Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Michael R. Fletcher

  “What do you mean there’s no Strike Team, Brigadier General Rostron? I made the call an hour ago and you assured me the team would be prepped and ready to leave by the time I got here. Well, I’m here and I don’t see a Strike Team.” He resisted the urge to call her Grandma, suspecting she’d hit him if he did. He didn’t think he could take a punch from this woman. Not right now. Probably not ever.

  There was a hint of anger in the clenched jaw, but Rostron’s face remained calm. She had a soft Texan drawl that normally would take the edge off her words. “We had an emergency. The Strike Team got called to quell a water war between the Texas Farmers Union and the Free Ranchers of Texas.” Clearly unimpressed by what she saw, she made a show of examining his wrinkled, sweat stained clothes. “Why didn’t you bring the Strike Team from Dallas?”

  The question was asked, but not innocently. Griffin felt a tightness in his chest. His gut reaction was to back down, but anger wouldn’t let him. People died to make this bust possible and if he didn’t follow through their deaths would have been for nothing. “You know why I didn’t bring the team from Dallas. They’re fucking dead.” Griffin leaned towards Rostron. “You’ve also received word from Head Office. I want my Strike Team and I fucking want them now!” He breathed into Rostron’s face, smelled the woman’s starched uniform and an underlying scent of lilac.

  “The Strike Team is gone,” said Rostron, unfazed by his proximity. “A water war is a big deal here, a whole helluva lot bigger than some little mobster. And I’d appreciate it, Mister Dickinson, if you’d watch your language.”

  Griffin felt like he’d been chastised like a child. He almost offered an embarrassed apology. He blinked at her, unsure what to do next. He had the authority to bark orders, but had no idea how to go about using it.

  “We’re taking the Chinook.” Everyone turned to look at Nadia. “We’re taking the chopper. It’s the only thing big enough to carry Abdul. He’s our Strike Team.”

  Rostron’s calm facade slipped. “It will take time to prep the helicopter. Refueling and pre-flight check—”

  “The chopper is ready to go,” said Abdul. “I’m in communication with the pilot Scan. She says she has enough fuel for such a short flight. All systems check green.”

  Griffin turned back to Brigadier General Rostron. “Show me to the armory, I need to requisition some guns. Nadia, you want a gun?”

  She didn’t take her eyes from the Chinook. “No.”

  ***

  While waiting for Griffin and Nadia to requisition gear from the recalcitrant Brigadier General, Abdul passed time in conversation with Marlene Becker, the Scan inhabiting the CH-74 Chinook. She’d died flying a transport chopper much the same as the one she now lived in, but no one would tell her how. She too joined the army to pay for college and, before being killed, was set to graduate this year. Abdul, who remembered nothing of his own death, commiserated.

  During a lull in the conversation he asked, “How is it for you, being a Scan?”

  “You mean, do I miss my old life?”

  No. “Yeah.”

  “Of course. This isn’t the same as being alive, no matter what they simulate. It’s different. It’s...”

  “Empty?”

  “Perhaps. Sometimes.”

  He needed to know. Is it just me? “Do you feel...sane?”

  There was a long pause. “We can’t talk about that.”

  Right. Someone might be monitoring their conversation. Is that what she meant? Or was she afraid to talk about it? Did she fear what might be said?

  Their conversation died, strangled by doubt.

  When Griffin and Nadia arrived they were sweating in their magnetorheological armored vests. Griffin, pale and hunched, showed gritted teeth as he pulled himself into the chopper. He shouldn’t be here, he should be in bed. He should be in a hospital bed.

  Marlene lifted off the second the NATU agents were seated and had donned their headphone-radios.

  “Those vests are for police work,” said Abdul, once the chopper was airborne. “Didn’t they have MR bodysuits?”

  “All signed out by the missing Strike Team,” Nadia answered with a shrug.

  Griffin, sitting beside her, stretched out his legs with a groan. He looked grateful to be off his feet but otherwise miserable. Tired. Spent.

  Abdul watched the fingers on Griffin’s right hand shake as the agent examined a Tavor 41 assault rifle. Curious, he scanned the agents to see what gear they’d selected. Four of the thirty round clips hung attached to Griffin’s combat harness as well as three flashbang grenades, or Noise and Flash Diversionary Devices as the Armory Officers liked to call them. He’d also requisitioned a Glock 36 which sat in a hip holster. Abdul checked Nadia and aside from her recording gear all she had was the MR vest she wore.

  “You’ve used an assault rifle before?” Abdul asked Griffin, hoping to distract him from his obvious discomfort.

  “At the range.” Griffin clawed at the fingers of his right hand.

  “With no satellite scan of the building, we have no idea what’s in there,” pointed out Abdul.

  “True,” said Griffin, “What are the odds he has a chassis bodyguard?”

  “What are the chances that was a dumb question?” Abdul answered

  No Flight of the Valkyries this time. Like him, the mood was dead. He watched Griffin watching Nadia as she checked her recording gear. Lost in concentration, she didn’t notice Griffin’s attention. With an unconscious twitch of her hand she brushed back a few hairs that escaped her ponytail. Griffin wanted to say something to her—Abdul saw it in the way he’d lean toward her only to pull back again—but kept hesitating. Griffin returned his attention to Abdul and stared at him for several seconds. He couldn’t tell Abdul watched him at the same time.

  The Chinook’s engines rose to a roar as Marlene pushed the envelope of what the chopper could handle.

  I used to love doing this, she tight-linked Abdul. Back when I could feel it. Now... nothing.

  I can see we’re moving quite fast, Abdul tight-linked back, glancing out a window. Normally he could have checked his GPS coordinates and been told his current speed, but with the satellites down a lot of the systems he depended on were touchy at best. And my attitude indicators say we’re banking at twelve degrees right now. But if I killed that and all visual sensors I’d have no idea we were even moving.

  This sucks, said Marlene. I see the ground rush past beneath me, but no matter how low I go, no matter how dangerously I fly, I still can’t feel it.

  “They should give you guys facial expressions,” said Griffin.

  A nugget of anger sparked to life. Was that a joke? Less than an hour ago he’d tried to tell Griffin how he’d lay down his life to protect him and now this?

  “Like painting shark faces on fighter jets?” Abdul asked, keeping his voice calm and flat.

  “No, no. Some way for you to display emotion. It’s an important part of human communication.”

  This was well-examined ground for Abdul. That nugget smoldered and smoked, grew hotter. “That assumes I’m human,” he said.

  Griffin raised an eyebrow. “You saying you’re not?”

  Abdul shuffled closer, an oddly gentle move for such a large killing machine, and saw Griffin quash the desire to back away. He measured the man’s heartbeat, counting the pulses in the carotid artery. He sampled Griffin’s exhalation and knew what he’d eaten for breakfast. He saw the man’s temperature—already bordering on feverish—rise as he grew nervous at this killing machine’s proximity. “Obviously I’m not human.”

  “I think you can be human without being a human,” said Nadia, voice gentle.

  “There is nothing biological here. I am a digital copy of the brain of Abdul Aziiz-Giordano. I am modeled thoughts.”

  The helicopter banked and Abdul stared out the far window at the ground rushing by below. There was a time when he would have felt this in his stomach, a sour vertigo. Now he felt nothing and that was sad. I mis
s my fear.

  “Bullshit,” said Griffin, looking queasily pale after the helicopter’s maneuvering. “You are Abdul. You may be modeled thoughts, but you are thoughts modeled so accurately as to be self-conscious. I was wondering why they didn’t give you some means of expressing emotion.”

  “I assume they thought my language skills would be sufficient.”

  “They’re not,” muttered Griffin under his breath, probably unaware Abdul could hear him. “Human interaction is more than words and tones,” he said louder.

  That burning ember of anger didn’t go out, it throbbed in the background. But these weren’t the people who’d done this to him. Their honest and obvious concern calmed him. “What emotions should I display? I’m not sure the Marines want their weapons walking around looking confused, guilty, and depressed.”

  “Screw the military,” said Nadia. “You’re still human and you still have some basic rights.”

  “Ah, technically no. You kind of sign those away when you join the NATU military. On top of that, whether I’m human or not, they own this chassis. I suspect putting facial expressions on it may be deemed defacing government property, or something equally asinine.”

  Nadia examined Abdul, head tilted to one side. “What were you like before?”

  Small, brown and quiet. Often scared. “Really good looking. Incredibly funny. Chicks loved me.”

  “Right, of course.”

  “I haven’t lost it, though,” Abdul joked, “I was dating a hot little front-end loader for a while.” This was all so much bullshit.

  “So I’m not your type?” Marlene asked, feigning disappointment.

  Griffin looked surprised, like he’d never thought about Scan social lives, and couldn’t imagine what Abdul did when not working.

  Nadia shook her head in mock disgust. “Amazing, eh Marlene? Even after scanning, men are still pigs.”

  Abdul stood as if stretching his legs. “I don’t understand it, but I think laughing might be a biological thing. I enjoyed that but can’t share in the laughter. I remember how my little sister used to say what she was thinking or doing, like adults were too stupid to figure it out if not told. She’d tell a joke and then declare ‘I’m being funny.’ I always enjoyed it but thought it odd behavior. Now I’m thinking it might be useful. I don’t need facial expressions if I walk around talking about my emotions.”

  Thinking of Janani, his sister, brought back that rage, so cold as to sear. Unwilling to lose what emotion he was capable of, he set it aside, saved it for later.

  “All men would be better off if they could talk about their emotions,” said Nadia with a pointed glance at Griffin who pretended not to notice.

  Abdul nodded by rocking his entire torso. “Let’s try it.” He stood as straight as the confines of the Chinook allowed and made a show of looking around. “I miss being hugged and being able to feel it and not measure the experience in numbers.” Marlene banked the Chinook again and Abdul’s stabilizers adjusted keeping him in perfect balance. “I miss my fear. I miss wanting to live rather than being programmed for self-preservation. I miss my family. I miss—” I miss my sister. Lock it down. “Otherwise, today isn’t too bad. It’s been a while since I talked to people. I think I missed that more than I realized.”

  “What’s the facial expression for all that?” Griffin asked.

  ***

  After studying the outdated satellite imagery—pictures taken several years ago—on his tablet, Griffin laid out his plan: Abdul would drop to the street and enter the via front door, while Nadia and Griffin came in through the roof top entrance. They’d meet in the middle somewhere in a textbook Pincer Movement. Abdul squished the idea like it was a nasty little bug.

  “Forget it. You two aren’t coming in at all. You stay with Marlene.”

  “You’re going in alone?” asked Griffin.

  “Damned straight. I’ll drop to the roof and enter there. That’s my best chance of surprise.”

  “Bad idea.” Griffin held up the satellite picture for Abdul to see. I’d kill for to-the-second updates. He’d love to be able to watch traffic in and out of the building. “Look at that structure. Two hundred year old brownstone. Land on the roof, and you’ll end up in the basement. Anyway, they’ll escape out the front door.”

  “Marlene, can you pin them down with suppression fire?” Abdul asked.

  “Sorry, I’m not currently outfitted with armaments. My last dozen runs have been internal NATU troops movements. No action at all.”

  Abdul’s armored fist clenched and for a moment Griffin thought he was going to punch something in frustration. “I can cover one of the exits” offered Griffin. “The roof is probably best. Anyone sticks their head out the door and I’ll scare them back in with a few shots.”

  “You can do that from up here,” said Abdul.

  “Seriously? No. I can usually hit a motionless paper target at fifty yardss. When I’m prone and have all the time in the world. Shooting from the back of a helicopter, I’m as likely to accidentally kill someone as scare them.”

  “Fine,” said Abdul. “I’m okay with you accidentally killing Riina.”

  “I’m not. I want this bastard alive.”

  “I don’t.”

  Nadia reached out and placed a hand on Abdul’s side. “Riina’s not at the top of this. He’s too small.”

  Abdul was quiet for several seconds. “Shit. Fine. I’ll drop to the ground and come in the front. Griffin, you take cover on the roof. Keep them pinned inside. Nadia stays with Marlene.”

  Nadia looked like she was about to argue, but shrugged philosophically. “I can get video good video from up here. Let me know when I’m cleared to come in. I need some shots of the arrest.”

  “Griffin,” said Abdul, turning his torso to face him. “If you come in before I’ve given the all clear, I’ll kill you myself. If there’s something in there I can’t handle, you playing hero isn’t going to help.”

  No kidding. “Abdul, the last thing I want is to walk into a chassis fight.”

  When Marlene announced they were two minutes from their target, Griffin’s stomach tightened painfully. There was a flurry of last minute activity. He hoisted the Tavor 41 rifle and took a few calming breaths.

  Griffin attached himself to the rappelling line, and shuffled toward the open door. He sat with his feet hanging over the edge. The city below sped past in a blur and then slowed to a crawl as Marlene found her target. The Chinook kicked up a tornado of dust and debris sending people on the street scattering for cover. Griffin hoped Riina wasn’t among them.

  “I don’t like this,” said Abdul. “We should come back with more support.”

  “We can’t wait,” snapped Griffin. I can’t be too late again. “Riina will be gone once he realizes his assassin failed. Stick to the plan.”

  “Plan? This is pell-mell with details,” said Abdul.

  Griffin’s harness felt too tight around his chest, suffocating and reassuring at the same time. Looking down between his legs he saw the roof below. Damned thing looked miles away but couldn’t be more than a few yards. The roof slewed sideways and Griffin felt his gut churn with vertigo.

  “Marlene, can you keep it more steady?” he asked.

  “Nope. Sorry. Pretty windy.”

  Griffin grabbed Nadia’s hand. “You ready?” he asked over the helmet radio. She squeezed his hand in return and he grimaced with the sudden flare of pain. Should have used the other hand.

  “Hell, no,” she said, and then leaned forward to kiss him. Her lips were soft, her breath hot. “As soon as we’re done here you’re going to the hospital. You promised.”

  “I did. I will.”

  “Good. Be careful.” She brushed her fingertips along his cheek, a soft caress.

  “Helmet,” said Nadia, handing it to him.

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  He glanced out the open door at the rooftop far below. What the fuck was I thinking?

  ***

  Riina st
epped out of his office and into the hall. “Giovanni, you hear that?”

  His lieutenant’s door opened and Giovanni stood listening. “Yep. Helicopter. Big one.”

  “It sounds close.”

  A third office door opened and Oo stuck his angular wasp-like head out. “There’s a helicopter overhead. Sounds like a Chinook troop transport.”

  Giovanni nodded. “I’ll check upstairs. Oo, front door.”

  “Should I bring the bird down, Uncle?” Oo called back as he jumped from the top stair to the bottom, landing with insectile poise.

  “Let’s make sure it’s a threat first,” answered Riina.

  Drawing that massive Desert Eagle, Giovanni took the stairs two at a time to the rooftop door. The gun was silly, but with it, the man was a surgeon.

  Giovanni stopped at the top of the stairs, cracked the door no more than a hair, and peered out. When he glanced down toward Riina, his face said everything that needed saying.

  “Bring down the chopper,” Riina called to Oo-Suzumebachi.

  ***

  People stared nervously up at the hovering Chinook, scattering when Abdul stepped out and began his descent. He had all the time in the world to think as he dropped toward the sidewalk. Riina farmed kids for brains to use in combat chassis. The chassis he fought at the crèche had no doubt been populated by children. Abdul killed them. There would be one or more chassis here as well. These would be children willing to die to protect the man who stole their lives. Abdul felt ill, a gnawing rage brewed somewhere in his guts. This he was allowed to feel. Not warmth or human contact or the exhilarating freedom of motion, just the need to do violence.

  Well, at least it’s the right emotion for the job at hand.

  He landed at the brownstone’s front door. It was thick wood bound in decorative wrought iron bands, designed to look classy yet still be damned near impossible to bust open.

  Abdul tore the door from the brownstone wall and much of the surrounding masonry came with it. There was a blur of black and yellow and he knew he should have been more careful.