by Rob J. Hayes
I feel it all vanish. The harvester probes my memories of the past week, focusing in on those most associated with strong emotion. It targets them and drains them of the connection. One moment I see my nightmare again, I see the monster and the cleaver, feel the terror again. And the next moment it’s gone. I still have the memory of the nightmare, but now I see it through detached eyes. It was a dream, a carefully constructed fantasy. None of it was real. The terror I felt is gone. Forever.
I feel my other memories drain of their emotions as well. The pain of seeing Pascal dead. Happiness of seeing Langdon again. The shame of thinking about Summer. Shock of the attack on the Ark. The guilt of killing the Sanctitists. It all drains away and leaves me feeling neutral. Numb.
Brant is right. This generation of harvester is a lot quicker than the outdated models Pascal used. It takes only minutes for all the emotion of the past week to disappear.
I feel calm. Staring up at the ceiling, not feeling anything. Brant’s face appears over mine and he shines a small torch into each of my eyes, nodding at whatever he sees there.
“Excellent. Excellent. A very smooth harvest. How long have you been doing this for?”
“Four years. Give or take.” My reply is instant. I have no reason to lie. I sit up on the harvester and look around. The lab looks colder now than before. Clean and sterile. Inhospitable. I wonder if it always looked like this? Maybe I just overlooked it before in my rush to have my emotions harvested. My rush to feel normal again.
“That makes sense.”
“It does?” The harvesters can get rid of my emotions, but not my curiosity.
Brant shrugs. “Regular, frequent harvesting has been shown to cause some degradation of certain pathways in the brain. It makes the harvesting process easier.”
“Anything else?”
“At your level? No.”
“But eventually?”
Brant squints at me, staring into my eyes. “Eventually it can cause some issues with decision making. At least in rodents, it has been shown to make them more pliable. But it’s never been proven in humans.”
“I see.”
I sit there on the harvester’s table, waiting, feeling serene and nothing else. I don’t enjoy the feeling. Don’t feel one way about it or another. It’s not always like this. After a deep harvest I usually feel numb, detached. This is different. I feel a void. It doesn’t scare me or please me. I feel nothing other than curiosity.
“Is this normal?” I ask.
I look at my hands. They don’t feel like my hands. They are attached. I can move them, feel them. But they don’t feel… real. It’s almost like I’m in a virtual reality sim. But I’m not. I’m sat on a harvester in the basement labs of the Ark.
“Yes,” Brant says. “Absolutely normal. Look at me, James. You know where you are?”
I nod.
“You know what you are?”
I’m a Drone. A Drone trained to kill people. I nod.
“Do you remember the terrorists upstairs?”
“Yes. The Sanctitists have invaded the building. They are looking for you, Dr Brant.”
“Yes. They are. I want you to deal with them, James. The hostages don’t matter. All that matters is that you get rid of the Sanctitists. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I spring forwards, grabbing hold of Dr Brant and turning him around, pulling the pistol from my shoulder holster and hitting him with it. The base of the skull. He barely has time to yelp before he collapses forwards, unconscious. I catch him, steadying his fall. He’s heavy. As heavy as I’d expect a man his size to be.
I put my pistol back into its holster and crouch down, getting my right shoulder beneath Dr Brant’s unconscious body. I stand back up, lift the doctor onto my shoulder, and walk towards the door.
The stairs are a challenge. My body isn’t as fit or as strong as it once was and Dr Brant weighs more than a healthy man should. I feel sweat on my forehead and my breathing becomes heavier. I soldier on, just like I was trained so many years ago. Just like Dr Brant wanted me to.
On the next floor up, I see the little security camera move to watch me approach. I pull my pistol from its holster and shoot the biometric keypad. It won’t stop them from opening the door, but it will delay them long enough for me to carry out Dr Brant’s orders. I continue up the stairs, grunting with the exertion of each step.
I reach the top of the staircase and check the security feed on my PD. There’s no one on the other side. Only the three bodies I left there earlier. The door is locked, but Brant gave me access to the building security when he put me on his network. All it takes is a few taps of the screen of my PD and the door unlocks. I kick it open and step through, picking my way through the bodies.
I remember the way to the main staircase from earlier and retrace those same steps. The security feed on my PD tells me there are terrorists waiting at the staircase to the ground floor. I open the door to the stairwell and wait.
“I’m coming up. Don’t shoot.” I shout.
There’s a pause.
“Who is that?”
“My name is James Garrick. I have Dr Brant.”
Another pause.
“Leave any weapons down there and come up slowly.”
I take my pistol out of its holster and drop it on the floor. Then I start up the staircase. My face is soaked in sweat. Dr Brant’s unconscious body is a dead weight pressing me down. One more flight of stairs and it’s over.
I see two Sanctitists waiting, their rifles pointed down the staircase. I hold my left hand in the air, my right is holding on to Dr Brant. I stop for a moment to give them a good look at me, a single staircase below them. One of the terrorists waves me on and I start up the final flight of stairs.
They push open the door to the lobby and wave me through, keeping their guns trained on me. There are more Sanctitists and more guns waiting on the other side of the door.
The lobby is just as I remember it, a mess of rubble and glass. A couple of machine guns are mounted, pointing towards the outside. I see lights out there. The police must have arrived. Maybe the military too. They are no doubt trying to communicate with the terrorists, negotiate the release of the hostages.
Two Sanctitists escort me past the hostages into one of the back rooms, away from the main lobby. They keep a wary watch of me the entire time.
I see Bridges among the hostages. One of his eyes is swollen shut and his hands are cuffed behind him. He watches me pass with confusion writ plain on his face.
The room the Sanctitists lead me too looks like a security station. There’s monitors all connected to security feed, but many of them are showing nothing but static. A woman sits behind a keyboard. She doesn’t even pause tapping away as I enter. There’s a man standing over her shoulder, he watches me enter, a suspicious look on his face.
“Who are you?” he asks. I recognise him. Recognise his red jacket, his jeans. I recognise his square face and shaved head. He’s the man from the crowd outside the Ark. He’s the man who shot me.
I wince as I crouch down and deposit Dr Brant on the grey carpet. He gives a groan, but doesn’t wake.
“My name is James Garrick. This is Dr Brant. I believe you are looking for him.”
“Search him,” the man in the red jacket orders, pointing at me. “Mil, is this Brant?”
One of the Sanctitists who escorted me starts patting me down. They find no weapons. The woman at the monitors looks over, she bears a striking resemblance to the man in the red jacket. She takes a picture of the unconscious Brant with her own PD and then turns away again. Everyone falls silent. The man in the red jacket stares at me. It’s hard not to notice the pistol in his hand.
“You don’t look scared,” the man in the red jacket says.
“I’m not.”
He takes a step forwards.
“It’s him,” the woman at the keyboard says. “Facial recognition confirms it’s Maximilian Brant. This is the bastard. This is the devil.” There’s
real hatred on her face. Not the type of hatred that comes from personal experience, but the type that comes from zealotry.
“Why?” the man in the red jacket asks. He’s standing over Dr Brant now, but he’s staring at me.
“Because Dr Brant ordered it,” I say. “He told me to deal with you. By any means necessary. This was the most logical way to deal with you. One life for dozens.”
The man lets out a bitter laugh. “I bet he had no idea what he was doing when he made you. Or unmade you. Do you understand what he’s done to you?”
I don’t respond. I just stare at the man.
“He raped you. Raped your mind.”
I shake my head. “I agreed to it.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The man taps a finger to his skull. “This is sacred. It’s the most sacred thing we have. It’s what makes us alive. Makes us individuals. Makes us able to choose. People like him,” the man waves his gun at Brant, “they want to make us slaves. They want to turn us into blind robots following orders. Like you just did.”
“It backfired a little though,” the woman says. She raises her arm, points her PD camera at me. “Smile.”
I don’t smile. She takes a picture anyway.
“This time it backfired. Thanks to James Garrick here.” The man grins at me. There’s a touch of crazy in his eyes. Fanaticism. I stare back at him.
“Get ready to pull out,” the man in the red jacket says. “Fast burns all the way.”
He aims a savage kick at Brant and the doctor lets out another groan. I see his eyelids flutter. The man in the red jacket cocks the hammer on his pistol and pulls the trigger. A short flash and bang later and Brant is dead, his blood and brains leaking onto the carpet. The doctor’s body twitches.
“No guilt?” the man in the red jacket asks me. “You’re as responsible for his death as I am.”
“I didn’t pull the trigger.”
He shakes his head at me and picks up a radio from the nearby table. “We’re leaving. Out of the back of the building. The hostages are wired with explosives. If anyone tries to stop us, I’ll pull the trigger.”
After a moment’s silence the radio crackles to life. “What are your demands?”
The man in the red jacket lets out a sigh. “We demand you don’t try to stop us from leaving. You have been warned.”
He turns the radio off then presses the button on a second radio attached to his red jacket. “We’re leaving now. Out the back and into the darts.”
The woman presses a button on the computer and ejects a memory stick. I see all the camera feeds go to static. She pushes past me and leaves me alone with the man in the red jacket.
“Thank you, James Garrick. You’ve been very helpful to our cause. Let’s see how long that lack of guilt lasts.” He walks past me and through the door, pulling it shut behind him. I hear the lock on the door click shut. He’s locked me in with the body of Dr Brant.
Chapter 16
Guilt: Exciting. Damning. Guilt sells very well, but only to certain markets. It affects people in different ways. One person’s rush is another person’s crushing despair.
Dr Brant said it would take hours before I could feel anything again. He was wrong. I start to feel the guilt before the soldiers break down the door. I hear the commotion outside and know what it is. It’s easily been ten minutes since the Sanctitists left. No doubt the military have decided it’s finally safe to enter the Ark, rescue the hostages.
I get down onto my knees and link my hands together on top of my head. I glance down at Brant’s body and a wave of guilt and despair wash over me. He trusted me to save him. I betrayed him. I remember making the decision. It making sense as the best choice. I don’t agree now though. Now I’m responsible for the death of the man who invented the very technology I’m addicted to. Back to square one, with no way of ridding myself of my emotions, and they’re already starting to hurt me. Chief among them is the guilt of being responsible for yet another death, this one an unarmed man who trusted me to keep him safe.
The door bursts open and three soldiers filter in, guns pointed my way. The first of them manoeuvres behind me and shoves me down towards the ground, twisting my arms behind my back and tying them together with a zip tie. The second soldier moves in and checks Brant. No mistaking him for anything other than dead.
“We’ve found him, sir,” the third soldier says into her radio. “He’s dead. Repeat. Dr Brant is dead.” She cocks her head as though listening to something. “Yes. We have another man in the room. He looks like private security.”
The soldier holding me to the ground heaves hard on my arms, pulling me up so I can get my feet beneath me. The third soldier, the one on the radio, is watching me.
“Yes, sir. We’ll bring him to you now.”
She points to the door and I’m marched out of the room, still restrained. The lobby is full of soldiers now, men and women in uniform. The hostages are huddled together in one corner, silver blankets draped over many of their shoulders. Some look in shock, others look tired. I can empathise with them. I’m exhausted. All I want is to go home and sleep. I get the feeling I’ll be heading to a cell instead.
Langdon spots me. He’s standing with Lane, talking to a man in uniform with an impressive number of stars on his epaulettes. The soldier behind me pushes me in their direction.
“Damn you, do you understand what you’ve done?” Langdon shouts at me. The man with the stars holds up a hand, but Langdon ignores him. “You’ve ruined me. Do you realise that?”
I’m brought to a stop in front of the group. It’s still light outside the lobby. It seems like days since the press conference, but it’s only hours. I see a number of people with cameras, jockeying to get a good view over the security line outside.
“Please calm down, Mr Langdon,” says the man with the stars. “This is him?”
“Yes, sir,” says the soldier behind me.
“We were supposed to protect Brant, you idiot,” Langdon spits at me. “Not hand him over to a bunch of lunatic zealots. You got him killed. Probably pulled the trigger yourself. Do you think anyone will hire the firm now.”
“Mr Langdon, please…”
“I should never have given you another chance. Stupid damned Drone.”
“Okay. Corporal, could you escort Mr Langdon outside to get some fresh air.” The man with the stars turns to look at me. He has a strong jaw and pale blue eyes. He looks too young to be in charge. “Oh, and remember, Mr Langdon, not a word to anyone. Especially the reporters.”
Langdon grumbles something as he’s escorted away. I’m left with Lane and the man with the stars. Lane is smiling at me.
“Perhaps we should continue this away from curious eyes,” the man with the stars says. He still hasn’t introduced himself, but I can see his rank is Colonel in the UEA military.
I’m led towards another of the side rooms. Walking behind Lane and the Colonel. They whisper to each other and I can’t quite hear what they say, but Lane glances behind at me a couple of times. His fedora is gone, but the sweat stains in his suit remain.
The new room is a conference area. A large table in the centre with a number of chairs around it. A set of electrical equipment for communications and presentations. The Colonel waves me towards a seat. Sitting on an office chair with my hands zip-tied behind me would not be comfortable, so I continue to stand. Lane slumps down into a chair.
The Colonel sits down across from Lane. They expect me to sit between them. I continue standing.
“You’re making me nervous,” Lane says. “Sit down.”
I turn a little to my left and wave at him with my tied hands. He sighs and looks at the Colonel.
“My name is Brandon Casey, Mr Garrick,” the Colonel says. “You’re already met Jackson, I believe?”
I nod.
“Excellent. You have put us in a damned awkward situation, Mr Garrick.”
“I assumed it would be an easy situation, Colonel,” I say. “You throw me in jail fo
r my part in Dr Brant’s death.”
“So you admit your part?”
“I do. He harvested my emotions so I would be able to effectively resolve the situation. He was not clear enough with the mission parameters. I picked the most logical method of dealing with them. At least… It seemed the most logical at the time.”
I feel another wave of guilt wash over me and I can’t keep my shoulders from slumping. The problem with harvesting is it always feels like the first time. I feel as though I’ve never experienced guilt before. I can’t push it down, can’t bury it. It threatens to overwhelm me. And then it lessens. I doubt I’ll ever understand why emotions move like waves. They wash over you, drown you, and then they’re gone.
“That idiot and his Project River,” Lane says with a sigh. “He never could understand why it was shut down.”
“So now you see the predicament, Mr Garrick?” the Colonel asks. “You did what you did while under the influence of Arkotech technology.”
“That sort of information is bad for business,” Lane smiles at me again. “But for my part, I’d like to thank you.”
“Jackson,” the Colonel puts some steel into his voice. “He is responsible for the death of Dr Brant.”
“We can always find another Dr Brant. Genius scientists come crawling out of the woodwork all the time. Hopefully the next one won’t have quite so excessive an ego. He saved dozens of lives, Casey. We should give him a medal or something. Isn’t that what you military types do?”
“We don’t hand out medals for murder.”
“No? What do you hand them out for then?”
The two men are familiar with each other, that much is unmistakeable. I can’t help but wonder why a company executive and a Colonel in the UEA would be so familiar. Almost, my curiosity compels me to ask, but I manage to stop myself. I don’t think I’d get an answer, anyway.
“Did you catch the Santitists?” I ask, as much to stop the two from arguing as anything else.
“No,” the Colonel says. I can see him grinding his teeth. “They used Darts to break atmo. We think they’re headed to the Moon. Eden most likely. But their Darts have stealth tech built in. We can’t track them. Anyway, they’re out of our jurisdiction now. I doubt the Lunar government is going to just hand them over.”