And yet this machine had gone against the Typhon and survived. For all his people’s technology, they had nothing that could match that feat.
The Tech One was eager for the aircraft to become operational again. Everybody was. This machine could be the catalyst of a long-desired chain reaction, the start of an event cascade that changed everything. Return the warplane to fighting condition, and use it to destroy the Typhon. Destroy the Typhon, and recover the locus. Recover the locus, and defeat those diluted culls huddled in their failing Dome. And then, free of their stalemating presence, begin the long and noble work of re-establishing the rightful empire of man. The grand dream had been the goal of his people since they had sheltered here centuries ago. A common cause, something to live for. But it had remained mostly dream until four days ago.
A diagnostic biobot scuttled by on spindly legs. The Tech One barely glanced at it. A dozen of the scurrying hemispheres were busily examining the warplane. Where they had already surveyed, another dozen mod drones tirelessly repaired, upgraded, modified. Modernized. When they were finished, this machine would still be an ape ancestor to the modern machines’ Homo sapiens, but that ape would be smarter, more evolved. Ape sapiens.
The WepOff’s voice again sounded in the Tech One’s head, transmitted by bone conduction from his occipital interface. “Weaponry Officer One. Gun selector switches on. Main sight on. All turret systems are powered up. Rotation mechanism check on your command.”
A new voice sounded. “Begin.”
The Supreme! The Tech One felt his pulse surge and immediately suppressed it. Central received all biometric telemetry, and he did not want to give any cause to be removed from this assignment. Of course he knew that the dream of resumption would be realized by the collective labor of all. Every action was designed to push them forward, so every action counted. What does not advance, hinders. But this labor was direct. Its impact was immediate. Its consequences were demonstrable and dramatic. If it succeeded, the work he performed at this very moment would be instrumental in enabling the cascade that would lead to resumption.
Yet the voice of the Supreme had been unexpected. Of course he would be observing. But participating? Could he be physically present outside in the staging area? Somehow the notion was more intimidating than the idea of the Supreme observing the proceedings from Central. Failure would not be watched on a screen, it would happen in front of the Twenty-Seventh Supreme Commander General. Failure could not be part of the equation. The humiliation could not even be considered. No.
In the floor by the Tech One’s feet the turret spun. The hydraulics whirred and clacked. The turret stopped and then reversed direction.
“Manual operation is imprecise and inefficient,” the Weaponry Officer reported.
“Just fire on the target,” the Supreme ordered. The Tech One thought he sounded irritated.
“Short burst,” said a new voice. The odd thick accent nearly indecipherable. “Thumbs on the red buttons and don’t pull left or right.”
“Acknowledged,” said the WepOff. “Targeting.”
He doesn’t sound the least bit nervous, the Tech One thought.
The turret rotated again. The Tech One pictured the twin bores swiveling toward the low-functioning clones propped up across the staging area. They had been repurposed from the organ tank and were considered expendable for this experiment despite their medical value. Anyone who needed a liver or a lung in the next few weeks would be out of luck. Those who sacrifice also advance us.
The Tech One glanced at the left-side gun port in the waist of the fuselage—a rectangle open to the elements, simply unbelievable. If he took two steps back he would be able to see the target. And the turret hydraulics would still be clearly in his view.
“Targeting is very coarse,” the Weaponry Officer reported.
“You want me to come do it for you?” the third voice said. “Maybe hold your hand?”
The turret made a minor adjustment. “Targeted,” the Weaponry Officer reported. The Tech One thought he sounded miffed.
“Well? You want an engraved invitation?”
The Tech One tried to control his breathing. He didn’t think he would get into trouble for standing only two steps from his post. The turret would not move again, it would only fire on the targets. The hydraulics would not engage.
He took the two steps back. Through the waist-gun window he saw the upright clones across the stone-floored staging area, the high-speed cameras and ruled velocity scales beside the bullets’ anticipated trajectory, the knot of Engineer Threes standing off to one side, their faces blued and shifting in the bioluminescence of their palm displays.
“Firing,” said the Weaponry Officer.
The deafening staccato that pounded from beneath the airplane made the Tech One think the primitive equipment had exploded in the turret. He realized it was the ammunition’s explosive propellant just as he saw two bright tracer rounds streak across the staging area.
One of the clones became a red eruption above the waist. The joined and naked legs stood a moment longer and then toppled.
The line of fire swept right as the chudder of the twin guns continued. Only two or three seconds more, but it was time enough to slag the measuring equipment and then tear into the clustered Engineer Threes. Even from here the Tech One could see pieces flying off them. Two of the E3s fell backward. A third toppled slowly, as if chopped down at his base.
One technician remained standing, amazingly untouched, mouth gaping, covered in bloody chunks. His readout hand still glowed before him.
“Abort,” came the calm voice of the supervising Tech One, outside.
The Tech One in the bomber stood frozen a moment, trying to absorb what he had just seen. Medtechs rolled silently toward the shredded Engineers. The one still standing looked no more comprehending than the noncog clones.
The turret rolled until the hatch slid into view. The Tech One stared dumbly until he heard pounding from inside the hull. He shook himself and hurried to it. He knelt and undogged the hatch. It flipped back, and the Weaponry Officer surged out and knocked him backward onto the deck. The WepOff put his hands on the frame of the hydraulics rig. His foot groped until it touched the combination steering and trigger mechanism. He had not powered down the turret or closed the hydraulic valve, and when he set his weight on the left-hand grip and started to hoist himself out, the turret smoothly rotated and slammed the Weaponry Officer into the hydraulic rig’s frame. The ball kept turning but the Weaponry Officer’s torso stayed in place, and the moving hatchway cut him in two at the waist.
The gouting torso landed on the horrified Tech One. The arms flailed and then found purchase on the floor, one on the deck and one on the Tech One’s stomach, and for a moment that would stalk the technician’s dreams the truncated Weapons Officer tried to hoist himself up and walk on his hands, the dragging lengths of himself wetly mopping the deck. Then he fell back against the Tech One, who felt himself grow warm below the waist as he blinked up at aluminum struts and a diagnostic drone that had come to investigate. The two men lay like cuddling lovers studying the shapes of clouds.