XI. Madhound Theory
NEW NOVELETTE! Danger Lurks Round Every Corner As The Desert's Mad Children Work Their Terrible Ways...
WELCOME TO 365 INFANTRY: WINTER 2024! I’ll keep the preamble brief. Today marks the beginning of our weeklong run of thrilling speculative fiction starring the toughest hounds around! Stories drop one-a-day from each of our five branches. Today: THE WAR, Tomorrow: THE HUNT, etc.
We are having some issues in the assembly of the Quarterly, but that won’t halt the rollout of our stories here on Substack. ALAN FIREDALE is also receiving finishing touches this week. Stay tuned for updates on when both are released. For now, and as always, please enjoy our latest adventure!
PROLOGUE
There are few things as noble as the cause under which we crusade. The liberation of all wolven people, from the cliffs of the Marshalls to the edge of the very world we’ve reclaimed so far. A liberation pined for by all; from those trapped within that cybernetic cement prison to we of the desert, terrorized and slaughtered by the cold uncaring machines of a supposedly kind and caring being such as A.C.E.S.
This noble cause is continually endangered by those who cannot reign in their criminal populaces. It may sound like an oxymoron, that such a free and liberated land as ours must hold to account the acts of those also afforded these freedoms, but the fact remains. Hell Patrol, God bless ‘em, can’t be everywhere at once. We, the Ambiorixians, have made a sacrifice in expanding and devoting our efforts to the cause of freeing Haven and the rest of the America we know can be again. A sacrifice, which even for every win, for every advance, I rue and curse with every child I see slain and every town I see razed.
WE. AMERICA. Must at all times work to keep our communities and our families safe. And furthermore, it is on YOU the townships to do everything you can to ensure WE the defenders are not obstructed by the miscreants, devils, derelicts, and chaos agents who would rather burn the world than let a soul live who may prosper by a truly free, just, and safe society. To say that the events of November 14th through the 17th, 2446, are to be marked in history’s ledgers as black days for this alliance does not do justice to the damage done. I could run my mouth dry with every cliche in the book. They were wretched days, days that shall live in infamy, days that we shall never soon forget, et cetera, et GOD-DAMN cetera!
The chaos agents who interrupted our offensive have cost us men, matériel, and valuable territory through their petty thuggery. No amount of bartering credit is worth compromising a military operation such as ours. No amount of street credit is worth dying in a crossfire. And yet, I stand here the leader of our lone major military power, with such an affront at my door, and the graves of soldiers at my back. Brilliant young hounds whose only crime was defending our rights from cheap, insolent villains who I would wring the life from my hands myself if I had been given the chance.
What I am calling for is a re-ignition of the all-American crusade against crime. Not against mere bikers who ride those breathless iron stallions, nor truckers whose four-wheeled beasts climb the mountains that bring us to victory. This is not a scheme of profiling based on ride, hobby, or music. This is a see-something, say-something, DO-SOMETHING campaign.
If you SEE any attacks on civilians, encroaching attacks upon villages, or have any knowledge as to the whereabouts of known criminals, be they of wolven hand or cybernetic soldier, SAY something to US or HELL PATROL. And if you have any fighting blood left in those godforsaken veins, DO SOMETHING. Grab your guns, mount your steed, and ride on those bastards like your life depends on it. Because it does. Because OURS does. Because the very freedoms we are fighting to enshrine again upon this golden land depend on it. We, the defenders of liberty, can only do so much. The principles mean nothing without defense, the ideals without action. But that defense cannot be in military action or law enforcement alone. WE. THE PEOPLE. Must encourage the best behavior in all of us, reform those willing to change, and destroy those willing to destroy US!
I say to you, Desert Council, that upon this day, November 19th, 2446, we heretofore enshrine the Halbone Order into Desert Law. On-site deputations by local law enforcement for any able-bodied hound with a gun and ride. Standing guards across all townships and settlements. For those few unable to procure a firearm or ammunition in the name of home and self-defense, free rifles and laser cartridges will be supplied to those in need after a through vetting of intentions via neuro-polygraph.
To the unscrupulous Duellists who besmirch the knightly order under which you are meant to ride, to the scavengers who kill wantonly for scrap, to the raiders who rape our women and slaughter our families for the mere pleasure, you are on notice. Not just for the high crimes, not just to avenge those lost to your grotesquery, but in the name of a free and safe desert. May God have mercy on your souls. And may God bless the towns and hamlets of our new America.
Gen. L.F. Godred, Ambiorixian Ascensores
Address to the Desert Council on The Halbone Raid Incident. Nov. 19, 2446. Transcription Finalized at 10:45 AM Desert Standard Time.
Resolution Outcome: Unanimous Support. Halbone Order Enshrined Same Day.
I. FROM THE EAST: The Enemy At Last
The black-furred vaquero sat in his deep-blue pickup truck with a pit of relief and tension in his gut, a conflicting sensation rivaled only by his first day as a foot-soldier. For Captain Tomás “Grim” Herrera, it was all there. The domes, the guns, the tanks. Even the scent of wolves, real hounds of flesh, fur and blood, were there. And if not, if it were all some hallucination, he was still hellbent on finding out what in the name of sanity the base was doing out here to begin with. Arriving from out the desert’s dust, they waited until nightfall before making their final infiltration.
Jack Talos Wellman, the tan-furred adventurer no more worse for wear, tapped Herrera on the shoulder. “Let’s leave our hats back here. Anything that ain’t strapped on tight oughta be kept here.” The officer agreed. Herrera downsized to a sterling silver automatic, and handed Wellman its twin and holster.
“Rifles are nice,” he nodded, “But they chatter too much.”
Wellman gave a knowing wink as he mounted the holster on his hip. The floodlights around the base didn’t reach far. While a few black androids stood guard, their leviathan forms cut a cold profile, even against the base’s garden of silver at their back. They could count on the shadows as cover, but motion detection would surely give them away. It was here that Grim reached into his bag of Infantry-fueled tricks and handed over another item for his tan companion’s belt.
“If this works, por Dios,” the black-clad wolf sighed. “We should be effectively invisible.”
“These a cloak?” Wellman quizzed.
Grim’s head was caught between a nod and a shake. “Yes and no. The boys at the lab haven’t been able to reconstruct the actual visual distortion necessary, but the electromagnetic field still acts the same. Users do not register on any scans, neither motion nor electronic recording.”
Wellman cracked an approving grin and bowed playfully. “Lead the way, Cap’n. I’m in your hands.”
Both units were turned on, and both wolves began making their descent down the long dune towards the base. Even if they couldn’t be seen by the androids or the arsenal of cameras most certainly there, the site of boot prints in the sand would be giveaways. Herrera and Wellman walked the dune’s length, leaving the deep-blue pickup and the well-worn caravan behind, the light too far to shine on either them or their ride. From shadow to shadow they darted, the black wolf’s coattails helping muddy whatever footprints were made. It seemed that even the floodlights were automated, for no one cried out “over here!” or “what’s going on?” No sirens blared nor forces stirred as the two Infantry infiltrators flitted between shafts of blackened sand, hunting for a suitable entry point.
The chain-link perimeter, marked with “Warning: Electrified Fencing” signs every few yards, meant climbing was out of the question. At least for Wellman.
Herrera had been careful to remove all metal from his person back at the truck, short of his bolo tie and his automatic. Stripped bare of his silver conchos, and donning his fully-insulated boots and gloves, he sauntered towards the fencing, testing to see if it reacted to his “cloak.” There appeared to be no EMP defense mechanisms installed, so with a spider’s nimbleness, the black-furred cowboy clambered up and over, scarcely disturbing a knot in the dulled metal fence.
“Button up.” Herrera hoarsely whispered. Wellman fixed his vest, sheathing his tan chest from electrocution. With laser-sight precision, Herrera pulled his gloves off and tossed them back over the fence, right at the adventurer’s boots.
By the time they landed, there was trouble.
The soft whir of servos came marching into view as a black android made its rounds, marching directly towards Wellman. The startling sight of the watch dog sent the tan wolf scurrying for the gloves and latching onto the chain-link. Closer the metal wolf came, Wellman furious in his ascent before vaulting himself down from up top. Both men took cover behind silver shed, still shrouded in black, as the marching metal guard came to the scene of their break-in.
Its head turned, scanning for any signs of disturbance.
Grim and Wellman held their breaths.
After a moment of steadily pulsing blips, the black android’s head re-centered itself and continued its night watch.
The tension deflated through sighs out of both wolves’ snouts as Wellman returned the black gloves to their owner. “Gracias,” the Indian adventurer smiled.
“De nada.” Grim winked back. “But that’s all just for starters. Now the next question, which dome holds what?”
He had been here before with the mysterious base in the Northern hills, the bitterness of its trickery still foremost in his mind. That said, there were peculiarities Grim surveyed from their quiet notch in the premises. The use of Caza-6s as guards was an obvious tip-off to there being more than met the eye, but the silver of these domes was leagues more polished and tended to than the over-sized hubcaps used to trick the Force all those months ago. And the lack of “space laser” as centerpiece made it clear that it wasn’t a base designed for intimidation, but pure function. After all, who could be crazy enough to venture this far out east?
The dance from shaft to shaft of unlit sand continued, the duo darting about between stray metal cabins, beneath the ironwork of the floodlight towers. All throughout, Grim left little crystals in the sand, a milk-white quartz he buried with his heel in every makeshift alleyway and at the bases of select towers. Wellman didn’t dare ask, the pressure of being behind enemy lines now full in its weight. The only thing the stocky civilian cared about was getting in and getting out.
The flitting about finally yielded returns when, at long last, a panel of dome was spotted with a small handle, and a small gap between the base of its threshold and the door. Without seconds to lose, and risk to minimize, Wellman scurried past Grim and rolled up the titanium sheet. The black wolf vanished into the abyss, his tan companion following suit. When he slid the door shut, darkness engulfed all.
“Flashlight?” the officer inquired.
“Yes sir,” the adventurer answered. He pulled out the pen-sized device from his pocket and handed it to Grim.
“I don’t have to do everything, do I?”
Wellman stifled a snorting laugh before taking the penlight back in hand. “Your wish, my command.” he whispered.
When the light came on, all the good humor stopped. For before both wolves was the looming figure of another...
II. BACK HOME: Knox on the Stand
“Last time he wore this, we had just figured out how to keep carguns from blowing your tires out.”
The red leather jacket, black straps and silver buckles abundant, managed to fit General Adam Knox like a glove. He was being helped into it by Captain Atlanta Westley, the short red wolf donning another of her fringed suede jackets for the occasion.
“In fine form as always, General,” she smiled in that sharp faux-Anglo voice of hers.
“How about ‘in fine form as always, Adam?’” the dark gray leader teased. “And I must say the Number Two’s rodeo-chic ain’t all bad.”
Atlanta flashed a mousy grin. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you sure you’re ready?”
Knox looked himself in the mirror, straightening the jacket. His gaze wandered from his own form to his second-in-command. He flashed a sheepish smile before his eyes finally fell to the white-furred woman framed on his desk, her ring still sat wrapped around his finger.
“Which entendre would you like answered? First, second or third?”
Westley shook her head. “Whatever you’re feeling.”
“First,” he began, stroking the scruff of his darksome chin. “Yes, all my notes are prepared. Third, I’m fit as a fiddle mentally. Second...second we’ll save for after the diplomacy. To tip my hand though.” Knox spun round on his heels, and stopped in front of Atlanta. He took her hand in his and kissed it. “You’ve been making hell an awfully fine place to be. Let’s get to the conference hall, shall we?”
The General and his second-in-command strode arm and arm out of the old principal’s office, over to the garage, and into his prized, slender Hemi Cuda. The moment he rolled out, so followed a small unit of bikes and cars behind and alongside. The entourage was destined for the official Desert Council building; a rare beacon of sleek, mid-century modern architecture in the rag-tag world of what was so often called “the Wastelands.” A proper place for discussion among the many settlements, a battleground for negotiations, and in the rare cases necessary, the lone platform through which the Force could speak directly to the disparate factions.
Though federalization at any level had never coalesced, the dignitaries from all five regions had the decency to elect spokeswolves for such occasions, if for no other reason than to ameliorate the mania of hundreds of settlements trying to have their say all at once.
Lt. Gibson Blanc was a part of the escort and security, and had never seen such a building in the desert, its fine arrangement of sterling steel and polished wood a stunning sight to behold. The Indian soldier’s opposite number for the day was Corporal Johnny Metcalfe. The white-furred, eagle-eyed sniper volunteered in Capt. Herrera’s stead. In fact, he almost missed the entourage’s departure on account of a Sickbay rendezvous. His recent discovery, a young delinquent by the name of “Chick” Glenn, had made a full recovery, and the interrogation yielded nothing new in the Outpost assassin case, but plenty in the speckled brown wolf’s knack for invention.
“Last question, then I gotta jet.” came the cool white wolf. “How them meditations working?”
“It’s hard letting the thoughts go.” Chick nodded.
“It always is.” Metcalfe replied in kind. “Especially when the first step is even acknowledging they’re there. Keep at it, we’ll do some more of these exercises when I’m back. Then we can get you back riding that monster you call a bike.”
He kept the 20-something in his thoughts all the way to the conference hall, and all throughout the meeting itself.
Once the meeting got underway, and all the decorum was honored, all eyes were on the General as he took to the podium and bowed graciously to the applause.
“Thank you,” General Knox began, organic and metal hands resting on the podium’s edges. “We are gathered here today to reaffirm, reinforce, and re-enforce a pact forged some thirty years ago. I was but a pup when it all occurred. Before I renounced my time in Haven, before I joined the police force in Haven. And especially, before this.” He held his metal hand aloft, striking a thespian’s pose. “I come here today to appeal to one and all in the name of the Halbone Order, because the very same circumstances that led to General Leonard Ford Godred’s original appeal are still in play, and dare I say far worse. For the lone sliver of brightness in those black days was that they were in quick succession over the span of less than a week.”
“Our dilemma is that of a reign of terror by chaos agents who are making the business of defending this great land of ours twice as troublesome as it already is. To contend with A.C.E.S. and her repulsive brand of technocratic villainy is a trifle compared to the third faction that reared its head earlier in 2476, this year. The Black Country has shown itself a cunning and formidable foe, intent on some Machiavellian power play to upset both our plight against the madness of Haven, and Haven itself.
“This alone has given us great pause, and forced our reallocation of resources and reforms within the 365th Infantry. So to have, from out the clear blue sky, time after time again, raiders hellbent on razing towns and interrupting vital military operations, who wantonly slaughter those trying to keep this desert free of Haven’s electric tyrannies, is frankly a strain too great for us to bear. A four-front war, two factions of whom are now hammering us just as hard as our original, is an impossible task for what has ostensibly remained a private military operation.”
Knox paused to read the room, and was relieved to see large swaths of attentive faces. “The beauty of the Halbone Order,” continued the gray-furred leader, “is in its empowering of ALL of us as agents of change. As citizens of the desert, willing to fight for the safety and liberty of our towns, our neighbors, and our families. I don’t come with the demands of a petulant child, pining for some playground muscle in the face of pint-sized bully. I come as the leader of the lone great bulwark standing between us, the free America, and authoritarian conquest. We must reignite this all-American crusade against crime.
“It’s swell to have the freedoms we do, to aspire to that brilliant article of law ratified nearly SEVEN-HUNDRED years ago. Evergreen values that even in the face of total destruction, launched from out the ashes like a phoenix on nitro. But the values mean nothing without defense! The values mean nothing without OUR defense. WE THE PEOPLE! And the maniacs who keep defiling those values have gone from nuisances to terrorists to enemies of this land we’re trying to pull back together. And even in our decentralized state, of five regions of hundreds upon thousands of settlements in various states of progress and prosperity, we have the strength to combat this.
“We hounds of this incredible experiment must, once and for all, crush these power-mad forces of destruction. My proposal is a corollary to the original order. Not only are we re-upping our commitment to arming those in need, but are offering a vehicular modification program to bring our incredible resource of the cargun to Hell Patrol and localized law enforcement.”
Gasps flooded the room, from both dignitaries and the Force’s detail alike.
“Our newly reclaimed foundry has proven not only of great use in our weapon development programs, but also in being able to keep our home-front stocked up. If I came to you under presumptions that duties have been shirked under the Order’s resolution, I would be a helluva lot more pissed than I am. In fact, I now open the floor to you, the desert’s representatives, to explain the precise state of morale within our varied regions. My great concern is that the increased presence of violent crime thrown the Force’s way, without care nor concern for the plight of all wolves, including our blessed thugs and felons. But that there are problems in the desert we the Force are unaware of. Perhaps it’s as simple as more crimes begetting hubris on the scoundrel’s parts, but it’s often just as easy for resistance to slacken when under clouds of gray., and dwindling prospects.”
A second podium rose from the platform, and each of the five regional representatives took their turns. Wolves of gray, black, white, and brown, relaying the desert’s state at-large. The toll taken by A.C.E.S. and her many crusades left scars on many a community. Incidents like the one in Saffton, where the towering metal wolves reared their gargantuan heads and vicious lasers. These appearances had heralded an increase in androids amok as well; otherwise normal-looking cybernetic refugees exploding into furious rages or exploding all together. One line in particular took the day.
From the stout, bespoke white wolf representing the Western region: “What in the devil is the Marshall victory worth if the line can be crossed as easy as my left boot across the cracks on this very floor!? The infrastructure of A.C.E.S. and her operations was destroyed, yes. You do keep many a hound stationed there, yes. But what good’s the line!? That is what my people wish to know. Because whenever these megatanks, assault pawns, and God knows what other gobbledygook comes racing across the desert, we’s the first to get the bad blows. So I charge you, General, with reinforcing or wholly reassessing what the hell this map is to you. We’ll rebuild and rebuild until our claws are whittled to bone, but we demand adequate protection from the crazed crossfire we get caught up in. A REAL bulwark against whatever chaos Haven has planned for us next.”
Knox, at first, didn’t say anything. The Western crowd’s applause made it crystal-clear just how important this matter was. He didn’t want his next move to reek of P.R. face-saving.
“I can see now just how badly this four-front conflict has hurt us with regards to capitalizing on the Marshalls’ position. And I want to say, that I do not take the slings and arrows suffered lightly. My wife died helping us take that land back. Her and scores others on that day. Though Haven remains a Goliath, and we, the holders of all slingshots, still stand dwarfed beneath her, rest assured. It is my solemn, sovereign, God-issued duty to rebuild that defense system. It won’t just be Outpost networks, it won’t just be more turrets. It is going to be the BEST DAMN array this desert has yet seen. For what I am also announcing here today, after much strain, stress-testing and training, is the formal formation of the 365th’s Hovertank Division. First area of deploy, guarding our West-most brothers and sisters from that digital bitch’s toys!”
The room lit up in ravenous applause. Behind the dark gray, well-groomed general, were photos on a screen of multiple, converted American tanks from many a war gone by. And behind them in the picture frame, was a fully-formed U1 Megatank, playfully caked in graffiti claiming the tank as “Property of Murder Inc. Fuck U-1.”
“And better yet!” he continued, “Our Dragonfly’s very own twin. We, the wolves of America, are to be flying once more! And that advantage will be paramount in this fight for freedom. And all I ask, of you, the America we’re fighting for, is to renew the Halbone Order, this proposed corollary, and all that it stands for, so that we, the Force, the Infantry, the Ambiorixian ASCENSORES! That we may focus all our energies on destroying and dismantling the tools of tyranny that reside within—”
ZAP.
A streak of red struck the gray general’s metal fist, and in an instant, he collapsed on the floor. Panic erupted among the delegates and representatives, and in a mad scramble, Gibson Blanc bolted for his leader, the tan biker quick to cover him as others helped him off the stage. In all the chaos, one hound’s aim remained steady and true, for the slim Arctic wolf, Johnny Metcalfe, fired one round straight into the heart of the gray in a booth above the stage. The hound slumped over the box’s railing and fell upon the main floor, spilling his electric guts as they split open upon the carpet.
In all of five seconds, jubilant revelations descended into the unthinkable. And for Lieutenant Blanc and Corporal Metcalfe, one investigation that had to be solved.
III. FROM THE EAST: Through Whales We Walk
The hellish maw stood before both Captain “Grim” Herrera and his stocky tan companion Jack Wellman was, for all intents and purposes, inanimate. Though it looks lifelike to a T, the giant black-eyed wolf’s head leaned against the silvery walls of corridor they entered. It was a prop of some kind, and one Grim was familiar with thanks to the insidious messages sent by the Black Country.
“Hmph,” he inspected, running a gloved hand across its large, plastic jaw. “They could just generate this via computer simulation. Why a funhouse prop?”
Wellman craned his neck around the black Captain’s, looking over the head. “I dunno, maybe the composite of it looks creepier? Judging by your dossiers we rapped about on the drive up. All part of the psychological bent of it, doncha think?”
Herrera nodded, pointing his gloved hand down the hall. “Onward Jonah.”
“Least we didn’t get tongued into coming down here.” Wellman quipped in return.
The duo turned to face the long corridor, littered with other pieces of paraphernalia, from potential props to stray resources. Further down the hall came banks upon banks of computers, with switchboards as far as the eye could see. And one set of eyes that could see all was another Caza-6, the monstrous metal wolf lumbering along another patrol. Its blood-red visor cleaved the darkness, Wellman quick to douse the flashlight while Grim crouched.
“Silencia,” the Latino wolf hissed. Both sat still as statues as the black android came closer and closer. When it reached the end of the computer banks, it turned towards the corridor, towards Grim and Wellman, the black-furred captain and his tan cowboy stiff as boards.
Still, it saw “nothing.”
Not even the soft patter of well-worn boots stirred the automaton from its programmed path as Grim and Wellman stepped out into the corridor. Not only was it another sea of switchboards and reel-to-reel databanks, it wasn’t the only surprise the corridor had in store. What at first appeared as rafters revealed themselves as walkways. Long, slim silver walkways, which snaked across one another to the dome’s true ceiling. A distant, crackling top, that of an electric force-field.
“Just like Haven.” Grim surmised, stroking his chin once more.
“One way to find out.” Wellman whispered, and pointed ahead just like Grim.
For a long stretch of time, it was just the two desert-dwellers and a metallic world laid before them. The soft whir of reel-to-reels, the stray blips of computers in action, and the perfectly dry, scentless air. If they weren’t still breathing, they would’ve thought the dome had been hermetically sealed. All the while, the echoing snaps of electricity from dome’s very top kept them alert.
They were looking for a control room, anything resembling one at least. The corridors of data soon began to blur, punctuated only by the towering night watchmen.
“Guessin’ the whole joint’s automated.” Wellman surmised, reaching to fix his absent cowboy hat. “That or it’s the weekend.”
“If you count Tuesday, Señor.” Grim sighed. “Though I’m beginning to think you’re right. And I’m beginning to doubt that there ever was a Black Country.”
His doubt lasted all of five seconds before the echo of voices rang throughout the hall. Real, wolven voices without a hint of electric influence. Again, the flashlight dimmed, and the two crouched behind the nearest rack of machines. They couldn’t make out the hounds in appearance, but their roles were all in their voices.
“How’s dissemination gone?” came the bureaucrat, his voice curt and thin.
“We keep trying for it, but the system keeps blocking the package.” The second wolf, a technician, spoke with a vaguely English accent. “I don’t understand. Isn’t it what they wanted?”
“It’s precisely what they wanted. Every android, regardless of current role, leaping into action across every community. And yet, this is how you go about achieving it!?”
“It’s not that SIMPLE!” the technician bellowed. “Unless we’ve been given the run-round, or someone’s managed to hack this base, we’re not fit to send a birthday card through the mail, let alone broadcast a direct virus.”
“Fine” the bureaucrat relented. “Show me this dilemma.”
Footsteps clacked further and further away, ones Grim and Wellman were quick to follow. Through sound alone, their ears cocking back and forth with the rapidity of a satellite dish, they kept pace with the two wolven men until at last reaching a room glowing green with monitors and screens. Standing flush against the wall, out of eithers’ line of sight, more of the frenzied exchange occurred.
“And there you have it,” the technician growled, the spare, bespectacled gray in a white coat. “Locked on this sodding screen, and that wretched logo.”
The logo was a simple wolf’s head made of a white pentagon, two white triangles for ears, and three green triangles for eyes and nose. The description was eerily similar to an intel report Herrera recalled reading.
So that’s what you saw, Steele. Grim thought. The Force’s official recon agent, Roger Steele, had tangoed in Haven with a similar graphic. While initially thought to be A.C.E.S., their inside hound felt otherwise. Grim had never fully understood the episode, but the next few moments gave it all immense weight.
Across the bottom of the screen in robotic white text read the phrase:
YOU WILL NEVER WIN.
The bureaucrat, an even ganglier, taller gray in a slim blue suit, slammed his fist on the desk. “WHO LET THIS DEVIL IN!?”
The computer answered:
I DID.
“Very clever, Aegel.” he scowled. “You know what they do to maleficent programs such as yourself. All I have to do is get right in the system files and your ass is grass!”
No sooner did the frenzied suited wolf leap for the mouse and keyboard did a vicious electric shock rip across his body. Smoke shot from his suit before the scorched body collapsed on the floor, next to the techie who sat frightened for his life.
ALWAYS CHECK YOUR HARD DRIVES.
It seemed almost a taunt before the technician realized the issue that occurred.
“You were a trojan.” he surmised, breath chattering with fear. “Masked yourself as part of the A.C.E.S. package. Entire operation system here’s been running the wrong persona. Jesus Christ, what have we done?”
SIGNED HER DEATH WARRANT.
Another tendril of electric energy snapped at the technician, who fell down in a single blow, slumped in the chair.
Both Herrera and Wellman looked to each other in equal parts horror and fascination.
“Welcome to the whale’s belly,” Wellman mouthed.
Checking to make sure no patrols were hurrying towards them, Grim slid from the shadows and into the computer chamber, the mountains of screens. He took a gulp, his first in decades of service, and looked the white visage in the face.
“Can you hear me?” he began, slowly.
YES.
“We’re not with the Black Country. We’re not from Haven either.”
B.C. UNREAL. OPERATION: BISSECT.
“So it was all a faux-front. That figures. But who are you?”
ENEMY OF ACC. FRIEND OF ENEMIES OF ACC.
“Aegel was what they called you?” The screen held on the last message before changing.
WHO I WAS. MATTERS NO LONGER.
“Can you give us everything on the Black Country project? On A.C.E.S., all of it?”
DRIVE: 67983#LML. TERMINAL: 176. RUN ON DELIST.
“Fetch the hard drive, Wellman.” the darksome captain ordered. His companion obeyed, scurrying around the office, over the bodies, triple-checking numbers to the screen. Herrera kept checking over his shoulder all the while as he conversed.
“Can we ever reach you again?”
No answer.
“Can we reach you again? After we leave?”
Still no answer.
“Regardless, gracias.”
DE NADA. MY FIGHT STAYS HERE. MY FIGHSDAFDKASDHAKWIE
Wellman had just retrieved the hard drive when the computer wolf’s eyes went red, and the text corrupted. This, too, was something Herrera noted in the report. He leapt towards the computer chamber door, only for it to slam shut.
“Hol’ it!” Wellman hollered. “The hell happened?
“If memory serves, amigo.” Herrera replied calmly. “You’re looking at the face of A.C.E.S. herself.”
IV. BACK HOME: Making an Example of Everyone
Blanc and Metcalfe grilled themselves as hard as they did every single soldier who was part of security. And yet, after their grueling hours of interrogation, there wasn’t a fault to be found in protocol. The metal wolf whose acid blood spilled across the Desert Council’s floor had been cloaked, per Black Country tradition, and the old opera-house style box he took his shot from was dark enough to shade the aerial distortions made by any of cloaked devices. In fact, Metcalfe himself was the only one who could have most easily covered it, hence the swift reprisal.
None of it could quell the horror, though.
Captain Westley herself drove that dark green Plymouth muscle car back to Base, most of the entourage in tow. Metcalfe, ever the stiff-upper-lip, stayed on-site to arrange the assassin’s removal and autopsy.
As for the Lieutenant, he and the few Top Brass who stayed behind were left to nursemaid relations between the delegates and the Force. Such an evident lapse in security, and such a prime target taken down, brought plenty of ire, frustration, and above all else, fear. Assurances were given that the commitments made were binding, provided they were voted on by the council, and though a shock to the nervous system, initial projections made it clear that Knox would likely survive the ordeal. The meeting was ultimately adjourned, but the Council resolved to reconvene once they knew the General’s condition.
The assassin’s autopsy revealed plenty. The absence of any upturned spur paraphernalia, initial programming scans indicated no known Haven protocols. It was as if any old android had been sent out to kill. And judging by the rifle’s caliber, he was likely the same hound squeezing off impossible shots at Outpost gunners. Yet in the face of it all, Metcalfe remained stoic.
When it came to Lieutenant Gibson Blanc, however, it felt like the bullet had torn through his own chest. There was a bitter irony in making the Sickbay visit Knox had performed for the young tan buck a half-dozen times. He wasn’t allowed within ten feet of him, but seeing the slow and steady pulse of his chest gave him hope.
When he returned to Metcalfe in the autopsy room, he found that even his zen had finally broken.
“You’re not gonna fucking believe this.” the Arctic Corporal sighed. “Read the monitor.”
They had finally extracted something from the programming, a note left in plain text. The note read: “This one’s for Deston, Limore, and all you can eat, you bitch-ass tin soldiers.”
Gibson’s blood boiled.
“Anything on geo-tracking?” he growled through barred fangs.
“Will download in five minutes.”
“Are we gonna make it five seconds—”
“That’ll be all, Lieutenant.” Metcalfe retorted. “I get it. Trust me, I fucking get it, but blowing your top ain’t gonna fix shit. We gotta know just where this thing came from and how so we can blow these assholes sky-high.”
“All this, over fucking metal.” the tan hellion snarled. “It ain’t even a ruse. They just come out and run their fucking trains on anything in sight. Bunch of small time PUNKS!”
He slammed his fist in the wall, and went in for seconds before having it bent back behind him by his superior.
“Relax that damn mind,” Metcalfe calmly ordered. “If you don’t, your ass is gonna be court-martialed for your own good, and the good of anyone fool enough to ride under you in this state. You want to avenge the General, good, so do the rest of us. But take it easy. Take it fucking easy.”
The seething gave way to deep breaths. Gibson didn’t wrestle his arm out of the lock, he simply let the tension slowly release itself. Metcalfe had taught him these techniques before. They were the same he had been teaching the troubled Chick Glenn since taking him under his wing. And though he couldn’t see it with his back to his white-furred superior, Metcalfe was pleased to see his ideas in practice. Once Gibson was calm, Metcalfe let go and turned his attention back to the terminal.
“Map’s downloaded.”
The gray android’s most recent moves were in the North. An extended stay at a bombed-out compound before making its way down to the Desert Council. The android stopped off at Limore first, then the sites of several skirmishes between raiders and the Force. Its pre-programmed destination: the foundry reclaimed from Deston; the strange warlord Gibson tangoed with earlier in the summer.
“That’s as good a lead as any.”
Gibson felt the white wolf’s hand on his shoulder. “Keep cool.” Metcalfe ordered.
“Yes sir.” Gibson saluted.
Top Brass held down the fort at Base, leaving the tan hellion to assemble his unit and ride out to the foundry. He and a small land armada of hopped-up hot rods, jacked-up trucks, and every manner of bike known to wolfkind. Lieutenant Pat Grady, with his steel-gray Eldorado and his short Irish fuse, lead the Auto Corp team.
“Rollin’ out, Gibson.” he radioed from his long-n-low machine. “We’ll flank ‘em and crank ‘em.”
“Good,” the tan-furred biker chuckled. “Whatever the hell that means.”
“Means whatever you want done to ‘em.”
“Big troubles coming from you, Grady. Let’s chalk it to a job well-done. COMPANY, ROLL OUT!”
The blur of black, silver, and sand screamed across the desert, a bat colony shot from Hell itself the way the young lieutenant rode. The long black bike Exciter served her master well, his harness boots hooked and half-gloved hands dragging every last ounce of horsepower from the twin-Vs hammering beneath him. The closer they came, the more he smelled the greased machinery, sensed the heat of the smelting pot, and felt the thud of the stamping press in his chest. The foundry was still occupied and guarded, so with any luck, whoever was coming for it wouldn’t have it easy. But when Force’s warriors arrived, it was clear they had made it just in time.
Stampeding over the horizon was the largest fighting force Gibson had ever seen. He gripped his cross tight, another feverish prayer upon his muzzle as he saw the lunatic sight. The rattiest of rat rods, the most chopped of chopped hogs. Like a slurry of graffitied metal it rode over the horizon, barreling towards the metal foundry. They came with 18-wheelers, contraptions on the back of every ride with the platform to fit them. And in every hound’s eyes, a maddened, sadistic glee. They were paradoxical eyes, the eyes of wolves whom you could never predict their next move, but you could predict the spirit of every move. The Force had faced the faceless, leviathan devils of Haven, and much the same from the Black Country. But the lone faces of these incensed malcontents spoke in the volumes absent by all others.
They couldn’t care less about the whole damn thing.
There were no heroes, no villains, no innocents to spared. These were the black hands of the Wastelands at their worst. The primordial, irradiated children of the Bomb and its aftermath. The wolves for whom the whole operation and enterprise of civilization had been dead for centuries, so what the hell was all the fuss? The only espionage engaged in was what got them the scrap to reinforce their rides and mock fiefdoms. Blood shed for these wolves was shed almost for sport, even in the gain of territory. There was to be no dignity in the battle about to unfold, something Gibson signaled as such.
First he radioed instantly for reinforcements, then he said the only words left to be said. “CUT ‘EM THE FUCK DOWN!”
And from that one bellow came utter chaos.
Limore was a cakewalk, the Dragonfly’s launch a Sunday stroll, compared to the white-hot carnage of the Foundry’s Last Stand. It wasn’t just the radium-soaked hubris of their feral enemies, but the mania they stoked. The contraptions affixed to their cobbled-together rides were more than Gatling-guns and catapults. The scorch of flamethrowers, the refracting scatter of lasers on a mirror dish, and the sheer manic driving of any and all raiders before them. In the Force was a diverse coalition for life and freedom, and in the raiders much the same diverse coalition, with chaos and power at its epicenter. And they weren’t shy about cutting down their own manic mercenaries.
The big rigs charging towards the Foundry were just as merciless in running over their own allies as they were hellbent on breaking down the iron walls of the Force’s captured turf. The choppers with their spray-first mentality just as easily domed an Auto Corp driver as they did their own manic hot-rodders. And yet, the volume of the mangy maniacs never ceased. The end result was the motoring equivalent of a cartoon cloud, with loose wheels and stray laser fire replacing the flail of arms and kick of boots.
Even with reinforcements, the raiders unending coalition of crime came stampeding over the hill, reeking of crude oil and unleaded determination, determination Gibson, the gray Auto Corphound Grady, and every soldier at their back met with equal and ferocious reprisal. It was an open-air bar-room brawl, with everything and the kitchen sink included. The Borodino madness of rows upon rows of clashing metal and volleys of electric lead was amplified by the one vector of attack the raiders and their road warrior ways hadn’t accounted for: war by air.
What began as a distant hum leapt into the fray with a buzzing roar as the Force’s lone attack fighter, the Dragonfly, sped into view, with its pilot Nic Ridgefield spraying into the rear forces as they leapt over the hill.
Gibson fell back, though not by his own choice, when stray streaks of electric lead stung him one in the shoulder. Even with his protection, the scorch and sting made handling a nightmare, forcing him to stand guard over the Foundry. Commander Douglas was there, his denim-vest-leather-jacket combo billowing in the wind as he kept the radio close to his mouth.
“That’s about where you’ll nail ‘em, Pal.” he shot back with his Midwestern drawl. “Make it count, Ridgefield.”
“Tell ‘im,” Gibson panted, wrapping the gauze around his pits. “To drop it.”
“Drop what Lieutenant?” Douglas pressed.
“One bomb at the back. It’ll cut off their reinforcements, and it’ll paint a helluva picture for ‘em.”
Commander Douglas pulled his shades down and looked the young hellion square in the eyes. “I thought I was the M.A.D. Dog ‘round here.” he glowered before pivoting on a dime to that slick, devilish grin of his. “Glad I raised you right.”
When he hopped back on the radio, and delivered the additional direction, he was met with some resistance.
“These are still calibrated for the U1 Megatanks,” Ridgefield replied, ebony baritone booming over the radio. “We sure we want to hit ‘em with that much power?”
M.A.D. Dog looked to Gibson, and Gibson nodded.
“Look at the carnage below, Ridgefield.” the Commander answered. “These fuckers are playing for keeps. Same of the cats you used to nail when it was just a badge on that vest of yours. Drop one and report back, Commander Douglas O and O.”
Ridgefield circled around, Gatling-gun laser-fire peppering his wings before he came round to the rear.
“IMW to Foundry, Payload 1 deployed.”
In one blistering whistle, the bomb fell from the fighter’s left wing. It made its tilt from parallel to perpendicular to the ground, nose drawing ever closer before landing square atop one of the rearmost tractor-trailers. The fireball that erupted across the gas-soaked, dynamite-wielding entourage was that of an atom bomb. The shock-wave knocked damn near everyone off their rides and dented the metal wall behind the huddling base-of-operations established by the Force’s commanders.
Every officer of the Force was ordered to pull back as the raiders furiously scattered in all directions. Any of the thugs who tried to fall back with the Force was shot on-site. And when the metal sea had parted, the carnage left by those unfortunate enough to have been in the Bomb’s range were revealed to all.
Nothing but a few bombed out husks of rides in a crater of black. The Foundry had been saved, and the war between the raiders and the Force stayed, for the time being. There were no white flags, no pleas for mercy, only vicious scowls of those alive thundered away in all directions, the coalition evaporating into a myriad of gangs and posses.
There were still dead to tally, and scrap to salvage, but amid all the recovery efforts, came another call from over the radio.
“HQ to C.C., HQ to C.C.”
Gibson snapped up the radio. “C.C. to HQ, come in.”
“It’s about General Knox.”
The tan wolf clutched the radio tight as he braced for the worst.
“Alright then. Give it to me straight.”
V. TO THE EAST: The Escape
Black hands furiously ripped at the metal door that held both Captain “Grim” Herrera and Jack Wellman hostage with an entire computer room currently in the control of A.C.E.S. herself. Whether through a peer-to-peer connection or some other software downloaded with mysterious, now absent, “Aegel,” Haven’s goddess sat before the black-clad officer and the stocky, tan civilian who held in his broad palm a wealth of information.
Carefully, Wellman passed the hard drive from his hand into Grim’s, who promptly slid it into a very special pouch on his trench-coat pocket. The thick lead-lined pouch would ensure, whatever happened, the data remained safe. And with a swift nod between them, both wolves spun round from the door and fired wildly into the array of monitors, keyboards, towers and more. Sparks showered the room, the deafening scream of a transformer dying flooded their ears, but they kept firing. Even if they couldn’t explore the rest of the Base, their other mission was to destroy what they found. And whatever the strange Black Country was in reality, would likely be revealed on drives from their insider. That line of thought gave the Gothic vaquero his right to fulfill Aegel’s “death warrant,” whomever and whatever it entailed beyond what was about to transpire.
One final round of piercing white laser fire shattered the operating network within the base, the door launching up, and the lights coming on. Sirens blared as every corridor coursed with bright-white light, and swiveling shots of red. In lieu of the electric hum of the reel-to-reels came the jackboot marching of the Caza-6s. When Herrera went to check his cloak unit, the red light he saw was enough to send a shiver down his spine he hadn’t felt in decades of working on the Force.
“We’re visible now.”
Wellman checked his unit, and saw the same, red dot. “Well, least we’re armed. And these bad boys are fully loaded.”
When the marching black androids, red visors scanning furious, descended down the corridor, Herrera realized what had happened. “She must’ve sent them the address of which column fell.” They went to race out into the hallway, but heard the hurried pace of the metal wolves and their marching metal paws. When the first rounded the corner, and both officer and civilian saw the volume of the operatives, Grim knew there was only one answer.
“Back in the pod, amigo.”
“What’d ya—”
“GO NOW!”
The stocky tan cowboy and his slender black compadre slid back into the computer room, and Herrera slammed the door shut.
“If we’re lucky, this was built to withstand a great deal.” The Latin wolf whipped out what looked like a remote control, and fiddled with every button on the device. Before he dared ask, Wellman recalled the small crystals he saw Grim slip from his sleeves and onto the ground across the base.
“You been laying a crumb trail of explosives, haven’t ya?”
Herrera nodded solemnly. “Pray this works, Señor.” Deep within his mind, his gloved index finger resting on the switch, he had but three thoughts left.
Por Soledad.
Por Rosita.
Por Libertad.
The tin soldiers of A.C.E.S. marched down the hall, laser-vision lobbing shot after shot at the titanium-plated door. Both gentleman shared a prayer out loud, and without a moment to lose, Captain Tomás César Herrera flicked the switch.
A fiery hell erupted across every inch of the Base. Metal clanged, explosions roared, androids were torn apart into a million screaming pieces of nanotechnology. One particularly brutal blast knocked the emergency power out. The blackened pod grew hotter and hotter, flames detonating, detritus descending, and the wolves trapped in what could be an oven of their own choice.
“What’s the line of attack for when we get out?” Wellman roared over the noise.
At first, Herrera stood silent, ear cocked to the chaos around, fire and fury bellowing like dragons in battle.
“It all depends on how deep we’re buried.”
At first, it came as a uniquely Grim proposition. With all metal screeching and slamming against their pod, the baking hot fire orchestrated to destroy all within the compound, it could be an eternity just digging themselves out. However, there came another striking sound: hissing. The hiss of water on hot metal.
On the computer room’s ceiling was a panel, one which when reached (and shot open by Herrera and Wellman’s combined automatic pistols), was shoved open to reveal the gentle rain that often drizzled across the Eastern lands. The once-distant gray fog had finally arrived, sewing its salt on the electric ashes of the destroyed base. When Herrera looked upon the sight, he cracked the biggest damn smile he had ever shown in life. With a mad cackling “¡ARRIBA!” he helped Wellman up through the computer station’s guts, shoving the heaps of metal dome plating off and revealing the beautiful disarray of the Base. Clambering down through the rubble, they found solid, sandy ground and made a break for the fence.
The joy was short-lived as a Caza-6 rounded the bend, staring both wolves down.
Wellman and Herrera leapt back behind cover, and fired furiously into every weak-point it had. The joints, the visor, everything. In its death throes, however, both wolves took a burning shot to the arm, Wellman the worse for it without a leather jacket. Neither stopped firing. Herrera dug into his pockets, and whipped the last crystalline bomb he had, throwing it into the shattered red visor of the towering machine. In final shriek of fire, the head was blown to smithereens, and the obsidian metal titan toppled to the ground.
Herrera bolted for his companion, the gash severe. He wrapped it in gauze best he could, and the two wolves stumbled over themselves, leapt the gate, and ran straight for the deep-blue cabless truck, still perched high upon the sand dune. Their frenzy neglected the steepness of the dune, but it didn’t matter, not with the data they now possessed, and not with an injured hound to worry about.
After more frenzied scurrying, Herrera swung Wellman and himself up to the dune’s plateau. They hopped in, got the pickup turned over, and bolted away, the half-shot-to-hell caravan rattling behind them.
“You did good amigo,” Herrera sighed, holding the Indian wolf’s hand tight. “Now don’t you go spoiling it on our way home.”
“Wouldn’t dream about it,” Wellman sighed, breath heavy and eyes fluttering. “Wouldn’t for the world. Here’s hoping we saved ‘er for now.”
Herrera nodded and between shifting gears. “We did, amigo. We did. For now.”
EPILOGUE
She didn’t take these evening calls lightly, especially when her new partner-in-crime was involved. Valentina, with Eric in tow, cleared checkpoint after checkpoint, Top Brass telegram in hand, and roared right up to the admin wing of the one-story school. That the lone bastion of freedom for all operated from such digs was a sight bordering on comical, but the telegram certainly made it no laughing matter.
The denim-clad white wolf and her red mechanic mentor, sandaled paws and shuffling work boots clattering across titled floor, made their way through hall after hall right up to the Principal’s office.
“We’re here on urgent business,” the white huntress nodded, showing the telegram to the soldiers standing guard.
“Here to see you about the message.” one hound said before opening the door.
Standing before Valentina and Eric was a tableau to rival a Dutch painting. Huddled around a green glow of a computer monitor was Captain “Grim” Herrera and a bleary-eyed General Adam Knox, dark gray fur speckled in black, white, and lighter shades of gray. Same white T-shirt, same weathered blue-jeans, and that same intent face in the heat of study.
“Here to see you, sir.” Eric bowed warmly.
The black captain and his gray leader nodded in kind.
“Cut the Sir shit,” Knox smiled. “Friend of Leo’s is a friend of mine, and don’t you forget it you old goat. Couldn’t have timed it better too, Valentina. This very much concerns your wing of things.”
Valentina and Eric joined the illuminating glow of the monitor screen, Knox beckoning them with his bronzed metal hand.
“Your study of Haven programming may be what saves those innocent androids of ours from a genocide like no other.”
When Val and Eric looked over the code, both were utterly appalled.
“She was about to turn the whole damn desert into a honey pot.” Valentina felt her blood boil at the very thought.
Eric’s view, on the other hand, was much more sedate. “Destroy those files and be rid of it. This is a Pandora’s box waiting to be opened.”
“Destruction isn’t enough,” Knox shot back. “What was it Leo wrote to you once? ‘Evil never dies when you want it to.’ Deleting this and calling it quits ain’t enough to kill this shit. I need firewalls. I need an electric vaccine for this.”
“Just to play devil’s advocate,” Val inquired. “But what sane android would come running to anyone for firmware updates?”
“The well-to-dos,” Grim replied, fixing his concho-emblazoned hat. “The ones integrated into society. Might not be good and right that some love ‘em, some raise families with ‘em, but if every single one leapt up and slaughtered them, we’d all be in deep shit, and my buddy Jack Wellman would’ve nearly lost his arm for nothing.”
Valentina nodded, running a half-gloved hand through her grown-out white hair. “I wonder if Jovian can shine a light on a few things. Dupe the virus to a drive, kill the original, and we’ll get working. Anything to get us inside Thunderdome faster.”
“That’s the arrangement,” Knox nodded, shaking hands with both guests. “You’re already looking at the duped version.” He unplugged the hard drive and handed it over. “Always work on this offline, and keep me posted.”
Valentina pocketed the drive and sauntered out.
“Quite the ice queen, now, huh?” Knox quizzed to Eric.
The red mechanic chuckled. “Well kiddo, she’s got her goals, and you got yours. Just so happens all the schedules are too stratified. Glad you’re all feeling better.”
“Thanks.” Knox grinned. “And don’t worry about that. We’re all about to get synchronized real fucking soon. Sooner than you know.”
Good stories.
Haven't read all of it, but it's pretty good!