Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  “Mal? You can’t run from it.”

  “I’m not fucking running from anything.”

  She gives me one of those inscrutable looks. “The feds are getting ready to install chips in their heads that will infect them with nanites that do god-knows-what, and you’re OK with them being ignorant? How can they fight back if they don’t know?”

  I take a long look out the window at the devious blue sky. “I’ve gotten people killed, but never over a goddamn news story.” I shake my head. “Fuck, Sam… Fuck!” And now, unless I add to the pile, I’m an even bigger monster? Probably will be no matter what I choose.

  “It’s your decision,” she says. “I’ll support it either way. Just promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Show them no mercy. We can’t rely on God for justice. Hell is ours to make.”

  I grab Sam’s hand, let her see the rage behind my eyes. “That I can do.”

  PART 4

  DEVIL’S DUE

  CHAPTER 28

  Fire blooms on the asphalt, its fluid tentacles splashing against the transparisteel riot shields of the enforcers. Another Molotov hits the street short of their formation. As the flames die down, smoke grenades arc overhead as they lift their shields and advance in lockstep toward the crowd of people milling in the spotlights. Many of the protestors crowding the street throw up arms and stumble away as the smoke envelopes them. Most holding signs keep brandishing them, defiant, though some drop them and run. The troublemakers among the crowd, faces masked by bandanas, hunker down and prepare more Molotovs. Worse still, a man in a hunting jacket and balaclava rises from behind a parked car and aims a rifle at the looming line of enforcers. He jerks back and falls over, dead, chest holed by coil rounds.

  “Fuck me,” says First Redeemer Keeland, staring transfixed at the scores of images playing across the wall of his office, real-time feeds from civic cameras and drones. My eyes find the local news feeds, each with its own banner headline superimposed over scenes of chaos: Whistleblower Reveals Fed Plot to Take Over City; St. Louis on the Brink – Insider Exposes Plot by Feds; and Feds to Use IDs to Enslave St. Louis. At least that last one doesn’t mention me.

  “They’re just getting started,” says Henrikson, the only one of us still sitting, his grin sour as he absently swirls the bourbon around in a glass.

  “Yeah,” I say, eyes drawn back to the slaughter, gut hollowed at my part in its making. I knew the explosion leaking to the press would cause. The deaths. Yet I leaked it anyway: the conspirators’ plans, their fed ties, the facts and theories about the NIDs. And, just as important, the location of the facility where they’re being kept. Only six hours since I got the word out via an information broker, and it’s well past viral. “The devil has his due.”

  More protestors fall, some succumbing to the smoke, others to fire taken from the advancing enforcers and their tactical drones. Anyone holding a weapon gets targeted, but here and there, unarmed people go down as well. A dazed woman spinning in place with a homemade sign. A young man in a flannel shirt with the misfortune to get lost in the smoke and run right at the enforcers. An older man yelling and waving his arms. The crowd breaks apart and surges away, searchlights spawning madhouse shadows stretching ahead of their fleeing figures. The dark shapes of bodies litter the asphalt behind them. They’d still be alive if not for me.

  “Have you always been this fatalistic?” asks Henrikson.

  “It’s a recent development,” I say before turning to Keeland. “Sean, are you sure about this? It’s escalated now. Enforcement isn’t specialized in less-than-lethal like we are. We’ve got the gear, let’s get some reclaimers down there –”

  “No,” interrupts Keeland, fists planted down on his gleaming monstrosity of a desk, “that would be exceeding our authority. DSS has the ball now. We will do nothing.”

  “A wise course,” says Henrikson. “The folks outside don’t like people in gray. Best not give them a reason to hate green.” He hasn’t touched his bourbon other than to swirl it about since the protests turned violent. With the world burning, getting drunk’s lost its appeal.

  The protest marches, organized by a coalition of groups opposing federal authority, began days ago and were peaceful enough. Then the news stories broke. The national media, already deep in Admin’s pocket, quashed them well enough, but the local outlets went nuts. The dark web joined in, the data springing up for download at sites too fast and numerous for the enemy AI to keep up. The protests swelled, gained a hard edge, and developed specific targets.

  As I’d hoped, a group of armed protestors stormed the facility where the NIDs were being kept. Rather than stop them, the local security force stepped aside. Turns out, most of them had no idea what they were guarding. Their supervisors, a handful of Blackhawk mercs, didn’t last long after that, even with automated defenses backing them. Before today, that place was too secure to risk an op, something Henrikson and I tossed around, but now, it’s burning to the ground. Two news feeds loop it, a fire-gutted warehouse aglow with diminishing flames, black smoke leaking into the night. I couldn’t have asked for a better outcome. Or a worse one.

  The enforcers used lethal force on the protestors who set the fire, shot them down like dogs. Those that surrendered got lined up against a retaining wall and shot in the head. A brave news crew aired the footage live before they, too, got gunned down. What followed was as inevitable as bad choices. The protests turned violent, the enforcers declared martial law, and hell followed after. More boots on the ground, more bullets, more bodies. The conflict now vibrates through the walls and windows of Keeland’s office seventeen stories up. The hiss of coil rounds, the staccato tapping of small-arms fire, the thump of explosions – LA all over.

  “Who’s to blame for this?” wonders Keeland aloud, eyes roaming the screens.

  That would be me, I think, though there’s plenty of blame to go around.

  “Blame Maxwell,” says Henrikson. “The prick’s stacked the deck since he landed in the big house. And now, four more years.” He raises his glass. “Shall we drink in his honor?”

  Keeland gives him a look that ought to incinerate him.

  “What? Too soon after the rigged election? Don’t tell me you voted for that prick?”

  “New Dawn could be involved,” I say. “They were behind some of the clashes in LA. But that’s speculation, our informants have nothing. This is my fault as much as anyone’s.”

  Keeland poniards me with his eyes. “You made the right call.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “You argued against involving the media, remember?”

  “I didn’t order you not to. I knew what would happen, wanted to avoid it, but –” Keeland shakes his head. “It was still the right thing to do. People needed to know. Just like I did.”

  “See that?” says Henrikson, gesturing with his glass at one of the images. “They’re using the new HK VX models, military-grade hardware. Interesting choice.”

  “Get out,” seethes Keeland, staring revulsion at Henrikson.

  Henrikson shrugs and gets to his feet. “Thanks for the drink,” he says, setting the half-full glass on the edge of Keeland’s desk. Turning to leave, he stops to address me. “I’ll wait downstairs.” Then he departs, the office door sliding closed behind him.

  Keeland drops into his chair and locks eyes on a screen scrolling statistics. “Eighteen confirmed dead already.” He licks his lips, stares at the ceiling. “We failed. We took the blame for the memorial attack, it was our watch. They’ll find a way to pin this on us, too. And nothing we can do.” He slams a fist down. “Fuck!”

  There’s little we can do to remedy the situation. DSS has jurisdiction now thanks to the geniuses in DC, and having provoked this violent uprising, they’re also responsible for putting it down. So far, they haven’t asked for our help in dealing with the situation on the streets, thank a God who will never be held to account by his own creations. As much as I hate sitting on the sidelines while in
nocent people are getting killed, Henrikson was right: joining the enforcers would ensure our complicity in this madness. More gas on their fire won’t help.

  There’s only one way to deal with it, now that it’s begun.

  I place the call, eyeblade rotating to cover my left eye. Let’s see if he takes it.

  “Malcolm,” greets John Monroe, expression intense and preoccupied. From the bluish glow suffusing his face and the changing colors reflected in his eyes, he must be enclosed in a command sphere, monitoring and guiding the enforcer response throughout the city. Perfect.

  “John. Things getting a bit busy over there?”

  “I already gave First Redeemer Keeland my answer.”

  “That was before your men started killing protestors.”

  “Rioters and criminals,” he says. “My men have every right to defend themselves.”

  “Why have you sidelined the constabulary?”

  “At my request, the chief constable has his men deployed in less-volatile areas.”

  “Like us, you mean? Bunkered up inside while the streets run with blood?”

  He stops trying to multitask, gray eyes silvered by photonic glow staring out at me with a touch of irritation, his version of outright anger. “We’re doing the best we can over here.”

  “That’s the problem. I want you to pull your men out and let us and the constables take over riot suppression. We’ve got better training and gear for the less-lethal approach. I’ll also need you to revoke martial law. We can’t be expected to detain the thousands of people out on the streets, and it’s a vital step to scaling back people’s fears.”

  “You know I can’t do that, Malcolm. My duty –”

  “To hell with your duty!” I shout, suddenly wanting nothing more than to reach through the screen and throttle him to death. “You owe me for LA. I’m calling it in now.”

  His face turns to stone, unreadable. Long moments pass as he thinks it over. “If I comply with your request, I may face sanction.”

  “That’s not my concern. Will you pay your debt to me or not?”

  He glances around at various holoscreens, putting the pieces together. “Give me ten minutes to lay the groundwork. Should I coordinate the transition with you or Keeland?”

  I exhale the breath I’d been holding. “Keeland. Thank you, John.”

  “For what? I’m repaying a debt, that’s all. The revocation of martial law will only be temporary. My superiors in DC may insist on its reapplication. They’ll replace me if I refuse. You have until tomorrow morning – that’s as long as I can give you.”

  “Understood. Let’s hope it’s enough.”

  The trace of a smile touches his thin lips. “Justice is imperative and impartial. Good luck on your op tonight.”

  How does he..? He’s DSS, of course he knows. “You’ll stand aside?”

  “We’ll stay out of your way. Good hunting.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “Dark Mark is burning.”

  I follow Keeland’s gaze to a group of screens showing precisely that. Dense smoke streams from the old brownstone structure, flames flickering behind the windows on the upper floors. Civilians stream out of the building through the front. Others brave the fall from windows to the pavement below. I step closer, squinting to see a woman hanging from a windowsill four stories up, flames engulfing the room within. Then she falls, body hitting the pavement below to lay unmoving and ignored by the people hurrying past.

  My commset beeps, a call from an unrecognized number. When I answer, slanted eyes with glowing amber irises fill my eyeblade’s screen. Ruby. “Are you seeing this?” she gasps. “They’re burning my place down! My place! And you’re letting them!”

  “Ruby,” I say, unsure how to respond.

  She draws back a bit, allowing me to see the anger lining her brow and compressing her black-glossed lips into a pouty scowl. A few raven strands of hair have escaped their braided tower to feather over her eyes, shifting now to watch something offscreen. She opens her lips to let out an unladylike growl at what she’s seeing.

  “Ruby,” I try again, looking to Keeland to see him gesture at the fire trucks pulling up outside Dark Mark. “Ruby, are you there? Are you alright?”

  She spends a long moment staring offscreen, eyes wide and shining with moisture, before lowering her gaze with a sigh. When she looks up to meet my eyes, all evidence of the turmoil on her face mere moments ago is gone. “Malcolm, honey, you couldn’t help me even if I was.”

  “So you’re safe?”

  “Sugar, safe is a luxury I’ve never had. But you don’t need to worry your head over me. I’m in a different time zone now, took my best girls and got the hell out. The only silver lining in all this is knowing I was right.” She shakes her head, composure slipping for a moment as she wipes at her eyes. “Ain’t no silver lining at all, now is it? Goddamnit.”

  “I’m glad you made it out.” The firefighters have scrambled out of the trucks, a group of them moving to the main entrance to breach, others getting the hoses hooked up. “I’m sorry we couldn’t prevent this. The whole city –”

  “I know, you did your best, but it all went to hell anyway. Some things there’s just nothing you can do about them.” She tilts her chin and narrows her eyes at me. “I need a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  She leans into the camera. “Kill those sons-of-bitches. Find them and make them pay. Every last one, you hear?”

  “I won’t stop until they’re brought to justice.”

  “Justice?” She snorts, eyes crinkling in amusement. “Alright, sugar, whatever helps you sleep at night. Dead is dead, but if there’s some hurt to put on first, that’d be better. But first you got to find them. Could be I can help with that.”

  “I’m here with Keeland, you mind if I put the call up?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  At Keeland’s nod, I route the call to the wall. Ruby’s face appears across a large bank of screens, displacing most of the violence on them. The screens showing Dark Mark remain, the firefighters now pouring water into it.

  “Sean, honey,” says Ruby, face taking on a pained expression, “I’m so sorry. Poor way for a girl to slip out on a man, but I had to get out. Say you’re not angry with me?”

  “I’m glad you’re safe,” he says. “Where are you?”

  “You know I can’t say.” Her eyes cut around, furtive. “They might trace this call, but I’ll be moving on before they get to me.” Beyond her shoulders, we can make out a dim, wood-paneled room, an odd mix of pictures on the walls. Are those pool cues on a rack? “And this ain’t goodbye, dear, just a detour.” She winks at him. “We’ll talk it out later. Right now, we’ve got some business to wrangle over.”

  “Ruby,” I say, “you were saying about finding them?”

  “Yessir, I know all about your business with Connor. That poor fool, got himself neck-deep in shit this time and refuses to hit the road like I did. Stupid, arrogant, no-good excuse for a man.” She huffs and stares offscreen again.

  “What about Connor?” I say.

  “Had a little heart-to-heart with him, got him to admit he’s in too deep to get out on his own. He wants to talk, man to man.”

  I exchange looks with Keeland. Having a little chat with the cartel boss is already on the menu once we neutralize his men and apprehend him. We got Connor’s location earlier today from the chief, extracted from the dirty cops he’s got on ice. Seems Simmons decided to take my threats seriously. Good thing, too, since I wasn’t bluffing. Our spotters already reported the old warehouse by the river harbors a contingent of armed dirtbags. We’re set to storm the place once Keeland gives his blessing. He gives me a shrug, leaving me guessing.

  I look back at Ruby. “A bit late for that now.”

  She smiles in triumph. “I know you think you got him cornered, but honey, he ain’t survived this long without brains. That rust heap by the river? He’s got some boys watching the place for him, but he ain’t there.�
��

  “So where is he?”

  “I’ll tell you, but only if you promise you won’t go kicking in his door and killing everything that moves. You go meet with him, civilized-like, you hear?”

  Keeland chimes in: “He’ll talk to us? He’s willing to give himself up without a fight?”

  Ruby raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Sugar, he’s got plenty of fight left, he just wants to choose how it goes down. I’m not saying you should trust him, but he’s in the same boat as us, wanting to kill those sons-of-bitches dead. He says he knows how to get to them.”

  “And you believe him?” asks Keeland, clearly not buying this.

  “I sure do. He’s a despicable killer, but he’s always shot straight with me.”

  “What’s your stake in all this?” I ask.

  “A girl’s got to take care of herself. Connor’s got some connections where I’m headed, help a girl get a fresh start. And you, sweetie, you’ll owe me one. With most men, that don’t mean much, but not you. Deal?”

  “Alright,” I say, holding up a hand to forestall Keeland, “alright. When and where?”

  “The abandoned armory,” she says, “midtown off the forty. Tonight at midnight. I’ll let him know you’ll show.” She raises an eyebrow and stares down at me.

  “I’ll give him his chance to talk.”

  “I know you will, sugar.” Ruby favors us both with a sweet smile. “You boys take care now, you hear?” With that, the call ends.

  Keeland jumps out of his chair, shouting out, “Open!” Part of the wall slides apart and he marches through it onto his balcony.

  Following, I step out into the night air and join him at the railing, the sounds of city-wide conflict magnifying. Downtown’s still without power, the light from a three-quarters moon limning the darkened superstructures with a timeless pale vacancy, like ancient watchtowers standing vigil over a collapsing civilization. Where the protesters gather, street-level is a firefly swarm of shifting lights massing away from conflict zones lit by searchlights and flaming wrecks. Tactical drones beam their own searchlights down into the crowds, scattering some. Leaning over the railing, I can just make out Dark Mark in the near distance, crowned now by flames, black smoke billowing out into the uncaring night. A night fit for fire and madness.