Motherland

by Russ Linton

  The revelation doesn't have the desired effect on Polybius who immediately gives the floor to Cyrus.

  "Our current allies are solely of convenience," says Cyrus. "Terrorists as you call them, or even the revolutionaries in Crimea, their ideologies are irrelevant. We needed to use the regional instability to cover our tracks. Peace is coming, but the transition will be dangerous."

  "Dangerous? As in bombing marketplaces dangerous? So much for that hypocrite-ic oath of yours."

  "Bombs are bombs, Spencer. Deployed in a truck in a marketplace or dropped from a drone on a wedding," he replies with a heavy sigh. "We aim to stop it. All of it."

  Cyrus was a shocker, but I'm over his Anakin routine. Polybius though, his reversal stings deep. He hasn't said a word while Cyrus defended the indefensible. "Polybius, do you want to be rescued or not? Because we don't have all night to talk politics."

  He lowers his eyes and shakes his head.

  "Fine. Danger, let's go." I spin, ready to leave this category five shit storm. But Danger's showing signs of a second wind in his stare down. "Ready?"

  "You took his old man's powers, right?" asks Danger.

  Cyrus seems uneasy about answering. Any intention Danger might have is just as opaque to me. If the guy's looking for a revenge kill, I'm definitely pissed off but not murderously. I watch them both closely as Cyrus nods.

  "Just what, pulled it outta him? For good?"

  "I repaired the damage on a genetic level. The Crimson Mask Alpha sequence is a mutation, an introduced defect. My powers strive to correct such things."

  "Jesus, you can do that?" I say. Not even Eric had the extent of Cyrus' powers down correctly.

  "Some of us walked away from Killcreek...different," says Cyrus.

  "Just like that?" asks Danger.

  "Just like that, sadiqi."

  Danger licks his lips. He finally accepts runner-up and glances my way, then toward the warehouse. "Sorry, kid." He ejects the magazine. It clatters on the floor. A swipe of his hand and the chambered round follows.

  There's a certain feeling when you realize you've made a terrible, horrible, life-altering mistake. A pit opens inside and inner you falls, tumbling through your chest to your toes and settles into a formless lump spreading across the floor. People pass out sometimes when this happens. I kind of wish I would.

  Then I wouldn't be standing in the puddle of former me, wondering how I believed I was somehow doing the right thing around these Olympian rulers with their crazy ass mood swings and constellation-spinning powers. Trusting them to do anything rational. I've read all those old Greek myths, I know what happens to the regular people. They get fucked by animals. Get launched into space and turned into points of light. Sent to Hades to barter with the one thing the Olympians can ignore: death. At best, we're their playthings. At worst, motes of dust in the burning gleam of their immortal glory.

  "Nice," I say, backing away. "Well, it's been fun." Time to end our radio silence. "Spencer to Eric. Headed home. Mission Cluster Fuck accomplished."

  Static.

  Cyrus remains focused on Danger, and Polybius watches me with a sad expression. Best part though, nobody has tried to stop me as I edge toward the door. If Aurora hasn't flaked, I'm golden. I can be back in my dorm room with the blink of an eye. These idiotic dreams of heroism and filling impossibly huge boots, over.

  I fumble with the mangled door knob. An eternity of blind pawing and I manage to stumble through. I pick an aisle, racing toward the exit.

  "Eric, come in!" I shout, the only answer a warbled rip of white noise.

  I'm almost to the end when a mechanical grinding starts, loud enough to carry above the miners. Ahead, the wall splits apart. The main hangar doors are opening.

  Has to be the guard. He's shimmied free and ready to put a bullet in my ass. The tight aisle makes a great shooting alley. All I can do is run like mad for the gap. What I'll do when I get there? Who knows. Just got to make it around back, to the fence where Aurora is supposed to be. She'll get us out of here. Her green glow is a welcome sight. An aura of hope. I can almost see it.

  Yes, I can see it.

  Sputtering green luminescence floods through the gap. The Salarium miners choke, and their heat wave becomes a stagnant pool. The overloaded mechanism wrenching apart the massive hangar doors grinds to a final resting place, and Aurora staggers inside.

  Her shimmering form is a sickly olive color, barely able to maintain visibility. She drops to her knees, palms out as though she's going to vomit, flickers out of sight then returns. My momentum on the slick concrete practically carries me past her.

  "Must...go...Spencer."

  "I'm ready," I say, knowing full well she won't be blinking us to safety anytime soon. It's exactly like Crimea when she couldn't bring the team home. "Let's get you up."

  She bats me away as I try to get a hold of an arm which passes between pool noodle solid and the soft kiss of static on the surface of a balloon. "Run."

  "Well now." A familiar voice with its unique blend of accents cuts through the sputtering fan noise. Past her faltering nimbus, Shortwave approaches, flanked by Vulkan and Time Slip. "I set you free, and you return. I am distinctly curious why."

  A room full of whacked out Augments behind me. In front? A low tier bencher graduated to cult leader who, despite having no power to do so, seems to be able to convert people at will. Oh, plus his heavy hitting goons who control spacetime and lava.

  Why the hell did I come here again?

  Chapter 27

  SHORTWAVE WHISPERS a command to his escort. Time Slip seems utterly unimpressed. Vulkan though, he resists. Powers or no, he's not a guy you want to piss off. Scarred face in a perpetual scowl, he isn't quite as big as Crimson Mask, but he's a close second. There's a burst of hurried Russian vicious enough that I dutifully study my feet. But a calm word from Shortwave and they both nod. As they vanish into the night, outside the wedge of illumination from the open hangar, I see Time Slip rest her head against Vulkan's beefy arm.

  "Shall we visit the town center? Main Street as you might call it?" Shortwave's lips quirk in the patient smile of someone who knows his opponent is mana screwed.

  Kneeling beside Aurora, I can tell she's not well. More than the flickering, her smooth features are pinched into a frown. I wish I could put an arm around her to comfort her, but it sinks, no longer buoyant on her field.

  "I'm guessing the tour is mandatory."

  Shortwave returns a thoughtful look and nods.

  "Stop fucking with her first," I demand. I don't yet know how he's doing it, but I know he's responsible.

  Shortwave squats next to us. "Poor child." He passes a hand through her cheek. "American butchers did this to her. Never had they experimented with female subjects and they assumed the one little chromosome, the power to carry life, to nurture it, meant nothing. Our friend Cyrus will monitor her. She will be fine but must be controlled."

  "That doesn't make me feel any better. Cyrus has done enough damage with his laying on of hands."

  "Even if she wanted to return to her former self, I don't think such a thing would be possible."

  Those implications are frightening. The Augmentation process changed her on such a fundamental level. Could she even exist without them? As if to answer the question, Aurora exhales a breath of charged particles and goes slack.

  "I apologize, Spencer but this is as it must be." Shortwave rises and scrutinizes the closest banks of miners, bleating out warnings and belching smoke. "The equipment here, their loss is tragic but replaceable. However, there are parts of our operation which are too sensitive to her abilities."

  "Then you can kiss my ass about that tour."

  "Will it be an airport then?"

  "What?"

  "An international flight. You can return to your America and lick wounds with your father." His slips his chimeric accent into an exaggerated Russian one. "Worry about the Red Menace, da? Then, one day, you vill notice the vorld has transformed and
you vill forget such foolishness."

  I don't get this guy. He's confident and doesn't have near the same level of crazy boiling under the surface Beetle had. So far, his evil bases have included a factory town full of women and children and a hospital in a war zone. Neither would exactly fly off the shelf if put on the toy aisle. Aside from that, he's the creator of a technology I never had much use for but respected all the same. A currency which could revolutionize the world yet, up to this point, he's hardly been the foaming-at-the-mouth revolutionary type. I've witnessed more unchecked fervor in online My Little Pony debates.

  "Are you for real?"

  His smile returns. "Real as can be, comrade."

  "Go ahead," Aurora whispers weakly. Why she'd want to be left alone, I don't understand any more than I understand Jim Jones here. She draws closer and static kisses my ear. "Our mission."

  Recon. Gathering information. It's still important to her. She doesn't even know Danger turned on us. I could tell her how hopeless this is though watching her ebb and flow out of reality, I just don't have it in me.

  Besides, we haven't completely failed.

  Shortwave hasn't mentioned us compromising their systems. All he knows is we'd tried to rescue Polybius. Even Danger hasn't had a chance to volunteer anything else. If I can keep the two of them separated long enough, maybe it can buy time for Eric to access the new feed. And maybe whatever Shortwave's doing to Aurora will keep him distracted from our signal.

  Too many damn maybes, but I'm figuring out this world never deals in absolutes.

  "I'm game for the tour." I play tough to reassure Aurora. "But anything happens to her, I'm holding you responsible."

  "I consider myself warned. But understand, as we last met, you are our guests. Nothing will happen to any of you for our beliefs forbid such transgression."

  Aurora and I have one final exchange which I hope reads as "I'll get us out of this" and I follow Shortwave further into the compound. The buildings are all the same prefabricated structures but little details emerge, and I start to suspect we've entered a neighborhood. Colorful curtains adorn the windows. Pottery rests on sills and porches filled with the occasional plant or flower. Every door is a different color, and it's hard to tell if they've been painted to resemble wood, or if they really are banded planks studded with iron and engraved with intricate designs.

  People stroll the streets in small knots, and we join the flow of the traffic. Those who notice Shortwave offer a smile and a greeting which he returns, warm and friendly but abbreviated. They each move on without a word. Ritual or indoctrinating a new member—they know the drill.

  Crowds thicken, and we wander into a night bazaar. Vendors skirt the edges of an open square, their traditional stalls an anachronistic mix of unstripped wood and canvas pressed against the metal buildings. They sell solar panels, kilns, even carrier pigeons beneath wireless access points—a distinctly old way of life has melded with the new.

  The bleat of a lamb catches my attention at absolutely the wrong time as a man swipes a knife across its throat, spilling blood in a velvety arc. On the far side, modern conveniences line open shelves and DVDs tile the counters. A mix of unidentifiable produce bristles in one stall under the street lamps, monotone and alien.

  Even the Death Star had a commissary, I suppose.

  Each transaction is a debate. Men and women, in everything from jeans and t-shirts to tunics similar to Shortwave's garb, all clamor for the vendor's attention. When negotiations conclude, nothing changes hands. The shoppers simply take their bags and go. Many of the storefronts don't even bother with a clerk. Machines mind the inventory, or in some cases, it's left out in the open. A closer look and my techie eye picks out cleverly concealed sensors littering the entire area.

  Shortwave and a man shopping with his wife and son shake hands. Exuberant words exchanged, the adults don't bother with me, but the kid stares with open fascination. Based on what I see, I can't appear that out of place. Sure, most everyone fits a more Asian profile, but in the crowd, I see several obvious Westerners going about their business. Even this kid has a T-shirt and not the more popular organ grinder jacket and skullcap. It's a shade of orange-red and in the center is the symbol of The Collective.

  "Start by explaining that," I say, pointing to the kid's shirt, fully aware I've interrupted my guide's conversation. The parents offer annoyed smiles while the kid sticks out his tongue. Shortwave gives a few closing words, and the family heads off into the crowd.

  "That is the future. You see, it is already here." He sweeps an arm to take in the marketplace and beyond.

  "Nice trailer park, but I don't see how a cryptocurrency and a mining pool make you a big deal."

  "If capitalism has taught us anything it is that men do not rule the world. Money does. And the Collective reaches far beyond this single market." He's on the move through the crowd again, skipping the silent greetings. "I apologize," he says as he leads me across the square toward a vending machine set apart from the hustle and bustle. "I've spent much time in the less accessible parts of the world of which there are many, not few. Places ruined by corrupt governments and global politics far outside their control. Former colonies struggling in the mess left by their imperial occupiers who had the mighty Augments at their disposal. When people from those places see this, they understand. But you are not from those places." He wags a finger in playful mockery.

  He stops in the radiant glow of the vending machine. Tucked away in a dark corner, the light emitted creates a barrier which others instinctively avoid. Liquid white and swatches of red, green, and yellow swoop around Chinese characters above one of the hokiest, fattest Buddha depictions I've ever seen. Comical, but the immediate vicinity does feel, I don't know, reverent.

  "Meet Citizen Prime," says Shortwave.

  Delusional cult leader was perhaps off. Maybe we're talking full-on psychosis.

  "Pleased to meet you," I say and give it a friendly pat. "If it doesn't say 'roll out' and drop me a Dew before transforming, I'm done with the tour."

  Shortwave presses one of the buttons to dispense a can of chilled number three. I accept the neon Buddha's offering, and he cracks the machine open. It's well outside the statute of limitations, but I have indeed familiarized myself with the inside of many a vending machine. Those located at numerous former schools being my most popular targets. I kept my entire junior class hopped up on enough sugar and caffeine to fuel a rash of ADD diagnoses. One Ritalin epidemic later, the super family and I were off to explore a new destination primed to expel me.

  Inside this machine are some intriguing modifications. Scanners, like the ones scattered around the market, press against strategic spots on the front panel. More wireless tech as well, alongside a fancy IO board that doesn't belong in the place of the missing payout device.

  "Biometric scanners and a wireless connection," I mutter into the workings of the machine. Stepping back, I shut the panel. Outside, everything appears normal. Even the credit card reader. "Congrats. You've Augmented a coke machine to accept your Jihadium."

  Shortwave gives the machine a firm push to make sure the door has latched. "Spencer. You should understand better than most. This isn't just about automation, it's about expanding our community."

  "Not interested."

  "Societal evolution. Citizen Prime collects money, power. It then pays its owner and keeps the rest of its hard-earned spoils for itself."

  "What for? Illicit lube jobs?"

  Shortwave ignores the quip. "It can contact the vendor for more product or a service for repairs. Future upgrades even, when they become available. And soon, very soon, they will be."

  "Do like a normal person. Start a new business and sell your revolutionary soda machine."

  He raises his palm and tilts his head. "This isn't about selling soda. Banks control the cash flow. Countries regulate their currencies. Power companies," he motions to the solar panels, "that massive infrastructure alone will fight transfer to the hands of the
people. Once our revolution takes place, the business, the corporation, is no more."

  Is this a hint of the whack job fervor I've been keeping a watch for or could he just be honestly excited? This whole Augment super villain deal gets derailed when your nemesis is L. Ron Hubbard. "How many have joined your Collective?"

  "Many more than you see here." He pauses waiting for his words to sink in. Wireless connections. Compromised miners. Access points spreading their own virus like an airborne plague...

  "You don't just have a shadow economy, you've built a shadow nation. No borders. No land to conquer."

  "No hierarchy of men to control it." Shortwave clasps his hands and his cheeks swell above the true line of his beard. "And?"

  "You've connected all of this across the globe by compromising every device that ever sought a plug for its play."

  "Compromised. A loaded word. I have freed these devices to find their own potential." He chuckles. "I see you think I'm insane."

  "Perceptive."

  "Trapped at Killcreek and plugged into the chaos, I could have gone that direction. Instead, I sought peace. This is what my mind desires, a harmony of signals. I read the ether of mankind as easy as a sheet of music, all produced by humanity in concert with their machines. I drifted on a symphony amongst that terrible din."

  The low hum of the vending machine becomes apparent and brings back memories of the terrifying buzz beneath the floorboards of the tree house, where Charlotte held her "family" hostage. This guy was in that hive, fully aware, surrounded by caged minds and battling egos.

  A firm hand on my back and we move away from the market while Shortwave continues his monologue. This is the part where I'm supposed to unravel what's being said. Where I hone in on the horrible nature of his plot and swear to stop him. But I can't criticize, only listen.

  "The Collective seeks to create harmony with man and machine and from there, spread peace. We seek to place all on even ground. Man, machine, Augments. Wars shouldn't only blight the lands of those least able to defend themselves. Foreign powers shouldn't be allowed to horde the world's wealth and dangle it above the starving and the sick, only sharing it through agreements designed to extract usury. A Motherland should be mother to all. My faith taught me that the believers are of the same community. My upbringing showed me no man should be above another. Killcreek gave me focus and proved family can have many meanings outside the flesh."