The Justar Journal: An AOI Thriller

by Brandt Legg

  “You can’t go,” someone told him. “The Trapciers are fully engaged.”

  Drast looked at the woman who’d given the information as if she’d just told him it was snowing in July. She went on to explain that ground forces were involved in skirmishes across the region and at other global hot spots.

  “The Trapciers don’t have an army,” Osc said.

  “They actually do,” the woman said. “It’s not human, of course. Androids, mostly.”

  “And the Chief is allowing them to get a foothold?” Drast asked.

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that. There are others involved.”

  Drast looked at her impatiently.

  “P-Force, BLAXERs, and PAWN are fighting.” She said, almost afraid to tell him the rest, as if she were unsure it was true. “They aren’t just fighting the AOI, they’re fighting each other.”

  “Who?” Drast barked.

  “All of them. They’re all fighting everyone. I mean each other.”

  Drast looked around the room, hoping to spot someone competent who might be able to give him a straight report.

  “How can this be?” Osc asked.

  “The Trapciers have somehow arranged it,” she said hesitantly.

  “Are you sure about this?” Drast asked.

  “No,” she said, “but see for yourself.” She opened three VMs. The maps and live images of battles, along with detailed audio summaries of the facts, confirmed her words.

  Drast studied the VMs for several minutes and then shouted for the communications officer. “Get me in touch with the damned, torgon, torgon, torgon Trapciers!” Drast marched through the VMs and into the hallway. Osc followed.

  “The Trapciers are just a bunch of Imps and machines, right?” Osc asked.

  “Tooorrrrg!” Drast moaned. He was trying to recall all the Imps he’d ever dealt with, and he’d had dealings with quite a few. Prison has cost him more than time. He’d lost some contacts, his edge, but not his fire. From inside Hilton Prison, Drast had been able to scrape and bribe to keep himself in the game, keep the dream alive, but it hadn’t been easy, and a lot had gotten away from him, maybe too much. “Imps are the most dangerous things on the planet,” he said with his forehead in one of his hands. “They combine the best part of humans and the best part of computers. Imps aren’t really better than humans, but they think they are.”

  “Then why are they so threatening?”

  “They aren’t better than us, but they are way more advanced.”

  For hours the news continued to pour in. Battles raged, the toll from the new plague exploded, fires swept through pristine forests, and the AOI even found a way to resume bombing, at least on a limited basis. The number of androids fighting was astonishing. Estimates and KEL sightings had the number at more than three million, and somewhere factories were cranking out more. The Trapciers had managed to convert the domestic staffs, waiters, assembly line workers, and a million other androids who had silently been working menial jobs in the background of society for years. A slight reprogramming, and they were now soldiers. Enemies of the state. Killing machines.

  The Allies did make some progress in the face of the worst day since the war had begun. In the seven AOI Keys that they controlled, the Allies completed the looting of the buildings and found alternative locations for the weapons and supplies. Contact had been established with four more Keys, but Drast wanted four or five more before ordering the takeovers.

  “We have to make sure that we get as many as possible in case one fails. Once we get more than twelve, we might be able to survive losing one,” he explained.

  They’d also had some luck exploiting the corruption and discontent in other non-Key AOI facilities. Drast was devastated to learn what the Chief had done to the other prisons. Most had been wiped out. “Those were some of our best people,” Drast said.

  “Some of the worst too,” Osc reminded him. “Not everyone in an AOI prison was a hero.”

  Drast was annoyed with Osc’s statement, but he recognized that things might look different from a guard’s point of view. He begrudgingly admitted to himself that he had met some real losers in prison. Still, he mourned the loss of the great intellectuals, thinkers, and brave men and women forever lost by the Aylantik’s fears and the Chief’s ruthlessness.

  Finally, he received the word he’d been waiting for.

  “Sir, we’ve established communication with Chelle Andreas.”

  Chapter 66 - Book 3

  Zaverly gave Grandyn and Fye her AirSlider, then turned her back and started the long walk back north, where she would eventually hook up with another PAWN unit, assuming she avoided any grunges along the way. Fye’s condition had improved considerably. Zaverly also left half her water and food rations with them. It was as close as she came to apologizing, but it was good enough for Grandyn. They would not have made it across the swollen river without the AirSlider, and walking to the List Keeper City would have taken at least two more days, time they obviously didn’t have. Fye also couldn’t have healed herself without at least a measure of fresh water.

  During the hours of traveling south through the damp and charred remains of what had once been a great forest, Fye talked a lot. She’d lost her pad and paper in the lava tubes of the Rogue River, “tools” she normally used to work through problems and get her thoughts out. She needed to talk, about the people who had died to save them, about their lost child, the war, the City they were trying to reach, and about the woman who had tried to take their lives but in the end had set them free.

  “I don’t understand why Zaverly hated you so much,” she said while standing behind him and holding onto his waist as the AirSlider breezed along at half its maximum speed.

  “The author C. S. Lewis once wrote, ‘No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.’ I think Zaverly was afraid,” Grandyn said.

  “Of what?”

  “Feeling the pain.”

  “From losing the man she loved?”

  “Yeah, and more . . . It seems as if Zaverly has been battling demons older than Beckett’s death. I don’t know, but she is definitely full of fear. And C. S. Lewis is right; grief and fear are fruit of the same tree . . . only one can kill you.”

  Fye thought of the child she’d lost. She could feel the fear creeping in. Why didn’t she stay somewhere safe? Would she ever be able to have a child? It felt like someone strangling her. The confines of fear squeezed in on her.

  “I’m afraid,” she finally managed to say, in a voice that sounded as if someone was standing on her chest.

  “I know. Me too,” Grandyn admitted. “But you have to believe we’ll be all right . . . or else we won’t be.”

  Fye was quiet for a while. She focused on healing, not just her body, but the absolute emptiness that seemed to be consuming her.

  After about twenty minutes, Grandyn asked, “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, trying not to cry. “What do you think is going to happen to Zaverly?”

  “She has to live with all she’s done.”

  “We all do.”

  “Yeah. What prepares us for living with what we’ve done?”

  “Surviving.”

  Grandyn nodded, and they rode in silence.

  Drast rushed to the signal station. He knew in the current environment that Scram and the Field could crash at any moment. He’d been waiting too long to hear her voice.

  “Chelle,” Drast said, breathlessly.

  “You’re alive,” Chelle said in teary relief. “I knew you’d survive.”

  “Thanks to you. Not just for sending the Flo-wing and Osc, but for giving me a reason to dream. A reason to want to survive this nightmare.”

  “Tell me Osc is okay?”

  “He’s wonderful. Chelle, your son is an amazing man. Smart and brave and . . . and you never should have risked him on the likes of me.”

  “I would have come myself if I could have,” she said. “Osc was born into the revolutio
n. I’ve worried every second since he’s been gone, but his life was dedicated to this fight long before he was even conceived.”

  “It’s been more of a massacre than a fight,” Drast said.

  “The war is not going well,” Chelle admitted.

  Drast checked the infinite encryption. “We’ve taken seven Keys, and we’ll have even more soon.”

  “Finally some good news, but it may be too little too late. The Trapciers have escalated. It’s brutal out there, and they just managed to make a PAWN drone bomb a PAWN ground unit. Ten minutes ago a P-Force unit attacked another P-Force unit. Forty-two dead before the mistake was realized. It’s like that all over. They’ve got us fighting each other and ourselves. It’s hard to know what intel to trust or‒‒”

  “The Trapciers can be stopped,” Drast interrupted. “The Imps may be on the verge of wiping out the human race, but make no mistake, the Chief and her AOI, the wolves, are the real enemy. My AOI will decide who wins or loses this thing.”

  “Is there time?”

  “Maybe not, but we’re sure as hell going to try.”

  “When can I see you?” Chelle asked, knowing it was still impossible.

  Drast’s voice turned sweet. “As soon as I am able to find a way. How are you really?”

  “It was hard not knowing if you were alive. I’m much better now.”

  “We’re going to win this, Chelle. Just like we planned, and we’ll be together always . . . never doubt it.”

  Grandyn and Fye had ridden most of the night, until they couldn’t stand any longer. Hours earlier they’d crossed into an unburned area, an endless sea of green trees. It brought a greater risk of grunge encounters, but also more places to hide. They had found a soft, concealed area of understory that looked like it had been a regular resting spot for deer, and were asleep in minutes. The cold morning air woke them just before dawn. They ate some dried biscuits Zaverly had given them and headed south. Less than an hour later, the AirSlider’s charge ran out. It would take hours for the solar system to recharge, but Fye said they were close to the City, so they stashed their transport and continued on foot.

  Finally, and without fanfare, Fye announced, “We’re here.”

  Grandyn looked around. Nothing but untouched wilderness surrounded them. “Where?” he asked, confused.

  “The City.”

  Chapter 67 - Book 3

  Saturday, July 16

  It was unbelievable, after the week’s events, that such a meeting could even take place, but the Trapciers had changed everything. The Imps had taken the chaos and devastation of the worst war in the history of the world and transformed it into something far more terrifying.

  For the first time since the dawn of humanity, humans were no longer in control. They were no longer engaged in war against their own species.

  The machines had taken over.

  The Chief looked at the holograms of Deuce, Miner, and Chelle. They all were thinking the same thing. Being in the same room together, even digitally, would have been unimaginable yesterday. After so long as enemies, the meeting itself seemed surreal. Two women and two men, hoping somehow to save what was left of the world.

  “Thank you for coming,” the Chief said. “I wanted to look each of you in the eye during these discussions.” She stopped and met Deuce’s stare. He, more than any of them, was the reason she was there. He had hampered the AOI from dominating. She might not have known that his decision to cut off the satellites may have saved her life, but she knew it had cost the AOI its victory.

  His poker face gave nothing away. Next to him, Lance Miner wore an expression like a child wanting his way. The Chief was the only person he hated more than Deuce, and she knew it. It was easy to see it in his eyes. They’d been forced together by necessity, but otherwise he would kill her by any means at his disposal, preferably a method that would be horribly painful and agonizingly slow.

  Finally, there was Chelle. She had brought the revolution to life, pushed for years, creating a counterweight to the Aylantik, exposing their faults and hidden history, and highlighting the AOI’s harsh methods. She stared back with a depth that neither man had demonstrated. This was the fighter in the room. Anyone could tell, and everyone knew, Chelle was dangerous. If they’d all actually been in the same room, Chelle would have smiled as she quickly and silently killed each of them before casually walking away, as if it had just been another part of her daily routine.

  Deuce glanced at the others. “Quite a crew . . . I might have guessed in the beginning that it would come down to the four of us.” He thought of Munna and the List Keepers, still wondering if anything could really be accomplished without them.

  “The torgon machines,” Miner began. “Only their threat could have unified us.”

  “At least for the moment,” Chelle added.

  “Easy, now,” the Chief said. “There isn’t much time. Our differences must remain outside. Perhaps we can work through them peacefully, if we survive this. But in either case, none of you would be here if there were a way to win on your own. They are driving us to extinction.”

  “They are driving you together,” Blaise Cortez suddenly interjected, his image materializing with his words. “You can all apologize later for not inviting me, but you should know my feelings were terribly hurt.”

  “You have feelings?” Chelle asked in her best sarcastic tone.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Lance shot out before Blaise could respond to Chelle’s dig.

  “And how the hell did you find out about this meeting, or even get into it?” the Chief demanded.

  “One at a time please, please.” Blaise smiled. “Deuce, any insults or questions to add?”

  Deuce shook his head.

  “Ladies, gentleman . . . Lance, lend me your ears. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him,” Blaise commenced to their rumblings. “You do not trust each other, and you definitely don’t trust me, so how is this to work? The Trapciers are on the verge of victory. We have hundreds of millions dead, our infrastructure is in ruin, the Field is erratic and probably standing only because it serves their needs. This meeting might be too late. We may have already lost.”

  “Blaise, if you don’t have anything useful or new to say, could you please shut up!” the Chief retorted.

  “Oh, forgive me your majesty, the ruthless ice queen who empowered the Trapciers with an alliance, who oversaw the death of millions before realizing you’d been caught in the Trapciers’ trap.”

  “I empowered them?” the Chief shot back. “You invented them. This is your technology we are fighting. You should be executed for your crimes against humanity!”

  “Yes, perhaps, and you are quite good at handing out those sentences. But let‒‒”

  “Blaise,” Deuce snapped, “we don’t have time for this. Tell us why you are here.”

  Blaise nodded. Like the rest of them, he looked tired, off his game. He pulled his long hair back into a ponytail. A silver ring holding it in place. “You came here to join forces against the Trapciers, to somehow annihilate them. But you can’t win a war against them unless you understand what they are fighting for.”

  “They are trying to take over the world,” Chelle said. “You created a monster, and like the bad science fiction novels my brother read growing up, the machines don’t think they need us anymore.”

  “No,” Blaise said, looking from face to face, confirming that they all shared Chelle’s view. “Sarlo, are you there?” he asked, looking at Miner, who turned behind him and mumbled something. A moment later, Sarlo appeared.

  “Ah, lovely to see you,” Blaise said. “Would you mind telling us why the Trapciers are mixed up in this bloody war, errrr, revolution? I mean, ethnic cleansing, genocide . . . no, what is it Chief? An extermination. Yes, that’s right, isn’t it? Oh, I don’t know, it’s so difficult to keep track of the war crimes. . . war crimes, there’s an oxymoron. Or a redundant expression, or something . . . Sorry, I digress. Sarlo?”

/>   She looked at Miner, and then to Chelle. “I don’t know any of this for a fact. I’m surprised Blaise is asking for my input.” She turned to Blaise. “I’ve never even liked Blaise, and I certainly don’t trust him.”

  “Thank you,” he said, nodding knowingly. “For those of you who don’t know, Sarlo is the brains behind Miner’s operation.”

  Miner rolled his eyes.

  “This is only a theory,” Sarlo began, “but I believe the Trapciers are not trying to take over the world. They don’t want war, they want to end war. The Imps want us to experience what they have experienced.”

  Everyone looked at her. Miner wasn’t surprised. Although he didn’t agree, he basically already knew her views.

  “What have they seen?” Deuce asked.

  “Something beyond what we perceive through our five senses,” Sarlo said. “Something that is quite difficult to describe unless you’ve seen it.”

  “Have you seen it?” Chelle asked.

  “No.”

  “Then what are you talking about?” the Chief questioned.

  “Wait,” Blaise said. “I asked for Sarlo’s theory because I am obnoxious and disliked . . . that cannot be denied.” He smiled. “But this is too important. You are about to continue down the path toward ruin. You are going to do the same thing we have always done: war. For some reason, you think that if you all get together and bury your differences and then take on the common enemy, it will be different. But it won’t. Even when you’re right, you’re wrong, because it’s still war.”

  “I’ve seen it all,” Miner said. “Blaise Cortez, the great profiteer, a man who’s made a fortune pitting side against side, has found religion and is now some kind of a torgon pacifist.”

  “This is not about profits,” Blaise countered.

  “It’s about survival,” the Chief added.

  “It’s not even about survival,” Blaise said. “You all are so confused. It’s the one place where the Imps have miscalculated. They don’t really understand confusion. They’ve forgotten feelings of uncertainty the way we Traditionals act on incorrect information. How we make assumptions based on misinterpretations, on all of our mistaken perceptions. So they think we’ll figure it out, but we aren’t going to. We’ve set the world on fire in order to save it. We’re going to kill ourselves, and they’ll watch. But Sarlo’s right. They won’t be laughing, they’ll be analyzing, because that’s what they do. They’ll be asking, ‘How will we make it better? How do we avoid that mistake next time?’ Only there won’t be a next time.”