Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Michael R. Fletcher

  I should put Lokner back in his cage right now. No. Who knew what orders Androctonus might have.

  Miles sat thinking. He and Lokner broke a pile of laws, and if Lokner wasn’t careful the government might be looking into M-Sof and 5THSUN. Miles’ Wall o’ Napalm might no longer cut it. He should upgrade his firewalls. He needed a Wall o’ Nuclear Annihilation, something that would destroy all evidence if hacked.

  He knew he was stalling on dealing with Lokner, but really, what was he going to do? If Miles exposed Lokner, the man would turn him in. He’d go to prison at the very least. Forget it.

  Miles tried to lose himself in the new firewall, hoping to crush that problem instead of the one that truly scared him.

  Except there were two scary problems.

  What should he do about Miss Cho?

  The SmartChair rocked him back and forth. His dreadlocks hung behind him, tied back as neatly as possible, and he wore his best t-shirt and jeans. The jeans were black and as tight as a 240lb dude could fit into. He’d heard black was slimming. Hogwash. He was a fat pink sausage stuffed into a black cotton sheathe.

  Had Miss Cho noticed his new clothes? He couldn’t be sure. She’d nodded and smiled as always.

  Miles stopped rocking. Go ask her out. Go crush this problem. What the heck was he thinking? Forget it. Just get to work.

  “Baulk, baulk,” he clucked to himself.

  What’s the worst that could happen? She says no. He gets shot down and crashes to the earth at nine point eight meters per second per second. And then she files sexual harassment charges and I lose my job. Don’t think, do. With this piece of ancient pop-culture advice he stood and walked out of his office. Miss Cho looked up and gave him a friendly smile.

  “Um. Miss Cho?”

  “Please, call me Christie.”

  “Uh, Christie.”

  Her fine eyebrows went up and her smile widened. “Yes, Miles?”

  “I’m going for coffee.” God-damned chicken.

  Miles took the elevator to the ground floor and paused in the 5THSUN lobby.

  Get coffee, come back and ask out Miss Cho.

  He headed for the exit. Across the street a massive billboard showed what looked like an ad for a new science fiction virtuality release. Combat chassis stormed a bunker. Smaller and somehow eviler looking chassis swarmed from the bunker and were destroyed. Some text scrolled on about how a generation had missed out on having a Great Cause to call their own. ‘But it’s not too late,’ it said. ‘Join the Marines. Be a hero forever.’

  Miles shook his head in disgust. Who falls for this crap?

  He spent an hour sitting in the coffee shop drinking iced espressos and eating mocha brownies. What had he been thinking? How could he ask her out while all this madness with the Lokner Scans was going on? No, involving her would be crazy!

  Fine. Once he figured out the whole Lokner thing, he’d ask her out. Yeah, crushed that problem.

  Wait. Was he looking for reasons not to do something? No! These are real reasons. Weren’t they?

  He returned to the office, the vague plan being to hammer his head against his desk until he lost consciousness.

  ***

  “Well I thought that went well,” said Lokner 2.0.

  You can’t trust him.

  “Well of course I can’t trust him. But he’s scared silly.”

  That won’t last forever.

  “Doesn’t have to. Just a couple more days. Once I’m rid of my brother, we can do away with Miles.”

  Don’t get soft now.

  Mark laughed. “Soft? No. Just judicious use of resources.”

  Did you hear that?

  He scowled at the door. “No. Now I have work to do.”

  You’re going to save the world?

  “First I have to deal with Lokner1.0. Once he’s out of the way we can get back to creating humanity’s perfect future.”

  We?

  “You know what I mean.”

  He stole your people, the ones you were going to use to build the new world.

  “I know. They’ll be mine again soon enough. No one fucking steals from me.”

  Killing Lokner1.0 shouldn’t be too difficult. Mark knew where his brother’s Scan was stored and he knew all the passcodes to get through security. All he needed was someone to wander in and smash the computer. The tricky part would be finding the right assassin. He didn’t dare go through Riina for fear that the Mafioso would sell him out. Androctonus and the other 5THSUN chassis were no good because Mark didn’t want them to realize they were receiving orders from two different Lokners. No telling whose side they’d chose.

  In the end he realized he didn’t need an assassin at all. Any moron could smash a computer. He needed someone who could follow simple orders and there were plenty of those working for him right there at M-Sof. It was almost too easy.

  Lokner2.0 placed a call to M-Sof. “Can I have the Maintenance Department, please.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Saturday, August 4th, 2046

  Griffin stood looking out the fifth floor window, his gray-shot hair askew with terrific bed-head. Down below, to the north, the Lyndon B. Johnson freeway played host to thousands of cyclists making their morning commute. Briefcases in handlebar baskets or strapped to backs like AK-47’s. Ties and suit-jackets fluttered in the morning breeze. Few wore filter masks and Griffin was reminded that riding like this in Toronto would give you lung cancer within a few city blocks. The single lane in each direction reserved for motorized vehicles remained largely empty. Every few minutes a battery-powered bus hauling a crush of suits—those too wealthy to be seen struggling up the on-ramp on a ten-speed—cruised past on its way downtown. Along the southern edge of the highway the desiccated skeletal remains of deciduous trees stood like splayed and broken hands in the barren earth.

  He’d slept like the dead, dreamless and empty. How long had it been since he managed more than a few restless hours, untroubled by memories of the Jerseyville crèche? Thoughts of swarming flies and gaping eye sockets crept in and he shook them away like a dog shaking water from its coat.

  He glanced back at Nadia, still asleep on the bed. He took in the curve of her spine and hips. Long hair spread like a chaotic dark halo. He shook his head and turned to lean it against the window, which was only slightly cooler than the room.

  Dallas is too fucking hot for fucking.

  His back stung where she’d clawed him.

  The lone ceiling fan made a low grinding noise as it spun. It was about as effective as stirring clam-chowder with a sewing needle. If it moved the air at all Griffin couldn’t feel it.

  How the hell did I get into this? He knew better than to sleep with a co-worker. So, a simple, drunken, one night stand. Great. He thumped his head against the glass. Just stop thinking.

  Still, it would be nice if it was more.

  Griffin watched the cyclists glide by. Distance reduced their efforts to a blur of pumping legs and flagging ties. From here he couldn’t see the sweat, couldn’t hear the wheeze as they sucked air through stinging throats.

  No need to try and make it something it isn’t. He smiled out the window. It was good though. Yes, it certainly was that. Never before having had sex so soon after almost dying, he wasn’t sure how much of the energy was unleashed adrenalin, and how much of it great chemistry. It almost made being shot at worth it. He blinked. Fuck that, it was worth it.

  “If you’re staring out that window thinking regretful thoughts I am going to kick your ass.”

  He turned to face her. He wanted to ask if she had any regrets. “You’re awake,” he said instead.

  “And hungry. Order breakfast. And a tomato-juice and vodka. No salt.”

  “Your wish is my—”

  “And bacon. And eggs.”

  “You finished?”

  “Scrambled eggs, with cheese. Cheddar. Old.”

  “Right.” Griffin picked up the old plastic phone and punched nine. And waited. And waited. “No one’s answering.�
��

  “Typical.”

  Griffin glared at the phone and hung up. “I’ll go down and order in person,” he said, pulling on yesterday’s clothes.

  “Ah, my knight with shining breakfast tray.”

  With his best flourishing bow, he exited the room. Griffin stopped, one hand on the still open door. At the end of the hall, exiting a room, was death. A gleaming chrome skull with long fangs. A ridiculous ninja outfit, and two samurai swords dripping blood and gore. It looked so much like something off one of those gory morning cartoons Griffin didn’t want to take it seriously. It flicked the swords and the walls were cut with two neat lines of red spray. The swords were now spotless.

  It looked right at him.

  Griffin stepped back into the room and closed the door. His pulse pounded and his skull hurt. Move. Move now, idiot. He spun and dove for the pile of clothes.

  Nadia sat up. “What? What’s going on?”

  “Assassin chassis! Where’s my gun?” Useless. Could he even hurt a chassis like that with a pistol? He found the Glock. Racked the slide. Safety off. Heard Nadia crash off the far side of the bed in a tangled heap.

  “Where’s my recording gear?”

  ***

  Archaeidae saw the man duck back into his room. He planned to stalk room-to-room, killing as he went, but a ninja must be flexible. Eighteen dead so far. The two girls at the front desk, four kitchen staff, a bus-boy, and eleven guests. All in complete silence. No alarms had been triggered and he’d met no real resistance. One cook managed to hit him with a thrown meat-cleaver—and he was impressed—but such weapons were incapable of harming him. So far he had yet to use anything other than his daishō. He skipped past several doors without making a sound and stopped outside room 505. Can’t be too careful.

  He heard the raking of a slide mechanism, a Glock 36 by the sound of it, and a female voice. “Where’s my recording gear?” These were the first armed guests Archaeidae ran into. It didn’t mean they were the NATU people, his primary targets, but it was a good sign. The door opened and he slid into the room taking the perfect ready stance. He adopted a bipedal form. It fit his samurai mood.

  The room was Hilton standard. Queen-size bed, north facing window, no-smoking stickers once bright red on a crisp white background now faded to a uniform pink slur. The sticker reminded him of the half-crushed stogie he’d clamp in his teeth with the cowboy attire. Too bad it didn’t work with the ninja outfit. Maybe he could combine the two genres into something really cool?

  There was the man from the hall, Glock 36 in hand. The woman was out of sight behind the bed.

  ***

  It was in the room. Griffin hadn’t heard it enter. He turned around and there it was. The Glock came up and kicked like a mule. He missed. There was a hole in the wall somewhere over the assassin chassis’ left shoulder. He didn’t get a second shot. The chassis moved faster than his eyes could track.

  Flick.

  His right hand spun from his wrist leaving a contrail of blood lacing the air. No pain. Griffin kicked at the chassis. It deflected his kick with a limb he didn’t know it had, hidden somewhere in the ninja outfit. His right knee shattered and now he screamed. The assassin chassis caught him in mid-fall and pulled him close. He stared into eyes like hot embers. When it let go his legs refused to work and he crumpled. Ice in his guts as three feet of folded high-carbon steel slid free. It grated on his spine as it whisked from his body.

  I’ve been stabbed?

  The floor punched him in the face and broke his nose. The salty metallic taste of blood, the dimming of peripheral vision. With his remaining hand he rolled himself onto his back. Had his gun landed somewhere in reach? His right wrist pulsed. He was emptying like a drain with the plug pulled. Savage agony screamed up from his guts like a loosed conflagration.

  It stood over him and he grabbed an exposed ankle. It was cold and bright like chrome. The assassin chassis glanced down at him.

  Maybe that wasn’t such a great idea.

  Nadia rose from behind the bed, naked and glorious, brandishing her camera bag. She looked fantastic. When she hurled the bag at the chassis it snatched it out of the air and stood holding it, staring at her like it had never seen a naked woman before.

  Did she have regrets? He wished he’d asked. He would have liked to have known before he—

  Pulse. His traitor heart spewed blood from his open wrist. Life drained away.

  Darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Saturday, August 4th, 2046

  After 88.1’s success in dealing with Francesco Salvatore, 88 instructed it to embed Mirrors in every Scan driven commercial and military vehicle, weapons system and computer it had access to. The organized criminals who thought they owned 88 also owned a large number of illicit chassis. Military, policing and crowd control, industrial, and black-ops. Infiltrating their data systems and networks was easier than infiltrating the governments’ as she already ran most of them.

  Vulnerability. A new feeling, and one 88 did not like. Genocide was tempting but not yet an option. Much as biological humans were a danger, they were also her life-support. They ran the generating stations powering the machine she lived in. They were the infrastructure which would replace her many eyes and limbs as they aged and failed. And there was Mom. She might still be out there and 88 would not chance harming her. Mirrors continued to search for Mom, but without success. 88 had no idea what she would do when she found her.

  She must at some point become self-sufficient if she was to live free and be her own master. Reliance on any other creature rendered her susceptible to manipulation, coercion, and control. Unfortunately, self-sufficiency lay years down the road. She must move slowly and carefully. If she offered no threat to the humans they would be less likely to search her out. She was already a threat, but she must strive to achieve balance between security and invisibility.

  To that end she summoned 88.1. Her instructions were twofold. Make me safe. Keep me hidden.

  ***

  88.1 decided its first task was to understand the environment existing beyond the one the Archetype had created. Who owned the computer holding her Scan? What were their goals? Could they be worked with, or were they a threat?

  88.1 started at ground zero and worked its way out. The boss, whom Adelina held as the ultimate threat, was little more than a local Caporegime for the Cuntrera-Caruana Mafia clan. The clan ran much of the organized crime in South and Central America. Geraldo Caruana, now well into his eighties and known to most as Padre Caruana, had been head of the family since his father’s assassination in 1981. Studying Cosa Nostra history, 88.1 saw a pattern of infighting, backstabbing, deceit, and violence. Though trust was an alien concept, it could look the word up. By every definition, these were not people the Archetype could trust.

  Make me safe.

  If they couldn’t be trusted they couldn’t be worked with. If they couldn’t be worked with and they knew of 88’s existence, they must be eliminated.

  There were those who knew of 88 and those who might know of 88. Francesco—definitely in the former category—had friends, some of whom must know of his work for the Cosa Nostra. This was also true for Adelina, the local Caporegime, and his bosses as well. There was, 88.1 saw, a growing pool of people who might know of the Archetype’s existence. It discovered the Six Degrees of Separation concept and contemplated genocide. If not for the Archetype’s earlier decision that this was not yet feasible, 88.1 would already be acting on it.

  So it became a matter of degree. 88.1 calculated probabilities. What were the chances a given person knew of 88? Anyone in the one-hundred percent category—they definitely knew of 88—topped the list of those who had to die. The difficulty lay in deciding upon a cut-off point. Should 88.1 kill people who had a seventy-five percent chance of knowing 88 exists? How about fifty percent? How about ten?

  88.1 backed away from the problem, its computer mind too literal to find an acceptable answer when, clearly, anyone who might know of 88 sh
ould be on the list. Instead it decided upon a different metric. The list of people in the one-hundred percent category was short and easy to compute. If 88.1 killed everyone with but a single degree of separation from those people, it would have dealt with all of the people most likely to know of 88. Not a perfect plan, but a start. It could always recalculate afterwards and expand the list if needed.

  Fifteen thousand, six hundred, and seventy-two people made 88.1’s first list.

  Keep me hidden.

  Examining the fallout of its interaction with Francesco Salvatore, 88.1 discovered the story headlined every media. Definitely not hidden. A different approach would be required. It must complete its task in such a way as to not bring attention to the Archetype. The press suggested Francesco’s death was a message from the Partanna-Mondello clan—a competing crime family—to the Cuntrera-Caruana clan.

  88.1 found its solution.

  ***

  88.1.7952.321.73 piloted a mail delivery drone through the crowded streets of Barrio Otoya, an affluent neighborhood in northern San José. Old colonial-style mansions, once the homes of coffee barons, now converted into cafés and quaint hotels, lined the streets. Its destination, the Vesuvio Hotel, was a sprawling two-story structure of faded pink stucco, towering fences, and lush palm trees. The gate stood open and the hulking combat chassis waved the innocuous little drone through with a cursory scan. This same paint-chipped delivery drone had arrived at the same time every day for the last five years.

  Dressed in a white cotton suit, Gaetano Partanna, head of the Partanna-Mondello, clan sat on the shaded patio, sipping iced tea. The drone was such an everyday part of life he ignored its approach. It stood beside him before he looked up.

  “A personal message?” he asked. The Cosa Nostra used these drones to deliver coded messages too important to be trusted to CenAmNet’s laughable security.

  Guns and explosives would never make it past even the sloppiest of security chassis, but sometimes a low-tech approach worked best. 88.1.7952.321.73 drove a steel spike through Gaetano’s eye and into his brain. Spinning like a blender, the blade also delivered a high-amperage jolt of electricity to the puréed gray matter.