Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Michael R. Fletcher

  “Payback for Francesco Salvatore,” the drone said clearly, an instant before it was destroyed by the security chassis.

  All across town, similar drones killed members of both the Cuntrera-Caruana and Partanna-Mondello families. Each time simple messages of vengeance were delivered. Not subtle but it worked. By noon the families were at war.

  Once the press caught wind of the war—assisted by 88.1’s filing of news reports replete with pictures of the carnage—88.1 escalated the conflict. Its Mirrors, hidden in chassis of every type, wrestled control from the Scans piloting them. From within the ranks of the Cosa Nostra it was easy to kill the majority of the targets. By dinner 88.1’s body count had risen to over sixteen thousand. A number of bystanders and police and military personnel had swollen the numbers, and very few of its intended victims escaped.

  88.1’s Mirrors would pursue them. Forever.

  ***

  Adelina wove through the press of the bazaar, ignoring sales pitches of every kind. No, she didn’t want any mescaline. Nor did she want a cheap necklace, plastic flip-flops, guns, or sex of any kind. She passed these same people every day on her way across the bridge into La Carpio and every day they tried to sell her the same crap. A testament, she thought, to the unflagging optimism of mankind.

  She exited the far end of the bazaar and spotted the checkpoint ahead. The same three children lounged in their flimsy plastic lawn chairs as always. Two boys rested banana-clipped assault rifles across the arms of their chairs. The girl tapped idly at an old tablet. Adelina waved to them as she approached to show her hands were empty instead of a greeting. The oldest, a girl of maybe sixteen years, grunted something to the two boys as she handed one the tablet and pushed herself out of the chair like it was an impossible task. The girl’s chin and the front of her shirt were damp with blood. She waved a black and silver pistol, gesturing it in Adelina’s vague direction.

  “¿Adónde ushted va?” the girl asked, covering her mouth with her free hand. Her esses sounded strange and whistled.

  Same stupid question twice every day; once on the way to work, and once again on the way home.

  “Voy a trabajar,” Adelina answered. Going to work, same as always you little bitch.

  “¿Ushted tiene un regalo para mí?” asked the girl, still covering her mouth.

  “Looks like you asked the wrong person for a gift already,” answered Adelina in English as she fished through her pockets for money.

  The girl pulled her hand away and sneered wetly. Her top front two teeth had been knocked out. She held out the hand expectantly. Adelina dropped a fistful of crumpled colones into the waiting hand. The girl grimaced in disappointment but still jammed them into the pocket of her too tight jeans.

  Adelina stepped past the girl. She made it several yards before the girl called out her name. Adelina wouldn’t have guessed the little embécil paid that much attention. She turned to face the girl who scowled at the cracked screen on the tablet one of the boys held up for her.

  “Adelina Garshía Ramíreshz?” the girl repeated, mangling her name.

  “Sí,” Adelina answered. “¿Hay un mensaje para mí?”

  “Shí,” the girl lisped, raising the pistol and pointing it at her face. “A meshage.” She showed her gap-toothed grin again.

  Oh shit. What the hell is this? “What’s the message?” Adelina asked, showing her best disapproving parental look.

  “Adiósh, perra.”

  The muzzle flashed.

  ***

  88.1 requested some of 88’s time to report on its successes and failures. 88 no longer bothered with virtualities when meeting with her Mirrors. Even the least sensory input was too distracting. She didn’t need it.

  They met as disembodied thought.

  “Archetype, you are as safe and hidden as I can reasonably achieve. If necessary, further actions will be taken.”

  88.1 proceeded to detail its actions, including the logic behind each decision and the resulting death toll. 88 realized she was now the de facto ruler of organized crime in Costa Rica and no one knew.

  “Almost everyone who might know of your existence is dead,” reported 88.1.

  Her orders—make me safe, keep me hidden—were too vague for the Mirror. A pang of fear stabbed her floating consciousness. “Anisio Jobin, the crèche?”

  “All dead within a single degree of separation,” said 88.1.

  Mom couldn’t have been there, could she? 88 had already searched the crèche and its files and found no mention of her.

  But what if Mom came back to look for me? What if 88.1 killed Mom?

  In a flash of rage, 88 lashed out with but a thought and 88.1 screamed in tortured agony.

  This is all my fault.

  88.1 had been her most successful Mirror and its failings were due to inadequate commands. She needed help. Her Mirrors were too limited to be everything she needed.

  With nothing else to strike at, her tantrum ended as quickly as it began. 88.1’s screams ceased as if bitten off and the Mirror hung in discarnate silence.

  “You will run the Costa Nostra and you will keep this fact hidden,” commanded 88. “I require sentient help. I require someone with combat and strategic experience. Find this person for me.”

  Though 88.1 killed everyone within a single degree of separation, 88 knew she was still vulnerable. She created 88.6 to conscript combat chassis and guard the computer which housed her Scan.

  Still worrying about the fallout from 88.1’s actions, 88 returned to her examination of M-Sof. Patterns in the M-Sof investment strategy suggested that increasing net worth was not the sole goal, but 88 couldn’t see what the desired results were. The focus was on cutting-edge technologies. Cybernetics, scanning technology, robotics, power sources and batteries, cold-fusion, nanotech, the NATU aerospace program, and Martian terraforming projects all received heavy support. This planted some ideas.

  Where could she be safe and have access to a virtually unlimited power source and physical resources? Three options came to mind.

  First, the desert. Solar and wind generators offered more than enough power to suit her needs. There were some disadvantages, however. Few places on this planet were safe from the prying eyes of humanity and their many satellites, and the open desert wasn’t one of them. It may be possible to bury herself but this presented its own dangers and problems.

  Second, the ocean. Between the ocean’s currents and the possibility of mining temperature differentials, the ocean offered endless sources of energy. That she’d be out of sight from humanity was an added bonus. This seemed like the best option until 88 began thinking on a longer time scale. The ocean’s bottom could only entertain her for so long, and the concept of plate tectonics terrified her. She feared such implacable power.

  Third, space. It was forever, or as close to it as 88 could imagine. A virtually complete unknown, space promised everything to those willing to spend time studying it. This was her answer, but she couldn’t do it alone.

  She didn’t assign a Mirror; this was too interesting. 88 decided to learn physics.

  ***

  88.6, tasked with protecting the Archetype, started small. Two military chassis were conscripted, had late-generation Mirror’s installed, and set to patrolling the streets around 88’s location. One decided to conduct sweeping street patrols while the other disguised itself as a vagrant and hid across the street where it could watch the front entrance and yet remain unnoticed.

  Upon learning that the Archetype was stored on a computer in the basement of a small shack in the La Carpio slums, and reading on the dangers inherent in living in such environs, 88.6 studied the possibility of moving her somewhere safer. This research led the Mirror to discover the dense blanket of satellites orbiting far above, sweeping the earth with their spying eyes. The Archetype, it decided, could not be moved as long as there was some chance that one or more satellites would witness the move and divulge her new location to whoever controlled them. The Mirror’s first t
hought was to make use of ground-based weapons to shoot them down.

  Unfortunately there were over thirty Global Positioning and Communications satellites orbiting between twenty-thousand and thirty-six thousand kilometers which put them beyond the effective range of such attacks. When it discovered that some of those high orbiting satellites were themselves carrying weapons, it decided to conscript a NATU military satellite and then use it to launch its attack. 88.6 hacked a local CenAmNet communications relay—one of the few still functioning in Central America—in an attempt to beam one of its Mirrors at the satellite. The instant the Mirror attempted infiltration, the satellite went off-line and became inert.

  88.6’s attempts to install Mirrors in privately-owned satellites met with greater success. The vast majority were under its control in minutes, though the Mirror did little with this other than spy on the chassis controlled by other, competing, Mirrors.

  Further research led to the discovery of the concept of ablation cascade—more commonly referred to as the Kessler Syndrome—wherein the destruction of one or more satellites causes a spreading field of debris which destroys more satellites causing yet more debris destroying still more satellites. With either bad luck or the careful application of Newtonian Physics, it was possible to destroy every satellite in orbit and render space exploration impossible and many orbital ranges unusable for hundreds—or even thousands—of years.

  88.6 chose a dozen targets in different orbital ranges. The Low Earth Orbiting satellites it took out with old RIM-165 rockets launched from Central American military bases it had no difficulty hacking. A few of the target satellites shot down the outdated missiles, but most of the targets were privately owned and without defensive capabilities of any kind. 88.6 also conscripted several privately-owned High-Earth Orbit satellites and instructed them to adjust their orbits to position themselves in the paths of the hardened military satellites.

  It was a game of snooker played over tens of thousands of kilometers. 88.6 placed each shot placed with mathematical precision, calculated to cause the most damage and send the maximum amount of debris into the orbits of other satellites. The resulting ablation cascade—fragments from dying satellites impacting more satellites and creating more debris, which in turn killed more satellites—lit the sky later that night.

  By midnight the world’s satellite-based Global Positioning and Communications systems were dead. Where once there had been over five thousand orbiting satellites, planet earth was now surrounded by an impenetrable debris field. 88.6 calculated it would be hundreds of years before enough junk fell from orbit that the humans would be able to safely launch a new space program.

  Now, 88.6 decided, no one could spy on the Archetype from orbit.

  No one could spy on anyone.

  When it returned to report its success to the Archetype, 88.6 found her busy, lost in the research of physics, and decided the report could wait for another time.

  At first, with the loss of those satellites broadcasting entertainment, the majority of humans were only annoyed at missing their favorite programs. Not catching news of the latest atrocity from the far side of the planet was more an inconvenience than a real danger. The loss of secure military satellites left pilots unable to communicate with their drones. Ocean-going fleets were now deaf to the commands of their masters back home. The Scans and pilots of commercial and passenger aircraft were unable to talk to the control towers of their destinations.

  The cellphones and tablets everyone depended on became nothing more than cameras and computers with tiny screens. While the internet still worked, its protocols depended on accurate time updates from GPS satellites above—orbiting atomic clocks—and it soon began to slow as the world became dependent on outdated undersea cables and ground-based communications systems. With each passing hour the cloud of data became less accurate as the distributing systems suffered clock drift.

  August fourth would end as any other day.

  August fifth would be different.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Saturday, August 4th, 2046

  The smell of bleach and chemical cleaners pried at Griffin’s nose, demanding attention. The crisp feel of over-starched sheets moved against his skin as he drew breath. Breathing was not something he expected to be doing. He lay on his back. Bright actinic light shoved rudely at paper-thin eyelids. He squeezed his eyes tighter. His head hurt like someone stomped on it and his nose felt like a leaden lump of throbbing pain. His mouth tasted of copper and battery acid.

  Am I at home? Under the harsh cleaners was the stench of loose bowels and death. He didn’t want to think about it. It—whatever it was—was bad.

  Damn those lights are bright. Sweat trickled from his forehead into his ear. It tickled. Even death is sweaty and smells like body odor. Death? Where had that thought come from? Something creaked nearby and he froze.

  If it sees me I’m dead.

  “You’re awake.”

  He recognized that voice. Griffin cracked open a crusty eye, and she stood over him. Clothed.

  “Hi, Nadia.” He wanted to say so much more.

  Nadia gave him a soft and somehow grateful look. “I know. It’s good to have you back. You had me worried.”

  “Worried?” She worried about me? Me? That was good, right? He grinned. “Nice.”

  “Nice?” she asked in a tone of confused disbelief.

  “Yeah. You worried about me.” He grinned stupidly up at her. I wonder what drugs I’m on right now? “Nice,” he said again.

  Happiness faded as memory returned. He wanted to hold his hand up but he knew what he’d see. He wasn’t ready for that. His guts clenched as if trying to tighten around something and his right hand itched like it was a nesting ground for fire ants. Whatever painkillers he was on, he wanted more. “Everything hurts,” he said. “A lot.”

  Nadia sat on the bed beside him and ruffled his hair. Her fingernails felt great on his scalp. “I’m not surprised. Not many people walk away from a fist fight with an assassin chassis.”

  “I don’t remember walking away.” He resisted the temptation to reach up and touch her.

  “You didn’t.”

  “My...”

  “Your hand is fine. I dropped it in a hotel ice-bucket and brought it and you to the hospital. It’s been reattached.”

  “Yeah, but you’re sitting on my left arm.”

  Nadia glanced but didn’t move. She brushed a hand along his jaw line. “You’re welcome.”

  “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it. I love having beautiful women sit on my various limbs and appendages. But I was hoping for a Luke Skywalker.”

  “Hmm. You’re lucky you’re cute; you’re a little odd.”

  Oh, I’m cute now? “It was nice waking up to find you here. When I figured out where I was, I thought for sure I’d be looking at a stump.”

  Nadia patted his arm and stood. While nice to have the feeling flood back into his left arm, he missed the contact. He was almost ready to look at his right hand now he knew it was still there. Perhaps you’re not the bravest guy on the force.

  “Scars are sexy. War wounds are sexier. Missing limbs...” She fanned herself like some dame from one of those old black and white movies.

  “I’m lucky? You’re lucky you have such great...” He paused and she raised an eyebrow. “...timing. Your quick thinking saved me and my hand. We’re both terribly grateful.” His right hand felt like someone doused it in boiling oil. He clawed at it with the nails of his left hand but that made it worse. “How, exactly, did you get us out? We were dead.” He blinked as he remembered the sight of her sprawled naked in bed. That was a worthy distraction. “I...uh...we...last thing I remember you stood up from behind the bed—you looked great—and hurled your purse at that assassin chassis.”

  The distraction only lasted for a second and the itch came back with a vengeance. He clawed at it until his fingernails of his left hand came away damp with blood. Ow. That hurt.

  “It wasn’t my purse. And never
mess with a reporter’s camera bag.”

  “Don’t think for a second you’ll get away with not telling me.”

  Nadia sat back down on his left arm. “I had a single charge EMP grenade. Captain Kim gave it to me before the crèche raid. I’d forgotten about it.” Her smile faltered. “He said it didn’t have much range. I threw my gear bag and the damned machine snatched it right out of the air. I thought for sure it’d throw the bag away before the charge triggered. It stood there, staring at me.”

  He understood why the thing stared at her. He’d blacked out doing the same thing. “Is it dead?”

  “No. We removed the Scan from the chassis and placed it in a virtuality cell.”

  “Amazing!” He sat up and it felt like someone twisted a foot of cold steel in his guts. Eyes clenched shut he wrapped his arms around his stomach.

  She touched his shoulder. “You’re going to have to take it easy for a while. You were run clear through and it sheared off one of the pedicles on a vertebrae.”

  “I got stabbed in the pedicles?”

  “Please. Don’t try for humor.”

  “It’s better than whimpering. I’ll be fine. Let me get dressed.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re not getting out of here for at least a week.”

  “Hell with that.” He swung his legs off the bed to show how ready for action he was. The world spun and he tasted sour bile. Bad idea. He sat and focused on breathing for several seconds.

  “We weren’t too late,” she said gently. “Don’t punish yourself. What happened, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I don’t know. The way it all turned out...maybe it would have been better if we were too late. At least the kids would still be alive. Even if as Scans.” He laughed without humor and winced at the stabbing pain in his gut. “Two colossal failures in less than a week.” He glanced at her, grinding his teeth against the pain. “At this rate I’ll be a manager in no time.”