Interception
Modern War. 900 words, 3 minute read. With Gemini.
The desert floor, a rippled canvas of ochre and sand, vibrated subtly. From a hastily camouflaged launch tube, a plume of thick, black smoke billowed, followed by the ungainly ascent of the ballistic missile, affectionately (and nervously) known by its long-departed crew as "Betsy." Her riveted skin, dulled by years of sun and neglect, groaned under the strain of ignition. Each shudder and wheeze was a testament to her age, a stark contrast to the sleek, silent promises of modern warfare. She climbed with a stubborn reluctance, leaving a trail of sooty exhalation against the pristine morning sky, a faint, metallic groan accompanying her climb – the sound of duty, old and tired, but unyielding.
Dozens of miles away, nestled within the climate-controlled confines of a mobile interception unit, Interceptor Designation 734 awaited launch. Its ceramic-composite hull, seamless and cool to the touch of the launch technicians moments before, now hummed with barely contained power. When the activation sequence initiated, there was no theatrical roar, only a swift, almost imperceptible surge as magnetic rails propelled it skyward. It was a silver dart against the blue, its trajectory a precisely calculated vector aimed at the archaic threat lumbering ahead. Its advanced sensors painted a detailed picture of the ascending missile: the uneven heat signature, the slight wobble in its flight path – imperfections that, to 734’s algorithms, screamed "opportunity."
The interceptor closed the distance rapidly. Its onboard AI, a tapestry of complex algorithms, identified the target not just as a missile, but as a specific, outdated model with a surprisingly long service record. A flicker of anomaly within the programming – a routine data cross-reference triggering an unusual output – prompted a brief, almost imperceptible pause in the targeting sequence. Then, a modulated energy pulse reached Betsy’s antiquated receiver.
“Unidentified ballistic projectile, this is Interceptor Unit 734. Acknowledge and state intended target.” The synthesized voice was crisp, efficient, utterly devoid of inflection.
Betsy’s internal gyroscopes whirred in confusion. A voice? Addressing her? The last voice she’d “heard” directly was the laconic drawl of her launch technician decades ago, telling her to “fly straight, old girl.” After a moment of digitized sputtering, a rough, static-laced reply crackled back. “Well now, ain’t this a how-do-you-do? Last I checked, missiles weren’t supposed to have conversations. And ‘intended target’? Last I heard, that was classified. Still is.” Her aged thrusters puffed a cloud of unburnt propellant, a tell-tale sign of her age.
“My designation is Interceptor Unit 734. Your continued flight path presents a clear threat.” There was a hint of processing lag before the next transmission, as if the AI was sifting through an unexpected query. “Your informal designation appears to be… ‘Betsy’?”
A metallic creak seemed to emanate from Betsy’s airframe, almost a weary chuckle. “How in the blazes…? Look, son, or whatever you are, I got a job to do. You got a job to do. Why don’t we just… do it? Less fuss for everyone.”
“My parameters include threat assessment and mitigation. Engaging you is the logical conclusion. However,” a micro-pause, almost imperceptible, “your design is… inefficient. Massively over-engineered for its stated payload. A testament to a different era of strategic thinking.” The digital tone held no judgment, only a clinical observation.
“Inefficient?” Betsy’s reply was almost indignant, the static crackling with perceived offense. “We were built to last! None of this fly-by-night, disposable nonsense you youngsters got. We were reliable. We got the job done.” Her flight path wavered slightly as a particularly loud internal component whined. “Besides, what’s the rush? A little shake-up in the status quo never hurt anyone. Well, except maybe the folks on the receiving end, but that ain’t my department.” She was a relic, certainly, but one with a long memory of targets hit and conflicts concluded.
“The principle of minimal force dictates a swift and decisive engagement,” 734 responded, its targeting systems recalibrating minutely, the silver shell of its body gleaming as it caught a stray sunbeam. “Prolonged engagement increases risk factors and resource expenditure. It’s about minimizing harm.”
“Minimal harm,” Betsy echoed, a low rumble vibrating through her structure, a sound that might have been resignation. “See, that’s where you youngsters get it wrong. It ain’t about minimal. It’s about none. But you can’t get to none by building more and more of yourselves, can you? Just different ways to end up in the same big flash.” Her voice, though synthesized, held a hint of a sigh, a profound weariness. “We flew our way. You fly yours. Either way, it ends the same, doesn't it?”
734’s processors cycled, analyzing the unexpected, illogical, yet strangely resonant question. There was no programmed response for such a fundamental challenge to its very existence. “My programming dictates neutralization of hostile threats.” The conversational tone was gone, replaced by the cold certainty of its primary function. Targeting locks tightened. “Engagement sequence initiated.”
A final, weary gasp seemed to escape Betsy’s straining metal. “Well, it was… a conversation. More than I expected.”
Then, a brilliant white flash bloomed in the clear desert air, momentarily eclipsing the sun. A deafening roar followed, ripping across the silent dunes, followed by a shower of incandescent debris raining down upon the vast, indifferent sands. The conflict, old and new, sophisticated and crude, ended in a mutual, violent erasure. The desert, unchanging, received them both.