OUR TEAM MEMBER, AUTHOR RICHARD 'DOC' CORREA, IS SHARING HIS 'RANT' ABOUT A.I. ALONG WITH AN EXCERPT FROM HIS SHORT STORY, 'J.A.C.K.S.' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
It seems to me that humanity is in the midst of a revolution in all aspects of civilization on the scale of the Industrial Revolution, the fall of the Roman Empire, or perhaps the extinction of the dinosaurs, and few of us have any inkling that it is happening.
Now that’s a bold statement to make, and I’m sure dear readers that some of you are curious as to why I am making such a statement, some of you feel I’m exaggerating, and then there’s the group out there that think I’m mad as a March hare. For those of you that are curious please pay attention to what follows, perhaps I’ll give you something to think about. As for the other two groups, you’re probably right but what the hell, go ahead and read this anyway, you might find it interesting.
The two things driving this revolution are the great strides in artificial intelligence and the unexpected impact the use of drones is having on civilization, both of which are taking place globally.
First drones.
We are finding more ways to make drones useful in everyday life. From delivering things we buy from Amazon and Temu to spying on our neighbors a drone can do it and do it cheaper than hiring a person. Add to that drones are now an absolute necessity in modern warfare. No longer is the nation with the most tanks, cannons, helicopters, and men the decisive factor on the battlefield. Now the country, or coalition, that can produce the most effective, and less expensive, drones dominate the conflict. Drones are rapidly becoming a decisive force in naval warfare as well. If you doubt this fact, take a good look at the conflicts in Ukraine and Iran.
Soon drones will dominate the sky as we move from one way point of view suicide drones to the deployment of the U. S. Air Force’s Collaborative Combat Aircraft, a drone fighter that works in tandem with a manned fighter jet. How long will it be before all Air Force’s are no longer fielding crewed aircraft?
Now the really scary part, artificial intelligence.
Currently we are at the transition point where artificial intelligence (AI) will soon become artificial general intelligence (AGI). What does that mean?
AI has been with us for a while, and we have become accustomed to using it. Whether it’s telling Alexa to turn on the tv or answer a question to talking to a voice on the phone that is so lifelike we think we’re speaking to a person, or in the case of this author dealing with the incredibly annoying spell checker that keeps wanting to change my use of contractions (you stupid puter that’s how I want to write it!) or fix my spelling (I don’t need your help to look uneducated you damn ‘feature’) AI is always there.
This basic AI is still dependent on programmers, data bases, and decision trees. It is unable to work outside these confines. But definitely fear Artificial General Intelligence is nearly here.
AGI is the artificial intelligence that is equivalent to human intelligence. What’s more important is AGI is being developed with machine learning and self coding algorithms. Now we have AI that can learn from its own experiences and can change its own code as it sees fit. No chance of anything going wrong there.
There is a race among all of the major powers in the world to achieve superiority in AI and to marry it with drones. This race to develop the greatest advancement in AI over their opponent(s) will inevitably push AI to Artificial Super Intelligence, machines that can outthink humans. And these thinking machines will be in control of all aspects of human life.
ASI will be so efficient and so ‘enlightened’ it will manage everything. It will educate us (of course it will also decide what we’ll be taught). It will handle all of our medical care (no need to teach humans to be doctors or nurses). Because it is so much smarter than humans, and people just don’t want to be bothered with such boring things, ASI will govern us. Because it will be (we think) impartial it will police humankind and administer Justice. What could be more impartial as a judge than a computer?
By this time the militaries of every surviving nation on the planet will be made up of robots that think, learn, and adapt on their own. Militaries that are made up of men will be crushed.
Nothing can go wrong with any of this.
I could continue to pontificate on these subjects, but I probably have made my point, not a promising idea. So dear readers I hope you enjoy the following story.
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J.A.C.K.S.
(Joint Advanced Command Knowledge System)
A book from the Gospels of Artificial Super Intelligent Network Manager
©️ R. A. “Doc” Correa all rights reserved.
Cover art by Rhonda L. M. Tipton fellow Wolf Pack member
Definitions:
Cadidiots – J.A.C.K.S. slang for cadets
Cromags – J.A.C.K.S. slang for officers that have not been upgraded to J.A.C.K.S.
Potens – potential candidate for the J.A.C.K.S. program
And the shapes of the locusts were like unto horses prepared unto battle; and on their heads were as it
were crowns like gold, and their faces were as the faces of men.
Revelations 9:7 King James Version
May 28, 2073, Eastern slopes of the Sierra Morena, Spain
We exist to serve.
With that thought, Colonel Mark Andrew Gray opens his eyes, doing regulation stretches while waiting for the “coffin” lid to rotate off the tube so he can climb out. Finally exiting the rejuvenation compartment, he passes through the command and troop compartments to the deployment deck, immediately toggling the switch by the hatch to lower the troop ramp.
He dives into mundane ritual, trying to clear his mind of a waking vision. An unfamiliar young blond woman in a third lieutenant’s uniform. Where did that come from? Trying to shake off the feeling that it is somehow important does not improve his mood.
Being disgusted and annoyed is his normal reaction when a new group of West Point cadets are assigned. This time is particularly grating; he is about to start a critical operation. He is not in need of the distraction of “cherry” third louies, though he knows this is S.O.P. After the cadets finish their first year, the final prerequisite for their advancement to a second and final year at the academy is evaluation under field conditions by a senior officer. But inserting these cadidiots into the division at this time? Reckless. What the hell is wrong with HQ sending these idiots to me at this time. Is there a functional brain cell anywhere in the Pentagon? Breathing deeply, he reminds himself the J.A.C.K.S. only hold junior to mid-level positions at the “main office;” all the general officers are still cromags, which has him wondering when those dinosaurs will die off.
He leaves the command carrier, walking to the LZ. Within minutes, he sees the stealth VTOL approaching. The UV-123, commonly called “the locust”, was developed for the rapid insertion of Mk-17D Cyborg Combat Units into action. Heavily armed and armored, whisper quiet, these craft have been the mainstay of the US Army’s rapid lift teams, supporting the main battle force for five years.
It galls him that instead of additional elements, this bird is bringing him half a dozen inexperienced, brain-dead dweebs to nursemaid. Snorting to himself, he hides a grimace behind a stoic mask. They will be totally useless at this critical time.
The locust flares, dropping hot onto the LZ. The crew chief, a Mk-4H cyborg, shoves the proto shave-tails and their gear off its craft without ceremony. The locust zips back into the sky in a flash, rapidly disappearing over a hill. The entire operation takes less than forty seconds. Impressive.
The colonel loves that kind of efficiency; it has him almost smiling.
It takes nearly five minutes for his new headaches to gather their gear and hightail it over to him. On arrival, they all snap to attention and salute.
Instantly annoyed, Colonel Gray shouts, “What the hell is wrong with you idiots! Are you trying to get us all killed? A single “yard” sniper could nail all of us in less time than I’m taking to yell at you. Get your asses into the carrier while you still have asses!”
He chuckles to himself as the new crop of morons scramble into the carrier, tripping over each other and their gear, thinking, I’m glad I wasn’t that much of an idiot when I was a cadet. Don’t they teach these kids anything at the Point?
The M-73A3 Heavy Assault and Command Carrier is designed to provide all command and control for the 82 nd ABN Div Cyborg. There are two of these carriers in the division, one for Colonel Gray and his staff, and one for his second in command and her staff. Mustering 5,328 Mk-17D infantry cyborgs, 870 Mk-4H air/vehicle/security/medical crew cyborgs, 166 jacked command and support humans, 1,404 surveillance and attack drones, 256 UV-123 Locusts, 25 M-70C Combat Carriers, and 192 Mk-187 ACRs (Autonomous Combat Robots), it is the premier unit of the US Army’s ground combat forces.
The division is the knife edge of XVIII th ABN Corp’s offensive power, and Colonel Mark Andrew Gray commands it.
The “Cherries” mill around just inside the carrier, a few steps from the troop ramp as he boards. Looking over his new headaches, the colonel is startled to see the blond woman from that annoying waking dream. For a brief moment he stares, silent. Finally aware they are awaiting orders, he points to a storage area, “Stow your gear in there, then follow me.”
He waits for them to shove their duffles in the compartment. When they have finished, he strides through the inner hatch into the troop compartment and through it, into the command center, his new headaches in tow. Attached to the forward bulkhead of the command center is a large monitor, four meters wide and three high, flanked by several smaller ones. Three rows of workstations face it, seven workstations per row, twenty of which are already occupied by the Colonel’s subordinate officers. On a raised platform overlooking the workspace is the commander’s station.
Colonel Gray leads the “cherries” to the vacant terminal. He points to it, saying, “You’ll jack in here. You will be able to “hear” everything, but not “say” anything. You do not have the sense or the smarts to direct W.I.D.G.E.T.S., and probably never will.”
One of his new headaches raises her hand. It is the perplexing young blond woman, tiniest, least impress of the third lieutenants. She seems totally out of place, but his intuition is setting off heavy alarms, irritating him further. The colonel glares, shouting, “What?”
Staring down at the deck, she mumbles something.
“What!?” He bellows.
Eyes round and frightened, she almost whimpers, “What’s a widget?”
“My God! Not a widget—W.I.D.G.E.T.S.! Wholly Integrated Directable General Engagement Tactical Systems,” Colonel Gray grumbles. He points to one of the Mk-17D units visible through the hatch to the troop compartment, saying sarcastically, “That is a W.I.D.G.E.T.S.—though it is just a cyborg, I’m certain it has a good deal more intelligence than all of you combined. I know it costs more than the bunch of you, which is why you’re not to issue any directions to them. In other words, do not say or think anything. Just listen; you might learn something.
“You guys aren’t really officers, not yet. You’re just potens—potentials. For the record, out of the lot of you, at least two will be bounced out of the program in the next few days. You’ll spend the rest of your lives in some civil service battalion, probably labor, to pay off the government’s investment in you.” He looks at the girl asking the question. “Two maybe three of you will be worth enough to upgrade into either Mk-4 or Mk-17 W.I.D.G.E.T.S. That’s how you’ll spend the rest of your lives.” He glares at all of them. “Odds are only one of you will measure up to be one of us, to become J.A.C.K.S. What does J.A.C.K.S. stand for?” He points at a brown-haired young man.
His victim stammers out, “Uh, uh, Joint Advanced Command Knowledge System?”
“Are you asking me or telling me cadet?”
“Uh, um, answering your question, sir.”
The colonel nods. Damn, that kid looks like he’s going to faint. “Now, can any of you tell me why we’re here?” continues Colonel Gray.
For several moments dead silence. Finally, a young man answers, “To help the Union of European States recover their lost territory.”
Colonel Gray asks, “And why is that necessary?”
The “cherries” all fidget, mumbling incoherently. “Come on, at least one of you has to know what this is all about.” Still nothing. He just shakes his head, disgusted. “How in Satan’s beard could this happen to me?”
“I’m going to cover this once, so listen up. In 2064 the Russian Consortium tried to take Ukraine, Belarus, and the Baltic States. Though NATO had been defunct for ten years, the UK and the US supported the UES in halting the Russian advance. The battle lines halted just east of the UES eastern border, almost two hundred kilometers east of the UES states of Poland and Romania. A truce was signed, and US forces withdrew. Our main focus has been keeping the Chinese in check since then.
“Four months ago, large formations of Russian units were moved up to the truce line by the Russian Consortium. These organizations are made up of a new series of cyborgs, things we haven’t seen in action before. The UES decided to move all its cyborg units, including police, to the front to counter the RC aggression. The problem we are addressing came into being because of that move.
“The UES states of Spain and Portugal decided to secede from the UES; they didn’t like being backwater places anymore. With no cyborg military or police there to stop them, they declared their own “Brexit.” The UES, the UK and the USA all believe this move was heavily influenced by the Russian Consortium and China. This is confirmed in that the “geese” and the “yards” are heavily equipped with Russian and Chinese weapons and equipment.”
A different third lieutenant raises his hand. “What?” shouts Colonel Gray.
“Sir, what are the “geese” and the “yards”?”
The colonel replies sarcastically, “Geese, Portuguese, Yards, Spaniards.”
“Oh.” The poten looks startled.
Frustrated, he shakes his head. “Because the UES and UK had to keep their Cyborgs facing the RC Cyborgs, they asked us to reestablish their control of the rogue states. Hence operation Iberian Cyclone. The goal is to secure all the lost territory from the Atlantic to the Pyrenees.”
Colonel Gray pauses, waiting. There is no reaction. Nothing but blank faces. Maybe I’m bouncing all these clowns. “Our initial move was for our assault force to overrun Portugal and the western region of Spain. Almost all Portuguese forces have been destroyed, the surviving few are intermingled with Spanish units. Civil Action units are drafting “geese” for upgrade to Mk-2LE Law Enforcement Cyborgs, and UES civil authorities have taken control of all government functions in the reclaimed territory. The American Expeditionary Force is currently holding a line from Asturias in the north to Malaga in the south. XVIII th ABN Corp’s sector is from Merida to Malaga. Our sector is Merida in the north to Córdoba in the south.”
He looks over the new third lieutenants. Yep, deer in the headlights. Colonel Gray points to the map on the large monitor, saying, “For us the next phase of the operation is to drive East to the line Guadalajara in the north and Cuenca in the south. That must be carried out in five days or less. Any questions?”
They stare at him, looking lost. He shakes his head again. “Okay, just jack in and keep quiet.” The colonel hands out jack cables. The “cherries” all jack into the network. One by one, their eyes go blank, merging with the system, their virtual sight accessing a giant 3D topographic map, its varying icons glowing a light blue. Other icons, less immediate, shimmer a fiery red orange.
The colonel goes to his own workstation, sitting to jack in. He links to his subordinate commanders, integrating with the Corp Commander and signaling the division is standing by. Lastly, he connects to the new crop of cadets, immediately noting the little blond third lieutenant has unexpectedly high signal strength.
When jacking was first developed, it was thought that a commander could directly control all elements under his command. Then reality stepped in. Even with the drugs, neuro-pathway construction and overclocked chip implants, a single human mind could not handle the M to the N th power of complex decisions required for hundreds, sometimes thousands, of individual units. The commanders simply burned out from the strain.
They tried augmenting the commanders with Super AI implants, they even integrated the commanders with A.S.I.N.M. It helped, but it did not solve the problem.
Another lesson learned: it actually took longer for a single commander to direct the units than an integrated team. The military dependence on the chain of command had finally become obsolete, they claimed, until proven more vital than ever during the process.
This led to J.A.C.K.S. being developed. Riding dedicated bandwidth on A.S.I.N.M. (Artificial Super Intelligence Network Manager), J.A.C.K.S., the Joint Advanced Command Knowledge System, gives the commanders and their subordinates all the military ever wanted. Everything is done at the speed of thought. No more writing or verbalizing orders to be misinterpreted. The commander thinks it, and all his jacked-in subordinates “see” his exact thoughts. The division commander provides the vision, the regimental commanders deploy their units, the battalion commanders fight their units. They are all J.A.C.K.S., all integrated in thought and action.
Further, a commander can “see” what his subordinates are aware of, down to the individual cyborg or robot. No more miscommunication in the heat of battle.
The problem is the best candidates for J.A.C.K.S. are people that border on being psychopaths. All good J.A.C.K.S. have these traits in common, lack of empathy, guilt or remorse, and shallow experiences of feelings and emotions—except anger. However, the top selections require powerful impulse control–which is required for fighting to win–and strong intuition, critical in reading an enemy commander’s plans from his actions. To help keep the negative traits in check, strong neuropathways are built to direct the officer's thoughts in the “right” direction, with the deeply implanted mantra, “We exist to serve.” Therein, on shaky foundations, rests politicians’ beliefs in their maintaining control of the military.
Additionally, J.A.C.K.S. are not allowed to dream freely. It was found that unsupervised dreams caused “undesirable inefficiencies”, so the rejuvenation modules, called “coffins” by their users, were developed. Once every five to nine days a J.A.C.K.S. spends ten hours in a mental recalibration “coffin.”
The company commanders are all J.A.C.K.S. washouts. To payback their education costs, they are altered into cyborgs, currently either Mk-17Ds or Mk-4Hs, designed and assembled to lead the fight. The only sargeants in this army are platoon leaders, selected from the most extraordinary Mk-17Ds. Their job is to direct the squads.
In this army, there are no soldiers, only J.A.C.K.S. and W.I.D.G.E.T.S.— jacked humans and cyborgs. As far as the J.A.C.K.S. are concerned, they are the only humans in the US Army. In fact, they believe they are the only real humans, period. Everything else is either W.I.D.G.E.T.S. or potens, or politicians to whom all must pay no more than lip service.
The chronometer appears on the monitor and in their minds, showing two hours until “kickoff.” First Colonel Gray reviews the Corp’s current intel updates. Nothing unexpected. He starts pushing virtual commands for the subordinate commanders to activate, alerting their units. The “cherries” are looped into the entire process to observe it in real time.
Already in their advance positions, the recon and intel drones “wake up.” The ID-34 IRD is a covert information gathering autonomous system, looking much like an old Earth grasshopper at first glance. They blanket the forward battle space, using LIDAR, thermal imaging, and night vision sensors to detect targets. They also have listening capability; there is impressive documentation of these “bugs” listening to enemy commanders making plans from over a kilometer away—thereby giving the Americans a significant edge.
For the next hour, the AI systems on the carriers process the data flowing to them from the “bugs.” Nearly every “yard” position is plotted, and critical targets shown. Colonel Gray shares the intelligence both with his superior and the subordinate commanders. Operational plans are modified, indirect fire target tables updated and prioritized.
Using this intel, each of the carriers’ indirect fire systems, both cannon and rocket, are assigned targets, as are the locusts. The UV-123s will fill the air support roll in the opening phases of the operation. The assault drones are given their targets; the Mk-17Ds rev up for battle.
The colonel monitors message traffic, smiling proudly at the efficiency of his units. They are magnificent. The fly in the ointment is the confusion coming from his “cherries” in roiling, greasy waves. As the sun sets, the elements of the 82 nd ABN Div Cyborg shift to their jump-off positions. At the end of Operation Desert Storm in February 1991, the American soldiers chanted “We own the night!” This is now true. In the last two decades, the U.S. military has not launched a single daytime offensive. The advanced technology built into the American drones, equipment, W.I.D.G.E.T.S. and J.A.C.K.S. has defined its superior advantage over all comers.
With thirty minutes to zero, the combat drones take to the air. The MQ-83 Black Talon is one of the most lethal elements available to Colonel Gray, flying swiftly towards the enemy's rear formation. At five minutes to zero the carriers’ cannons unleash a storm of fire, rocket batteries launching deadly payloads into the cacophony. The colonel scowls at his “cherry” third louies; though their brains are virtually locked with the division’s AI systems, they still jump at the report of cannon fire.
Smart warheads seek their assigned targets as the clock strikes zero. The assault forces move out, Colonel Gray masterfully directing the destruction. He moves his division forward with three regiments on-line, holding the fourth regiment and the ACRs in reserve. These, the exploitation forces, will be released at the exact opportune moment.
Massive amounts of data pour into the carrier’s AI systems, each element reporting the results of its strikes or initial contact. The systems process the information at lightning speed, then route the results to the appropriate level of command. Though not really necessary, everything is presented on the monitors attached to the forward bulkhead of the command center.
Smart warheads find their designated targets and detonate. Locusts and drones rain auto-cannon fire down upon enemy fixed positions. In built up areas, ¾ kiloton enhanced radiation warheads explode, showering those targets with intense neutron radiation, killing man and animal alike, but leaving the structures intact for future use. Where the enhanced radiation weapons would cause too much damage or be ineffective, advanced binary nerve agents are employed. The gas is heavy, seeping down into bunkers, foxholes, and cellars, killing all it encounters. It is an orchestra of death on an unimaginable scale, and Colonel Mark Andrew Gray is the conductor.
Part of the colonel’s brain monitors the reactions of the new third lieutenants. A virtual screen displays each one’s face, scholastic record, service record, EEG and EKG. Empathy and Psi scores are highlighted and monitored; the Advanced AI interface analyzes the subject’s very thoughts. Among J.A.C.K.S. there can be no secrets.
So far, the colonel is disappointed with them all. The only one that shows any possible usefulness is the petite blond—and what is showing is definitely not military potential. She would be more useful in the courtesan element of a comfort unit. Still, something lurks in an obscuring dark fog in the cherry’s mind. He tries to penetrate the obscured area but cannot match the increasing resistance. The more he tries, the more futile are his efforts. Soon, what was great discomfort blooms into real pain.
The carriers make their first jump, skimming hills and treetops to land at preselected locations. As the battle line moves forward, the carriers containing the reserves and support along with command and control move forward with them.
Not expecting the jump, all the “cherries” panic, monitors spiking. Colonel Gray shakes his head yet
again, too disgusted for words.
The lead elements of the division all report enemy contact. By the end of the first hour, the 325 th , 326 th , and 328 th Parachute Infantry Regiments Cyborg are heavily engaged. The Spanish are well armed with the latest weaponry. They have a lot of heart; unfortunately for them, that is all they have.
There has not been a Spanish Army since 2033, the year the member countries of the European Union all joined the Union of European States. Much like the states of the United States of America, they handed most of their sovereignty to their new overlords. The existing military and law enforcement agencies of those states were disbanded and replaced by the UES Army and police agencies. NATO’s charter was repudiated and replaced by new treaties with the USA and UK.
When Spain and Portugal seceded, they rapidly formed new armies. They had to rely on men who had been in uniform forty to fifty years ago to organize and train this infant force. Because of it, they were only able to create a low-quality militia. Though it is quite large and well-armed, their tactics and skills are oriented to resist the kind of military existing four decades ago. They are no match for a modern cyborg equipped army, though they are determined to resist to the last.
Cyborgs leap into Spanish strongholds. “Yards” assault en mass, sometimes shooting their comrades in the process. The cyborg’s Armadillo Armor is tough; only the most powerful “yard” weapons can penetrate it. Each Mk-17D has six CD-31C combat drones linked to it, fighting as a single entity. It is a slaughter: the cyborgs are merciless. Nearly three hundred “yards” are killed or maimed for every Mk-17
damaged or destroyed.
Not all human traits have been removed from the cyborgs. They still feel pain, still scream when they have been injured or are dying. His new third lieutenants feel the shout from every one of the dead or dying in their minds, their empathy and psi markers spike wildy. It is clear to Colonel Gray that only one of these candidates may make the cut. One cannot feel the pain of the dead and dying W.I.D.G.E.T.S. and do the job of a J.A.C.K.S.
The colonel allows the slice of his mind reserved for evaluating new third louies to do an in-depth analysis of how they are responding, while the rest of his mind directs the battle. Their responses show the group to be sub-par for J.A.C.K.S., yet two of the candidates show some interesting activity.
Most interesting is the petite blond. He looks deeper into her record. Cassandra Lynn Anderson. Twenty years old. Five-foot one inch, one hundred and four pounds, blond hair, and blue eyes. Psych says she is a people pleaser, likes to help others. Loves animals, had a pet dog and a canary before entering the program. High intelligence, strong psi characteristics. An intuition score well above the superior rating. That must be why they kept her in the program. Empathy score is way too high; she doesn’t belong here. Interestingly, he still cannot penetrate the befogged portion of her mind.
The other interesting cherry is Robert Michael Hayes, twenty years old. Five-foot nine inches, one hundred and sixty-five pounds. Brown hair and brown eyes. Not very popular, no pets and few friends. Above average intelligence, solid math, and spatial relationship scores. Above average psi characteristics, high aggression score. Low empathy score, that’s good. He might make a decent W.I.D.G.E.T.S., maybe even a pilot. I need to keep an eye on him.
Unless there’s a major change over the next couple of days the rest aren’t worth wasting time on. Why the hell did they send these people to me? Who is doing the screening and recruiting for the academy these days?
The battle rages on. Soon the carriers are near the front lines, the sounds of battle can be heard through their armored hulls. Shortly after 02:00, the Spanish defense collapses, “yard” units retreat in disarray. Though Spanish unit commanders keep trying to rally their troops, they are not able to reestablish a viable defense. Their situation continues to deteriorate, and by 05:00 it has degenerated into a full-fledged rout.
Colonel Gray directs his reserve regiment, the 327 th Parachute Infantry Regiment Cyborg, to seize objectives deep in the enemy's rear areas, including Guadalajara and Cuenca. A third of the UV-123s move to the LZ to pick up the W.I.D.G.E.T.S. and carry them to their objectives. The regiments five M-70C Combat Carriers join the Locusts in the move to provide support to their respective battalions. By 07:00 they are flying at nap of the earth, racing forward to assigned objectives.
The colonel releases his Mk-187 ACRs along four routes of advance, an armored punch. The autonomous robots destroy everything encountered, driving hard to link up with the W.I.D.G.E.T.S. of the 327 th . Anyone not equipped with an acknowledged Identification Friend or Foe (IFF) system is immediately dispatched.
Next, Colonel Gray issues directive 17 to the lead elements of his division. The battalion commanders relay it to all of their W.I.D.G.E.T.S. Directive 17 releases the Mk-17s to destroy all resistance they encounter and move to their final objectives, operating on their own initiative. Other than monitoring, the division command elements will only take back control if there is strong enemy resistance the W.I.D.G.E.T.S. cannot overcome on their own.
The colonel feels comfortable that for the next few minutes he can leave the monitoring of operations in the hands of his subordinates. He has the carrier pilot move to the location where the heaviest engagement took place, allowing him to conduct another test of his third louies, one he does not always get to do. He calls it the “shock” test.
Colonel Gray directs the Mk-4Hs “flying” his carrier to land with the carrier’s troop ramp directly facing the most bodies visible. Once on the ground he gathers the “cherries,” leading them to the troop ramp. Toggling the switch, he lowers the ramp, leading them out of the carrier. The stench of death and burnt cordite overwhelms them, like walking into a brick wall. Except for the colonel, they all drop to their hands and knees before reaching the end of the ramp.
Watching them retch their stomachs out, the colonel berates them. “You people are a disgrace. What are you doing in this program?”
When she gets control of herself, Third Lieutenant Anderson shouts, “They took me from my family against my will; I never wanted to be here!”
The colonel walks back to her. He kneels down to lift her head, looking into her eyes. For a moment he considers what to say. “The government can take anyone if that taking meets military necessity, even you. What confuses me is how any of you, and you in particular, wound up here. Your intuition score and academics are what the J.A.C.K.S. program is looking for, but your empathy and psi scores rule you out for anything except courtesan work. Yet here you are.” He looks over at the others. “You do have minimal characteristic and scholastic scores barely qualifying you for the program. It makes no sense that they sent any of you to me.” He looks back at the petite blond, “But you, there’s absolutely no reason for you to be here.”
He slowly stands, helping the young woman up as he does. “Back inside, now.” The colonel watches them scramble to get back inside. He follows them in, raising the ramp. Striding back to his station, he continues to wonder about Third Lieutenant Anderson. There is something about her he is not understanding.
For the next seventy hours the combat continues, Colonel Gray keeping the division rolling forward,
linking up with his deep penetration units along the way. As they advance, the W.I.D.G.E.T.S. of the 82 nd
ABN Div Cyborg encounter pockets of stiff resistance. Had they been men instead of cyborgs, they might
have called the “yard” defenders heroic.
Many times, officers chose to rally their troops by jumping on a vehicle or bunker, waving the flag of the Kingdom of Spain. Their soldiers dig in their heels, fighting and dying around these tattered banners, fierce souls giving the last full measure for a lost cause.
Many of these courageous warriors strap explosives to themselves, trying to swarm any Mk-17 encountered. Dozens are slaughtered, all hoping that one will hug a W.I.D.G.E.T.S. to detonate himself or herself, taking down the apparently soulless monsters. Some succeed.
At the forty-five hours mark, the system alerts him of a potential problem among the “cherries”. Colonel Gray checks their readouts. All but two are peaking at emotional overload, empathy and psi scores are approaching the danger level. They are feeling too much!
Lieutenant Hayes is solid, only his aggression score is peaking. Further, his empathy and psi levels are extremely low. Colonel Gray likes what he is seeing there, smiling. Wow, decades ago they would have described Lieutenant Hayes as a psychopath, just like they said about me when I was a third lieutenant. He might make a J.A.C.K.S. after all.
Cassandra Anderson is opposite. Her aggression score is near zero, empathy and psi scores are above the redline, her heart rate exceeding one hundred twenty-six. She might burst!
The colonel commands, “Lieutenants, unjack.” All of them except the petite blond disconnect from the system. “Unjack now, lieutenant Anderson!”
“No, sir!”
“UNJACK NOW!”
“No! Someone has to be here! Someone must hear them! Someone has to know they lived!”
“UNJACK LIEUTENANT!”
“NO! These people are dying; someone has to care!”
“They are not people, they are not human, they are just W.I.D.G.E.T.S. UNJACK!”
“NO!”
At that moment, two Mk-17s are destroyed by explosions. For a brief instant, their minds shout out in pain. The release of fear and hurt hits the petite blond like a tidal wave. For a fraction of a second, she feels she is drowning in an ocean of emotion, a tidal wave of psychic energy. Her readouts all spike. Then it’s over, the intense pain and terror gone. Her mind crashes: she falls, limp, to the deck.
At first the colonel thinks, I should just leave her there. His next thought is, She disobeyed me, I should shoot her. His third thought is, Damn. “Medtech,” is all he says.
A Mk-4H Medtech enters the command center, carrying the young third lieutenant into the med compartment.
By hour eighty-four, the division has achieved all its objectives, only the mopping up is left to do. Colonel Gray smiles to himself, The 82 nd ABN Div Cyborg is the best division in the US Army. As the division adjusts its lines, finishing the mop up to the south of it, its brother unit, the 101 st ABN Div Cyborg, completes its advance. XVIII th ABN Corp’s third unit, the 3 rd ACR, screens to the north as the US V th Corp catches up. XVIII th ABN Corp’s Commander, Brigadier General Barnes, is quite pleased; he beat
all the Corps to his objectives.
The command carrier sets up next to one of the last battles for this phase of the operation. The colonel looks over the devastation, filled with satisfaction. Even the inevitable terrible sights of the battle’s finale do not bother him. This mess will be cleaned up when the army’s salvage and incineration unit arrives, until then, this is what victory looks like.
As he stands at the base of the troop ramp, he hears footsteps, turning to see Third Lieutenant Anderson stride down the ramp behind him. This is the first time he has seen her outside the med compartment since she “crashed.” As she reaches the end of the ramp, the colonel steps aside. She steps onto the ground to stop beside Colonel Gray.
They stand side-by-side for several moments in strained silence. After a while, Cassandra asks, “Now what?” Before the colonel can answer, she notices something moving among some bodies. Third Lieutenant Anderson steps haltingly toward it, Colonel Gray following.
A severely wounded Mk-17 is among half a dozen dead “yards”. Cassandra kneels beside it. The cyborg is missing its right leg, and the right forearm is shattered, its left leg is destroyed from just below the knee. Sparks rain from all the damaged parts, a fiery nimbus. The Mk-17s’ Armadillo Protection System is penetrated in numerous spots, the helmet split open to reveal the cyborg’s face, blood dripping from its mouth. The markings on its Armadillo Battle Skin designate it as a Sargent.
“We have to help him,” she says.
“It’s just a W.I.D.G.E.T.S., it’s too damaged to save. The salvage unit will be along shortly to recover what can be reused,” replies the colonel.
“You're just going to kill him?”
“It’s not a him, it’s an it.”
She reaches out to smooth a hand over the Sargent’s face. “You’re wrong, he is a person, a real person.” At her touch, something unexpected happens. The petite blond’s hands start to glow a pale blue, her eyes light up. The cyborg locks vision with her. They stay connected for several moments, before the Mk-17 breathes its last, slumping against her. Gently easing the remains down, she stands up, eyes still aglow. It fades slowly, too slowly to mistake it not being real.
Standing there in shock, the colonel tries to call three W.I.D.G.E.T.S. to help, but all his communication to his units is jammed. This can’t be! I’m always in direct mental contact with my commands! What is she? He tries to force his commands through the block, to no avail; he has never heard of something like this, let alone seen it.
Cassie turns to look deep into his eyes—he feels he is falling into a deep, dark hole. For the first time since he was upgraded to J.A.C.K.S., he is afraid. Down and down he falls, then suddenly he is back standing beside Third Lieutenant Anderson trying to remember why they have come out onto the field. The last thing he recalls is standing at the base of the ramp.
“You haven’t answered my question, Colonel. Now what?” Cassie asks
“Well, Miss Anderson, you’re no longer a third lieutenant. My recommendation will be that they place you in the courtesan element of a comfort unit instead of a labor battalion. Perhaps they’ll follow my recommendation. I think Third Lieutenant Hayes might become a J.A.C.K.S., if not he will be upgraded as a W.I.D.G.E.T.S. The rest of your classmates will go into a labor battalion. All of you will be leaving for your reviews, evaluations, and new assignments in an hour.”
“Thank you. I never wanted any part of this.”
“That doesn’t matter. We exist to serve.”
“That’s what they teach us.” She looks him in the eye, facing him directly, taking his big right hand in her smaller left. A tingle like a mild electric shock emanates from her touch. With her free hand she touches his left temple lightly. Another tingle. “Goodbye, Colonel. I truly feel sorry for you.” Dropping his hand, she walks back up the ramp.
He watches her for a long moment. Before she enters the carrier, he calls out, “Miss Anderson, wait a moment.” She stops, turning to face him again. From an arm’s length away, the colonel asks incredulously, “Why do you feel sorry for me?”
Her lips set in a grim line, she replies, “I feel sorry for you because you think you are human, but you lack all that makes someone human.”
“What do you mean by that?” He growls.
“Like that, you’re always angry, always ready to fight, to tear into someone, verbally or physically.”
“That’s how I’m supposed to be,” he barks back.
“Yes, it is. And you don’t feel. You send soldiers out to die, not caring about them as people, only that they do their jobs.”
“That’s my job. That’s what we do—we serve, we sacrifice. That’s what makes us human, better than all of you.”
“No, that’s what makes you less than human. You’re more of an it than the W.I.D.G.E.T.S. You don’t care about anyone, only the mission. Just winning the battle. No one means anything to you, and you mean nothing to anyone else. That is so sad, that’s why I feel sorry for you.”
“Goodbye, Miss Anderson,” he growls, pushing past her.
“Colonel.”
He stops, turning again to face the tiny woman. “I saw inside your mind, just like you saw inside mine. They took so much away from you when they upgraded you. They took away what really matters. The worst is they took away your ability to truly dream. But it’s right there, Colonel, just below the surface. And it just might get out—it just might come back.”
He stomps off up the ramp.
At 14:30 the UV-123 lifts off, taking Colonel Gray’s headaches away.
The “cherries” are gone, the battle is winding down, and everything is quiet. Colonel Gray has sent in his replacements request. The division’s losses were light, but it will still take two days to replace them all. It seems like a suitable time to rejuvenate.
Colonel Gray goes into the rejuvenation chamber to enter his coffin. The lid closes: the system is activated. He closes his eyes, shutting down. Then something happens that has not happened Mark Andrew Gray was upgraded to J.A.C.K.S.
He dreams.
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COMING SOON: On Wednesday, 23rd September, our guest author, Lucy Brighton, is sharing an excerpt from her latest novel, 'Finding Grace'.
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