***Wings…this is bad…executing Directive 11101.664…all parameters loaded…Wings, I can’t…something’s happening…no control…my own commands are…executing Prime Key Directives 3399 through 5590 in sequence…Johnny, this has never…I’m trying to safe my effectors but I’ve lost control…shutdown peripherals…Command Sequence 1198 enable…initializing***
Johnny Winger didn’t know it but the Dana bot residing inside his limbic system no longer operated under autonomous self-command. Deeply buried program sequences had been activated. A steady stream of nearly undetectable quantum signals had overridden all system inhibits and taken control of her main processor. The signals had activated her own configuration controller, flooded her system buffers, and forced the remnant bots in Winger’s head to seize certain key motor neuron networks. Normal signal flow was interdicted and shunted off to an innocuous holding file. Routine neural traffic was diverted.
Johnny Winger now lay prostrate in his hypersuit, nearly paralyzed but for spasmodic tremors that enveloped his entire body, the residual effects of this change in command at the top. He could still breathe. He had thoughts that he was reasonably sure were his own. His could still move a few fingers with great effort, but the inhibits on his own will were growing stronger by the moment. Bit by bit, nerve axon by axon, the Dana bots were replicating under new orders and taking control of more and more of his cerebral cortex, every layer of striated tissue switching over, plugging into new connections, all of it smoothed out by subtle alterations in dopamine and glutamate flow between nerve nets.
Winger knew there was no way he could fight this himself. He had been hopping and boosting across the moonscape along Sector 7 like a demented kangaroo, toward the southeast edge of Copernicus crater and upon reaching his target coordinates, he was going to use the intel pack on the back of his suit to sweep up every emission and signature and signal he could grab from the Chinese base.
But his fingers were now nearly paralyzed. With his last shred of willpower, he reached his right index finger toward the emergency beacon on his wristpad and stabbed it. Then he flicked out his tongue, activating a comm circuit inside his helmet.
His voice was weak and hoarse. “Any station…CC1 calling any station…I am down and injured…sector seven on the edge of Copernicus…requesting assistance…CC1 calling any station….”
The signal went out just as the first of the Dana bots leaped from his tear ducts and exited his head, buzzing around inside his hypersuit helmet like a horde of angry bees.