by PJ Manney
“Don’t you look dashing, my dear,” Winter said as she helped the robot stand. She adjusted its collar and clothing. She shifted the waistband, exposing the familiar shape of a gun under the shirt near the right hip. And another on the left hip. At least two concealed weapons.
“Well, of course I do,” said Tom 3.
The voice was Carter’s.
They watched, transfixed. “Shit! They made a Tom 3,” said Veronika.
“And they’re playing to the camera,” said Tom. “They know we’re watching.”
“Kein ayin hara!” said Ruth. Then she spit three times.
The most rational person in the room was warding off the evil eye.
Tom studied the images in extreme close-up. Winter had a Mr. Handsome/James Bond sexbot. The Chinese had kept the pieces of Tom 2 for themselves, but it was possible that Carter had arranged to use those salvaged pieces in this robot. Tom looked more carefully. The robot was freshly skinned, but he had a sick feeling that at one time, some part of this robot had been him, which meant that even though they had erased as much as possible and cut contact from the mangled bot, Carter might know how the robot had been used.
If so, then the Chinese were playing both ends against the middle. Typical.
“Talia,” said Tom. “Make sure all the Companibots staff and hackers are okay. All of them.”
Talia nodded and turned to her console.
Back on the ground, Winter winked at Tom 3. “Tom’s going to love you. Just like I do.” Then she rubbed herself up against the robot’s supersized genitalia, which were always in a state of tumescence.
The robot winked back. “Of course he will. I’m you!”
“She has a schtick!” said Ruth, in horror.
Winter stopped her erotic play. “Change the voice back.”
“Okay,” said the robot, now in the gravelly baritone of Thomas Paine.
Winter sighed and slapped the robot’s ass. “Okay, enough jerking off!” She pointed her right index finger and jerked her thumb like an imaginary gun, directly at Tom 3’s face. Then she winked, jumped into the Jeep, threw it into gear, and drove away without a goodbye.
Tom was stunned by Carter’s bizarre Frankenstein creature: part Peter, part Tom, part Carter, part Winter, part robot, part unholy amalgamation of who knew what else. Winter’s crass behavior had Carter’s mind spewed all over it. Indeed, Thomas Paine had once seduced Carter, to manipulate him. This was simply payback.
“He might have a direct line into us,” said Tom.
“But I remote wiped Tom 2’s memory and cut off the relays just after his batteries ran out,” insisted Veronika. “He’s empty hardware.”
“You’re assuming Carter and his team are less capable than we are,” said Tom. “You’re wrong.” He felt sick to his stomach.
“Now we have to destroy two of them,” she said.
He didn’t argue. They watched as the robot moved among the tents, making its way slowly toward the pier. “Not from here,” said Tom. “They’re in the crowd. We might hurt someone. Maybe we can isolate them—”
“Tom,” interrupted Talia. “None of the Companibot people are responding.”
He felt sicker.
“Schmucks!” yelled Ruth. “How dare they mess with my kids! Our work!” She stopped pacing, grimly manned another console, and barked, “Don’t futz! Di shversteh arbet iz arumtsugain laidik!”
“The hardest work is to go idle,” Tom repeated. But no one realized how hard the work would be.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The false story told to the harbormaster, and anyone watching their cameras, was about seven mechanics exiting both ships and making their way casually toward the harbormaster’s office to arrange for repair and parts. In reality, crew members walked to the barricades and struck up casual conversations with both refugees and law enforcement officers. After convincing the LEOs, they opened gates and let through refugees.
If Talia had finally taught Major Tom anything, it was that it’s one thing to believe something through evidence, but it’s another entirely to experience it. He had been trained as a scientist to think otherwise, but the human brain will always believe its experience, no matter how faulty our memories or how misleading our awareness.
Experience trumps all. He didn’t need nanowire- and bot-induced prescience to know that things could go wrong. He had patterns from both his digital and meat lives to base his decisions on, and this body was proving surprisingly competent at staying alive. He would keep listening to Rosero’s gut.
Tom stood. “I’m getting ready,” he said. “Message when you need me.”
“Ready for what?” asked Ruth.
“Anything. Everything,” he said. “It’s coming.” Then he left.
It was time to protect this body so he could protect others. Inside the Zumwalt’s armory, Tom put on a 3.0 flak jacket and helmet, designed to stop not only bullets, but also low-grade laser weapons, with a nanoparticle-layered mirrored surface that deflected most of the laser’s light. He grabbed a laser rifle and handguns with extra-large magazines. He strapped on a couple of assault knives at both shins, under his pants. Sometimes the old ways were adequate.
He exited onto the large aft deck and looked out at the port. Refugees had already crossed the barriers and begun loading onto the Harmony. Some were sent on to the Roosevelt. Those aboard the Zumwalt made room for more, and Talia motioned for them to come her way.
From a multitude of hacked cameras, Tom observed one hundred thousand people lining up on the docks and spilling over into the streets, parking lots, holding areas, and port service buildings. The crew divided them into singles, couples, families, and most importantly those with proof of either naval or passenger-ship experience. The word had gone out that oceangoing expertise was needed, and they came by the thousands to apply, whether they had it or not. Those who could prove it moved to a special line between the two boats, and they were the first to embark. Then families with children, then couples, then singles.
The air tingled with tension, hope, and despair. So many needed so much, which could be given to only so few. Viewed from afar, swarming people had used to remind Tom of ants, but no longer. With blood in his veins, as red as theirs, he could imagine that they each had a need to be rescued, a story to tell, and a life worth living. He estimated the number that had passed the barrier would soon exceed the twenty thousand berths on the ships, and he sent a message to halt the flow of people and send the rest back.
He felt a tightness in his chest. He hadn’t felt a stressed and broken heart since before he had died. He took several deep and long breaths. What good would he be if his emotions derailed him?
Ruth made her way to the gangway of the Zumwalt and wrinkled her nose in disgust at the raw-sewage odor of the algae bloom. A crew member holding a body wand and examining each new passenger looked worried.
“Dr. Chaikin,” he said, waving the wand over a young woman’s bicep, “the readers are finding some people with embedded CNEM-ID tags with global satellite locators. I put those we found over there to wait.” The young woman exchanged a frightened look with a man who looked like her brother.
Once used to track animal migratory patterns via the now abandoned International Space Station, the technology had been placed in new satellites, and corporations began attaching them to what looked like standard human CNEM-ID tags. Many in the SSA insisted that their employees have these implants, claiming safety and security concerns. Ruth knew each of these global location tags could be followed anywhere, betraying the Zumwalt’s location. Those the crew had separated were standing in a patch of shade created by the ship. They were unhappy. And scared.
“Nein! Zumwalt c-c-c-can’t take them,” said Ruth. “They must go. To another ship!”
Those waiting to board did not take kindly to this news. The young woman’s older brother, a muscular and imposing man, loomed large over Ruth. “Whaddaya mean we can’t get on? I was a navy seaman. I can make this t
hing go!”
“Does he have the same tag?” Ruth asked the crewman.
The crewman waved the wand over the brother’s body. “No, ma’am.”
“You can come,” said Ruth. “She cannot.”
“I’m not leavin’ her for these monsters!” insisted the brother.
“This is a stealth ship. They may find us. B-b-b-because of her!” said Ruth. “Or we do surgery. Right here!”
“I don’t care if they find a needle in a goddamn haystack,” the brother said. “I’m not leavin’ her behind!”
There was a sound, soft as wind at first. It grew louder, like a marauding swarm of a million insects, heard before they could be seen. The argument stopped. Everyone froze.
Then the flying drones came into view.
The brother whipped around. “No . . . ,” he said, softly at first. Then, “No!” He grabbed his sister. “We gotta go!”
The humid air stirred with the buzz of tens of thousands of tiny propellers, the largest drone-weapon array ever assembled. They were converging on Port Everglades. Refugees scattered, but no one knew where to go.
Ruth fought a swell of bodies on the gangway, desperate not to touch them. But they were impossible to avoid. Each brush against a person brought a full-body convulsion and a scream of disgust. Tom heard her screams and came running.
“Nein! Nein! I c-c-c-can’t do this!” she yelled as he reached her on the deck. The crowd heaved and shoved, and he caught her as she fell into him. Ruth shrieked with terror, like a panicked horse, staring at the railing as if thinking of jumping over.
“Shhhh . . . shhhh . . . ” He stroked her head as he held her close, cradling her, protecting her from the crowd.
She wept and convulsed against him, her brain short-circuiting with each touch.
His own body couldn’t avoid the roiling fear. It felt like cavitating molecules that vibrated so fast, his more rational self was unable to function. He twitched in unison with Ruth, feeling that this body had dealt with terror before. Part of him welcomed it.
He grabbed the closest person who didn’t look panicked, a sturdy middle-aged woman. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Uh . . . former petty officer first class Rebecca Brown.”
“Please take Dr. Chaikin to the bridge. Hand her over to Talia Brooks and figure out how to help organize the military already on board.”
“N-n-n-no!” insisted Ruth. “You n-n-need me!”
Tom shoved her to Rebecca. “She’ll fight you, but stay with her and keep her safe. She’s the most important person on board.”
“N-n-n-no! You are!” cried Ruth.
“Uh . . . yessir!” The woman grabbed Ruth, and they struggled through the crowd to the doors that led inside.
Tom needed to find Winter and Tom 3. And destroy them.
Through a hacked port camera, Tom saw the ripple of commotion start from the back of the crowd. He heard screams. The drones shepherded the refugees into a tighter group. Tom assumed the plan was to slaughter them. Running down the gangway onto the dock, he switched to a broader satellite view. The crowd surged like reeds in a strong wind. Those still outside the perimeter fence ran away from the port, but in the confined space of the docks, surrounded by fences of unbreakable graphene-coated steel, the rest were penned in.
Plastic, ceramic, metal, and carbon-fiber locusts descended from the sky. The early prototypes had actually been called LOCUST: low-cost unmanned aerial vehicle swarming technology. Tom located a staging point where they were being ejected from tube-like launchers positioned at the top of the Broward Convention Center, north of the docks.
He voice messaged Captain Curtis: “Take out the launchers on the BCC.”
“Impossible,” said Curtis. “You’re asking us to fire on an independent, sovereign state that has not fired on our vessel yet. That’s war. We will do our best to reposition and take as many away as fast as possible.” Curtis was right. As soon as people boarded the ships, they seemed safe. No weapons were directed at either the ships or their passengers.
More drones were released. These were small surveillance drones, designed to pursue visual targets. From the back of a large truck to the west of the port, they came at first in dozens, then hundreds, then thousands. Each had a little tendril that hung from the bottom. Touching it triggered an electric shock. Like little flying Tasers, they swarmed the crowd, shocking it into submission.
The mob’s panic surged.
Larger drones had weaponry suspended from their bases. Lasers used to blind and burn. Older models with guns and bullets, others with small sound and heat cannons for incapacitating targets. The buzzing of so many machines grew deafening. People dropped to the ground, holding their ears.
These were the first to be trampled.
BOOM!
An explosion rocked the northwest corner of the refugee camp. Tom directed a camera to search the perimeter and found a smoldering wreck. It was Winter’s Jeep. But there was no body near it who looked anything like her.
She must still be out there, and she had probably set off the explosion herself.
It was an effective herding device, forcing those fleeing to the north back toward the drones.
Tom watched in horror.
A mother ran, her small boy in her arms. The boy wriggled and cried out in pain. A drone’s laser caught the mother in the back of the head. She collapsed to the ground. A shirtless man next to them grabbed the child from her arms and kept running. She tried to rise, the back of her head an open, burnt wound exposing flesh, bone, and brain. She was swept under a wave of terrified refugees and did not rise again.
A young man tried to rally with his friends, throwing rocks, bottles, anything they could gather. Some had constructed makeshift nets and lassos. Nearby drones hovered out of reach, anticipating their aim. The drones’ AI employed terrifyingly accurate evasive measures. The protestors successfully downed a few, and the falling drones’ propellers still cut and crushed those fleeing underneath.
A large spider-like drone with a machine gun mounted on its undercarriage flew in and hovered, suspiciously still. Spooked, the crowd tried to flee, when . . .
B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B!
The drone peppered the crowd’s edge with bullets. Throwing himself in front of his wife, a husband shielded her from the rounds, but the ammunition ripped through his flesh and hers, embedding in people behind them. They fell like dominos where they stood, the man’s limp body still shielding his dying wife.
Those who were penned in were slaughtered. Those who weren’t might still die. Tom wondered if killing the refugees had been the plan all along, and his rescue attempt had been the cover for atrocities.
Talia manned the bridge on the Zumwalt, fielding communications. Captain Alessandro, from the Ocean Harmony, filled one of her screens. Captain Curtis, from the Roosevelt, filled another.
“Ms. Brooks,” said Captain Alessandro, “we are setting sail immediately! I don’t care who is or isn’t on board. I will not jeopardize this ship and my crew. We are defenseless!”
“The Harmony is between Rough Rider and the battle zone,” said Curtis. “He’s got to get out so we can defend ourselves if we need to. We’re all too vulnerable in here.”
“Go!” said Talia. “Both of you. I know we can’t help you, but I can’t leave without Tom.”
“This is a disaster! Crazy fools!” said Alessandro. And he cut off.
“Even with all your digital trickery,” Curtis said, “they knew we were coming, and what we planned. This was a trap.”
She had turned off the monitor closest to her, with its camera feed from right in the middle of the port. Black, brown, white—it didn’t matter. They died. The carnage was unbearable. Their only crimes were poverty and the desire for a better life. “I’m so sorry, Geoff,” said Talia, holding her head in her hands. “We were trying to do the right thing.”
“Now we have to do a different right thing. Get Tom back and get out of here. I’m moving in
to position outside the port to defend your and Alessandro’s withdrawal. Get moving.”
Talia teared up, unable to process this disaster she had helped to create. “Thanks, Geoff.”
“Rough Rider out.”
Talia voice messaged Tom. “You saw all that?”
“Yes,” said Tom.
“So get back here,” she insisted. She slumped in her chair and swung a camera to follow Tom’s progress through the port.
He was running and jumping over bodies. “I can’t. I have to stop Winter and Tom 3.”
Talia could barely hear him over the screaming on the dock. “They’re bait. You know this. Get outta there!”
“They’re more than bait,” said Tom. “Do what Curtis says.” He ducked from drone fire, turned, and blasted the drone with a laser gun. “Get everyone out!”
“We can’t leave you behind.”
“If I die,” he said, dodging another, “you can make a new one.”
Talia ordered the ship to prepare to set sail. “I can’t!” she cried, throwing her headset.
CHAPTER FORTY
Veronika sat in a corner of the Zumwalt’s bridge, having never left her mixed reality command nest. Tom imagined her plugged into so much data, she couldn’t untangle her mind. Disaster is a powerful novelty, latching on to a brain with a fresh hell each minute, refusing to let go.
“Tom, I can’t find the system running these drones,” said Veronika. “It’s not Southern Naval Command or Conrad’s army. And I can’t get into Winter’s head to deal with Carter. This is crazy!”
“I can’t help you,” said Tom.
“Carter’s infiltrated, like, everything else. Think he got into the Church of Major Tom? Maybe he’s working from there?”
Tom was running visual-data-recognition programs, avoiding drones, and trying to keep out of the mob’s way. “Good idea. Figure it out. Just link me to your feed so I know what’s up.”
Dressed in her steampunk regalia, Veronika entered TCoMT. She placed herself at the doors of the cathedral, the center of the world she had helped create. She sent an emergency text and voice message to all congregants: “Major Tom and his team are under attack IRL Port Everglades. We need your help.”