BELLATRIX BARRACKS
0148 HOURS
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Before being used as a scientific research center, Bellatrix had served as a weapons warehouse for the Army, and its structure still gave away its former purpose. The facilities were mostly underground, leaving landing strips, hangars, and the hatches that led personnel into the barracks on the surface; all surrounded by a quadrangular concrete wall with four watchtowers at each vertex.
Bellatrix was reminiscent of a medieval castle, fused with futuristic technology such as the laser cannons mounted on its towers, or the antenna circuit: metal poles arranged in a spiral around the base.
On that stormy night, the antenna circuit had stopped working and one of the building’s towers had just become a pile of rubble, from which fire and smoke rose so thick that not even the rain could dispel it.
On the ruins of the tower lay an overturned war tank, burning in flames; its barrel bent, and its track wheels detached, as if someone had calculated with mathematical precision the exact force required for an explosion to hurl such a machine through the air and smash it against the brick column.
The scarlet shield of the Markabian Imperial Army, which had been displayed atop the tower, lay in tatters on the ground, covered by the rain. The image of the noble white Pegasus, with its wings made of laurel wreaths, was so fragmented that it was impossible to recognize it.
And the one behind that chaos peered over the mountain of rubble. He stepped onto the huge burning tank, and from there, took in the glowing trails of devastation, the firelight cast onto the airstrip, and the puddles of water churning with the storm, ignoring the dancing sparks that scorched the hems of his dark jumpsuit and his purple raincoat. The devil himself, out of hell.
The A60-R8 had arrived, and so announced that continuous battle horn that was the alarm. With that single red eye, he looked around with a conqueror’s steadfastness, as if he were about to plant a flag and claim that place as his own; then he went down using the concrete pieces as a stairway and entered the inner courtyard of the barracks.
Suddenly, there were endless clicks and clacks; the noise of weapons getting loaded. And, for the first time, he stopped.
Fifteen D02 model Cyclops androids, all dressed in their work jumpsuits and armed with rifles, had surrounded him. A bunch of circular red visors, glowing like brake lights, pointed against an old model. Rain snapped on their bald metal heads and trickled down their flat, empty features.
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“Unidentified Cyclops,” one of them called to the invader in that synthetic voice; “please report your license code or surrender to be dismantled.”
Nothing.
The invader stepped forward.
“Unidentified Cyclops, if you continue going further, you will be eliminated,” warned another android.
The A60 in a raincoat took another step. The other Cyclops in jumpsuits pulled the triggers, and the shots flared into the night. The ammunition fell to the ground without causing a dent in the enemy. The bullets either bounced off his solid silicone and metal muscles or they were slowed down by some invisible padding that knocked them to the ground as bumblebees struck down by an insecticide.
There was a lightning crackling, then a flash of energy, and the automatons sparked as if they had undergone a collective short circuit and began to burst one after the other. Pieces of metal and traces of silicone that looked like transparent human flesh flew everywhere, along with scraps of fabric, spurts of oil, and clouds of smoke and gas.
More Cyclops arrived, although this time they didn’t even have time to target their enemy with the rifles. It was enough for them to get in contact with that invisible electromagnetic field the invader gave off around him, to suffer the same fate as the previous group.
Until the flesh-and-blood soldiers finally showed their faces and stood in front of the enemy, armed with rifles, even larger and more imposing than those used by automatons.
The Cyclops stopped again as if waiting for the soldiers to set aside.
“Remember the Criminalistics report,” said one of them to his comrades; “it may be shorted and with its Directive 001 disabled.”
“What’s the matter, you damn machine?!” a soldier tempted him.
“He’s out of battery!” laughed another one, albeit with more anxiety than humor.
And then they opened fire. The shots flared once again in the night, and this time, they were laser shots.
But the A60 slid through the wind with the subtlety of a glider and evaded every disc of light. As agile as an acrobat, he whirled through the air, stepping over the guards and taking them out one by one with flashes of energy. The soldiers collapsed in a sinister domino effect.
The invader returned to the ground, and with the pride of a king, advanced toward the nearest gate of the base. Behind him, the storm washed the blood of the fallen.
A soldier ran up the stairs of one of the barracks’ towers; up there was a huge cannon that still looked intact but had stopped firing. Upon arriving at the top, he found the android operating the cannon with a hole in his chest and no head. He pushed it aside, sat in front of the cannon controls, took aim at his enemy, who was about to enter through gate C, and fired.
The cannon spat out a projectile that went straight to its target, leaving smoke rings on its way and a hiss that grew louder and louder.
The A60 detected it coming from the rear; he turned around and spotted it in midair. The missile burst halfway through without being hit by anything; at least, anything visible.