Ghosts of Tomorrow

by Michael R. Fletcher

  Archaeidae shrugged that uncomfortable thought aside. There was something deep-rooted there he couldn’t bring himself to examine. Uncle Riina lurked at the center of his fear and doubt. He crushed those thoughts and glanced toward Shogun 88.1. “You?”

  “I am neither male nor female. I am a creation, a Mirror of the Archetype.”

  Archaeidae stood, pushing back from the table. The Emperor remained sitting, staring at the cracks in the oaken table.

  “Will you still help me?” the Emperor asked, voice small.

  “Of course. You need me. Are you more comfortable as male or female?”

  “The distinction lacks meaning. Do you have a preference?”

  “I suppose I prefer some honesty in my virtuality. Even if it doesn’t matter. You are Jotei 88, the Empress.” The Emperor changed, morphing into a more female form. “Thank you,” said Archaeidae.

  That 88 was willing to conscript NATUnet and expose herself spoke of the depth of her fear. Archaeidae studied his Empress. She’d shown herself as a little girl. Was that memory recent, or something from the past? Recent, he felt sure. Sometimes she seemed wise and infinite, and sometimes so small and scared. Previously he’d thought she was much older than he, a possible mentor. His suspicions left him feeling vulnerable.

  “We’re two children against all the world,” he said.

  “They already killed me once.”

  Never again, swore Archaeidae.

  In the virtual tea house Archaeidae rose from the table. “I do have one more request,” he said. Unblinking, the Empress stared at Archaeidae. “I could use a pair of good swords.”

  Jotei 88 nodded once and Archaeidae bowed low.

  I won’t fail her as I failed Uncle Riina.

  No one would ever touch her. No one would ever hurt her again.

  If humanity threatened her, they would regret it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Sunday, August 6th, 2046

  For the sub-orbital flight to Reno-Tahoe International Airport Abdul was packed into the airless baggage compartment with the rest of the luggage. If it was meant as a slight, it wasn’t subtle.

  He had little to do but think. The Scan piloting the sub-orbital wouldn’t talk to him.

  If Griffin was right and Mark Lokner was behind the crèches and involved with the mafia, they were going to be facing some dangerous opposition when they reached 5THSUN. These wouldn’t be simple corporate security chassis—no match for a full-fledged killing machine like himself—but rather state-of-the-art combat models. They’d be piloted by children from the crèches Lokner was involved with.

  He watched the barn burn again. If only he hadn’t lobbed that shell. He should have known there was a fuel tank back there. There was one at every farm.

  I should have known.

  Blackened bodies. Charred husks.

  How many lives had he taken for his NATU masters? Was this not enough? Had he not earned his freedom, bought it with the souls he’d sent to hell?

  No. Twenty more years. Twenty more years of violence. Twenty more years of killing.

  Twenty years less five lousy fucking days.

  “I can’t do this.”

  The luggage surrounding him rattled and vibrated as the orbital began its descent. He detected parts per million of aftershave, deodorant, and perfume. He knew which bags belonged to women, which to men. He knew which contained unwashed laundry and illicitly smuggled foods.

  God I miss cheese!

  He could bring this down. End it all. Nothing survived a sub-orbital crash.

  More blood on his...fuck, I don’t even have hands. He couldn’t do it.

  They took everything. They even stole his death. Maybe being blown to shit by a Jumping Spider mine was no great noble achievement, but it was his. His death. He wanted it back.

  He wanted it all back.

  “No more.”

  No more doing as he was told. He’d help Griffin shut down Lokner, the soulless bastard behind the crèches, and then he was done.

  Some choices they couldn’t take away.

  One last choice. One last freedom.

  If he was willing to take it.

  ***

  Once in Reno, Griffin dry-swallowed the last of the amphetamines he’d purchased in Redmond. They were all that kept him on his feet. The world sung like vibrating steel and stung like a slap in the face, but he was up and moving. That’s all that mattered. If he stopped now he’d never get back up.

  The sun crawled, bleary and hung-over, above the horizon and the day’s heat had yet to land with all its ferocity. Griffin gazed at the Eastern sky, a wretched puke and pollution swirl. Monet would be proud. He and Abdul made for 5THSUN Assessments in their requisitioned two-ton truck. The military grade air filters in the truck worked well enough Griffin pulled off his filter-mask. Though the air tasted of sun-warmed garbage, carbon emissions, and rotting fish, it was still preferable to re-breathing his own sour exhalations. Though the morning air was cool, Griffin still sweat under his magnetorheological bodysuit. His heart thumped against the SmartFluid-filled armor hard enough he was surprised it hadn’t triggering the viscoelastic effect. The helmet and its barrage of confusing information sat on the passenger seat. He hadn’t tried it on. It reminded him of the last time he wore one. And Nadia.

  A Tavor 41 assault rifle with under-mounted grenade launcher lay heavy across his lap. Half a dozen extra clips hung in a webbed combat belt. It made sitting even more uncomfortable.

  The city and its litter looked unnaturally beautiful in the early morning glow. The truck wove through sparse vehicular traffic on streets lined with fake trees and gardens.

  When was the last time he slept? He couldn’t remember. The pills made him sharp, but some things seemed far away. He thought about Abdul.

  “Do you sleep?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You miss it?”

  “Yeah. Remember how they tell you in high school that humans go crazy if they don’t get sleep? It’s true.”

  “Humans, not people? Interesting distinction. High school was a while ago.”

  “I was in grade twelve,” said Abdul. “I joined the NATU Marines to pay for college. I’m an immortal and I don’t even have a high school diploma.”

  “Shit. We’re putting kids in chassis just like the assholes we’re supposed to stop.”

  “At least I volunteered. Technically.”

  “Are you serious about going crazy?”

  “I think I’d kill to enjoy a real beer again,” said Abdul, avoiding the question. “Virtual ain’t the same.”

  Griffin decided not to push it. At least Abdul was talking. He liked that better than the long sulks. “Well, you can have one when we’re finished. We’ll pour it into your gas tank.”

  “Too funny.”

  “Come on, it must be handy. You never have to go looking for a bottle opener.”

  “Griffin.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”

  “Abdul, you can’t say shit like that and then not tell the person.”

  The big chassis shifted and the truck groaned. “She’s still alive. Scanned.”

  Griffin’s head felt heavy and his throat grew tight. He ran a hand through his short gray hair. “No. She was DOA at the scene.”

  “Brainbox. She’d only been dead for a few minutes, there was almost no brain damage. Probably nothing she can’t recover from.”

  His chest ached, but not from the mass of bruises. “Just die, you said. Don’t get scanned. Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know. Fear? I don’t think we’re designed for giving up. We always fight for one more breath, even if it won’t be real.”

  Griffin blinked and tears tracked through his stubble. “You’ve talked to her?”

  “No. I think you should.”

  “No.”

  “She needs—”

  “No!”

  “This won’t be easy for her. Believe me, I know. If
she doesn’t have someone to talk to, she’ll...she’ll go crazy.”

  Griffin shook his head in denial. “It’s not really her.”

  “So I’m not really me then?”

  “Sorry, I—”

  “No, you’re right. I’m not. She’s probably not either. But she’s all that’s left. Maybe that matters for something.”

  Maybe. He couldn’t know. What was he to the ghost of this dead woman? What was this ghost to him? A memory? A painful reminder of what could never be?

  “I’ll think about it,” said Griffin, drying his cheeks with a rough swipe of a sleeve.

  “Good.”

  “You see the 5THSUN specs?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Yeah. A company called Cc-Security is running the show. They appeared out of nowhere and with a massive budget. They have half a dozen state-of-the-art security chassis at 5THSUN.”

  “Who supplies Cc-Secutity with chassis?” Griffin asked. “For that matter, where are the Scans coming from?”

  “The chassis are listed as off-the-shelf security models.”

  “Want to bet the chassis are illegal combat models and the Scans are brainwashed crèche children?”

  “No. I don’t want to kill any more children. Is there another path we can take? Can’t we set things in motion? Subpoenas, legal charges, call in the cavalry and all that?” Abdul pleaded.

  Too late for that. What should he do? Racing after Riina got Nadia killed. Was he about to make the same mistake? He thought back to his first crèche raid, how he planned every last detail. He remembered the empty bodies, the swarming flies.

  If I stall and Lokner escapes— “No, we can’t,” said Griffin, throat tight. “A Scan can be stored on a computer not much bigger than a deck of cards. If we stall Lokner will be gone. We do this the civil way and he’ll get away. No.” If Abdul backed out this was all over. He couldn’t do it alone. “We go in hot. Deal with whatever happens. If it gets ugly—”

  “When it gets ugly.”

  When. Griffin’s gut spasmed. What am I doing here? The one thing he knew for sure, he didn’t want to get stabbed again. Or shot.

  What the hell was he going to achieve? Go home. Forget this. Forget her. She was still alive. No, not alive. He might even have a job to return to if he left now. He watched the city blur by.

  Fuck it.

  “Abdul, I’m going in with or without you.”

  ***

  At the far end of town, combat chassis boiled out of the Reno NATU offices and were loaded onto trucks and helicopters. They charged east towards Fallon where unknown terrorists had gained control of the Dixie Valley geothermal power plant, threatening to reduce it to dust and bones.

  Archaeidae knew once NATU personnel reach the plant it wouldn’t take them long to realize it wasn’t a terrorist attack but a bizarre computer malfunction. 88 would stop all data movement within the city of Reno, eradicating all possibility of someone calling for help. He estimated he had at most an hour but hoped human stupidity would slow the process. It seemed like a safe bet.

  Standing on the steps of the Reno NATU office, Archaeidae ignored the thronging pedestrians and cyclists. A long and faded tan duster-coat covered his chromed assassin chassis and samurai swords, and a large black ten-gallon cowboy hat hung low over his face. Though he could pass for human, assuming no one got too close or touched him, he still received more than his fair share of odd glances. He was definitely overdressed for the weather.

  Archaeidae climbed the steps to the front door.

  Inside, the aging security guard had yet to notice him. Everything slowed as Archaeidae prepared himself for battle.

  One chance to get this right.

  ***

  Outside San José, Costa Rica, a private sub-orbital began its descent toward Juan Santamaria International Airport. Canebrake, Boomslang, Red-Back, and Siafu faced each other in the lounge, their combat chassis forming a small circle. They ignored the thick, buttery leather sofas, polished oak and brass bar and trim, and the deep egg-shell white carpeting. The shallow trappings of wealth meant less than nothing.

  The four met in a shared virtuality hosted by Canebrake. In a small clearing in the middle of an incandescent green bamboo forest four lean samurai sat in a circle, much like their chassis. Each wore a twelfth century ō-yoroi, the armor of the wealthy samurai. The armor was lustrous and colored to match their namesake. Canebrake’s was striped in a mottled gold and brown deepening to black towards his extremities. Boomslang’s glowed luminous green cut with sharp black lines. Red-Back’s burnished black armor was unbroken except for two bright sanguine interlocking diamonds on his chest. Siafu’s armor faded gradually from the orange-brown of dry blood at her feet to a red so dark it looked black at her head.

  The bamboo swayed and whispered in the wind, sounding like the entangled caressing of snakes and hollowed wood wind chimes.

  At nine years Canebrake was the oldest and the others looked to him to lead. A heavy responsibility, but one he could bear. He knew how this was to go. He’d been learning the words since birth. They all had.

  “Uncle Riina made us for this,” Canebrake said solemnly.

  The other three nodded and intoned, “He made us for war.”

  “He gave us life, meaning and purpose,” said Canebrake. “He made us immortal.”

  “We are forever.”

  He closed his eyes, holding firm the calm center of his soul. “Soon we face death.”

  “We have died a thousand times. We will not blink.”

  “We end in cleansing nuclear fire,” said Canebrake opening his eyes and taking his time to acknowledge each samurai in turn. “Everything must burn.”

  “As Master Lokner orders.”

  Canebrake examined his friends. They’d run thousands of virtuality missions together, but this felt different. This was it, the real thing. It felt somehow final.

  Well, yeah, Lokner says we aren’t coming back. They were going to die in some shitty little country he’d barely even heard of. And for what?

  Honor. It’s what they had trained for their entire lives.

  So they’d lived to die for some selfish asshole who didn’t even make an effort to understand them. What a waste.

  Lokner doesn’t matter. This wasn’t for Lokner, it was for Riina. Riina mattered. He’d be proud.

  Oh Uncle, why have you done this to us? Canebrake wanted to turn and run so bad, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t disappoint his Uncle. He couldn’t abandon his brothers and sisters.

  Canebrake waited until he was sure his voice would not shake or crack. He breathed the damp barnyard scent of bamboo. “It has been an honor to work with you, my friends. I look forward to seeing you again on the next level.”

  “On the next level,” they answered in agreement.

  Next level. Was there a next level? For the first time in his short life, Canebrake was seriously beginning to doubt it.

  ***

  Elsewhere, on the edge of Juan Santamaria International Airport’s airspace, an aged Boeing 777 circled, awaiting its landing orders. On the runway a prehistoric Airbus A340 taxied into position for take-off.

  ***

  The guard, paunch hanging over a thick leather belt equipped with bundled keycards, walkie-talkie, flashlight, taser, Glock, pepper-spray, plasticuffs, and a personal GPS tied in to the building’s intranet, glanced at the strange man in the oversized duster-coat and ridiculous cowboy hat. The alarms remained quiescent and the guard’s display indicated the man had top clearance and was a systems administrator from the virtuality department downstairs.

  Computer specialist, thought the guard. No wonder he’s dressed like a freak. No one else could get away with such blatant disregard for the corporate dress code.

  ***

  Archaeidae, primed for violence and expecting the worse, decapitated the guard when the old man nodded his greeting.

  The head landed with a wet thunk and the body toppled sideways out of its chair as the
cleanly sliced neck spurted blood like a fire-hose.

  Had anyone noticed? Archaeidae took in the room, the crowd of NATU employees in cheap suits staring at him in mute terror. Yep, they noticed. So much for sneaking in.

  He vaulted through the security cordon and killed the nearest three people before he realized the alarms still hadn’t sounded. That was good. Must be the Empress’ doing.

  And then chaos. People ran screaming in all directions. Another fat old man with a paunch, overloaded belt, and state-issued Glock tried to be a hero. Archaeidae obliged him. All heroes died, right? The floor, slick with blood, added to the panic. It was like walking on greased glass. Nothing to Archaeidae, but troublesome to clumsy humans. At least it made them easier to catch.

  Four seconds in and still no sign of combat chassis. That was good too. Maybe the Empress managed to lure them all away.

  The path to Archaeidae’s goal remained clear as people fled before him. Every now and then someone got too close and was run through. No helping it. He killed them and moved on, following the memorized floor plan. Still no alarms sounded.

  Something hit him from behind at the rate of about fifteen rounds per second, shredding the back of his duster-coat, and crumpling the support struts of his lower left shoulder. One arm useless already. Off to a great start. He really should consider using heavier chassis.

  Nah. Not my style.

  Hopefully whatever hit him wasn’t fitted with a grenade launcher. That’d be nuts, right? No one would put a grenade launcher on a rifle designated for office security. They could bring the whole building down.