Dream Drive Ch. 07

"I want back in my office and away from the computers," Miller said.

"You'll have to survive for a few more minutes," Charles said. "Are we clear to move in?"

"We will be shortly. The air control officials haven't given me a --" There was the sharp ringing tone. "That's them. Hold on."

The radio cut off. Charles examined his equipment and performance readouts. "All units, final check," he said.

The suits around him shifted slightly; adjusting weapons here, testing joints there. Most of the guns carried by the robots were internally holstered, with the barrels unfolding from the armor as needed, but there wasn't enough space for all of it. What couldn't fit into the frames was magnetized and slotted on the outside of the armor.

The radio crackled. "Alright, we're clear," Miller said. "Don't get yourself killed."

"Systems up!" Charles said. He drew his arm out of its holster, pressed two buttons on his console, then dragged his finger across the screen. A plastic square protecting a red button flipped open. He pressed it, then set his hand back on the control handle.

The chassis hummed as the electric motor turned over. The clamps holding his limbs locked released, and the engine revved loudly as it took over holding the robot upright and ready for movement. His heads-up display flickered on in full, giving him a diagnostic readout of his armor status.

Secondary and tertiary screens on the periphery gave him a three-dimensional map drawn by echolocation and an infrared scanner, respectively. Charles used his finger to drag the echo screen in front, overlaying the visual spectrum camera.

The echo technology was simple. Emit a high frequency sound, listen to the echo -- and then have a computer draw the surroundings based on the time it took for the sound to return. Functionally, that would give him a limited capability to see through walls and around corners without the higher power consumption and excess heat of an X-ray.

"Steinson, you're holding here with six, seven, and eight," Charles said. "Two, three, four, follow my lead."

"Yes sir."

"On your six."

Charles directed his suit forward. The machine stomped out from the trees, snapping a branch that was in the way and crushing it underfoot. He surged into the road, then lowered the treads alongside each wide foot. The machine began to accelerate down the road.

The wail of police sirens shrieked over them. Charles's system, already loaded with local law enforcement data permissions, displayed the oncoming police VTOLS surging toward Crux headquarters as blue dots on his map. They kept rolling; cars passing the other way swerved to stay clear. In under a minute, they were at the tower.

Its front entrance was an asphalt roundabout circling a large fountain. One outlet led to a nearby parking garage. A brick wall topped by short iron fencing enclosed the area. Two ground police cars had already swerved to a stop near the entrance, blocking off traffic.

Charles glanced at his map, then turned sharply and smashed straight through the wall. The automated turret positioned in that part of the garden -- focused on the entrance - rotated to take aim.

Charles's 100-pound fist of armor made contact. The force bent its barrel backwards and ripped it out from its emplacement. The turret flew through the air, then smashed into the side of the fountain. A spray of stone and water rolled over the roundabout.

The suit's computer highlighted the second turret with a red square. It was tucked far into the gardens at the other end of the wall. Words flashed next to the indicator: M75 caliber grenade launcher.

"Rifle 1," Charles said. "Three shots. Target ordinance."

The first grenade left the turret with a sharp shunk sound. It arced through the air, tracked by another red square on the display screen.

A .75 caliber rifle barrel emerged from Charles's chassis. His left arm overrode his immediate control and stopped in position. The rifle rotated and fired three shots in quick succession.

The flying grenade, struck by the first bullet, detonated in midair, throwing more shrapnel into the fountain. The second bullet destroyed another grenade leaving the turret, blowing a hole in the turret's barrel. The third bullet tore through the turret itself, ripping a fist-sized hole directly through its center.

The spare ammunition in the turret exploded. A gout of flame rose into the air. All that was left was a scar of ash and twisted steel.

"Automated defenses neutralized," Charles said. "Three and four, fan out. Miller, coordinate the police; keep them outside the tower. Unit two, stay behind me."

Charles retracted his treads and jogged across the center of the roundabout. The suit moved with a long, loping gate. He waded into the remains of the fountain and crouched behind the rubble, taking in the entrance. It was quiet.

An engine roared. Two VTOLS flew out from the parking garage and zoomed overhead, dropping electronic countermeasures that burst over him like streams of confetti. They flew by at top speed, preventing a counterattack, and began to wheel back for another pass

They were followed by five mechanized ATVs -- remote controlled guns on wheels. The ATVs opened up on Charles's position with heavy cannon fire, pinning him in place. The blasts threw clouds of concrete and asphalt over his armor; it clinked off him and plunked into the fountain.

"Anti-air, autofire!" Charles shouted. His antiaircraft turret rotated out from his left shoulder and targeted the two VTOLs. The computer's tracking system was hindered by the magnetic flak, but with all four suits shooting up at them, they wouldn't be able to get close again without the risk of being shredded.

There was an explosion on the other side of the fountain. He glanced at his overhead map; a red dot vanished. One of Charles's allies had taken out an ATV.

His echo screen told him the positions of the four cars; two of them were circling the roundabout, coming around from the left to try to take him out. The other two were holding position near the entrance of the garage, returning fire at the other suits.

"Rifle 1, autofire." As Charles said the words, he pulled the automatic shotgun from where it was magnetized on his left leg. Rather than wait for the ATVs to reach him, he crouched, activated his jet thrusters, and leapt into the air.

His chassis flew over the pile of rubble, making an easy thirty-foot leap. Charles's rifle rotated independently of his jump, tracking the two ATVs on his left. It unloaded its ammunition, ripping a path in the street just behind the ATVs. They swerved and parted, forcing the gun to pick a single target.

Charles's antiair turret began to fire while he was in midair -- apparently the VTOLs were getting close. The recoil from both guns combined threw him into a spin in midair.

Charles tucked his legs in and hit the ground with a roll. He ignored the visual feedback for a moment -- that would just make him dizzy. His other weapons automatically folded into the armor to stop them from getting ripped away. He punched in coordinates, and the suit kept rolling, using its new momentum to best advantage.

Charles stopped the roll and came up in a crouch, his shotgun ready, pointed at the two ATVs near the garage. They were turned away from him, focused on firing at his allies. Charles unloaded.

High-velocity explosive shells struck one of the ATVs. It fell apart in twin blasts of flame and smoke. The shockwave threw his sights back.

His antiair turret was still firing, going through ammunition at an alarming rate. He heard the jet engine of a VTOL nearby, but it didn't seem to be focused on him.

Charles kept the mech's finger held down tight on the trigger of his shotgun and dragged his aim back down to the other ATV. The covered entranceway of Crux was blown to pieces as explosion after explosion rained down in front of him. The ATV was driving backward, trying to take shelter in the garage -- but now there was a huge pile of debris in the way.

Charles adjusted his aim and fired again. The rounds hit the ATV at a bad angle, but detonated. The smoking remains careened into the air and smashed through the side of the building, carving a vehicle-sized hole through several rows of planters and into the first floor.

"Ransfeld, down!" someone shouted.

Charles didn't hesitate -- he threw his mech prone. A VTOL with one engine on fire practically scraped the back of his suit.

The VTOL tried to pull up, but there was no chance at that speed. It slammed into the side of the building and went up in flames, carving off a corner of the tower. Smoke rose from the twin wrecks.

Charles heard sirens again, but this time, it was a fire truck.

"Roll call!" Charles said.

"Unit two, clear."

"Unit three, clear."

"Unit four. My right leg took a hit from the ATVs, but I'm mostly functional."

"You're guarding the entrance," Charles said. "Find some cover and stake out. Where's the second VTOL?"

"It tried to intercept our roof landing." Miller's voice. "He took a swim in the river instead."

"I judged it was the best way to avoid collateral damage and protect our own forces," Mivra's voice droned.

"Good work. Two and three, on me. We're going in." Charles clamped his shotgun back onto his leg and called up his rifle again. "Stay sharp. We don't know what else --"

The echo-shadow of a combat chassis appeared on his screen. It was walking out from the ruined hole that was the front door to Crux Software.

Charles paused for an instant. He was in the middle of the courtyard, past the fountain -- totally exposed. There was no nearby cover.

Charles activated his thrusters and turned his jog into a sprint. The jets boosted him forward at an accelerated rate. His rifle fired. His frame jerked as he took return shots.

He slammed arms-first into the enemy mech as it rounded the entrance, wrapping it up in his grip. Charles's jet-assisted momentum carried them through the atrium, carving a path over marble floors, smashing through a column, and obliterating the front desk. He landed on top of his opponent, both of them half buried in drywall.

Charles grabbed his enemy's gun -- which had continued to fire through the tackle -- and ripped it out of the mech's arm. His own rifle was still firing, but it wasn't powerful enough to penetrate his opponent's armor.

The enemy's legs rotated, then twisted up, slamming into Charles's back like twin hammers. His indicators flashed yellow, telling him there was minor dent damage. The blow came a second time; the armor's integrity dropped. He could hear the creak of parts that weren't supposed to bend.

"Ballistic 1!" Charles shouted. "Autofire!"

"Acknowledge danger close."

"Fire!" Charles hit his front-side thrusters.

Another shoulder turret popped form Charles's chassis. It held two ground-to-ground guided ballistic missiles.

Charles jumped off his foe, his jets active; he lifted into the air. He crashed through the roof above, making his own hole into the second floor.

The missile fired.

****

Julia Fredrick was not having a good day.

It was gruesomely humid the past few days, and her hair hated humidity. There were few things more frustrating than frizzy brown hairs constantly getting into your eyes while working.

There was a run in her stockings -- one of her favorite pairs, the fishnet black Emil had gotten her last Christmas. A comfortable pair of stockings was one of those small things that made life infinitely better, and now they were as good as garbage.

Aside from the emergency message he'd sent late last night, Emil hadn't been in touch in weeks. She knew it was coming, but it still stung. Now that his little deal with the devil was in full swing, he couldn't do much, and neither could she. Just stick to the plan; make sure Isis was distributed.

And now they were under attack by at least four mechanized walkers that had just destroyed the courtyard within ten seconds. And apparently they were in league with the authorities, because all of their outgoing communications had been jammed.

"Ma'am," Carl said. "Three transport VTOLS have landed on the roof. Several dozen armed men up there. We think there's more in the sky, definitely more police, but our pilot was shot down. I -- they must be working together."

Julia glanced at Carl, who was standing opposite her desk, breathing hard, having just burst in through the door several moments ago. He was a bright, enthusiastic young man, a very effective employee. He had a fuzzy mane of hair, a hiker's disheveled beard, and he wore himself on his sleeve in a way that really didn't do him any favors. One moment, he was wiping the sweat off his forehead; the next, he was biting on his fingernails.

"We just received a notice from the FBI," he said. "We're under investigation for the theft of military software technology."

"I know." Julia tapped her tablet with a gloved finger. The alert was scrolling across the screen.

"We don't --" Carl rubbed his beard. "We never did that. This is ridiculous."

"Obviously. The police aren't coming in, which means they're either letting this other group take the blow, or they've been intentionally ordered to keep back. The investigation is a cover for whoever's attacking us."

"I -- what?" Carl said.

"Not sure yet," Julia said. "Carl, would you please contain yourself? That's disgusting."

Carl had moved up from picking at his nail; half his finger was in his mouth, and he was gnawing on it incessantly. He plucked it free. "Sorry."

"Is the last shipment out?"

"No," Carl said. "The first four are already at their distribution centers, but the biggest one is still down below. We couldn't move them that quickly. Is that why Mr. Mohammed changed the release date? Did he know this would happen?"

"He probably had an inkling," Julia said. "Tell security to form a perimeter in the basement."

Carl started to slide open his foldout when the entire building shook. The lights in Julia's office flickered on and off. The potted philodendron tipped over and rolled onto her desk.

Carl grabbed the doorframe to steady himself. "What the hell was that?!"

Julia wrenched herself off her desk and stared moving. "Let's go. If we're not downstairs soon, we're in serious danger."

Carl rushed out behind Julia, furiously tapping at his foldout. External connections were down, but Crux had its own self-contained network.

Outside Julia's office was a sea of cubicles -- if they could be called cubicles. Emil had a very foreign idea of how office space should be structured. Bulletin boards on movable walls were scattered between beanbags and sofas. Computers were haphazardly arranged, clustered in groups around power strips and whiteboards. A 3D projector still had a character model running in place on a computerized landscape. Between the carpet and the furniture, the place looked like an interior decorator had taken inspiration from a bag of skittles.

The office, in large part, was abandoned; Julia and Carl raced on alone. Everyone not involved in shipping, distribution, or security had been sent home last night -- a top priority order from Mr. Mohammed, along with the shipping schedule change. It was out of the blue, but after you worked with Emil for a while, you stopped asking questions and just did what he said to do.

The floor shuddered again. Julia caught herself on a whiteboard; her gloves protected her hands from a nasty scrape. Carl stumbled to a knee, but scrabbled back up again. "All the ATVs are down," Carl told her. He was bent over his foldout; his eyes scanned the surface of the computer. "Our mech is in combat right now."

"Come on, this way," Julia said. She opened the door to the stairs.

"What about the service elevator?"

"Absolutely not. Move!"

Carl skipped ahead and started down, leaning on the railing to take the stairs faster. Julia kicked off her heels and ran down in her stockings. The stairs were significantly less inviting than the work floor -- concrete and steel railing, exposed wiring running along the ceiling. Leave it to Emil to focus on the big picture and happily ignore all the little details.

A sound like a cannon blasted up the stairs. The concrete under their feet seemed to ripple. Julia tripped and fell the last three stairs; she crashed into Carl, and they landed in a crumpled heap on the landing below.

The lights shut off; they were plunged into darkness.

Carl groaned. Julia got back up, grabbed his hand, and pulled him up. "Come on, walk it off!"

She could hardly see him in the dark, but he was still moving. "I think my arm is dead."

"That's fascinating," Julia called over her shoulder. "Two more flights to go!"

"I can't see!"

"Feel it out, the railing's right there!"

"I can barely move my arm!"

"Deal with it!" Julia shouted. The lights flickered back on. She sighed. "And that's why we didn't take the elevator. Move!"

They made it to the basement level. Julia punched the security console and pushed her eye up against the pad. A brief green blip made her wince. The reinforced steel doors slid open.

A horde of clicks and clacks washed over them as a bristling horde of weapons were pointed her way. When they recognized her, security grabbed both her and Carl and dragged them through. The door shut behind them; reinforced bars slotted home in the wall.

Julia brushed her hair behind her ears. The basement of Crux was their shipping and receiving center, and also the core of their security apparatus. It was strictly functional -- a huge, concrete and steel warehouse, lit by white neon lamps hanging a few dozen feet overhead. A truck in the back, surrounded by a fleet of black VTOLs, was loaded with cardboard crates containing a little over 1,000 copies of Isis.

"What's our status?" Julia asked.

The head of security came up to her. He was bundled in full body armor and an electronic HUD helmet, his visor low over his eyes. A heavy rifle was slung over his shoulder. Dennis -- that was his first name. She couldn't remember his last, but she remembered he had three children - one in college, majoring in some piddling liberal arts degree.

"Miss Fredrick," he said, "we've got the basement on lockdown, but everyone we've sent out has gone silent. Vital signs are dead."

Julia swallowed, and nodded. Emil had built up their forces significantly, but they weren't a security company. There was a limit to how much military-grade equipment they could acquire without raising eyebrows. The remote ATVs were built for taking out other cars and ground-based troops, not combat mechs. And sheer numbers had apparently overwhelmed their own sole mech.

Carl rubbed his bruised arm. His eyes searched the bright warehouse for something positive. "The truck looks ready to go, at least," he offered.

"I like the optimism, kid," Dennis said, "but it doesn't matter for shit. Even if we use the hidden entrance, the building is surrounded on all sides and covered from the air by police VTOLs. And whoever the hell is running this show has even more stuff parked in the sky. They're storming the tower from the top down with men that are armed at least as well as we are, and they're backed up by four mechs. Four. I was watching the video feed. They're not production models."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we're fucked."

"So..." Carl cleared his throat. "What do we do?"

"Ma'am," Dennis said, turning to Julia, "in my professional opinion, we need to put our weapons down, surrender, and do whatever the hell these people tell us to do. And then we sort it out in court and pray for light sentencing."

Julia pulled her leather gloves tight, one at a time. "We can't surrender. Isis is too important."