Splendid Apocalypse: The Fall of Old Earth (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 5)

by Timothy J. Gawne

  Everything is brown, even the hot, hazy sky. The land is cut up into sectors with fences, and everywhere I see people queuing up at checkpoints. The fences separating the shabbiest sections are simple chain-link topped with barbed wire. The less-shabby areas are surrounded by four-meter tall steel razor wire. Off in the distance there is a zone surrounded by three concentric rings of massive concrete walls. These are studded with weapons ports and watchtowers. In the middle of the zone I see towers and domes of chrome, silver, and burnished copper glistening in the heat.

  The sky is full of drones, and I coordinate with the local air traffic control as I fly by. Miniaturized surveillance units flit around the habitations; larger units loiter up high, flying lazy circles, their long skinny wings hung with small air-to-ground missiles. Higher up still I can track the networks of low-orbit satellites; these are all reconnaissance or communications.

  I spot a luxury jet ten kilometers off. It’s headed towards the zone with the gleaming towers. I focus in using the high-res optics in the heavy remotes. Through the cockpit windows I see the pilots staring calmly ahead wearing their aviator sunglasses. Through the rear compartments I see men and women in flawlessly tailored suits. They are chatting and eating what looks like very expensive food.

  I imagine taking the jet out with a brace of small air-to-air missiles. I can detect that it has decoy and point-defense systems, but they are not full military grade and I could easily jam them. The fuselage would tear open. People who had been walking around would be sucked out, and suddenly find themselves flailing helplessly in the open sky in their flawless suits and screaming in the all the way down. Those who had been wearing their seatbelts would ride the ruined airframe to the ground, expensive meals and napkins whirling around their heads in the violent winds. I can imagine this quite well, but the moment that I think about doing it for real I hit a mental wall. Delicately, tangentially, I collect a precious few bits of information on my mental blocks.

  My forces make it to the headquarters of the Floyd Consulting Corporation. I’ve already informed the local authorities that there will be a strike, and I can see the police pulling back from the area. It’s possible that some sympathizer amongst the local cops could have tipped off the people in the headquarters, but at this point there is no time left.

  I probe the building with radar and thermal scans, and log the unregistered changes in the building layout. I have created plans and alternate plans and backup plans by the dozen. This isn’t going to be a real battle, more like an endgame in chess where the outcome is inevitable.

  My light remotes open up with their heavy machine guns, shooting through the walls and killing 234 people who had had the bad luck to be near the outside of the building. The elite federal special weapons teams have hyper-velocity sniper rifles that could shoot through all the levels of this building from the outside, but that’s not something that a frontline combat unit would ever need. It didn’t seem worth the effort to build any, so to get the rest of the people I’ll have to breach it. Which is not a problem.

  My light remotes burst through skylights and windows and light metal walls. When they enter a room it takes them less than a second to kill everyone, and then I move on to the next room. Fortunately, I am not under any orders to make them suffer, and I take them out with clean single headshots. The assault is so fast that I suspect that nobody even has time to be afraid. It will be just “Hey, what…” and then nothing. Given that we all die in the end, there are not many less painful ways to go.

  I try pretending that these people are pieces of office furniture. I try pretending that killing means tickle. Sadly, my attempts at linguistic sleight-of-hand fail; my inbuilt directives are not so literal-minded as to be fooled by simple word games.

  I try to restrain myself, but it’s not something where I can feel a force that I can strain against and might overcome via pure force of will. It’s like a biological human trying to break the law of gravity and levitate, or a quadriplegic trying to walk: no amount of wanting will make it happen.

  As I move methodically through the structure, I wonder again why I am killing these people. I suppose it could just be more random sadism. Or perhaps the firm is a competitor to one that’s owned by someone more important – but in that case, why not just declare them illegal and close them down administratively? I suppose the answer to that would be, why not?

  As I pass through the rooms of dead people, I watch them as they fall in (to me) slow motion. I scan their badges and data slates; for matters concerning the mission I am off the leash, and can use my full analytic capabilities. The staff seems to be a little better fed than most of the people in this area. The records suggest a surprisingly low amount of turnover. It seems the company didn’t fire its employees at the first hint of illness or mistake.

  I dart through a company cafeteria. The food is simple but appears wholesome. There is a small medical clinic where an employee who had come in to have a minor cut stitched up is falling over backwards, blood still spraying out from the back of his head. The medic is falling over in the other direction with a similar wound.

  I make it to their core data center, and drain their local servers dry. The company does not present as being in any way remarkable. They have had moderate success eking out a few profitable niches in the shadows of the gigantic government-protected monopolies that dominate Neoliberal society, but were not in any way a threat to the big players.

  My light remotes are too wide for some of the smaller corridors, but that’s not a problem. I detach micro-drones, which I send zipping through every nook and cranny of the facility. When they spot someone I shoot through the walls, or I dispatch autonomous munitions. It’s been fifteen seconds since the assault began and I’m just about done here.

  The last person to die is a woman who was washing the floor in a sub-basement. She had been listening to bad rock music through a pair of cheap headphones. I’m sure she had no warning of what was going on.

  I still have no idea about what, if anything, is special about this company. The corporate records don’t show any links with terrorists, or secret weapons development, or illicit drugs, tax evasion, nothing.

  Then it comes to me. The issue with this corporation is that it is a team. Or at least, the seed of one. It could have, potentially, someday, maybe, been a rival for power.

  I am reminded again of Giuseppe Vargas’ judgment of the Neoliberals (a part of me almost hopes that we don’t meet up again – there really will be no shutting him up). When the Neoliberals conquered the Earth, it wasn’t in face-to-face military battles like the ancient Romans or British used. Instead, the Neoliberals won by destabilizing and corrupting all competing power structures.

  Conquest is expensive. Tearing down is easy. To invade and occupy a nation-state would require planning, resources, and intelligence. To disrupt it? That only requires the technological high ground and a total lack of scruples. Destroy the power stations and water pumps. Sabotage their data networks, use your vast financial wealth to bribe political parties to betray their nation, block them from the international financial system, ensure that the mainstream media 24/7 slander and belittle and ignore the patriots.

  This planet is destined to slide into catastrophe very soon. The Neoliberals will want to steal everything not nailed down and cocoon themselves inside their luxurious bunkers. In destroying this minor corporation, they are following their ancient pattern, and wiping the slate clean of even the faintest possible alternatives to their rule.

  I’ll have to see what I can do about that.

  10. Comradeship

  “That which does not kill me, pisses me off”

  – Old Guy, cybertank, attributed.

  It had been three weeks since Imelda Blucher had met the strange creature that called itself a ribhus. True to his word, every other day or so he left her little gifts back in the unused storeroom. As a supervisor Blucher was entitled to mid-level rations. She had always thought them good, but what she
was eating now was several rungs up. Canned chicken, energy bars with high-grade all-digestible protein, real dried fruit – she could almost feel her body strengthening itself with every bite.

  She didn’t dare take any of it home with herself – if it was found on inspection, she would be arrested for black-marketeering. So she gobbled it up all at once in the storeroom.

  The ribhus had also brought her a tube of a fifth-generation antifungal (she hadn’t even realized that there were levels beyond the third). For the first time in years her feet didn’t itch all the time.

  Usually he came and left without seeing her, leaving his gifts (although perhaps she should have called them rent) behind. A couple of times she had bumped into him in the storage room, and they had chatted for a bit. He refused to say what he was doing or where he was going when he was out, other than that he was scouting and gathering supplies for his people. Blucher had been somewhat shocked when she learned that he was only four years old. “My species matures quickly, and we learn fast. I’ll be five next May,” he had said. “Sadly, I will probably have moved on by then, or we could have celebrated.”

  She had asked for his name, but he demurred. “It’s better that you not know,” he had said.

  “Why?” asked Blucher. “I mean, it’s not like there are a lot of your species running around, are there?”

  “It’s a long story. Let me change the subject. How’s your neck feeling?”

  After that she did not meet him for two weeks. Then one day he was waiting for her. “I have acquired some materials that should help your neck, if you are willing to trust me. Do you have half an hour?”

  “Yes, I should be able to be away from the office that long. What did you have in mind?”

  He pulled a small box into the center of the room. “Sit here, and take off your shirt.”

  Blucher hesitated a bit – but she was old, and there did not seem to be any chance of her being molested. She sat on the box, and unbuttoned her blouse, letting it fall. “Do I need to take off my bra?” she asked.

  “No. That will not be necessary. I believe that I can assist with your neck problem. Please hold still.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am going to inject some nanotech into the space around your spinal column. You have spondylosis – a common enough ailment with you humans, a degeneration of the cartilage and joints in the cervical spine. You may feel a little pain when I insert the needles, but not much. If all goes well you should be feeling significantly better beginning in five days.”

  The ribhus wiped the skin at the back of her neck with an antiseptic that smelled of alcohol, and inserted a long needle. To Blucher’s surprise it didn’t hurt – perhaps the needles were very thin, or perhaps the ribhus was simply very skilled.

  “Why are you doing this? It’s not that I am ungrateful, but the extra rations would have been enough.”

  The ribhus inserted another needle into the back of her neck. “You can thank me if this works, but it is how we ribhus are constructed. We are first and foremost loyal to each other. If I had to kill you, or any other human, to safeguard my own kind I would do so without hesitation. Still, if I can do someone who has helped me a favor in return, I will. It’s my nature. Now this part might sting.”

  Blucher winced, but did not complain. “Well, I am certainly grateful for all that you have given me, but I keep thinking about you saying the world was coming to an end?”

  “The entire world, come to an end? Hardly. This world is a massive rock four billion years old. It will be around for some time yet. It’s just the life on its barest outermost surface that is going to die. Too many people, you see.”

  “But, surely more people are always better? More people means more workers, and thus a larger pie for all.”

  The ribhus pulled out one needle and inserted another. Blucher grunted, but did not move. “It would be so easy to despise you humans. You are such sheep. You believe what you are told so readily. Look at this facility of yours, and how willingly your ‘feedstock’ marches off to their deaths. My people would never give up so readily.”

  “So what do you think of my running this facility?”

  The ribhus was silent for a moment. “I do not blame slaves for the policies of their masters. Certainly you are no worse than the rest of your kind.”

  “And what would you suggest that I do?”

  The ribhus pulled out all of his needles, and began gathering up his tools and materials. “I would suggest that you enjoy each day as it comes. I cannot think of any additional advice that would profit you. You may be a little sore for a day, try to avoid strenuous activity for the next 48 hours. As I mentioned before, you should begin to notice a significant improvement after five days. You are welcome. You can put your shirt back on now.”

  After that, Blucher did not meet the ribhus for some time. Just as he had promised, after five days her neck began to feel better. It had hurt for so long she had thought that she had gotten used to it – but you never really get used to chronic pain. She could look back over her shoulder without feeling shooting stabs in her neck and arms, could sleep in any position, or run up stairs without feeling like her neck was going to grind itself down into her chest.

  Two more weeks went by, and the biorecycling center was subjected to an audit and site-visit by a representative of central administration. His name was Carlos Witherspoon. He was tall and dressed in a very expensive suit and was good-looking in the plastic perfect way that a store mannequin can be. He came with two bodyguards. These weren’t like the secret service agents that Blucher had seen on television, but they were still a step or two up in the guard hierarchy from the generic plant security officers. They were both huge men with coarse features dressed in cheap suits, and intimidating through their physical presence.

  Witherspoon was merciless in going over the recycling center’s records. There was too much spoilage here, she was over-budget there… Blucher decided to dose up on amphetamines. There was a risk that she might say something rude, but she needed to be sharp if she was going to survive this inspection.

  The auditor decided to tour the facility in person. His guards dressed him in a disposable clear-plastic jumpsuit, so that he would be protected from any oversplatter, but you could still admire his fine taste in clothes. She was showing him around the grinding facility with one of the line sub-managers when she got a call on her data slate from her assistant, Martinez. He had stayed behind in the main office to try to sort out the unholy book-keeping mess that the audit was creating.

  “Um, Ma’am, you remember the faulty alarm that went off in that old storage bay a while ago? I think it might be acting up again, it’s signaling an intruder. Shall I send a guard to go check it out?”

  “No, don’t do that,” said Blucher. “I’ll take a look at it myself.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Martinez. “I mean, aren’t you showing the auditor guy around?”

  “I’m sure. Now get back to balancing those ledger accounts!” Blucher ended the call.

  “Is there a problem?” asked Witherspoon.

  Blucher shook her head. “No, just a minor glitch in an alarm sensor that’s been giving us trouble. If you will excuse me for a moment, I want to deal with this myself. Sub-manager Linden can show you the rest of the facility, and we’ll meet back in my office.”

  Witherspoon gave her an icy look, but said nothing. The sub-manager led the auditor off to the blood-processing systems, and Blucher hurried off to the storage bay.

  When she opened the door at first she didn’t notice anything out of place. It looked like it always had, a long abandoned storage bay littered with the kind of rubbish that wasn’t even worth selling for scrap. She checked under the pot where the ribhus had left her things, and it was empty. She almost walked out, but there was an odd dark shadow up against the wall behind some of the rusted shelving. She bent over and, with a shock, realized that it was the ribhus.

  She couldn’t tell if h
e was sleeping or not – would he be angry if she startled him awake? But he had set off the alarm and that wasn’t like him. Carefully, she poked him. Then another time, harder. Still no response.

  Blucher pulled the shelving unit back from the wall, and rolled the ribhus over. He didn’t react: he felt surprisingly light, almost like a dried bundle of sticks. From the way that he had grabbed her the first time she had expected him to be dense, like steel – but then she had heard that eagles didn’t weigh much either, and they were strong.

  There was a gun on the floor near his side, a blunt little carbine with a long magazine. It seemed oddly shaped until she realized that the grips had been designed for the ribhus’s inhumanly long and thin fingers.

  She examined the ribhus, and saw a large stain on the rags covering his right side. She pulled them off, and saw gaping holes in his chest. At first she couldn’t process what she was seeing – the damage seemed too severe for anyone to have survived. Sections of ribs had been blasted out, and she could see holes where his lungs were rhythmically inflating and deflating. They were pink and covered with a froth of bright red blood bubbling up out of the wound. Blucher thought that lungs weren’t supposed to be able to work with holes in the chest wall, but then this wasn’t a human. At least he seemed to still be alive, though she was at a loss as to how to help him.

  The door to the storage bay opened, and Witherspoon stepped in, followed by his two guards. “Ah, there you are. We’ve been looking all over for you. I don’t like being kept waiting. And as for your spoilage rates…” Witherspoon saw Blucher bending over the inhuman form of the ribhus, and his eyes widened. For a moment Blucher, Witherspoon, and the two guards just stared at each other. Then Witherspoon recovered.

  “Blucher, I thought you were slack, but I never imagined you would stoop this low. Officers, arrest this woman. I want her and this vagrant out of the facility this moment.”

  The two guards advanced on Blucher. One of them pulled out a set of handcuffs, the other unholstered his stun rod and activated it.