A few survivors must have seen my move. Over the next few minutes, a dozen or so Recon troops gathered around me. There were no officers. There was chatter and screaming on the headsets, of course. The machine was down near the docks now, working over the guys who had buried themselves along the shore of the river. The thing must be having a good time of it.
“What do we do, sir?” asked a private.
I looked around for two long seconds before I realized he was talking to me. There was still a gold star and some bars on my good shoulder. I bore the rank of a commander, and I was all this team had. I thought about making a little speech and putting the nearest non-com in charge, but I didn’t do it. I saw the look in their eyes, through their auto-dimming portholes. They wanted an officer to tell them what to do. They needed me.
“We kill Macros,” I said.
“Sir? You’re hit, sir,” said the private.
I looked at him. “I’m okay. I can fight.”
They looked at my dangling, shattered arm. Even the one sergeant among them looked impressed.
“Okay,” I said, hunkering down. “Here’s what we are going to do when it comes back.”
I had their attention. “I’ll fire first. Everyone must concentrate on a single turret at a time. When that one is gone, we all fire at the next one. Now spread out. Don’t let it take us all out at once.”
Men scooted away in every direction, taking up firing positions in the ruins of the bunker. We didn’t have long to wait. The Macro finished with the beach group, then headed in our general direction again. But it didn’t go right over us. Instead, it waded into the river, pausing to fire at something on the far bank.
“Dammit,” I growled. We couldn’t leave the ruined bunker, we’d be exposed and cut down at range. I judged the distance. It was less than a thousand yards off. It probably couldn’t get its main top gun down far enough to level it on the bunker at that range. We’d studied these machines, and they were designed with one big gun on top to use on aircraft and larger targets. The belly turrets were for the small stuff like us.
I crawled across the steaming bunker and poked my nose and rifle out on the far side. “Take cover, everybody!”
“What are you doing, sir?” asked someone, I think it was the sergeant.
I shot the thing in the ass. Just a quick burst. It was pointless, of course, I couldn’t damage it through the shields. But the effect was electric. I saw a number of turrets swivel in my direction. The machine didn’t turn around, it simply started walking in our direction. It didn’t really have a face, or a head—a front or back. It was designed to be able to move in any direction at will, like a giant crab with legs all around.
We all ducked. Fire came in, tearing up the ground. Gouts of energy flared and my goggles dimmed themselves to prevent instant blindness. I didn’t bother to give it another encouraging shot. There was no need.
As I had hoped, it came close. This bunker had been marked dead, but now had shown signs of life. In its artificial mind, it would have to be sure this time. It would have to get in close and finish us.
In the end, it almost did. We learned, when the brilliant tropical sky turned dark again due to the vast bulk looming over us, that it had only seven operating turrets left. I had only eleven men. They were good men, and they followed my lead. No one fired until I did. It took about two seconds to light up each turret and destroy it. Unfortunately, the turrets were lighting up my men one at a time in return. When the last turret popped, I had only three men left.
I watched in horror as the last of the turrets fell off the bottom of the great machine. It crashed down, crushing another of my men.
The last man and I fired at the legs next. We took one out at the lowest joint. It tried to stomp us, but I think it was mostly blind down underneath now. Its cameras, or whatever it used for targeting, were probably attached to the turrets.
When we took out a joint, it finally decided it had had enough. It began a shambling retreat. Dragging itself, metal groaning, it lumbered back into the jungle at a fraction of its usual speed. I ran after it, cursing. I shot a second leg joint in multi-second bursts, but wasn’t able to bring it down.
I gave up and collapsed against a tree, my chest heaving for air. I was suffocating in my hazard suit. The sergeant, the last of my men, came up and fell against the same tree. We both gasped for air, unable to talk.
The sky overhead had dimmed. A lovely sunset was building up in the jungle to our west. We heard then, after our breathing had slowed, more rumbling. More cracking trees. Another machine was coming to the party.
“We’re going to die out here, aren’t we, sir?” the Sergeant asked.
“Probably,” I said. “What’s your name, Sergeant?”
“Lionel Wilson, sir.”
“Well, Wilson, you are a good fighter.”
“You too, sir.”
The sky grew dark then. I was surprised, as I hadn’t thought the Macro was that close. Beams played overhead. It was firing at something. I couldn’t see what. I aimed up with my rifle, but there weren’t any turrets to shoot at. Was this some new variant machine, then?
A huge black arm on a long cable looped down and reached for me. I knew that arm well.
The Sergeant aimed at the arm, clearly planning to blow it off.
“Halt!” I shouted. “Hold your fire, Wilson! When this arm comes back down for you, let it grab you and take you out of this hole. That’s an order.”
He didn’t answer, but he did slowly lower his rifle. The arm lifted me up like the hand of an angel and drew me up into the Nano ship’s belly.
When Sandra met me inside, I didn’t even look surprised. She did, however.
Now, pick up the man who was with me, Alamo, I thought to my ship.
Extraction in progress.
-25-
The Alamo, to the best of my understanding, could hear my thoughts. Even though I hadn’t called for a rescue purposefully, it came for me as soon as it knew I was in mortal danger. I had never given it any commands not to do so. I had not realized they were necessary. Now I knew that if I wanted my ship to keep out of any battle I was in, I would have to give it explicit orders to stay home. I wondered if the ship would listen to me. When it came to protecting command personnel, the ship wasn’t always obedient.
Take us back to base at Andros Island, I told the Alamo.
ETA: seven minutes.
“She just ignored my questions, everything,” complained Sandra. “I should get a ship of my own. One that will listen to me.”
I glanced at her. “You’re enough of a killer. Go for it.”
“You’re not smiling.”
“Fighting toe-to-toe with these machines and surviving the experience leaves a man appreciating the small joys in life. But we just got our asses kicked. These guns I put on the backs of two thousand fine soldiers just got them all slaughtered.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Kyle. You tried.”
“That’s right sir,” said Sergeant Wilson behind me. The Alamo had dropped him off and he stepped onto the bridge.
I turned and shook the hand he offered me. But I did not feel that I fully deserved it.
“Commander Riggs?” he said to me, eyeing me closely. “You think this mess was all your fault, sir? Is that why you risked your life back there? Repeatedly? Despite orders?”