Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  MACHINE STATE

  A NOVEL

  BRAD C. SCOTT

  Independent

  Copyright © 2020 Brad C. Scott

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-7346272-0-6

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-7346272-1-3

  Cover design by Damonza

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  Contents

  MACHINE STATE

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  PART 3

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  PART 4

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  END OF BOOK 1

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For Griffin, may your dreams light the path and love keep you on it.

  PART 1

  LOST ANGELS

  CHAPTER 1

  September 14, 2064

  After the world ended, I sweet-talked God like so many others. Not that I didn’t wonder whether He’d forsaken us, unmoored as we’d become, but as a young man, I was prey to fits of senseless optimism. Then it ended again, and I stopped wondering – stopped believing, stopped praying, went my own way. The valley of the shadow of death had exhausted its terrors.

  Right. Nothing left to fear.

  The compartment shudders around me as our hovership hits a rough patch, one more warning of our descent into hell. Today’s version being Los Angeles, what’s left of it anyway. Where I belong – or so they tell me – with the rest of the wolves. Weapons free into the City of Lost Angels: some homecoming.

  Glaring into the gear locker, I pull the chain with my wedding ring off its hook, unwilling to leave the bloody thing behind, before stepping back and slamming the door. Nothing in the other lockers ranked along the bulkhead will serve any better purpose today. And we won’t be taking our usual loadout from the yellow hazmat chests stacking the shelves. A fresh jolt of turbulence tops the droning whine of the rotors and turbines with the metallic rattle of the demo hammers and hydraulic tools we’re also leaving behind. For upside, we won’t be hauling any extra firepower, the launchers to stay slotted on their wall racks and the grenades left in their cases. No telling how many this invasion will widow without the extra help.

  The armory door cycles open. Brady, one of three recruits transferred to my squad for this op, stands stock straight in the corridor beyond. “Redeemer Adams, you wanted to see me?”

  “That depends on you.” I slip the chain over my head, tucking the titanium band beneath my carbon composite breastplate, and toss my head at him. “Grab a seat.”

  Brady steps in, hatch sealing behind him as he lumbers over to the table folded down from the bulkhead. He handles his hard suit like the rook he pretends to be, carrying the weight instead of letting the polymer actuators do it for him. His rig still has the factory shine, the hunter green exoskeleton unmarred by scratches or dings. And he’s got his helmet on though we’re still ten minutes out, face framed in the retracted visor a picture of boyish earnestness. Easing onto a stool, he shoots a wary glance in my direction.

  I take the stool opposite him and try for a preliminary read, acetone and ammonia competing with the old-death scent of gun oil in the air between us. Under my quiet scrutiny, his smooth-shaven jaw tightens, mouth imploding to a thin line as his eyes avoid mine in favor of less hardened targets to his right. Nothing special here, his manner says, just a recruit nervous about some screw-up he’s trying to recall. But a gut taught by long years of reading people insists there’s more to it than his tells reveal: this bastard’s in the deep end.

  And bad for him, I already know how he got there.

  All right, to business. “Do you believe we should be forgiven?”

  “Sir?”

  “For what we’ve done, what we haven’t done.” I place the pistol cartridge on the brushed-steel surface between us. Exhibit one, genius. “For what you tried to do?”

  His eyes succumb to guilt’s gravity, fixing on the round.

  I lean back. “I don’t. Not for myself. Not for the men who destroyed the world. Monsters deserve a hard road and the sharp end. But you’re no monster, are you, William?”

  He shifts in his seat. “What’s this about, sir?”

  The hull shivers again and, from somewhere aft, metal creaks. This was the best I could improvise for an interrogation room – there was no time before lifting off from McCarran to deal with this hound. At least the muted roar of the rotors and turbines will ensure that whichever way this shakes out, the screaming won’t be overheard. Much. Assuming that’s the way I play this. Sure as hell want to, but he deserves the same chance as anyone to make things right. And I won’t help anyone by relapsing to the death-threats-and-broken-bones stage of grief.

  “Not forgiveness,” I say. “That’s for men with clean hands to give away – assuming they exist. As if blood washes away so easy. Getting other men to pay for our failures? No, that’s on us.” Long pause, staring fire. “You have something to tell me. Best get to it.”

  He says nothing, though his eyes tell a traitor’s tale.

  “Alright,” I concede. “Redemption bears a cost. Always. Yours begins with the truth. This is your chance to redeem yourself, William. Confess. You won’t like the alternative.”

  “Sir, I –”

  “Call me Malcolm.”

  “Malcolm… I don’t know what to say. What did you want me to confess?”

  Seconds pass as I stare at him. There’s nothing kind in my expression. His boyish face, innocent as an orphan’s, reveals no shadowy motives. And it wouldn’t, given what he is. I knew an opening confession was a longshot, especially after he tried fitting me for a noose, but the offer had to be made. It’s his bill, after all – but it seems he’d rather not pay it.

  “So that’s a no,” I say, frowning at his folly. And mine. A thought intrudes – my hands banging his head against the bulkhead, blood spattering – but I suppress it. “All right.”

  “Have I done something wrong?” asks Brady, faux innocence deepening my scowl.

  “My friends in Enforcement tell me you requested this assignment.”

  There – just a tightening of the jaw, but it’s enough. His eyes complete their betrayal, darting at the pistol round on the table again. Of course, I have no friends among the sentinels and their enforcers, but Brady here wouldn’t know it.

  “Redeemer Adams, Malcolm,” he says, eyes wide, “you think I’m with them?”

  “I found the spiked rounds. The comm scrambler within my helmet’s lini
ng? That, too.”

  His mask falls away, ignorance and innocence with it. That’s what I thought.

  I lean forward. “Why the sabotage, William? Who ordered it?”

  He sighs and looks away, blank-faced, not even bothering to act the part anymore.

  The hovership shudders with turbulence again, knocking the cartridge over. Drawing my sidearm, I remove the magazine and pluck the round from the table, eyes still drilling into his. I load it into the bore and chamber it before placing the pistol on the table between us, spinning the grip toward him. Then I lean back and wait.

  Brady’s wheels spin faster than the rotors and turbines keeping us aloft. If this weren’t so bloody infuriating, I’d crack a smile at the way his eyes dart between mine and the pistol. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says at last, mind made up. “Sir.”

  Sighing, I grab my pistol off the table. Then I shoot him with it, point-blank in the chest.

  He lurches back in his seat as the stunshock round sparks an eruption of argent energy off his breastplate. Hard suits aren’t all that conductive, but in the eyeblink of time it takes the flash to dissipate, electroshock energy arcs through the open visor into his exposed face. From there, it’s a free ride to the sensitive electronics within his suit. Body spasming, he emits a defeated gurgle, head slumping forward as his visor seals. Then he’s still. Ozone taints the air.

  Standing, I holster the pistol and move around the table to loom over him. “Yeah, that wasn’t one of your back blasts. Your people are right about me – I can’t be trusted.” A beautiful mental montage plays: dragging him to the launch bay, throwing him out, and smiling as he falls away from thousands of feet up. Screaming as he falls. My scowl begins to slip…

  Groan muffled by the helmet, his head comes up. “You shot me? You shot me!”

  “And?”

  “Attacking a fellow agent is grounds for reeducation!” He lifts his armored arms, finds moving them to be more difficult without power. He won’t be making any sudden moves now, not with over sixty kilos of dead weight strapped to his body.

  “Already had it. You?”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Already there.” I unsheathe my combat blade. “Hold still.”

  Transparisteel visors tend to seal up black when the hard suit is disabled, a default protective setting. He should’ve closed it when I picked up the pistol – the hard seal would’ve saved him some pain. Reaching under his chin piece, I press while prying at the visor’s edge with the knifepoint. It unseals, allowing me to yank it back into his helmet.

  “What are you… What,” he huffs, face marked by red splotches and impotent outrage. With a gulped breath, he gets himself together. “Why did you do this to me?”

  “I hate liars.”

  “Everybody lies.”

  “I hate everybody.”

  He doesn’t have an answer for that. “What are you going to do with me?”

  My tireless mind has its own agenda: Brady tied to a chair, no helmet or armor, his face bloodied and bruised from the beating I’ve given him. Spitting blood, teeth, and answers. Yeah, he’d talk, but I’ve neither the time nor inclination for it. Betrayal’s standard issue for federal service, nothing to go medieval over.

  I would like to get a crack at his handler, though, some asshole in Enforcement with balls big enough to risk sending him at me. A year since my biggest failure, and they still don’t bloody trust me. Brady here’s not the first sentinel they’ve sent, but this transcends mere surveillance of a loose-cannon asset. This time, they tried to seal the deal. And on the worst of days, when we’ll be walking through fire in a city besieged. As bad ideas go, pretty fucking far up there. How long until they stop this shit? Until somebody else dies?

  “What are you going to do?” Brady whispers, more plea than question. Poor bastard’s letting fear get the better of him.

  I sheathe my blade and work his helmet off. I set it on the table and pat his cheek. For some reason, this seems to frighten him even more. That and whatever’s on my face.

  “You ready to talk now?” I ask, a final pass at the truth.

  His eyes turn inward on a world of abstract horror. He whispers, “I can’t. My family…”

  Yeah, family, that’s how they get you. Even in death. Relaxing my expression, I place a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve more to fear from your superiors than from me. You might want to consider a career change.”

  Brady wobbles in his seat through another turbulent shake. A helpful push finishes it, toppling him over to crash to the deck. Unpowered hard suits are a bitch to handle.

  “Wish me luck,” I say to his struggling form, heading for the door. As it slides open, I hear him do precisely that.

  Yeah. Luck is for losers.

  At my nod, the reclaimer posted outside steps into the armory to secure Brady as I stride forward, fists at my sides.

  Brady’s the latest symptom of our mutual dysfunction, the cancer in America’s soul. One more useless gear in the machine state, turning to the tempo of bigger cogwheels, insensate to the purpose driving him. This system we serve… A monster of interlocking design, layer upon layer, scheme upon scheme, a leviathan whose complexity obscures the darkness at its heart, shielding the actual decision-makers from accountability for their corruption. Whoever they are. Blame is useless, though. May as well blame myself. Faith is dead – in the country, in our government, in each other – and I stood on the sidelines and watched it die like everyone else.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Reaching the squad bay, the rest of my reclaimers lounge about in their hard suits, trying to relax before the mission ahead. All save one – my chief, James Worthy. I take the empty jump seat next to him and rest my head against the bulkhead, the vibration helping with the headache. The lighting in the squad bay, even low as it is, has the opposite effect. I pull out my lucky charm – a dented .45 ACP round – and spin it around, counting off the revolutions to myself.

  “The boy might do it this time,” says Worthy, his flinty gaze leading mine to the game in progress. Anderson and Evans are still at it, leering at each other across the holomap console used for tactical planning, its emitters tasked to a game of chess. Anderson’s white queen has the run of the center and, judging by the black discards, Evans defended poorly. He’s finally cornered her, a tragedy long in the making.

  “I’ll accept your surrender if you want to wrap this up,” says Anderson, his perfect teeth aglow in the console’s photonic aura. The rabbit skull and crossbones on his breastplate, painted on by Evans after a lost wager, also vies for eye-blinding white.

  Evans stares back, her green hunter’s eyes defiant. She reaches up to sweep her auburn hair back, exposing the black jags painted on her pauldrons, a match for the tribal tattoos on the flesh beneath. Tying off the ponytail, she shoots him a wry smile. “You want your cuffs back?”

  “You hold on to them,” he says, grin broadening. “No escape now, darlin’.”

  “Looks bad, killer,” says Worthy, dark skin turned russet in his holobracer’s reddish aura. The holoimage projecting above his lap renders a complicated tunnel network. The undercity beneath Los Angeles? Bloody hell. It better not come to that.

  I nod at his holoimage. “Know something I don’t?”

  Worthy gives me a look, the one about me being an idiot. “We might need the fallback.”

  “We’re not slated for any tunnel crawling.”

  “Malcolm, you know how it goes. Missions get upgraded, they go sideways. You’ve gotten us into some tight spots before.”

  “Not planning on it this time, either.” Beneath my breath, I mutter, “Asshole.”

  Worthy flashes his teeth at me and rubs at his precise goatee, the only hair on his head deemed fit to be spared the razor. “Plan B, boss: wait and see.”

  Scowling, hating that he’s right, I look away. Worthy never pulls punches, in or out of the ring, a vital survival skill in our line of work. All the sucker punches we
’ve endured over eight years of shared service have propelled us right past careful into the outskirts of well-informed paranoia. Fate or God or pure bad luck, doesn’t matter, we’ve stepped in it a lot and had to fight our way out. Worthy was on the army boxing team, but what’s my excuse?

  Evans catches my eye, stretching an arm over the holoboard to send her surviving black knight into the fray. It’s a good move, maybe the best she’s got. Arching an eyebrow at Anderson, she asks, “Who says I want to escape? What’s the count at? Ten?”

  “Nine,” says Murphy, our tech specialist, until now pretending to sleep. Lying in the weeds, more like. Cracking an eye and a smile, she uncrosses arms to reveal the winking, derby-topped skull on her breastplate. “Last time didn’t count – somebody had it up to their eyeballs and decided to take a nap. On the pool table.” She crosses hands behind her stubbled dome and grins at Anderson. “Sweet dreams, honey?”

  “We were all drunk,” mutters Anderson, avoiding her gaze.

  “Yeah, we were,” sighs Murphy with a faraway look. “Man, what a dive. I can’t wait to go back. Jack rode me harder than my ex ever did. Lousy fucking boilermaker hangovers.” Then to Evans: “You ever going to tell me what I missed?”

  “Nope,” says Evans, eyes still locked on Anderson. “What happened, Jimmy? You had me then, too.” Her lips spread in an accusatory grin. “But then you didn’t.”

  The truth is a bitter bitch.

  Anderson pretends disinterest as he studies the holoboard. He’s got it bad for her, has ever since Evans joined my team six months ago, but it seems a poor match. He’s a gentleman, but she’s no lady. Evans won’t accept a partner who can’t beat her in some fashion: drinking, gaming, shooting, anything involving a fight. Or so she wants everyone to believe. Anderson’s seen through her protective camouflage, but whether he’s found a way past it? None of my concern so long as they both keep their heads in the game.

  ◊ ◊ ◊