From Oblivion's Ashes

by Nyman, Michael E. A.

  “No,” Doug admitted, though it wasn’t a fair question. Peter had only just asked for that a week ago, and then loaded them both down with enough extra work to choke a team of programmers. What made it harder was Kumar himself. Upon discovering an outside programmer trying to infiltrate his system, he’d slammed the door shut with all the digital equivalent of a kraken smashing a canoe.

  “And you’ve been at it for days, right?” she added. “The only thing you’ve managed to do is gum up the local computers.”

  “Don’t even talk about that,” Doug said miserably. “Do you have any idea how pissed off people would be if they knew we were responsible?”

  Cathy frowned. “I don’t see what you’re worried about. It was Peter’s idea. Everyone is blaming Kumar and the Administration, right? That works in our favor.”

  “It still feels wrong,” he said. “Worse than wrong... dangerous.”

  “Look,” Cathy said, removing another screw from the access panel. “One way or another, we’re gonna have to choose a side. Hanson Incorporated is on the rise and we managed to get in on the ground floor earlier than most. That’s good enough for me. If Peter says it’s okay, then collect your pay check and shut the hell up.”

  Doug didn’t answer.

  “Anyway, my point is that if you can’t break his firewall,” Cathy continued, lifting up the plate that exposed a tangled mess of wiring, “then I sure as hell can’t. I’m a hardware girl! The good news is that, if we can’t program our way past the son of a bitch, then that makes it a hardware solution, right? We have to disconnect the bastard at the… holy shit!”

  “What?” Doug gasped, like a man expecting to find a gunshot wound.

  Cathy was silent.

  “Jesus Christ, Cathy. What is it?”

  “This… wiring,” she answered. “Wow. Okay, okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that I half-expected some collection of jury-rigged wires, extension cords, and fire hazards. This work is top shelf. Look at it. I don’t even know what half this stuff is for. No wait. Those are the power supply lines coming in from the solar panels.”

  “Marshal’s work,” Doug said. “He’s supposed to be an electrical engineer, or something. Probably made that motherboard himself. Look, just find the computer wiring and leave all that stuff alone. Probably better if we don’t even touch it.”

  There was a crackling snap noise, and the distinctive smell of electrical smoke.

  “What was that?” Doug asked.

  “Uh… nothing important,” Cathy answered uncertainly. “I think.”

  “Did you short something? Jesus, Cath, are you trying to get us all killed? This is the central station for our entire security network you’re fucking with!”

  “Oh, gee Doug, is it? Duh. I didn’t know. Look, I’m pretty sure that was just a minor power feed going upstairs, okay? Someone is going to hit a light switch or something, and the lights won’t go on. That’s all. Probably. Anyway, I think I’ve got the connection to the signal tower. We can shut down Kumar’s access and give you a direct pipeline into the system. Do you think you can handle it from there?”

  “Maybe,” Doug said unenthusiastically. “But only if I rewrite half of his programs and protocols from scratch. It’s going to take a lot of time.”

  “Well, you’ll have to cut corners. Peter’s all about efficiency, right? It needs to be done by tomorrow night, when they send the scavenger crews out. No wasting time with unnecessary baggage.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Doug mumbled, pulling out his laptop and allowing Cathy to hook him up to the system.

  “Whatever else you do,” Cathy warned, plugging him in, “make sure we’re able to broadcast that speech he plans to give. If you don’t, you’ll be able to spell ‘fired’ with the letters ‘Y-O-U’.”

  Far from ideal, but they would have to be enough. At least they understood how the electronic security grid worked and could maintain it if required. Solar panels, security cameras, network connections, these things they could handle. That was their power, and that is what made them valuable to Peter.

  Gus Gregoriatis was one of Torstein’s people, and had been lured to Peter’s table through a mixture of enticement and intimidation. He was only five nine, with short brown hair, a scraggly goatee, and was built like a tank under soft-looking rolls of flab. He also possessed the hairiest body Peter had ever imagined to be possible. Gus had been another victim of the slaughterhouse, but was also a twenty-year man in construction, though most of that had been spent paving roads.

  Even holding a ten-pound, steel sledgehammer clutched in both hands, Gus experienced what he felt must be what a deer in a headlight felt.

  “Get out of my sight,” Torstein seethed, his big fists clenched.

  “Aw, come on, Tor,” Gus pleaded, taking a step back. “It don’t have to be like this. Why you gotta take it out on me? I’m just doing my job.”

  “Your job? Are you insane, or just stupid?”

  “Now, now,” Gus said, adopting a reasonable tone. “You know I got nothin’ but respect for you, Tor. We’ve both run crews before, and I gotta admit, you know what you’re doin’, and shit tons more than me. But Mr. Hanson’s payin’ me good money to build new habitats, and that’s more’n you or Valerie can offer.”

  “Good money?” Torstein spat on the ground. “There isn’t any money, you moron! Civilization has collapsed! There are man-eating monsters walking the streets! Do you really think there’s any point at all in balancing your god damn check book? All your talk is just a lot of hot air, and Hanson is just a greedy old man selling to a pack of idiots something that already belongs to them!”

  He shook his head in disgust.

  “You know what?” he said, throwing off his hard hat with a clatter and heading for the door. “Forget about it. You can all go to hell in your own handcart, if that’s what you want. I’m out of here.”

  Silence gripped the room as he crossed the floor to the open doorway and left.

  Gus cleared his throat, and turned to the roughly one dozen men and women who’d surrounded them. Some had pre-existing skills, talents, or trades, but a full half of them were in the process of being trained to some function by Torstein. Now, they all stood around in confusion, uncertain what to do.

  “To everyone here,” Gus announced, “Mr. Hanson would like to convey his compliments and admiration. He wants you to know that he considers you all potentially valuable employees, and he promises to pay top dollar for any and all who sign on with Hanson Incorporated’s new construction division.”

  “What’s top dollar mean?” a female drywall worker asked. “Torstein’s right. How can he pay anything? There isn’t any money any more.”

  “At the moment,” Gus said, “your pay is being tabulated as credit, starting at thirty thousand dollars per year, to be re-assessed when the market adjusts itself. I am to report that we will first be engaged in constructing three ranges of living units: standard, luxury, and executive. These will be state of the art homes right here at First Canadian Place. The prices start at twenty thousand for the standard units, ranging up to two hundred thousand for the top executive suites. Employees of HI will receive extremely favorable terms on long-term mortgages, such that each and every one of you should be able to move you and yours into an executive suite should you so desire.”

  Gus swallowed uneasily.

  “Also,” he said, “ as the new scavenging divisions will be starting up later today, the HI company store will soon have goods for sale, and credit is accepted. As employees of HI construction, you will be, of course, among the highest paid employees in the company. Depending on what they find, you may be in a position to purchase your own Ipod, case of canned goods, or electric fan. Fuck, who knows?”

  He left it at that, hoping Peter would be satisfied.

  To Gus’s surprise, about two thirds of the crew remained behind to sign the contracts that Alicia had handed him. The rest had followed Torstein out the door.

  “So,”
said the drywaller “Back to work, boss?”

  Gus gazed silently at the doorway where Torstein had made his exit, feeling a strange mixture of disappointment and regret. He looked at the floor.

  Then he sighed.

  “Pack it up, people,” he said with industry. “Our first contracts are with those who can pay the best, and comes with performance bonuses to sweeten the pot. Half our crew is heading to Mr. Hanson’s personal suites to get started on his camouflaged bedroom and kitchen. The other half will get started renovating the other VIP floors. The standard habitats can wait until there’s more money pushing for their construction.”

  He saw their reluctance.

  “GET MOVING!” he shouted, banging the sledgehammer against the floor for emphasis. “We ain’t got all day!”

  Gus’s successes could be taken as clear evidence of the power of the free market. You couldn’t argue with progress. Peter had slept like a baby in his newly constructed bed frame in the soundproofed, camouflaged cubby it occupied. And it had been finished in less than a day. Yes, Gus had been a good hire. He was head and shoulders the most experienced man in New Toronto after Torstein himself.

  On the other hand, there were signs that his loyalty might be in question. Peter knew that Gus retained contact with ‘the other side’, and might even be a spy. Or Gus could simply be covering his bets, in which case he would side with whichever side wound up on top. Either way, Peter would have to keep an eye on him.

  Another new face was Deana Styles, pronounced ‘Dee-Anna’, who was now Peter’s new head of PR and the editor-and-chief for the new, company newspaper. Peter knew only too well the importance of molding public opinion, and for that, you needed some kind of media. As a newspaper columnist, Deana knew the business and, Peter felt sure, could be counted on to report the news he felt safe to print. Of course, Peter had originally felt that nothing so quaint as actual newsprint should be involved, and that a daily blog denouncing the inefficiencies of the current administration would be sufficient. However, due to the recent computer problems, not to mention Deana’s persistent and odd attachment to print, he had relented, giving her a state of the art office printer to aid her efforts. After all, there was still a seemingly bottomless supply of paper and printer ink in First Canadian Place alone, enough that it could be years before any of it might run out.

  Near the elevators on the thirtieth-sixth floor of First Canadian Place, Deana watched Hanson Incorporated’s scavenger group, and tried not to judge.

  She tried to mold her face into an expression of attentive interest, but it wasn’t easy. Twelve years working in print media had drained most of her credulity, and now, at the age of thirty-two, pretending to be gullible was far more difficult than it once had been. The spirit was willing, but the face would no longer cooperate. Though she wasn’t unattractive, with short, glossy, dark hair and lush, pretty features, the years had given her looks a sort of permanent mask of weary cynicism that lent itself to mocking amusement far more readily than pandering acceptance. Nevertheless, she tried her best.

  Beside her, almost a foot taller than her own 5’7, Captain Vandermeer stood with arms folded across his impressive chest, a grim shadow in the dim illumination of the lower floors. Whatever his thoughts were, he kept them well hidden behind his inscrutable, dour expression. Even so, Deana thought she could guess.

  “The cloaks,” Martin was saying, in his capacity as VP operations, “were manufactured by Paula Hastings and Namita Patel, both valued employees of HI’s manufacturing division. As you can see, they are state of the art, demonstrating a number of improvements over past designs.”

  Was he really saying that? Deana quickly scribbled into her notebook in an effort to cover up her reaction. To her eyes, the cloaks that the twenty odd people were struggling to put on looked like a kindergarten project. The rattling and clattering from diverse bits of dangling tin cans and plastic tubs banging together almost drowned out Captain Vandermeer’s response.

  “How is it,” he asked, raising his voice, “that you have improved upon the original models?”

  “Oh, in lots of ways,” Martin answered. “First of all, the bits of camouflaging trash are now all held on with thread – hand sewn! The older types created by Marshal and Angie used a type of superglue, and while they had more trash on them per square inch, it was always falling off. It’s believed that these newer models will have a much longer life span.”

  “That will save a fortune in trash,” Deana joked, before she could stop herself.

  “And,” Martin continued with an annoyed glance in her direction, “we got rid of that that terrible smell they rubbed all over the older models.”

  “That smell,” Vandermeer pointed out, “was integral to the cloaks’ ability to evade the undead. It was specially designed by Marshal himself. Zombies hunt by smell, you know.”

  Martin was already nodding.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “but what a smell! We’ve invented an alternative. There’s a spray bottles under the folds of each arm sleeve. Whenever the scavenger needs to hide, they crouch down and activate the spray. It’s a pepper-ammonia based solution, virtually certain to drive away any undead.”

  Vandermeer didn’t answer. Deana kept on scribbling, until the lengthy silence impelled her to suspect that more was expected.

  “Er… What...? Uh. How are they supposed to get the things they scavenge back to safety, Martin? Are they going to be forced to carry by hand, or has the Administration offered to loan you the use of Crapmobile?”

  “That’s an excellent question, Deana,” Martin said. “No. I’m afraid that the Administration is unable or unwilling to devote any resources to anything so unimportant as our efforts to scavenge food, water, or electronics. I’m not sure what they’re doing, to be honest. However, we at Hanson Incorporated are always innovating new solutions. Downstairs, on the loading docks, there are two forklifts outfitted with electric motors. Obviously, they’re not as efficient, as enduring, nor as versatile as the more advanced Tesla engines, but they are still very powerful.”

  He held up two hands and moved them together like he was linking together two toy cars.

  “What we’ve done is hitched them each to a couple of short trailers that we spotted on the streets below. There will be two teams, going in different directions with their own forklift. Each team will have a Captain, who drives, issues orders and picks a route. There will also be two scouts, outfitted with two drones each, so that one can be powered while the other is in use. Their role is to-”

  “Did Hanson Incorporated construct their own drones?” Deana asked.

  Martin hesitated. “Actually, no. Our four drones were part of a collection of eight that were assigned to First Canadian Place weeks ago. They became our property when HI assumed ownership of the building and all its contents. In any event, their deployment will allow our scouts to enjoy aerial reconnaissance, luring away undead threats, and making the ground safe to scavenge. Once they do, our scavengers go out, find valuable product, and bring it back to the trailers. Each scavenger will be given numbered tags to mark their prizes as their own, so that they can be sorted out, evaluated, priced, and credited later. Ten percent of the total value claimed goes to each team Captain. Five percent each goes to the scouts. Fifteen percent goes to Hanson Incorporated to cover maintenance, leaving seventy percent in the hands of the scavengers. They can keep whatever they wish, or sell to the HI store to be resold later at a mark-up.”

  “A mark-up?” Deana asked. “Isn’t that double-dipping, Mr. Phillips?”

  “These are two separate divisions, Ms. Styles,” Martin said stiffly, “each with their own staffing issues and overheads. The fact that HI is temporarily obliged to fill the role of two separate institutions is beside the point. Business is business.”

  “Of course, of course,” Deana said quickly.

  “Let me be clear, Mr. Phillips,” Vandermeer said suddenly. “I’m giving Hanson Incorporated a very, very short leash on
this. There are reasons that the current administration, and Marshal himself, avoided this kind of risk. It was a stroke of genius and opportunism that enabled Marshal to teach a Swarm to ignore moving piles of trash. Your attempt to exploit that advantage with reckless-”

  “I assure you, Captain,” Martin snapped, “we are not being reckless, nor are we on any kind of leash. People are in need of products, Captain. Are you providing them? If not, then stay out of our way, or-”

  “Or what, Mr. Phillips?” Vandermeer asked softly.

  Martin straightened up, his eyes flickering over to Deana.

  “Your mandate, Captain Vandermeer,” he said, “is to safeguard the people of New Toronto, and your authority extends no further than that. Step beyond your purview, sir, and you risk censure. You are not our King.”

  He appeared to notice something out on the floor.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I see something that requires my attention.”

  He strode off, leaving Deana alone with Vandermeer.

  “And what’s your angle, Ms. Styles?” the Captain asked, raising an eyebrow at her. “Are you really a servant of truth, or another Hanson Incorporated stooge?”

  “Both, I’m afraid,” she sighed. She smiled at him. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am about this, Captain. For what it’s worth, I’m a big fan of what this Marshal person and the rest of you have put together, and I do want to see it continue.”

  “But…?” Vandermeer asked, smiling back at her.

  “But,” she continued, “I am a servant of the truth. And if I can’t have that, I give you the newspaper. It’s a poor second place, I’ll admit, but these people - my people, now -they’re spiraling into a whirlpool of ignorance and fear. Many of them heard Professor Scratchard’s presentation or Marshal’s mission statement or the Laws of this new country they’re forced to belong to, but they have no idea what it all means. Their voices are being ignored, so they whisper, whisper, whisper to each other, distorting facts and getting into fights.