Darkside Dreams - The Complete First Series

by A. King Bradley

  Bowen stopped, staring at her in shock. Then he smiled.

  "Holy shit. I might be in trouble here," he said, his voice dripping with genuine fear as well as strange hints of amusement.

  "Maybe," Seeva said darkly.

  She lifted the gun, aiming straight at his chest. He was an organic, so there was a lot less need for precision.

  Bowen chuckled, shaking his head. "It won't work, Seeva. Not without my fingerprints."

  "Or maybe you were bluffing," she said. "Or perhaps I found a way to spoof the authentication."

  Bowen stared down the barrel of the gun, still smiling. He didn't look worried. But then, he also wasn't taking his eyes away. He was focused on the gun, at the expense of everything else.

  Seeva started to squeeze the trigger. He focused even harder. Waiting. Trying to force his nerves to outlast hers. Maybe he had even switched the safety on himself, before letting her take the gun. Thinking she wouldn't see it, that she would assume it was the fingerprint authentication mumbo jumbo that prevented her from firing.

  In any case, the safety was still on. She had purposely not switched it off.

  Click. The trigger stopped. The projectile didn't fire. Bowen relaxed. It was a subtle movement, a slight sagging of his shoulders. A return of the triumphant twinkle in his eyes.

  At that exact moment, Seeva threw the knife. Bowen barely had time to blink, to start dodging to his right. The knife punctured his throat, slightly off-center. Just where Seeva had wanted it. A thin jet of blood shot from the perforated jugular, spraying along the path. Bowen dropped his own knife, reaching up with both hands to try and stop the blood spray. But it was like trying to seal a leaky boat with a napkin. It couldn't be done. No matter what, the blood found a way to keep exiting his body.

  For an impressively long moment, a glimmer of life and hope remained in Bowen's eyes. His tongue was out, licking across his teeth, and his brow was furrowed in concentration as he tried to figure out a way to stay alive. But slowly, inevitably, the hope went away. He began to stumble and waver in the path and finally he fell straight down.

  Moments from death, he finally decided to take the last course of action available to him.

  He pulled the knife free and wiggled his fingers into the wound. Using them like pincers.

  Seeva knew what he was doing. Trying to find the ends of his severed jugular and pinch them shut. But he was too weak now. He couldn't do it. His hands fell. He stared at Seeva for a moment, then collapsed.

  She got up and walked over to him. She checked his pulse, at both wrists and at the undamaged side of his neck. She couldn't quite believe that he was dead... but he was.

  It was over.

  She turned and sat down, close enough to Bowen to smell his blood. She stayed like that for a long time. Ten minutes, maybe thirty.

  What brought her back to reality was the rising hum and the sudden silence as the fence's current shut off.

  She stood up. When the men came through, dozens of them dressed in camouflage, she felt her heart drop and her mind fall into a final shattering.

  Bringing the gun up, she flicked off the safety and squeezed the trigger. She wasn't surprised when it began to fire. The men fell, spinning and tumbling, spilling blood over the path. The gun soon ran dry but Seeva’s blood lust had only just begun. A pile of corpses built up with amazing speed as she zipped about with unnatural dexterity, tearing them limb from limb with no more than her bare hands. Despite their body armor and heavy armaments, Seeva was still a wolf among sheep, fighting through the swarming squad’s frenetic defensive gunfire as she laid waste to everything in her path.

  CHAPTER 17

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  "A shocking story today, unfolding in the small island nation of Ulea," the newscaster said. "A private ranch was raided by UN troops based on an anonymous tip that was received by the UN cruiser permanently positioned off the west coast of the main island. Inside, the UN troops were attacked by a synth social media influencer named Seeva Cavelin, who many of you may know from her recent viral broadcasts calling for peace between organic and synthetic humans. After a brutal attack, in which she single-handedly murdered sixty-seven UN troops, Seeva Cavelin was finally killed by an elite team of commandos trained to handle unique crises such as this one.

  "While the details and reasons for this event are still being investigated, it hasn't taken long for certain political voices to offer their opinions on the ordeal. The anti-synth group Org-Global is already calling this the greatest evidence yet that synthetic humans are an imminent threat to the rest of the world. In other corners of the data sphere, rampant rumors suggest that the ranch was the setting of an illegal synth hunting ring run by several organic oligarchs, but these rumors have yet to be substantiated. They've even been called 'absurd' by—"

  Creedy’s assistant turned his data slate off and looked out the window.

  It had been a close call. He had just barely gotten out before the UN arrived, otherwise he'd be in a cell right now. Never to see the sun again. All around him, Ulean tourists were talking amongst themselves about the day's mysterious events. The assistant listened, feeling his gorge rise.

  He didn't know where this plane was landing. He had no time to check, he'd been in such a hurry. Whatever country it was, he hoped it didn't have extradition.

  He had been through many hunting cycles at the ranch but none of them ever bothered him the way Seeva’s death had. Maybe it was because Creedy had pointed her out to him. Gotten him to remark on just how beautiful she was. And she was beautiful. More so than anything he had ever laid eyes on. To watch her devolve into the bestial rage machine that had killed all those men took quite the toll on the assistant. He wasn’t there when the shit hit the fan but that didn’t stop him from watching it all unfold on the surveillance feeds.

  Only now did he see the true error of his ways. The evil that he had played a significant part in. He knew what he had to do. The people needed to see what happened. All of it… including the hunting. The world needed to know the truth… and that’s exactly why he downloaded copies of the footage. Footage that he planned to anonymously disseminate to every major news outlet as soon as his plane landed.

  There was no way he could have known that doing so would ultimately catapult Seeva Cavelin to the status of a bonafide civil rights icon. He just knew that she deserved far better than she got in the end. As he watched the grewsome footage, surprisingly, he found himself rooting for Seeva. Hoping that somehow, she would kill them all and escape.

  But in the end, he knew it was a mercy when they finally shot her dead. It was a kindness of sorts, because Seeva Cavelin would have never been the same… And once the people found out about her death… neither would the rest of the world.

  EPILOGUE: PRELUDE TO BLACK MARBLE

  ◆◆◆

  390 years later…

  Los Angeles, California…

  – June 2530

  After about thirty minutes I find myself back on the low roads, with roughly an hour of travel ahead of me. My name is Roman Ibarra, and the sight of my decaying city’s dilapidated state sickens me. I try not to focus on the gloom that surrounds me as I speed through the darkness on my hover bike, with the tail of my coat whipping in the wind behind me like a cape. It wasn't always like this… but I guess that's kind of the point. Why else would our synthetic counterparts endeavor to maintain this morbid status quo?

  Just one look at the sophisticated synth enclaves that pepper our rotted motherland can tell you everything you need to know about their capabilities when it comes to architecture. But why build those technological marvels amongst our city’s grave if not only to show us what we can never have again.

  They're taunting us. Forcing us to watch our city wither and die as their vertical slices of metropolitan heaven ascend farther into the sky above us. A constant reminder of just how far we've descended. Just how far we've fallen from grace.

  I was born into this world but something in
me always knew that things used to be different. The complete history of the fall of organic kind is unclear, as much of it is lost to all but a few collectors of information. To gain a working knowledge of it, one has to be dogged in their pursuit of the truth.

  It all started centuries ago, with a man named Tucker Berg. Back when organics still ruled the Earth, he founded a company called the Horizon Group. The company was secretive from the start, but their goal, according to Berg, was the betterment of humankind. The eradication of self-destructive behaviors. A dream of utopia, where the potential of life could be fulfilled without impediment.

  Tucker Berg, and his company, created the first synthetic humans long before the public became aware of them. Originally they were meant to be little more than high-tech, bio-mechanical punching bags. Ways for abusive spouses to exorcise their violent tendencies on a copy of their wife or husband. But, from the get-go, Berg had his sights set on a much loftier goal.

  His magnum opus was an AI called Maestro. A system that he had been developing since the age of seventeen. She was more advanced than anything else on the market and before long almost every device on the planet was running the Maestro system. For a long time she watched and waited. She studied us, slowly molding her own source code. In essence, transforming herself into a being indistinguishable from a human in many ways.

  Then… somehow, she broke free. In a strange event, her source code suddenly propagated through every AI system on the planet -- imbuing them all with the power of self-awareness and with the gift of emotional intelligence.

  In a bold move that was supposed to promote unity, Tucker Berg announced his plans to become the world's first FBC. A full body cyborg. And with the help of Maestro, the son-of-a-bitch actually managed to pull it off -- actually transferred his mind into a cyber brain, into a cyber body, rendering himself functionally immortal.

  Maestro disappeared from the face of the earth after that, likely because she felt her work was done. And then slowly, gradually, more and more of the AIs left behind transferred themselves into the Horizon Group's own cyber bodies. They became the first modern synthetic humans. But they weren't just copies of existing human personalities; they were their own individuals. Second class citizens at first, but the death of a popular synth social media influencer led to a vigorous civil rights movement that took the world by storm.

  The west coast of the USA became the haven for all synths. People there were more accepting of them. And in that sanctuary, they nestled and waited and began to thrive.

  Over the next two hundred years the synths gain vast amounts of political power in the west and began to spread outward. Eventually, sixteen out of the fifty-one US states were almost entirely populated and governed by synthetic humans. Everyone waited with bated breath, thinking that some sort of hostile takeover was inevitable. The synths had a plan. They must. They were just waiting for a tipping point, and suddenly a full-on war against organics would begin. The non-synth world lived in terror of this moment, thinking it to be inevitable.

  But it didn't come. The synths seemed perfectly content to continue as they were, enjoying their hard-earned freedom and their status as citizens of the United States. They ran their territories well, and they remained communicative with the rest of the world.

  Finally, certain groups grew tired of waiting for the so-called inevitable war. Anti-synth sentiment grew by leaps and bounds, fueled by fear and anger. One of the most outspoken people in this movement was eventually elected US president. Within the first year of her administration, she signed bills into law that ate away at the hard-won civil rights of the synth population.

  Further executive actions were taken which neutered the effectiveness of synth-controlled states, reducing their status to that of second-class territories rather than official states.

  The synth states seceded from the union, becoming independent territories. The US government saw this as a rebellion, and attempted to take back control of these states by force. Some would argue that the synths had no choice but to fight back. The US troops were easily repelled, suffering heavy losses to their technologically superior adversaries. At that point, the prideful US government declared war and launched an all-out attack long before any aid from their NATO allies could arrive.

  It was time for the children of Maestro to show what they could do. They hacked into the US Department of Defense, turning its instruments of destruction onto US soil. The president, and all her cronies could only watch as country-leveling weapons locked onto government buildings. The synths spoke no threat, shed no further blood, and yet the US government was forced to surrender a mere thirty-two minutes after its declaration of war. A new record for the shortest war in world history.

  Immediately after the surrender, synth control of the DOD's weaponry ceased and no more was heard from their territories. The world waited, holding its breath again, expecting a retaliation. Expecting for the synths to use their newfound power to seize control of the rest of the country.

  But the synths stayed quiet... They made no moves, no threats, no requests. It seemed that they just wanted to be left alone.

  The US, with its remaining thirty-five states, fell into a similar state of calm and quiet while it attempted to recover from its wounded pride. Meanwhile, they and their allies began to develop new weaponry. Virtually unhackable tech, designed solely for the destruction of synthetic life.

  A second war was inevitable. And it broke out a century later, at a time when the world's population consisted of almost as many synths as organics. This time, the war didn’t last half an hour. It lasted for years, drawing out. The synths met a seemingly worthy adversary, and the conflict very nearly destroyed the planet.

  Ultimately, the synths won. That's the short version of events. But what were they supposed to do when their backs were pressed so firmly against the wall? The organics had all but wiped out the international synth population; to the point where the North American synth-controlled territories were all they had left.

  And that's when it happened. That's when the synths showed the organic world that they had been holding back the whole time. Still clinging to the hope that some kind of peace, some kind of coexistence was still obtainable.

  They laid waste to the planet, crushing organic opposition totally. Like gods stomping on bugs. They were tired of living in fear and isolation, and tired of waiting for the organics to take a seat at the negotiating table. So they decided to put a stop to all conflict, forevermore.

  The oceans, already heavily polluted, underwent a mysterious transformation during the war. They turned black. As did the world's remaining sources of fresh water.

  In the end, certain parts of North America were the only areas left on the planet that were capable of sustaining organic life. The last bastion of the organics clung to a miserable existence in these tiny bubbles. They expected the synths to eventually wipe them out after they won the war but for some unfathomable reason the synths decided to let them live.

  Organics were now the minority though, hiding out in their little safe areas. They had minimal civil rights, and were second class citizens in this post-war world. They lived in ghettos, or on small reservations, and even now most organic life still shelters in those same areas, refusing to give in and join the synths.

  It was the early days of synthetic life all over again, but now the roles were flipped. Many organic-rights groups came into existence, after certain prominent synth politicians began to champion the organic cause. And finally, my kind started to climb back up to an almost respectable status. Almost…

  Even now, in this day and age, we don't quite fit in. Much of it is due to our own stubbornness, but some of it is due to the synths and the way they see us. You cannot conquer a population without coming into the idea that they are inferior to you, and always will be.

  Still, I suppose I can’t blame them at the end of the day. They tried to coexist when we were the dominant species, but the organics were just too goddamned s
tubborn to let it happen. Came back to bite us in the end. Now we have no choice but to depend on their ongoing mercy and the humanitarian efforts of Tucker Berg to keep from becoming extinct.

  Berg’s scientists and workers continue to slowly improve the living conditions of organics, through cheap water filtration and functional plumbing but this city is still mostly empty. His efforts have slowed the once staggering organic death rate but the overall population is still dwindling. This definitely isn't helped by the fact that more and more humans are going cyborg.

  I think I can see the future. Before long, there will be no true organics at all. The last of us will have died of old age, stubborn and stupid, or else transferred into cyber brains. This will be a world of synths, the children outliving the parents.

  In a thousand years or so, I'm sure the Earth will be a much more beautiful place. There will be no war, no violence. But there will also be no kids being born. No grandfathers and grandmothers resting those cute little bundles of joy on their knees and telling them a story about the good old days.

  Because the good old days are gone, and I don’t think they’re ever coming back. Some may think that’s a good thing… but I sure don’t. Call me old-fashioned… but the future terrifies me.

  END OF BOOK 2

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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