Sheila Reaves was the first to regain something like consciousness. She threw off her harness and scurried about the wreckage of the cabin, getting the rest of the troopers up and moving. Through the gaping holes of the cabin, she could see the drones re-forming for another strafing run at the lifter. Johnny Winger was groggy and dazed, with a few cuts on his arms bleeding profusely, but otherwise functional. He staggered to his feet and helped Reaves with the others.
Tactically, they had few options. “Sheila, we can’t leave the lifter…we’ll be slammed by those drones if we show our faces out there.”
Reaves took a peek. The sky was dark with drones, circling like vultures, scanning and waiting for any signs of movement in the lifter wreckage. “That’s not all, Skipper. Look there—“ She pointed to narrow ribbon of road, snaking down out of the mountains. Vehicles, an entire convoy of trucks it looked like, could be seen stirring up dust as they descended out of the clouds shrouding the hilltops.
“Company.” Winger swore silently. “Probably PLA. Lots of them—“ he stopped in mid-sentence. An idea had just popped into his head. It was crazy, it was insane. It wasn’t in any manual. But it might be their only hope of avoiding capture.
“Sheila, I think I’ve still got a basic ANAD master still embedded in my capsule. I’m going to launch it now—“
“What can that do, Lieutenant?” asked Deeno D’Nunzio, rubbing a nasty purplish bruise on her forehead. She kicked and pulled at pieces of gear mixed with hull debris and dust from outside. Cold air was already filling the cabin with snow and a whistling wind. “It’s just a shell. Unless you’ve got a bunch of configs…and they’re almost on top of us now—“
Winger didn’t have time to explain. “ANAD, prep for launch. Assume C-5 and go to max rate replication…I’ll hack out a config when you’re out.”
He knew the bots inside his shoulder capsule had only minimal functionality but it was their best chance, maybe their only chance.
***ANAD ready in all respects, Hub…configuring C-5, all effectors at Ready One…propulsors initialized and primed***
“ANAD, launch now.”
The capsule port on his left shoulder popped open and he felt the familiar sting of the egress. Moments later, a faint mist had formed up over Winger’s head. Winger pecked out a basic config on his wristpad and sent it. Soon enough, the mist had exited the lifter cabin and a phosphorescent glow could be seen along the gouged furrow of ground just outside the lifter’s portside skids.
D’Nunzio, Reaves, M’Bela, Nguyen and Winger gathered around the jagged opening in the hull to watch. Winger explained.
“I just send a config I hacked out from memory. I told ANAD to dig us some holes, burrow into the ground, enough for all of us. Before those drones finish off this ship or those troops arrive, we’ll be buried like moles in a series of shallow dead-end tunnels.”
D’Nunzio just shook her head, eyeing the rooster-tail of dust the convoy was stirring up as it closed on their position. “Skipper, excuse me for saying this, but with all due respects, that is truly nuts. ANAD’ll never get that done in time.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” said Reaves. “Look for yourself…Lieutenant’s done something to jazz up the swarm…I never would have believed this—“
It was true. Even as D’Nunzio argued the idea would never work, ANAD and its small swarm had gone to full max rate replication, chewing into the limestone and sand and snow of the desert floor, six small glowing globes pulsating and throbbing like flickering lamps on top of the snow cover. Through the shimmering air, now hot with atom-breaking and disassembly, they could see the bare outlines of six small depressions, forming, slow-motion craters collapsing before their eyes.
“Take whatever gear you need and let’s move!” Winger ordered. Outside the lifter, the convoy was fast approaching. Overhead, dozens of killdrones circled like hungry birds. Fortunately, the tunnels ANAD was forming were partially hidden from view by the slant of the lifter’s wrecked hull itself.
“GO GO GO…!” Winger barked at them. The troopers fell out of the cabin and scrambled for their fast-forming tunnels. “It’ll be hot as fire inside those tunnels from ANAD…just grab some snow and pack it down the hole! Come on, Alpha Detachment, move your fat asses now!”
The whole process took only two minutes.
When they were done, the lead trucks of the Chinese convoy had already pulled up some thirty meters away and heavily armed PLA infantry had dismounted. Crouching line abreast, AK beam weapons at the ready, they approached the wrecked lifter cautiously, barking orders and shouts at each other in guttural Mandarin voices.
But just beyond the portside skid of the lifter, unseen by the troops, six small humps in the snow slowly sank in, leveling out to become flush with the snow banks all around. Onto each now-flat depression, more snow fell, quickly covering the shallow holes. A faint orange-red glow above each tunnel dissipated and before the troops had reached the lifter and began poking and probing through the wreckage, the tunnels were snugged tight and lost to view in the rapidly accumulating snow piles.
Nothing was visible from above ground.
For Johnny Winger, the next hour was the longest hour of his life. Flashes of memory from caving trips he’d made as a child came to mind. Hiding from sister Joanna and brother Brad in his Dad’s coat closet at the North Bar Pass Ranch house came to mind. The Swarm Chamber at nog school came to mind, sitting there in an enclosed sphere knowing you were about to be slammed by gazillions of ANAD bots crawling all over your skin.
He had no real way of knowing what was happening above ground. Occasionally, buried ten meters deep in his man-made cocoon of a tunnel, he heard things. But he wasn’t really sure he had heard them. Then, he had an idea.
Maybe I can use a few ANAD bots to make up a crude photon lens. He’d had the presence of mind to dive into the tunnel with his hypersuit helmet. The only question was: could he hack out the photon lens config from memory and could he receive the signal on his helmet? For that matter, could he even pull the helmet on in the cramped coffin of the tunnel?
Only one way to find out.
By pushing, pulling, cursing and squeezing, Winger somehow managed to get his helmet on. He could feel the wristpad keys with the fingers of his left hand. Slowly, laboriously, he pecked out a config and managed to send it. Then he held his breath, hoping it was correct and that what was left of the barebones ANAD would respond.
Ten minutes later, a grainy image popped into view on his faceplate. He almost shouted with joy, then settled down to study the image.
After a few minutes, he satisfied himself that the troops and the convoy had departed, unable to find any survivors in the lifter wreckage. He couldn’t really tell about the drones. The photon lens showed nothing, but its resolution wasn’t that great.
We’ll just have to take a chance. “ANAD, I’m sending a new config…disassemble the dirt and snow over my head. Clear the tunnel.” He pecked out the config and sent it, then waited for what seemed like forever.
Finally, light began to glow above his head. First a diffuse light, then some vague shadows. More snow fell in, but in time, he found he was able to poke first a hand, then an arm, then his shoulders above the ground. I must look like some kind of prairie dog, he told himself.
Carefully, he spun around and studied the scene. He saw no movement. They were alone. The drones seemed to have departed, though there were still dark shapes flitting by overhead, whether drones or actual vultures, he couldn’t tell. He hauled himself up and out of the tunnel and immediately crawled inside the lifter wreckage, which appeared to have been well picked over by the troops. Instruments, wire bundles and cargo pouches were strewn everywhere.
Winger got on his helmet crewnet and tried to contact the others. Sure hate to have to dig them all out. On impulse, he configged his own ANAD swarm to begin excavating the other troopers. Inside of twenty minutes,
they were all out of their tunnels, none the worse for wear and assembled inside the wreckage.
The sun was up nearly overhead, bright in a hard blue sky, so Winger figured it was around the middle of the day.
That’s when An Nguyen spotted more company. A large flock of goats, their wool coats white with gray streaks, and several goatherds tending and jabbing at the outside of the flock, was slowly making its way down the mountainside a few hundred meters ahead of them.
Nguyen recognized the scene. “Pashmina, Skipper. The breed is use for cashmere…and meat. These herds are all over Tibet.”
The troopers watched the herd approaching, heading right for the lifter. Fingers tightened on triggers. Magazines were checked. Weapons were aimed.
Then Winger had an idea. “Do these guys look legit to you, Buddha?”
An Nguyen studied the goatherds. “I think they are exactly what they seem to be, Lieutenant. Goatherds heading for pasture land somewhere.”
Winger eyed the approaching flock. “We’ve all got locator beacons embedded inside of us. It’s a cinch Quantum Corps knows where we are.”
“But, Skipper,” said D’Nunzio, “even if they do, we’re easily a hundred kilometers inside Chinese territory. How do you mount a rescue force to cover that?”
“You don’t,” Winger admitted. “And I don’t have the right configs for this barebones ANAD to tunnel us out…not across a hundred kilometers. That would take days, maybe weeks to cross. But we could do this: remember when we were in nog school? We all took Klamath’s course on Camouflage and Concealment.”
Sheila Reaves snorted. “Old Man Klamath…I can hear him now…’camouflage is the art of looking like something else…blend in with your environment, become a rock or a horse or a’—“ Reaves stopped, a quizzical look on her face. “Lieutenant, surely you’re not thinking—“
Winger admitted it was true. “Detachment, prepare to become goatherds. On my mark, I want magpulse rounds on all three of those men, simultaneously. Not enough to kill. Just knock ‘em silly. When they’re down, we drag them inside here. Then I put ANAD to work like a tailor…sniffing those outfits and making some that’ll fit us.”
D’Nunzio looked at Johnny Winger with a mixture of respect and incredulity. “Lieutenant, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. That is truly inspired…we’ll look just like part of the landscape.”
“What happens after we become goatherds?” M’Bela asked.
“We herd goats. And we head for the Nepal border. With any luck, we can get an encrypted satlink going out of one these helmets. Take your wristbands too. If we can comm up with Singapore base, we should be able to get a ride out of here, once we’re closer to the border.”
“I like it,” Reaves said. “We’ll be the baddest goatherds this side of Mount Everest.”
On Winger’s mark, three well-placed magpulse rounds dropped all three goatherds in their tracks. The commotion momentarily startled the flocks. With much baying and mooing, the goats meandered and circled aimlessly around the lifter wreckage, unsure of what had happened, what to do. An Nguyen emerged from the lifter and went over to try and calm them.
D’Nunzio had to chuckle at the sight of the Detachment’s DPS 2, an accomplished HERF and magpulse marksman, gathering his flock with soothing calls and murmurs.
“Like he was born to the calling,” she said.
The nanotroopers set to work, dragging the unconscious herders into the lifter. For good measure, M’Bela checked over each man, assuring Winger that none had suffered serious injuries. “”Just a few scrapes and bruises, Skipper. They’ll be out for hours.”
“And when they come to,” Winger said, “they’ll think they’ve died and gone to Nirvana.” Over his coupler link, he spoke to ANAD, still snuggly ensconced inside his containment capsule. “ANAD, prepare to launch. Assume Config C-72…PATTERN SCAN and RECORD.”
***ANAD reporting ready for launch, Base…now assuming C-72…probes and abstractors at position one enable***
“Launching ANAD now….”
The capsule port popped open and seconds later, a faint mist emerged. It drifted for a minute, then settled over the prostrate form of one of the goatherds, who lay in a crumpled heap on the cabin floor. ANAD soon enveloped the man, sniffing atoms and molecules, recording bond positions and energies, analyzing configurations and geometries. Ten minutes later, the Autonomous Nanoscale Assembler/Disassembler had recorded sufficient pattern information on the goatherd’s clothing to report back.
***ANAD completing initial scan…all data recorded in first memory…first order configs available…what’s next, Base? Do you wish to see the results…porting scan data in tabular form to coupler circuit***
“No,” said Winger. “Belay that, ANAD. Assume C-15…master replication algorithm. Apply scan data to feedstock and replicate scanned patterns, first-order matching.”
***ANAD complying now…all effectors initialized, rep counter set to zero…standard replication engaged***
As the troopers looked on, the faint mist swelled slightly and began to burn brighter, as the bots gathered atoms from local feedstock and began assembling a copy of the goatherd’s clothing. The entire process took nearly half an hour; some of the debris inside the cabin was used as feedstock. When it was done, a pile of still damp, slightly smoldering clothes…gray long-sleeved chuba robe, yak fur cap, woolen leggings and leather moccasins…lay bunched up on the cabin floor beside the unconscious herder.
An Nguyen was the first to try the outfit on. When he was dressed, he twirled about, showing off.
D’Nunzio whistled and Sheila Reaves applauded. “Central casting couldn’t do as well, Buddha. You really do look the part.”
“It’s all about concealment and camouflage,” Winger reminded them. “We’re blending in so those drones don’t mistake us for something like illegal nanotroopers wandering around in enemy territory. Now for the rest of us—“
An hour later, the entire Alpha Detachment had morphed into Tibetan goatherds, complete with wooden staffs, gourds full of tsampa meal—“tastes like sawdust,” complained M’Bela--, gaily patterned scarves and attachable braids of hair they could wear under their hats.
“I like the fleece lining inside,” said Reaves, admiring her own outfit. “Should really cut that wind outside.”
“Get your gear together,” Winger ordered, still adjusting his own robe and belt. “Everybody takes a wristpad and we’ll put one helmet inside one of these leather bags. I’ll carry it like a backpack. Now let’s go gather our flock. Once we’re half an hour clear of the lifter, we’ll try to get comms up, and get a signal out.”
So they clambered out of the lifter, one after another, and after some confusion and much cursing, the troopers managed to corral the last of the stray goats and gather them into something resembling a flock.
At Winger’s hand signal, the Detachment marched off south by southwest, leaning into a sniff, ice-flecked wind, heading for the Nepal border, some one hundred kilometers away. From time to time, Winger scanned the skies, spying an occasional pair of black vultures circling overhead warily, eyeing them with suspicion. At least, he hoped they were vultures. With their new camouflage, he figured Old Man Klamath would be proud of them. He just hoped that to any prying eyes looking down on the ragged flock and its erstwhile herders, the scene would resemble nothing out of the ordinary…a timeless pastoral scene…nothing but a few goats and their shepherds, trudging south toward better pastures.
Winger figured Major Kraft would have his hide, once they had made contact, for pulling a stunt like this…an unauthorized rescue mission inside China, with PLA and Red Hammer troops all over these mountains. But damn it! ANAD—the full master bot—was lost up there somewhere beyond those snow-covered hills. Nanotroopers didn’t ever leave a buddy behind, even one sixty nanometers tall. It was the Code. It was the Book.
Somehow, old Ironpants would just
have to understand that.
Chapter 6
“Assimilation”
Engebbe, Kenya
January 23, 2049
1640 hours
“Lieutenant, my HERF’s not working!”
Corporal Grant dove headfirst into the dirt and slung the carbine away, drawing his mag pistol out of a side holster. He spat out some dirt, then slammed the READY button, got a green PRIMED light and let fly round after round of magnetic loop energy toward the swelling swarm, now barreling their way across the dusty ground of the excavation.
Dana Tallant was ten meters away, to Grant’s side, pumping rf into the formation of bots that had erupted out of the dig pit. The thunderclaps of radio freq energy hammered the ground like fists, but had no discernible effect on the swarm.
“They’re just eating it up!” she called back. “We need more fire…” Tallant shook her wrist to open up a comm channel on her wristpad. “Detachment Bravo…all hands! Bravo One…on the double…Bravo One and bring your big guns. Massive swarm developing out at the dig site…big bang at the dig site! Need all available fire on the enemy!”
Inside tents at Camp Matterhorn some three hundred meters away, troopers heard the rally call and scrambled to grab their gear. One after another, McReady, Tsukota and M’wale, hit the ground running, arming their HERF rifles and magpulsers on the way. Already they could see a faint yellow cloud boiling across the top of the excavation.
“Ozzie, go left…flank left!” McReady yelled. “M’wale, go right…other side of that truck. I’ll take center. When you get a hundred meters out, light ‘em up! Skipper needs help. Give ‘em everything you got!”
The troopers skidded and dashed into position. Tallant heard the frantic positioning orders and added some of her own. Inside of a minute, the alien swarm had escaped the confines of the pit, consumed what was left of Leaduma and Sanders and was now rolling like a sandstorm, flecked with silent bursts of light as the bots grabbed atoms, rolling right for the camp. Diggers and technicians were pouring out of their tents, panic setting in.