David Simpson - Post-Human Trilogy

Craig let out a low whistle in response to seeing the image. A colossal dust cloud larger than the state of Texas had enveloped the area, making it impossible for the satellite to peer through. “Dear Lord. This is… Biblical.”

“What you are seeing is the result of decades of desertification in China, combined with sixteen nuclear detonations sending yellow dust into the sky. Even with the best resolution in the world, there’s no way we can confirm the kill from space,” Wilson further explained. “The Joint Chiefs don’t trust drones either, and if we don’t get in there and confirm the kill, the Chinese may be able to recover the A.I. or the wreckage and reconstitute somewhere else. As you can see, this mission is as top secret and high priority as they get. If we’re successful, this war is over. ”

“So the perimeter the other nukes created is all about giving us a head start.”

“That’s right,” Wilson confirmed. “The Chinese still don’t know we can do suborbital insertions, so they’ll concentrate their energy on protecting the perimeter until it’s safe to enter. We’re gonna beat ‘em to the punch by jumping as soon as the fallout has reached the surface. With any luck, it’ll take the Chinese anywhere from several minutes to an hour to mount a HALO insertion.”

“And we’ll already be finished,” Craig added. “What if the A.I. is still functional?”

“Let’s hope not, but if it is, it’s defenses should be utterly destroyed. We’ll be packing more than enough explosives to finish the job.”

“All of that sounds reasonable,” Craig replied, “but there’s one glaring omission. If the Chinese are going to be collapsing in on us, I get how we’re going to beat them to the punch on the insertion, but what about the extraction?”

Commander Wilson turned his head quickly, appearing once again to try to read Craig’s face. “I thought maybe you’d be able to fill us in on that aspect, Doc.”

“Me?” Craig responded, perplexed.

Wilson’s smile returned, but this time there was something different—something behind it—an impurity. “We’re not idiots, Doc.”

At that moment, Craig realized that things were far worse than he’d previously thought. “Are you telling me the extraction is supposed to occur after we’re dead? ”

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “You seriously didn’t know that already?”

“Hey, Commander, honestly, if this is their plan, I had no previous knowledge of it. I thought I was here to provide medical support. That’s all.”

After a moment of continuing to read Craig’s face, Wilson finally nodded, apparently satisfied that Craig wasn’t playing poker and there was no bluff to call. “Okay. Well, it doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not. The fact is, there’s an extraction plan, but it seems pretty farfetched. When we heard they were sending a MAD bot along with S.A. body bags, we put two and two together.”

“What’s the official plan?” Craig asked.

“The exoskeletons are our only transportation. With the respirocytes and the exoskeletons working in tandem, we’re supposed to sprint for over an hour to the top of Maluan Mountain. Stealth Blackhawks will apparently be there to meet us.”

“Sounds like a pretty typical extraction,” Craig observed.

“Yeah, but these helicopters are supposed to make it through what will likely be a hell-storm of Chinese air patrols in the area,” Wilson pointed out. “It won’t be impossible if their side is in enough disarray, but it seems like a long shot to me. If I were a betting man, I’d have to say it looks like we’re about to punch a one-way ticket.”

“So,” Craig began as he lightly pivoted on the balls of his feet to keep his upright position in the microgravity, “you think the real plan is to leave us stranded on the mountain? And that, with our respirocyte supply dwindling, our only chance of survival will be to put ourselves into suspended animation?”

“That sounds like the most likely outcome,” Wilson replied.

Craig turned his head and regarded Robbie; the machine was floating in the microgravity, unmoving like a metal corpse, lightly brushing against the walls of the fuselage and bobbing freely throughout. “I’m not looking forward to that,” Craig stated resignedly.

“How do those things work anyway?” Wilson asked. “The body bags, I mean.”

“ Hydrogen sulfide, ” Craig replied. “The bags are cooled, and small amounts of hydrogen sulfide will put a human into a suspended state. They’ve been designed so soldiers in danger of suffering catastrophic blood loss on the battlefield can be put into hibernation. The bleeding stops, and their injuries can be treated when their body arrives at a hospital, even if it’s several hours later.”

“Will it work if oxygen deprivation is the problem?” Wilson astutely asked.

Craig nodded. “Yeah.”

“And the brass knows this?”

“Of course.”

“Then, Doc, it looks to me like we’re about to become frozen packages to be extracted at the United States military’s leisure.”

Samantha Emilson sat alone in the dark, waiting to see who would be next to come through the iron door. She’d been in the room for over an hour—waiting. She’d experienced this before; keeping her waiting was a standard interrogation technique. As usual, she sat quietly frustrated and stared straight forward at the door, thinking of all the work that she could have been doing instead.

However, there was something a little different about her agonizing wait this time. Usually, the whole lab was dragged in together and questioned. The FBI wanted to know everything about the research taking place in the Aldous Gibson lab. They constantly checked and rechecked, even though the lab worked with multiple government grants from DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency . The constant monitoring of their work was stressful, to say the least, but at least it had always been about the lab.

This time, however, it appeared to be only about her.

Finally, the metal door slowly creaked open and the friendly, wrinkled countenance of Professor Aldous Gibson appeared.

“Aldous!” she exclaimed, relieved, as she sprang to her feet and embraced him, happy to see a friendly face. “What’s going on? Do you know?”

Aldous pulled her in front of him and locked eyes with her, his grip surprisingly strong for a man of his age. He looked as though there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t; however, his expression appeared to say she should trust him.

“They have a recording of you saying you don’t support the war or the government,” Aldous began, as he guided her back into her chair and took the chair on the opposite side of the small interrogation table. “It was recorded earlier today—a conversation between your husband and yourself.”

Samantha was nearly dumbfounded. “Are you serious? They recorded that?”

Aldous nodded. “Yes.”

She shook her head as though rebooting, her shock at the idea of being recorded quickly being replaced with indignation. “Well, so what? Am I not allowed to have an opinion in this country anymore?”

Aldous held his hand up to calm her, the same trust-me expression remaining earnestly across his face. “You can have your own opinion, but given the sensitive nature of both yours and your husband’s involvement with top secret projects, you can understand why they want to be sure—”

“No, I can’t understand it!” Samantha retorted, cutting Aldous off. “I’ve done everything that’s been asked of me! Why am I being treated like a prisoner?”

Aldous smiled, leaning forward toward his young protégé, taking her hand calmly in his and relating in a low, conspiratorial voice, “You’ve done nothing wrong. This will lead only to a simple lesson learned for you, Sam. In this brave new world of ours, it’s best to remember that people in sensitive positions must sometimes keep their opinions to themselves.”