Soldier
Page 45
I left the corner and circled around the buildings, moving as silently as I could, keeping the walls between myself and the Order. When I reached the back of the warehouse, I slid in through an open window and picked my way across the concrete until I found a flight of metal stairs leading to the second floor. Silently, I ascended the steps, muzzle of the M4 leading the way. The staircase took me to a hall and a row of ancient doors sitting across from each other. All closed tight...except for one.
I crept down the hall, praying the floorboards wouldn’t creak and give me away, and peered into the room. There was a soldier kneeling at a boarded-up window, the barrel of a sniper rifle poking through the cracks, his attention riveted on the building across from us.
My stomach knotted, but I took a steady breath and raised my gun, aiming for the back of his head. But as my finger tightened on the trigger, I shifted my weight and the boards under me let out a traitorous squeak. The sniper whirled from the window, hard gaze settling on me, and I was staring into a pair of familiar blue eyes.
Tristan.
DANTE
I stood on the mezzanine, gazing at the floor below, watching a pair of identical humans kick, punch and pummel each other relentlessly.
“They’re getting much better,” Dr. Olsen murmured beside me, sounding impressed. I didn’t answer, continuing to watch the fight. Or, “sparring,” as Mace called it. I wasn’t so sure. I’d seen sparring matches before, in boxing or the organized cage fights on television. Yes, they were fairly savage, with both opponents doing their best to beat or choke the other guy into unconsciousness. But there were rules and referees, and though I’d seen some pretty gruesome injuries, no one was in danger of actually dying. If one person conceded, tapped out or was knocked senseless, the other backed off and the fight was over. Everyone understood that.
The vessels, though, didn’t get that concept. They stopped only when Mace ordered them to stop. Usually this happened at a clear victory point, when one opponent took a vicious blow that left him reeling, or when the other had him in some kind of hold or lock he couldn’t get out of. But I’d never seen a vessel voluntarily back off, and that worried me. How far would they go to follow orders? I felt I had to know, but at the same time, I was afraid of the answer.
Fear is counterproductive, Dante. It’s your responsibility to know exactly what your projects are capable of, in every aspect.
Ms. Sutton, the lead programmer for the vessels’ behavioral conditioning, suddenly winced. One of the fighters had lashed out with a high roundhouse kick, catching the other in the temple. It staggered back, nearly insensible, and Mace stepped forward to stop the match.
“No!” I called. He looked at me sharply, and I held up a hand. “Let them continue,” I ordered. “We need to know how far they’ll go before they stop on their own.”
Mace’s jaw tightened, but he nodded and backed off. Without an order to desist, the first vessel pursued his opponent across the ring and, though the other was clearly injured, slammed a right hook into his jaw, sending him crashing to the cement.
I gritted my teeth, clamping down on the order to stop the fight, forcing myself to keep watching. The injured vessel tried to get to his feet, but his opponent kicked him viciously in the ribs, knocking him onto his back. As I watched, the first vessel pounced on his downed victim, straddled his chest and started raining blows onto his face.
Mace looked at me, clearly asking if he should put an end to this. I shook my head. The injured vessel tried to shield his face at first, but several blows got through, knocking him unconscious. His head fell back, his arms flopping to the side. And still, the savage beating continued unhindered, the other vessel’s face blank and emotionless as he smashed his fists into his opponent’s unprotected face again and again. Blood appeared on his knuckles, spattered across his face and chest, and my stomach started to heave.
“All right,” I finally called, when it was clear the vessel wasn’t going to stop on his own. “That’s enough!”
Mace strode forward. “Halt!” he barked, his voice booming in the vastness of the room. “Cease-fire, soldier.”
The vessel froze instantly. Lowering his arms, he rose and stepped away from the body, his eyes still as blank as ever. Blood covered his face in vivid streaks, and his knuckles were stained red, but it was nothing compared to the mess that was the other dragon. I felt sick and couldn’t look directly at its face as Mace walked up and knelt beside the body.
“Is it...all right?” Dr. Olsen called, sounding ill, as well. Mace grunted and stood up.
I crept down the hall, praying the floorboards wouldn’t creak and give me away, and peered into the room. There was a soldier kneeling at a boarded-up window, the barrel of a sniper rifle poking through the cracks, his attention riveted on the building across from us.
My stomach knotted, but I took a steady breath and raised my gun, aiming for the back of his head. But as my finger tightened on the trigger, I shifted my weight and the boards under me let out a traitorous squeak. The sniper whirled from the window, hard gaze settling on me, and I was staring into a pair of familiar blue eyes.
Tristan.
DANTE
I stood on the mezzanine, gazing at the floor below, watching a pair of identical humans kick, punch and pummel each other relentlessly.
“They’re getting much better,” Dr. Olsen murmured beside me, sounding impressed. I didn’t answer, continuing to watch the fight. Or, “sparring,” as Mace called it. I wasn’t so sure. I’d seen sparring matches before, in boxing or the organized cage fights on television. Yes, they were fairly savage, with both opponents doing their best to beat or choke the other guy into unconsciousness. But there were rules and referees, and though I’d seen some pretty gruesome injuries, no one was in danger of actually dying. If one person conceded, tapped out or was knocked senseless, the other backed off and the fight was over. Everyone understood that.
The vessels, though, didn’t get that concept. They stopped only when Mace ordered them to stop. Usually this happened at a clear victory point, when one opponent took a vicious blow that left him reeling, or when the other had him in some kind of hold or lock he couldn’t get out of. But I’d never seen a vessel voluntarily back off, and that worried me. How far would they go to follow orders? I felt I had to know, but at the same time, I was afraid of the answer.
Fear is counterproductive, Dante. It’s your responsibility to know exactly what your projects are capable of, in every aspect.
Ms. Sutton, the lead programmer for the vessels’ behavioral conditioning, suddenly winced. One of the fighters had lashed out with a high roundhouse kick, catching the other in the temple. It staggered back, nearly insensible, and Mace stepped forward to stop the match.
“No!” I called. He looked at me sharply, and I held up a hand. “Let them continue,” I ordered. “We need to know how far they’ll go before they stop on their own.”
Mace’s jaw tightened, but he nodded and backed off. Without an order to desist, the first vessel pursued his opponent across the ring and, though the other was clearly injured, slammed a right hook into his jaw, sending him crashing to the cement.
I gritted my teeth, clamping down on the order to stop the fight, forcing myself to keep watching. The injured vessel tried to get to his feet, but his opponent kicked him viciously in the ribs, knocking him onto his back. As I watched, the first vessel pounced on his downed victim, straddled his chest and started raining blows onto his face.
Mace looked at me, clearly asking if he should put an end to this. I shook my head. The injured vessel tried to shield his face at first, but several blows got through, knocking him unconscious. His head fell back, his arms flopping to the side. And still, the savage beating continued unhindered, the other vessel’s face blank and emotionless as he smashed his fists into his opponent’s unprotected face again and again. Blood appeared on his knuckles, spattered across his face and chest, and my stomach started to heave.
“All right,” I finally called, when it was clear the vessel wasn’t going to stop on his own. “That’s enough!”
Mace strode forward. “Halt!” he barked, his voice booming in the vastness of the room. “Cease-fire, soldier.”
The vessel froze instantly. Lowering his arms, he rose and stepped away from the body, his eyes still as blank as ever. Blood covered his face in vivid streaks, and his knuckles were stained red, but it was nothing compared to the mess that was the other dragon. I felt sick and couldn’t look directly at its face as Mace walked up and knelt beside the body.
“Is it...all right?” Dr. Olsen called, sounding ill, as well. Mace grunted and stood up.
