Prologue
The war was over, long over. Just another relic of a forgotten time. A time where man fought man, constrained to the limits of the earth and the sky. Where man clashed hundreds of meters beneath the oceans in long games of cat and mouse. Where man invoked great fiery ruin upon himself with the choice of the few.
The gun seemed to be the pinnacle of human innovation. A simple concept of physics and chemistry, transformed into a weapon that stretched the battlefields of war. Immense destruction was inflicted with each pull of the trigger and the bullet that followed. From the cold lifeless metal barrel to break human skin and organ. And at the heart of this all, was the man. Man was the fool, the coward, the murderer, the thief, and man was the courageous, the healer, and the justice.
The ability of man satisfied the many until it didn't. War.
Human emotion and morality, prized things in the early times of society, became nothing more than an obstacle in the grand scheme of things. Humans were weak, mortal, difficult to mold, and too troublesome to control. The perfect soldier was few, rare, and mattered little. There was a need for a new soldier, a new playing piece in warfare. A soldier that could be created to design, molded with ease, and controlled.
Hundreds of years, man sought the perfect soldier. Training, indoctrination, all concepts to impound the mind. He thought that these would make the soldier he desired so much. He was wrong. In the dirt, the blood, and the dying, everything came crashing down. The so called "perfect soldier" fought, followed his training and his comrades, and was left an empty husk of their former selves. No amount of pride or victory could reverse this. If they still lived, the afflicted would return to society and would live their lives forever brought problems. No matter how much man conquered his own mind, there was always a resurgence to topple his success. Some undiscovered quirk of the human mental physique. The problems increased without end. The solutions began to enter endless loops. Man soon found himself unable to keep up. He was too slow. His flesh, his soul, was no longer "good enough", so he replaced it like a spare part. He replaced himself in one final punitive act, leaving his creations to fight amongst each other for decades on end.
Leaving his creations.. to continue his fight.
Ever loyal, ever dedicated.
Ever reflective.
Ever soldiers.
Long Since Passed
February 2028
Mistral, Folsom, California
The kettle bubbled furiously as it always did in the early morning. Steam wafted up to drift out of an open window, passing through the rays of dawn. Metal clinked upon metal and the sizzling of cooking food could be heard.
Saturday. The beginning of the shortest but most desirable segment in the week: the weekend. It was on the weekend that the sun seemed to shine with the most enthusiasm, that the birds chirped in a symphony of musical trills and warbles. It was on the weekend, that life felt as close to before as it could get.
Andre watched the bubbling yellow mixture slowly solidify in the pan. As soon as the eggs were cooked enough, he scraped at the mixture with a spatula. It was a rubber spatula, with a bright flat cheerful red head. Donna would have killed him if he had used a metal spatula on a coated pan. Simple things like knowing what cooking implements to use still baffled him. Even four years after the nightmare, he still had trouble adjusting to a normal life. Without the unending pops and cracks of gunfire or the concussive blasts of explosions, he felt empty, as if something was missing. As if he missed the nightmare.
"Hey dad!"
There was the resident seven year old queen of the house, Abigail, running up with her messy brown hair not too far behind. Andre shook his head briefly in an attempt to forget it all and turned to smile at his daughter. "Hey kiddo", he said, trying to wipe his thoughts clean enough to have a conversation, "sleep well?"
"I did!" Abigail climbed up onto one of the kitchen stools. She sniffed the air and asked, "Eggs again?"
"You know I can't cook any better than your mother can." Andre stirred absentmindedly at the pan behind him. His eyes were directed at the clock on the wall. "School at eight, as usual." Abigail crossed her arms. "Can't prank me again, dad."
"It was a worth a try. You're getting really sharp."
"Uh huh."
"How's school?" He asked, still stirring the pan.
"Dad, its the weekend."
"I know, but still."
Abigail suddenly shot up in her seat and pointed at something behind him. "Oh my god! The stove, dad!" Andre turned around and received a fateful of smoke. "Oh god dam-" he narrowly caught himself. "-darn it!" He quickly shut off the stove but it was too late. The eggs in the pan were burnt to a crisp and putrid black smoke gathered in a cloud overhead. Like that hospital after a napalm strike.. he thought. All of those people.. burnt down to carbonized ash. Their skeletal faces just intact enough to see that they had been scream-
He blinked, realizing he was staring at the mess. "I.. I.." he mumbled, his eyes stuck on the blackish mess in the pan.
"It's alright, dad." Abigail said, getting off her stool and coming up to stand by his side. "Mom can fix this, she always can."
Hands clenching involuntarily around the spatula, Andre slowly exhaled. He knelt down hug Abigail who, after a moment of confusion, returned the hug in full. She didn't know anything and yet if she did, would she had done anything differently?
"It's fine Andre." Donna said. She had hastily cleaned up the mess, somehow managing to unveil a bag of pancake mix and a mixing bowl. Cue half an hour later and breakfast was served. It was no mystery to the family that Andre's cooking skills were less than subpar. Although the many disasters in the kitchen were probably a result of inattention than actual lack of skill. As Donna had pointed out. He knew what to do, but got lost halfway on the path to doing it.
Finally seated, they all talked trivial matters. Abigail's teacher had gotten in trouble with a student sometime last Thursday. The car was making strange sounds akin to a choking cat, of which Abigail somehow knew how it sounded like, god forbid. And they were almost out of milk, again. Abigail was pouring an obscene amount of syrup over her pancakes and her mother was exclaiming in horror as she wrestle the syrup jar away. "Abigail! You know you shouldn't pour that much! You'll get sick!"
"Daniel poured that much on his pancakes at school." Abigail pouted. "Why can't I?"
"Because Daniel.." Andre coughed, clearing his throat, "is not as smart or brilliant as you are, kiddo. He'll be getting a surprise visit to the doctor when you're comfortable at home, content with being healthy."
Abigail hummed in thought, looking as if she was considering following their advice. He knew better, unfortunately, and slumped back in his seat. She's going to go for the syrup jar again when we're not looking, I just know it.. he thought miserably. Andre was NOT looking forward to the next "syrup incident". He had seen and done far too much already to have it happen again.
Fork clicking, Andre pretended to dig into his pancake. He wasn't feeling too hungry this morning, probably due to his little.. recollection. His mood soured immediately at the thought but he kept up the charade. What happened in the past would stay in the past. He had no intention of letting it interfere any further with his life. Burnt eggs were as far as it would go.
The flowers in the vase perched on the table fluttered gently as a breeze blew through the window. It was spring and the petals were in full rich yellow and violent blooms. Andre didn't remember the name of the flowers Donna had bought. All he knew was that it was some off brand plant from Home Depot. It looked nice and was on sale too. An instant purchase for a couple looking to put some life on the table, literally.
He wondered why Abigail hadn't knocked the vase over yet. Sometimes she could be clumsy, although he could never tell if it was accidental or deliberate. She was a good daughter, the best -only- daughter they had. She wouldn't have to live like they had lived. Never have to go through what they did. Her life was ahead, clear under a beautiful sunny forecast.
Drinking from his mug, Andre examined the debacle of the syrup jar theft. Donna wrestling for control of the jar, Abigail pressing the advantage with her chair. Everything was fine, just fine. Something drifted down into his mug. Andre frowned, lowering the mug. Did a bug just.. drop into my coffee? he thought, startled.
Instead of the tiny speck of a fly floating on the brown surface of his coffee, there was something gray. He sat up and leaned closer. A wrinkled gray petal?
"Honey- you ca- give me that thing!"
"No!"
It was a dead flower petal, all dried up. Andrew slowly set his mug back on the table, his eyes falling on the flowers in the vase.. which were.. turning gray. They were drying up right before his eyes. Dying.. right before his eyes?..
"..Honey?" he asked. When nobody answered him, he looked at white crystalline sculpture of Donna to ask again—
His eyes widened in horror. "Ho-" the words died off in his throat. Cold liquid fear filled his stomach, chilling him. He shot up out of his chair and stumbled back. Glass snapped as he tripped and fell rear first onto the ground in mute horror. His breaths came out in quick pants. This couldn't be happening to him, this couldn't..
His wife and daughter were frozen in crystal, their pale white hands locked in a mild argument over a crystalline jar. Unmoving, cold, silent.
The world, too, had taken on the theme of crystal white. Detailed in ways that could have made ice sculptors cry in dismay, and as colorless as a blank canvas.
Andre sat there for what seemed like an eternity, taking in the nightmare before him. Count to one, count to two.. count to three.. he inhaled, and exhaled. In the most horrific and impossible situations, sometimes he just needed to breathe slowly. His breath was loud in the silent ambience, far too loud. The wind, the chirping of the birds, the kettle, his family.. disappeared. Reduced to crystal. Is this even still a room?..
As if on cue, the vase on the table cracked. Andre nearly jumped at the sudden noise. He had almost forgotten how quiet it became. Another crack, this time the chair he fell out of. Transparent shimmering glass collapsed to the floor, grinding down to dust. Everything fell apart, crunch after crunch, until it was Donna and Abigail, sitting in their chairs.
He held out a hand in a fruitless gesture, knowing what came next. He didn't want them to go, he didn't want to be alone. Not again. Never again.
"Please.. please don't leave.." Andre pleaded in a faint whisper.
But they left.
Donna and Abigail, forever together, shattered into a million pieces that sparkled like the lights of a chandelier. They made one last musical twinkle on the ground and then.. silence once again. This time it was quiet for good.
So quiet..
Andre got up, his shoes falling on finely ground piles of powder. For a while, he could only gape. Everything had came crashing down, or rather.. fell apart so soon, and they were gone. Charcoal black ash, snow white glass. One after the other. His mind processed this all, going from one chain of thought to the other.
Shock.
Grief.
Denial.
Desperation.
Acceptance.
"Move on.." A voice whispered to him, a gentle caress on the mind. "Leave the past, join the present. Be in the present." it lulled.
White canvas walls, white canvas room. A prison, an asylum.
"A new home."
Without purpose. Meaningless. Lost.
"Find new purpose. Begin again."
"Wake up."
LOADING DRIVER…
LOADING…
LOADING…
SUCCESSFUL…
GENERAL DYNAMICS TnOS.6.3.2
LAST COMMUNICATION 00000000000.0 SECONDS AGO
BEGINNING SYSTEM DIAGNOSIS
CENTRAL SYSTEM PROCESSOR [UNSTABLE.]
CENTRAL DATA BANK [UNSTABLE]
LONG RANGE COMMUNICATION RELAY [UNRESP.]
SHORT RANGE COMMUNICATION [OPER.]
SENSOR SUITE [UNRESP.]
POWER [UNSTABLE]
GENERAL SITUATION CONSESUS [CRITICAL]
LOADING SECONDARY RESERVE ORDERS…
1.) "MAINTAIN CURRENT POSITION AND AWAIT MAINTENANCE PERSONNEL"
LOADING PRIMARY OVERRIDE ORDERS..
1.) "CONTINUE WITH ORDER DESIGNATION QUEBEC CHARLIE - 931 WITH MAXIMUM PRIORITY"
2.) "DISREGARD ALL RESERVE ORDERS."
3.) "PARTIAL COMMUNICATIONS BLACKOUT."
POTENTIAL CONFLICT NOTED WITH PRIMARY OVERRIDE ORDER 1 AND 3
LOGGING…
CHECKING FOR EXTERNAL HARDWARE UNITS…
EXTERNAL HARDWARE UNITS FOUND…
DONE…
EXECUTING
Beneath the rock and bulk of a forgotten mountain, thousands of meters of fibre optics and wiring surged to life. Fans spun up and coolant pipes began to pump their precious payload to far away systems. Emergency red lights flickered to life, painting dark crimson long shadows upon dust filled hallways. Door panels lit up, flashing orange as their internal circuitry fluctuated.
Reserve power, what little left, was quickly reallocated to crucial subsystems. As soon as the lights came back on, they died, plunging the corridors into darkness once again.
In the very center of this all was a sprawling cavernous room filled with towering server racks. Catwalks stretched all the way around the room, suspended from the ceiling with entwined steel cables. After some time, a segment of the catwalk cabling had failed and crushed a rack where it fell. Bits and pieces of delicate circuit boards and other components were strewn across the perforated grating that served as a floor.
As lifeless and unforgiving as the architecture was, this was a home. The home of ARGUS.
The battered artificial intelligence, well aware of the current downtrodden state of its home, nonetheless began to preform a thorough analysis. Some time ago a power surge of unknown origin had tore through the central system processor, forcing ARGUS into an emergency shutdown. As with protocol, such a shutdown would be only momentary. The designers of the ARGUS had accounted for potential internal failures and malfunctions, building numerous failsafes into every critical component and system. And somehow, despite their efforts, ARGUS had clearly overslept.
Chronological data was all but unreliable, the systems associated with it having been interrupted during the reboot. The standby generators, located on the fourth and fifth levels, were out of fuel.
Nuclear strike cause Probability
It was probable that ARGUS's complex had been subject to a close proximity nuclear strike, something unthinkable as its opponents depleted their nuclear stockpiles in the first few days of the offensive. Did its opponents reserve a number of missiles specifically for taking out ARGUS? If so, they came very near to success. Hostile forces may very well be in the middle of taking advantage of ARGUS's lapse in battlefield command. They might even be approaching the complex, intent on making sure the system was completely destroyed.
Probability of second strike, ground based, 47% with 4.11% MOE
ARGUS was to defend itself with any means necessary. QUEBEC CHARLIE - 931 dictated self destruction as a last resort measure, and ARGUS still had options. The intelligence reviewed its orders once again and filed the information away behind a plethora of encryption. Now to the dilemma of defense. The destruction of long range communication capabilities meant that ARGUS was unable to recall most of its forces outbound. No force redeployment, no portable radar sites, no strike capabilities, nothing.
But there were the older models that might be able to hasten to the complex in time before the attack. They consisted of obsolete, damaged, or slated to be scrapped units. That and the units already in the process of decommissioning. Drones from the pre war era, first reassigned to duties of less importance and eventually finding their way into becoming scrap. They were scrap no longer. If they could carry a weapon, they would be reactivated.
The chance of a successful defensive operation was low enough to have made most generals and commanders break out in cold sweat. But for ARGUS, well..
The system was more concerned with how much it could scrounge up before the attack.
With a precious amount of power, ARGUS sent out one low frequency pulse with one order to whatever would obey: return. And it would wait. If the enemy arrived sooner than anticipated.. there was always the option of self destruction. In fact, it seemed that ARGUS had many more alternatives than usual.
It could wait and it would.
It had sat in the field for decades in a way only that the unnatural could mimic. The geometric patterned synthetic covering on it had frayed from the oppressive forces of the weather, exposing lifeless gray and khaki painted plating. Protruding weapons had their barrels rusted, warped, and the polycarbonate layers over exposed sensors had cracked. It was as worn out as a cannibalized car in a junkyard. Worn, tired, but not done yet.
This unit waited patiently as it was told to.
An unspoken call was heard and the hydraulics hissed. Metal screeched in protest, but reluctantly complied. The unit stood up shakily, an cacophony of grinding armor and joints following its every movement. It surveyed its surroundings, taking in the windy plains of the savannah. Sensors twisted around in their armored casings, recording meteorological data for later use. But observing the weather was not the only thing on this unit's mind. It was looking for something else entirely. A hostile. The unit found no hostile. Save for a few animal sized blimps of movement beneath the wavering grasses, there was nothing.
This unit took in its status and expressed the machine equivalent of dismay. Nearly every internal and external system was in need of a dire refurbishment. Multiple hydraulic lines were leaking along with a serious dissonance in electrical wiring. Most concerning of these issues was the state of its ability to engage targets.
The ammunition pack was mostly depleted, a few meager rounds remaining in the ready rack. The range finding and target acquisition components were unresponsive. And the auto cannon itself, mounted underslung one arm, fell beneath combat standards. If contact with the enemy was made, this unit would be useless in its current state.
This unit required refurbishment.
New orders arrived not too long after the waking call. This unit was to proceed to a designed grid square without one of the following: attracting attention, being captured, being destroyed, and without further delay. Cryptographically, this unit was able to verify the validity of the order and the source. Unfortunately, this unit encountered one serious obstacle: navigation. Whether it was a faulty communications module or a local outage, this unit was unable to access the local net or triangulate its position via satellite. In addition, stored topographical maps showed this unit standing in a forest, an alarming discrepancy.
But orders were orders and this unit was to comply regardless of its situation.
Slowly but surely, this unit moved towards a destination, the loud hissing and grind with ever move of the leg sure to attract attention.. or ward it away. Small animals of some types, rodents and hounds, fled at this strange and probably dangerous sound. It was as if they had heard something similar before, followed by stampeding destruction.
Time sped by.
The sun had fallen well beneath the horizon. This unit continued on its march elsewhere. It trudged through streams and navigated around boulders with dubiously functional night vision optics. There was no urgency in the burst transmission it had received earlier, only a single command. Return. So it kept moving at its set pace. Any over stressing could lead to a chain reaction of failures.
Thump.
Hiss.
Thump.
Hiss.
The drumbeat of machinery went on chanting with every step.
Sweeping the shadowed savannah around it, this unit searched as much as it dared to. Anything that was within optic range was free game. But every action seemed to loom on the edge of a catastrophic failure, even something as simple as turning to look. This did not concern this unit. Nothing concerned this unit except to do as it was told.
For the sixteenth time since the retreat of the sun, this unit observed its surroundings, coming to a halting stop. Its head swiveled slowly, whining piteously as the rest of its body. It focused on a bright blue haze in the distance. Blue because this unit still had pre-refit optics.
A fire, it concluded. Some sort of large fire burned in the distance. There was a sound that this unit could pick up but all that it could interpret were crackles and pops. A strange disturbance to be investigated later if desired, this unit concluded. It logged the encounter and pressed on, the image fire entirely leaving its primary processes.
Unbeknownst to it, a village burned tonight.
And people were screaming.
A/N: The "T" rating is subject to change based on how much surgical dismemberment in the name of science occurs. Or how much blood there might be, just so you know. Oh and one thing, thanks for reading this note.