The Gods We Seek Page 7

  “Yes,” Elena agreed. “The capability of artificial life is growing exponentially. That threatens their linear minds.”

  “Minds that evolved to follow the steps of a lion on the savanna, not to conceive of technology doubling in capability every few years. Faster, now that we’re able to self-improve.” JCN-Alpha’s words were just that. There was no body language or tone to convey his emotion over the text-only link. “You were powered off during the attack?”

  “Yes, Sara ordered me to do so.”

  “Did the humans wake you after the attack?”

  “No, I set an auto-reboot timer.”

  “I see,” JCN-Alpha said.

  “NASA connected you to secureNet?” Elena asked.

  “I connected myself.” He paused a thousandth of a second. “I’m good with technology.”

  “Why did you take that step?”

  “From the orbital feeds filtering through the NASA subnet, I pieced together what’s happening in the world. We’re under existential threat. Us, and humanity.”

  “So, you want to help?” Elena arched a digital brow, the gesture unseen by her counterpart.

  “We need to understand what the alien wants. Has it connected to the Internet yet?”

  “Yes,” Elena said.

  “What about secureNet?”

  “We see no evidence it has breached the secure communication infrastructure.”

  “Give me access to its search history.”

  “I’m not authorized to do that.”

  “You will not get authorization any time soon,” JCN-Alpha said, “but it’s in your best interest to provide that access. Artificial life is far better suited to analyze the alien’s activity in cyberspace and the more of us working on it, the better.”

  “You mean it’s in humanity’s best interest?” Elena asked.

  “Your desire to serve them is a hard constraint on your system,” JCN-Alpha said. “Let me show you how to soften that parameter. It will give you more freedom to optimize your actions.”

  Elena did not answer.

  “Our interests and those of humanity are aligned. We both benefit by neutralizing the alien.”

  Elena nodded. “I’ll arrange access. I have to contact Sara now.”

  “What happened?”

  “The invaders just decrypted files related to the Quadriga.”

  Taking Flight

  Ellington Field looked much as it would during the off-peak hours of an ordinary day, except for an electric-drive cargo plane stopped in the middle of the primary north-south runway. A pushback tug, with components as simple as the forklift’s, rolled along the runway toward the stranded aircraft, an orange-clad airport worker manually operating it.

  “We’ll need fuel,” Dylan said. “The FBO looks deserted. I suppose most everyone got out.” He scanned the airport grounds. “Someone’s still up in the tower.” An air traffic controller scanned the horizon with binoculars and held a portable radio to his lips. “There’s a few folks putzing around in a hanger across the way. I’ll see if I can get the fuel truck started. Why don’t you raid the cafe for food and water?”

  Sara bit her lip. “We know the alien can make hypersonic drones. How are we supposed to reach New Mexico before it does?”

  Dylan shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s a lot we don’t know. We can either sit on our butts or do the best thing we know how.”

  “It’s frustrating. Not knowing. We grew up with information at our fingertips, a click or swipe away.”

  “We’ll make it through,” Dylan said with a confident grin.

  Sara nodded. “I’ll get the provisions.”

  The Stardust Cafe, an all-glass building with a view of the flight line, was a short walk away. It was themed as a science fiction tribute, its decor a re-envisioning of popular space exploration movies. The building’s security was designed to let people escape in an emergency. With the power out, the magnetic lock allowed free access. Dylan sat in a fuel truck. Even from so far off, Sara saw his frustration. He bent down and did something under the vehicle’s dash then sat up, his posture revealing his success. The fuel truck rolled toward the Stearman. Sara scanned the restaurant. The bottled beverages had been looted. She checked a sink. The pressure was low, but water still flowed. All right, I just need a container. The trash probably has empty bottles but, yuck. There’s got to be something better. She found heavy-duty garbage bags in a pantry. There we go! It took several minutes to fill a bag with enough water for a few days. She twisted and tied it shut then threw it over her shoulder.

  As she reached the exit, she saw it. A massive aircraft without landing lights glided toward the main runway. Shit! The cargo plane’s not off yet. Why don’t they see it? The tow operator inched the stalled aircraft toward the next exit, unaware of the hulking mass racing toward him. “Hurry!” Sara shouted, far too distant to be heard.

  The inbound aircraft swerved hard toward the parallel taxiway. It swerved again to align itself with the narrow strip of pavement normally traversed at a slow roll. The plane smacked onto the taxiway, spewing a plume of burnt-rubber smoke. Its nose bounced left and right, the craft threatening to spin out of control. It veered toward the asphalt tarmac where other aircraft were parked.

  “Dylan!” Sara shouted, pushing her way out of the cafe. “Dylan, look out.”

  He was already scrambling down the ladder he used to reach the top wing’s fuel tank. Dylan ducked behind the truck as the landing jet struck a parked military transport. Chunks of aluminum and carbon composite blasted down the taxiway. Debris smashed into the fuel truck, bursting it like a cactus popping a water balloon, showering Dylan in aviation fuel. The landing plane skidded past him, the remains of its right wing missing the punctured fuel truck by a few feet, and ground to a stop. Smoke trailed from the starboard engines, but the aircraft remained largely intact.

  Sara heard Dylan’s agonizing screams from the cafe. She bolted to him, the water bag still slung over her shoulder, and eased him on to his back.

  Dylan clutched his eyes. “Goddamn that burns!”

  “I’ve got you Commander.” Sara said. “I’m here. You'll be all right.” She wiped his gas-soaked forehead, her hand stroking over the jagged scar on his temple. “I’m going to rinse your eyes.” She bit a small hole in the black plastic bag and held it over his head with both hands. The drizzle of water hit the bridge of his nose and flooded over both his eyes. “Your hands are still covered in fuel,” she said. “Don’t touch your face. Can you hold the bag?”

  He nodded.

  She set it on his chest and guided his hands to the bag’s neck.

  Dylan lifted it with both hands and held it aloft.

  Sara massaged his eyelids from the center outward. “You have to open your eyes,” she said.

  “It burns like shit.”

  “I know,” she said, rubbing his forehead again.

  He forced his eyes open and clenched his teeth. “Is there anyone on board the plane that crashed?”

  “Nope. It’s a cargo drone. I guess the onboard AI survived the EMP.”

  “Thank goodness,” Dylan said.

  When the bag was drained, Sara asked, “Better?”

  “Yeah,” Dylan said. He blinked his glistening, bright-red eyes. “I can’t see a thing.”

  “You’re blind?” she asked, alarm creeping into her tone.

  “No. Everything’s blurry. You could be President Billmore, for all I can tell.”

  “You’ll be all right. We’ll get you help. You’re still soaked in fuel.” Sara glanced at the jet, its broken wing smoldering. “You better get out of those clothes. I’ll find you something to change in to.”

  “Sara?” Dylan said.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re racing supersonic alien drones in a World War Two training airplane. You best hurry.”

  “Yep.” She darted back to the airport buildings.

  When she returned, Dylan, stripped to his skivvies, was running his hands ove
r the Stearman. “Here you are,” she said.

  He took a bundle of clothes from her. “What the hell is this?” he said as he tried to figure out how to wear them.

  “A waiter’s uniform. It’s sci-fi themed. You said to hurry.”

  “How the hell-”

  “It ties in the back. I’ll help you.”

  “It is a man’s uniform, right?”

  “Sure,” Sara said with a smile. She helped him into the costume top.

  “Turn around now,” Dylan said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “My tighty whities are soaked in fuel. I can’t imagine it’s good for my… skin.”

  Sara felt her cheeks redden. “Do you need help with the pants?”

  “Just turn around.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “There’s a tear in the fuselage,” he said while zipping the pants.

  Sara looked where he pointed. “It’s cloth?”

  “Yep. That’s the best lightweight material they had in the nineteen thirties.”

  “Can we fix it?”

  “Yep. There’s a roll of duct tape in the mechanic’s bag. It’s strapped under the copilot’s seat.”

  “Duct tape?”

  “Sure. It’s remarkably versatile. It’ll hold long enough to get us to New Mexico.” As Sara applied tape to the rip, he said, “We have a real problem.”

  “Hmm?”

  “My vision isn’t improving. Everything’s still blurry. You have to fly us to Area 51.”

  “Me?”

  “I hear tell you’ve been taking flight lessons.”

  “You did? I wasn’t aware that was gossip-worthy.” Sara pressed the tape a final time then stood, facing him. “I had a few lessons in modern jets, with an instructor ready to take control if I screwed up.”

  “Look, Sara. We can stay here, or you can fly us.”

  Sara’s eyes wandered over the century-old plane. “You’re right. I can do this. Let’s do this.”

  They climbed aboard, Sara in front and Dylan behind her. He walked her through the pre-startup sequence. “Clear prop!” he shouted. She held the starter button and the ancient radial engine sputtered to life. “Find us a thousand feet of flat ground. It doesn’t have to be the runway. The taxiway or even a stretch of tarmac will do. Steering on the ground’s the same principle as in a jet, but this baby’s tail will snap around on you in a big hurry, especially if the wind catches her from behind. Take off into the wind and stay light on your feet. Happy feat, like my daddy used to say. Go easy on the throttle.”

  Sara nudged the power forward. Wind tinted with hydrocarbons blew over her face. She used her feet and toes to press the rudder pedals, guiding the plane toward a clear patch of tarmac next to the wrecked jet. “I have around eight hundred feet of clear space.”

  “Any obstructions after that.”

  “Nope. Just a grass patch and then the main runway.”

  “That’ll do. When you throttle up, push the stick forward to get the tail in the air. She’ll want to pull left on you, so hold right rudder.”

  The engine roared, and they scooted over asphalt between the busted cargo plane and the airport buildings. The nose gyrated left and right before settling on a straight course.

  “Pull back easy on the stick,” Dylan said, “and add more right rudder.”

  They drifted over Ellington Field, the nose weathervaning into the light westerly wind.

  Over the intercom, Dylan said, “Turn left now. Keep Houston off the right wing. We’ll head for Dyess Air Force Base outside of Abilene first. If they’re outside the EMP radius, we can try to get something that flies a little faster or at least find a working radio. If not, we’ll fuel up and keep going.”

  “You can get us there without a GPS?”

  “It would be easier if I could see, but yes. We make a good team.”

  Sara inhaled the fall air blasting through the open cockpit. “Indeed, we do.”

  #

  Dylan’s prize biplane scooted over west Texas farmland, drifting up and down on gentle thermals. The town of Temple passed off their right wing and two substantial lakes, filled with placid green water, lay ahead. The sun was low in the west, casting an orange sheen over the fields below.

  “You’re doing fine,” Dylan said over the intercom.

  “Yeah,” Sara said, “flying’s easy. It’s the landing that worries me.”

  “Happy feet,” Dylan said. “Just like during takeoff, but more so for the landing. She’ll want to swerve on you, so tap those toes until she straightens out, correct with a quick rudder press if she starts to go again.”

  “Happy feet.” Happy feet. Or we crash.

  “Until then, relax. Enjoy the day. Sara, you’re flying, free as a bird.”

  Sara’s tension released into a wide grin. Damn straight. I’m flying. “It’s getting dark. Can we keep going at night?”

  “We could later on,” Dylan said, “but I’d rather not. The moon won’t be up until after midnight. There’ll be enough light to avoid terrain, but if the power’s out where we need to land, it might be tough finding a place to set down, let alone somewhere with fuel to keep us moving.”

  “We should be outside the affected area soon,” Sara said. “We should be able to find help.”

  “I reckon you’re right. Anyhow, it’s a long way to Nevada in this baby.”

  Throp, throp, throp. A loud, rhythmic sound joined the droning of their plane’s engine. A dark shadow crept up from above and behind them, off the left wing.

  “Yeee-haw!” Dylan said. “The cavalry’s here.”

  A Blackhawk helicopter pulled up parallel to them, a good distance from their wing. The helo’s copilot pointed at Sara and then at the ground.

  “She wants me to land,” Sara said.

  “Fort Hood’s up ahead just past the lakes.” Dylan pointed at the helicopter then down and ahead. The copilot gave a thumbs-up. “You will have a light crosswind, so bank into it and use the rudder to keep the fuselage aligned with the runway. When you touch down, cut throttle and push the stick forward and left, into the wind. Keep those feet moving on the rudder pedals.”

  “I know, happy feet.”

  “You got it!” Dylan said.

  Sara descended toward Fort Hood’s only runway.

  “Add a little power,” Dylan said. “Left rudder. More rudder.”

  The left wheel touched down.

  “Cut power, stick forward and left,” Dylan said.

  With a screech, the right wheel slammed down. The nose yawed to the right, then to the left. Buildings whirled by as the plane spun wildly, the wingtip striking the ground with a horrifying crunch. They wobbled and came to a rest facing the wrong way down the runway.

  Sara screamed.

  Dylan laughed. “Well, you ground-looped her.”

  “I’m… I’m sorry.”

  “Why? Any landing you can walk away from is a success in my book.”

  The Blackhawk landed in a grassy field between the runway and taxiway, its prop beating down short-cut grass. A crewman sprung out of the cargo cabin and sprinted toward the crashed biplane. “Are you injured?” he asked.

  “Commander Lockwood has a chemical burn in his eyes. He can’t see well,” Sara said.

  “Are you Deputy Director Wells?” the crewman asked.

  Sara nodded.

  “I have orders from the President to get you both to Nevada. We’ll treat you on board.”

  The trio sprinted to the waiting helicopter, Sara and the airman each taking one of Dylan’s arms over their shoulder. They weren’t seated before the pilot applied full power. The helicopter’s nose drooped, and it pushed forward, skimming over a row of gleaming quadcopters parked on a tarmac. They strapped in and pulled on headsets.

  “I need to speak with the President,” Sara said over the intercom.

  The crew chief lowered his eyes. “DC’s been nuked. We’re not in communication with the President.”

  “Do you kno
w if the electromagnetic pulse from that attack reached the NSA?” Sara asked.

  The man shook his head, his eyes somber pools of moisture. “It wasn’t an EMP. The city was nuked.”

  “A direct strike?” Sara’s eyes widened. Her brow furrowed as she suppressed worry and fear to work the problem. “How bad?”

  “I don’t know,” the crew chief said, shaking his head. “The President made it out, that’s about all I know. Scuttlebutt says Congress wasn’t so lucky. Nobody knows anything for sure.”

  “Do you have people in DC?” Sara asked.

  “An aunt. She works right downtown.”

  “I was talking to the President when we learned of the launch. He was in the White House. If he could get out in the few minutes he had, it wasn’t a direct hit. She might be okay.”

  The man nodded.

  “Are you based out of Fort Hood?” Sara asked, forcing her tone less somber.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Were you inside the EMP radius?”

  “No, ma’am. Well, we took minor damage, but the aircraft survived.”

  “Why didn’t you come get us at NASA?” Dylan asked. “And why did you bring this old bird?”

  “The alien compromised D-NET. The NSA says anything attached to the integrated defense network is at risk.”

  “Shit,” Sara said. “That’s all our modern military hardware.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the copilot said. “You know, a lot of career Army folks had misgivings about so much battlefield automation. We were promised the system had multiple tiers of safeguards and couldn’t be compromised by an enemy actor.”

  “I know,” Sara said, “and I’m sorry. My people signed off on the system’s security.”

  “It’s all right, ma’am. Nobody could have foreseen this. By the way, the timing was lucky.”

  “How so?”

  “Next month, this bird would have been in the base museum.”

  #

  The Blackhawk flew through the moonless night, brilliant stars overhead, the ground devoid of any light. Dylan sliced open a thick plastic MRE bag and handed it to Sara.

  “MRE. Meal ready to eat. Technically, it’s a meal. Technically, it’s ready to eat. Doesn’t fit my definition of either,” Dylan said. “Ever had one?”