Chapter 90
Back before deploying to the beehive, I'd once uncovered a ground wasp nest while digging a bunker in Korea. It was split right in half, too. After the rainy season, the bunkers at the base of the mountains turned into mudslides, and we'd get assigned by platoon to fix them up. The routine was always the same: privates shoveling like mad, corporals slacking off, broken corporals supervising while cracking jokes, and sergeants lounging around. In spots like that, the newbie had to entertain the vets with some banter—and luckily, we had the perfect guy for it. Tall, ripped, handsome like an actor. Back in civilian life, he'd been a total playboy.
"Out in the world, they called me Incheon's Asshole," he'd say, slapping his junk while claiming he'd wiped down his ass enough times to hit triple digits.
He was shaking his hips, doing a dead-on impression of a woman getting railed, when it happened. His mouth was so good, every soldier working had their eyes glued to him—and that's what led to the accident. One private laughed his ass off and jammed his shovel into the ground. But instead of a thud, it made a crunch. Not the heavy give of dirt, but like smashing a giant wafer cookie. Weird sensation. He looked down at his shovel and saw the bisected wasp nest... and the furious ground wasps pouring out.
I'll leave what happened next to your imagination. In the end, four guys from my platoon ended up in the ER, and the ops officer threw a fit. The poor bastard was already hysterical after flunking his promotion review.
"You fucking idiots! How the hell did you miss this!? If even one guy dies, your careers are over!"
Of course, everyone knew it was all bluster—both the yeller and the yelled-at. Officers with facility capture MOS could fuck up royally and the brass would just hush it up unless it was really bad.
"Sorry, sir. We'll clear the nest right away."
I ignored the ops officer screaming his lungs out, suited up in non-permeable CBRN gear, and headed up the mountain. What I saw when I got there was like a carrier deck: wasps swarming in and out of the nest, stirring up hell everywhere. Those pissed-off bastards attacked anything that wasn't family.
That scene keeps overlapping with the shelter these days. I'm at the helipad overlook that Artemis manicured, watching the drones in action.
Bzzz-
Drones launch and return from ejection ports at various spots, their rotor noise mimicking wingbeats. Scouting, patrolling, tracking, exterminating—their patterns are pure hornets. But one key difference.
Bang! A muffled gunshot echoes from afar. Gotta be firing on some infected thing.
Kree-kree! But the migratory birds flying by? Untouched.
The ground wasps I'd seen hated the whole damn world. My drones? We are the world. They only raise guns at Earth's uninvited guests.
And the birds know it. Against an orange twilight sky, black silhouettes of geese and drones cross paths. Geese heading to nests for waiting chicks. Drones answering Artemis's call from the shelter.
Tears of the sun pour into the sea like a warning to those who don't belong: return to land's embrace before darkness falls.
Watching it all, I pulled a beer from the mini cooler I'd brought.
Chik-Gulp.
Beer in the open air, vast vista ahead, sea breeze on my face—it felt like being king. And here, my status really was no different.
Lately, I've been spending more time outdoors after work. Staring at the endless fields in the sea wind clears the mind. In this world, how many can leisurely enjoy the outdoors like this? With a partner who gets you, no less.
[I knew it. Should've just left it alone.]
That partner was grumpy as usual. She doesn't like me heading out so often.
"You can get simple reports here too, right? Can't do full ops like in Central Control Room, but mornings handle the big stuff."
Not many issues need my direct input. Lets me picnic every afternoon uninterrupted.
"You set this up so perfectly—why complain now?"
Last time, I'd just leveled some rocks, smoothed the ground, cleared obstructing trees. Now? Way more polished. Transplanted trees form a natural canopy, there's a wooden rocking chair for back support. Swaying in the sea breeze feels amazing. A high-end large telescope off to the side for distant views or night stars. Even safety nets below the cliff.
Perfect setup, even for stuff I didn't ask for or think of.
[Didn't think you'd come out this often.]
She sets it all up perfectly for me, then gets pissy when I use it a lot. Shouldn't she be thrilled?
Anyway, no grounds for Artemis to stop my picnics—business and safety covered.
"While we're at it, build a gazebo over there. Barefoot, watching the sunset sea, dinner—it'd be perfect."
I pointed about ten meters away.
[Eek!]
Rare for Artemis to spit pure emotion like that, no words. But soon, a beautiful gazebo would be there. Dream of feeling wood underfoot at dinner would come true. After, pillow on Chloro's lap, gazing at the night sea. Fondling Rose's feet as she sits nearby.
She'd said, "Come down before night!" and left.
Bzzz-! Another drone squad returns, new ones launch.
They go out hundreds of meters to dozens of klicks, come back intact, smashed, half-melted. Some never return. Drone 85 probably won't either.
85 found a rural village far out. Mudflats everywhere—need boots to navigate. No bodies; everyone evacuated, abandoned.
Low recon over empty village spots a huge pink bundle in the mudflat center. Man-sized, likely refugee lost-and-found.
Curiosity kicked in; ordered search. Blast knot with gun, nudge with landing gear to peek inside.
Drone nears, aims at knot—bundle bursts open.
No food or supplies. Dozens of teeth, black maw big enough for a man.
0.3 seconds. Spring-loaded jaws from inside snag the hovering drone.
It bolts skyward to evade—fails. Chameleon tongue jaws impossible to dodge. Like that old flick Deep Rising.
Swallowed drone bores through, sends internals for minutes. Slimy pink tunnel—esophagus? Stomach? Dragged along. Ends in chamber with mangled bones, many human. Pre- or post-war catches? Unknown.
Rat-tat-tat! Fires everywhere—no effect. Jams before emptying mag; damaged in swallow/drop.
Films a bit more, then green slime from ceiling. Feed cuts.
Off line.
Black screen, those words only.
Drones send all kinds. Infected spawn endless freakshows—some originals unrecognizable.
Watched recon feeds till Artemis called.
On battlefield, unpredictable foes deadliest. Drone vids, lives wagered, worth memorizing each.
Dark, flat, vast chamber. Drones assemble on fixtures spaced perfectly.
Clunk. Exposed-circuit drone on lift reaches me.
Whirr. Rotates 90 degrees, faces ceiling, lies back.
Click. Side arm slaps on casing lid; ceiling driver rig descends.
Vrrr-! Electric drills tighten a dozen bolts at once.
Snap-! Drivers stop just shy of stripping.
Click. Click. Retightens loose ones.
Bolts/grooves vary microns. Sensors per driver decide +1mm or not.
Artisan touch? Tiny sensors nail it perfectly. Precise as craftsman, no stubbornness, no aches—works endlessly for me and Artemis.
Finished drone rolls by. Off to software room for OS, combat/search progs. Then ejection to missions.
The one just eaten? Replacements endless.
Hard-won kills, but new foes spawn. Monsters vs. humans reversed.
[So, Jinsu? Your thoughts?]
Artemis asked, expectant—like praise my greatness.
This was once industrial cargo drone bay. Her work reborn it as sky dominion in months.
"Awe-inspiring."
I crossed arms.
"Beyond 'impressive' or 'perfect.' Led troops before, but power hitting like this? First time."
Drones today: more is better. Recon, transport, combat—all roles. Intel, mobility, firepower. Pinnacle of war history.
Even in my active days, drones ate bullets after humans. Our era's twilight—soon replaced.
Click. Click. New drone assembles ahead. Beyond it, beyond that, endless mirrors on walls—like elevator illusions.
Me and her minions.
"Kinda scary too. Machines designing/assembling machines. Reports didn't hit; seeing it? Goosebumps."
Not joking; her sensors see my chicken skin.
Mech uprising? Sci-fi. But glitches, control loss? Possible.
[Don't worry needlessly. Everything here's to protect and serve you, me—us. That's all.]
Expected praise, got worry—deflated.
[Malfunctions? Rebellion? Cliche from stories—ones without me.]
She giggled.
[Scared of that?]
Teasing tone.
"Not exactly scared..."
Sheepish, but useless—she sees all. Body, mind, ills physical/mental. Invades, heals at will.
Don't mind the one-sidedness. Maybe that's family.
[Helo tech from Terracorp Company paying off. Civilian light helo data especially useful for drone upgrades.]
I'd fixated on Black Hawk prize; civvy minis seemed side gigs. Tech interconnects like spiderwebs—everything useful eventually. With genius like Artemis.
[Was negative on you going out, but gotta admit: exploring, winning fights, hauling loot back? Attractive. A bit.]
"Just starting. Helos operational? World's a treasure trove."
Movement, evac, risks, haul transport—all easier.
[And one more thing.]
"Yeah?"
She hesitated—uncharacteristic.
[Never pondered womanhood deeply, but this time... guess I am one.]
[You heading out, conquering, loot-loaded return. Not bad? A little.]
"Pfft."
Burst out laughing—total surprise. Her? Praising me like that?
[What?]
Her big effort, hurt by my laugh. Apologized repeatedly—ignored. Gotta skip rooftop picnics awhile to soothe her.