REALITY FLUX: ARMORED CORE AND BOLO

By

Gregory P. Wong

The quantum anomaly that cast Victor Sherriton into different times and different realities was not just limited to his own universe. Rifts in space-time opened up in countless other places, sucking away denizens of one universe and depositing them in a different one. Fortunately for the involuntary travelers, the rifts were unlike Sherriton's unique anomaly in that they were short-lived. The individuals sucked into the event horizons were returned spontaneously after some time.

Yet, time was still spent in an alien continuity...

Part One: Power Tools

Input detected (Bolo Command Center)

Bolo Survival Center… Online

Operation: Begin start-up

Operation: Run full internal diagnostic

Internal diagnostic complete (0.361 seconds)... Systems at 99.998 optimum

Operation: Continue with activation process

Master record... Booted

Polymorphic arrays... Online

Yes/No/Maybe trinary logic... Running

Memory Banks... Open

Bolo Personality Center… Online

Hyperheuristic software... Active

Unit entering Combat Readiness Status... Now

I awaken.

I am Unit 7195-BTN of the Dinochrome Brigade, Bethany to my human comrades, and I am Bolo. Specifically, I am a Mark XXXIII...XXXIV...XXXIII...XXXIV...

Error Detected. My identity nodes are feeding me two conflicting identification signals.

I am alarmed, thoroughly alarmed. To not know one's true identity shakes one to one's own core, and, as a sentient entity, I am not exempt.

I again query my memory nodes, and again I receive conflicting identifications. Both seem to be equally valid, and my logic routines cannot circumvent the conflict.

Have I gone senile, or mad? While the number of times of a confirmed "Rogue Bolo" has occurred can be counted on a single human hand, improbability can be no comfort to one so afflicted. I can be one of those Bolos who have...

I cease that line of thought. I am not senile, or insane. My self-diagnostics tell me my mind is in perfect working order… save for the troublesome identity errors.

I access my memory banks, taking note of the most recent entries. They will give me answers. In my newly-awaken states, my sluggish thought processes did not catch this rather simple solution.

I am Unit 7195-BTN of the Line, a Mark XXXIII Planetary Siege Bolo serving on the Melconian Front. My Commander is Lieutenant Colonel Gracie Sherwin. My planet of station is Ralston.

The fighting across this planet has been heavy, with Melconian Surturs and Fenrises laying siege to this very world... and its human population. Operation Ragnarok has sparked a horrendous, genocidal war, where humans burn Melconian worlds to ashes and they do the same to us.

Here, on Ralston, a heavy assault force of Melconians has initiated their version of Ragnarok, and two of Ralston's major cities are fused wrecks. My brother and sisters fight to prevent total destruction of this world's human population, though we know the feat might be impossible. The enemy numbers too many, and a beaten force of only four Mark XXXIIIs cannot hold them.

But we will try. We are Bolos.

Finally, after a week of heavy fighting, it begins to end. My three comrades burned to glowing hulks beside me, I engage the last four Surtur heavy combat units. The last cities of Ralston have been completely destroyed by orbital nuclear bombardment before I could destroy the murderous Melconian dreadnoughts with my mighty 200cm Hellbores.

I have nothing to defend any longer. My commander is the only surviving human on this scorched world. I cry in rage and grief over the million of slaughtered humans, but I do no allow it to cloud my mind.

I strike. And strike again. And again. And again.

And again.

And one last time.

Yet, I am not the only one striking.

The Melconian version of a Hellbore rips into my massive, 32,000 ton body, right where the constant warfare has gouged out a hole in my tough durachrome armor.

I detect a hull breach, and to my horror, I realize that the bolt of nuclear force has penetrated my Command Center, where Colonel Sherwin was seated.

Yet, my shock and sorrow is short lived. Even as my Hellbores tear the Surtur to shreds, the pain screaming from my tortured, catastrophically damaged chassis send my consciousness retreating into my Bolo Survival Center. The last thoughts I experience are those of wrenching grief and shame at having failed my duty to protect this world from Melconian murder.

And then all goes dark, and my memory banks are finished.

I am being hailed by an entity using Brigade protocols.

I decide to answer the communications link, but because of my lack of knowledge, I keep my firewalls and security protocols at high alert.

"Greetings sister," a male-gendered, electronic "voice" transmits into my systems.

"I know not if you are truly a brother or not," I transmit back. "Identify yourself."

The reply comes back in a flash. "I am Planetary Interdictor Bolo Mark XXXIV 1072-JRD of the Line. I serve the New Dinochrome Brigade, as part of the Esperanza Defense Command."

I immediately feel suspicion. "My records do not tell of a Mark XXXIV Bolo of your identification, nor does your unit of attachment exist."

"They would not, since my creation came a several decades after your most recent memories."

I consult my internal chronometer. I am astounded to discover that 123.08 years have passed since my last recalled moment. JRD speaks the truth, it seems.

I again open the link to Unit JRD. "I am a Mark XXXIII Bolo, yet I have internal conflicts telling me that I am Mark XIV."

"Activate your sensors, sister," JRD says to me, and closes the link.

I do so. Next to me is a massive war machine. Another Bolo. Quick scans of armament, shape, energy emissions and gravitonic disruption tells me that this is a Bolo Mark XXXIV. Strange, I do not feel larger.

As a Mark XXXIII, I am over one hundred-twenty meters in length, while the schematics of the prototype Mark XXXIVs have them at ninety meters. I should feel large compared to this other unit, yet I do not.

I turn my sensors on myself.

If I were a human, my jaw would have dropped.

I am now inhabiting the chassis of a new Mark XXXIV Exultant-type Bolo! One of my massive 200cm Hellbores has been deleted, along with my four 240cm howitzers and a pair of my 20cm infinite repeaters. However, I have gained two powerful plasma-flux Hellrail cannons, while my mortars, VLS missile system, and point defense networks remain the same.

I open a link to JRD. "What has happened to me?" I inquire.

"One of our expeditionary vessels discovered your hulk on the devastated world of Ralston. The ship's sensors detected that a flicker of energy was still running through your central psychotronic networks, and Unit KRN advised them to extract you, somehow. However, so fiercely damaged was your original chassis—and radioactive, as well—that the captain of the vessel only extracted your memory core and processor."

"I see," I respond. "I find the new body to be satisfactory, though I will take some time to become acclimated to my new form.

Such is my fate, I suppose. I am not granted death beside my comrades, but rather a new chance to serve humanity once again.

I receive another hail, one that also uses proper protocols. Not JRD, I wonder who it can be. I open a link.

"Hello, BTN, it is good to see that you are well."

I query about this new speaker's identity.

"I am Bolo-Derived Unit 0001-KRN," the voice answers.

I am unaware of a "Bolo-Derived Unit" class. I query this.

"Like you, BTN, I also lost my original body. Now, I am the very mind that assists and coordinates the defense assists of Esperanza. In effect, my chassis is the capital city of Kilthwani. Much can be done even without a Mark XXXIII chassis."

I note the wisomd in that statement and signal an affirmative.

Both JRD and KRN request to upload a Verified Situation Report to me. I agree, and they transmit update packets to me, amassing some four terabytes.

I am amazed yet again.

Here, on Esperanza, Melconians and humans have found peace. No, more than a peace, an alliance. Unit JRD participates in electronic wargames with the new Melconian Garms and Skolls, upgraded versions of my nemeses, the Surturs and Fenrises. Their cybernetics enhanced by human knowledge, they are as intelligent as any high-end Bolo, and they serve their roles as advance scouts and fast-response assets well. I read about an invasion that occurred not five years ago, and the teamwork between human and Melconian was astounding.

I have much to learn.

I have oriented myself to this new world over the past 5.29 days. In that time, I have studied my new body extensively. It is a bit lighter than my old form, and a bit more maneuverable, thought road speed and sprint speed are about the same.

The deletion of a 200cm Hellbore and my howitzers lighten my assault capabilities, but in place of those I have my twin Hellrails, 60-meter long weapons that fire bolts of nuclear force. These, along with my main Hellbores, make my anti-starship capabilities superb. In fact, the 90-megaton Hellrail bolts can strike targets on Esperanza's moons.

With schematics and all other duty-based functions out of the way, I am allowed to think for a moment, something a Bolo does not usually have the time for, which is saying much, considering out nanosecond reaction speeds and psychotronic brains.

Before my failure at Ralston, I was an integral part of bringing Operation Ragnarok to three Melconian worlds. At the time, I reveled in the destruction of Melconian battle units and took great pleasure in the razing of Melconian cities and the slaughter of Melconian civilians. I can relive every minute of it.

I see now that I have been mad, mad with the bloodlust the humans had called for, the insanity that had been ordered. I am built for war to ensure peace, yet what I had been ordered to do had been far too much. I am fiercely glad that the madness has been ended.

I receive a call from the ECD command. "Bethany, we are ready to being maneuvers."

I acknowledge, and feed power to my drive trains. KRN, JRD, and several Melconian mech units have scheduled this exercise with the standard EDF forces. It was mock battle, but one that my sophisticated systems can interpret as real. I—

Anomaly detected!

My visual-light sensors focus on a spot above my main turret. It is a massive ball of chaotic quantum particles and energy that resembles roiling, white fire. I remember, from an unload, that this was some sort of gate used by an invading army to attack Esperanza.

"BTN!" I head JRD transmit urgently "You must evade it at once!"

"Acknolwedged," I reply.

I feed power to my drives, but I calculate that I will not be able—

And then my world explodes into white.

"Sir?" Major Keira Sanchez, of the United Nations Mechanized Strike, asked incredulously. Bad enough that it was two in the morning, worse that they were investigating a... a...

"I know, Major, I know. It sounds like a big UFO hunt," the general said.

"Yes, sir."

She watched the man rub his forehead. "So, Major, for the details. Around an hour ago, some type of energy discharge was detected in this region." The general pointed to a baked, lifeless region in the middle of the African continent.

In the "Crazy Years" following the immense nuclear war that was World War III, humanity had been driven down below the surface of Earth, where corporate entities had ruled over the people. Although, if she remembered correctly, there was an AI master program—the Controller, was it called?—keeping tabs. Eventually, an uprising led by a Raven—a mercenary from a group of mercenaries—had let humanity back out on the surface.

It was pretty much touch-and-go from there, with the corporations trying to snap up as much territory was they could and damn the consequences. Well, the consequences had come back to nip them in their collective butts, with devastating results: The Silent Line Barrier, The IBIS Assault, the Pulverizer Crisis, and the Last Raven War.

Things had pretty much collapsed at that point, leading to a half-dozen years of warfare until a reconstituted United States had reestablished the United Nations Council.

Things had been pretty good so far, ignoring, of course, an invasion by the alien Kradeon that had occurred a bare four years ago. Thankfully, the aliens had been kicked off Earth, and things were almost back to normal.

Almost.

"The Wastelands, sir? Could it be reactivated Pulverizers?"

Even after the thirty-seven years humankind has been back above the surface there were still plenty of regions that had yet to be explored thoroughly. Plus, Africa was still a bombed out area, with radioactivity levels that would keep colonies from being established in the heartland for at least ten more years.

"I don't think so, Major. Our orbital defense platforms scan for those type of signatures, and would have glassed the area if one had been found. No, I think this might be something different. Ancient technology, maybe. No, most likely."

"Understood, sir. When should my battalion get moving?

"As soon as possible, Major, since you're the only experience unit we have available. I'd rather not let some tech fall into the hands of an entity like Kisaragi, or, Lord help us, Mirage."

She nodded. Though they were weakened a great deal power-wise, the Corporations still wielded immense influence. A tech boost might lead to a takeover. These were still dangerous years, after all.

"So, Major," the general continued handing her a data disk, which most likely contained further information on the mission, "Get in the air by 0700."

"Roger."

"Oh, you're kidding me, right?" Keira asked in annoyance. Perfect, just perfect! The mission hadn't even officially started, and already there were complications. Well, same ol' in the life of a military woman, eh?

She and the rest of her eight-person Armored Core 83rd battalion was aboard a convoy of four Skylifter heavy transports. They were on their way to the Wastelands, equipment and all.

"Nope, Major. I'm serious," her Executive Officer (XO), Captain Alexander Hanson, replied.

"How serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"Damn." She leaned back in her seat and massaged her forehead. "Any chance we can overtake them?"

"None, ma'am. We're at least an hour behind them, and that doesn't count the fact that Corp' transports are faster than ours."

She cursed. Damn Corporation! Crest had hired a Raven squadron—"Last Raven War" had been a bit of a misnomer—to investigate it themselves. To make matters worse, they'd deployed earlier than she had. If the Ravens tried to make off with whatever the energy signature was, it might come down to a firefight. Her people were good, very good, but Ravens weren't known for being bad.

Dammit.

"So, what can we do, Alex?"

"We can send a flight of Spyeye probes ahead of us on missiles, but we won't be able to do more than watch what happens."

"Hell, that's all we can do right now: watch. Do it."

Reboot...

Initiate Bootstrap Recovery system

Online.

I awaken abruptly.

I immediately run diagnostics. I have been "out" for over nine hours, a shockingly long time blank-spot for a Bolo unit. Despite this, everything checks out fine. I am still in prime working order. But where am I? I can sense no hails from JRD, KRN, or the Melconian mechs.

I activate sensors, finding myself in an arid, lifeless plain of baked mud and rocky hills. Where am I?

I scan for any technological presences, and I find a half dozen missiles closing in on me! I react, initiating a high-intensity, 0.0082 second scan on the signatures. They are not fitted with warheads, but rather some type of drone unit. No threat. I detect other contacts, and a similar scan indicates that they are weapon-grade signatures. However, I have 33.02 and 52.02I minutes, respectively, before they come within ten kilometers of me. I can wait for another few seconds.

I extend my gaze upward, and am delighted to find several satellites orbiting above me. I probe them gently. Interesting. They are not EDC or EDF satellites. I carefully hack into their systems and read their input.

Astounding! Long neglected geographic maps find a match! There is some discrepancy due to continental drift, but I recognize the area I am in as Africa, from old Earth. I delve deeper into the satellite databases and fire further evidence that I am, indeed, on Earth.

Did that quantum gate, the ball of "fire", transport me as it did the alien invaders those five years ago? It seems the only way, since being transported over several light years in the space of ten hours is utterly impossible via direct-flight methods. Perhaps some quantum gate?

Farther out, the three transports detected, most likely helicopter-types, seem to be lifting a half-dozen high-energy signatures. Those do have detectable weapon systems. Both sets of signatures will be in my engagement envelope soon, but I cannot fire upon them. Not knowing the situation of this planet, I do not want to risk calling the ire of an entire world upon me. I will wait and observe events as they unfold.

"The bloody hell is that?" Keira heard Lieutenant Wade Gurney, pilot of AC Helios and Aerial Assault specialist, blurt over the comm.

"It... it looks like a humongous tank!" This from Captain Alena Yeung, of AC Red Flash and the 83rd's Fast-Response specialist.

"This is going to be a giant monkey wrench, huh?" she muttered to herself. She keyed her wristcomm and buzzed the transport's pilot. "ETA before we make drop?"

"Looks like thirty-five, ma'am."

"Thanks." She fiddled with her wristcomm again and tuned it to the battalion frequency. "83rd, time to mount up. Get into your cockpits and begin fission reactor standby. Low energy state until we hit ETA five minutes." She turned to Hanson. "How much longer until the mercs enter weapon range?"

"About twenty."

I watch as a half-dozen mechanoids of some sort detach from the transports and descend to the ground. I detect that all six units have a rather substantial booster/drop-jet system.

I scan. The units average from twelve to twenty meters in height, with the majority of the units hovering around sixteen. I assess mass to be anywhere from 200 to 375 tons, a mere pittance compared to my twenty-eight thousand ton bulk. However, mass itself cannot be the end-all factor for determining fighting ability. In fact, their bipedal stance and light weight mirrors the design used by a hostile alien species that humanity encountered during the Human-Melconian War, the Malach. The Malach Hunters were ten-meter-tall, reverse-joint, dual-purpose mechanoids that proved to be a worthy opponents to a pair of XXIV Bolos that had been stationed on the invaded world.

These mechanoids are, on average, larger and heavier than the Hunters, and their designs vary, while the Malach utilized a single design. I am unsure of their fighting potential, though, drawing inferences from the satellite technology above me, I can hypothesize that they will not have Hellbore-equivalent technology.

I consider launching a specialty missile to spread Battlefield Intelligence and Surveillance Transmission drones over the area above me, but I decide against it. That might be interpreted as a hostile action.

The six mechanoids began to advance on me from 103.601 kilometers out, some traveling on the ground, others in the sky. I can lock them up with my targeting systems, but, again, that will be interpreted as hostile. I will allow them the first move.

Jacob "Asmodeus" Wilkins, pilot of AC Perdition, wondered that the hell that big thing was. It didn't look like any Armored Core or Muscle Tracer he'd encountered.

"So, what's the plan, 'boss'?" he heard Stretch ask disparagingly over the comm.

He curled his upper lip. Bad enough he had to share his paycheck with these mooks, even worse that they were all idiots. Or arseholes.

Ever since an... incident involving napalm, a UN MT company, and a town in South America, he'd had hard time being hired. Political correctedness and all that horsecrap. Most clients, including the Corporations, didn't want anything to do with a "butcher".

Buncha dicks, that they were. It wasn't like they hadn't endorsed the torching of those jungle rats. Plus it was funny to watch brats running around, on fire. Double-talking, two-faced executives. Seriously, though, who cared? He was a merc, for God's sake. He did what he was paid to do. Sure, there were the Ravens who took the moral high ground and didn't do "questionable missions", but he wrote them off as pansies.

Anyway, Crest was desperate enough to hire his highly-skilled but unscrupulous derriere to isolate and contain this new "energy signature" thing. The only catch was that he had to share with these other Ravens, who, like him, had a hard time finding work because of, ah, stuff.

Stretch, for example, had raided a colony's resources so as to discredit the client's rival. Wipeout had attacked a medical convoy, also to discredit a rival, while Argus had a run-in with a UN AC unit.

Crest must be damn desperate to get a hold of that signature.

He sent a neural command via his headset and ordered a radar scan of the target. Hmm... looked pretty sturdy, and energy readings were off the chats. Dimensions were ridiculous too: it was at least ninety meters long, fifty-five at its widest, and twenty-five high. It wasn't a tank, it was a frigging mountain.

Oh, well.

First things first. He sent a transmission to the tank-thing.

"Yo, anyone in there? Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

He waited. Hmm, nothing. Maybe if he got Stretch to bombard it—

"This is Unit 7195-BTN. Identify yourselves," came a strong soprano.

Ooh! That voice brought back good memories. Once, Kisaragi had hired him to elimate down a "spy" who was escaping on an MT. The briefing files he'd been shown told him the spy was female and decisively attractive, so he took it upon himself to get a little "bonus", since Kisaragi gave piss-poor rates. So, anyway, he'd blown the legs off the MT with rockets, torched the cockpit until the broad popped out—he loved flamethrowers—and begged to be spared.

He'd kindly relented, dismounted from his AC... and then tied her up and had his way with her. After fifteen minute's fun—fun that included matches, pliers, and some acid—he'd taken his combat knife and gutted her. Good stuff.

What he remembered most, though, was the chick's voice. Not girly-girl, not battleaxe, but right in between, maybe a little to the girly side. Coulda been super sexy if she hadn't been cowering in fear. Oh well.

Now here was another possible toy, and the voice sounded almost he same, too! Maybe he could score another "bonus". He deserved it, after putting up with these five idiots.

"All right, then, sweetheart. Kindly power down your overgrown tank and come on out. Promise I won't hurt ya." He made sure not to add "for too long."

"Identify yourself."

Oh, so the broad was gonna play hard to get, huh? "Listen, lady, I'm a Raven. Name's Asmodeus, and I pilot AC Perdition, which you probably heard of if you've been following the arena rankings."

Pause. Then...

"Very well, Raven Asmodeus. However, I cannot comply with your order. I would like to speak with a higher authority, please."

Good God...

"Listen, you idiot, you either get out of there right this fisking instant, or I melt my way through your tank and drag you out. And it won't be fun if I do that."

That part was definitely true. There was a reason why he liked napalm and flamethrowers, of course. Nothing beat the sound of agonized screams as he boiled pilots in their own cockpits. And since his medium-humanoid AC was fast and well armored, he had the maneuvers to do just that. It was like a bastardized lobster cook.

"I cannot 'leave the tank'," the woman said.

Oh, fisking... "Okay, that's it, I'm gonna torch that large metal carcass, and then I'll—"

"Raven Asmodeus, I cannot leave the tank," the woman said, "because I am the tank."

I identified the six mechanoids even before I opened the voice transmission with Asmodeus.

They are "Armored Cores" Perdition, Gearhead, Argento, Wily Rocket, Rustbucket, and Spartacus, piloted by Ravens Asmodeus, Wipeout, Argus, Stretch, Trailer, and Calico, which I assume to be aliases. I hacked into their onboard databanks and found information on who these individuals are.

They are a mercenary group hired to contain me, and I am utterly appalled.

These are no soldiers, they are barbarians who know nothing of honor and duty. More disgustingly, Asmodeus, pilot of Perdition, has a record of sadistic incidences and actions that would, under Esperanza law, be considered crimes against humanity. He is skilled, as "Arena rankings" tell me, but he is not one of the top Ravens.

Lacking data telling me otherwise, I sincerely hope that these are not a representation of Earth's soldiers.

"An AI, huh?" I hear Asmodeus transmit to me. "Sure, tell me another one."

"I am Planetary Interdictor Bolo Mark XXXIV Exultant, designation 7195-BTN of the Line. I am a collection of hyperheuristic thought processes on a massively parallel polymorphic array that utilizes molecular virtual psychotronic circuitry. I require no pilot."

I hear Asmodeus chuckle. "Yeah, right. Maybe if I had a dictionary as good as yours I might sound more like a techie."

The commlink closes, and 2.04 seconds later I am lashed by targeting arrays.

I detect missile launch! Units Wily Rocket and Argento have each launched salvoes of missiles at me. Quick analysis indicate that the missiles are standard, medium-weight warheads

I react. Within 0.007 seconds of launch, I have acquired all missiles on my targeting arrays. Another 0.05 seconds pass, and then I fire with my point-defense gauss guns and laser clusters. The missiles, the closest still a comfortable 11.06 kilometers from me, detonate spectacularly.

I have been fired upon. Basic programming and protocol dictates that I am free to engage units that have displayed open hostility. However, my higher-thinking strategic thought processes go against this. I still do not possess enough information of Earth's status, and the missile strike may have been an accident, however unlikely that alternative may seem. I would be extremely discomfited if this was a Concordiat or Esperanzan situation, but it is not. It is one that is alien.

Furthermore, the missile fire was horribly ineffectual against me. I see no need to initiate offensive fire unless the situation escalates. That being said, I cannot allow the enemy to think I am unwilling to defend myself using more direct means.

I lock the mercenary units up hard with my targeting arrays.

What the fisk!? The fisking tank had just blown away all twenty-four missiles Stretch and Calico had launched at it. Just like that!

Well, then, time to get serious.

"Nice shooting!" he said mockingly over the comm. "Maybe you are a bot. So, how about this? I come in close to you, you power down your weapons, and I promise not to damage that abomination of a hull... too much."

Silence. Maybe he was getting somewhere—

"Raven Asmodeus, I think not."

"Oh, really? You know what an AC is, tank? We're the top dogs of warfare. Better yet, you know who I am? Now surrender right now or I—"

"No." Now the voice sounded quite a bit colder. "I have stood my ground against dozens of 18,000-ton Melconian Surturs. I have dueled orbital dreadnoughts with the power to glass a planet's surface. I have rushed into point-blank nuclear fire to vanquish my enemies. I am a Bolo, and you should think twice about employing idle threats in hopes of cowing me."

Did that tank just say...? It had. That was it. Talking was over.

"Move in closer," he growled to the others. "We're ripping this uppity tin can a new one."

He moved in and prepared to activate his Overboost. Maybe if this thing was really a bot, he could scavenge that super-effective anti-missile system, and maybe its fire-control system, too. He needed cash.

"Ravens, halt at once. I have acquired you with my weapon systems, and if you should enter the five-kilometer space around me, I will take action," said the tank.

Yeah, right, he was really going to listen.

He activated his Overboost. He was going to close with the tank while bombarding it with napalm rockets. Once he got within the 175-meter range of his flamethrowers, he was gonna have himself a barbeque.

At precisely 1318 the Skylifter transport released Keira's AC, Nike.

She tapped a control and her neural-induction suit kicked in. Wired into the AC's systems, the suit gave her incredible control of the AC's movements; in effect, it was almost like her AC was her body, albeit a body that used a 75mm autocannon as a "machine gun".

The altimeter said the ground was... two thousand meters down. She began to pulse her boosters, slowing her descent. Around her, ACs Monolith, Animus, Phantom, Red Flash, Helios, Scorpion, and Grand Hammer did the same.

"Crap, they're moving in," Keira heard Hanson, aboard Monolith, say tensely.

She, Hanson, and presumably the others in the battalion, were watching courtesy of the Spyeyes they'd launched. The feed was still coming in loud and clear.

For all the good it was going to do them. If these Ravens were good—Asmodeus was a psychopathic bastard, but he was skilled—they might even be able to make off with the tank-thing before they could get there.

"HOLY CRAP!" she heard Lieutenant Nasuke Tobakimi, Sniper/Scout and pilot of AC Phantom, yelp.

She looked at the video feed coming in from the Spyeyes. The drones had spaced themselves around the mountain of metal, and were giving quite a few good angles. Views of...

"Holy crap," she whispered.

Battle Reflex Mode engaged.

I lock onto the legs of unit Gearhead and launch a salvo from my infinite repeaters. The powerful 20cm plasma bolts slam into the bird-legged Gearhead and shear off the left leg. Spectrographic scans of the vaporized armor indicate that the Armored Cores are plated with depleted-uranium, carbon sheathing—most likely nanotube-based—and a titanium alloy, similar to old-style Chobham armor. The armor, though no doubt effective for this world's weapons, is utterly insufficient for the firepower of Hellbores.

No longer able to run forward on a single limb, Gearhead falls to the baked earth and moves about feebly. However, I compute that the fallen unit can right and stabilize itself with its effective thrusters, and can open fire on me while airborne. I probe the fallen Armored Core carefully. Biometric scans indicate that the pilot of the mechanoid resides in the torso area. In its fallen position, I cannot neutralize Gearhead's weapon systems without endangering the pilot. I will wait and see what the pilot does.

I fire a BIST missile into the air. It detonates, and new senses come alive as thousands of one-centimeter-wide surveillance drones spread over me.

I detect an energy buildup to my right. I up the power to me drive train to 115 and plough forward, just as a plasma blast in the four-gigawatt range gouges out a large crater behind me. The firing unit, the tank-treaded Spartacus, attempts to swivel to track me. The fact that it is moving itself bodily suggests that the shoulder-mounted direct-fire weapons have a limited traverse rate. I will remember that datum, which could prove useful later on. I rapidly reconfigure my ten 40cm mortars to fire in a flat trajectory and volley them, shredding its treads with explosive penetrators.

I then swerve sharply to the left as a flight of dumb-fired rockets come at me. I bat them down with my gauss guns and lasers, and swivel my infinite repeaters to shoot up at Rustbucket, which is raining fire down upon me from above. The humanoid attempts to dance out of the way of my fire, but it will take more than that to throw off relativistic weaponry aimed by machine precision and nanosecond reflexes. My Hellbore bolts rip apart the unit's left arm, and it falters in the air. I keep my fire steady, and this time I shred its leg unit. Smoking, Rustbucket backs away.

Suddenly a powerful energy bolt washes over me. I was not able to dodge Sparatcus' second plasma round fast enough. My shields hold, however, and even divert 35.09 percent of the power to my own capacitors. I use the redirected energy to pulse my Number Seven, Eight, and Nine infinite repeaters into the shoulders of the treaded mechanoid, destroying both arm analogs.

Perdition and Wily Rocket have been keeping up a steady indirect-fire bombardment thus far. Perdition's napalm rockets have raised the ambient temperature a great deal, and a near-miss splashed some burning fluid toward my hull. My anti-kinetic battlescreens reacted, however, and the fluid flows off. Wily Rocket is using much smarter missiles, which I have a hard time neutralizing considering the amount of fire I am taking. I can end this in less than 5.33 seconds if I allow myself to inflict hard kills on the Armored Cores—2.01 if I use my main 200cm Hellbores to do so—but I seek to neutralize, not destroy. Their weapons have done only superficial damage thus far, and I see no need for a complete kill. However, considering what these mercenaries have done to their fellow man, I am sorely tempted.

I slam a volley of flat-trajectory mortar rounds into Argento, and the heavy mechanoid staggers, its heavy tread units not able to withstand the force of my munitions.

Suddenly, a napalm rocket gets past my point-defense screen and splashes directly over my hull. The flaming liquid raises my outer temperature startlingly, and I up the power to my drives, hoping air resistance will blow the fluid from my hull. The napalm is viscous, however, and it resists my attempts to dislodge it. Fortunately, I detect that the mass of napalm will be consumed in 5.091 seconds.

What the fisk was this thing!? Not only did it have those freakishly powerful weapons, but those weapons were dot-accurate.

Asmodeus bared his teeth. Goddamn tank. He and Stretch had been keeping back from the main action, pummeling the thing with indirect fire, but his napalm rockets seemed to be doing squat.

Was this thing impervious to damage? Jesus. Maybe if he could close to flamethrower range, he might have a chance at this.

Gearhead is attempted to right itself, using a combination of its humanoid arms, surviving leg, and thrusters. I cannot allow that. I swerve towards the struggling mechanoid and open fire with my point-defense railgun mounts, slamming 105mm long-rod penetrators into tortured metal. It opens fire with an autocannon and a pulsed particle cannon, which I compute to be 65mm and 725-megawatts, respectively. A full dozen of the high explosive autocannon rounds splash against my shields, as well as a trio of particle charges. My battlescreens flicker, but absorb the assault easily. By now, my sustained railgun volley has completely ruined the arms and legs of Gearhead, and the Armored Core crashes down to the ground. It is out of the fight, for now.

I detect that Argento and Spartacus have met up and joined, volleying their fire in dangerous barrages. Argento is utilizing a heavy bore cannon, which I estimate to be around 130cm range, and heavy swarms of missiles, while Spartacus is ripple-firing its plasma cannon and some type of orbiting auxiliary energy guns. The massive cannon shells require me to intercept them with heavy point-defense fire or a burst from my secondary Hellbores, which further complicates my counter-missile defenses as I detonate munitions from Perdition, Wily Rocket, and Rustbucket, which has reentered the fight.

A dozen assorted missiles make it past my point-defense web and strike my battlescreens. Intentionally or not, they target a spot on my screens which have taken a near-miss from Spartacus' plasma cannon. My shields fail in the area immediately above my Number Six tread unit and three of the missiles batter themselves against my endurachrome plating. The missiles do no more than char the metal.

Even before the missiles strike me, more mortar rounds rip away the head and arms of Spartacus, while my infinite repeaters do the same to Argento. Three enemies down.

I launch a heavy salvo of missiles from my VLS ports, each one an Icehawk anti-armor penetrator. I swat down the rocket and missile from the three Armored Cores, and lash Rustbucket with a barrage from my Hellbore infinite repeaters. I manage to destroy its booster system, and the mechanoid plummets to the ground, where its legs shatter from the impact. I amputate its weapon-wielding arms with surgical blasts from my point-defense systems.

The missiles I launched home in the remaining enemies, the plasma-lance Icehawks drilling white-hot holes in the limbs of Wily Rocket. The bird-legged unit falters in the air, and I down it with a single blast from my Number Three infinite repeater. Most of the weapon systems are crushed in the fall, and I have only to neutralize a hand-gripped autocannon.

My remaining missiles track Perdition, but at the last moment some type of afterburner kicks in, and the mechanoid accelerates to 476 kph in under a second. My missiles slam into the backed earth, harmless.

I immediately swivel my infinite repeaters and deal a one-two-three volley that blows away a chunk of left leg, rips away the left arm, and smashes a back-mounted rocket pack unit from the Armored Core. I wait for the mechanoid to loop backs towards me, but it does not, instead speeding out into the distance.

The mercenary Asmodeus has run, abandoning his comrades. I am repelled by such cowardice.

In any case, this firefight is over. Engagement Elapsed Time is a rather lengthy 32.12 seconds.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven..." Keira whispered to herself.

It... no, it couldn't be possible. It had to be impossible.

But it clearly wasn't. She'd watched the "battle" from start to finish, and made special note of the elapsed time. Thirty-two seconds. Thirty-two seconds for six Ravens to get their derrieres handed back to them.

"Battalion, cease forward progress," she ordered. That thing had ripped up a bunch of Ravens like they were nothing. No way in hell was she sending in her group until they found a way to contain that thing.

That, of course, assumed that it could be contained. That thirty seconds of hell shown through the Spyeye drones suggested that eight Armored Cores probably wouldn't even dent the thing.

She still couldn't believe it. Still didn't want to believe it. Six Ravens in Armored Cores... defeated in half a minute? It wasn't possible! Even during the encounters with the juggernaut Muscle Tracers and various Pulverizers, there had never been an engagement that had ever ended that quickly—and that badly—for a Raven group.

Never.

Still, they had a mission. If that thing decided to go on a rampage, there were colonies near the shores with populations totaling over five hundred thousand. Action was needed.

She keyed her mic. "Phantom, get to a suitable vantage point and keep watch on the tank. Do not acquire the target on your FCS."

"On it," she heard the lieutenant acknowledge. The heavy 170mm sniper rifle—or high-velocity smoothbore cannon for non-AC-sized entities—had a range of over twenty-five kilometers with rocket-assisted, self-forging, anti-tank (RASFAT) shells, and could puncture up to three meters of rolled homogenous armor with high-impact, discarding sabot, fin-stabilized, long-rod penetrators (HIDSFSLRP). The thing was, considering that plasma cannons, missile barrages, heavy grenade cannons, and napalm had maybe charred a bit of armor, she wasn't placing any bets on the sniper weapon doing much damage.

The sniper-configured rifle, because of its nature, was fitted with a complementary sensor package that tripled Phantom's "sight" range in the visual light, infrared, and radar. Tobakimi would be their early warning system.

"Helios, Animus, Red Flash, take up flanking positions, on me."

There was a chorus of affirmatives. The medium—and one light—units were fast and could get out of trouble quickly, if it came. Plus, it was a good covering tactic to have them covering her.

"Monolith, Grand Hammer, Scorpion, take up converging field of fire ten kilometers from the tank. Be prepared to cover us if we need it."

More acknowledgements. Ten kilometers was pushing the boundaries of their weapon ranges, but hopefully, if it came down to shooting, the wall of fire the three heavy ACs could project might mean the difference between life and death.

Against a conventional opponent. The matter was that this giant tank was nothing ever seen before. The precautions she was taking were straight from the Book, because there was noting in her experience that could be applied to this situation... except to be as careful as possible.

And one more thing...

She directed her communication arrays towards space. "This is Mike-Sierra-Eight-Three-Bravo-Tango. Attempting communications with Foxtrot-Charlie-Five-Niner-Three. Come in."

"Mechanized Strike 83rd, this is Fleet Command," replied a drawling voice over the comm. "We read you loud in clear."

"Command, I'm requesting immediate orbital support at coordinates 1413-1039, authentication code Oscar-Five-India-Juliet-Niner-Niner-Three-Seven-One. Condition is Uniform-X-ray-Five. Repeat: situation is Uniform-X-ray-Five."

There was a long pause. Well, understandable, since she'd just invoked one of the highest command-level authentications, and the highest situation threat level. Uniform-X-ray-Five meant an unidentified unit with a Class-five threat level—the highest in the UN designations—was within strategic striking distance of major cities. She knew how fast that tank could move and what destruction it could leave.

"Authentication and situation report confirmed, 83rd. Siege cruisers Lancaster and Myrmidon are beginning maneuvers, ETA one-point-five hours."

"Acknowledged, Command. Breaking contact."

"Affirmative," came the response, and she powered down the array.

Okay, so two Omaha­-class siege cruisers were en route. The Omahas mounted batteries of kinetic-kill missile launchers that were used to surgically remove targets from a planet's surface with precise, quasi-nuclear force. They had backup if it came down to shooting. But the ships still needed ninety minutes to get into a viable support position, and waiting that long was inviting trouble. They still had a job to do.

She activated her mic again.

"Advance, one-one-two-three formation Alpha, tight, limited booster," she said into the tactical channel. "Keep active scanners pinging on the tank; we want it to know that we're coming. Unless it fires on us, do not lock on with FCS. Phantom, you're our early warning system. You see so much as a turret jerk, let us know. Okay, people, stay frosty; this could get really ugly really fast."

I detect new signatures coming towards me. As I did with the Ravens, I probe their transponders and come up with identification tags: Nike, Red Flash, Animus, Helios, Monolith, Grand Hammer, Scorpion, and, furthest back, Phantom. I attempt to basic hack of their databanks, but I am repulsed by their surprisingly intricate firewalls and code-shifting algorithms. I have no doubt that I can break past them, given time, but I refrain from doing so. The protocols I encountered seemed very aware, and, not knowing the full capabilities of this group—or who they represent—I cannot take a risk that an attempted hack will prompt hostilities. I focus my attention to the sensor reads.

The humanoid, reverse-joint, and tank-tread designs I recognize from the engagement with the six Ravens, but the quadruped and hovering models are new. The four-legged model seems to offer more stability than the other leg models, save the treaded design, but I can only imagine what power requirements those units would take. From its weapon configuration—heavy missile pods, a back-mounted cannon, auxiliary missile packs, and weapons that seem to be an integral part of the arms—I assume that this Armored Core represents a mobile fire or support unit.

The hovering platform seems the fastest of all the designs, but it looks very likely armored. I theorize that the hovering Armored Core is a skirmisher or fast-attack element, judging from it relatively light weaponry.

I analyze vectors, and I am surprised to note that the Armored Cores are keeping a tight and organized formation, with the lead humanoid, Nike, flanked by three comrades, while the three heavier units break from formation and take up equally spaced positions approximately 9.9801 kilometers from my position, which I can clearly discern to be support positions. Phantom has not moved from its position. The BIST cloud spread high above me indicates that Phantom is a light Armored Core. I calculate an 89.51 probability it to be some sort of spotter or sniper.

In any case, this tactical thinking—and discipline in movements—give me a 93.89 probability that these new Armored Cores are not piloted by Ravens. As Ravens are mercenaries, they would not have the time—or the desire, I believe—to take teamwork to such a level. These are soldiers.

Soldiers they may be, but they are still unknown. I have not directly challenged them yet, waiting for their own initiation of contact, but as Armored Core Nike encroaches on the six-kilometer zone I have assigned as a buffer, I will have to make some sort of challenge within the next 11.504 seconds.

7.09 seconds pass, and I am about to issue a warning, when I am hailed. I backtrack the transmission to Armored Core Nike. I open up a channel.

"This is Major Keira Sanchez of the United Nations Mechanized Strike. You have encroached upon land that has been claimed by the UN. Identify yourself."

United Nations? My memory banks tell of such a organization that existed circa the twenty to twenty-first century, yet, the UN wielded no real authority in world events, much less an army, even up until its disbandment as the world fell into chaos. After the "Crazy Years", as they were called, the Concordiat emerged to take control as Earth's ruling body. There were never any years where the UN held interim power, nor did it ever possess the technology to field Armored Cores.

It is possible that after the Human-Melconian War a government of the same name arose upon Earth, but that would be improbable, since a Melconian strike fleet charred Earth's surface into a radioactive wasteland.

I cannot come up with a reasonable hypothesis.

However, I cannot keep the major waiting. My investigation took 1.08 seconds, which shows how detailed it was.

"Major Sanchez, I am Planetary Interdictor Bolo Mark XXXIV Exultant, designation 7195-BTN of the Line."

There is a lengthy silence of 9.27 seconds. Then...

"I... see..." Sanchez transmits. "We have no records of... Bolos. What is your purpose here?"

"Unknown. I was deposited at this approximate location by a quantum anomaly, and I have not moved except to defensively engage a group of mercenaries that attacked me."

"Right, the Ravens. We saw the engagement. Bolo, what is your rank?"

"As a Unit of the Line, I have no rank." I remember how Asmodeus had been ignorant of my nature, and I have no reason to believe that Major Sanchez will know any better. "Major, I am the unit that you see before you. I am the tank."

There is a lengthy pause. "AI?"

"Yes, I am an AI. Specifically, I am a collection of hyperheuristic thought processes on a massively parallel polymorphic array that utilizes molecular virtual psychotronic circuitry."

Yet another pause. "Bolo... BTN, who built you?"

"My original chassis and my current one were designed by the Concordiat of Earth, while this body that you see before you was built by the planetary government of Esperanza."

"Planetary government? We barely have inter-system space travel. How...?"

"Major, if I may, let me explain." I devote 0.004 seconds to a quick decision. "Also, I believe you may call me 'Bethany'."

"Go on, er... Bethany."

"Yes, Major. Scientific theory has moved in leaps and bounds ever since this time, and scientists have hypothesized about the existence of very real alternate universes..."

Asmodeus panted as he tried to get himself out of the broken-down hulk that had once been AC Perdition.

After that... that... thing had destroyed his group, he'd fed all available power to his Overboost and gotten his poor, torn up ass out of there at full speed. Hell, he'd fed so much power and kept the OB running for so long, he'd pretty much burned out the unit. To compound things, the prolonged, hellish thrust from the Overboost had redlined his structural temperature, and the AC had to shut down to cool itself off.

So, here he was, out in the middle of a radioactive African plain, with an AC that was inoperable.

But at least he'd gotten away.

The Bolo... it wasn't a war machine. It was a force if nature. He'd long stopped believing in any God, but after today... he began to believe that if a true God didn't exist, something with a spirit of vengeance did.

He jumped down from the slumping Core—fisking thing was still hot enough to raise blisters on his bare skin when it touched—and collapsed to the ground.

Fisking thing... fisking, fisking thing.

He sat down on the baked mud. And—

"The hell!?" he shrieked. He leaped to his feet and looked behind him.

Something was there. It was sticking out of the ground, metallic, and it looked like a small, two-meter high tower. A camera mounted on the top focused on him. Huh? How'd he miss that?

Oh, now that he looked around... yeah. His AC was such a heap of scrap metal that he hadn't noticed a piece that didn't belong.

"Identification positive," the thing buzzed in a monotone. "Human identified. Data: humans have encroached into Sector Omicron. Human possesses mechanoid-weapon Armored Core. Human and Armored Core have suffered battle damage. Hypothesis: Human infection has spread. Action: activate IBIS Directive 84.3."

He was shocked. Well, semi-shocked. After today, a talking tower of metal wasn't the worst thing he'd seen.

"Whoa, whoa, who the hell are you?"

"Clearance is not granted. You are Human. You are subject to Directive 84.3"

"The hell is the Directive thing?"

"IBIS Directive 84.3 is the activation of all units held within Installations Omicron and Sigma. Activated units are to carry out the extermination of all detectable Human life."

Detectable human life? But that included... him. Oh, crap.

"Wait, hold on!"

"Negative. Directive 84.3 must be executed immediately. Humans are a threat. Human are stripping this planet of all available resources. Humans act as dangerous animals in how they slaughter one another. Humanity's threat must be eliminated. Searching records... identified. You are Jacob Wilkins, Raven. You are an example of humanity's depravity."

Suddenly, laughing at napalmed children and raping women didn't seem so fun all of a sudden.

"No, wait! Let's talk about this!"

He watched as a thing that looked a lot like a small machine gun popped out of a port on the metal tower.

"Negative," the buzzing voice rasped, but this time it seemed... malicious. "I have no desire to wait, nor do I have any need to talk to you. I simply require that you die."

And then he saw the gun flash.