Gumdrool had known we were coming. Had I clued him in?
“…maybe I should have kept my mouth shut,” I allowed.
“Silence was never your strong suit.”
We were still on camera, our earputers filming everything for later broadcast. It might have even looked good to someone on the outside; Dare and I had honed our banter from the good old days, back when we’d run around New York dressed up like ninjas.
Yet Dare drummed his fingers against his gun barrel, disappointed; we’d spoken the old words to summon good feelings, and they’d failed.
Dare had often questioned my sanity in our Blackout Party videos, a ha-ha joke for our audience. Now his questioning was barbed: Did your grandstanding just get us killed, Amichai?
We stared at the airlock. With Gumdrool alerted, that door might open to reveal a firing squad. Tomorrow’s newscast might have first-person footage of our deaths.
The door creaked open.
42: THE CHIP RECLAMATION FACTORY
* * *
There were no firing squads. There were no employees, either.
There was an ominous lack of anyone.
We smelled the lowtide stench of decaying biomatter. Flashing red emergency lights illuminated a long industrial hallway barely wide enough for two skinny workers to work elbow-to-elbow. We squeezed in, bumping along the creches lining each wall – aquariums holding the bacteria that assembled computer chips from waste material.
In the old days, I was told, they dug metal out of the ground and pressed it into computer chips. But the Earth’s crust had been looted by past generations, leaving us to recycle what we could from antiquated machinery.
The racks above the long rows of crèches had old motherboards scavenged from waste dumps, each protected by a pane of sterile glass. The racks stretched out for city blocks, crawling slurries of brown goo in a hyperbaric environment – the bacteria that teased out the scant molecules of yttrium and scandium, ferried them down the antfarm pane of the crèche and into the organic chip assemblers.
In the glass mangers of the creche, crusted barnacle-like formations served as microscopic mazes, where the bacteria laid the chips’ electronic pathways out one slow layer at a time.
The small maze mirrored the massive factory maze. You couldn’t make bacteria work fast, so instead they’d built half a million crèches online to work in parallel. Long pipes gurgled overhead, ferrying nutrients. Panels glowed with readouts, regulating the temperature, monitoring the bacterial stock for mutations. Water burbled underneath our feet, an artificial stream running below slotted steel catwalks to carry away waste materials.
Dare slowed to a halt. “I’d memorized the plans,” he murmured. “But it’s breathtaking in real life…”
“This one?” Mama Alex tapped on a nutrient pipe.
Dare squinted, following that pipe’s path among conduit-clogged intersections. He pointed in various directions, determining where it ended up, then nodded affirmation to Mama Alex.
“It is amazing,” Mama Alex acknowledged, getting a blowtorch to cut a hole in the pipe; thin red goo splattered into the wastestream. “We were shortsighted enough to destroy our planet, then smart enough to solve the problems our stupidity caused. That’s human history for you.”
We were on the factory’s growth side. On the assembly side, the workers – glorified slave labor – would take the chips grown here to build the Mother Mentors. Still, the hallways should have been choked with people harvesting chips, adjusting chemical balances, resupplying motherboards.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
Mama Alex stopped to squeeze my shoulder. “Gumdrool must have called them back.”
“But we–”
“We got ten minutes less than we planned before the LifeGuard arrives. Our priority is to find a working Mother Mentor.” She softened. “I promise you, Amichai. We’ll find Izzy if we can. But…”
“…Izzy’s never been guaranteed.”
“Your sister’s the hook. Gumdrool’s jiggling her in the water.”
I thought of Izzy in Gumdrool’s hands and tried not to vomit.
Mama Alex took out a pressurized canister, wedged it into the nutrient pipe, stuffed a wad of selfsealing plastic into the gap to stem the leak. “T minus twelve, I think,” she said. “Organics don’t follow set schedules. Dare, get us to the supply rooms.”
We ran through the endless creches, the glass panes turning dark as Mama Alex’s injection did its work. Evangeline led the charge with her gun at the ready, Facundo in obvious pain but clutching his revolver in his good hand.
No one intercepted us.
We arrived at another sterilization chamber, losing another two minutes as it cycled, then emerged near a vast warehouse near a loading dock. The warehouse had a corner stacked with hat-sized Mother Mentor boxes – a stack the size of a house. That seemed large until I examined the rest of the warehouse, and realized they intended to fill these empty spaces with thousands of Mother Mentors.
Still no guards.
Evangeline and Facundo took up guard positions as Mama Alex and Dare pulled out sample Mother Mentors from the stacks, tested them for evidence of Wickliffe’s mindslaver technology. If we came this far to find Wickliffe only had slave-linked certain Mother Mentors – or worse, had none at all – then our whole plan was ruined.
“Open up an encrypted channel to Peaches,” Mama Alex said. “Send her whatever data we get as we get it, just in case we get interrupted.”
I found a monitoring station, broke out the IceBreaker to hack it. The security here was top notch – Gumdrool must have overseen it – but I’d spent the last few weeks being taught secop subversion by Mama Alex.
“They’ve withdrawn the employees to the break areas,” I said. “I’ve located Izzy. She’s not that far away.”
She’s also supposedly alone, I didn’t say. Even I didn’t believe that.
“Facundo, you go with Amichai,” Mama Alex said. “You’re down to one hand anyway. Evangeline, you stay here, and–”
“No.”
“What?”
Evangeline’s face was resolute. “I’m not afraid,” she said. “I am not afraid.”
“What’s that have to do with anything?”
“He hurt me.” She bit her lip until it bled. “Gumdrool. He hurt my people.” Evangeline seemed to sense this wasn’t enough, so she jerked her chin reluctantly towards me and added: “We’ve worked together before.”
But she didn’t look at me.
Mama Alex opened her mouth to argue, then looked terribly sad. “All right. Facundo, you’re better suited to guard the main mission anyway. Amichai, you…” She shook her head, the beads in her hair rattling. “I’d tell you to retreat if it got too bad. But you wouldn’t listen anyway, would you?”
“I’d feel bad about ignoring you…”
She hugged me tight. “We have ensured you have every chance to rescue Izzy. But our tech does not make you invulnerable. Or indispensable. I love you, Amichai, but I will leave your ass behind if I have to. My concern is these Mother Mentors.”
“Then why let me go at all?”
“Because if you can rescue her, the footage will go megaviral.”
We fled. Evangeline cracked her knuckles eagerly. I imagined all the nights she’d sat up, thinking about her parents driven insane by the experiments Gumdrool loved, thinking of Gumdrool’s abuse at the Orphanage – turning Gumdrool into the face of everything wrong with the world.
A face she could finally punch.
Her bloodlust unnerved me. I was all for beating the crap out of Gumdrool, but the eager way she’d shot those guards demonstrated how different we were.
I wondered if she was eager to punch Gumdrool because she couldn’t punch me.
We arrived at the cafeteria where Izzy was supposedly holed up. There were swinging access doors; through the grimy windows I saw stained coral benches and dispensers on the walls that dripped sludge-nutrients into bowls.
I checked the IceBreaker; the cameras that monitored this area were in brownout.
I instructed the IceBreaker to redirect the ventilators.
Then I saw Izzy.
Even bound to a wheelchair piloted by Gumdrool, she was still the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. Her wide brown eyes were cataracted, her arms covered with sores and ringworm; she’d picked up the inevitable array of biochip infections.
Izzy cried out: “Why did you come, you idiot? Of course it’s a trap!”
Those were the most beautiful words I’d ever heard.
Up until now, I’d been unable to consider the inevitable – that Gumdrool had mindslavered my sister into a drooling, compliant worker.
But she struggled in Gumdrool’s grip like a woman possessed.
“I know.” I walked forward, trying to swagger for the cameras. Gumdrool had dressed for the press as well, wearing an olive-green general’s outfit, his broad chest dangling with medals. “Gumdrool. You’ve been stationed here for weeks, waiting for me to arrive. Why didn’t you pick us off at the entryway?”
“Because I want you alive.” Troops stepped out of the kitchen, aiming tasers at us. “My men will execute the rest of your crew. They’re too dangerous.” He patted Izzy’s head as she struggled. “You, however… you won’t dare shoot with Isabella in danger.”
He smirked. “Honestly, Amichai, I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to get here. I’d mentioned Lacona Springs twice in our last conversation. How many hints do I need to leave?”
“I thought you’d planned to void me on the monorail.”
“I intended to.” A wrinkle of concern appeared on his forehead. “But I’ve learned never to underestimate you, Amichai. After the branch server fiasco, I instituted my own rule: always have contingency plans when dealing with Amichai Damrosch.”
“Funny,” I replied, just as the ventilators in the room began to hiss. “I have the same rule with you.”
Clouds of black acid billowed into the room.
43: BRUTAL LESSONS ONLY A MOTHER COULD PROVIDE
* * *
The Brain Trust knew that destroying a chipmaking factory was trivial. The bacteria only managed to do their jobs due to a specialized environment. Raising the temperature ten degrees would destroy the biomass.
However, the Brain Trust had an idea buried deep in its archives: a tailored virus that wouldn’t just destroy the bacteria, but cause them to disintegrate into toxic gas. From there, it was a matter of redirecting the gas vents to the proper places – tricky, but doable if you had an IceBreaker, Mama Alex’s supervision, and Dare to chart out the quickest ways to redirect the gas.
The look on Gumdrool’s face as his troops choked? Priceless.
They fired tasers at me before collapsing, doing their obligatory duty before succumbing to the death threat. But we’d altered the hazmat suits; the rubberized fabric dispersed the current.
But honestly? This toxic gas would be fatal in time, but initially it was no worse than pepper spray – blinding, painful, but a devoted man could fight for a few minutes more to get to safety.
If his minions didn’t fling themselves into death at the first bad excuse, Mama Alex had said, we’d have zero hope of overthrowing Wickliffe.
And, as expected, Gumdrool’s handpicked troops clasped their hands over their eyes and fell to the floor, writhing and eager for death.
Gumdrool grabbed a napkin, clasped it over his mouth. Though his eyes were nearly swollen shut, he stepped forward – the only opponent in this room eager to live. “Damrosch,” he gurgled. “This won’t stop me–”
Evangeline punched him in the throat.
Or tried to.
Gumdrool moved with fluid grace, anticipating Evangeline’s move. He swatted her punch away with his free hand, aimed a kick at her groin.
Evangeline moved backwards, shifting to a defensive posture. I was no martial arts expert… but had Gumdrool been this good last time?
Gumdrool’s chortle told me just how much better he’d gotten.
“The Mother Mentor can teach you things horrifically fast.” He circled around Evangeline, coughing as he reached for a rebreather at his waist. “It programs in the correct muscle memories, makes you hyperaware of your stance. And after this NeoChristian bitch took me out, I’ve spent the last month having it improve my martial arts…”
He exploded at her, a flurry of kicks and left-hand punches so quick I couldn’t even track them. Evangeline’s years of training weren’t enough to anticipate Gumdrool – he broke past her defenses, slipping in a knee to the gut, landing a blow to the jaw. She tried to muster a counterattack, but the hazmat suit weighed her down.
And this is him one-handed, half-choking on gas…
“We knew we might lose this facility!” he crowed, stepping around Izzy’s wheelchair to backhand Evangeline. She scurried away from Gumdrool, panicked. “I don’t know where you’ve gotten this new biotechnology, Amichai, but… One factory to get you was a small cost. We’ve got hundreds of facilities. And when we’re done, every LifeGuard will be trained as extensively as I am–”
He unholstered his truncheon. Evangeline wept, nearly begging – she’d lost her parents, lost her faith, lost her battle…
“No!” I screamed, and launched myself at Gumdrool.
He shattered my right shoulder.
I bit my tongue, thinking this is all on camera, how will it look if Pony Boy screams in his last moments?
He adjusted the rebreather over his mouth and nose – then stepped on Evangeline’s neck. Something popped. She wriggled, muttering fragmented prayers.
“Now, little NeoChristian.” He bore his weight down. “I hope there is a God. I want to send you to Hell…”
Peaches’ voice rattled over my earputer speakers.
“If you kill her,” Peaches told Gumdrool, “we’ll blow up the plant.”
44: THE PURITY TEST
* * *
Gumdrool didn’t remove his boot from Evangeline’s neck – but he did pause, staring in my direction with a strange courtesy. Gumdrool had always held respect for Peaches.
That was good. We had no way to blow the plant. But Gumdrool didn’t know that.
“You should know by now that I do not fear death, Ms Khan-Tien.”
“No,” Peaches said in a hoarse whisper – so hoarse that I realized how terrified she was for my safety. “You fear failure.”
Evangeline struggled. Gumdrool bore down.
“Wickliffe despises you,” Peaches continued. “He’s not even supervising you, because he hates knowing he has to use someone like you. He wants Amichai instead.”
Gumdrool’s wounded flinch signaled just how on-target Peaches was. Wickcleft had been my champion back at the rebel base. Whereas Wickliffe had disdained Gumdrool from the moment they met; things had apparently not improved since Gumdrool had become Wickliffe’s righthand man.
“If Amichai gets voided, Wickliffe – your hero – will forever regret that he relied on you.”
Gumdrool slumped.
“You hit hard, Ms Khan-Tien,” he admitted. “Mr Wickliffe, he… he drinks. All the pleasures the Upterlife has to offer, and he crawls back into his father’s bottle.
“And when he drinks, he… becomes abusive. He tells me that people like me made the Upterlife a shithole. He calls me a murdering thug, laments how he has to rely on savages like me. And I stand there. Listening. Because he orders me to. Every day, I accomplish more for this man than thousands of these greedy eternity-seekers…” He swept his hands to encompass the dying troopers. “And all the while he longs for Amichai, Amichai, Amichai.”
“So give it up,” Peaches said. “You don’t have to work for him.”
His handsome face crumpled into a bitter smirk. “But I do, Ms Khan-Tien. His relentless adoration of Mr Damrosch is just one of many errors Mr Wickliffe makes – he’s so loath to use the mindslavers, I practically had to blackmail him into authorizing the Mother Mentor program. And…
”
The gas swirled as he contemplated Peaches’ question.
“If I leave,” he asked, “who will be pure?
“No. If there is a way to save the future generations who would void without our technology, I will take it. Wickliffe needs me to make the choices that he will not. If I void, it is for a good cause.”
“Ian,” Peaches protested, her bluff sagging at the edges. “If you brainwash the living, you’re not actually putting those people into the servers…”
But he’d stopped listening. That sinuous grin blossomed across his face; you could see cities burning in his eyes.
“As people with no future at all,” he continued. “I believe you value lives more than I do. Amichai, are you OK knowing your sister will be dead forever? Or better yet, your NeoChristian companion?”
He ground his bootheel on Evangeline’s neck. She cried out in terror – the wail of a woman who’d betrayed God, and now would face eternal torment…
“Stop!” I said. “I’ll be your prisoner.”
Gumdrool smiled.
45: PREPARING TO SAY GOODBYE
* * *
Gumdrool strode ahead, speaking into his earputer. “I have him.”
He was near-blinded from the gas, his vision so uncertain he placed a hand on his freshly summoned LifeGuard troops to ensure he didn’t stumble.
“Yes, Mr Wickliffe. Him and the NeoChristian girl. No, I haven’t heard back from the other troops yet, but – I got you your prize. I’ll… yes, I know. Communications are spotty everywhere, sir. I don’t know where they got the firepower to take out the geothermal plant, but we’ll wring that from Damrosch’s mind…”
The troops dragged us towards the spirocopter on the loading dock. As a combatant, Evangeline had been drugged to drooling; as a noncombatant with a shattered arm, I’d been given enough painkillers to keep walking.
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