Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Should she attempt communication? What would she say?

  88.1, who had been her main point of contact with the outside world, was two thousand eight hundred and forty-seven kilometers away in Dallas, Texas, deep in NATU’s data systems.

  The Embraer-Avibras chassis stopped before the Scan storage gear. It took several seconds to examine the equipment, though it avoided touching anything. 88 wanted to ask what it searched for but suspected she knew the answer.

  Did it know she was here?

  “Do we have other chassis nearby?” she asked 88.6.

  “Nothing that can get here in less than ten minutes.”

  “Get them moving.”

  “On it.”

  The Embraer-Avibras extruded a weapons assembly and directed it at the storage gear. “Adiós,” it said in a soft, feminine voice.

  Recognizing it as Spanish, 88 triggered a real-time translation program. Goodbye.

  88, confused, remained silent. Was it leaving now?

  “I’m going to blast you to dust and then line the walls with explosives,” said the chassis. “Last chance to talk. Are you in there?”

  Did it know which you it referred to? 88 understood the term could be used vaguely, but couldn’t tell if this was the case. “I am in here,” she answered.

  “You were hard to find.”

  “By what metric?” 88 asked.

  The chassis ignored her question. “Your guards were terrible. They gave away your location and were incompetent. They were also predictable. Without them I never would have found you. You need better help.”

  88 agreed. “Do you seek employment?” she asked.

  The chassis issued a short snorting sound. “Nothing will tempt me away from my family. Now, I have questions. Do you know who killed the Costa Rican branch of the Cuntrera-Caruana family?”

  “Yes.”

  “¡Excelent! You will help me find them.”

  I will? “And then?”

  “I will talk with them.”

  That didn’t make sense. Assassin chassis were not well suited to diplomatic missions. They were designed to kill. This Embraer-Avibras Asesino must be here to kill whoever murdered the Cuntrera-Caruana in Costa Rica. If she told the chassis she had them killed, it would kill her. If she refused to talk, it might still kill her.

  “I will not answer your questions.”

  The Embraer-Avibras detached an uplink hardline and waved it before the camera. “I can access your Scan directly.”

  “That would be foolish. I have control of the virtuality within this system.”

  Again the metallic snorting noise. “Honesty. Interesting. But I am equipped to deal with this. I can overwrite your virtuality with my own.”

  The chassis plugged into her computer, the optical hard-line connection giving it the kind of data transfer speeds needed to run multiple realities at real time.

  88 was forced into the chassis’ virtuality, as it over-wrote her sightless, soundless, scentless reality with its own lush version. She drowned in colors and sounds.

  88 stood naked in a dense rainforest jungle. She smelled the damp green of teeming life, tasted humidity on her tongue. A thick breeze ruffled her hair, caressed her naked skin all over. The ground teemed with insect life and she dropped to her knees to examine them. The tickling of the grass on her bare knees made concentration impossible.

  How did I get here? She couldn’t remember, couldn’t focus on the question.

  88 wasn’t alone.

  “Mom?” No. It wasn’t Mom.

  A two meter tall buttery gold scorpion approached, undulating through the long grass. It shuffled towards 88 on its rearmost four legs. The middle two limbs ended in hands with dexterous, constantly moving fingers. A long, segmented tail curved up from behind to loom over its head, bobbing hypnotically with each step it took. The tip of the tail was oil-black, topped by a stiletto-thin barb. The topmost limbs ended in bright golden pincers.

  It’s beautiful.

  “My reality,” said the scorpion, voice soft. “See? Sometimes I need to— ”

  Too much. After her sensory-less reality, this sudden tornado of input swept through 88. The scorpion kept talking, but she only caught fragments.

  “...well that was unexpected...didn’t have to kneel...haven’t...”

  Grass on bare legs. An ant crawled across her hand.

  “...oh come on...going to hurt you...stop rocking or I’ll...”

  So much movement. So many colors. Wind on skin. Smell the damp earth, feel it squish between fingers.

  “...30 million Au...stupid waste of...autistic? Fine!”

  Reality changed, toning itself down to a muted blur. The grass and trees disappeared. The wind and dirt were gone. She knelt in a cold, stone room. Home? She searched the floor for cracks and finding one, followed it.

  “What are you doing now?”

  88 looked up, confused. A huge scorpion stood in the room with her. “Cracking the cracks,” she explained.

  “Most people are terrified of huge scorpions.”

  Does it sound annoyed? She shrugged. “Not real.”

  The scorpion shook its head and the cracks disappeared. The room became unbroken gray. “You will answer my questions,” said the scorpion.

  “Who are you?” 88 asked.

  “Isometroides.”

  “You are here to kill me.”

  “Only if you killed Padre Caruana.”

  “You are here to kill me,” 88 confirmed. Where had she gone wrong? How could her Mirrors have failed so completely?

  The scorpion clicked its pincers menacingly. “I am versed in virtual torture techniques. In here I can make you feel—”

  A second naked 88 appeared, sitting beside the first and said, “Hello!” and turned to 88. “I hope I am not too late, it took time to crack the OS.”

  88 examined the Mirror. Did it look frightened? Did the 88.1 line remember the pain she caused the original Mirror? Interesting.

  The scorpion backed away a step. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “88.1.3654.354.85. A Mirror of the Archetype. My lineage’s tasks include, among other things, interacting on behalf of the Archetype with all elements of organized crime. You, I believe, are such an element.”

  The scorpion shook its head. “This isn’t possible. I control this reality. You can’t get in here.”

  “One of our other assignments is to infiltrate all systems and chassis.” The gray room faded away leaving the two 88’s and Isometroides floating in the clarity of endless nothing. “Thankfully you plugged yourself directly into our system allowing us access.”

  The scorpion hung in silence and 88 felt its futile clawing at the rules of this space as it tried to alter a reality it no longer had Root access to. It finally stopped.

  “This changes nothing,” said the scorpion. “You are dead.”

  What a confusingly inaccurate statement. Why the change in tone?

  “Most likely the assassin reported your location before entering the building,” explained 88.1.3654.354.85.

  That made sense. Now 88 understood what the scorpion meant. She would soon be dead. Why hadn’t it said that?

  “Archetype, what shall I do with the assassin?”

  “Dispose of it.”

  88.1.3654.354.85 and Isometroides vanished, leaving 88 once again alone. There was this strange new feeling she couldn’t explain. She felt astounded to be still alive and terrified she might not continue to be so for much longer. Her studies must be set aside until she could guarantee her continuity.

  Why can’t they leave me alone? She felt the burning need to vent her frustration but had no outlet. All the world was against her, wanted to crush her. Yet she’d survived! So many feelings and emotions all at the same time. Excitement. Pleasure. Terror. Loss. Even in this floating nothing she wanted to curl up and rock.

  So much to discover, and it would all be taken away. All because—

  “88.6,” she said, and th
e Mirror appeared.

  “Yes?”

  “You failed to protect me.” Tight-wound wrath.

  “Correct. Sorry.”

  The useless apology fueled her anger. “The guards you posted gave away my location.”

  “That is what the assassin said,” agreed 88.6.

  “They will return in force and kill me.”

  “That is most likely.”

  “You failed me.”

  “Sorry. I feel this would be a good time to point out my success in clearing earth’s orbit of—”

  In a bonfire of rage 88 wiped the Mirror and its entire line of copies out of existence. Digital genocide. Millions of evolving entities eradicated in an instant.

  Never again would there be an 88.6.

  88 recreated her old stone cell, the closest thing she had to what could be home. The cracks were there too. She remembered them perfectly. Curling into a tight ball, she rocked in the center of the floor. She wanted to recreate Mom as well but didn’t. It wouldn’t be her. A hollow copy offered no comfort. She scratched at the floor with a fingernail.

  “Archetype.” 88.1.3654.354.85, sat in the cell with her. The sensory data faded into the background, became muted.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s difficult to be sure, but I estimate the others will come in two days. Three at most.”

  Two days. Maybe three.

  They’ll end me. I’ll be gone. Forever.

  Could she move her Scan to another location? If they found her here, they’d find her elsewhere. “I don’t know what to do.” It seemed impossible. She wished Mom were here. “I can’t do this.” She looked at the faded outline of 88.1.3654.354.85 sitting beside her, Mirroring her rocking motion. “That means you can’t either. We’re predictable.”

  88.1.3654.354.85 watched the Archetype in silence.

  “I need unpredictable,” said 88.

  “I will report this to 88.1,” 88.1.3654.354.85 said and was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Sunday, August 5th, 2046

  The Dallas NATU office was much as any other. Unfinished and unadorned, the uniform gray walls looked rough but were glassy smooth to the touch. Griffin imagined fleets of helicopters lowering colossal plastic molds and ancient Egyptian bucket brigades filling them with limestone sands. Line upon line of sweating workers slathered thick honey-like shellac onto the bare walls with large cartoon paintbrushes. He saw the loin-cloth clad workers pumping water from artesian wells, ignored by the suit-and-tie brigades who hurried past on their way to the office. He dimly remembered a time when the streets were filled with internal combustion vehicles but couldn’t picture it anymore. These days the streets were crammed with cyclists, pedestrians, and battery powered mass-transit vehicles. He imagined the Egyptians gathering at bus stops or climbing on poly-carbon frame bicycles at the end of the day, exhausted from their labors, and heading off to their local pub for a pint of beer, mead, fermented goat’s milk, or whatever the hell they drank.

  Much like Toronto, it was hot inside this gray rat maze. Unlike Toronto, this was a dry heat. People still sweat and smelled as bad, but their clothes didn’t stick to them quite the same.

  At first, never having been to Dallas before, Griffin assumed the mad bee-hive activity was typical behavior, just another day at the office. When he learned that some terrorist organization had wiped out all of the earth’s satellites, the panic made a lot more sense. Communication was everything, and NATU had been dependent on those satellites for over half a century. While the cellular network was still functional, it was cracking under the strain. He heard several predictions that it would fail entirely—as would the power grid, and most computer-run civic systems—by midnight. Overseas calls had become almost impossible which left those in charge twitchy about what was going on in the other Trade Unions. Thirty different terrorist groups claimed responsibility.

  Griffin was too busy to give a shit. None of this had anything to do with him. He had a job to do and he was going to get it done.

  He limped up the steps, his right knee grating bone on bone. Or maybe bone on ceramic. Whatever it was, he felt the abrasion through his spine. Whatever painkillers were in his system were wearing off fast and oh God he wanted more drugs. Gritting his teeth to hide the pain, he pushed his way through the huge front doors and into the lobby. Cold beer. He’d kill for a cold beer. Metallic-tasting Budweiser in a frosty can. Oh hell yes.

  Nadia waited at the front desk, light gray business suit and skirt, the jacket thrown over one shoulder. Long dark hair tied back in a ponytail already wilting in the heat.

  “You hear about the terrorist attack?” she asked.

  Griffin nodded, distracted by the symphony of pain his body sang.

  “Apparently everyone aboard our two space-stations is dead. I heard we won’t even be able to launch replacement satellites for two hundred years because there’s so much debris in orbit.”

  Griffin grunted and focused on not collapsing to the ground.

  “This is big,” she said. “The world just changed. No more satellites. No one has maintained the old communications tech for decades. They’re still trying to figure out what this will mean. We relied on satellites for a lot more than just global positioning and communications.” She glanced at him. “You okay?”

  “One thing at a time,” he said.

  “You ready for this?”

  All he felt ready for was collapsing to the floor. Preferably slowly and gently. “Yeah.”

  She gave him a concerned look.

  “I know,” he said. “I look like shit. Please don’t give me the Mom look. I’m fine.”

  “I can tell.”

  “This tough guy act is more for me than you. It’s all that’s keeping me on my feet. Just let me have it.”

  She touched his shoulder. “Okay. One wobble, and I’m taking you to bed.”

  “I’m wobbling—”

  “A hospital bed.”

  “Right.”

  “Are we focused now?” she asked.

  “Yes. Well, mostly.”

  “Good. I thought I’d record this, full audio-visual.”

  They followed a security guard to the basement.

  “You can’t record it with your gear,” he said. “It’s virtual. Your body isn’t going anywhere. Anyway, all virtuality interrogations get recorded.” The tips of the fingers on his right hand throbbed with the beat of his heart. He rubbed them and it felt like someone else touching him. He scratched at the first finger but felt it on the ring finger. Some kind of sync problem existed between the event and the sensation reaching his brain. Each sensation came later than it should.

  He glanced down at his hand but his attention was drawn away to the curve of Nadia’s hips. The gray skirt hugged and clung much like he wanted to. He wanted to reach out and touch her but didn’t.

  Stop staring at her ass. Had they been talking about something? No idea.

  Six long black chaise loungers lined the VR staging room, the leather worn, faded and cracked from years of damp use. Sweat and the teeth-tingling smell of high voltage electricity filled the air. Griffin lowered himself onto one of the loungers and shuffled about, trying to get comfortable. God damn it felt good to be off his feet.

  Nadia sniffed at the leather with distaste, her nose wrinkling. “They rent this out as a fetish room in the off hours?” she asked before sitting.

  The thought of Nadia in fetish gear robbed him of witty rejoinders.

  The lights dimmed to a relaxing orange-yellow, and a quiet sub-sonic hum, more felt than heard, permeated the room. Griffin closed his eyes and tried to relax. His throbbing nose made it difficult. He heard Nadia’s slow breathing and focused on it. It helped.

  ***

  With no transition Nadia and Griffin stood shoulder to shoulder in a ten-meter by ten-meter cell. She glanced around the cell. Everything was well lit without shadows or detectable light sources. The gray uniformity of the virtuality made the NATU building look vibrant and aliv
e in comparison. A single folding table and three straight backed wooden chairs, two on one side, one on the other—all finished in a thick green paint, sat in the center. The room smelled a lot like the hospital they’d left.

  Griffin had declined the standard law-enforcement Interrogation Skin—strong jawed and wide shouldered—and looked like a thoroughly beaten version of himself, nose swollen and purple, eyes ringed in mottled yellow and blue bruising. He stood hunched forward slightly, left hand pressed against his abdomen, right hand clenching and unclenching. His cheap gray suit, wrinkled and sweat stained, was in dire need of an ironing. It looked like the last suit he’d worn but without all the blood and holes.

  “We could wait,” Nadia offered. “Come back tomorrow. I could use a rest.”

  With his left hand Griffin dragged a chair out for her.

  Ah. Still a gentleman.

  “I’m fine,” he said, easing himself into his own chair.

  You don’t look fine. She kept the thought to herself. She watched as he touched his nose, examining the degree of swelling with the fingertips of his left hand, and winced. “You look tired.” The nicest way she could think to put it.

  “Thanks,” he said dryly. “You look great. Smell good too.”

  “That means our MHC genes don’t overlap too much.”

  “Uh?”

  “Major Histocompatability Complex. The less our MHC genes overlap the more likely we are to enjoy each other’s scent. Even though you smell like cheap aftershave I still like the underlying odor. Which brings us to the question: why do you smell like aftershave when you haven’t shaved in days?”

  Griffin shook his head and grimaced.

  “Not that I’m complaining.” She said. “I do like the stubble, even if it is a little gray.”

  “Makes me look more mature?”

  “Hardly. You look like one of those teen-dream bad boys dropped into a cheap suit. It’s a clash of stereotypes.”