by Russ Linton
"Wait, you haven't answered my other question. How did you ever get outside communication past this cloak?"
"Since wireless wasn't possible, we set up a hardline to a repeater about ten miles out." He pulls up another screen, and I'm looking at a mountain top dish on a cell tower. "Plenty of hops to there from the outside, and we'll have a heads up assuming anyone finds the tower. Which they won't."
"But your cloak is degrading. Intact for how much longer?"
"All good right now." He says this definitively though I can sense the coming exception. "We can't say how long. It's always been mysterious. We'd bring back Augments, and the memories would hit them the second they broke the perimeter. But she...the field keeps track of who's chosen to stay long term. Those, our team, come and go with no leaky brainpan issues. Without, uh, Charlotte, hooked up, though, we aren't positive about the field integrity. Seems to be dispersing." He checks the screens. "Kinda fascinating."
"Understatement of the century," I say. Their base is possibly compromised, soon, completely exposed to any former occupant who suddenly recalls they hold a grudge. Great. "And you think I'll figure all this out with a routine diagnostic?"
He scrunches his forehead in confusion. "Not like I'm going to load this shit up in a van and drop it off with the Geek Squad, now am I? Aside from Xamse, who's busy crushing corporate competition, you're the only other person familiar with Beetle's hardware."
He's got a point.
I move closer to the screen, trying to make sense of the flood of data. Could she be lurking around the system still? Moved out of her tentacle throne and maintaining a wireless connection via her brain? That girl, that scary, scary little girl who won't give up pretending to be part of my family. From psychic kidnapping to straight up impersonating my mom. Messing with Dad's brain. Hell, maybe Eric even. She could be in control of him right now.
Eric rocks back and forth in the chair like we've taken a photon torpedo to the starboard nacelle.
Okay, maybe not.
"We're fully operational, Ensign. I can't have any downtime," he orders. The screens switch back to their current event montage.
"All this," I say, finally taking in the scope of the project. He's got to have a dozen server racks along the far wall blinking their little green statuses, flashing an occasional red and yellow. "Diagnose, check for issues, then what?"
He stops rocking. "If you don't find a problem, we'll need to go to the next directive."
"Next directive? What's that?"
"Don't know yet. Bridge to engineering," he says, queuing up the boatswain whistle. "Bridge...to...engineering," he repeats, with the classic staccato delivery. He points eagerly at me.
I take a breath and look up at the ceiling. "Engineering."
"Ready...to begin the warp core...diagnostic?"
"Yep. All clear."
"Engage, motherfucker!"
"Sure thing, Captain Pike," I say, heading for the hallway. "I just gotta talk to someone first."
I can feel the boisterous cries of "mutiny" build on the back of my neck then fade as he considers the ramifications of where I'm headed. "No problem, man. Take some shore leave planetside. It's all good." I'm at the door before he asks, "Which one are you? The angry Scot or the dude with the banana clip on his face?"
Pausing with the door half open, I take in his hopeful expression. He's still joking, but I can tell he's genuinely concerned I'm not playing along. The time I've been away at school didn't melt away similar to when I emerged from the Icehole and found him. Change, he's had a lot of it. We both have, but he's clinging to the past, and I'm trying to make a future. I got out of that damn bunker but didn't quite escape.
"Neither one, Eric. I'm just me."
Chapter 6
I HEAD UP THE HALLWAY with no intention of speaking to whomever Eric assumes I'm going to talk to. I don't think I'd even need to start that conversation since Charlotte can pop into my brain any moment. Given our shared history, she'll wait until I'm asleep and helpless. Yet another reason I've resigned myself to this interruption of my life—there's no escaping her.
The crash doors leading out of the prisoner's wing swing open. It's the intense black dude Eric introduced day one.
"Hey." I try to sound casual. "Danger, right?"
He crosses the lobby without a word.
Friendly. Not that I blame any of these guys for being suspicious. If I'd signed up to fight for my country and they first kidnapped me then fed me to a psychic brain-eater, I'd be looking for the black helicopters too. Watching him disappear up the hall, I notice he's not tagged with either the experimental tech or even scars where that stuff used to be. Just as I suspected—no time at Killcreek for him. Interesting. I pause a beat and let the doors settle before stepping through.
"Spencer, how are you?" Polybius has a voice like he's speaking into a hollow, metal tube. He's sitting straight-backed in a folding chair, at one with the architecture. As I move toward him he raises up, joints whirring and clicking. He sets a book on the chair and extends a hand, one of the few places not wired, plated, and tubed.
"Doing good," I reply. His grip is warm, reassuring. Everything the rest of his cyber body isn't. "How are you?"
He seems somehow younger. Last time we spoke he'd just come out of a coma. Sunken cheeks and dark-ringed eyes, he'd had one foot in the grave. With the metal coif on his head, ribbed with tubes and wires, his features have been pulled taut and several years erased.
"I'm alive. Conscious." The response is neutral, but his smile is comforting. "Sit." He motions to his chair.
"I'm good."
He insists and indicates his legs. "They rarely tire."
I grab the book, correction, tome, off the seat and get comfortable. Heavy. Literally heavy. Critique of Pure Reason by Kant.
"You trying to put her to sleep in case she's in your brain?" I ask.
"If you're inquiring about my psychic well-being, I can assure you there is no need for concern."
"I was right? She can't with you."
"She's tried before." He taps a finger, flesh and bone, on the metal plate that is his scalp. "She's not alone. Many others have tried, and their methods proved unsuccessful. A benefit of my augmentation, perhaps."
I can't remove the image of the vegetative state in which I first saw him. He'd been one of the early ones rounded up and subjected to the government's experiments as they tried to control their wayward weapons. He'd also been one of the first to uncover the betrayal and try to help his fellow Augments. That's the real reason I came here.
"We didn't get much of a chance to talk last time," I say.
"True," he replies. "I recall we had switched places with me at your bedside and you under medical care."
"Yeah, I guess Cyrus did us both some big favors."
I suppose he’s right. When it isn't fused to a person's body, or framing such a kind and thoughtful example of humanity, the Black Beetle tech is masterful. I still have damp dreams about the circuitry housed in that battle armor, the unprecedented complexity of those nanomechs, but looking at the puckered seams where scar tissue meets metal on Polybius, I have to wonder if he’d been done a favor.
He crouches to make sure our eyes connect, and I know I must've been staring. "Cyrus didn't help just the two of us. He helped every Augment brought here by removing or deactivating the technology and healing their wounds. He did his duty regardless of affiliation or ideological bent. For a brief, shining moment, the past was the past." Uncomfortable, I examine the cell door across from us, and he straightens, joints humming. "That's why I agreed to stay on here. There is too much unfinished business, and somebody needs to continue to fight for those like me."
"Including her?" I say at the door.
"Especially her."
His answer is startling. "Why? I don't get why she's still here. Why she's even alive."
"Myself, Hound, your father, all of us agreed to this transformation at one time. We harbored no illusions tha
t what would come from our decision would be dangerous. But Charlotte and others were never given the choice."
"I'm all for second chances, Polybius. I could go for one myself. But she's dangerous." I glare at the solid steel door, daring her to reach out with her psychic powers and argue I'm wrong or to convince me, through brute mental force, she shouldn't have been pulped against the cavern wall instead of Martin. Flung into the depths like Hurricane.
"I'm not convinced she is," Polybius replies.
I eye him. "Tell me. Why do you feel you have to help them?"
"When I was first placed in the program, they'd initiated a new phase. Physical augmentations had proved undeniably effective on the battlefield, but those lines were being redrawn. Modern media and computer networks were coming into their prime. Controlling information and public perception became as much a part of war as ordnance and tactics. I was proud of those early accomplishments." He breaks into a wistful smile escaping the frame of its metal cage. Lowering his head, he continues. "Then I heard of the changes to be implemented to the program. It was through sheer accident I even found out. While decrypting Soviet transmissions, I became aware of the joint efforts to capture all Augments through the Black Beetle’s initiative. All the pride and adulation they'd heaped on us as we fought a secret war to keep our country safe had turned to fear. We'd been too effective, and it was decided they couldn't trust us."
I hope Charlotte isn't touring my gray matter because I can't really argue against what he's saying. At the same time, fear seems the most logical choice for most. I'm not the "us" to which he's referring. Normal people, we're the ones who decided Augments had too much power to be trusted.
Polybius wanders to the cell door and rests his palm there, struggling to get the next words out. "I'd been betrayed by those to whom I'd offered my very life. So I worked quietly behind the scenes, doing my best to repair the damage and convince people their fear was unwarranted." His hand slides from the door, and he turns. "Then a colleague brought Aurora to me. She'd had a different experience, entirely."
"She, huh?" I ask, confirming Emily's suspicions about Aurora.
"I only use the pronoun from my colleague's report who processed her for Augmentation. What the body has become now, what she feels, I can't truly say." He shakes his head and balls his hands into pale fists. "They stripped a desperate young girl of her humanity."
The tension releases and he raises his hands to inspect them, fingers splayed and turning slowly. Catching me watching, he clasps both behind him and metal clinks as his forearm contacts a chrome plated spine.
"I don't know I'd want to live as a green CGI effect either," I admit. "But the process is unpredictable, right? Surely she knew the risks."
"She'd been misled. They lied about the program. A rogue government facility returned to its sickening Tuskegee roots, testing on unaware recruits as if they were lab animals. Hers wasn't an Augmentation. It was a crime."
"What happened?"
"The original Augment laboratory had been ordered to close down and transfer their files to Killcreek, with which you are familiar." I nod and he continues, his demeanor slipping back into precise, formal movements. "Instead of complying, his own career on the line, the base commander decided to start his own experiments on female subjects ahead of schedule. My colleague alone survived. No one else, except Aurora, and you'd have to ask her whether she truly survived."
"Killcreek operated in secret for what, thirty years afterward?"
"Forty-two years. Their initial intentions had been to liquidate the current Augments and create weapons more susceptible to control. Then Drake and Charlotte entered the picture, and governments became convinced they could find ways to salvage the ones they already had. Even after the mishap that created Aurora, they persisted with their plans by shipping in foreign nationals, children who'd been abandoned. You saw the results of such hubris." A smile brightens his foreboding glower, and this one has me a bit embarrassed. "Up until you helped bring the facility offline."
"I don't know that I did all that much."
"Spencer, we'd have been held prisoner, turned into mindless slaves. Once Charlotte broke free, we'd have been subject to her misguided desires. Some of us were."
Words won't form, an uncommon condition. The silence stretches until I'm ready for it to burst. Before I can blurt anything too awkward and offensive, Polybius squats and props against the wall next to me.
"You're wondering if you did the right thing. That's why you're here."
That breath I'm storing to unleash the worst question I could ask this guy, a guy who has been nothing but helpful, rushes out. Conscious or not, he'd decoded the transmission which gave us the break in tracking down the Black Beetle. And his was the first voice I heard when I came to after the battle, him and Hound standing vigil at my bedside while Dad played Augment herder.
"Did I?"
"Truthfully, I can't say what is right or wrong," says Polybius. "I can only say that I'm grateful for what you did. But my fight isn't over. We aren't completely free, and I must not only make sure it does not happen again but that we Augments are accepted and worthy of that acceptance."
We both regard the foot-thick steel cell door in silence.
"What's up with Danger?"
"Don't be offended by his lack of social skills. He's not the type that enjoys being in one place too long, and he's been tasked to keep watch here since this new development with Charlotte."
"Why?"
"As his name implies, he senses danger. Your father insisted he stay under the assumption that if Charlotte means to do us harm, he'll be able to provide a warning."
"Dad did that?"
It's brilliant. A nice tactical play worthy of a grandmaster. I always wondered how I got so good at chess. Sure, lots of practice and computer ass beatings. But people chasing psych degrees always endlessly debate the nature versus nurture argument and nobody's come to a solid conclusion. Could be in the genes.
Polybius smirks but doesn't make eye contact. "Your father is more cautious than you think."
With that little revelation, I slump in the chair, suddenly uncertain about everything. When I'd been searching for Mom and ended up trapped in a cell at Killcreek, she'd been able to reach out from the psychic terrarium where Charlotte kept her. She'd used the distracted Augment's powers to contact me.
Did enough of Mom linger on to wrest free? Could she really have control of Charlotte's body?
I motion to the cell door. "Why do you think he believes my mom's in there?"
Polybius examines the ceiling, thinking through his answer. "I know he wants to believe it, Spencer."
I don't think I'm ready to admit he could be right. In fact, I know I'm not.
"Thanks for the talk, Polybius." I start to leave, and he stops me.
"You can speak with her if you want. We can even arrange a remote connection into the cell if that would make you more comfortable."
"Better get going. I told Eric I'd help him."
Halfway down the hall, a single thought follows me, close enough it might've come through that cell door and ridden on my shoulder: I'd once told Mom I'd help her too.
Chapter 7
YOU SURE YOU REMOVED all his nanomechs?" I ask, elbow deep in circuit boards and wiring.
"Positive," Eric calls from the far side of the comcen. "Used our previous techniques to relocate them. Made them a nice little home on a silicon wafer and we Ember-Wiggened those buggers. I'd show you their final home world, but she incinerated it completely, boss' orders."
"Genocide? I'm sure it'll be your name invoked in Godwin's law when AI take over the world."
Eric gives a sinister laugh. As sinister as he can get, at any rate.
Well, at least the slash and burn tactic sounds closer to dear ol' Dad's typical modus operandi. Can't say I blame them. I wouldn't even bother with this diagnostic if the nanos were still in play. Sure, they're helpful, but since we understand exactly how they can be
compromised, not worth the risk. Would have been nice to teach them some new tricks though, and have my own little army pulling the weeds on this server farm.
Overwhelmed, I step away trying to figure out where to begin when something unusual catches my eye. A server rack tumbled over with networking cables and braided power supply hoses looping out the top. Failed system maybe? I go check it out.
The cabinet more resembles a giant freezer chest minus the lid. Cables pierce a transparent, viscous liquid becoming bent and sheared as the surface wobbles. Status LEDs blink underneath the ripples. The setup is strange, but the submerged tech is identifiable.
“Salarium miners?”
Eric peers between screens shifting to see where I am and squinting past the supernova glare of his collective Jumbotron. “Gotta plan for retirement somehow. Thanks to Sayrafi, I’m reech beetch!”
Cryptocurrency, championed by some dude calling himself Sayrafi, has moved from black markets into a fad for the geeky and trendy. Salarium is magic internet money created through cryptographic exchanges. Lots of power required for the equipment and lots of heat to dissipate.
I’ve seen home setups, like Emily’s and her co-workers, but this is impressive. Whatever Eric’s got his miners in, they’re completely submerged and running just fine. “What’s the coolant?”
“Same stuff used in Beetle’s armor. Heat dissipation rates are cah-raaazy. Those bad boys are over-over-overclocked and no sign of trouble.”
Framed by the cubist edges of the monitors, Eric’s glasses reflect the flicker of the comcen’s digital heartbeat. Retirement, check. On-site medical plan, check. A room full of “cah-raaazy” tech, triple check. He maybe has stumbled into his dream job.
Not sure if I should be happy for him.
More components from inside the body of the Beetle’s drones become clear amid the silicone chaos. Stronger than the memory veil being lifted, the sight of this glorious tech transports me to that insane week. Flying on the back of a death machine, taking Black Beetle’s armored suit out for a test drive. What had I been thinking? I dig out my trusty multi-tool and get to work.