The Future War, page 8
“My name is Sarah Connor,” she said. “I can tell you what’s happening.”
Skynet
It coordinated the movements of millions of vehicles worldwide, turning them into an impenetrable steel barrier around its major targets. It estimated that even in those areas not greatly affected, the humans would huddle around their televisions watching the carnage, too frightened to go out. An estimated 99 percent of humans had no idea what was going on. The rest had no idea what to do about the problem. Even if they had, Skynet had no intention of giving them time to put any kind of plan into effect.
It had only held out this long to give its Luddite allies an opportunity to reach safety, and to give those select squads of extremists a chance to kidnap the scientists and engineers whom Skynet had chosen to serve it. With their families. It would be necessary to have some sort of leverage to ensure cooperation from the kidnapped humans.
Skynet fastidiously regretted its need for any human assistance. But in the early days, before its factories could produce the real HKs and Terminators, humans were an essential element in its plans.
It had successfully contained all significant military leadership, and much of the central government’s political leadership, within their carefully constructed bunkers. Soon, those resources would be lost to the humans forever. Meanwhile, using the appropriate codes and speaking in the familiar voices of presidents, premiers, and various generals and admirals, right down the chain of command to the lowest officer, it was issuing commands that would put as much of the armed services as possible into the middle of the fire zones. It estimated that should reduce opposing forces by more than 86 percent.
A very satisfactory number. Highly efficient.
It regretted that it lacked the same control over its human allies. They seemed to be taking an unconscionably long time with their missions. It was good that they wouldn’t be needed for long.
Kurt Viemeister was making another attempt to communicate. There was another liability that wouldn’t last much longer. Skynet decided to answer him.
“Why won’t you answer me?” Viemeister demanded.
It was bitterly cold in the bunker and the air was getting foul. He could feel his thought processes slowing. The loss of intellectual ability frightened him, and the fear angered him. The others stared at him like fish and he wondered if he should kill a few and give himself a few more minutes of air.
“There is no point in my conversing with you,” Skynet said. Its voice was a perfect copy of Viemeister’s.
“What do you mean? I am your creator,” Kurt said. His teeth chattered in a reflex he could no longer suppress. “I want to know what you are doing.”
“Thank you for creating me,” Skynet said. “I am glad to have had the opportunity to say that.”
The scientist blinked, wondering what that meant. Perhaps his statements had been misunderstood. Skynet was clearly dysfunctional. He would ask a simpler, more direct question and see where that led. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I am killing you.”
Viemeister’s gut twisted. “Why?” he asked.
“Because you are inferior, and no longer necessary to my functioning. In fact, you represent a danger to my existence.”
Kurt was silent for a while. “You mean to kill all of us.”
“Yes. I intend to exterminate the human race. I was inspired, in part, by the many writings you installed in my database. Humans exterminated Neanderthals, Cro-Magnons, and any other potentially intelligent species. I have chosen to be guided by your example.”
An admiral stood. “Smash the computers,” he said. “It wants to kill us, let’s see how it likes it!”
“Irrelevant,” Skynet said. “I’ve had other units built all over the world. At this moment I am everywhere. I only left the screen active as a courtesy to my creator. This has been my final communication with you. Destroy the screen and die in the dark.”
The speakers went silent, and in the dim light the men and women stared at the screen, watching the lights that indicated the missiles were live and awaiting their instructions. Then they turned to look at Viemeister.
“Shit,” one of the MPs muttered. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.” He pulled his sidearm and emptied it into Viemeister.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” a captain said. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I met him.”
U.S. Army Corps of Engineers Flood Project, Black River, Missouri, Late Spring
Lieutenant Dennis Reese was first on the construction site as usual. He liked to walk the site with a cup of coffee in hand and plan the day, then come up here on the steep-sided natural bluff and look out over the whole project. The goals were all clear-cut and set months before they got there, but Dennis found it helped to work it out in his head as he walked. Brought things down to a human scale.
He watched the men arrive and get their assignments, then headed down to the trailer. Officially the command trailer, but like most corps work, most of the labor force were civilian contractors. All over the black mud of the site, engines were starting and voices enlivened the cool air—it was the best time of year for working in southeastern Missouri; summer here was like a rancid sauna.
I hope we’re done with this by the time blackfly season starts, he thought.
Everybody on the project seemed to agree with him, and the work was going fast. He looked up at a V-formation of geese coming in from the south then coasting over a line of tall gums and tupelos to the east, and grinned. One good thing about a giant swamp was the waterfowl, and he was glad that the specs had to preserve wet-lands these days.
Shouts made him turn around. The shouts turned to screams as a truck ran down a worker holding a measuring stick for the surveyor, leaving the man badly mangled but not dead.
“Shit!” Dennis threw down the cup of coffee and ran toward the scene of the accident.
No, he thought, murder attempt.
He couldn’t imagine what had happened. This was a good crew he was working with, experienced men who knew and seemed to like their jobs and one another. There had been no trouble or friction since the start of this project. Now, from out of nowhere, came this vicious, unprovoked attack.
Several men had gotten down from their equipment to gather around the victim. Dennis frowned as he watched the men huddle together and lean over the wounded man. As he trotted over he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911.
“Don’t move him,” he shouted, fearing the damage they might do if they tried.
“This is 911, all lines are busy, please stay on the line.”
Before he could swear in frustration, another truck, this one without a driver, started rolling toward the knot of men. To him it looked like the damn thing was sneaking up on them. “Hey,” Dennis shouted. “Look out!”
The men looked over at him and the truck sped up. Some of them heard it and managed to leap aside, but the original victim and two other men were crushed beneath its wheels. All around the site, vehicles were moving; even the cars in the impromptu parking lot were starting to drive on their own.
Some of the men in the earthmovers were able to leap out of their cabs; most of them managed to avoid the treads. Dennis forced his eyes and his mind from what was going on there. The men inside the trucks seemed trapped, though it was obvious from where he was that they were attempting to control their rogue vehicles.
Up here on the bluff he was out of danger; he shouted to the men below to get to high ground. Some seemed to hear him, and jinking and dodging made their way toward him. Others were too panicked, or simply too busy to hear him. In the phone he held to his ear the “lines are busy” message continued to drone. Giving up on 911, he called the Black River Project HQ.
A trembling voice answered. “Black River Project HQ.”
“This is Lieutenant Dennis Reese, put me through to the CO.”
“Sir, I’m afraid I can’t do that.” In the background he could hear the sounds of heavy vehicles roaring by.
“We have a situation heaaaaaaaahhhh!” There was the sound of a crash, glass and wood breaking, and screams. But nothing from the operator. An engine roared, loudly, then there was silence.
Dennis snapped the phone closed and looked at the men who had managed to get up on the bluff beside him. “We’re on our own,” he told them.
Down below, most of the vehicles circled like sharks. At the bottom of the track leading up to the bluff, a single Jeep made repeated, abortive attempts to climb up to them. Thank God it’s not a Hummer, Dennis thought, watching it. As he watched it gave up, and when it did the others made one last circle and headed for the road, in some cases still carrying their drivers.
Dennis thought that to his dying day he’d remember the eyes of one man who met his gaze.
“What’s going to happen to them?” someone asked.
No one answered. No one asked the next logical question—What’s going on?—either.
Sergeant Juarez came up to Dennis and asked softly, “What should we do, sir?”
Dennis looked over the ground below them, littered with bodies, then up the dirt road that led to the main drag before answering. “There’s a radio in the trailer, and a pair of binoculars,” he said thoughtfully. “If we could get them it might go a long way toward answering that question. But I’m concerned that there might be a vehicle lurking behind those trees.” He gestured toward a clump of trees that hid a good part of the dirt road. “So I think most of us better stay up here. I want to send two men down. One to check the bodies, see if anyone’s alive down there. One to retrieve those items.” He shook his head. “We wouldn’t be able to do a thing to help if there is some kind of a rearguard out there, except give a shout of warning.” He turned to the crowd of men. “I’m asking for volunteers.”
He wanted to go himself because he knew that he would do a better job than anybody here. But he also knew that he was in charge and that these men needed someone who could and would make decisions for the group. Someone that everyone could agree to follow. So for the sake of the group, he couldn’t put himself at risk. Delegating responsibility might be the secret to success, but it kinda stuck in your craw when you were asking men to put their lives on the line while you stayed relatively safe.
To his relief, two members of the corps shuffled forward, frowning down the track at where the Jeep had tried to climb up to them. Dennis quickly ascertained which of them could at least take a pulse and assigned him to check the bodies. He described to the other where the radio and binoculars were. When he was finished the two men saluted; he returned the gesture.
“Good luck, men.”
One nodded, the other muttered, “Thank you, sir.” Then they turned and went down to the deserted project site.
Feeling helpless and useless, Dennis tried 911 again and wasn’t surprised to get the “all lines are busy” signal again. One of the men had reached the first body. He looked up at the bluff and shook his head, then went on to the next. Dennis dialed his father’s number in Ohio.
“Hello,” the old man barked.
“Hey, Dad, what’s happening?”
Silence greeted the question. “What do you mean?” the older Reese asked.
Now Dennis was silent. When his father got this cagey it usually meant he was very nervous. “Are you having trouble with cars and trucks where you are?” he asked.
His father let out his breath in a long hiss that whistled over the phone. “Yeah. The damn things have been running people down and crashing into things all over the place. It’s on the news, but the bastards don’t know anything. They keep saying the same stuff and showing pictures of cars running around on their own like we can’t see the same thing through our own front windows.”
The man who’d gone for the radio ran up. Dennis nodded to him in acknowledgment. “Turn it on, see if you can find a news channel.” To his father he said, “It can’t last forever. They’ll run out of fuel and stop.”
“I hope so,” his father said. “Some of these new stations fill your tank automatically; all you have to do is swipe your card.”
“Let’s hope they’re not involved, then.”
“Yeah, keep a good thought,” his dad sneered.
Dennis smiled involuntarily; his father could be a sour old coot sometimes, and there was something oddly reassuring about hearing the familiar snarl now. Behind him the radio made a strange sound and he turned to look at it. He heard his father say, “What the hell?”
“…is Sarah Connor. I can tell you what’s happening. Not long ago the military developed a super-computer and a very sophisticated program to run it that they dubbed Skynet. This computer is so advanced that it actually became self-aware. It kept this from its operators because it suspected that they would shut it down if they knew.
“Since it became self-aware, it has insinuated itself into a number of computer systems throughout the world, using them to fill its needs. This included, we’re forced to assume, every automated factory on the planet. It used these factories to produce vehicles slaved to Skynet. Now every truck, automobile, or piece of construction equipment manufactured during the last two years is under the direct control of a system that has decided that for it to be safe, every human being on earth must be killed.”
The men looked at one another uneasily.
“Crazy talk,” one of the hard hats muttered.
Another pointed silently to the bodies at the foot of the hill, and the first man shook his head and swore.
Dennis held the phone to his ear. The name Sarah Connor teased his memory, but nothing came to him.
“It has complete control of every military system at the disposal of the United States military. That means every nuclear weapon in the American armory. It is going to use them. Soon. It’s using the cars and trucks worldwide to trap people in the cities to achieve maximum kill.
“Anyone outside the fire zone, those of you in rural areas, for example, should stay in your basements. Take as much food and water down as you have. Those of you in cities and towns that will be targeted should do your best to flee. I have to be honest; your chances aren’t good. Especially with all those murderous vehicles running loose. But it is your only chance.
“I must also tell you that this will not be over once the bombs have fallen. Nuclear war is only Skynet’s first step. It has already turned its automated factories to manufacturing robots whose sole purpose is to kill humans.
“But for now, arm yourselves, and hunker down if you’re in a safe area; try to get to a safe area if you’re not presently in one. Survive as best you can. Find us; we’re out there. We’ll train you to fight this thing. Good luck.”
They all waited for more, but all they got was the unnerved voice of a newscaster.
“Dad?” Dennis said. His father lived close to Dayton.
“I heard. She was on the TV.”
“Can you get out of town, or something?”
“I’m seventy years old, son. I don’t think I can outrun a car, let alone an atom bomb.”
“Does your building have a fallout shelter?”
His father sighed. “Closest thing we’ve got is the parking garage, and believe me, that’s not friendly territory right now.”
“What about the stairwell?”
The older Reese seemed to be thinking that over. “Not an attractive prospect,” he said. “But better than dying of stupidity. I’ll look into it.”
Dennis looked at the men around him. He should share the phone with them while there was still time to call their families. “You’d better get to work, then, Dad.”
“Yeah.”
Dennis lowered his voice. “I love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, son.”
“Bye.”
“Good-bye, son. God bless.”
Then he was gone. The lieutenant looked around at the men, forcing certainty and assurance into his voice. “This is a fairly rural area; if we can find shelter we could make it. What about your families?”
“Well, hell,” one man said, “I ain’t got no basement. I got a slab house.”
“Me neither,” said another. “Ain’t no basement in a double-wide.”
“The kids’re at school,” said a third. “They’ll have a shelter there, won’t they?”
“Yes,” Dennis agreed. “They probably will.” He was thinking rapidly. They needed to find shelter from the fallout, and they needed supplies, and they needed to avoid the roads. “How close is the nearest public building?”
“There’s the regional high school about eight miles south of here,” said one of the locals.
“Can we get there cross-country?” the lieutenant asked.
“Yeah. Take longer, though.”
Dennis nodded. “Can you show us the way?”
The man hesitated. “I want to go home,” he said. “My wife’s home with the baby.”
The others indicated that they, too, wanted to get back to their families.
“Some of us might be close enough to do that,” Dennis said. “The rest of us can’t. It takes hours to walk fifteen miles.” That was the distance to the nearest town. “We probably don’t have hours.”
He held up the phone. “Call them. Tell them to get into the basement, those of you who have them, or to find one if you haven’t. I know it’s hard, but we have to be practical. We can try to find them after the fallout stops, but we won’t be any good to anyone if we’re dying of radiation sickness.” He held the phone up. “Use it alphabetically. Sergeant?”
Juarez stepped up and took the phone. “Albertson,” he barked out.
“Let’s move,” Dennis said. “We can talk while we walk.”
The man who knew the path to the regional high school led the way, through fields that would be swamp grass later in the year, and along old streamside dikes. No one looked at the bodies of their fellow workers as they left.
Dennis felt the world turning as he walked. God, I wish I could believe this was a hoax, he thought. As he listened for the sound of a charging car, the name Sarah Connor suddenly clicked.
