One With The Light
No bullets. No hope. She ran down the corridor, without seeing where she was going, without even thinking.
‘Oh God,’ whimpered Simmons. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh, no, no, no—’
And that was the last she heard of him.
It was behind her, she was sure – the thing that used to be Sergeant Booker, before his visor had cracked. She’d learned about this in her history class at school. During the three-year rebellion of the Mountain, when the facility had tried to take Paradise out of Earth’s domination, one of the many weapons that had been used were nano-spores – tiny machines that hijacked the victim’s nervous system, turned them into meat-puppets.
They should have been inactive. It had always been too expensive to finally clean up the place (and, besides, nobody wanted to disturb the oh-so-fascinating baubles the archaeologists liked to play with), but all the most dangerous stuff should have been turned off two hundred years before. Jo was a glorified security guard, and this was total-war tech.
She rounded a corner and nearly ran into a fighting machine, all made of chrome spikes. It looked at her with a flattened face, and it moved like water being poured from a jug. She was too close, and besides, the Booker-thing was right behind her.
‘Oh, Hell,’ she said, too tired to fight.
Do not be afraid, it said, and its arm shot out over her shoulder. There was a crunch as it made contact with what was left of the sergeant.