Back | Next
Contents

WORLD ENOUGH

by Robert E. Hampson

We are in the early day of the brain-machine interface, but it is a time of rapid strides and the movement from experimental phase to real-world applications. The author, who is also a noted neuroscientist, is on the forefront of such research. Here, the ultimate union of man—or rather woman—and machine arrives in the heat of battle. The danger in such an amalgamation may be that the human component will fade into the machine. The hope is a that a strange new, highly effective synthesis may be possible!

“Lieutenant! Orders from higher. We’re advancing into the new tunnels.” Lieutenant Flagg was in charge of Charlie One—first platoon, C company of the TEF—the Terran Expeditionary Forces on Fortunes World. Patch technically outranked him by virtue of six months seniority, but Flagg was a line officer and platoon leader, while Patch was an “intel weenie” and observer attached to Flagg’s platoon.

That didn’t mean she wouldn’t be slogging through the muck.

“Roger, Lieutenant. Moving out.” Patch picked up her rucksack and once again mused on the similarity between this situation and history. She’d studied a TwenCen battle in Europe where nearly a million lives were lost between two sides trading the same six miles of territory back and forth.

Sort of like what was happening here. Her platoon had advanced before, only to be driven back by artillery fire and collapsed trench walls. The artillery itself was not usually a direct hazard to the troops. The trenches varied from two to five meters in depth—the “natural” ones caused by the comet impacts, that is. Sure, the bases and assembly areas took damage, but most rounds were at too shallow an angle to hit a trench straight on. The bigger threat was shrapnel and collapsing walls from a near miss. To counter this danger, the TEF had some tunneling equipment and made their own reinforced trenches and tunnels. Part of the problem, though, is that the enemy seemed to do the same thing, only faster.

They also tended to shell or undermine any location where Humans concentrated forces and equipment. Neither Humans nor their current opposition, the Aneliad, were the first to land on Fortune’s World. An expedition from Earth arrived on Trappist 1C to seek their . . . fortune . . . in the rich mineral deposits, only to discover that the technologically advanced Sylph were already present. Fortunately, the Sylph were (mostly) peaceful, and they really didn’t like the weather on T1C, with its 2.5 Earth-day solar orbit and 225 Earth-day planetary rotation. The short “year” meant extreme tidal effects from the other planets huddled close to the cool red dwarf star, while the long “day” meant extreme weather ranging from midday temperatures in low triple digits (Celsius) and nighttime temps that stopped just short of freezing oxygen out of the thin atmosphere. The two races reached an agreement to share the planet, with Sylphs providing the mining technology, and Humans providing the surface workforce . . . and defense.

It worked well, until a new race arrived to claim Fortune’s World.

Patch marveled at the smooth walls and floor of the tunnel. They were standing atop a valuable field of oganesson—the only known noble metal—used by the Sylphs (and now Humans) to protect high-energy reactors and engines. This particular deposit of OG was termed “fusite,” since it included high-pressure carbon and tantalum, making it impossible to mine without the Sylph-provided machines. Yet somehow, the Aneliad tunneling devices cleared the muck all the way down to the fusite layer—in fact, the tunnels tended to descend to the fusite anywhere the surface trenches didn’t quite reach the OG vein. The walls and roof were rounded, and the surface was glossy as if it had been coated with a hard resin.

Patch was in the middle of Red squad. There were two tunnels to scout, therefore Red took the easternmost entrance while Blue squad took the west. Lieutenant Flagg assigned Patch to Red and told her to stay at the back of the formation. Her job was to observe anything about the enemy and report back to HQ. It was the whole reason she’d been embedded with the platoon. Flagg would follow in five minutes with his own squad, Green, while the final squad, Black, would do the same in the opposite tunnel.

While moving, Patch kept her eyes moving to be alert for any sign of the enemy, but when Sergeant Brodén called a halt, she turned to study the wall of the tunnel. Closer inspection showed it to be slightly pebbled, and not exactly smooth. She took off a glove and touched the surface. It was warmer than she expected. she knelt to do the same with the floor of the tunnel.

“Something unusual, Ell-Tee?” asked Brodén.

“We’re not just on top of the fusite, we’re in it.”

“What? How?”

“See this?” she pointed to a dark line about half a meter up the wall. Below the line, the material was blue-black, with a slight sheen; above the line the shading turned more to brown with a dull finish. “This line is the top of the fusite layer. Whatever the Annies used to create these tunnels dug into the fusite.”

“You can’t dig fusite, can you? I mean, even this big deposit can only be chipped away from the edges. These tunnels are mines?”

“Perhaps. They could simply be tunnels made by something that doesn’t care what it’s tunneling through.”

“Either way, I don’t like this. An enemy we’ve never seen, troops that disappear without a trace, and now impossible tunnels.” Brodén pitched his voice to activate the squad net. “Wattana, Pandev. Take point, and take it slow. Red Squad, move out.”


“Movement!”

“Contact!”

“It’s moving fast.”

“Aa—!” The scream cut off almost as soon as it started.

“Sword, Panda, report!” Brodén called on the squad net.

“Sar’nt, this is Fatman. Wattana and Pandev were about twenty meters in front of Gecko and me. It looks like there’s a cross tunnel. I saw Sword step forward, and there was a dark blur. Panda’s the one that screamed, but he’s gone, too.”

“Acknowledged, Fattore. You and Lissard hold right where you are. Don’t move up, don’t investigate. Wait for me to come up.” Brodén turned to Patch. “Come along, but stay behind me. Higher would have my head if I let something happen to you, Ell-tee.”

It was almost one hundred meters to the place where the point team disappeared. As Patch and the sergeant passed other platoon members, he instructed them to stay put and be alert for any sound or movement. As they reached the cross tunnel, the air temperature increased noticeably.

Patch placed her gloved hand on the wall at the junction of the two tunnels and pulled it back quickly. “It’s hot. The tunnel walls have been heated.”

“Look down. It’s fusite all the way up. Whatever dug this tunnel . . .” Brodén paused. “This tunnel was dug right through refractory metal. Who does that?”

“Offhand, I’d say the enemy does.”

“Yes, well, that thought doesn’t fill me with joy, Lieutenant.” The sergeant switched on the light mounted to his rifle and flashed it both ways up and down the cross tunnel. When they’d left their positions in the trench, the passage had still been open to sky, but they’d now descended several meters, and the top was completely closed, blocking all light except for reflections from back the way they had come. “Up there, there’s something on the ground.”

The new tunnel was wide—wide enough for a tank, in Patch’s estimation. The two of them stepped down into the cross tunnel—she could feel the heat through the soles of her boots—and then back up to where the original tunnel continued on the other side.

There was body, or at least half of one.

“Panda. Cut in half,” Brodén observed.

Patch looked around, and both directions down the cross tunnel. “And no sign of Sword. If he was in the cross tunnel when whatever it was came through? Something that can cut, melt, or eat fusite isn’t going to leave much behind.”

A voice came over the comm. “Contact! Movement at six o’clock.”

“Move up, get out of its way,” ordered Brodén.

“This is Fatman. It’s moving fast, I don’t think we have time and there’s no room to evade, Sar’nt.” The sound of energy and projectile weapons fire could be heard as the comm cut off.

“Gecko to Sabaton. No joy, Sergeant, it didn’t even notice our weapons, but apparently it wasn’t heading for us, just cut into the tunnel wall and made its own. The rock just melted.”

“What did it look like, Private?”

“Big. Long. It filled our tunnel and then some. When it disappeared into the wall, it had a long body that took plenty of time to pass. Sort of like a worm.”

“Worms.”

“What was that, Lieutenant?” the squad leader asked.

“I said ‘they’re worms.’We should have known. The Sylph’s translators work with what they can find in the language database.They called them ‘Aneliad.’That’s close enough to ‘annelid,’ which is an old Terran word for worms.”

“Worms that eat fusite?”

“Possibly. It could be food, like termites and cellulose. Maybe they regurgitate it later, like bees.” Patch thought for a moment. “The Ops Center needs to know. The tunnels they’re digging are big. We could fit tanks down here.”

“And armor them with what? Not fusite.”

“No, not fusite, unless we want to attract them. We probably need to electrify them; it works with a lot of Terran insects.”

“Last I checked, Terra didn’t have . . .” Brodén looked at the cross tunnel, “. . . ten-meter-wide worms.”

“Agreed, but we need to start somewhere.” Patch pulled out a sensor package and took some readings from the tunnel wall and then forced herself to focus it on Pandey’s corpse. “I know I’m not really in command here, Sergeant, but I think we need to retreat and report this.”

“Agreed Lieutenant. I’ll call the PL.”

While Brodén was on the private comm channel to Lieutenant Flagg, Patch stepped down into the cross tunnel to return the way they had come. She heard a distant shout of “Lieutenant Passchendaele!” and saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

Someone grabbed her by the straps on the back of her pack and pulled her back out of the tunnel. She felt a searing heat and then a sharp pain in her left foot. As she lost consciousness, she sensed more than saw the alien creature disappear back down the tunnel where the rest of the squad waited.


Patch opened her eyes and saw white. After a moment, her eyes adjusted and she could see enough features to discern white-painted walls and ceiling.

Hospital. She’d been injured and was now in the sickbay of the St. Benedict, the TEF’s troop transport maintaining orbit around Trappist-1.

Memory came flooding back, and she tried to sit up in the bed. She needed to report to the commander.

“Relax, Patch. I’m here,” came a voice to her side.

She turned her head and saw a window next to the bed, with two figures in the observation area beyond. One was Colonel Aachen, deputy commander of the Strategy and Intel group and Patch’s actual boss. Beside him was General Plumer, head of operations for the TEF. The small woman looked at Patch with concern as her taller subordinate spoke again.

“Don’t try to move, Patch. You’ve got burns and chemical inhalation.”

A nurse came in, covered head to toe in protective clothing.

“Am I contagious?” she managed.

“No, but you’re very sick.” He spoke through a comm unit beside the bed. “This is for your protection.”

Patch had many questions, but the nurse told her to wait for the doctor, who would be along in about an hour. He then pressed a button on one of the consoles, and she drifted back to sleep.

The next time she opened her eyes, she saw two figures in the protective suits. One was unfamiliar, and therefore probably the doctor. The other was General Plumer.

“So, what happened to me?”

“Your platoon encountered the Aneliad—‘worms’ you called them in your report. The staff sergeant apparently tossed you to safety, but the rest of the platoon . . . Hell, the rest of the company was wiped out. When we got you here, you were badly banged up, your leg was crushed, and you had uncontrollable muscle spasms.”

“We had to give you a neuro blocker to stop the convulsions,” supplied the doctor. “Your peripheral nervous system is well . . . the best answer is that it’s misfiring.”

“What? Why?”

“The best guess is something that we’ve only seen twice before. For now, we’re calling it fusite poisoning.”

“Fusite’s inert, it’s a refractory metal. It can’t be a poison.”

“Unfortunately, it can, under extreme conditions. There was a tech who stopped a runaway antimatter reaction in the engine room of the Worlds of Wonder passenger ship about a decade back. He had to open the outer containment and fill the reaction chamber with fusite to stop the reaction. Then there was the orbital fusion power plant worker who survived an explosion because he became mostly encased in fusite released from the chamber.”

Patch was confused. “Sure, we have plenty of fusite here, but I haven’t been in the vicinity of any high-energy events.”

“Actually, you have,” said Plumer. “The worms do something to the fusite to digest it. The science teams have been puzzling it out, but your case points to it being some sort of controlled high-energy process.”

“Oh, okay. So, you just need to detoxify me and flush it out, right?”

“I’m sorry, it’s not that simple. There’s no known way to reverse the process. Your peripheral nerves are degenerating and your immune system is compromised. Organ failure will follow unless we do something immediately.”

“Do it, then. I authorize it. Whatever it takes.”

“We need to talk about this, Patch. It’s a pretty radical process.” Plumer looked quite concerned behind the faceplate of her isolation suit.


The process was called capsulation. Patch’s body would be placed in a full life-support chamber similar to the cryostasis units used for travel across long interstellar distances, except instead of hibernation, neural implants would create a brain-computer interface so that she remained awake and mentally active. The capsule would provide everything her brain needed and slow the deterioration of her body. It was theoretically reversible—if someone could find a way to reverse the damage to her nerves and organs in the next few months—but for all practical purposes, it was a one-way procedure. Most COIs—capsulated organic intelligences—chose to interface with computer systems and work in surveillance or data analysis. A rare few chose to operate robotic devices, android bodies, or other surrogates for their natural body, but the urge to interact with the outside world tended to fade the longer the COIs inhabited their digital worlds. A capsulated person had a longer lifespan than if the disease or damage were allowed to take its toll, but as far as anyone in the TEF knew, the longest a COI had remained viable was two years. Patch had read a book once about COIs operating starships, but she knew that concept was purely science fiction.

“No, I do not want to be interfaced with the Ops computer.” Patch’s voice emanated from speakers located through the room. “I want to be installed in a tank.”

“That’s just not practical. You’re our best analyst. It makes the most sense to install you in either Ops or S&I. You’ll have access to all the imagery, the sensor packs, and even the comms.” The lead technician waved in the direction of her capsule. “Besides, you won’t fit in a tank!”

Patch sent a signal to one of the cameras located in the capsulation lab and directed it toward her life support unit.

It looked almost exactly like an egg, two meters tall, just over a meter across at its widest. It rested in a wheeled cradle, with robotic arms and sensors adjacent to, but not directly connected to the capsule. Only one connection marred the smooth, translucent surface of the egg. Lights raced just underneath that surface, in random-appearing patterns leading from and to a fifty-centimeter trunk connecting the base of the egg to a monitoring console against one wall. The life-support system in the capsule was self-contained, and could sustain her body and mind for a month without replenishment. While connected, however, the umbilical trunk provided nutrients, removed wastes and provided high-speed communication to the facility’s computers.

All other connection was via encrypted wireless radio and visual light connections similar to the secure comms used by the troops, including the speakers over which Patch was arguing with the technician. Each word was punctuated by swirls and patterns of light on the egg, with colors accentuating the words. The patterns became redder as the argument continued.

“Dammit, I didn’t go through all of this to be stuck in a remote base, watching the battle secondhand. Besides, there’s plenty of space in a Command tank.”

“Major, that’s not true. Your capsule and the interface will take up the entire crew cabin. You’ll be the only one there. Who will operate the tank?”

I will operate the tank. Don’t you get that? I’ve got all of the interfaces, and as a COI I can multi-task. I can drive the tank, fire the gun, operate a squad of remote tanks and chew gum at the same time.”

“Ah, no, I don’t think that’s quite right.”

“Okay, so I can’t chew gum anymore, but all of my motor cortex is intact. My legs will be treads and my arms will be weaponry. I can do this.”

“We’re going to have to take this up with higher.”

“Then do this. I’ve been away from the war for long enough. I saw the intel. The push to Phaseline Arnim was forced back and we risk losing the Messine Formation. One more advance by the Annies and we lose the Salient. I have what, a year in this shell before I go insane or get lost in my own dreams?”

“I’m going to have to call this up the chain.”

“Yes, well then call General Plumer right now.We talked about this when I accepted capsulation. She and Colonel Aachen know I want this, and they know I can do it.”

“If you say so. It’s a big risk, though, and I’m not sure even the general will authorize risking you like that. I think this needs to go to Marshal Byng.”

If Patch could still feel her physical body, and if she still formed words with her mouth, she would have bitten her tongue. Marshal Byng was praised by many . . . except his own troops. He tended to make the most politically expedient decisions, rather than the ones that made sense to a soldier in the field. He was also rather fond of the memory of a particular ancestor . . .

Byng had visited her soon after she had returned from her first encounter with the Aneliad worm. “Passchendaele, eh? Just like the town in Belgium. You know, I had a relative in that war. Julien Byng. Noble fellow, commanded the field there in Flanders. Hmm, Flanders. That would make a good name for this field—all of those trenches, eh? Good names. Right, well, hurry up and get better, I’m sure Felix Aachen needs you back on your feet in Ops as soon as possible.”

And that was it. Sixty seconds and he was gone. It was his entire command style, staying on the St. Benedict and communicating with the ground troops once a week when the starship’s orbit coincided with Fortune’s World’s orbit and rotation such that the newly renamed Flanders Base was in view. He took to naming all of the planetary features for early TwenCen Belgium. He seemed overjoyed at the family connection. The troops were mostly indifferent, but Patch had actually studied history, and knew the reputation and implication of the bloody battles of Ypres in the Flanders fields. The only way to avoid the same fate was to get out there and take the offensive, instead of waiting on the worms’ next move.

“‘Had we but world enough and time / This coyness, lady, were no crime. / We would sit down, and think which way / To walk, and pass our long love’s day.’We don’t have ‘world enough’ and we certainly don’t have time. Tell the colonel and the general ‘But at my back I always hear / Time’s winged chariot hurrying near . . . ’”

“That’s . . . interesting. Did you write that?”

“No. It’s from ‘To His Coy Mistress.’ It was a love song written by Andrew Marvell, a seventeenth-century Earth poet and politician. He’s saying to seize opportunity and not let it be wasted. Tell the general that I said that the time for coyness is over.”


The technician hadn’t been quite correct in saying that her capsule would occupy the entire personnel compartment. There was room for one person, even though quarters outside the command deck were limited. Patch was Tank Commander, driver and gunner all in one; therefore, her “organic component” was assigned the role of assistant gunner. Patch had thought that Command would saddle her with a nurse, or worse yet, one of the capsulation techs. Fortunately, she received an actual assistant gunner from the command tank at Lille. It took a couple of months to become fully skilled at operating both her own “body” and remotely operated drones, but soon, operating the smaller tanks in parallel with her own vehicle felt no different than flexing her fingers or curling her toes. Life as a tank was good, and Patch knew that she could solve the issues controlling both crewed and uncrewed assets locally, on the battlefield where it was needed.

She also knew there was a clock ticking. The psychometricians called it “digital fugue”—sooner or later, COIs stopped communicating with the outside world. The theory was that the more a human brain inhabited a virtual environment, the more the real world became abstract and unreal. The numbers were equally split between COIs simply becoming catatonic vs. commanding their life support to cease.

So far, Patch didn’t think she was falling into digital fugue. Sure, she could get distracted when she was multitasking, but on the whole, being in the tank . . . being the tank . . . was exhilarating. The machinery was her body and the instruments were her senses. She felt part of the world, part of the war, even if she hadn’t been released to operate entirely on her own. She was confident that time was coming.

In fact, it was coming today.

“Unit P-C-H of the Line, reporting for duty.”

“Um,” the comm crackled. “Patch, that’s not your designation.”

“It’s traditional, Jonny,” she sent back. Down in the control room, Corporal “Mac” Macmullen tried to suppress giggles. When Patch had discovered that Norma Macmullen was a fellow science fiction fan, she’d shared several TwenCen books featuring tanks operated by artificial intelligence.

“A girl and her tank,” Norma sent.

“A tank and her girl,” Patch replied.

“A tank and her comm discipline. Cut the chatter, Patch.” The voice on the comm was formal, but there was just a hint of amusement for those who knew the speaker well.

“Yes, sir, Colonel Aachen. CT1917-P is ready.”

“Good. We’ve lost the signal from Hill 60 and there’s movement warnings out in the Salient.”

“Understood, Colonel. Do we have release?”

“Yes, Patch. You have release. Godspeed.” The comm crackled, and cut off, but Patch’s digital senses picked a few last words out of the signal before it disconnected. “ . . . and may He have mercy on us for sending you out.”

“Hill 60’s close, Mac, but it’s probably behind enemy lines by now. I’m headed to Hill 65.” Using the same Earth World War I terminology Marshal Byng was so fond of, the TEF holdings on the fusite field were termed the Salient, since they represented a Terran bulge into what was otherwise Annie territory. Named landmarks corresponded to surface features (what few remained), mines or staging areas; “hills” referred to places where the subsurface tunnels approached or even broke the surface. These were good entry points for the command tanks to enter the Annie-dug tunnels.

“What about sending drones to 60?” Mac suggested.

“Good idea. I’ll send Larry and Curly to Hill 60. We’ll keep Shemp, Moe, and Curly Joe with us, and send Ted and Joe out on perimeter patrol.” Patch engaged the drive, and the tank platoon left Ypres Base for the first time as an independent command.

The mining tunnels were large enough for drone tanks, but much too narrow for command tanks; the tunnels dug by the Annies, however, were more than large enough to fit multiple tanks. The TEF had enlarged a few tunnels of their own to allow tanks to reach out into the salient. For this effort, a full battalion, consisting of sixteen command tanks and forty-eight drone tanks, headed out from Forward Operating Base Ypres down into the primary system of tunnels that Byng had designated the Menin Road. Each command tank could remotely operate a single drone at a time, with the remainder of the drones operated from FOB Ypres. Patch’s unique capabilities made her a “Command, Control, and Countermeasures” or C3 unit, and she and her contingent of seven drones set out separately to cross the broken surface of Flanders and enter the tunnel system at Hill 65.

“Okay, Boss,” Mac called from her station underneath the main gun. “How do you want me to set up the magazine?” While Patch had complete control of all aspects of the tank, including the ammunition for the main gun, protocol called for the assistant gunner to set up a ready magazine of rounds that could be loaded in sequence to deal with expected targets. There would be a separate magazine for “unexpected” targets.

“High explosive, then penetrator. Five each, alternating. If we come across a worm and need to get off a quick shot, I don’t want to fool around. Just blow that sucker up. After that, we may need to clear tunnels, so we’ll have the depleted uranium penetrator rounds.”

“What about plasma rounds?”

“Load the secondary magazine with those. I don’t want to use them right off. Shemp and Moe have the plasma cannons, and Curly Joe has the special munitions. We’ll keep CJ at the back of the formation and only use him if absolutely necessary. The other two can take point if we think we need energy weapons.”

During the past six months of conflict with the Aneliad, it had been determined that the worms were vulnerable to explosives and energy weapons even if the ground was not. The trick was to get a clear shot within the tunnels either before a worm could close the distance, or before getting oneself caught in the back blast. Blowing up the tunnels was only good in the short term, but it could be used to herd the Annies into a selected battlefield. Thus, General Plumer planned to sortie all available tanks to push the enemy back out of the Salient and close down the tunnels leading to the human mines. The command and drone tanks would be under Plumer’s overall command for this battle. Patch was there for when events didn’t follow the plan.

As the platoon rolled out, an artillery barrage started. The general’s plan was for the artillery to disrupt any surface activity and drive the worms back as the tanks advanced. Patch had her doubts as to whether it would work; after all, the worms seldom occupied the surface, and tunnels collapsed from surface shock waves never seemed to impede their movement. Still, the walking barrage would cover the tank movements—assuming the Annies sensed movements using some form of seismic sensors.

Again, Patch had her doubts, and again, that’s why she was here.


The comm started to carry reports of contact from the other command tanks. The TEF forces had barely pushed into the Salient—territory that the Humans had thought that they controlled. As Patch approached Hill 65, her sensors indicated movement in the tunnels underneath the surface.

“Subsurface movement, Mac. The worms have broken into the Salient. We’re going to be behind their lines when we head down.”

“Do you want to change the load-out in the magazine?”

“No, but I want to prepare a frago for the drones.”

You want to issue a fragmentary order to the entire battalion?”

“Yes, I need you to talk to General Plumer for me while I concentrate on cutting up worms.”

“Well, okay, then, but why is she going to listen to me?”

“Because you’re going to tell her that Patch said so.”

“Okay, Lieutenant Colonel, you’re the officer. I’ll do it . . . but what am I telling her?”

“It’s easy, a one-time order to the drones. It’s a desperation move, but I think it will drive the worms back—the drones drive forward as far as they can go, then once they are stuck or trapped, they blow their fusion plants.”

“You want to self-destruct all of our drones?”

“I want to mine the tunnels.”

“Oh, right. Sure, she’s going to really take me at my word on that one.”

“You tell her, I’m going to be busy.” Patch’s voice took on a strange formality, as if the words were coming from a computer, and not a human. “Going in, prime the magazine.”

“Gun ready,” Mac replied, then went silent as she turned her attention to the conversation with Command. Patch knew that the general would agree readily. The idea of mining the Salient had already been discussed. “The general agrees, ma’am. Says the command is ‘Wytschaete.’”

“Acknowledged,” said Patch. If she’d been able to pay attention, she might have wondered why her voice was so oddly inflected. A moment later, she announced, “Contact, drones three and four. Contact, drones five and six. Hill 65 reached; contact, drones one and two.”

There were jolts as the main gun fired. Drones were primarily equipped with energy weapons and DU rockets to create a path for the beams. A command tank, on the other hand, had a main gun capable of using kinetic, explosive and energy rounds. The alternating explosive and kinetic rounds that Patch and Mac had prepared resulted in a steady thump as they were fired, followed by either a shaking explosion or a muffled “crump” when they met a target.

There was a bit more inflection and . . . humanity . . . in Patch’s voice as she warned Mac, “Worm ahead! Snap shot.”

Mac checked her panel, but Patch had already commanded the next round to load from the secondary magazine. “Snap shot” was code for an urgent switch in type of ammunition in the event of imminent danger. She checked her panel again. The worm was close! “Danger close,” she commed. They would be caught in the area of effect of the plasma round.

“Acknowledged, danger close.” Patch replied. The computer-like voice was back.

WHAM!

The plasma round ignited, and the main gun fired again. With virtually no time of flight, the second plasma round went off.

WHAM!

The temperature began to rise in the compartment. Patch knew that Mac would handle local environmental controls, so she concentrated on the tunnel in front of her.

Upon entering the tunnel system, Patch had turned back toward Ypres. The worms had advanced into the Salient, and she was now behind their lines. The two plasma rounds had killed two worms and cleared the tunnel ahead.

“Why are we headed back?” Mac commed.

“I’m heading to the junction with the Messine tunnel. We’re behind the enemy and I want to circle around and clear this sector before we move deeper.”

“Roger. We’re right under Hill 60, by the way, do you want to do something with Larry and Curly?”

“Load them with the Wytschaete protocol. As soon as we clear the tunnel entrance, send them back down our trail.” Patch had access to all of the sensor and real-time communication from not only her own drones, but the forty-eight drones of the rest of the battalion. Her mind filled with a view of the battle, and smaller details such as the condition of her own tank faded into the background. She knew she needed to continue communicating with Mac and headquarters, but it had become automatic, something she really didn’t think about. “Turning now. Heading toward Messine.”


It was almost an hour later when the comm activated again. It crackled with interference, both from the discharge of energy weapons, and the resonances caused by the fusite deposits. “CT1917, all command tanks report fully engaged. Enemy forces are in the Salient. Report.”

“Heading toward Messine, General Plumer. Recommend we execute Wytschaete.”

“Agreed, Patch. Do you want operational control of the drones?”

“No ma’am, I don’t have bandwidth to punch through the signal interference and control every drone. It’s a simple program. Launch penetrator, advance, launch, advance . . . until they either run out of rockets or get jammed in a cleft.” The strange detachment and mechanical overtones to Patch’s comm signal were getting worse.

“Very well, all commanders, execute Wytschaete protocol.”

There was no immediate effect. The advancement of the drone tanks was spread across the was ten-kilometer width of the Salient. Patch’s own drones had been repositioned when she made the turn to Messine. Shemp and Curly now led the advance, while Curly Joe was tucked up under the front of the C3 tank for ready deployment.

“Side tunnels!” Mac announced, but Patch was already sending a drone down each of the branching tunnels.

“Shemp and Curly now on Wytschaete protocol,” Patch replied. There was a brief pause, then she commed again. “Contact, front. All drones reporting contact. Contact is heavy. Repeat, contact is in excess of ten worms.”

“Time for Curly Joe?”

“Affirmative. Prepare E-M-P protocols.”

Mac started shutting down her boards in anticipation of an electromagnetic pulse. Atomic and nuclear explosions energized molecules in the air, releasing electrons that could burn out active electronics. However, the atmosphere of Fortune’s World was normally too thin to support an EMP, and underground explosions would not allow a pulse to propagate. The EMP that Patch instructed Mac to prepare for was of a different variety.

One result of the disastrous first encounter with the Aneliad was the discovery that they did not tolerate electricity. This had led to the emplacement of electrified fields around the Human mines and throughout the salient. The effectiveness of the “fences” had waned as the heavy rains from the comet strikes started to diminish and Flanders began to dry out. Curly Joe’s “special munition”—a term typically reserved for atomic weaponry—was designed to mimic an EMP propagated through the interface between the normal ground above and the fusite layer below. It was hoped that it would drive the worms back enough for Wytschaete to clear the Salient.

“Curly Joe is released,” Patch announced. “Penetrators away.”

“The board is shut down. Time for you to switch to internal power, Patch.” Mac hadn’t waited for acknowledgement. Patch could feel her contact with the tank and the battlefield slipping away.

“Give CJ thirty seconds, then detonate.” The command was automated. Once released, the drone would follow its instructions while the C3 tank protected itself from the EMP.

Patch waited in darkness. She had experienced sensory deprivation a few times in her life. She’d been placed in a tunnel with no lights and no communications while training for her original insertion with Charlie-One. This was worse. A part of her wanted to scream, while another part groped for every heartbeat, every vibration of the life support systems. Worst of all, she could feel the allure of just slipping away and being lost in the isolation. COIs called it Dreamtime, and it manifested in the periphery of her “vision” as a bright light in the distance. The urge to enter Dreamtime increased with every day of capsulated existence.


After what seemed an eternity. The lights came back on and Patch’s senses reached out to the tank’s instruments. She was back in contact with her “body” and the lure of Dreamtime faded.

For now.

“Status?” Patch noticed that the computerlike effect on her voice was absent from the comm.

“Curly Joe has detonated; all systems are now back online. No, wait. There’s an error message. It’s not reading critical. I’ll have to do a manual check to make sure everything switched back on after the EMP. You’re free to move, though; no movement ahead. We are estimated at five minutes until all drones are ready for Wytschaete.” The relief was evident in Mac’s voice as well. The need for a human presence in the tank had been one of General Plumer’s greatest reservations, but it had certainly paid off.

“Acknowledged, advancing now. Load up penetrators, and let’s get past this worm goo.”

No resistance and no live worms were encountered as they advanced to Messine and past the last reported location of the worms.

“I think we’ve driven them back.” Patch switched the comm to the headquarters frequency. “General, the road ahead is clear.”

“We see that, too, CT1917. I have instructed the command tanks to hold back. Hold your present position until the drones are dug in.”

“Acknowledged General. Battening down the hatches.”

“Detonation at five seconds from my mark. Mark. Four . . . Three . . . Two . . . One . . .”

The ground shook underneath them, and the seismic sensor showed explosions all over the Salient.

“Hold for instructions,” the general sent.

Patch used the time to check over her systems. There was no damage to the tank itself: the power plant, treads, guns, all seemed normal. She checked the life support system for the personnel compartment. The temperature was elevated, and the cooling seemed to be offline. Mac was going to get uncomfortably warm as they moved through the areas where the drones had detonated. There was a warning indicator for fluid management as well. Ah well, if Mac needed to use the toilet, it was going to get pretty smelly, but nothing they couldn’t handle. She felt like something else was wrong, but there were no other indicators. Still, it nagged at her. Again, there was a brief feeling of disorientation. She’d felt that after the sensory deprivation training, too, so she dismissed it and turned her attention back to the battlefield map.

There was no indication of Aneliad activity within the salient—they’d cleared an area ten kilometers wide, by nearly six kilometers deep if that was so.

The comm crackled. Interference was worse, likely the result of the explosions. “All units, report status. We read no enemy activity within the Salient.”

Reports from the various command tanks started to come in. Six were still functional and were ordered to advance. There were three mechanical failures, and one stuck due to collapse of the tunnels in both directions. That left six units that failed to report. Patch checked her sensors. Five of the six were still registering as functional units, but designated “NLS” with no life signs. The sixth showed weak indications that the crew was still alive.

“General, if you turn over control of the NLS units to me, I can operate them as drones and advance to Zonnebeke.”

“Negative, Patch, the crews could still be alive with damaged telemetry. We’re activating the RTB commands to bring them back to Ypres.”

“We have a hole over Zonnebeke. I can advance to Westrozebeke on the edge of the Flanders field, but I’ll be leaving a gap behind me. Can you send reinforcement?”

“We have the tanks, but no crews.”

“Not a problem, remember? If they are rigged as drone controllers, they can be reverse-engineered to be drones.”

“We don’t have time to reprogram . . .”

“I can code faster than they can.” Patch knew that it was a bad idea to interrupt her commanding officer, but she knew she was right.

After a long pause, the general came back on the comm. “I’m not so sure I like the looks of your own telemetry, Patch, but I’m willing to allow this. We’re sending access codes now for units CT1732, CT1733, CT1784, CT1801 and CT1918.”

“Acknowledged, General. I’ll use them well.”

“I know you will, Patch. Good luck and Godspeed. If you can take Westrozebeke, we’ll have pushed the worms out of the fusite. If not, take a bite and hold it. Bite and hold, CT1917.”

“Will do, General.” Patch switched back to the internal comm. “Hey Mac, we’re getting 1918. That’s your old unit, right?” Before her crew member could respond, she continued. “We’ll have to give her a name. Since she’s from Lille, I think we’ll call her Lily.”

“That’s fine, Patch,” Mac responded, weakly, then coughed.

“Hey, what’s the problem, Mac?”

“Something in the air, Patch. I don’t think the cyclers came back from the shutdown.”

“Okay, I’m turning up the oh-two feed. That will give you some better air and may help cool it down as well.”

“Appreciated, oh tank of mine.”

“Anything for my girl.”

“Anything for my tank.”


Patch had Mac prepare the primary magazine with penetrators. Meanwhile, she did the same remotely for the five tanks that were now her drones. Advancement was slow, since they needed to clear the tunnels where the drone explosions had caused collapses, and on several occasions, they found themselves in the open as they climbed over collapsed tunnel roofs that had broken through all the way to the surface.

It took many hours to reach the edge of the fusite deposit and the suspected Aneliad base designated Westrozebeke. When Marshal Byng had been naming the landmarks, he had wanted to name the ultimate goal Passchendaele, but General Plumer had talked him out of it. Patch had been glad. She really didn’t need that association. Comm traffic indicated that four of the six crewed tanks had made it through the no-man’s-land of collapsed tunnels, mud and broken soil. Now that they were past the region mined by the self-destructing drones, the tunnels were clear and Patch sent orders to her drones to arm with explosive and plasma rounds.

It was time to meet the enemy head on.

“Hold on tight, Mac, I’m reading some irregularities ahead, along with a concentration of worms. It looks like this may be their main base.” There was no acknowledgement, but Patch could see from her sensors and indicators that Mac was back at her station and secured in her seat. Temps had cooled off, slightly, but it had gotten to nearly 50°C in the personnel compartment as they passed through the area of effect from multiple fusion plant explosions. She knew Mac had to have been uncomfortable, but her “organic complement” had never complained.

The tunnel ended in an abrupt wall. There was no cross tunnel, nor any indication of an entry from above or below. It simply ended at a wall. Moreover, the wall was solid . . . oganesson? That didn’t make sense. The fusite deposit formed a flat layer, half a kilometer thick, about five to fifty meters below the surface. There were no vertical faces in the entire field—in fact, it thinned down to no more than a meter thickness at the edges. The edges and natural breaks in the surface were the only reason the fusite could be mined. The Sylphs had shared equipment to mine and work the refractory material, although they hadn’t revealed the science and technology behind it. Still, even that advanced technology didn’t seem to be capable of making the wall that was in front of her.

It only took a moment to recognize the source of the barricade.

“Mac, do you see this? The damn worms have eaten the fusite and regurgitated it into a barrier.” There was no answer, and a small sense of concern crept into Patch’s awareness, but she had to suppress it and move on. The computer interface made multitasking easy; it also let her compartmentalize her worries. She checked the life support systems, and they were . . . adequate. Well then, there was a job to do, she could worry later.

“Command, this is Patch. The Annies have built a barricade out of fusite.”

“Interesting, Patch, that’s just what you predicted. It’s time for the special penetrators, then.”

“I’ve only got one, how about the other tanks?”

“Three of your drones, CT1732, CT1784, and CT1918, have TS charges. Four of the crewed tanks have cleared Flanders and are reporting the same barrier.”

“Eight total, then. This is going to be close. If we focus four each on the same spot, we should be able to guarantee a take down.”

The “special” penetrators referred to as TS munitions were a product of research into the ability of the Aneliad to mine fusite—apparently by digesting it with a biochemical process. The traces of “worm spit” found in the new tunnels had contained high concentrations of the element immediately to the left of OG on the periodic table—tennessine—from the same class of elements as the highly reactive halogens chlorine, fluorine, bromine and iodine. Tennessine differed from OG by only a single proton and electron; the theory was that a TS-enriched plasma warhead would at least weaken the OG component of fusite, allowing more conventional munitions to breach the barricade. Patch’s own theory was that it would take multiple warheads arriving either simultaneously, or within a very short time span.

“That’s going to be hard to coordinate, Patch,” a new voice came on the line. “You are pretty far out from the base considering the interference and signal reflections off of the fusite.”

“I am aware of that, Marshal Byng. That’s why I want you to give release control to me. I can ping the signal delay from me to each tank, and also compute the densities between each tank and the fusite walls. I’m a lot closer than you are, and I have clearer signal.” Patch inspected the comm data for every tank. With the exception of her own connection to Lily—her drone tank CT1918—she had a shorter signal path and better communications than each tank had with Ypres Base.

“No, Patch. That’s against protocol. Besides, you told us earlier that you didn’t have the bandwidth to control all of the drones.”

“With all due respect, Marshal, that was different. There are only seven other tanks to control, and each one is reachable with local signals. We are well clear of most the interference, whereas your signals still have to travel through the disrupted zone.”

“Nevertheless, Lieutenant Colonel, you will do as ordered. Follow procedures, we will coordinate from here.”


Patch fumed. Damned armchair strategist. He hasn’t been in the heat of battle the whole time we’ve been here, and NOW he takes command? She knew she should check her nutrient feeds and lower her adrenaline levels, but she didn’t want to calm down. Now if only she had a way to ensure that this worked. There was one way to do it, but it would require a lot of computation.

It came to her as a strange realization. Patch needed computer power, but in essence, she was a computer—or at least was interfaced with one. She had not adjusted the nutrient flow to her capsule, but she felt a strange calm settle over her, a detached . . . digital . . . calm. It felt a bit like the lure of Dreamtime, but she was fully engaged in the task at hand.

First, she needed to calculate the signal delays from her position to each of the seven tanks with TS rounds. Then she needed to compute the delays from Ypres Base to each tank. The next step was the one that would get her into trouble: she needed to tap into the command and communication circuits for each of the crewed tanks without being noticed.

Fortunately, the same C3 adaptations that had made her suited for drone control gave her the ability to covertly take over the comms and penetrate the main gun firing controls on the other tanks. She compared her calculations for signal delay with actual signals intercepted at each tank. Only in one case did her calculations differ; looking closer, Patch detected an odd reflection that she had not accounted for. Re-examining the signal map of the battlefield allowed her to identify the reason, and she applied the new solution to her calculations. If Command tried to go for a simultaneous firing option, the signal issues would result in the rounds arriving over a span of two minutes. Unfortunately, the design specifications called for the rounds to impact and detonate no more than two seconds apart.

On the other hand, a simultaneous signal would arrive first at CT1918—Lily. If she intercepted that command and applied her own calculations, she could adjust the timing to achieve the desired sequence of detonations.

Now, should she do it only for her own drones, or for all eight effective tanks?

Technically, she’d be disobeying a direct order. But equally technically, all she was doing was correcting a signal propagation error.

That would have to suffice. Patch penetrated the command systems of four crewed tanks and two drones and turned off receipt of signals from Ypres. She would relay everything received from Ypres—just adjust the timing as needed.


The Field Marshal sent orders to each tank to adjust position to focus on two places in the fusite wall. Patch ran her computations and added only minor corrections. The differences would not be evident to Command, but she knew that the reduced signal interference and her penetration of the other tanks’ systems gave her more precise targeting.

The increased demand for multitasking had been difficult at first, but once she reconnected after the EMP, it felt natural. There was a cool detachment as her consciousness divided to take on the interdependent tasks. Almost as if she was duplicating herself in each tank’s computers. She just had to wait for the signal . . .

Now.

Lily detected the incoming command, and each of Patch’s “selves” executed the commands at the appropriate time. As soon as the commands were issued, she restored the comms and erased her presence in the other tanks.

Eight tanks launched TS warheads at the fusite walls. Four rounds hit each target precise to the microsecond between impacts. The plasma loads created the temperature and pressure, and the tennessine attacked the OG component of the walls.

DOWN! The walls were down.

Patch immediately began taking fire from weapons beyond the wall. It was known that the Aneliad had artillery; after all, they’d been firing at surface targets since the conflict began. Apparently, they’d concentrated behind the fusite wall. Her tank was hit by multiple rounds, and her drive system showed damage. Patch tried to drive forward into the breach, but was unable to move.

Her mobility was not a problem for battle, but it was getting hot, and she wouldn’t be able to move out of the zone of the current plasma detonations. She cranked up the airflow in the personnel compartment in hopes that it would keep the environment tolerable, but she needed to concentrate on the battle. Once again, she felt the curious detachment and division of her consciousness as she directed the drones to advance. She spared some attention to the crewed tanks, and noticed that one was listed as combat ineffective, but with life signs. It was also getting hot, so she reinserted her control commands and ordered the tank to retreat enough to drop the temperatures. Two of the other tanks were advancing, but the third was moving erratically.

Again, she penetrated the control systems, and discovered multiple faults in the drive—it was functioning, but the commands were getting garbled. She quickly inserted a conversion routine and was gratified to see the movements return to normal. She brought her attention back to her drones.

Following the TS rounds, each tank had been prepped with plasma rounds to clear out the worms behind their barricade. Once through the breach, the tanks spread out and spread hot, flaming destruction among the Annies.

That will teach them that it’s better to share than to try to hog all of the fusite for themselves!

After an hour, all units reported that the entire Flanders field was free of Aneliad. In addition, the St. Benedict reported that they detected multiple spacecraft launches from the sites of suspected Annie bases. All ships were heading out system. They had won.

Patch gradually withdrew her attention from the drones and turned her attention to her own tank. The drive system was damaged, but repairable; however, there was a breach in the personnel compartment. When had that happened?

“Mac? Norma? Corporal Macmullen?”

There was no answer.

Patch withdrew into her own systems and looked longingly toward the strangely receding light of Dreamtime.


The technicians heard the sound of sobbing over the comm as they entered the personnel compartment.

“Damn, it’s hot in here.”

“Yeah, not sure anyone could survive this for long. Any sign of the a-gunner?”

“Not here, not in her seat.”

“Keep checking.”

“Right, let me bring the interior diagnostics up.” After a brief pause, he continued. “Check the ’fresher. I’ve got one weak life sign.”

“Right. Door’s stuck, but . . .” There was rush of water out of the hygiene compartment. “Whoa, that stinks, but she had the right idea, must be twenty degrees cooler in there.”

“Right. Okay, she’s unconscious, but alive. Get her on the stretcher and out to the extraction crew.”

“Norma?” The voice came over the comm.

“She’s okay, Patch. She put herself in the ’fresher and ran the water from the chiller. It kept her cool enough.”

“Oh, thank god,” Patch replied. “Hey, how long until you can get me unstuck? I need to do some maintenance.”

“We’ve got a crew working on your tracks right now. Should be ready to move in another two hours.”

“Psst.” The other technician motioned to his partner. “Didn’t you say ‘one weak life sign?’”

The tech who’d been talking with Patch, checked the display again, and then paled. He waved weakly in the direction of the access hatch for the total life-support capsule. When the hatch was opened, there was an acrid stench and signs of burnt electronics. The capsule itself was a mottled black and brown, with no indication of activity.

“Guys, what’s the problem down there?” Patch commed.

The technicians looked alarmed at the lack of activity on the surface of the egg. One pulled out a sensor, attached it to the side of the egg, and activated a diagnostic program. He shook his head and pointed to the main umbilicus. The egg was cracked right at the coupling, and the cable was burnt through. The two looked at each other in wonder as Patch continued to call them.

“Guys? Someone, please tell me what’s going on. Is there a problem? Guys?”


Back | Next
Framed