B. Larson - Conquest

I woke up around midday under a flapping tarp. I was in a lean-to, something Sandra and I had put together on the southern shore of Andros Island. The tarp was orange vinyl, and one hundred percent free of nanites. Sandra had insisted we leave all alien technology behind. I found our shelter’s ruffling sounds, caused by the endless ocean winds, to be peaceful rather than annoying.

Groaning aloud, I raised myself onto one elbow. Blearily, I surveyed the white sandy beach and the clear blue waters of the Caribbean beyond. Sandra and I had chosen this secluded spot for our brief vacation in part because none of the laser turrets that ringed the island were visible from here. You had to walk out into the surf and look east or west to see them. I had tried it and inevitably, they’d spotted me almost as quickly as I had spotted them. The nearest turrets were around a thousand yards away, but they’d swung around and studied me intently. Was I harmless, or an enemy to be burned down without compunction? It was an odd feeling to be judged by your own software. Each time they allowed me to live another day I was left aware of that moment of indecision in their alien minds.

Today was a sad day, as it was the end of our brief three-day vacation on the beach. I had stolen this time as it was. We marines had come home to Earth at last, but we were far from safe. If anything, our doom could be seen with perfect clarity as it advanced upon us.

I had spent six days in the hospital after we’d returned to Earth. For six long days my internal nanites had itched and tickled inside my body, repairing my bones, skin, organs and tissues. I’d spent those days worrying. I now understood how doomed men of the past must have felt while they awaited the inexorable approach of their final defeats.

Napoleon during his last three days at Waterloo, King Leonidas at Thermopylae…Hitler, squatting in his bunker-which one was I? Was I playing the part of the hero making his last stand, or the delusional villain on the verge of taking down all he had ever held dear with him? I wasn’t entirely sure.

I hadn’t started the original war with the Macros, no matter what the less flattering commentators said. The most insulting of the fake online vids showed me shaking hands with hundred foot tall metal monsters before they demolished buildings full of screaming kindergarteners. I wondered at the amount of effort these video pranksters had gone to in order to cast me as a demon in battle armor. I wanted to give them each a beam rifle, a gallon of silver nanites and a pet Macro of their own to play with. Let them try to make peace with the machines while I complained about their choices.

The vids angered me because I hadn’t started the war-but I most certainly had rekindled it, that I could not deny. The criticism that hurts the worst should always be listened to, I told myself, because it was closest to the truth.

I’d left the hospital a week before any doctor approved the decision. Six days I’d lain there, reading budget reports and talking to people who were nervous in my presence. It was as if they thought they might catch something deceptively deadly. I was sick of my sick-bed and tired of my visitors. The parade seemed infinite: celebrity well-wishers who turned a simple handshake into an interview. Politicians who came for private meetings, but brought cameramen in tow. Military people wanting to debrief me until my brain felt drained of useful thought. I knew I had to get moving again, so I did.

Every day since I’d left the hospital had been something like today. First I’d shaken myself awake, causing a wave of fresh pain in my healing ribs. Then I’d sucked in that pain, reveling in it. How many times had I told my marines that pain was a good thing? As long as you felt it, you had unassailable proof that you were still alive.

Sandra had led me down here, to this vacation spot, soon after I’d marched out of the hospital. Today, when she returned from combing the beach for interesting shells, she met me at the lean-to. We kissed and smiled at one another.

“It’s over,” I said. “We have to go back.”

“Yes, I feel it too,” she said. “We’ve been here too long. I’m not able to enjoy it any longer. I can’t stop thinking about what’s going on back at the base.”

Without any argument, we packed a waiting crawler vehicle and drove it northward through the crashing waves, back to Fort Pierre and Star Force headquarters.

As we drove over wet sand with waves licking at our tires, I kept thinking about the Macros, wondering if I should have done something differently. What was done was done, I told myself sternly. If I’d started a new war, then it was time to win it, not cry about it. Now was not the time to dwell on the mistakes of the past, but instead to press onward. I had to fix what I could and cheat to cover the rest until things went my way.

Sandra and I held hands, but we hardly spoke on the journey back to base. We were both lost in our own thoughts. As we drew closer to home, our thoughts and expressions became grimmer.

We reached the base without incident. Before I entered the gates, however, I contacted Major Barrera and First Sergeant Kwon. Sandra already knew my plans. No one argued with me. They all knew what had to be done.

I reflected as I crossed the base to Fleet’s grandiose new headquarters building that I’d built Star Force almost from the sand up. In many ways, the entirety of Andros Island bore the mark of my hand. Strung along every beach was an army of robotic turrets, aiming their laser projectors at every passerby. When I was on base, I could see them beyond the concrete walls, tracking every gull, swimmer and passing aircraft. They classified, identified and passed judgment upon everything that crept within their range. I watched a company of my marines exercise between two of them, oblivious to the fact the turrets watched them and contemplated an instant incineration for any man who might trip a neural chain and become designated as hostile. How trusting they were of my software.

Crow had left his stamp upon this organization and this land as well. He’d done very little Nano design work, and he rarely worked on new weapons systems to combat the Macros. But he had lovingly shaped his own sprawling quarters and his office was reportedly huge. I had yet to set foot inside his new building since my return. The visit was long overdue.

I walked into Fleet headquarters at one p. m. on a Thursday afternoon. In my hand, I had a folder stuffed with budget reports. I didn’t like what was printed on that blizzard of paper.

Mysteriously, Fleet’s building had grown to be four stories tall in my absence. It was the largest building on base now, except for the hospital itself. The place hummed with staffers. Most of the staffers were clerks working on computers in their cubicles. I walked through rows of them, keeping my expression as blank as possible, but I imagined I was scowling somewhat. It was hard not to. Crow had stinted himself nothing. I could only imagine the bloated budget he rode herd upon, sucked out of every nation on Earth.

Crow held court in a palatial office on the fourth floor. There was plenty of room left over up there for his army of clerks. I noted as I walked down the center aisle that the clerks on the fourth floor were different. They were almost all female. Most of the women were startlingly attractive, and the majority were Asians.

There were guards here and there, armed with normal rifles rather than beamers. That was a new base regulation Crow had instituted, beamers were forbidden while in the presence of civilians who had no protection against blindness and radiation. I didn’t approve of the rule, as regular ballistic weaponry wasn’t particularly effective against Macros-or even our own marines.