Technosis: The Kensington Virus

by Morgan Bell

  “But we need tech to move through the city, to communicate with command,” Marshall said.

  Blaise shook his head. “The team that came in ahead of us was not one of ours. It looks like whoever is involved in the KV and KVB breakouts is here, on the ground, watching this. They are expecting us and they are expecting us with a lot of tech. They are also expecting us to meet tech with tech. I’ve informed Drake and Ganos and now I’m informing you, we are going to do this old school. I’ve got transport taking us out to old Dearborn.”

  CHAPTER 11

  FEDERAL MUSEUM, OLD DEARBORN, MI

  Jamie was silent as they rode in the transport out to old Dearborn. Ganos, Drake and Marshall were going over their files and discussing what they should do.

  “Why so quiet?” Rosen asked.

  Jamie looked at him. “The message. The one we got on the helicopter just after takeoff. That could have been the new virus.”

  “Nobody has changed,” Rosen said.

  “I know. That’s what’s bothering me. The one we are looking for is here, and bringing us in. No matter what we do, no matter how we do it, this is their plan,” Jamie said.”

  “Blaise is handling that.

  “Yes, but they know about Blaise. They know about all of us.”

  “So…”

  “Look…anyone that can figure out how to write a virus that kills you when you see it on tech can anticipate your actions. They have to know all of the possible actions we will take. It stands to reason,” Jamie said.

  “No,” Rosen blustered. “We’re not up against -”

  “We have profile systems that can identify events before they happen. The bigger the group, the easier it is to predict.”

  “Why didn’t this bother you before, this prediction crap?” Rosen queried.

  “Before Paramus, I thought this was just some catastrophic governmental fuck up. I thought ‘Oh, this is like the Telermere Vaccine that killed 100,000 people in three months,’ or, ‘Oh, this is like the time the CDC accidentally released a strain of Dengue Fever that killed 30,000 people in the Carolinas.’ But now this isn’t a government fuck up. There is a reason for all of this and whoever is behind it sent us here, named our mission, named our teams and has a reason to want us here,” Jamie explained.

  “You okay over there?” Fenwick asked.

  “Dr. Baxter is getting paranoid,” Rosen said. “Thinks we are here because whoever launched this virus wants us here.”

  Blaise shrugged. “You’re in the right state to be paranoid about conspiracies.”

  “I’m just saying, whoever did all of this – the team names, the mission name, the tech hack – doesn’t just know we are here. They want us here. So there isn’t much we can do that they won’t be able to predict,” Jamie said.

  “That is true,” Blaise replied.

  “We think we know where we should go to look,” Ganos advised.

  “Bloomfield Hills,” Drake informed them. “There was a federal forensic psychiatric facility built there in 2025 after the federal reorganization of the state. It’s possible that is where our unsub was sent after they were arrested.”

  “And it’s possible they were sent to a different state, a local lockup, or to their room without supper,” Lieutenant Marshall said.

  “If Baxter is right and we are here because they want us here, then it may be that they have a history with the area. We’ve got that pacemaker killing where the kid programmed it to shut down his dad’s heart. He was from Bloomfield Hills,” Drake pointed out.

  “We can sort that out after we get our transportation situation resolved,” Blaise advised.

  Outside the transport vehicle, the shuttered Federalized Museum of Human Climate Aggression – Formerly the Henry Ford Museum – came into view. The gate, the parking, the theater, the pre-industrial Devastation Village were all chained, locked and displaying notices that they would remain closed as part of the ongoing ceiling budget impasse. The impasse was over a decade old and enjoyed bipartisan support as it was being used to avoid responding to the creditor’s notice of intent to foreclose on the United States for defaulting on its horrendous debt. This was widely viewed as a sane and well-reasoned response by the US and was adopted by other countries in the EU and South America. In this way the international financial markets were shored up and a general economic collapse was avoided.

  “Where do you want me to drop you?” the HDMP transport officer asked.

  “At the federal service entrance,” Blaise said.

  “It says it’s shut down,” the driver said, jerking a thumb at the sign.

  “Yes, and so does the sign outside the Cyber Ops parking lot, so we all have to park out back instead.”

  The HDMP transport driver sighed and wheeled the transport around the corner, across sections of broken pavement back to a small dirt access road. The road passed through a broken gate to a docking bay at the back of the facility where a single light was shining. The transport driver pointed Blaise to the door.

  “All out,” Blaise announced.

  The team exited the transport and hiked up the stairs to the bay, and Blaise knocked at the door. The HDMP transport driver backed around, turned and left as quickly as he safely could on the access path.

  “What was his big rush?” Jamie asked.

  “We are in Old Dearborn. This was the area that was federalized after the ground war and then the state reorganization,” Agent Ganos said.

  Blaise knocked at the door again. There was no answer.

  Blaise knocked a third time. “I’m here with the update on your federal pension!” he yelled.

  The door opened immediately and a man in coveralls and a blue short-sleeve shirt stood at the door. “Man, you ain’t no union representative.”

  “Never said I was,” Blaise declared, shoving a badge in the man’s face and pushing past him.

  “Jesus, K Rist. I’m minding my own damn business, doing my job and you show up,” the man growled.

  “You are?” Blaise asked.

  “The mechanic.”

  “Not furloughed?” Blaise asked.

  “I’m in the budget under ‘maintenance, durable goods, supplies, paper product, oth,’” the man boasted.

  “Not ‘other’?” Blaise asked.

  “The category was shortened to ‘othe’ twenty years ago. Then when the ceiling impasse hit they recategorized it to ‘oth,’ so ‘continuum spending authorizations will be allocated to cover essential operations of the federal government and all oth operations.’ I’m an ‘oth’ operation,” the mechanic explained.

  “I was kind of counting on that. I’m also counting on your diligence to get us some old school transport,” Blaise said, and presented him with a general warrant.

  “Old school transport I’ve got,” the mechanic told him, ignoring the warrant. “What I don’t have is fuel. We were supposed to get four hundred gallons of ethanol blend 94 octane and fourteen gallons of leaded gas per week for maintenance purposes. We’ve got pre-catalytic antiques in here that require special blends. I had to mothball those when they stopped delivering the leaded.”

  “Why don’t you give us the tour and we will work out the fuel problem,” Blaise suggested.

  “Suit yourself,” the mechanic said, and turned on a bay of lights.

  The bay, which extended for a block in either direction, was filled with cars. Blaise’s eyes gleamed. There were model As, Model Ts, roadsters, massive sedans, miniature subcompacts and concept cars, and then another bay was lit and another city block of cars was seen.

  “What do you have in the way of a Mustang?” Blaise asked.

  “What do you want? We’ve got the Mustang II from 1963. Which was the crossover concept car to introduce the idea of the I being released as a four seater rather than the two seater that the Mustang I was. I’ve got the 1964 -” the mechanic started.

  “Do you have a red 1965 Mustang?” Blaise asked.

  “Dell!” the mechanic yelled.
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  “Yes, dad?” a young man at the far end of the second bay called.

  “We got a ’65 red Mustang?” the mechanic yelled.

  “Two of them,” Dell called back. “One from the first ten to roll off the line and one that was custom job. Why?”

  “Got some people here from the government. They will need a couple of cars,” the mechanic said, walking across the bay.

  “Ok, I’ll go and get the keys,” Dell offered, and trotted off into a side room.

  “Me, I’d go with the 57 DeSoto hard top,” the mechanic said, running his hand along the fins of a pristine blue and white Chrysler with chrome and white walls.

  Blaise nodded. “Very nice.”

  “Everyone has their preferences. The fifties are where I like to spend my time,” the mechanic confessed, pointing down the row where he had his tools laid out. “When I was a kid, before the third Canadian governor confiscated all private property, including this museum, my grandfather used to bring me here and he would tell me stories about cars. When roads were unbroken, when people would drive across the entire country and stay in hotels or camp in RV parks. There are times when I wish I was alive then to have seen all of that.”

  “That was back during the industrial climate devastation,” Agent Ganos noted.

  The mechanic stopped and looked at her. “You ever notice how we have these things in the past, we are told were so bad, and yet when we stop them things still only seem to be getting worse? After the ground war here, the government offered Michigan to Canada. They didn’t want it. They didn’t mind that their citizens came down here and got elected governor. But they wanted nothing to do with us. Too expensive, too polluted, too backwards, too many casinos, they said,” and the mechanic picked up a wrench. “It was a blessing that they didn’t take us. We were lucky to keep the Upper Peninsula. Those greedy bastards in Wisconsin tried to grab it during the reorganization. Said the ‘cheese head’ count proved the U.P. was Wisconsin all the way up to the Sue.”

  “The Sue?” Baxter asked.

  “Sault Saint Marie, north eastern corner of the Upper Peninsula. No KV outbreaks up there. No cell service either,” Blaise said.

  “KV?” the mechanic asked.

  “You or your son have cell phones, tablets or tech?” Blaise asked.

  “There’s a federal terminal in the office we use for sending in our hours and filing our reports. It’s a PC and operates on Windows 98. Why?”

  “You living here?” Baxter asked.

  The mechanic looked sheepish and muttered, “Things with me and the missus haven’t been good for a while. She got a message from her sister in Sharpsburg. Ever since, she’s been…difficult. So I don’t see that it does any harm if me and Dell sleep here until things calm down.”

  “A word of advice,” Blaise said, “Don’t take any panel calls or messages from your wife.”

  “Why?” the mechanic asked.

  “Blaise has a lot of experience with relationships,” Baxter answered. “You can trust him.”

  The young man came trotting up the line of cars with the keys. “Here you go. 1965, cherry red Mustang. Only 300 original miles on it. We’ve done the normal maintenance and run it twice a month to avoid corrosion or engine seize.”

  Blaise took the keys and asked, “What do you have in the way of armored vehicles?”

  CHAPTER 12

  FEDERAL FORECLOSURE, BLOOMFIELD HILLS, MI

  “Ifeel really uncomfortable with this,” Angie Ganos complained as she drove the presidential limousine down the back ramp of the building.

  “Suck it up,” Agent Drake said. “If LBJ could ride in it, you’ve got nothing to complain about.”

  “You can talk, you’ve got FDR’s Sunshine Special! No one was ever assassinated in it,” Ganos said.

  Drake smiled and wheeled the presidential car around to the back lot near the access path, parking next to Blaise’s red Mustang.

  “Remember what I said about the additive when you refuel,” the mechanic reminded him.

  “You got it,” Blaise said.

  “Now what, captain?” Fenwick asked.

  “Marshall, you go with Drake, Rosen with Ganos. Baxter rides with me and Fenwick. We are heading out to Bloomfield Hills,” Blaise informed them.

  “But that will take us almost 30 miles north of Detroit,” Lieutenant Marshall complained. “We’re supposed to be stopping the KVBs, not going on a joy ride in the suburbs.”

  “In case you’re not paying attention, lieutenant, our mission was compromised from the get go. We’ve got solid intel on a team operating in this area. We’ve got a possible connection to follow up, we are tech light and option limited. So we are going with my plan. Bloomfield Hills,” Blaise said, then climbed into his mustang. “Dell, Pops, can’t thank you enough. If we don’t get killed, we will have ’em back to you in two days. If we do, send an invoice to HDMP.”

  “You be careful out there,” the mechanic grinned, waving at Blaise as he pulled out of the lot and onto the dirt access path.

  Jamie, who was wedged in the backseat of the Mustang, felt his teeth clattering as the car pitched and bucked over the uneven road. “They didn’t believe in suspension in the 20th century, did they?” he asked.

  “Nah, this isn’t bad,” Blaise said. “It’s just a dirt path. When we get out on the road you’ll see how nice this handles.”

  On the street, where potholes and “delayed maintenance” had turned entire sections of Dearborn into gravel access roads, the ride continued to be jarring. Jamie didn’t say anything and instead looked out the window at the blue gray sky that extended across the horizon where broken buildings and abandoned homes marked the landscape.

  “It’s like driving through ground zero,” Fenwick observed.

  “Not much left of Michigan after the ground war and the reorganization,” Blaise agreed. “Hey, look up ahead.”

  Less than a quarter mile ahead the gravel road leveled out onto a ribbon of asphalt. The Mustang settled into a smooth cruise when it finally left the gravel behind. Blaise opened it up and the car was running out at over 100 miles an hour, the only noise being the roar of the engine, which seemed to please Blaise while it threatened to deafen Jamie. Behind them the armored presidential limos were faring a bit better on the gravel road.

  “This is not protocol,” Marshall was complaining, as Drake accelerated on the last section of gravel before hitting the asphalt.

  “Did you see the compartment for the machine guns?” Drake asked, ignoring Marshall’s complaint.

  The other presidential limousine was just a few meters behind them.

  “I’m sorry, but this is really creepy,” Angie said.

  Rosen was looking into the back of limo. “I know, right?” he agreed.

  “A president was killed in this car,” she added.

  Rosen continued to look in the back. “You think he did Marilyn in the back of this?”

  “What?” Angie said, as the car continued to shake on the last few meters of gravel.

  “Monroe. They say the secret service used to sneak her in so JFK could blow off some steam. I wonder if he ever did her in here.”

  “You’re a Neanderthal,” Angie growled.

  “Yeah, sorry. What with you being all enlightened and freaked out about the fact that someone got their brains blown out sitting on the back of this. Me, I’m more freaked by the idea that I might be in the vehicle he schtupped a starlet in,” Rosen smirked.

  “You’re messing with me, Rosen,” Ganos said.

  The car passed onto the asphalt and was now moving quietly along the street.

  “When I was a kid, my mom would bring her own sheets when we went on vacation and stayed in motels.” Rosen said. “One time, me and my brother were jumping up and down on a motel duvet. Mom scrubbed us from head to toe, but not before she told us what was on hotel duvets.”

  Rosen shuddered. “Brains on the walls, dead animal carcasses, hike through a sewer and I’m fine. Hotel
duvet or a car where someone porked somebody and it freaks me the fuck out.”

  Angie looked at Rosen. “You’re shitting me.”

  “No. Once you’ve had your mother give you the facts of life as a series of stains in a hotel room when you are nine years old, you can’t get rid of that image no matter how hard you try.”

  “Weird,” Ganos said.

  Rosen shrugged. “KVs are a cake walk compared to motel beds.”

  Old Dearborn gave way to more ground level suburban devastation until they passed north of 8 mile. There the roads and the landscape stayed more indefinably occupied and, to some degree, affluent. The three antiques, which had been alone on the road for the first five miles, were now moving into the traffic of modern transports, where small e-cars were bumper to bumper with hydrogen powered mass transit. Traffic came to a standstill and people in the other vehicles pointed and gaped. Some small children flipped them the bird and some older children could be heard to yell “bourgeois eco terrorists!”

  Blaise ignored this and revved the Mustang. “Damn,” he said. “There is nothing like it.”

  ∞

  Kirby Wallace had taken the reroute west and north to pick up his kids from school. He’d promised his wife he would get them. The morning had not gone well. They had a glitch with the home system and his wife, Karen, had a meltdown. Kirby had handled it. He’d put the kids in his federal e-car, gotten them breakfast on the way to school and dropped them off on time. For the rest of the day he’d gotten a series of messages from his wife about how overwhelming it was for her to wait at home, with the system failing, for the service call. Then she sent messages detailing the problems with the service agent, the delays and then finally the return of function followed by a message that read, “It shut down, again!”

  Kirby loved his kids and couldn’t wait to pick them up. The prospect of spending the evening with his wife Karen, however, did not give him any happiness. He was at an intersection near 8 mile when he received a message from someone he didn’t know.

  ∞

  “What’s going on up there?” Jamie asked, pointing to the intersection ahead.