Machine State

by Brad C Scott

Evans leans against a nearby landscape embankment, a vindictive smile directed my way. This is her doing, payback for putting the rookie under her wing. My new lead stands next to her at parade rest, Senior Chief Reclaimer Hawk, an old comrade of Worthy’s who asked for this assignment. His steely eyes ask whether I’d like him to dress Daniels down.

  “They did kill us, Daniels,” I grit. “Four of my brothers died.” Thompkins, Matthews, Perry. Sorenson. Good men, brave men, every one. Michael Sorenson was a friend, served with me for three years. Rachel and I had him and his wife over for dinner a few times. He left behind two girls, Karen and… Dina? The last time I saw them was at his funeral. If I had one wish, it would be to never have to attend another.

  But God, in His infinite apathy, doesn’t do requests. If he did, Daniels would shut up.

  “Leaving just you and Charles Worthy,” he says, oblivious. “Excuse me, sir, but do you… Do you ever regret your decision not to withdraw? Was it worth it, sir?”

  “Daniels,” growls Hawk, “the first redeemer is not to be bothered with your ignorance.”

  “Those people were relying on our protection,” I say, keeping my temper tamped down. “Giving them up to save our own skins wasn’t an option.”

  It started simple enough, an escort mission, but it got personal once the dying began. By the time we found out that one of the people we were protecting had a price on his head, it was too late. The gang looking to collect, Saba 313, wouldn’t back down, forcing us to hole up in an industrial plant for three days. By the siege’s end, Worthy and I were down to our combat blades, booby traps, and empty threats against boys and men drugged out on devil’s dust and crank. We turned our final fallback point into an abattoir, the floor coated in blood and bodies. It was worse than Houston, though by then I’d become more used to it. As if that’s some sort of advantage.

  Hawk pivots and steps over to stand face-to-face with Daniels. The contrast is striking – the junkyard dog and the young pup. Hawk’s twice his age, hair already gone gray, with a face like an old forgotten battlefield.

  “Daniels,” growls Hawk, “have you ever discharged your weapon in combat?”

  “No, Senior Chief.”

  “Have you had to watch as someone you care about is killed in front of you?”

  “No, Senior Chief.”

  “Can you imagine what that might feel like to go through?”

  “I, maybe.” Daniels pauses, eyes troubled. “No. No, not really, Senior Chief.”

  “So,” continues Hawk, “why do you assume that someone who has gone through that would want to talk about it? Do you think the first redeemer considers himself a hero after watching four of his comrades die while following his orders? Do you think he’s proud of killing those young men and boys?”

  Daniels swallows. “I, no, I mean, I don’t know, Senior Chief.”

  “No,” says Hawk. “No is right, third class. You can choose to respect life or death, not both. You’re one of us, a reclaimer, so you’ve chosen to respect life. There are no heroes here, Daniels. Only men willing to lay down their lives in service to others. If you want to be in the company of heroes, you should pick a new line of work. DSS is always looking to recruit eager killers. Do you understand me, reclaimer?”

  Daniels raises his chin. “I do, Senior Chief.”

  Beautiful, that’s what that was. With a chief like that, Daniels might learn how to serve with dignity. And why he should. I let Hawk bring him on board, but no one else has yet made my team. My interview process is, according to Evans, “like trying to take a bottle from an angry drunk.” As it should be – there’s no place for the innocent on the dark road I’ve found myself on.

  I release a pent-up breath at spotting the hovership we’ve been expecting. On approach, almost here. I step out from beneath the tree cover into the sunlight.

  “Daniels, one other thing,” I say. “If you’re looking for a role model, Reclaimer First Class Evans is a good choice. I suggest you follow her example.”

  Evans straightens up, hands smoothing her DRR jacket while she eyeballs me with suspicion. “First Redeemer, clear up?”

  “Yeah. The cavalry has arrived.”

  Thank a God who enjoys seeing me spin my wheels. I’ve done little else in the past week since our arrival. With Cato’s help and Keeland’s blessing, we’ve used every available resource: city surveillance systems, satellite imagery, CID signal tracking, wiretaps, NSA feeds, social media, you name it. Yet not a single damn hit for Krayge or his mysterious associates. Evans and I made the rounds through the seedier sections of the city, hunting our quarry the old-fashioned way, but other than rumors about an out-of-town player contracting local talent, we’ve turned up nothing solid. And the heightened chatter on the NSA feeds, though it might be related, could also mean anything. If our adversaries are here, we haven’t been able to find them.

  But with the two new arrivals, our luck’s about to change.

  The hovership makes its approach over the low structures to the east, its enclosed rotor assemblies adjusting to slow its forward momentum and bring it down in a smooth descent onto the hoverpad platform. As it touches down, the separate hatches to the launch and squad bays open and rotate down to the deck.

  Welcome back, I send via thoughtspeak.

  Patton makes his appearance, hovering out of the launch bay and in our direction, his polymer skin gleaming argent in the late morning light. Aubrey and his team refurbished his shell and reskinned him, erasing all the years of accumulated abrasions and battle damage. And upgraded his lift fan assembly, the whir of his approach more hushed than before. Extending his struts, Patton sets down before us, his three cobalt eyes meeting mine.

  “I am ready for duty, First Redeemer.”

  Evans steps up, places a hand on his fuselage where we deem his shoulder to be. “I’m glad you made it back, Big Guy. We were worried about you.”

  “Thank you, Reclaimer Evans,” he says, “though you should not waste valuable neurological resources on my behalf.”

  “Big dummy,” she says, hand caressing over polymer.

  I work my way around him, make like it’s an inspection. It’s just a ploy to cover a momentary lapse in which I can’t speak past the knot in my throat. “It’s part of the package,” I get out. “Being a friend, we had to worry. That’s part of our programming.”

  “I apologize for letting you down,” he says.

  I step around to look him in the eyes. “You’ve never let me down. Never. The fault wasn’t yours, so quit blaming yourself. That’s an order.”

  “You have often assigned yourself blame when you failed to generate the desired outcome despite a low probability of success. Are you incorrect in doing so?”

  “He is,” says Evans. “Being human is a bitch.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “You’ve been brought up to speed?”

  “Affirmative,” he replies. “I have downloaded all reports pertinent to your activities in the last nineteen days. I have also reviewed and analyzed all data on Operation Fallen Arch. You may access my recommendations at your prerogative, First Redeemer.”

  “We’ll talk more about the mission later,” I say. “How’re you doing?”

  “The malware program that compromised my neural network has been eradicated. Some of my transitive memory and recursive algorithms were irretrievably corrupted, resulting in only a ninety-six percent restoration of my cognitive state.”

  “So you have some memory loss?”

  “That is essentially correct.”

  “And lost the manly scars,” adds Evans. “Guess you’ll need some new ones.”

  “Why would I want to retain evidence of battle damage on my skin?”

  Evans and I share a look – Patton is Patton, but he does seem different, and it’s not just the new exterior. The Patton of old would have understood her meaning – Evans was fond of telling him how scars make the man. He’d also be less stiff, surer of himself. Whatever damage the virus caused to
his neural network will require more than programming to rectify. He’ll need time for a full recovery, time spent with teammates and friends.

  “I’m just happy you’re back,” I say. “Don’t worry, you may have a few gaps in your memory, maybe some revamped algorithms you’re not comfortable with, but give it some time and you’ll be back at full capacity.”

  “I trust you are right. It is disconcerting that my neural network and cognitive capacities are not at one-hundred percent efficiency. In any case, Miss Mathis has done an exceptional job in facilitating my recovery. I am in her debt.”

  “You and me both, pal.”

  Movement at the hovership’s squad bay ramp draws our attention – three figures emerge followed by a hoverskid loaded with equipment and bags. Samantha’s wavy blonde hair dances in the rotors’ diminishing wake. Walking at the head of two men in black business attire with her sunglasses donned, there’s no mistaking who’s in charge. Approaching our position, she runs a hand through her hair as her lips curve upward in a smile.

  I glance over and note Evans eyeballing me, expression neutral save for a raised eyebrow. Right. Am I that obvious? I erase the smile from my face, settling instead for professional coolness, and step around Patton to greet our guests.

  “Miss Mathis,” I say, extending a hand, “welcome to our HQ.”

  She takes my hand, mask in place like mine. “First Redeemer Adams, thank you. You know Jeff Peterson. And this is Blake Carson, ops specialist for Task Force 1115.”

  Her cohorts make an odd pair – Jeff, the young tech I met at the drone assessment range, seems half the size of this walking wall of a man, clearly an operator of some stripe. Handshakes and hellos all around before I escort our guests from the Department of Defense into our HQ. As Hawk gets to work with security clearances and working space, I give them the nickel tour before dropping them off on the seventeenth floor to meet with Keeland.

  On the way down, Samantha texts me: “Sorry for the formality. Meet later? Dinner? ;-).”

  I voice-to-text back: “I know just the place.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “How are you, sugar?”

  “Ruby,” I say, “how do you get younger every time I see you?”

  She smiles as her slanted eyes, irises glowing amber by dint of special lenses, appraise every inch of me. “Malcolm, honey, the secret is an active imagination. Yours, not mine.” She puts her hands on her hips, drawing her bare shoulders back and stretching her scarlet corset to the breaking point. “Such a shame…”

  “What’s that?” I say, looking despite myself.

  “That you’ve always been so faithful. I’ve carried a torch all these years.”

  “Sure you have. How’s business?”

  It’d be rude not to ask, business being the preeminent concern for the denizens of Dark Mark, the local red-light district. The pre-war brownstone serving as its central trading hub and namesake looms above us, four stories of time-faded brick topped by fluttering black flags, its windows tinted to keep out the late-morning light. A more dignified operation, Dark Mark has less claim to fame than the Flesh District in LA, though the vices for sale are the same. The sex workers may not parade on the streets clothed in paint, yet they’re here, inside with the booze, drugs, and exotica. Beyond the red-doored entrance, commerce murmurs and sighs at all hours.

  It’s loud enough out here, though. The surrounding streets are a crawling morass of motley vendor stalls where strident voices hawk their wares to passersby. Fortunately, we’re segregated from prying ears by the black awning under which we’ve gathered, a permanent fixture near the entrance where prominent businesses post their agents. The cartels and gangs consider this neutral ground, a respected place for negotiation and deal-making. The plain-clothes guards keeping the riffraff at bay get paid well to look the other way.

  “Booming as always,” says Ruby, resting her hands on the stun whip and .38 revolver bestride her belt. It’s a long-practiced feint since the steel needles stuck in her raven tower of hair are the real weapons. “You still need to swing on up to the fourth floor, sugar. I’ve got nineteen girls on the roster, all eager to make your acquaintance.”

  She’s been trying to pry the wedding band from my finger from day one. Of all the women that tempted me to violate my wedding vows, she came the closest. Does she notice she’s too late, that God pried the ring off and hung it from a chain around my neck?

  “Maybe later,” I say.

  “You seem different, Malcolm. I’d be happy to take a… personal interest.”

  She noticed. “Any word on what I messaged you about?”

  Ruby’s one of our best informants, has been for the twelve years I’ve known her. When we met, she was just one of hundreds of ambitious private contractors in the booming St. Louis pleasure trade. Clever and charismatic, too – she’s got a real gift for making the right allies. And being the mayor’s mistress didn’t hurt. Four years ago, she got her own stable of girls, changing roles to business owner and union rep. Her spies perch in most power groups in the city now.

  She steps in closer, cutting a quick glance over my shoulder toward Evans, standing apart and keeping an eye on the passersby. “Honey, I’m glad you’re back in town for this. A lot of folks are scared about the changes coming. Rumor is the enforcers are going to roll in here like in LA and declare martial law. Tell me that ain’t true, sugar.”

  “Not if I can help it. Our plans don’t include putting enforcers on the streets.”

  “If you say so. You’ve always played it straight with us before. But are we going to be shut down?” she persists, gripping my arm.

  “After the repatriation, federal laws and regulations will be put in force. You know prostitution is illegal outside the zones.”

  “Nothing you can do?” she entreats, a hand coming up to caress my cheek. “You’d let them take my business?” Her other hand drifts south. “Malcolm, honey, surely –”

  “Hold on,” I interrupt, stopping that hand. “The city council will negotiate a transition period. In Houston, it was a year. Seattle got two. After that, shuttered businesses will be compensated. Use your guild influence to lobby the council for the best deal you can.”

  She steps back, teeth bared, amber eyes squeezed shut. “All right, I get it.”

  “There’s always Vegas.”

  “No, too hot.” She blinks at me. “Honey, you still got to work on that sense of humor.”

  “So. About that word?”

  She sweeps a commanding look around, and the other agents standing about fade back. Stepping in close, corseted breasts touching my chest, she grips my arms and glances over at Patton, hovering to one side about ten meters up. “You haven’t forgotten how to smile, have you, sweetheart? They’re always watching.”

  Patton, we need some privacy, I thoughtspeak.

  Scrambling regimes engaged, he replies. Surveillance countermeasures enabled.

  “We’re good,” I say.

  She locks eyes with me from six inches away. “There’s a new gambler at the table.”

  “The one I told you about?”

  “That’s the one, sugar. This one’s not interested in the usual: drugs, weapons, tech. They’ve got an agenda that don’t seem to involve profit.”

  “NDL?”

  “I don’t think so.” Her breath smells like… peaches? “None of my little birds can tell me much about them, only that they’re not from around here.”

  Spy drone detected, sends Patton. I look around and see a sparking flash over one of the vendor stalls about fifty meters away, the fall of a small spherical object. Drone neutralized.

  Thanks, I send. “Jihadists?”

  “Don’t know. My people steer clear of their type of crazy: no handles to grab onto.”

  “What are they planning?”

  “Something big. Something… violent.” She strokes my cheek as I stare her in the eyes from inches away. There’s something new there, an emotion I’d never expected from h
er: fear.

  “What’s got you spooked?”

  “Oh, sugar, it’s in the air, can’t you feel it?”

  “They’ve been pressuring you.”

  She looks away, clicking her teeth, an old nervous tick. “Two of my little birds went missing: they must have talked to the wrong people. And one of my girls got killed, right inside, and no one saw a thing. It was a message, clear as the blood it was written in.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you need me to –”

  “Honey, we’ll protect ourselves. It’s just… Something bad is coming.” She puts a finger to my lips. “I know, it’s foolish. Listen, a lot of money’s being thrown around, so don’t pick now to fix those trust issues. That includes the coppers – they’re on the take, too.”

  “So, this new player, anything solid?”

  She leans in close to whisper in my ear. “You were right about hiring local talent. The talent’s been tight-lipped about their new employer, but my girls know how to loosen those tongues. Los Santos is right in the middle. The middle man, you hear?”

  “Connor Montoya.” Turns out, the lead that Ghents provided was solid – as the leader of Los Santos cartel, Montoya’s one of the most influential and infamous men in St. Louis, a power player known for brokering deals among criminal and terrorist groups. Rumor is he’s got people on the take within the constabulary, city services, even the city council itself. I put Ruby on him when I first arrived, hoping old-fashioned intelligence gathering by the world’s oldest profession would lead us to him if our tech resources failed. “You know where I can find him?”

  She leans in again to whisper in my ear, “There’s a meeting tonight at Gatekeeper. At ten. He’ll be hosting some special guests.”

  “The new player?”

  “Chances are.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She strokes my cheek. “Be careful if you go. I mean it.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. You watch yourself, though, right?” I step back. “Thanks, Ruby. Don’t hesitate to call if you need us.”

  “You know I will, sugar. If I call, you come running, hear?”

  I step over to corral Evans, noting her staring at one of the notice boards near the entrance. “Handjobs only two hundred dollars,” she says, reading from the menu. “Buy two blowjobs, get the third free.” Her finger traces the fine print beneath. “Must be used in the same session.” She gives me a smug look. “So, Redeemer, exactly how good are the services here?”