloop hanging from his hand as Zewer clutched it. Zewer's drysuited hand was sticky and slimy with the algae, and Reisman almost pulled away.
"Come on man, it's only the stuff we eat for dinner!" Zewer grinned at Reisman's discomfort. "Surely your gut can stand that? You look as if you're about to lose your lunch."
"Well, there's not much to lose," he remarked grimly. "A glass of nutrimax and a wafer."
Zewer sighed. "How many times do I need to tell you, you need to eat more!" By now he was standing on the concrete, bits of slime dropping off him. The greenish stuff hit the ground with a wet slapping sound. Reisman recoiled visibly as Zewer shook his leg, the sheet of algae making it look as if his skin was slipping off.
"That stuff, no matter what you say, is absolutely disgusting. I can't believe I eat it." Reisman walked off, shaking his hand and wiping it on his trouser leg. Zewer watched him go, before turning back to the salvage operation. It was looking interesting...

[DIARY ENTRY #2]
{Well, here I am again. It's about 2 minutes after I closed my last entry and we seem to be getting towed out by something. Something big, by the feel of it. A few minutes ago someone attached a towline to our nose, so it's definately a rescue.
I still haven't told myself (hmm...that sounds screwy, doesn't it?) how I came to be in this mess. Well, let's start at the beginning, shall we? I'll introduce myself.
OK, here we go.
I'm Hrax Salmon, general slob, hunter and pilot. These don't seem to go well together, but they do. Believe me - I've been doing them for something like fifteen years. As far as I know, I'm something like about seventeen, but I'm not sure, being abandoned at birth blah blah blah. I grew up in what used to be called New Glasgow, and is now called The Tip, Terrorzone or just the City. It's not a very nice place, what with the animals, the streetgangs and so on.
Anyway, I'm getting off of the track. My friend here, Poul, is an amazing guy with a wrench, or with a welder and soldering iron for that matter. He builds my planes, I fly them. This plane I'm sitting in, though, is no model - Big Bess as I call her is a fully-functional American warplane, I'm not sure what type, with all the kick-ass weapons you can eat for just twelve trals.
Argh! That's the thing about this thought-control stuff, you tend to wander all over the place. Just you try keeping a thought in your head for more than ten minutes! Impossible!
OK, back to basics. Terrorzone as I like to call it was once this freakin' big city, full of people and all that. Big place, too - centre of the world. Well, the people who lived in it were a bit crazy, you might say, and decided we'd all be better off inside these metal shells. It wasn't so bad, I think, 'cos you got to keep your mind and the body was just flesh with metal bits inside. But people didn't like it for some reason.
They flew off to another planet, and the people on this planet just kept pumping all this stuff into the air. The planet started getting worse and worse so the people moved away to somewhere else. I heard tale of this big metal planet in the middle of the galaxy, called Core Prime. Sounds like palari to me - palari as in dung, as in...well, you don't want to hear that sort of stuff. As I was thinking, this planet was kept here, just abandoned. Nothing happened for ages...
Then the shelters opened. People from nuclear shelters all over the planet came out and started to travel all over the place, meeting and doing stuff. Babies were born, stuff happened. I was one of them, you could say. Hrax Salmon, a little abandoned baby in Terrorzone.
Not a nice place for a kid. Look at it this way: there are people out there in the Zone that would gladly eat your soft bits for starters, crunch your insides for a main course then scoop out your brains for a sort of afters. But this guy comes up to me one day - I was about three weeks old - picks me up and takes me to his home. calls me Hrax after this famous scientist guy and Salmon 'cos that's his name. All I remember of him was he was always clean and neat, even when he had been fightin'. And he fought a lot. Salmon was a good guy, he kept the crime down and helped people like me. But one day the Freestones came for him. I hid in the back of our rooms, behind a sofa, while the 'Stones pumped hot lead into him. I remember him dancing...juddering under the hail of bullets. All for being a nice guy...
So that was me set up for life. He died when I was about eight, but he taught me how to survive on the street, how to fight for myself and how to find food. I've got his sword over my back. It's the only thing I remember him by. Now I gotta go.
Hrax}

Part 8

The dripping plane was dragged out, slime and algae slopping from the angular fighter. Sitting on the winch truck which was now deactivated, Zewer watched as the fighter came to a stop on the tarmac. As he watched, the sky clouded over and rain started to pour down, the drizzle washing the algae off his drysuited body. It felt cold, more than anything, but at least he was clean now. So was the plane - and he could see two people inside...

[DIARY ENTRY #3]
{Well, here I am again...looks like we've been rescued. Brilliant. It's raining now, Poul's still feeling sick and there's this guy staring at us. I'm getting out of here.}

With a hiss that startled Zewer, the canopy of the plane swung back and two people climbed out. A short and rather dirty teenager and another guy - rather chubby and currently looking rather green. They jumped onto the truck's wide, painted back and drove back to the base.

Parharsosen Al Exxonada Donecahel Tennedo D'Voriable Goarhan, or Alex, pondered the solution. Enemies were coming. The situation was getting worse now - Alex's radar had picked up multiple incoming contacts a few days ago, which turned out to be the attackers which the base defenses had driven off. He looked inside his vast memory for anything that could help. Oh, here was something...
The supercomputer that was Parharsosen Goarhan pored over the plans for a new technology that had been developed soon before the Great Shift when most of the population moved away from Earth. The ones that were left were assumed dead and the planet was "sterilised" from orbit, antimatter detonations in the upper atmosphere eradicating all life. Well, on the surface, anyway.
Alex himself had been Patterned shortly after the introduction of compulsary Patterning, but he had volunteered to run a civilian computer when the Great Shift started. After that, he had transferred to here, and over the years he had started playing God. At first it had just been advice, helping the people run their shelter. But it had become more of a deity-like role in the later years, and he had had to invent the Scientists to help him.
But enough of that, he thought. Now this *was* interesting...something called a nanolathe. Alex scanned the technical specifications for a second, then passed the blueprints to a lab where the technicians would make it up. This really could come in handy..
The fusion reactors at the bottom of the shelter hummed while Alex thought.

[There's a permanent hum, down here in the bottom levels. It's the reactors. I hear it when I wake, when I sleep. It's everywhere. Everywhere...
That computer way above is going crazy I swear. Bit like me, I think. Am I crazy? Maybe, maybe not.
I never said my name. I'm...oh, I haven't used it for so long! I am Sol, Sol Winters. I am...was...a technician, way back in those days. I was this little contented citizen, lovely and obedient for that computer to play its god-games with. Until... Until I realised what it was doing to me! Me! I was becoming a nothing, an ant, a little tooth on a little cog in a small mechanism in a small machine, something unimportant.
We're all unimportant, says the computer. Only it is important - we're just all bits of the machine, and we're not even essential bits. Little.
The soldiers come down here sometimes, with their guns and their fancy helmets. I'm wearing one of the helmets now, and carrying one of the guns. There are twenty of us down here, something like that. The Resistance. ****ing big Resistance...twenty people! But the fusion reactors are well-fed, well-fed with bodies that is. Soldier bodies.
Yes, I would fight, but only for myself. Maybe for the Resistance. Vive le Resistance... But I would fight, fight to the death, gritting whatever's left of my teeth and firing this antiquated weapon. Me and the others, together in death...nice thought, innit?
As for the little people up above, they gotta realise what's happening to us down here, what's happening to them up there...]

The filthy, tattered clothes of the half-human creature were stuck to its body by the thick layer of grease. With a muted humming, the creature's pink bionic arm came up and the two-fingered claw scratched the lank hair. The sound recording was still running as Paul leaned over the guardrail on the catwalk. He slowly aimed his assault rifle at the figure, talking into its battered minidisc recorder. The red sight flashed once and assigned a target to the figure, and Paul grinned. It loked up. Just in time....he squeezed the trigger.
That was the end of that traitor, he thought. Just nineteen to go...
The disc player fell to the floor and the cheap plastic case split in two. The recording played on, scratched and warped. For a second there was almost-silence, with only the hum of the fusion reactors disturbing the peace. Then the player restarted...
"Fight to the death...fight to the death...fight to the...death...death...death..."
The sound echoed through the empty halls as Paul crept onwards, then stopped.

Part 9

}}Martin, you're going down!
The transmission from Lucy came through "Doc" Martin's headphones as he patrolled the disappointingly empty space around the CCS Barathrum. Puzzled, he replied.
]]What?
}}Martin, the Thunderhead has been upgraded to the Thunderstrike super-heavy triple-purpose fighter. You'll love this: it's a regular Thunderhead, but it can go in atmosphere, has VTOL engines, and best of all, it can go underwater! You'll also have an extra weapon - a special underwater blue-green laser, or Beluga laser.
]]Wow...is that in any way related to the Manta I heard about, a few years ago?
}}You bet! The Commander on Lasker IX passed some snaps onto us and we took them further. So now you've got a space-, atmosphere- and sea-worthy combat craft. Enjoy it! You're being recalled to the ship for a refit, by the way.
Martin gasped, or at least felt like gasping.
]]But...but...that's absolutely brilliant! How did you know I wanted to go into the atmosphere?
}}Well, Martin, you've only been whinging on to me about it for the last week or so...no reason, really.
Martin could almost hear Lucy grinning.
]]Wow...
With a blaze of drive-jets, the Thunderhead swung around and sped, arrowlike, back to the mothership.

Zach awoke painfully, his brain seeming to him fuzzy, woolen. Trying to speak produced no results, and trying to move didn't seem to do anything either. Was he restrained? Or sedated? He couldn't see anything either...hang on, what was that?
A delicate green tracery crawled, sparklike, over his vision, lines resolving into something that looked like some sort of alien text. He couldn't read it...then somehow it *warped* and it was clear. A row of meaningless numbers and letters which suddenly ended as if torn off, ragged shards of data scrolling across the screen.
~End of file: Zachary Wallen, Pyro, ZP-08105173.
What was that...oh God...that was him! ZP-08105173...
What was happening?
]COPY ZP-08105173 whatisit.new
~COPYing ZP-08105173(datafile, 21.65 terabytes, no recognised type) to whiatisit.new(datafile, 21.65 terabytes, Foreign Object Examination File)
]OPEN whatisit.new
~OPENing whatisit.new(datafile, 21.65 terabytes, Foreign Object Examination File)
Zach stared as his life scrolled past...

Jim Tanck studied the screen, his eyes starting to smart and his head propped up on one aching arm. What was it? No matter what he had run on it, nothing recognised it. Forget it, a corner of his mind said. It's nothing important. Treat yourself to a game or something, relax!
He closed the recognition programs and opened his latest program, "Life". It was a simulation which put an artificial life-form into a simulated enviroment. Jim clicked on the "open" button and selected a life-form. Only too late did he realise that he had been in the wrong directory - he had opened the file he had been puzzling over...

Zach blanked out for a second then came alive. Stiffly, and seemingly through a layer of fuzz, he could feel what he thought were his limbs. He lifted his hand and was not surprised to see the familiar flamethrower on the end of it. He got up.
Zach shuddered as he saw what surrounded him. The maze was shifting and pulsating, its walls seeming slightly trancelucent...yes, they were simply lines in the air. Zach moved over to the end of one wall and saw it flickering in and out of vision, simply a surface without thickness. Wasn't that impossible? Maybe...nothing was really surprising him any more. He started to move through the maze.

The squadron of Thunderstrikes screamed down through the atmosphere, scramjets roaring as the aircraft headed almost vertically downwards. In the front of the craft, a constant stream of nanobots flowed from under the heatshield, replacing the metal vapour that streamed past the sleek body of the planes. The aircraft were almost obscured by the white heat they were generating, and Martin could feel his anti-matter storage becoming dangerously full with the energy he was pulling from the heat-shield. At least his energy converters were holding up...
An explosion on his right shocked him into awareness and he swivelled an external camera round just in time to see shards of shrapnel ploughing into the side of his craft. Someone wasn't as lucky as him - their converters had overloaded, Martin thought as he suddenly spotted a large piece of shrapnel heading towards him. He pulled sharply up to avoid it...
"Oops..."
Pulling up sharply is not a very good idea when you're flying at almost eight times the speed of sound in atmosphere. That was Martin's last thought as the Thunderhead spiralled out of control, his heat-shield tearing off from the slipstream. Way above him, the shield disintegrated with a massive explosion, the energy converters releasing their stored energy. However, Martin wasn't around to see it - as his scramjets pushed futilely against the airflow his mainframe had deactivated due to extreme stress. So he wasn't there to see the Thunderstrike clearing the cloud cover to see the dark sea miles below...

"Attention all people! Attention all people! Please come to any temple hall IMMEDIATELY!" Alex switched off the speakers as the message boomed throughout the entire habitat. He activated the prayer-hall speakers just as all twenty massive doors in the ten halls opened simultaneously and a flood of people entered.
"Greetings." The rabble quietened down immediately. "I am what for about two thousand years you have known as the Scientists. I am all of them, but unfortunately, I have to tell you that was a sham. There is no time for argu..."
Alex was almost deafened by the combined shouts of disbelief coming from the halls.
"Imposter!"
"Where are the Scientists?"
"False!"
"Imposter!"
I handled that well, he thought bitterly.
"QUIET!" The halls once again fell silent. "I speak the truth. There is NO TIME now to argue this. I am Parharsosen Al Exxonada Donecahel Tennedo D'Voriable Goarhan," he said, pronouncing the name carefully. "You may call me Alex. I have been running this facility for four thousand years, since the Great Shift, and I have never seen occasion to topple the Scientists and take control. But now there is need."
His audience watched, still disbelieving. He heard the frantic muttering below his cameras and swivelled them to watch the offenders. Suddenly Alex had an idea. He switched on ten spotlights, each aimed at a mutterer.
"These ten people doubt me, do they not?"
Grudgingly the disbelievers - all men - agreed.
"Well, you ten will come with me and we shall see about that doubt."
Alex signalled the hall cleaning drones, called "mice", around two hundred small robots per hall, to carry the men into his mainframe room. The mice scurried out of their hidey-holes and grabbed the rough fabric of the men's clothes in their manipulators. Motors whining, the men were borne off to the white mainframe room.
After undergoing cleaning, the mice dumped the ten men on chairs inside Alex's mainframe area. He activated his speakers.
"Hello. This is Alex here. What are your names?"
Muttermuttermutter.
"Very nice names. Could you repeat those?"
No-one spoke for a moment, then the largest of the men looked up.
"I am Captain Andrew Reisman of the Air." His slightly hoarse voice made Alex strain to hear.
"Good. Captain Reisman, you are now Commander Reisman of New Glasgow. Who's next?"
Instant promotion was enough to start the men.
"John Halstead."
"Terry Holt." This in a low, scratchy voice from a short and dark man.
"Ian Overlord."
"Jules Tarman."
"Stephen Mondial."
"Mike Ocean."
"Finlay Patas." This was from a tall, very slim man with blond - in fact almost white - hair.
"Alexander Small."
And finally: "Bob Korthog."
Alex would have smiled. "Thank you. You are all now elevated to the rank of Sub-Commander. Drop in at the uniform department for your new uniforms."
Each man straightened up and snapped off a salute. "Yes SIR!"

Part 10

[DIARY ENTRY 3]
{Wow! This place is -huge-! Lessee...well, I came in on an airbase - OK, crashed on an airbase anyway - and we're now taking an elevator down to somewhere. That's the point - somewhere.
You know that they say fidgeting is the best way to burn off energy? I wonder how much I'm burning off. I'm roaming around this tiny lift like someone possessed.
So, you say, what's happened? Well, after I crashed, I got brought from my plane by this guy dripping with algae and another guy with a face like he's swallowed a lemon. Bristly chin, flinty eyes...the perfect hero. And he's standing next to me in the lift, so I better not say anything about him. Funny...last time I saw him I'm sure he was wearing a Captain's uniform...
Oh, that's the life stopped now. Doors ope...my God!
Wow...this place really *is* big. This looks like a prayer hall or something...only it's got these big figures at the end. Never seen them before. Looks like they've got some more gods when I was away. OK, I'm going to have to sw...}

Reisman looked down at the...well, person was probably the only term he could manage. The short, dirty creature looked up at him and quickly snapped his diary off, straightening up to almost Reisman's height. Actually, now he was straightened up, the guy looked almost human, apart from the longish arms. He must be one of those marginal mutations, he thought. Ah well, there was plenty of room for another freak here, though Met knew there were enough of them.

"Good morning men...and women. Today, we  will be training with the XC-RPG-200, or rocket propelled grenade. A highly lethal weapon, mostly to the person wielding it. So I am here to teach you how to use it, preferably *without* killing the person standing behind you."
The android continued speaking in its pleasant voice as Zewer looked around. He didn't need training in this, so why was he here? After all, he was a fully trained combat pilot. But something told him to stay.
"OK, folks. Before we start, I have to tell you about some modifications to the weapons. In light of the recent assault on the Air Base by some alien force, Alex has decided to replace the warheads with what he called armour-piercing rounds. Also, warhead velocity has been improved, so you are now holding what amounts to an anti-tank rocket rather than...well, a grenade in a length of stovepipe is probably the easiest way to describe it.
"Your first task will be to shoot this easy stationary target. It is a cardboard cutout of one of our Apaches with a lump of steel behind it. Do I have any volunteers?"
Zewer stepped forward, uncomfortably aware of the silence around him. Obviously the people weren't ready to believe in Alex yet. The android handed him the long tube of the RPG and he lifted it to his shoulder, staggering slightly under its weight. Zewer straightened up and aimed the rocket at the target, bracing himself as he screwed up one eye to squint through the sight. He carefully held the rocket still as he took his eye out tf the way and squeezed the trigger.
The sound was deafening. Zewer staggered back into the thick cloud of exhaust smoke as his eyes smarted. "Holy Met!" he shouted as a burning perticle of propellant landed on his bare arm, stinging it. Seconds later, he dropped the tube and straightened his clothes, clearing his throat. "And that's all there is to it," he said, grinning wryly. He looked at the audience's grins and turned around. There was a foot-wide hole in the ten-inch steel.

The unfamiliar robotic creature tramped through the maze as Tanck watched, amazed. Something was flickering on the end of its tube-like right arm and he zoomed in...it reminded him of something...the attack! That was it! He had seen these robots before, when they attacked the Air Base...this one had a  flamethrower, that was what the flicker was. Probably a plasma launcher, he thought - more convenient on airless world than petrol or napalm or something. Well well well...
Was it alive, though? As he turned away, he acccidentally brushed the microphone to the floor, and bent to pick it up. Inspiration hit him.
"Hello? Hello?" Tanck spoke into the microphone, noting the program's coded response onscreen.

Zach almost fell over as the massive voice boomed down from above. "Hello? Hello?" He turned and saw nothing above him...there was the voice again. "Anyone there? Are you living?"
Zach pointed his flamethrower at the sky, years of training acting to make him cautious. "Who's there? Who is that?"
He felt a little silly as no response came.

Tanck felt slightly silly...what if someone came in and found him talking to the computer? He tried again, just in case. "Anyone there? Are you living?"
The speakers crackled. "Who's there? Who is that?"
His mouth opened in an "O" of surprise and the microphone fell from his fingers...it was alive!

This nanolathe technology certainly was interesting...Alex devoted twenty of his sub-processors to analysing the problem, and assigned an aspect of his pattern to the task. Now, down to business... What was this? He pulled up a memo just in from Jim Tanck...
"Alex - I have something you might want to see. Come over here right away!"
Alex switched his view into Tanck's room camera. And almost stopped processing with surprise...
 
 

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Return To Earth was written by CamTarn.
Why not visit The Junkyard or TAWarstories for more Total Annihilation fiction?