VI. The Iscariot Complex
A Battleground for Weapons and Wills...
Domes. By God, they lived in domes. Like every story of Mars they’d ever been spun, the base nestled in the mountains of the Wastelands was made up of strange, smooth domes. Domes that no scanners could penetrate.
“Just as they said in their journals.” Commander Jasper Hartwick murmured. He turned to his recon team, the slender visor wrapped across his eyes glowing green; the team was cleared. The silent photographers made their mark with long, telescope lenses, snapping dozens and dozens of shots of everything they could make out. Among the domes were tanks standing guard, all heavies. One particular heavy had eyes for the team, its mighty barrel staring them down.
They seemed docile for now, but Hartwick wouldn’t take any chances. With their mission accomplished, the brown officer pulled his hounds down from the vantage point and headed back down the steep, winding mountain pass. Their armored SUV stood at the end of the trail with a driver on guard. It was a hell of a long way down, just as it was getting up. Though not for long.
Suddenly, a blast rocked the ridge of the mountain. Stone and soil shot out in all directions, the forceful rumble knocking every wolf off their feet. Those not up in time were met with the rush of the landslide. Some were crushed, others were carried down the mountain, and off into the dark ravine. Commander Hartwick, his visor cracked but functional, was among the lucky, and picked up the first hound he could find, the pair roaring down the path as fast as their legs could carry them.
“Keep going, man!” he ordered. In the rush, the gray recruit the Commander saved saw a camera jutting out from the stones. He whipped around, grabbed the camera and pulled at the hound who held it from beneath the stones. The tall black photographer, coughing and spluttering, joined his brothers-in-arms in the race to the mountain’s end.
Ahead was a tree-trunk. Commander Hartwick bounded towards it, both soldiers following suit. All three took a seat on it, bracing for the landslide. The surge of shattered boulders blew them down the path, dead trees flying by in streaks of black against the midnight blue of the sky.
Hartwick tapped the right-hand comm button on his visor. “Nigel, pull the Dodge forward. Away from the trail. We’re coming in hot!” They could hear the van’s engine rev as they neared the mouth of the path. Slamming into the ground, they missed the Dodge’s rear by an inch. The log landed in a cloud of dust and detritus as the three dismounted.
“Bolan, get the camera in the van and stay there. Helm, stand by the mouth and check for any men left in the crush.” The brown commander turned his attention to the stocky driver. “Thanks for catching the drift, Nige. Hang tight. We came here with six, and I want to leave with six if possible.” The white-furred soldier saluted, and Hartwick returned to the path’s entrance.
Helm, the young gray, was sullen. “I don’t think they made it.”
There were no muffled cries for help, no surprise appearances. The only confirmation was a final stone tumbling to their feet; the second camera. Lens cracked, body beaten, but with any luck, the data retained.
“You renounce any connection or tie held previously with the Board of Haven or the Artificially Controlled Eco-System.”
“I do.”
“Pulse rate normal. You are committed to freeing the state and these lands of all tyranny, be it wolf or machine.”
“I am.”
“Pulse rate normal. Though you have used or currently wield cybernetic augmentations, these will neither impact judgement nor perspective on this fight against the automated forces, or the provider of these very augmentations?”
“This silver paw stands in place of what once was. What should be. If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have needed it. I renounce Her completely.”
“Pulse rate...normal. Remove the nodes from General Knox. He’s cleared.”
They had gone through the entirety of Top Brass this way for two hours straight. One of Ambiorixian Base Alpha’s many new innovations under Chief Ridgefield’s accelerated development program was a device he called the “true polygraph,” a lie-detector that took readings of the brain rather than conventional vitals. In the dark of the interrogation room, some renounced A.C.E.S. with passion and vigor, others with quick, conversational wit. But for Knox, it felt like confession, every answer direct, the dark gray leader bearing his soul in a way he hadn’t in ages.
With the weight off his shoulders, Knox stepped out of the chamber a new beast. He looked to everyone who had passed, both the commanding officer to the subservient lieutenant, and spoke quietly. “We are all reassured of our allegiances now. And I can only pray that we maintain our strength of will, and do not give in to the temptations that lead Maxwell and Zavia astray, though I’ll never truly know what coursed through Don’s mind. Resume conventional operations. I’ll be joining Chief Ridgefield and Captain Herrera for demonstrations at Am Base Alpha. Captain Westley is Acting General here on Base. May God Bless You and this Force. Dismissed.”
As the rest of the officers left the interrogation control room, the red-furred Captain Westley stepped forward.
“New garb?” Knox asked, admiring her brown suede jacket and boots.
Westley blushed, thumbing the short, black-colored fringes of her coat. “No, just the usual old things, all gussied up. Besides, fashion’s the last thing I had on my mind. Hartwick is due back this morning, sir. Shall I be in-charge of assembling the dossier for him while he takes the test?”
Knox looked through the one-way window, the lights flashing off as the last of the polygraph was disassembled. “Hartwick’s never proven himself disloyal, but this didn’t take long. Put him in, then assemble the dossier. I bet he’ll clear the test in five seconds anyhow.”
“I’ll take up a credit collection so you have the dough to lay down.” she teased. That got a good chuckle out of him, a sorely needed one too. With a firm handshake and salute, the Captain and General parted ways, leaving the two towering black-furred cowboys to escort their leader to the Lab.
The drive to Am Base was a quick one, especially with Captain Herrera behind the wheel. The plan was to give General Knox “the stars and stripes,” a real, hands-on rundown. They had even dressed up for the occasion, Nic clothed for once in a white shirt and black vest, and Grim trading in his all black ensemble for mostly black; the lone change of color being a white button-up and a spit-shining of all his silver conchos and ornaments, from hatband to boot-caps.
“Grim was up here on the 4th getting the 50 ready.” Nic chuckled, helping the General down from the jacked-up truck. “Overnight of course.”
“Best hour for working, Señor.” Grim replied. “4th was a good day anyhow, so I felt like tooling.”
Knox grinned. “Don’t have to justify it to me. I gave you boys the green light for a reason, right?”
The slender Captain and the stocky Chief nodded as they walked him through the entrance and across the various rooms and corridors. Whenever the General asked to stop, the duo would and went over everything in sight. Everything from retooled guns to utility tech for base operations. Even the most minute of advances intrigued the gray. He’d study a pistol as jeweler would a diamond, his scrutiny rewarded with quality product at every turn.
The first stop on their tour proper was a holding bay housing 10 tracked vehicles. They were short, car-sized machines, with a long barrel protruding from a thick blast plate, black treads wrapped around four run-flat tires on each side, and a sloped, exposed rear where shells were to be housed.
“General, meet the Scorpions.” Chief Ridgefield bowed, tipping his cowboy hat as his superior walked among the pint-sized war machines. Knox was in complete awe. “My God, I didn’t realize you found so many.”
“Bombed-out reserves.” the Chief nodded. “We found these M56s not far off from the old Davis–Monthan. Just hanging out there since it all went down 200-something years ago. I’d bet my bottom dollar there were more, but I’m sure scavengers got to them before we could, especially since we didn’t have to start looking until the turn of this century.”
“Desert Lightning really has struck.” the General chuckled to himself.
“We’ve halved the crew requirement.” Ridgefield added. “Commanders and captains still run the show from their personal rides, and we’ve modified old shells to be laser-capable. So no need for a loader. Just a driver, and a gunner.”
Knox hopped inside one at the head of the formation, landing right behind the wheel. He gripped the black metal with both hands.
“Last big detail.” Nic beamed, hopping up behind the gun. “We got things rigged so she can run off a modified V12. She drives normal, and while she can’t hit E-Type speeds, she ain’t gonna run capped at 28. Some of our prelims got us to 85. So they’ll boogie alright.”
Knox’s silver right hand thumbed the wheel before hopping back out. “Would love to try ‘em out myself when we got the time.”
“Easily arranged Jefe,” called the Captain. “Shall we move on?”
Chief Ridgefield followed the General out of the tank destroyers and back on the touring trail.
The two black wolves jogged ahead of the General to the gun-ranges. There on a rack for the General to see was a massive black rifle. Two smaller barrels sat atop the primary. The rest of it appeared to be a conventional, if girthy, Barrett.
“Seems standard.” Knox observed dryly. “Didn’t realize LeMat made 50s.”
Grim chuckled, nodding in admission. “That’s part of the appeal. Los Cincuenta is a discreet beast. We’ve employed a mirror system. When the laser cart is loaded and locked in place, a single round will strike a convex lens, which refracts it three-fold. There are amplifiers on all three barrels, so the level of power remains stabilized.”
Grim drew a laser cartridge from his pocket and loaded it into the rifle.
“That, General,” Ridgefield added, pointing towards the large slab of steel at the range’s end, “is genuine U1 plating.”
Captain Herrera pulled the trigger, and the three streaks of electric crimson cleaved the plating in half. Knox could only stare in amazement.
“How long you boys been at this?” he asked.
“Pardon?” replied Grim.
“You couldn’t have done all this engineering in a year?” Knox pressed.
“Dos, Señor.” came the answer. “With two more for research.” Ridgefield chimed in. “He’s been at it in private for a while now.”
The beaming gray commander shook their hands with pride. “We have enough metal to start a small production run?” When he got the nod from both officers, he knew it was time for the grand finale. “On to Bomber then.”
The trio hurried towards the hangar where the Cessna stood tall and proud, right in the center. There were workers tending to her, and to her yet-to-be armed payloads. Nic beamed as he looked down upon the plane. Knox shared in the engineer’s joy. “She gonna be ready for Friday?”
“Sir, yes sir.”
Knox nodded. “Very good. How you feel about being the first airborne hound in two-hundred years?”
Nic shrugged at first before savoring the realization. “It’s hard to believe, especially with hovercraft being a thing, but I guess now’s as good a time as any. Simulation’s been a trip all its own though. Never knew we had so much green back then.”
It was just then that the General felt a vibration rushing through his electric arm. It was a call on his pager, the circular disc sat over his wrist. “General Knox, coming in loud and clear.”
“Captain Westley, sir. Hartwick’s back. Recon came through but we lost two men. And I think you’ll want to see what they found for yourself.”
“On my way.” Knox answered. He turned to the black-furred officers and shook their hands one final time. “Ridgefield, get the techs at HQ ready for regaling. I think we’re about to find out how bad the competition is.”
For as thin a frame as his, Hartwick’s shadow loomed large over the projector screen, the image of the monolith tank and its barrel trained on the audience of Top Brass. His visor, still cracked from the ordeal, glowed in a cool blue. “We are dealing with all-time surplus raiders. They been digging up the big guns, and they used ‘em to hook Zavia and Maxwell. A display like that glistens. It stirs. They are symbols of a terrific power. A power we have yet to fully possess. As you can see from these effects, it certainly stirred the former Cap and Commander.”
A second slide appeared, a mad, scribbling drawing outlining the tanks and domes, the signature T.Z. whipped across the bottom. The third revealed a handwritten journal note.
“I was shown it on leave. Took the time off to see. It’s like a tremendous city. A true metropolis, better than anything that wretched machine out west could forge. We could’ve been this ahead of the game? Really? And the timeline. God, they were here before Leo pulled us together. Will meet again, establish contact. —Don.”
The barrel of the tank reappeared when Hartwick stood up. General Knox stroked his chin sagely as the brown officer continued. “This note was from July 1st. Don Maxwell was absent the weekend of July 4-5, presumably to procure a cloak from the Black Country. Now, if we want to start getting these jackasses off our tail, we gotta get up there and nail ‘em hard. I don’t think this is their only base, but it clearly houses enough gear of value to make two top-level turncoats out of our men. Your problem here will be the mountain itself.”
The rest of the officers nodded as the next slide appeared, a split frame with a map of the mountain and a wide shot showing the steep incline.
“We can’t just use the old rods and hogs routine.” the commander said, his visor glowing red. “And we might not even have surprise on our side if that tank was manually operated. We’ll need soldiers on foot with high-powered weaponry. The kinds of guns we use in combat, boosted to account for range.”
In the dark of the briefing room Grim sat, ponderous in his gaze.
“Discúlpeme,” the Captain interrupted. “What exactly are the machines we’re up against? Makes, models, weaknesses.”
“Take ‘er away Nic,” Hartwick bowed, letting the chief engineer up to the projector. Before standing up, Nic daintily flicked a thumb-sized diagram into the queue.
“The tank you’re seeing here is an M103.” he began. “120 millimeter. Good news, she’s standard Old World dimensions, so no oversized phantoms. Bad news, they seem to have put six of them on guard duty. Good news again, given the geography, this base is like sitting ducks, if they ain’t already evacuated. Bad news again, it’s getting up there.”
Nic bent down and threw on another slide, revealing a still of the Scorpion holding bay at Am Base. Shocked faces filled the room as Ridgefield continued.
“General Knox has authorized limited deployment of these, the M56s. These are self-propelled guns. You can drive ‘em just like any old rod, and the gunner just has to load the shell. Once it locks, you’re good to start shooting. Some of the woods up on the mountain aren’t that dense, so you can make it up where most rides can’t. General’s willing to deploy five for the mission. They’ve been tested and proven, but this’ll be their first time in the field. We’ll need five of Auto Corps’ best drivers and five of Moto Corp’s best sidecar gunners. If we can overwhelm them alongside the foot soldiers, we can take the base for ourselves. If not, we can blow ‘er to kingdom come.”
When Chief Ridgefield sat down, Knox took the floor, though his words were the briefest by far. “We’ll fly by night. Destroy the tanks, raid the domes, find out what goes on inside them. I want crystal clear communication between the Scorpions and the foot soldiers. Some can go where others can’t, some will have the better vantage. Know where your men are, know where these rides are. Trust is paramount, and coordination essential. May God Bless You and this Force. Dismissed.”
When nightfall came, everything was set in motion. The Scorpions were deployed from Am Base, and the foot soldiers from HQ. Gibson was one of the platoon leaders, Evelyn one of the five drivers. They gave each other the kiss of a lifetime before boarding their respective transport units, the great eighteen wheelers sent rolling off into the night.
In the long corridor of the platoon transport, one wolf towered over all; the thin black duke that was Captain Herrera, with Los Cincuenta slung over his shoulder. For a while, there was nothing said, just the black-clad officer staring straight ahead, as if an enemy were just beyond the container’s locks. Only two things broke the silence: the big-rig driver’s ETA updates and a single remark from Grim’s radio.
“Operation Telson in action. Moving to rendezvous.”
Lieutenant Gibson Blanc looked up to Grim. “Any particular lines of attack, Captain?”
The shadowed wolf locked eyes with the short tan soldier. “Fan out,” he said assuredly, “We won’t be able to perimeter the Northern ridge of the Base, but we’re all coming along the South. Hartwick drew the short straw the way all of us in recon do; not enough personnel to canvas an area. Not this time.”
They were ten minutes off now, and every soldier lined up in the trailer were readying rifles and preparing for the arduous trek. What no one had prepared for was a hellfire welcome from atop the mountain.
The tractor-trailer rocked and heaved as the ground quaked beneath them, rounds of laser fire getting closer and closer with each blow. The driver was steering like mad to dodge the assault, only for the cab to take a direct hit. Blown back by the blast, the trailer rushed out of control, throwing every soldier against the doors. Its automatic brakes brought the trailer to a screeching halt. Once most of the soldiers were back on their feet, the doors were thrown open on the Captain’s orders. The platoons surged forth, marshaling themselves to their respective lieutenants. All eyes looked up to the mountain’s peak, and were greeted with a daunting sight.
The M103s were atop the Southern ridge, casting down fire and fury as if fed from the hand of Zeus, with powerful barrels flashing in the night. The comparatively small Scorpions were already unloaded and roaring into action.
Evelyn, for her part, found the job a cinch, the speedster gun great fun to drive and handling as smooth as could be. The gunner she was teamed with was a stocky, sure-handed fellow, but grew skittish when he realized the hellion driver he was paired with.
“Hey Teddy,” the fatigue-covered gray asked, “How steady can you rock her?”
The husky-voiced hound smiled. “Man I ain’t even got a clutch to ride, this shit’ll be a breeze.” She slammed the gas with her work boot, the Scorpion’s 12 cylinders racing into action. Clinging to his trigger, the gray gunner fired. Black rounds edged in white whipped through the air, landing blow after blow on the tanks sat high upon the ridge.
None of it made a dent.
While the Scorpions scurried about drawing and dealing fire, the foot soldiers raced for the mountain, each platoon fanning out from one another. Gibson and his team bolted up, climbing and clambering over every heap of rock and every felled trunk of tree as fast as they could.
Whenever the tank barrels began to train on the soldiers, the Scorpions’ were always there to draw them away. The long arm of the Black Country was stuck swiveling back and forth, back and forth. When he saw one of the heavies trained on a platoon, Captain Herrera let out a howling whistle. The second the barrel swerved his way, Los Cincuenta was in his mitts and the trigger was pulled. Three rounds whipped right into the tank barrel, the metal beast sent up in flames by the clashing rounds.
Closer and closer the soldiers got to the top, the heaving metal demons above them growing larger with every step forward. The Scorpions were beginning to fell each machine, one by one, and storming up the mountain to finish the job. They never outpaced the lead the foot soldiers had, but once all were up near the ridge, the soldiers bolted past the tanks and the Scorpions unleashed an unending assault of laser-fire. The tanks fell one by one as the platoons made it over the hill and down towards the Base itself, the silver domes glistening placidly in the moonlight.
Gibson led his wolven warriors down the steeper paths, keeping tabs on everyone as they made their move. Herrera was leading another platoon close behind while the rest had fanned out along the steep gradient. Once more, the domes seemed docile, only for the tranquil image to evaporate in a single blow.
From between the two largest domes came a shot of laser fire that blew a hole in the cliff-face where a platoon once stood. The rest of the soldiers bolted as fast as they could, down the gradient, dodging and praying whatever was to come next. Once the last of the scaling was done, and the last of the hounds on the cliff-face were on terra firma, it was a mad dash for cover as the unit leaders tried to plan the next move.
“Think you can nail her, Grim?” Lieutenant Gibson asked over the radio.
The Captain nodded. “Let me get clear, Señor. Will radio for backup.” The agile black wolf leapt out from behind the bushes and into a sprint down the shaded side of the decline, gun in hand and ready to lay waste to whatever was assailing his men. He took the rifle firm in his grip and pulled the trigger on the first thing that moved.
The cannon between the twin domes took all three barrels the second it reared its own, erupting into a shower of electric death, shrapnel rocketing out in all directions. With its death came a descending whir. As if the whole of the base was powering down upon the cannon’s demise.
When the lieutenants heard the deep Latin growl of “let’s start snooping troops” from over their radios, every remaining platoon moved to join the Captain down by the Base. At long last, the Force’s best were walking among the domes, the Scorpions all standing idle on the ridge, waiting for the final word on what the base housed, and what was up for retrieval.
The world seemed to fall silent as the soldiers cased the sea of towering structures. The chromium-plated complex was polished to a fault, and the scorched cannon in the base’s center was a sight to behold. Gibson looked towards the central base, the first of the two largest in the compound. He felt the cold black glove of Grim Herrera on his shoulder.
“That’s the place to start, eh?” he said. Gibson nodded. At first, there appeared to be no entrance, until they got closer. Thin black lines outlined the handleless door. With a quick pound of his fist, the tan Lieutenant Blanc, Colts drawn, waited for the door to do…something, anything by God!
It was on his third strike that the doors slid apart, revealing only darkness. One of the other lieutenants, a buff young red by the name of Sagan Hardy pulled out a flashlight and stood directly in the doorway. He scanned the whole area.
Nothing. Not a sheet of scrap metal or a piece of equipment. They went through every dome the same way, with the same results. As the burning shiver of the discovery raced down every spine on the ground, a feverish paranoia sat in. The platoons, under their lieutenants’ command and the guidance of Captain Herrera, bolted from the compound. They stood guard by the cliffs, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Some calamitous fireball, some terrifying self-destruction, only to be met with what they found in those looming, striking domes: nothing.
Not a word was spoken for the rest of the night, only the single burning thought hammering every mind on the journey home; they’d been had. Everyone. Including Captain Maxwell and Commander Zavia.
It was the following night something came in the mail. There was no return address, just a simple name, written in white on a black envelope: “Knox.”
It was cleared through security, scanned for viruses, and brought to the General in his office. He was alone, only the guards outside the door. The tape was a cassette in appearance, but came prepacked with instructions for video display.
When he booted it up, there was but a face. A gray wolf with black eyes. Godawful black eyes. Staring out into the room from the video. The General met the display with skepticism.
“How did you like it Adam? Our little toy out there, up on the mountain?”
The voice was bit-crushed beyond recognition, but not unintelligible. He hesitated to answer, waiting to see if it was prerecorded or some strange piece of interactive media.
The sudden remark of “Well?” prompted in the General a stoic reply. “You insist on driving a wedge in us, a wedge that shall be crushed by our dedication to this righteous cause.”
The face didn’t move, his black eyes never blinked, never followed. They simply stared out into the room. “It’s all a part of our showmanship.”
“You wish to fight A.C.E.S. and yet you insist on tormenting us!” Knox bellowed. “You cost me lives, try to turn my men against me, and you send us on a fool’s errand. To what end? Just to be first there?”
No response.
“What? Am I not enough of a black-acid clown for you? Making an ass of myself just to cause one enemy grief while another goes on killing and killing without batting an eye, stamping the whole damn wolven race out into oblivion?”
The eyes moved, now focused on Knox intently, the muzzle curled in a frenzied smile. A smile he knew too well from his psychic torture at the hands of A.C.E.S. Knox growled.
“We’re her children too.” it smarmily intoned. “We don’t like Mother either, and we plan on doing something about that. Something big. You’ll know it when you see it. See you Friday.”
The tape died on its last words, and yet those eyes lingered for the General. They’d linger on and on until the very day of which they spoke: Friday. The day the Force’s first bomber took flight. The day of the Dragonfly. No one suspected what was to come of this, and yet, no one would soon forget.