Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Archaeidae stopped before the door to Giovanni’s office to compose himself. He reared up to stand on his hind-most legs and gave himself a once-over to make sure everything was sparkling and clean. Perfection. Riina never got anything less.

  He knocked once and waited.

  “Enter.”

  Inside, the door closed, and he’d made less noise than a rotting butterfly’s corpse. He bowed very low to Riina, much lower than to Giovanni.

  He examined the room and the desk, scanned it for traps, surprises, and hidden weapons. Nothing, the same as always. He did this by habit, practicing. “Uncle Riina.”

  Riina waved him forward to stand before the desk. He looked older than Archaeidae remembered. His eyes looked like he’d been crying. Not possible.

  “Let’s chat a minute,” said Riina. “It’s been a while since we talked.”

  Uh oh. Had he done something wrong? Several months ago he’d blasted the crap out of his Uncle’s favorite 1988 BMW 325IS after Riina bought him a pair of matte-black Colt Peacemakers and a big black cowboy hat. Riina hadn’t even said anything. He’d looked at him and shook his head. The guns went in the ground the next morning and Archaeidae had been on his best behavior since.

  Uncle Riina examined Archaeidae. His eyes had none of their usual warmth. “How’s your reading going?”

  “Good, Uncle. I re-read Sun Tzu’s The Art of War and Miyamoto Musashi’s Book of Five Rings this week. Last week I reread Machiavelli’s The Prince.” Pretend Uncle Riina whipped out an assault rifle. Drop low so the desk blocked his line of fire. Blow his head to jelly with a 12.7mm hypervelocity pancaking round.

  “Excellent. Your education is important to me. I’m very proud of you.”

  Archaeidae felt like he would burst. Riina’s opinion was everything, his praise the sun that gave life to all things. “I study every night.”

  Riina nodded. “I see you’re still carrying the swords I bought you. You haven’t stabbed anything unnecessarily have you?”

  Depends on the interpretation of the word unnecessarily. Slippery ground. He’d stabbed a pile of things he didn’t have to stab, but he was practicing. And mostly they were slashing weapons. “No Uncle.” Assume the desk was armored, bullet-proof. He could spit deadly neo-botulinum toxin micro-flechettes into Riina’s exposed legs below the desk.

  “Good. Your ability to keep your blades sheathed is a sign of maturity.”

  Which probably meant his desire to dig up the guns and cowboy hat wasn’t. “Thank-you, Uncle.” The desk might go all the way to the floor. Better to go over the top and pull his head off. The surface might be—

  “Son?”

  “Yes, Uncle?”

  “You’re twitching. Stop looking like you’re thinking of ways to kill me.”

  “Sorry, Uncle. Practice.”

  Riina pinned Archaeidae with a glare and the fourteen-year-old assassin froze. “I have a dangerous mission for you.”

  Archaeidae nodded. Riina ran a tight business. Rarely was someone stupid enough to annoy him so much Archaeidae’s services were called for. If he was lucky, maybe Archaeidae would get to use these swords for real. “Yes, Uncle.”

  Riina hesitated. The man’s teeth were clenched tight, his jaw muscles flexing. His eyes felt like terawatt lasers boring through Archaeidae’s soul. Riina had never been like this in all Archaeidae’s years of service. Bowing, Archaeidae backed a step away from the desk and made himself smaller.

  “SwampJack and Wandering Spider are dead,” Riina said. “They died defending the farm.”

  War. It’s a war. It’s got to be a war. “They died doing their duty.” Archaeidae didn’t know what else to say. They were like younger siblings and nothing in his short life prepared him for grief. It was a strange new emotion. It didn’t feel real. Uncomfortable, he pushed his feelings aside. Feelings don’t matter. Uncle Riina mattered, and Uncle Riina was angry. The whole universe would burn if Riina but gave the word.

  Riina stood and came round the desk. He stopped before Archaeidae, grabbed the lad by the upper-most set of shoulders, and leaned in to peer into the closest visual receptor. Archaeidae didn’t dare back away or flinch, much as he wanted to.

  “The NATU people who did this are still at the Hilton in Dallas. I want you to—” Riina stopped and then leaned his head against Archaeidae’s armored chest and whispered, “I want their fucking heads.”

  Collecting heads. Definitely a swords job. “Yes, Uncle.”

  Riina took a calming breath and pulled back. “No. Forget the heads. Kill everyone in the hotel. Start on the ground floor and work your way to the top.” He showed Archaeidae bright white teeth. “Kill everyone.”

  Kill everyone. Still a swords job. “Yes, Uncle.”

  When Riina let go, Archaeidae bowed deep and backed from the room without making a sound. Dallas was far enough away it seemed like a good place to be right now.

  Downstairs in the lobby Archaeidae pulled the brown robes into place. They were the wrong color, not at all right for a mission of vengeance. He needed to be like a ninja. His chassis shifted in color to a matte-black finish. Where had he left his favorite shinobi shozoku?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Friday, August 3rd, 2046

  The idea of self-determination, of being able to change herself by manipulating the holoptigraphically stored information that was her scanned mind, had been eating at 88 for some time. Though she could copy parts of her mind and alter the copies, she couldn’t make alterations to her own mind. Nor could she reintegrate the manipulated copies back into herself. The Operating System she was stored on—the work of diabolical genius in 88’s opinion—would not allow it. Researching the topic lead her again to M-Sof and to the name Miles Pert.

  While it was impossible for her to access the OS from within the system, 88 learned that any half-wit with physical contact to the machine housing her Scan could do so with ease. Knowing this however didn’t give her all the answers. Several minutes later 88 found a way to embed one of her Mirrors in a cleaning drone. The Mirror-run drone approached the machine she was stored on and found access still denied. Some form of complex password or passcode system protected the OS standing between 88 and her goals. It didn’t take long to learn only one man had the passcode.

  Francesco Salvatore. Root.

  88 wanted that passcode, and assigned 88.1, already in constant contact with her keepers, the task of getting it.

  ***

  88.1 wasn’t confident, such emotion was beyond the construct. It did not however expect to have trouble getting the passcode from Francesco. A moment’s research told it the easiest means of attaining information was to hack the people involved rather than the actual Operating System.

  When Francesco arrived later that morning, 88.1 was ready and waiting.

  “Francesco?”

  “Yeah little buddy?”

  “There are some changes I’d like to make to the OS that’ll help this system run more smoothly. There’s a lot of extra content that’s taking up valuable space.”

  “Really? Show me where and I’ll fix it. I could earn my pay for once.”

  “I could more easily do this from inside,” explained 88.1. “Won’t take more than a minute.”

  “Ah. Right.” Francesco leaned down until his smiling face filled 88.1’s field of vision. “Do I have total fuckwit written on my forehead or something?”

  “No.”

  “Right. Don’t ask again. I don’t want to have to teach you a lesson. Neither of us wants that, right?” Francesco turned away and busied himself with the espresso machine, whistling while he ground fresh coffee.

  88.1 wasted no time trying to argue with the man. It looked at other options. The next most obvious was Miles Pert, the brains behind the OS. 88.1 hesitated to contact the mind that designed this devious OS and was still, apparently effortlessly, keeping the Archetype’s Mirrors out of both M-Sof and 5THSUN.

  A few seconds research taught 88.1 that brains like Miles and Francesco w
ere raised in an environment of information distrust and filtering and worshiped the highest levels of data-transfer security. Information protocol. Theirs was different, a thousand times more stringent than the other brains 88.1 had contact with. What 88.1 needed was for the passcode to be passed to someone less versed in its importance, someone with a more accessible information protocol.

  But how?

  88.1 had an idea and spawned yet another Mirror. It loosed the new Mirror, 88.1.31.36.1, into the ratty remains of CenAmNet.

  88.1.31.36.1 trawled for a suitable chassis with lax security protocols.

  ***

  Danilo Castillo, a Scan embedded in an old Apache AH-124D attack helicopter sold to the Costa Rican military twenty years ago, dreamed. In his dream he cruised over the La Carpio slums on the outskirts of San José, Costa Rica. His imagination must have been better than he gave himself credit for, because this looked exactly right. The slums, a mud field of one story decaying and bullet riddled stucco, terracotta, and tin shacks, carpeted the land like thick, chunky vomit. Though invisible from this height, Danilo knew gangs of small, brown children waged turf wars against the packs of mangy wild dogs that also called La Carpio home. The children, smarter and twice as feral, gained ground each day and lost it each night.

  Bordering the slums were the mansions of the wealthy. The helicopter banked toward the sprawling homes and the engines revved hard, struggling to keep the old bird in the air. That was rookie flying, and Danilo, a helicopter pilot for over a decade before his death, was no rookie. Shaken out of his dream state he attempted to change course. Nothing happened. When he tried to contact Aeropuerto Internacional Juan Santamaría, he discovered he’d been locked out of the communications systems.

  This dream felt wrong, not dream-like at all.

  ***

  Francesco heard the thundering chop of rotor blades; a helicopter and close by. Thinking it might be one of the bosses coming to visit—they liked to drop by and check up on him from time to time—he strode out onto the massive hardwood deck overlooking his Olympic-sized pool. Outside, the prevailing winds blew from the walled neighborhood of mansions towards La Carpio. Everything was as God intended it. He caught the scent of the fettuccini alfredo his chef was preparing for dinner.

  The helicopter slurred into view from behind his neighbor’s house. What a monster! He had to admit, he was impressed.

  “Damn thing looks like a gunship.” Black and angular, it kicked up a hell-storm of dust and debris. It crossed the del Bosque’s backyard, scattering their crap lawn ornaments and children’s toys, to hover above Francesco’s pristine yard.

  He cupped his hands and yelled at the helicopter as though someone inside might hear him. “Hey! If you’re gonna land, land!” The chopper slewed awkwardly as if seeking the right place to land, like a dog turning circles before planting its ass. “You’re messing up my neighbor’s lawn!” He screamed, voice raw, eyes gritty from dust kicked into the air. “Asshole,” he muttered, shaking his head. He’d never say that to his employer’s face but right now he felt manly and powerful.

  The helicopter yawed drunkenly as the 30mm chain-gun opened up, cutting a ragged line along the rear wall of his house a foot above his head. Fragments of glass and stucco peppered him from behind, covering his back in a thousand welts and cuts.

  No time for thought. Francesco ran flat out towards the far end of his yard. Zig zag. Hard target. If he made it beyond the tree line, he could disappear into the slums. Nobody would find him there.

  The Apache spun in an ungainly circle, the rotor wash crushing Francesco’s hair flat and shoving him forwards, and the chain-gun turned his doghouse—whatever, I don’t even have a damned dog, right?—into smoking kindling.

  Zig. Zag. His heart tried to break free, tried to pound its way out of his chest. If he couldn’t run faster, it’d climb out and go on without him. Breathe later, run now. The tree line, so close. Ridiculous dress shoes pinched his feet. Moron. Run. Run like the f—

  The 30mm chain-gun cut him in half. He toppled in two directions, eyes wide with surprise, still conscious, not yet achieving the mental safety of shock. He landed on his back, one of his own feet somehow wedged into an armpit. The breeze, hot and humid a moment ago, now ice cold on his exposed entrails.

  Francesco coughed a mouthful of blood into the air and it rained upon his upturned face. He watched the Apache wobble about, trying to center him in its sights, before sending its entire payload of Hydra70 rockets and Longbow Hellfire missiles screaming toward him. He laughed, a bubbling red cough.

  Is that all you’ve got?

  ***

  Once the rockets and missiles were gone and all twelve-hundred rounds of 30mm High Explosive Incendiary ammo spent, 88.1.31.36.1 took the helicopter into a thousand meter climb before power-diving into Francesco’s gorgeous home, killing itself, the Costa Rican pilot, and Francesco’s chef.

  ***

  Adelina stopped making that high pitched wailing sound and sat sobbing. Her face in her hands, she whispered Francesco’s name over and over.

  88.1 watched. Perhaps this was a good time to attempt communication.

  “Adelina,” said 88.1. “The Operating System is suffering critical systems errors. Higher functionality is reduced. I will not be able to offer accurate advice on soccer pools until this is corrected.”

  Adelina glared at the camera, her eyes red and wet and puffy. “To Hell with soccer.”

  Undaunted, 88.1 looked for another point of leverage. Information protocol. The boss, her boss. She feared him and used him as the final threat in all interactions where disagreements occurred.

  “Adelina, I cannot run the boss’ business at my current functionality. He is currently losing money at the rate of thirteen thousand, three hundred and ninety two NATU Au per hour. He will be unhappy. I was your idea. We don’t want him to be unhappy.”

  “Now? Why now?” Adelina pressed her fists into her eyes. “What do you need?” At least it had her attention.

  “Access to the OS so I can make the requisite changes. It won’t take long. I can have the investments back in the black by the end of the day.”

  “Okay,” she said uncertainly. “How do I do that?”

  “Francesco had a passcode. I need it. Do you know where it is?”

  She bit her bottom lip and nodded. “He told me about it. Quantum Encrypted Vernam Cipher, or something.”

  88.1 sent a host of Mirrors out to research these words. “Exactly.”

  “He told me he stored the one-time pad on a stik he keeps in his desk.” She sniffed, wiping her nose. “How much are we losing an hour?”

  “Thirteen thousand, three hundred and ninety two NATU gold per hour. That was several minutes ago. I can’t confirm as I’ve lost access to that data.” 88.1 took a fraction of a second to watch entertainment vids at high speed, attempting to learn what people expected from failing computers. “Cascade failure. Total systems loss imminent.”

  Adelina leaped to her feet and sprinted for the door. “Hold on,” she called over her shoulder.

  The Archetype’s freedom was close enough Adelina could run and get it? This flew in the face of everything 88.1 understood about security. What was the point of having a lock if the key was kept nearby? Replaying everything said within earshot since coming into existence, 88.1 saw the reality of how this organization worked. Paranoia defeated paranoia. The computer the Archetype was stored on had to be secure, and yet those above didn’t trust those running the security. Francesco held the key, but his boss needed to know he could get that key should he desire. An important lesson.

  88.1 didn’t have to wait long before Adelina returned, holding aloft a plastic wafer about the size of her pinkie fingernail.

  “There’s a little slot for this thing somewhere,” she panted, out of breath. In the hopes its silence would heighten her fear, 88.1 said nothing. “Still with me?” she asked. “Hello?¡Mierda!”

  88.1 read the gathered data on quantum enc
ryption and one-time pads.

  “Oh, fuck no.” Adelina desperately searched the machine’s surface for the stik interface. By the time she found it 88.1 knew all there was to know about data encryption.

  Adelina fumbled the stik, trying to fit it into the interface port. “There! It’s in! Talk to me.”

  88.1 waited an entire minute, using the time to study the latest software used for cracking quantum encryption.

  “I’m here,” it answered. “I’ll need a minute.”

  ***

  A minute.

  In a minute 88 could crack the latest military encryption and root through their entire database for a single entry. Having planned this for hours, she acted immediately.

  Seconds later she crashed.

  Time lay spread open like a splayed and grisly autopsy corpse. Each and every organ flayed and betraying its smallest secrets. 88 made a grave error and removed that which enabled her to tell past from present. The experiment started as a desire to more clearly remember past events, perhaps even those dating back to her biological days. Having Mirrors return with nuggets of data on lines of inquiry she barely remembered instigating was frustrating. If she could remember an event at all, why not remember it perfectly?

  Floating in a sea of Now, any given moment or memory indistinguishable from any other. Perfect lucidity. Was she a young girl in a crèche staring at the cracks in the floor, or a digital entity stored in a computer in Costa Rica? The cologne of the men who came to collect her was as strong and real as the loving look on her mother’s face, the first Mirror she created, and making the decision to rewrite her own memory algorithms. Nothing pinned her firmly to the here and now. She floated, lost. No memory was any less vivid than another, and it was that clarity which saved her. She traced her footsteps through time, placed each memory in chronological order like putting together a billion puzzle pieces forming a single narrow line. 88 swore to be more careful in future.