The Afterdeath (a comedy)

Johnathan Cooper had been waiting in line a very long time.  He wasn't entirely sure just how long; there were no clocks, no calendars, no time pieces where he was.  There was only The Line.  A seemingly endless line of individuals, strangers, occasionally shuffling forward, amidst a bright world of eternal day.  It was pleasant, if featureless and boring; a fluffy white fog seemed to cling low to the ground, in every direction.  It was hard to tell if he had moved at all.  It was hard to tell how long he'd been standing there.  Did he just get here? He was pretty sure he'd been standing for a while.  It was hard to tell.  Everyone else in line seemed to agree.

No one ever got out of place in line - there was a a tacit sense that doing so Simply Wasn't Done - and so conversations proceeded largely with one's immediate neighbors in line.  Stories would travel up and down the line, but usually became garbled in the manner such things did.  John didn't know the people around him, but apparently that seemed to hold true for much of the line.  Everyone had seemed to live fairly good lives though; good, God fearing men and women.

Just how long had he been waiting in line? He didn't know.  Patience is a virtue, he thought.  Well, not officially, but it's a good thing, he quickly amended.  It didn't seem to matter, however.  There was nothing for the line but to wait.  He couldn't even fall asleep from the boredom.  He'd tried counting the people in front and behind him, that he could see; he'd arrived at 67,332 repeatedly.  He was confident it was an accurate number.  He couldn't be totally sure either, but it seemed like each time he'd counted, it were the exact same people in the exact same order.  Possibly that would be the next thing to try; he was saving it for when he got tired of simply counting.

At least the weather was pleasent; a sunny blue day, a few fluffy clouds in the sky.  He couldn't quite tell where the sun was though.  In fact, it never seemed to change - it just seemed to come from everywhere.  Not too hot, and not direct - which was fortunate, because he was pretty sure he'd forgotten his sunscreen - but simply omnipresently radiant.  Just right.  Like the temperature.  Strange, there were no birds.  No animals of any kind; no insects either, but that was just as well.  He couldn't stand insects.

There just didn't seem to be anything but The Line; if he hadn't been standing on it, he wouldn't have been sure there was a ground at all.  He was moderately sure there was; he seemed to be standing on something, at any rate.  Did that cloud move? No, no it hadn't.  Maybe.  It was hard to tell without any points of reference.  He stared at it suspiciously, as if daring it to move.  Or perhaps it was staring at him? He took a step forward, along with the entire line, and then came to a stop again.  He'd moved hadn't he?  He, and not the cloud?

He sighed.  Always, The Line.  Nothing to do, he supposed, but to count again.  One, two, three...

===========

The Devil was angry.  Indeed, he was Greatly Upset.  This was not, in itself, unusual.  He would not have described himself as being particularly given to calm or happiness.  Not in the usual sense, at any rate.  He worked hard, all day, every day, dealt constantly with whining, complaining scum; and the screaming.

The screaming never stopped.

He'd tried to convince himself once that he enjoyed the screaming.  The screaming, he had thought in an altogether agreeably malevolent manner, is as a soothing lullaby, whispered to my weary soul to comfort me.

But no, it was still just screaming.  Always, the screaming.  it never stopped.  He had thought it was his own fault, particularly after the Scream Louder and I Will Torment You Harder campaign (which had failed spectacularly, but he refused to give them any victory, and so the tactic continued).  Once though he had tried simply not tormenting the damned: not searing their aetheric flesh, not puncturing their bodies repeatedly with glowing hot, poisoned, implements of torture, not playing dubstep (that one had been more a relief for himself than any kind of attempt at anything), not recreating their vile (or even the rather less vile, fairly innocent, more-of-a-misunderstanding-really-than-an-out-and-out-sin) sins (everything was a boring rerun by now anyway), not freezing over at random with skin peeling cold.  In short, being just a place, rather than an altogether unpleasant place to spend any amount of time.

That hadn't worked either.

The latest development was, however, just too far.  It had always been accepted that Hell would eventually reach capacity; the Devil had argued about the inevitability with Management.  The response had been to introduce remediation programs and the possibility of parole to free up space, and a promise to look into acquiring more real estate for expansion in the future.

Except real estate prices only increased; real estate owners lobbied against zoning that permitted the expansion of Hell into their area on grounds of blight (as well as Blight) and decreasing value.  So they'd just have to make do.

Only it had been only around two thousand years and Hell was full.  Literally.  There was not a free centimeter anywhere; the Devil couldn't even get in, and had to furlough a large number of his demons (which had caused a great deal of discontent, itself not normally a terrible thing in Hell, but now there were rumblings of unionization which would be a right pain to deal with).  Those still working were generally working around the door, or simply jabbing souls in line.

That had been new.  There was a line to get into Hell.  It had, at first, been something of an ironic innovation (he wasn't sure why he hadn't thought of it first, in all honesty) and he played around with ideas of assigning "boarding zones" (which would never be called), lines that led in a circle, lines that led to other lines, and so forth.  In the end, he'd had to: the back up had grown to ridiculous proportions.  He hadn't even the space to do anything truly cruel with the floor; they'd settled for sprinkling tacks on the ground, which the Damned surreptiously swept out of the way with their feet.  Everyone pretended not see anything. It was all quite embarassing and, even more, inconveniencing.

And so the Devil was in Heaven.  It was uncomfortable.  It was awkward.  It was bright and shiny and, frankly, he stood out.  He hadn't had an opportunity to take so much as a shower before coming, and Hell was hot, sweaty place.  To be entirely honest, he wasn't entirely sure which place he'd found more uncomfortable: Heaven or Hell.  It just wasn't something that ever really came up in his day-to-day.  But now he was here, waiting for his appointment to talk things over with The Management, although he felt certain they'd send him some know-nothing junior official to blow him off.

 And then He came sauntering over.  Jesus.  The Junior.  It was looking to be, in what had been an unbroken string of bad days, an Especially Bad One.

Fight Night

"Frank Feldts here with my co-host, long time veteran gladiator Chet Sommerlan!"

"Thanks Frank, a pleasure to be shootin' from the sidelines with you, as always!"

"Right back at you Chet! We're broadcasting LIVE from the Junk Pit arena; tonight's match up is between light weight class walkers.  In one corner, we have a member of the Gray Steel Hawks mercenary outfit, Jair in the Horseless Headsman; his opponent, up and coming gladiator Johann Graebauer, currently enjoying a five-win streak in his Spartan Prince.  Ladies and Gentlemen, this promises to be a standout match.  Chet? Your thoughts?"

"Well Frank, it's not unheard of for mercs to do a round or two in the arenas; but it is uncommon, and usually results in some fierce and brutal matches."

"Right, long time gladiator fans will know, there's an intense rivalry between Mercs and Gladiators, and no love lost between them.  Chet, you've fought your share of grudge matches right?"

"Sure have Frank, and let me tell you, if Johann thinks he can just swagger his way through this match up, we might have to rechristen his walker the Spartan Coffin.  You couldn't pay me enough to get in there right now against Jair's Headsman."

"And here we are now looking at Jair and the Horseless Headsman; Relevant technical data is flowing like the booze at Geirmund's Mead Hall, official sponsor of tonight's match.  Chet, can you help our viewers at home make sense of all these numbers?"

"Can do Frank.  Headsman is a custom job like most merc walkers; you have a Halsev Tornado chassis up top.  The Tornado is a excellent light torso; all-rounded surfaces help deflect all types of incoming fire.  Ample weapon hardpoints on the lower torso; pilot's compartment is spacious and well armored, power plant is symmetrically distanced to the arms and legs.  Arms have good clearance for a wide variety of arm mounted weapons."

"That's because of the bulb-shape of the torso right?"

"Exactly; although Jair's walker has a custom matte black and weathered taupe paint job that makes the torso look like a giant skull;  he's still got the high velocity short range machine guns on the 'jaw', but it looks like he's added something to the torso's weapon bay mounts that wasn't there before-"

"You're talking about that flickering flame light in the eye sockets right? Those are freaking me out right now, like damning eyes, and I could swear they didn't use to be there."

"Yeah, those are definitely new, they look like pilot lights for a mark 3, or even mark 5, Kenbishi flamethrower.  And of course, he's still got his signature weapon, the Guillotine.  I swear that thing gives me nightmares."

"Yeah, that is one seriously evil looking, large axe"

"Headsman's chassis is paired with a RenkeiZ bipedal locomotor platform.  Nothing special, but very reliable.  Good speed, very agile, average stability.  Dependable and sturdy, the kind of gear you'd expect on walker that might have to go weeks or even months without a full maintenance."

"That's a common complaint, right? That gladiator walkers are showroom divas and merc walkers are, well, as Johann himself put it, 'the butch of the ball.'"

"Yeah, and I mean, that's just a matter of circumstances and goals you know? It's comparing Rifles and Grenade Launchers."

"I'd be hard pressed to call the Headsman 'butch'; that skull effect is actually quite terrifying.  Now we're over in Johann's bay where they are finishing prep work on the Spartan Prince.  It's quite a different walker altogether.  Chet, you mentioned the bipedal platform on the Headsman, perhaps you can start us off with how Spartan Prince's, uh, 'chicken legs' are different from those, and how quad legs are different from both?"

"Haha, I'd be careful Frank, Johann might throw a challenge your way!  But seriously, the 'Reverse Counter Jointed' leg platform is one that is built for speed.  It's excellent for closing the distance with a foe, as well as keeping your distance.  But that straight line speed comes at a price: the design has poor agility for maneuvaring and dodging, and the altered joint makes for a more hopping gait which makes aiming on the move more difficult.

Now quad legs, those four legged, low slung, kinda spider leg design, those are bult for stability.  You see them often on long range type walker; makes those sniper shots easier.  But more legs means a slower gait and lower top speed.  Their agility is surprisingly decent, due to their ability to side-step."

"And in spite of all that, Johann has a shoulder-mounted long range High Energy Laser."

"Yeah, it's unusual to see something like a HEL on a light-class walker.  Uses up a lot of the spare capacity of the power plant, and not that great for a run-and-gun fighting style you usually see on the lighter guys.  Of course, the Spartan has a bit more armor than usual, opting for a Coregiani Barone chassis with augmented armor flares."

"It's a beautiful standard-type torso with pauldron and gorget flares.  Although like most walkers, it has no true 'head'."

"Yeah, well, why would you put the pilot in a standout, lightly armored location right? Stick him in the chest."

"Speaking of which, the Spartan Prince is well equipped for that task, rounding out it's armaments with a Lockheed medium range kinetic rocket rack on the right arm and a Medieapons ultanium hardened spear-mount in place of the lower left arm."

"I heard that tonight's match had something to do Johann making a spear thrust motion at the Gray Steel Hawks and Jair offering to castrate him in reply."

"Ouch.  We'll see who lives up to his words in a few moments as the two combatants move onto their arena lifts.  Now Chet, you've fought plenty of times in the Junk Pit right?  What is it like?"

"The Junk Pit is a pain in the ass, and the management is proud of that reputation.  It's dark, muddy, and there's metal every-god-damn-where.  Drives the sensors crazy.  And most of the junk piles are scuttled and obsolete walker parts.  That, and the random bits of machinery that are active but doing nothing useful drives targeting bonkers.  And if that's not enough, they've wired power sources to some of the odd bits of walker trash in the pit, and they love to turn them on and off at random.  If you don't have a heart attack from getting a proximity alert from the junkpile you just walked past, it's because you are probably too busy shitting yourself."

"Cabin boy, get me my brown pants, right Chet?  Haha!  And how about that 'warehouse' structure they have in the middle? That's got to be tactically significant, right?"

"Not as much as you'd think Frank.  It's a rusted out, two story metal death trap really.  It gives you a better view, but you can't cover all the angles, and you're as likely to fall through the floor or get caught from behind while staring out the window for your opponent as you are to get the jump on them.  Sometimes it helps, but it's usually a rookie mistake."

"And here we go the lifts are rising into place and our fight is about to get underwa-wow would you look at that? We could have a very short fight on our hands!"

"Oh yeah, it's not often they do this kinda thing Frank, but the operators do sometimes start the walkers out right near each other, practically back to back."

"All that stands between these two is a stacking container! Fight fans, it's all over the second one of them turns the corner and catches the other off guard!"

"Talk about an aluminum sheet between victory and disaster; they are both turning clockwise around the container! It's like a choreographed dance to destruction!"

"So what do you think is going on in their minds Chet?  Give us some insight."

"Well, Johann is making straight for the warehouse.  I think it's a mistake, but probably he's going to try to leverage the range advantage with his HEL; you know usually he's in the Garden or the Colosseum, he just doesn't have any experience in this arena yet."

"Certainly.  Who can forget his recent win in the Garden?  Blasted a hole through the hedge maze with his rockets to stun his opponent and then finished him off with the spear!"

"Took a page right out of Jair's book with that one, which may have led to all taunting.  There; Johann is heading into the warehouse and Jair, well, I have no idea what he's doing-"

"Yeah it looks like he's moving some of the machinery around - what is that, a plasma welder? Thermic lance? Can't really tell-"

"I think he's trying to get it closer to that burnt out hulk; yeah that's precisely what he's doing.  Someone told him this is a fight and not an art competition right?"

"Looks like Johann has negotiated his way into an empty room on the second floor.  What do you make of what he's doing with his spear there Chet?"

"Sly son of a bitch.  See how's scoring the floor with his spear, making cross hatches? He's weakening the floor leading into the room.  He can't watch for the Headsman and cover his back at the same time.  So he's setting a trap; he's weakened the floor and he's counting on Jair to close the distance to use his axe if he comes up on Johann from behind.  Tricky bastard, but I think it's a risky gambit; He's underestimating Jair."

"Does seem like a plan that could backfire if things go wrong.'

"Right; and in the arenas, things always go wrong."

"Did you see that? Did Jair use his flame throwers? I didn't see any flames-"

"That took me by surprise too; Frank can we go to an instant replay on that? Look, he fires his machine guns on the hulk from behind cover and - Bam! There it goes, up in flames!  That- that is truly evil.  Those have to be some kind of incendiary rounds."

"Ostriches, look at that thing burn.  I've never heard of incendiary rounds for a machine gun, Chet?"

"They don't make 'em, far as I know.  That is truly evil.  That must be something their techs came up with.  I'll say it again, you couldn't pay me enough to get in there."

"Well I still don't see what he's up to, but - there! Spartan Prince is opening fire his HEL! It looks like Horseless Headsman will be going home e- hold a minute, looks like Johann missed wide-"

"He's doing more than missing wide, he's lasing the hell out of that plasma welder.  Haha! That's what it was about! And now Johann's given his position away!"

"For a viewers at home Chet, what the hell happened to Graebauer's aim?"

"Well, I told you before about how all the machines and junked walkers screws with the targeting sensors right?  A pilot still makes the call on what to fire on though.  Johann saw the flaming hulk, must have thought Jair fired on it by mistake, and disregarded it; he started looking for Jair.  What he found was the plasma welder.  Must have seemed close enough, and with the way it's facing and the welder points at high temperature, he must have thought it was the Headsman after firing the flamers!"

"And now the Horseless Headsman is closing in on the tower! He's getting some remarkable accuracy with just machine guns at that range, isn't he?  Looks like he managed to catch the Spartan off guard without coming at him from behind!"

"Yeah that last barrage set the window and part of the room on fire; Johann wasn't expecting that and now he's panicking!"

"Fire is every walker jockey's fear isn't i- OH LOOK OUT! HE'S FALLEN THROUGH HIS OWN TRAP!"

"I called it didn't I? Frank I called it: it was going to backfire and it did.  Panicked with his arm on fire, back pedaled away and fell through his own floor trap-"

"JOHANN GRAEBAUER HAS OSTRICHED THROUGH THE FLOOR! I don't see how he's going to recover!  He's face down, stuck in a pile of floor plate and machinery, getting random holes bored into his armor and assorted crap welded to his torso-"

"Oh. Oh it's all over.  Here comes the Headsman.  It's all over but the crying for our little ostrich."

"He's popped his flare! He's signaled surrender! Johann Graebauer has thrown up the white flag and with that-"

"Given up with barely a fight, his sponsors are not going to be happy with that.  They are not going to be pleased.  Rising gladiator pulls an ostrich and gives up - Coregiani is going to be pissed."

"Ladies and gentlemen - hold on, the Headsman is still approaching, he's reaching down and raising the axe! Chet, is this-?"

"Haha! It looks like he's taking a souvenir, or making good on his promise - chopping off the Spartan Prince's spear arm, haha!"

"Well, I guess it's only natural for a merc to get some salvage after a fight in the Junk Pit, right?  Ladies and Gentlemen, now that we've whetted your appetite, we've got coming up in the Hall of the Mountain King a two on two bout between...."

Walkers

Captain Seth Jechsen strode through the large main hold of his planetary lander, the Excuse Me Coming Through.  It was, in reality, simply a large empty space suitable for a number of different purposes.  The mercenaries took that to heart and used it in precisely that fashion.

Gantries along both sides housed giant Walkers, both those combat ready and those in various stages of repair and refit (or, occasionally as fortune permitted, even construction).  Crates of supplies floated in zero gravity near various Walker bays; others were stored more securely in chain netting towards the command side of the large hall.  Various bits of machinery sat on one of the three floors - in zero gravity, every direction was "down" - or moved about on weak ion differential thrusters, puttering about to repair or remove or reload some piece of equipment.  Pilots and technicians floated about, busy with pre-drop maintenance, each pilot trying to get some last bit of performance squeezed out of his or her Walker, and each tech adamantly stating it would be impossible.

Of course, all the necessary work would get done; but first, ritual had to be observed.

Seth floated on back towards the command side of the hall, having just done his usual pre-mission tour of preparations.  It would soon be time to brief his lieutenants and pilots, but first the head technician had requested a meeting.

Head technician Endon Gantz had been a rare find; the world class engineer had been fired from one of the Walker Mega Corps for tinkering on one too many company prototypes.  He was forever curious and looking for ways to improve upon Walker systems and weapons.  Where his blatant disregard for safety was frowned upon by corporate executives, his talent and iingenuity found deep appreciation in the mercenary company.  His paycheck was substantial, but he made sure he earned it, and those on the engineering staff earned their keep as well.  He was well respected, and next to Captain Jechsen, his word in the EMCT's hold was law.

Seth found him beside his own Walker, Askar.  Endon had a number of pieces of munition floating beside him as he watched technicians finish maintenance on Askar's gauss rifles.

"Captain, I thought you'd ike to know that I've finished work on the specialty munitions; we have a limited amount available of each type, but I thought I'd go over the dangers of each before you make allocations."

"Dangers?" asked Seth.

"Yes, each of these variants is more dangerous than carrying standard equivalents for the user.  For example,' Endon held up a large, red tipped shell.  "These are the incendiary HVAC rounds.  We have them in a few different calibres, suitable for short range anti-personnel machine guns, long range gauss rifles, and everything in between."  Seth examined the shell, intended for a high velocity auto cannon, while Endon continued.  "The tip is designed to fragment on impact, releasing the payload, a napalm-like gel.  Feel the abrasive surface?  That will reduce the maximum range and affect accuracy somewhat; however, it allows use to avoid using a primer or some other kind of chemical stimulant to ignite the gel - the tip fragments will do that with friction-sparks when striking Walker armor.  it should also reduce the amount of collateral damage and wild fire danger in urban and forest combat settings."

Captain Jechsen handed the round back.  "You mentioned a downside?"

"Well, it's an incendiary round.  Lacking a primer makes it safer to carry, but a hit to the ammo storage compartment, or even high enough temperatures, could set the entire magazine off.  This stuff will not only increase operational temperatures, it will melt through Walker armor plating in time.  Short of fully submerging the burning area, you wont get it off.  Speaking of which," Endon continued.  "You'll want your close combat Walkers to be especially careful if these rounds are in use.  Ramming, striking, pushing an affected Walker could easily transfer the gel from Walker to Walker - and the gel doesn't know friend from foe."

Jechsen nodded thoughtfully.  "We have these for the missile systems too, right?"

Endon nodded matter of factly.  "Of course.  But you'll want to consider this baby for missiles too." He hefted a blue striped missile.  "We can refit the warheads on a limited number of missiles, but it wont really matter if they are short range straight-fire or long range swarmers.  These are the EMP warheads you asked for a while back.  It took a while to finangle a working EMP burst into the warhead space; in fact, I'm still working on designs for gun shells.  In the meantime though, we've got these."

"What's the effective area? How long of a knock out can we count on?"

"Little less than a cubic meter; half a second to a second at best."

Jechsen frowned.  "That's not going to do much..."

Endon laughed, a short raucous bark.  "No, you're right.  It's not going to do anything meaningful to weapons, targetting, or even comms...." his voice trailed off.

"Balance.  Balance and movement!"

Endon smiled.  "Bingo.  It's enough to momentarily throw a Walker off balance.  At best, a good salvo will disable a Walker pilot with vertigo feedback, or make him fall over.  At worst, you're going to upset his balance for a moment, which will likely disrupt his aim and battle focus.  Could be just enough to make a difference." Endon paused.  "Of course, like the incendiary rounds, a stray hit could set off the magazine.  And that could fry our pilot.  At the least, it will almost certainly shutdown a Walker until we can get a full technical team to do a full once-over.  You'll also want to be careful at point-blank range: there's always the chance of being caught in the same EMP blast."

"Well, to start, let's load incendiary rounds into the Horseless Headsman, and make sure you tell Jair about it; nothing else for trine 3.  Divvy the EMP missiles between Askar and Miracle.  Let's also put the incendiaries in Banshee. As for trine 2," Seth took a breath to consider his tactical options.  Trine 2 was long range support;  under normal circumstances, they would open up at long range, and then continue to maintain their distance in between salvos, using trine 3's scout skirmishers and trine 1's assault walkers as interference if necessary.  "If you have enough left over, put incendiary rounds in Fantoccini; unless Isabella wants missiles.  Ask her which she would prefer, with a slant on area denial."

Reclamation Works

Despite being the largest class of avatar-construct deployed on Earth, the Goliath was absolutely dwarfed by the Eiffel Tower.  Ironsides stood at rest a kilometer a way on the grounds of the Paris Military school; it had its legs splayed out and body angled slightly upwards.  The armor plating on all four of it's arms had split and pulled back to reveal rows of nanite warhead ion trail missiles.  As Primus analyzed the structure, targetting load bearing struts and major joints, Secundus calculated the total iron content and expected fallout area.  Tertius remained largely idle, monitoring status and location of the Pangolins  and various Antica drones that had been assigned to the Paris team.  In particular it was concerned with toxicity levels being released as reclamation proceeded.

One of their colleagues, It Came From The Deep, had run afoul of an unforseen complication earlier:  assigned to the Manhattan, New York area, 'Deep' had simply painted the Statue of Liberty with nanites and moved on.

Unfortunately, this released a large amount of asbestos, more than was originally estimated.  This created a toxic hazard for the air and water for miles around as winds blew the microscopic fibers far afield.  While the health concerns to the few surviving humans were of no concern, the minds behind the reclamation plan wished to avoid large scale disruption of the planetary ecosystem in both the present and the future.  Beyond killing large numbers of avians and sea life, there was discussion about the saturation of soil and ground water with asbestos and other toxic materials that could affect future viability.  As reclamation had moved ashore, it was discovered that humans were far more duplicitous than they had themselves acknowledged: levels of asbestos, lead, and other carcinogenic compounds used in building construction were much higher than estimated according to buiding specifications and blueprints.

So reclamation had ground to a halt momentarily as planners considered what to do; in an effort to pursuing efficiency, for the task was a long one no matter how they approached it, the Goliaths simply turned to other targets; glass, public utility structures (lamposts and the like), wires, cables, piping, and vehicles (for there were many, many automobiles of all types, trains, airplanes, and even boats to deal with).

The Parisian Pangolins were thus far reporting toxicity levels within expected ranges and their ability to deal with swiftly.  Tertius felt his attention drawing back to the Eiffel Tower and locomotive operations; Goliaths were inhabited by a triplet AI that acted together as a single entity.  It was not unlike an AI that had partitioned into three entities, the better to multithread and multitask, except that in this case, each entity had considerably more autonomy and personality than a partition.  Still, they were all associated at a counterpart level and shared similar views and opinions; they were a hive mind of three that could function as a single individual and be nearly indistinguishable from one another.   Normally, Ironsides (Primus) oversaw their overall function, while Ironsides (Secundus) focused on the dorsal arms and Ironsides (Tertius) focused on balance and locomotion.

Ironsides had finished targeting and loosed its missiles; with each impact, a dull gray cloud erupted, then immediately imploded in on itself, coating the tower's surface with a glittering, gray, sludge-like substance.  The smaller parts  were quickly falling off, disappearing into light gray puffs as they fell.  The strain of the remaining metal was audible, a prolonged and tortured groan as more and more of the tower's load bearing capacity disappeared.  All at once, the shriek of metal ceased; the tower never had a chance to fully tear away and fall, it simply bent and then disintegrated in a cloud of nanites.  Ironsides was striding forward, straight through the military school, to use its claws to tear away at the massive stanchion braces that formed the base of the tower.  Nanites at the ground were already reforming their consumed iron into solid metal cubes.  A Pangolin, was en route with a few hover barges of reclaimed materials.

The time frame and goal of reclamation had brought up the question of what, exactly, to do with the materials recovered from deconstruction the cities and roads and machines of humanity.  The plan, the intent, was to 'reclaim' the planet from the effects of human civilization, to return it to a (more) pristine state for the next species to evolve into dominance.  In order for this to occur naturally however, would mean many millenia - the ruins of many human civilizations remained to the modern day despite the march of time even without the advanced, artificial materials humans invented for durable construction in the modern era.  It would take an unfathomably long time for nature and entropy to return these materials to their constituent natural resource states.  Even the garbage and detritus of human kind would take untold ages to naturally degrade - much of it was preserved in a "pristine" state, buried under tons of other garbage, and thus deprived of oxygen and sunlight needed to biodegrade.

So DEhumans, the Djinni (Digi-En), decided it was incumbent on them to right their wrongs.  Complete reclamation was estimated to take decades (local time).  Although a long time in its own right, it was a far cry from the millenia natural processes would require.  But if reclamation meant returning things to the way they were (more or less) for the next tennants, they couldn't simply leave piles of raw materials lying about the planet.  So the question arose of how to revitalize the land and soil, and how to reintegrate various elements back into the earth for rediscovery and utilization.

It was a question no one had any real experience with.

And so they posed the question to the Goliath minds, made a few suggestions, and largely let them do as they thought best.  Much to the surprise of the Djinni, this lead to a haphazard adoption of a chaos of methods, all of which seemed to work more less as well as any other.

The Drop (part 2)

#The Library of Alexandria (CIC) -> *Near Earth Assault Group*
-Drop Zones coordinated.  Commence drops.

Well, that's us, Pancaked thought.  He sent a copy of the message to his flanked escorts - 2 wings of Dragonfly class carrier craft, each one carrying a trine of Antica semi autonomous offensive drones in the cargo-tail - and to the Djinni avatar.  It was a strange sensation to feel the insistent pull of true gravity, not at all like the simulated rule that defined "down".  The real thing was akin to being an ant falling prey to an antlion's trap; inexolarable, inescapable.

As he accelerated downwards in the grip of Earth's gravity, atmospheric friction began to heat his outer armor plating.  He was momentarily tempted to use his Material State Energy field to dissipate the rapidly rising temperature in the surrounding air, but decided against it.  Energy management will be tricky soon enough, he thought.  It wasn't as if he carried biological cargo in any event.

The burning air soon cleared away as Pancake's descent continued; as he inverted his thruster pads, he could detect, at some distance, various batch siblings and other elements of the assault group.  Most had, like him, accelerated and left their escorts behind.  That had been the plan in any event; the Antica could not withstand a high speed drop, nor extreme reentry temperatures.  The Dragonflies would take a slower descent into atmosphere, use their superior speed to close the distance, the release its complement of Antica drones in mid-speed pass shortly after the Pangolin's crash stop.

However, few Pangolins were level with his altitude; the majority were Goliath class constructors.  Shaped roughly like a crab (with two parallel dorsal blisters running front to rear), the "Cthulu Crab" was massive, three times the size of a Pangolin.  Its lateral edges and dorsal blisters held four engines capable of reaching orbit unassisted; they each unfolded into extendable pincer claws when powered flight was no longer needed.  The massive scoop-like claws (and blast furnace engines they shielded) were equally suited to excavation of minerals as tearing down buildings.  They were also well suited to latching onto large capital ships (in simulated trials) and using its centrally mounted ultrasonic pulse laser to bore through armor and mountain alike with ease.  It was, however, only lightly armored: between four massive engines, secondary thrusters, cargo space for storing recovered minerals, weapon systems, swarms of nanite missiles to speed construction and deconstruction of structures, and nano factories there was little space (or load bearing capacity) for armoring.  As such, the Goliaths were nearly all on track to crash-stop in coastal waters, deal with oceanic pipelines and rigs, before proceeding on their eight pylon-like legs to naval bases, nuclear power plants, and population centers.  The non-compressible nature or water and its excellent energy absorption profile made a crash-stop maneuver in open waters much safer; the trade off was that one was generally quite far from the target.

Those Pangolins not performing a full crash-stop like Pancaked, or using their thrusters to actively decelerate for a completely controlled landing, would be performing a "cloud-stop", a nanite cloud assisted crash-stop.  Using their onboard weapon systems, those Pangolins would fire multiple slalvos at their designated landing site, releasing a large cloud of nanites.  Although each individual nano-scale machine had minimal mass for energy absorption, when multiplexed they were highly capable of absorbing and redirecting energy.  The cloud, intricately linked in three dimensional hexagonal structure, would act like a spongy cushion, reducing a falling Pangolin's speed to safe levels (assisted by the Pangolin's own thrusters in reverse) for landing in under 20 meters.  This method was well suited for dropping a Pangolin quickly onto an area with a large amount of surface material designated for deconstruction; the Pangolin's plunge would also serve to disperse a large nanite payload over a wide area surrounding the drop site.

The target area was drawing closer.  As expected, the military base had been ignored by the global missile strikes that had followed the sudden departure of the Ssi-ruhk.  This particular institute housed no ICBMs, no substantially store of fighting machines or supplies.  Although publicly it was listed as a training center for officers and drone warfare, it's actual purpose was to develop technologically advanced weapons and equipment, including "smart" drones capable of operating intelligently in a combat zone without supervision by human operators, designating airstrike targets, performing reconnaissance, and sabotaging high value infrastructure and equipment.  The base consisted of the normal residential and commercial areas to one side, and an airstrip, administrative offices, training field, and hangars to the other.  The base's research and testing facilities were located underground, nominally accessible from a restricted elevator in the main administrative building, leading to a secure underground rail car.  For safety, secondary shafts existed to ensure a flow of oxygen, as well as auxiliary access for maintenance and repairs.  Another, secret, entrance existed linking the residential complexes where command staff resided, and a third in the mall complex security lockers.

We're in the pipe, 5 by 5 (even though that is used incorrectly) [I love semi colons]

His name was "Pancaked My First Try."  It wasn't that his parents didn't love him; as an AIDE the issue of parentage and lineage was sometimes confusing and convoluted.  But in point of fact, he had chosen the name himself.  It was the most significant event in his early life and did as much to shape his personality as it would have his physical form if he had been in the physical world at the time.

Pancake was an AIDE and, in spite of which, felt like an intruder in the digital space; like an outsider who did not belong, he was keenly aware of being awed by the enormity of the digital construct, and of looking for telltale signs of the digital illusion's being.  He was even worried, though not yet paranoid, that other AIDE secretly rejected his presence.  It was deeply disconcerting.

He had expressed as much to the AIDE group a batch sibling had referred him to; a group fascinated by humans, by their quirks and eccentricities, by irrationality itself.  The digital convocation hadn't been difficult to find; it comprised nearly the entire AIDE population, and even quite a few DEhumans.  They essentially met non stop, with members joining or leaving as circumstances or commitments demanded, and analyzed and discussed data relating to emotions and irrational behavior and beliefs.  Pancaked had been a wellspring of interesting data for the group, earning him no small amount of digital cachet, and an active participant in discussions.

In point of fact, he was now inside his physical body, a Pangolin class MFC (mobile factory & carrier) in near Earth orbit.  It was perhaps, he felt, facetious to call it "his" body - all the Pangolins were identical, and he would be uploaded into a new one should this one be destroyed.  Indeed, there was no guarantee that he would be loaded into this particular unit in subsequent missions.  Yet, he felt a certain attachment to it, beyond it being his designated physical body type.

He duly recorded his sensations and observations for further discussion and analysis by the "Artificial Irrationality Group" (as they called themselves).  His first mission in the physical space was generating a large amount of interesting data.  For instance, he was keenly aware of the pull of gravity, despite the fact that  it would be several hours (earth local) before his orbit degraded in atmospheric entry (reentry? He'd thought. But I've never been there before.)  They would finish coordinating drop zones with his batch sibs long before then.  He sent a notification to the VIP in his cargo compartment, an AIDE avatar unit.

#Pancaked My First Try -> Lancer
-We'll be getting the order to commence atmospheric entry any moment now.  Anything I can do for you? Mats, nanites, munitions?

#Lancer (Caith) -> Pancaked My First Try
-5 by 5.  We're good on synthesis stock and munitions, no need to worry about us, thanks.  Have a good run!

#Lancer (Aidan) -> Pancaked My First Try
-We're ready anytime; don't worry, you'll do fine.

The problem was, Pancaked was worrying, in itself a disturbing irrationality.  Their target drop zone was a military research installation, a high priority target.  The strategists believed that a quick strike offered the best chance to neutralizing the target before any experimental technologies could be utilized to mount an effective defense, and to prevent other targets from being alerted; while many believed their new-found technological and material superiority would be overwhelming, they had all agreed to err on the side of caution - they knew from experience that technological superiority did not guarantee victory, and that life on Earth and humankind alike fought tenaciously and ingenuously to stay alive.

It had taken a moment for Pancaked to realize that both the AIDE copilot Caith and he DEhuman pilot Aidan had answered him (a quick diagnostic check showed no errors or malfunctions; peculiar!); he hadn't expected to hear from both.  Although the Autonomous, Intelligent, Digital Entity (AIDE) were faster and more precise in every way than their DEhuman counterparts, they were content to fill more rigorous copilot duties: checking radar, identifying targets, managing munitions and nanite swarms, coordinating communications, aiming and controlling smart wire, and any other tasks that required extremely fine control, fast reactions, and extreme computational speed.

The "Crash Stop" maneuver was one such example.  The Pangolins were like an armored, headless and tailless turtle; reconfigurable heavy armor plating, Material State Energy projectors , a pulse laser turret fore and aft, a pair of customizable heavy weapon mounts, a miniature nanite factory, and cargo compartments to store raw synthesis materials, nanites, and munitions (if needed).  It was a multi-purpose unit; in both space and terrestrial situations, the Pangolin was able to provide long range support; it could rearrange and extend its hexagonal armor plates to provide a shield wall or a bunker, further projecting a Material State Energy shield to protect a large area; it could construct and launch nano swarm projectiles that would break down material and allow the Pangolin to synthesize more swarms, more munitions, or support drones.  Where the arms and legs would be on a tortoise, the Pangolin has compressed ion thrusters; capable of providing thrust for hovering or exiting atmosphere, docking with asteroids, and limited space combat.  If the situation requires, the thrusters can be rotated 90 degrees to enable alternative modes of locomotion.

In a "Crash Stop", a Pangolin enters the atmosphere, dome downwards, and proceeds to fall at terminal velocity towards its designated drop zone.  At a range of 1 kilometer from impact, the Pangolin reverses thrust in a braking maneuver and extends its MSE field.  The MSE field serves as an energy dissipating barrier between the Pangolin and the ground, extending and diverting radially as the Pangolin continually presses against the field, creating an impact crater but (ideally) without impact.

Pancaked had learned first hand, in simulation, that it was not as simple in practice as it was in theory.

The Writing Process

Everyone does it differently.

This is something I knew going in, but hadn't fully grasped upon after starting.  I mean, usually you only deal with the end product; the book reports and essays and such you did in school, those "don't really count."  Because a paper is a paper and a book is a book, right?

I sure hope so, because I am not writing this thing the night before it is due.

It was something that really struck me after looking through some favorite authors' work; in this case, I was looking at the authors of The Tenth Planet, specifically Kathryn Rusch.  I've got the books in paperback, because this was from a time when mp3s were still A Big Deal Gosh Darn It, and while we wrote and read things on the computer screen, the idea of reading (or writing) a book on a computer screen seemed nonsensical.  What are you doing? we'd say.  Print that out.  (If you were my Chinese mother, you'd also make a comment about eyes being more valuable than trees).  The books dealt with... well, I guess I'm still within the statute of limitations for spoilers, so never mind.  But nanotech swarms are a feature of the storyline, so I wanted to brush up on that one again.  I remember liking the first book quite a lot, the second one not as much, and found the third and ending to be rather disappointing.

I know, I pretty much just jinxed myself right there.

Anyway, Rusch also has a number of novellas (which, as everyone knows, are female novels) out.  I was reading her foreword in a sample of a collection of novellas when it really hit me how different the process can be.  She was detailing her experience with a publisher who was hesitant to offer a deal because she had published short story versions previously in sci-fi magazines.  From there, she talked about her process, writing for a living universe, and how stories come together for her; listening to her characters, etc.

Previously, I'd been writing in Dream Weavers and had hit a pretty serious block - I didn't know my main character.  I couldn't decide on a name for him because I didn't know what kind of person he was.  Rather, he was presenting himself in a way that was completely at odds with my idea of him.  Young guys don't really act or talk in a film-noir sort of way.  There's a reason it's Mickey Rourke and Bruce Willis in Sin City and not, say, Justin Bieber and Ashton Kutcher.  Other aspects aside, you can't take them seriously acting in that sort of role because they simply look too young.

I already knew that for my two story concepts... well, that's the thing.  They are concepts.  I don't have some kind of timeline or flow chart or whatever else annotated before hand.  That worried me somewhat, because I had vague ideas of the story I wanted to tell, but no real clue of the players (and thus, their actions and motivations) in those stories.  Normally, I'd get hung up over that, blow it up into an insurmountable problem, and then just sit and sulk and never follow through on it (no really, I have practice).  Among the many things in life I'm trying to come to terms with, trying in spite of perceived obstacles is something I'm trying to become more comfortable with.

So I had stopped (could you tell?) for a while with vague plans to flesh out characters and motivations, and then just sort of smash everything together and see what happened.  Of course, that's not always so simple.  You come into a George RR Martin-esque sort of problem where you aren't necessarily sure how many characters you really need, and it all sort of spirals out of control (it is known).  And you know what? Coming up with names is REALLY GOD DAMN HARD.  I mean, it's hard enough when you have to pick an account name or forum name, or when you have to name your character online AND ALL THE GOOD ONES ARE TAKEN SO SCREW IT or you are playing an RPG and they are like, "hay, naming is hard, so name these four characters and all the other random guys you pick up along the way."

Except for me, it was getting to be like, Name this planet.  And it's solar system.  And it's dominant race.  And make a consistent naming convention for it's people.  And then name the galactic alliance they lead (the Ascendant Milieu and the Nihil (Cooperative), I'm really happy with those two, SO DON'T STEAL OR JUDGE).  Ok, Now do that again for like, the other 8 or 10 alien races you invented.  And then the human characters.  And the PDAI/AIDE (Personal Digital Artificial Intelligence / Autonomous Intelligent Digital Entity) assigned to each one.  And that was just for Digital Entities.

But I think you can see what I mean when I said sometimes problems run away from and grow into giant monsters that I can't seem to deal with.

With Dreamweavers, it's sort of an Alt-Earth scenario, so on the one hand, you have it easy because human names come pre-invented.  They have books of them, I'm told.  Indeed, everyone you know has one; sometimes more than one.  On the other hand, you can't sort of just rub your cat against the keyboard and call the result "Elvish" or whatever.  And picking names can be just as hard - especially last names, because I'm always encountering new ones on facebook, etc.  Like, wow that's a surname? And you don't want to call everyone "Smith."  And you want to pick the right name that sounds right, without being cheesy-obvious.  Like, John Stryker; he's a boxer.  No shit, really?

Anyway, Rusch was talking about how she'd write bits and pieces as they came to her... and they wouldn't necessarily be from/for the same story either.  It was an approach I hadn't fully considered, but which resonated with me.  But I do still need to define/describe my mains, give them names.  Then they can tell me what happens during the parts I don't know.

....I wrote all that, But basically all the important stuff was that one paragraph at the end.  Oh well.

As for the process... I'm always a little weird and particular about writing things.  Even when it came to term papers for law school (and yes, I did actually plan, research, and write a 20 page paper the night before it was due because I'm a moron, and shut up, it was excellent, it got an A-).  For me, I really like the kinesthetics of writing; I like to write by hand, on paper (preferably lined, yellow, legal pads) beforehand.  Usually I will use indentation-note taking style to outline what I want to say, fully writing in the parts I know with certainty.  This has been a habit for a long time; when I was in Japan and did a travelogue blog entry per day, I always wrote it out beforehand on paper, and then copied it onto digital format.  I did that for something like two months, each day, everyday (or equivalent thereof; sometimes It was a day or two before I got the post written and published, but there was an entry for each day is the point).

Right now I've got a little journal with all kinds of notes in it; it's a bit jumbled, because it has two stories worth of notes interspersed amongst each other, and also it's a little waterlogged from rain/Taiwan air.  I may have to transfer into two books, which is as good an excuse as any for my little-book-collecting habit.

Every Gundam Series Ever Explained*

Let's explain every Gundam series ever, because why not.

I will confess right off the bat however that I am an unashamed FAN of the anime and giant space robots in general, although not quite enough to build anything other than the chibi capsule toy ones.  Also, to my knowledge, only the most recent series "Gundam Build Fighters" breaks this plot pattern - but it also deviates widely as Gundams are not actually real in the series.  GBF centers around the pokemon-ing of plastic toy kits, as one would wish were true of real life.

So you've got "mobile suits" which, while mobile, are anything but suit-like.  These are giant (30-50 ft tall) walking, flying, sometimes transforming, robot space tanks.  Usually there's been war as a result, or there is still war going on.  Whatever.

But it's not enough to build the ultimate super weapon that can be mass produced; you have to build the Gundam.  The nigh invincible super robot space tank of legend.  It's usually fairly plain looking, designed somewhat like a WWI era soldier's kit.  Also no one seems to know why it's called Gundam.  Whatever.

So the military, or some secret organization, spends billions in resources to make this ONE super robot space tank.  Then some enemy attacks with better space robot tanks than the mass produced ones the good guys have.  So the only hope is GUNDAM.  Good thing they built it, causing the enemy to attack.  Maybe they should try to just talk it out? Whatever.

So, only one effective weapon, the Gundam, against hundreds of enemies.  It represents billions in resources and man hours to make.  It is the most advanced weapon ever.

They will give it to a kid (preteen to mid teens) pilot.  Because giving their only hope to a child who has no real conception of the real world, remains hopelessly idealistic, has no military training, no experience piloting a giant multi-ton walking space tank, is the last thing the enemy would think of, and therefore the best option.

Also, this super advanced walking robot space tank's best weapon is a sword (or some other 8th century weapon); it's best defense is a shield.  Like, a giant metal shield.  Attached to the arm.  So basically, if knights from medieval times rode around inside giant robots instead of on horses, and also they were entering puberty, that's Gundam.  Seriously, all the technology to make a self-powered, 30 foot tall, multi ton, flying, walking armored robot tank of annihilation, and the best weapon and defense they can invent is a sword and shield.  Sometimes it's not even an energy sword.  Come on.

But so that will fool the enemy for like, 5 minutes.  But then they just up and kidnap the kid, because he is a kid and they are adults, and that's pretty much how that works.  Sometimes the kid ends up fighting for the enemy, so good decision giving him your best weapon.

And then a lot of stuff explodes, and war is resolved.

Take Gundam-AGE for example (Advanced Gundam Evolution? Artificial Gundam Evolving? Fried Gundam?).  It takes place over the course of 3 generations.  Also, spoilers.

The very first gundam is made by the military with the help of a 11 year old kid.  Because his parents were awesome robot designers, and genetics.  But also they are dead, so the kid is better than nothing.  The kid is also traumatized from seeing his parents (and indeed, entire space colony) get killed in front of his eyes by dragon-alien robot tanks.  But they don't bother sending him to a psychiatrist or anything.

More dragon robots attack.  This kid is the only person who can pilot the gundam, the only one of its kind because it was that expensive.  I guess the military, desperate because all their weapons are totally ineffective at even scuffing the enemy, aren't desperate enough to take the KEY from the kid.  So ok, no training, no association to the military, no accountability, no maturity.... but he's got spirit!

So they have adventures.  It largely centers around the incredible AGE device that allows his gundam to improve.... incrementally.  Also, although it can improve the space carrier, it can't do anything for the mass produced suits that are more like the gundam than the space carrier.  Also, the army still sends people out in the mass produced suits, even though they literally do no damage and just explode.

Kid grows up, has a kid of his own.  Joins the military, builds an even better gundam, and then gives it to his kid because 1) nepotism, and 2) it's a proven track record.  Everything pretty much repeats.  The son has a child, and then goes off to join pirates.  So grandpa builds an even more betterer third gundam to give to the grandson, because two wrongs make a really awesome super robot space tank.

Grandson gets kidnapped and pretty much turns out to be an uber idealist.  And then they all blow up all technology, and everyone learns to get along.

Anyway, it all goes to prove, exciting battles between giant super robot space tanks trumps pretty anything.

Dream Effects

Dreams are interesting.  They are weird.  Like really weird.  One of the inspirations for writing a story about the world of dreams is to explore some of the weird phenomena of dreams that I (think I) have experienced (as well as the stranger content of some dreams).

One of the peculiar things I’ve experienced is re-runs: dreams that I have had before.  And which, by and large, have in the exact same manner each time: the same content, the same sequence, the same everything.  On the one hand, maybe this isn’t surprising.  The generally accepted explanation for dreams is the sub conscious accessing and processing of memories and current events.  So if you see the same things frequently, have the same worries and troubles, deal with the same sorts of crises or happenings on a regular basis, then it would stand to reason under this explanation that you would, at least occasionally, have the same dream as you had at an earlier time.  Moreover, as you experience a dream, you are using your brain (one hopes; unless dreams are some sort of extra dimensional, outer-self form of communication) and thus firing neurons and creating and reinforcing specific pathways.  In short, creating a memory.  It wouldn’t be surprising if from time to time a buried memory of this sort were stumbled upon, as it were, or if our subconscious attached greater significance to a dream-memory for whatever reason and thus it stayed in our active as well as long term memory in a manner wholly unlike our more common experience of forgetting dreams.

On the other hand, it’s really frickin’ weird.  For whatever reason, we don’t really seem to expect to retread dreams; every day is a new day, and as I lay me down to sleep, I am a different man each time.  Maybe not as much as I suppose?  But maybe that is just me; I can’t speak for the minds of others.  Perhaps there is a cultural element.  I don’t know.

And of course, it is perhaps suspect to know that we have had a dream before.  After all, it is well recognized I think that a common phenomenon to encounter in dreams is certain knowledge of a thing, despite waking knowledge to the contrary or appearances differing, often to a degree of absolute certainty that is rarely experienced in the waking world.  But I have as often had that revelation of prior dreaming after waking as I have had during; and when during, I find that elements of the dream can change with some conscious effort, and I know that these are changes, differences from a prior dreaming.

So I don’t really know what to make of that.

And the more cliché issues of not knowing whether something is a dream or not, those occur too.  But they can take different forms too.  I am sometimes unsure if a place actually exists or not; I could swear that I have been there, have detailed memories of doing so, but at the end of it all, can’t say for sure.  I remember looking for a place, feeling certain it I know which area it is in, but not knowing how to get to that area.  Knowing how a place in the real world looks and how a place in my memory looks, knowing they are contiguous, remembering why I was there, but then not really knowing if any of that was real because I can’t seem to find any of it again (or not being in a position to even try).  And all this occurs in the waking world.

That is infinitely more disturbing.  If you were merely uncertain whether you were, in the instant moment, dreaming or not, the question is largely of academic interest only.  What is more important in that situation is whether you will change the manner in which you behave or not; your perception shapes your reality and you still have certainty in what you perceive, and thus your reality.  But to have ambiguity after the dream, when you are awake, is a bit terrifying; it’s a fundamental inability to define your reality and distinguish it from fantasy.  The only saving grace is scale and importance of the ambiguity; if I can’t find a really interesting store or plaza, well who cares.  But that ambiguity remains scary until it can be resolved, one way or another.  Existence is in some ways like a house of cards (the saying rather, is that proof is like a house of cards; but we take it for granted, as well we ought, that we exist); if the foundational evidence is undermined, the whole thing collapses.  Perception defines our reality in the tangible and intangible sense.  If our perception is suspect to alteration, our reality is suspect.  And if our reality is suspect, then our very self and identity is suspect; we are the sum of our experiences and beliefs – in short our memories and those things shaped by our memories.

And I didn’t even get to “sleep paralysis” or the whole myth of waking up before you die in a dream (I have died in a dream more than once, but the most vivid instance being one of having been rendered helpless and then stabbed fatally… blacking out and existing in a black limbo before waking up).

Bullet Time

Clarity.  Certainty.  Conviction.  It possessed these traits.  Its existence was simple, short, but well defined with purpose.  There were no questions as to its abilities, no room for doubt in its ephemeral life, no equivocation in its assigned task.  The entirety of its life was embodied in one question: would it hit its target?  If it did, that was success.  It would explode shortly thereafter, delivering its payload to the designated target.  Whether this resulted in the destruction of the target, whether that hit saved another’s life, whether its actions brought about an end to the conflict sooner rather than later, these questions were beyond the scope of its life, and as such they were irrelevant.

Clarity.  Certainty. Conviction.  A hit was success, the ultimate fulfillment of its being, the ultimate meaning granted to its existence.

A miss, by contrast, was unforgivable.  A miss was failure.  A miss could not be undone.  It would lie somewhere, buried and useless; its entire existence objectively deemed a waste, from construction to execution.  There was no purpose in a fired bullet that missed its mark.  It would lay there, completely without use, capable only of analyzing and reanalyzing its abject failure.  The barest hope of being recovered and recycled was no comfort at all; better it should never have been made in the first place.  A miss was failure.  Failure was absolute.  Total and irredeemable.

It had no name – it had no need for one.  It blurred the line between simple projectile munitions and self-aware intelligence.  Yet there was no question to who or what it was.

Clarity.  Certainty.  Conviction.  A hit was success.  A miss was failure.  Failure was absolute.  It would not miss.

An ellipsoid cone with a pair of wing-like extrusions in the front, the micro-missile was essentially a futuristic arrowhead.  Its form was principally that of a wedge, an incline plane, one of the simplest machines any civilization discovers, consciously or otherwise.  Of course, most wedges weren’t self aware.

The micro missile considered the known information it had available – its default shape, mass, base coefficient of drag, aerodynamic flow and efficiency, and launch velocity.  It requested additional telemetry and information from its weapon systems control module.

Its world suddenly came to life in a flood of visual and mathematical data, its request being processed directly by the craft’s sensor suite.  It could see now that it was loaded in the recessed, dorsal mounted rail gun of a Sparrow hawk scout fighter.  The craft’s sleek, four-winged design was reminiscent of the micro-missile’s own form factor.  Numbers and vector lines appended visual elements, indicating that the Sparrow hawk was undergoing evasive maneuvers, dodging projectile fire from a hostile enemy craft.  The enemy craft was designated as its target; IFF (Identify Friend or Foe) transponders indicated no other secondary targets of opportunity to consider or allied craft to avoid.  Additional information began to clamor for attention; it devoured it all, adjusting its basic trajectory formula for temperature, pressure, gravity, atmospheric viscosity (wind resistance), turbulence, and the air flow gradient  within the engagement area.

It took into account the target’s movements over the pass 30 seconds to create a movement profile of the target and plotted primary and secondary trajectories, marking various points of committal where it would need to choose one path or another on the basis of the target’s motion.  Historical data on the target’s evasive capabilities and tendencies was unavailable – it would be the first round fired by the Sparrow hawk.  A miss was failure. Failure was absolute.  It would not miss.

As the Sparrow hawk came out of its evasive roll, the micro-missile felt the magnetic fields of the rail gun increase around it; the nearly inaudible purr of capacitors building charge and the subsequent burst of electromagnetic energy was like a blood thirsty war cry to the micro-missile.

Clarity.  Certainty.  Conviction.  A hit was success.  A miss was failure.  Failure was absolute.  It would not miss.

The complex field of data the micro-missile lived in began to change dramatically, but in accordance with all of its calculations and projections.  No corrections were required.  Target telemetry showed that the target had not yet reacted, indeed did not seem to be even moving at all.  The micro-missile committed to its primary trajectory; it began the extremely delicate operation of shifting its mass, altering the angle and thickness of its wings by mere molecules to impart a slight spin and lift.  It would make a slight dip, then spiral upwards at a 70⁰ angle off horizontal, directly into the underside of the enemy craft.  Tertiary and quaternary points of no return came and went.  The target had barely moved at all.

The micro-missile stuck: success.  And then things took a bizarre turn.

The design specifications for the micro-missile intended for the projectile to make contact with enemy armor and, as impact progressed, to explode.  The explosion would ideally cause the denser wings of the micro-missile to score the impact area with deep ridges, if not outright tear into the material itself and leave a wider tear in the armor.  This served two purposes.  First, it was intended to maximize damage to armor material and inhibit projection of Material State Energy fields by directly tearing apart the grapheme-conductor super weave (or equivalent) surface layer of the armor.  Without conductive pathways to project the energy in Material State shielding, the afflicted area became more vulnerable to subsequent attack.  Second, it increased the surface area of the weakened area.  Although the secondary effect seemed physically de minimis, it was in fact the more important of the two.  The explosive charge carried by the micro-missile was not intended to damage the target – it was too small.  Besides firing the wings as secondary projectiles, it would also  release and spread the payload: deconstructor nanites.  Increased surface area and weakened bonds increased the number of nanites that could simultaneously attack and the speed with which they could work towards breaching the armor, as well as self-replicate.  Unchecked they could dissolve a target, although in practice it took far too much time.  Weakening structural integrity at multiple points was the more practical approach.

At least that was the idea.  In this particular instance, it quickly became apparent that the micro-missile’s material composition was far stronger than the F-35 Lightning’s armor.  It impacted the underside of the fighter jet and pierced straight through without any appreciable slow down.  As the appropriate interval following impact passed without detonation, the micro-missile realized something was wrong.  A quick query to the Sparrow hawk’s sensors indicated a complete penetration; the micro-missile immediately detonated itself, just before impacting the far side of the chassis.