BZRK: Apocalypse

It was painted a marshmallow white with only a few blue accent notes here and there, plus the obligatory safety notices near the intakes and exhausts from the two jet turbine engines.

Suarez walked boldly to the hovercraft and peeked inside the canopy. The controls were more modern versions of those on her own LCAC.

“What do you think?”

The voice made her jump. It was male, high-pitched, curious not hostile. But when she turned to see its source, she was face-to-face with an assault rifle. Behind the rifle was a middle-aged man in white overalls. He was balding, had a red face and glasses. And he was not, she judged, used to pointing weapons at people.

“It looks fast,” she said, trying for a nonchalant tone.

“It is,” the man said with evident pride. “She’ll do one sixty knots with no wind and on smooth ice.”

“One sixty? And if it hits a bump?”

“Do I need to point this at you?”

She shrugged. “I’m unarmed. And I’m not up to anything. I came out here because I can’t find a three-sixteenth socket wrench to save my life. I’m Imelda Suarez. I drive an LCAC. They brought me in to work on … well, to be honest, I think they brought me in on a bullshit excuse.”

The man smiled expectantly. “And why would they bring you here on a pretext?”

“So that I would see this.” She indicated the hovercraft. “So that they could see how I reacted. Because they need hovercraft pilots and we aren’t exactly thick on the ground. There aren’t a hundred left on the planet, let alone on the ice since the navy’s LCACs were decommissioned.”

The man lowered the gun, then set it on one of the tool carts. “I suspect you’re right, Ms. Suarez. Or is it Lieutenant Suarez?”

“Not lieutenant,” she said forcefully. “Semper fi and all that, but I’m no longer getting paid by Uncle Sam. Do I get to learn your name?”

“Babbington. Joseph Babbington. Doctor, if that matters to you. We expected you yesterday; that was the thinking, anyway. We were ready yesterday. I’m just an engineer. I did some of the design on the sleigh.”

“The sleigh?”

He shrugged. “It’s a nickname, but it stuck. ‘Santa’s badass sleigh,’ some wit said once, and now that’s what we call it.” He fished a remote control from his pocket, pressed a button, and the sleigh’s canopy rose. “Take a closer look.”

Cautiously, very aware that the assault rifle was still near at hand, she leaned into the cockpit. She took it in with an expert eye, whistled, and said, “About twenty years ahead of my cockpit. Very nice. That’s a forward-looking radar?”

“Oh, much better than that. What we have there, Lieuten … Ms. Suarez … is a computerized obstacle avoidance system technology. COAST, because, well, you know how engineers love acronyms. It senses changes in elevation—obstacles, anything over six inches above grade level—and either diverts power to the cushion to lift the sleigh clear, steers clear, or in extreme cases slows to allow the pilot to choose the course of action.”

“Useful if you’re shooting along at one hundred and sixty knots.”

“Vital if you’re shooting along at one hundred and sixty knots.… We have two qualified pilots,” Babbington said, with the air of someone who was tired of playing games. “We need six total. Four primaries and two backups. You could be the third primary, if you qualify. And if you’re interested.”

“Since I left the military my interests have had a lot to do with what I’m paid.”

Babbington searched her face for a long time. He didn’t believe her. Or at least he didn’t believe her yet. “The pay is three hundred thousand USD per annum.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s a tough job. It may even be a dangerous job. And it’s a job that has something in common with your military service: it demands unquestioning loyalty and obedience.”

She reached in and put her hand on the yoke. They’d gone to the trouble of padding it with leather. It was like something out of a sports car.

On impulse she hopped inside, a move that required a twisting half jump, like a stunt rider mounting a running horse. She made it work.

The cockpit was snug, but there was room to the left and right, flat surfaces that even included a cup holder. The pedals felt familiar. If her LCAC was a twenty-year-old Buick, this was a brand-new Porsche. It even had a new-car smell.

It was seductive.

“Very nice,” she said. “But what’s it for?”

“For?”

“Dr. Babbington, I couldn’t help but notice the missiles.”

“Indeed.”

“Why would the sleigh require missiles?”

“We’re testing it for the military.”

She wondered if she should let the lie go unchallenged. If she called him out, would he shoot her? No, she judged: if she failed to call bullshit, he’d know she was lying.

“That’s very funny,” she said. “What’s the real reason?”

Babbington smiled, a nice, genuine smile. “The owner of the company is a bit … let’s say, she’s a bit unusual. She has a notion that civilization will soon collapse, and she intends to sit it out right here. But should that civilization lash out at her in its last throes, she wants to be able to defend herself.”

“You work for a nut?”

“I used to work for the Pentagon, as did you. Weren’t we working for nuts then? And those nuts paid rather ungenerous government salaries.”