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  Counterattack

  Copyright © 2001 by Sigmund Brouwer. All rights reserved.

  Previously published as Mars Diaries Mission 7: Countdown and Mars Diaries Mission 8: Robot War under ISBNs 0-8423-4310-5 and 0-8423-4311-3.

  Counterattack first published in 2009.

  Cover image copyright © by Digital Vision Ltd. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Mark Anthony Lane II

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  For manufacturing information regarding this product, please call 1-800-323-9400.

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Brouwer, Sigmund, date.

  Counterattack / Sigmund Brouwer.

  p. cm. — (Robot wars ; bk. 4)

  Previously published separately in 2001 as Mars Diaries, Mission 7: Countdown; and Mars Diaries, Mission 8: Robot War.

  Summary: In the first of two adventures set in 2040, fourteen-year-old, wheelchair-bound, virtual reality specialist, Tyce Sanders, finds himself in grave danger on his first trip to Earth, and in the second, Tyce must use all his skills to find a way to stop the slaughter of the governors of the World United Federation.

  ISBN 978-1-4143-2312-1 (softcover)

  [1. Science fiction. 2. Robots—Fiction. 3. People with disabilities—Fiction. 4. Virtual reality—Fiction. 5. Christian life—Fiction.] I. Brouwer, Sigmund, date. Mars diaries. Mission 7, Countdown. II. Brouwer, Sigmund, date. Mars diaries. Mission 8, Robot war. III. Title.

  PZ7.B79984Cou 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2009016771

  * * *

  Printed in the United States of America

  17 16 15 14 13 12 11

  8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  THIS SERIES IS DEDICATED IN MEMORY OF MARTYN GODFREY.

  Martyn, you wrote books that reached all of

  us kids at heart. You wrote them because you

  really cared. We all miss you.

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  We live in amazing times! When I first began writing these Mars journals, not even 40 years after our technology allowed us to put men on the moon, the concept of robot control was strictly something I daydreamed about when readers first met Tyce. Since then, science fiction has been science fact. Successful experiments have now been performed on monkeys who are able to use their brains to control robots halfway around the world!

  Suddenly it’s not so far-fetched to believe that these adventures could happen for Tyce. Or for you. Or for your children.

  With that in mind, I hope you enjoy stepping into a future that could really happen. …

  Sigmund Brouwer

  CONTENTS

  Journal One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Journal Two

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Science and God

  Journal One: Are You an Alien?

  Journal Two: Is It Right to Manipulate Life?

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Neuron rifles.

  Twenty soldiers—in full protective gear, including black uniforms, black helmets, dark mirrored visors—each held a rifle aimed directly at my head. The voltage of just one neuron rifle would cripple me with the pain of an electrical jolt through the nerve pathways of my body.

  But 20 neuron rifles fired at me all at once? With the nerve pathways too scrambled to give instructions to my muscles, I wouldn’t even be able to scream as I died.

  Each of those soldiers followed my slow progress by keeping me in the sights of their weapons. I had nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

  Only moments earlier, the robot that carried me in its arms had arrived to take me out of my prison cell. I’d grabbed my comp-board—my fold-up laptop computer—in the few seconds I had to gather my belongings. I had left behind my wheelchair from Mars, since it was useless. The prison officials had removed its wheels on the remote chance I’d find a way to escape. Now as the robot wheeled down the wide, white corridor of this military prison, the soldiers surrounded me, front and back.

  Carried as I was by the robot, I felt like a baby. Worse, if the robot set me down, the best I’d be able to do was crawl by using my arms to pull me forward. I was without my wheelchair, and after a lifetime on Mars, I struggled with the extra gravity on Earth.

  The squeak of the robot’s wheels provided a steady backdrop to the soft thumping of the soldiers’ footsteps in the quiet of the corridor. None of the soldiers spoke. I wondered if they would fire without warning. I wondered how long they would let the robot continue to take me away from my prison cell. I wondered why they had let me go this far.

  I wondered where I was going. And why.

  All I knew was that the robot had appeared as my prison cell door opened, and from the speakers of the robot, a familiar but mechanical-sounding voice had instructed me to sit up from my bunk so the robot’s arms could lift me. I had trusted that voice.

  And now I was here.

  With all those neuron rifles ready and able to kill me in the worst way possible.

  I didn’t even know why I’d been put in this prison. Two days ago, Chase Sanders, my dad and the pilot of the Moon Racer spaceship, my friend Ashley, and I had arrived from Mars—where I had been born over 14 Earth years ago. To our shock, World United Federation soldiers had boarded our ship and arrested us. And I hadn’t talked to Ashley or my dad since.

  In my solitude, I kept wondering if it had anything to do with the robots.

  For about as long as I could remember, I had been trained in a virtual-reality program. Like the ones on Earth where you put on a surround-sight helmet that gives you a 3-D view of a scene on a computer program. The helmet is wired so when you turn your head, it directs the computer program to shift the scene as if you were there in real life. Sounds come in like real sounds. Because you’re wearing a wired jacket and gloves, the arms and hands you see in your surround-sight picture move wherever you move your own arms and hands.

  With me, the only difference is that the wiring reaches my brain directly through my spine. And I can control a rea
l robot, not one in virtual reality. You see, part of the long-term Mars Project that my mom, dad, and I were a part of was to use robots—which don’t need oxygen, water, or heat—to explore Mars. However, the problem was that robots couldn’t think like humans.

  So that’s where I came in. When I was a baby, I had an experimental operation to insert a special rod with thousands of tiny, biological implant fibers into my spine. Each of the fibers has a core that transmits impulses of electricity, allowing my brain to control a robot’s computer. From all my years of training in a computer simulation program, my mind knows all the muscle moves it takes to handle the virtual-reality controls. Handling the robot is no different, except instead of actually moving my muscles, I imagine I’m moving the muscles. My brain sends the proper nerve impulses to the robot, and it moves the way I made the robot move in the virtual-reality computer program.

  I admit, it’s cool. Almost worth being in a wheelchair.

  Ashley was wired in the same way—with one difference. Because she’d had the operation on Earth, with better medical facilities, her spine hadn’t been damaged. She had the best of both worlds.

  Now she was controlling the robot that was carrying me.

  Only I had no idea how she’d gotten control of it.

  Or where we were headed.

  Or why.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Ashley,” I whispered to the robot. Somewhere, nearby or far away, my best friend was controlling this robot. “You can see all these soldiers, right?”

  It was a dumb question. Of course she could see them. The robot transmitted visuals in four directions through the video lenses perched on top of its body stem. What I was hoping for in Ashley’s answer was something that made sense of all the action over the last few minutes.

  Especially after endless hours of doing nothing since the arrest except staring at the ceiling and walls of my cell. No one had told me why my father and I were under arrest after our journey from Mars to Earth. No one had even talked to me; the food pushed into my cell came from a surly guard who ignored my questions. And I’d had no idea what had happened to Ashley.

  “Yes, I can see the soldiers, Tyce,” she answered through the robot’s speaker. “If you want, wave at them and smile. They’re not going to hurt you. Soon enough, you’ll find out why. I can’t say anything more. Not in front of them.”

  She’d spoken loud enough that the nearest soldiers could overhear. I gave a weak smile. If they smiled in return, I couldn’t tell. Not with the lights of the corridor bouncing off the mirrored visors of their helmets.

  “Ashley?” I took comfort from knowing she was somewhere on the other end of the remote X-ray signals that the robot’s computer converted to brain-wave signals. I pictured her big grin under the straight, dark hair she kept cut short. At 13, she was a year younger than me. Most of the time she seemed years smarter. Especially in math. “Ashley!”

  “Hang on,” she answered. “I’ve got to concentrate on where we’re going. I’m using my memory here, and I saw the map only once.”

  I knew exactly what she meant. Robot control took full concentration. Like her, whenever I handled my own robot, my eyes and ears were cut off from all sight and sound. That allowed me to pay full attention to the information delivered to me from the robot’s eyes and ears. It would be no different for Ashley, wherever she was. She’d probably be wearing earplugs and some kind of blindfold. It meant that she wouldn’t be able to read a map on her end and still maintain control of the robot here.

  “If it helps,” I said, “it looks like the corridor ends ahead about 25 feet.”

  “Thanks.” The robot continued its steady pace. “I do see it. If I remember, I need to turn left.”

  Thirty seconds later the robot turned to follow the left branch of the corridor.

  The scenery didn’t change much. Every 10 feet there was another closed door on each side. The soldiers kept following, their neuron rifles still aimed at my head.

  I could hear Ashley count aloud through the robot’s voice. “One … two … three … four … five …”

  I realized she was counting doors.

  At the 10th door, Ashley stopped and spun the robot’s wheels so the robot was facing the door. With me still in its arms.

  “Grab the handle,” Ashley instructed. “I’d use the robot hands, but I’m afraid of dropping you.”

  “Sure.” I reached out for the handle. The robot held me steady. With the strength in its titanium arms, it could have effortlessly held a person five times my weight.

  “Open the door,” Ashley directed me. “It should be unlocked.”

  She was right. The door opened easily. The robot rolled through.

  I gasped as the door shut behind us on its automatic hinges.

  It was another prison cell. With two men sitting on the bunk. One man held a knife to the other’s throat.

  The man being held captive I didn’t recognize. Wearing an outfit that looked like a one-piece cape, he was elderly and very small. His hair was white, and the wrinkles on his face were deep enough to hold water if he stepped outside in a rainstorm. A slightly worried frown rearranged those wrinkles.

  The man holding the knife I did recognize. He was much younger, with square shoulders, a square face, and hair the same color of blond as mine. A big man, wearing a regulation military jumpsuit—like the ones I’d been given during the quarantine process.

  This man shifted slightly where he sat on the edge of the bunk, without moving the knife from the older man’s throat. He had the older man carefully positioned as a shield, making it risky for the guards to try a neuron shot.

  “Hello, Tyce,” this man said calmly.

  I knew the man holding the knife very well. I had just spent eight months in space with him. “Hello, Dad,” I said, cradled helplessly as I was in the robot’s arms. “How are you?”

  CHAPTER 3

  “As a result of this gentleman remaining here with me,” Dad said, “the Combat Force commander at this base has agreed to my conditions. Which includes freedom for you and Ashley.”

  Combat Force. The military arm of the World United Federation.

  “He’s going to remain with you?” I asked.

  The old man did not react to what Dad said. Just sat there patiently, as if it were a regular happening to have someone hold a knife to his throat.

  “Just me and Ashley are going?” I didn’t know why we had been arrested. I only knew Ashley had been in another prison cell. Dad must have arranged to get her released first. “But what about—?”

  “Me? No, Tyce. Say nothing more.”

  By the tone of Dad’s voice, I knew I had to obey.

  “I wish we could talk freely,” Dad continued, “but I have no doubt that this room is under audio surveillance. So don’t say anything unless it is a direct reply to one of my questions. Got that?”

  “Yes,” I said, unfair as it seemed. I had plenty of my own questions that I desperately wanted to ask Dad. Why had we been arrested? Who was this man he held hostage? How had Dad been able to get a knife? What were we going to do about the armed soldiers out in the corridor?

  “Tyce,” Dad said, “you remember why you and Ashley came back to Earth?”

  “Yes.”

  “When both of you leave here, you must do it. Even without me. Understand?”

  Without him? “Dad, I—”

  “Answer me with a yes. You will do it without me. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “As part of my conditions, you and Ashley will each be equipped with money cards. Don’t be afraid to spend what you need because the cards have no limit. Get there and complete the mission. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have only six days. If you succeed, you can return here for me.”

  Succeed at what? And if we don’t succeed, what will happen to Dad?

  “Now carefully reach into my chest pocket. Take the folded piece of paper there. I’ve written out all the re
st of the things I can’t say to you here in this cell.”

  From wherever she was, Ashley moved the robot slowly forward and stopped it just in front of my father.

  Two days’ worth of beard darkened Dad’s face. Half circles of exhaustion showed under his eyes.

  “Dad, you all right?” I asked.

  He nodded briefly, his lips tight.

  The top of the paper showed from his chest pocket. In the robot’s arms, I leaned forward. As I did, the old man beside Dad grabbed my lower arm. A sudden sharp pain stabbed my skin.

  “Hey!” I yelled.

  “Let him go,” Dad warned, pressing the knife harder against the old man’s throat. I expected to see blood. Instead, I noticed Dad was using the dull side of the knife.

  The dull side? It didn’t make sense. But I was in no position to comment. Especially with the stabbing pain against the underside of my arm.

  “Let him go,” Dad said again, his voice growing more intense.

  Weird. Dad’s voice was louder as if he was angry, but I knew Dad well enough to know when he truly was mad. Who was he trying to fool?

  Finally the old man released my arm.

  I looked at my skin and saw blood. How had the old man managed to break skin? So many questions. And none that I could ask.

  “Tyce,” Dad ordered, “take the note. Time matters a great deal. When you read it, you’ll understand why.”

  I ignored the tiny drops of blood on my arm, pulled the paper loose from Dad’s chest pocket, and slipped it into my own pocket. The robot backed away, holding me safely.

  “I have also arranged for you and Ashley to have a radio linked by satellite to a radio that will be provided to me,” Dad said. “Use it to speak to me only when necessary. Remember, we need to keep our communications to a minimum, because I’m sure we will be monitored. Also remember it’s important that you report to me every half hour.” He smiled grimly as he continued. “Without those reports, this gentleman here is in serious trouble.”

  The old man’s frown deepened.