Running Black (Eshu International Book 1)

by Patrick Todoroff

  “Oh right! Like I deployed on neurosurgery ops back in D-W-C Metro. What the hell, Doc? Like I’d know. Explain the logic to me.”

  Ibram glared back at me and dropped into stern lecture mode. “Fine. There’s zero tolerance for power fluctuations, so the electrical source needs to be an absolute steady constant. You can’t just run an extension cord. Why the micron actuators that are inserted into the cybernetic interf—”

  “OK, OK.” Tam held up his hands. “We get it… very tricky. What’s the solution?”

  Alejo spoke up. “If it needs to be a direct constant, I can get a battery from a truck or boat? Will that work?”

  Doc Kalahani thought for a minute. “Right idea but not enough voltage. We need lithium-thionyl chloride or lithium ion polymer. They’re stronger and have memory circuits.”

  Tam spoke up. “English, Doc. Plain English please.”

  “Those are industrial or military grade batteries. They’re not commercially available.”

  “Think we could get back in to the hospital?” Curro asked me. Crazy kid was willing to try.

  “No. Not a snowball’s chance in hell we’d get back in there. Not after what we did. We’d have better luck ghosting into an army base and stealing a tank.” I looked up at Curro. “Which we’re not going to do either.”

  It went quiet in the cellar room. The Triplets were upstairs with Gibson, and the only sound was Poet9’s autodoc and the shifting of feet as we tried to wrap our heads around the problem. Carmen was standing next to her husband, deep in thought.

  “That’s it,” she said, gesturing toward the near wall.

  “What’s it?” We all looked to where she was pointing. Our Mitsubishi suits were stacked in segments, hollow and stiff like the molted carapaces of giant black beetles.

  “Your suits. You said their internal power was still charged around fifty percent.”

  Ibram tapped his finger against his chin. “Right type, but it’ll drain them.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Drain them? Who said you could even use them? What about ditching this place? We’re going to need them to get out of the BMZ. Remember?” I asked.

  “We still have the Gaki in that old steel mill,” Tam countered.

  I pointed up to the ceiling. “D-H and Madrid have UAVs banging into each other up there now. They’ll expect that. Fast movers’ll be scrambled the second they get a skip pass on their screens. We won’t make it fifty klicks, even in a Gaki.”

  A look passed between Alejo and Carmen. Alejo spoke up. “We have friends at the Docks. It won’t be comfortable, but we can get you out.”

  “For a new creation in Christ, you still have a lot of old business associates. You two moonlighting for extra credits, or what?” Tam asked.

  Carmen smiled at him. “This outfit smuggle Bibles into the Islamic Federation, brings persecuted Christians out. Same kind of work, different cargo. They can get the six of you out of the BMZ, no problem. All we have to do is let them know you’re coming.”

  Tam looked over at Ibram. “You sure those batteries will work? I don’t want to throw away our best shot at vacating Barcelona. Honestly… what are the odds?”

  “You want guarantees you’re in the wrong line of work.” Ibram said. “But if I run the power from all six suits simultaneously, they should do the job. I’m fairly certain I can get inside his head to reset the breakers.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Tam looked at me. It sucks playing your last card. I shrugged. “In for a penny, in for a pound. But it’s your call.”

  “OK. Do it,” he said.

  -----------------

  It was early morning, the pitch-black pre-dawn, before Doc Kalahani managed to rig up the equipment for Poet9. All of us had filed down into the cellar to watch, to be there. Gibson woke up, insisted on coming too, and he held Flopsy’s hand, a small boy with green eyes and a solemn face surrounded by albino giants. The boy’s forehead creased with concern as he watched Ibram plugging cables, double-checking connections, minutely adjusting dials.

  Devante was still on the bed pallet, small and pale, breathing slow and shallow. Ibram had set up the eight-pronged imager array, locking the armatures in place around his head. It looked like Poet9 was trapped in the clutches of a giant mechanical spider. Cyber-surgery was so delicate it was performed by remote. The array would generate a hologram of his head and brain box so the operation could be monitored in real-time 3D, viewable from every angle.

  Doc wiped his forehead and made last-minute tweaks on several knobs before turning to us. “Don’t touch anything near the Mitsu suits. That cable is spliced onto all six batteries. I modified the power points so they’ll run the surgical suite. But there’s a problem.”

  “There’s a what?” Tam asked extra quietly.

  “A problem.”

  “You’ve stripped the batteries out of our suits, ruined them to jury-rig all this, and now you’re saying there’s a problem?” Tam was perfectly still.

  “Take it easy, it’ll work. The problem is time.” He held up a small, shiny black digital timer, the display set to ten minutes. “With all three machines, the drain is massive. Even at fifty percent, I calculate your suit batteries will only run them for ten minutes, twelve tops. That means I’ll need a hand. I’m going to operate the imager to locate and focus on the correct areas, but someone needs to run the robotics controller.”

  I piped up, “I’ll help. How hard can flipping the switch be?”

  Ibram gave me his “my, you don’t think much” look. “There are eight separate breakers connected to neural fiber bundles in different regions of his brain. They have to be switched open in the proper order. Once the imager warms up, I’ll need at least three, maybe five minutes to locate and tag them on the display in the right sequence. That leaves all of five to seven minutes to remotely guide the micro-actuators to do the resets.”

  “Wait, wait, wait… five to seven minutes?”

  “Once we have the machines running, can’t we supplement the power with more batteries to buy more time?” Tam asked.

  “Not unless you’ve got spare suit batteries you didn’t tell me about. Different power sources would introduce variations. Can’t risk it. Even a minor fluctuation during the procedure might kill him.”

  “So… what are we going to do? Other than hurry like hell, and hope we don’t fumble something, or run out of power in the middle of poking around in Poet’s head?”

  Doc stood still looking at Poet, at the machines, then back at Poet again.

  “Doc?” I asked.

  “I’m thinking.” Several seconds went by, and Ibram pursed his lips and let out a long breath.

  “Well?” Tam asked.

  “I guess we hurry like hell and hope we don’t fumble something or lose power while we’re poking around in Poet’s head.” He turned to face us. “This is the only chance he’s got right now.”

  A leaden quiet dropped into place, the kind when you don’t like any of the options, but you don’t have any other choices.

  I shook myself, and stepped forward. “OK, Doc. What do you want me to do?”

  “Jace…” Tam said.

  “I know—don’t screw up.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “No. Good Luck.”

  I cracked my knuckles and swallowed. “Yeah… Seeing as how this mission’s been going, I’d say we’re due for some good luck.”

  Doc led me over to the robotics unit and started going over the control panel. “These switches here toggle the micro cables. They’re numbered one through eight. These two knobs determine the speed and direction of whichever cable you’ve toggled. The small screens tell you when you’re in proximity to the circuitry. All you have to do is get them to my marked positions. Once activated, the actuators will do the work and reset the breaker.” He grabbed my hand, making me look up into his face. “It is vital you position all eight cables first, then activate them in sequence. Do you understand?”

 
; “Go to your markers. Get the cables in place, then turn them on in the proper order. Got it.”

  Doc leaned close to me. “You sure you want to go through with this? If anything happens…”

  “No. No, I’m good. I’ve got to try. Besides…” I tried being funny, “I can get lots of things done in five minutes.”

  He didn’t smile, just looked at me with that sad long face of his, and then spoke to Tam. “I’ve removed the face plates off his C.I.U. Attach those fiber cables to the access points, please. Look for the small red ports. Screw them snug and smooth out the cables so there’re no kinks.”

  I don’t think I’d ever seen Tam be so gentle. He knelt down, and one by one, threaded the actuator cables to the side of Poet9’s head. “Don’t worry. We’re coming, Devante,” he whispered. He finished, rose to his feet and stepped back.

  “Good.” Doc went to the imager, his long fingers hovering over the power switch. “When we start, hit the timer.” He glanced over at me. “While I’m tagging the micro-breakers, you start up the controller’s operating program. Dials one through eight need to be lit green, the rest will stay yellow. All eight have to be ready when I say go. Understood?”

  “Got it, Doc.”

  “Good. Now the hologram is going to appear directly in front of you in the air. I’ll orient the image as you need. Ready?”

  I nodded.

  Doc Kalahani flipped the switch, and the three machines started humming. In front of me, a dozen screens blinked to life, twitching with tiny constellations of icons, numbered bars, and needles. The next second, a hologram of Poet9’s brain flickered into existence.

  Enlarged ten times, it spun in the air on the central axis between its left and right hemispheres then snapped in place as still as a vid freeze-frame. The brain surface was an organic mass of glowing folds and undulations, the topography of his cerebellum highlighted in electric-blue tracery. On the left side, the severe line and right angle schematics of the cybernetic interface unit appeared in a stark contrast of lime green. Where the brain and machine met was a blurred confusion of spider-web delicacy. I stood there blinking, astonished at the sight.

  Doc was moving as fast as he could, but it was nearly a minute before I saw the yellow marker “One” pop up: a little flag deep inside the holo-image of that tangled zone. The timer next to Tam was shrinking white digital seconds into smaller minutes. At seven minutes twenty-eight seconds, there were three such flags.

  Doc was starting to sweat. And mutter. “Things are buried. There’re ones for each lobe and nerve bundle. C’mon, c’mon. I can’t find—there they are.”

  Two more flags popped up. Six minutes seventeen seconds remaining.

  “Jace, get ready. I. Just need. Three more.”

  The timer was dropping. Another flag, number six. Five minutes forty seconds. The holo of Poet’s brain spun to a view up from underneath. Doc was searching for the other two. Five minutes twenty-two seconds. The holo shifted again. Ibram was sweating harder, blinking his eyes.

  “Doc…?” Five minutes three seconds.

  “I’m looking.”

  The air was stretched thin in the cellar. At four minutes twenty-nine seconds, flag number seven appeared and Poet’s big blue brain turned to face me.

  “Almost there. I need the last one at the corpus callosum.” Four minutes thirteen seconds.

  “Doc, you’re not leaving me much time.”

  “I’m working as fast as I can here. This is brain surgery, remember.”

  Behind me, someone shuffled and I heard Gibson say, “Let me through please.”

  Four minutes five seconds. White digits were blurring the timer. The holo moved again, the last flag wasn’t showing. Doc was muttering. Three minutes fifty-two seconds. Gibson was at my side.

  “Let me help.”

  Tam grabbed at him. The movement made me jump.

  “Damnit, Tam!”

  “Hold on there, kid, this is very important—” Tam had Gibson’s hand now, but the boy spun on him, his green eyes blazing.

  “I know it’s important. This is your friend and you’re running out of time.”

  I tore my eyes off the timer and saw the needle on the power gauge trembling at twenty percent.

  “I can help him.” Gibson spoke again.

  “Got it,” Ibram said. Three minutes two seconds. Doc looked over at the timer. He looked close to weeping. “God help us.”

  I looked at Ibram, then down at Gibson. He was right beside me, holding up a jack cord in his small hand. My thoughts turned to sludge. Less than three minutes left now. My friend, Devante Galeno Perez was going to die under my hand. I was sure of it. I wanted to hit “Rewind”, start this scene over, but there was no such thing. I heard Ibram’s voice.

  “Let him on, Jace. You know what Gibson is. He was made for things like this.”

  As if underwater, I heard Tam protest, saw myself step back and nod to Gibson.

  “OK, kid. You’re up.” The white digits read two minutes thirty-seven seconds. Green eyes looked at me and gave me a small smile. The boy walked up to the controller and jacked in.

  “Now, Gibson,” Doc said.

  At precisely two minutes, I saw the actuator fibers enter the holo image from the machine side. They were bright red lines like lasers sliding inwards; eight of them moving simultaneously, extending deeper into Poet9’s brain. Gibson was motionless, eyes closed, in front of the machine.

  Timer numbers continued whipping down toward zero. I saw Alejo bow his head in prayer, while Carmen started speaking in tongues. For me, something like yearning and fear, like desperation and a plea came from inside and lofted upward. I hoped it would make it past the spy drones that hunted us from the dark skies.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: THIN ICE

  Barcelona Port Complex, Asian Pacific Consortium Trade Offices, Bureau D. South Dock, Level Five, 7:59 a.m. Day Three.

  Colonel Otsu stared out the tiny window in his office. Somewhere beyond the concrete slabs and steel girders, a new day was brightening over the Mediterranean Sea, and he was missing it. You’d think they’d put the legation office somewhere with a view, he thought. But security protocols dictated a double perimeter envelope to counteract possible electronic eavesdropping. After all, hard data on bulk orders of Ninja Heroes and Robo-Pets was highly classified. He craned his neck for a better view as a solid wall of hot pink “Hello Kitty” shipping crates slid past on automated forklifts. He sighed and turned back to his desk. Eight o’clock.

  Right on time, the vid-link chirped and Lieutenant Kaneda’s face appeared on the screen. “Tonight, sir,” the young officer said without preamble. “We’re meeting them tonight.”

  “Good. Where?”

  “A historical building in the Northern District. A mosque.”

  “A mosque?”

  “Yes, sir. Out of the way but still a public place. It’s a preliminary meeting to work out the delivery details. I’ll make sure we have the package in the next eighteen hours.”

  “Very good. And the clones?” the colonel asked warily. “Have they adjusted to mission conditions?”

  A shadow passed over the lieutenant’s face, but he answered quickly. “They are… odd, sir. But bio-forms are conditioned to obey. I don’t foresee any difficulties.”

  “You watch yourself, Lieutenant. Those are prototypes.” Colonel Otsu leaned forward. “I want a full report when this is over. The damned things are risky under any circumstances. To use this as some sort of trial run borders on reckless.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll handle it.”

  “I know, Lieutenant. That’s why you’re there. Report back after the meeting. I’ll have the transport remain on standby in case you get the package sooner.”

  “Yes, sir. Kaneda out.”

  Colonel Otsu watched the screen go blank and let his mind churn. Mercenaries, corporate theft, clone units with maximum sanction on foreign soil… He’d heard that speed was the only safety on thin ice, but this situation
was growing more precarious by the hour.

  One day, he thought. Twenty-four more hours, and if this isn’t finished, I’ll call Head Office. We can pull out before any lasting damage is done.

  Colonel Otsu sat back, still uneasy, but resolved. Then he remembered the lieutenant’s face when he’d mentioned the clones and wondered if he shouldn’t pick up the phone right then.

  -----------------

  Asian Pacific Consortium N. EU Division Regional Offices, Amsterdam, Netherlands Region. 8:47 a.m.

  Avery Hsiang frowned as the video link chimed. Why do I pay Kanang if he can’t accomplish simple tasks like field phone calls? He made a note to dock the man’s salary as the screen slid up from his desktop, a Directorate icon flashing in its center. Avery sat up and adjusted his tie. “Accept.”

  The screen brightened and the aged face of Senior Director Yoshio Tetsuo appeared. “Ah, Avery, my apologies for calling you direct. I wanted to catch you early before appointments pulled you away.”

  Avery bowed his head. “Director Tetsuo, my pleasure. How can I be of assistance?”

  “An old matter has come to my attention, and I thought we might resolve it ourselves.”

  “Of course, Director Tetsuo, what matter in particular?”

  “Ukraine. I was under the impression we had resolved the dispute, but my managers have alerted me to ongoing mineral and natural gas trading. The Board determined that region falls under my purview, yet it appears your agents are still operating there.”

  Avery nodded. “Director Tetsuo, my men are simply concluding existing commitments. Once those contracts are filled, I’ve ordered them to refer all contacts to your offices.”

  “That was seventeen weeks ago, Avery. An estimated forty million in net sales, and it’s still continuing. How do you explain that?” the director asked.

  Avery shrugged in wry apology. More like fifty-three million, you decrepit relic. “Strong ties, Mr. Director. My men are excellent at their job and want to insure their obligations have been met.”