by Ron Bender
He meets my eyes. He’s determined. “I understand that, sir.”
I grin. “When it’s all done you might not win any beauty pageants.”
He smiles up at me. “As long as I can serve, sir. That’s what matters to me most right now.”
The look in his eyes has me wiping mine as I make my way back down to the elevator.
˜˜˜
There are months of setbacks and delays. Engineers redesign, improve, and then redevelop all of the gear from scratch. Then there is row after row of timetabled surgeries. I’m there for all of them. His psych profile demands it. That, and he’s the first, and I need to know, to see it coming together.
Finally, two years to the day of the attack on the rail-gun station, I go to meet Lee.
But the world is a different place. I’ve had the entire operation lifted aboard the Space Command L Four station. It’ll do for now. The remnants of the last freely elected government have taken up residence with us. The corporate takeover, the assassinations, the pogroms were still some ways off, but I could smell those changes coming.
The ending of our great experiment, the ending of an age, the long slow death throes of a nation. The dimming of the lights of the world.
Lee’s in a wardroom with five others who’ve come from all walks of the service and successfully undergone implantation. As personnel came available we brought them into the fold.
Watching footage of all of their individual progress doesn’t prepare me for what happens when I walk into the room. I keep my face a mask as they tower over me, coming to attention. The synthetic muscles, the pneumatic and hydraulic assist systems make noises that, taken together are unnerving.
I remind myself that these boys are exactly that. Boys who’ve grown to become men while in the service. Human beings who’ve had terrible things happen to them and then volunteered for these implants. They all want to continue to serve in the defense of the ideals and values they hold dear.
“At ease.” I have to look at each of them. “I’m glad to finally get you all in the same room to address you. The President, the entire DoD, and hell.” I smile at each one of them. “especially me. We’re extremely proud of each of you. You’ve gone and redefined the word resilience.”
I set the sealed envelope onto the table in front of me. I chose the prop well. I make sure the Presidential seal is visible under my fingertips. I have their rapt attention. “It’s been a road through hell to get to this point. I for one am hoping to impress the taxpayers and the paper-pushers with what we can accomplish.”
I sit and motion for them to do the same. Specially designed furniture has been whipped up so they would feel less distress over the radical changes their bodies have undergone. They ease delicately onto the cushions.
“I know some of you have been wondering how you are going to return to your old positions. I hope that each of you, seeing the others in this room, now understand that we have something bigger than that in mind.” I slide the envelope in front of me side to side on the table, letting my eyes focus on the back of my hand. “The Secretary of Defense has taken action on my proposal to form a new unified command and create a special operations unit. We act on the behalf of the President, and answer to him as the Commander-In-Chief. Then we answer to the Secretary. That’s it.”
It’s impossible to judge their emotional state. Their faces are occluded behind full or partial masks of polished metal. Only Lee still has most of his face visible, except his eyes are now lens stacks of tinted disks set deeply into his head. What I imagine I see there is the fire I hoped for. “You are the first members of this special operations taskforce. We fall outside the purview of regular Security Forces. It’s an abbreviated chain of command for a reason.” I look at each of them. “It will be made up of the most advanced personal war-fighter technology we have. The name of the taskforce is The Hercules Project.”
The boys look at each other. Slight smiles glide here and there under chrome cheek plates. The boys in psych-marketing picked a good one.
“I have our first mission SMEAC right here in my hands.” I tap the envelope with one finger. “You boys ready to help out the President?”
I get a resounding, “Hooah.”
˜˜˜
I stop talking and Basillio makes a study of his hands.
“I had no idea anyone was left….” I say into the silence. “And the fact they’re gone now….”
He cuts me off. “It isn’t anything you did.”
His voice his firm. He reminds of Nelson, solid in his beliefs and unafraid to express them. “Bransen took a chance that someone would come to help you. To me it looks like either he or his employer already knew those men were out there.”
I nod.
He asks, “You know why the LEO crashed where it did though, don’t you?”
“There’s only one reason.” I don’t lie to him. “The cargo was important enough that if anything happened, they wanted containment. Something happened to make the pilot trigger the ship’s destruct protocol. The computer locked onto my beacon and adjusted its drop point so that I could ensure that containment.”
“Bransen was on scene really quickly.”
I’ve been scanning the room out of habit. I get next to nothing. AlphaPlaza is well built. “You think he knew what was on board?”
“I do. I can’t think it was just a case of opportunity knocking. Not with him.”
“I don’t know anything about this Bransen character.” I sit up. “You do.”
He nods. “I have information I’m willing to share with you. But understand I’m still going after your daughter to bring her home safely so we may as well do this together.”
“Listen.” I’m blunt. “I don’t want to get tied up in your protocols and have my actions interfered with, but I know I need your help or I’m up against a wall.”
He nods. “I get that. I can come up with plans, but she’s your daughter. Your input on those plans is vital.”
I pick up minimal static on a com channel and watch his expression. Nothing changes…. He’s been wired with an internal com a long time.
“Here’s my offer,” he says without pause. “We can improve your communication system, your mem-core, internal security, basically a complete upgrade on your existing systems. In return, I want your help gaining intel. We can call it an even trade, no matter what you find. I don’t care about the resources the Hercules Project might still be sitting on. I only want to know if the old government is in the wild, still active … open a dialogue….”
I look at him in silence. He understands my hesitation and doesn’t really push me on it.
“You’ve got a couple of hours to let me know. We’re still sifting our own intel.”
I know I can’t do this without his help. Even if Bransen took Maggie to the California Islands, I still couldn’t get there on my own. “I’m in. What do you need from me?”
˜˜˜
I can feel the stim wearing off. I have to decide now, do I amp up a second time or do I let the wall fall on me for a few hours? I get into the maglift and smile at a group of mid-level managers on an outing with their families. The maglift destination panel shows they’re on their way to one of the interior parks.
“Jen, hook Alex into this line.”
“Da?”
“Baylen’s on board. He’ll help us. I’ve got technicians loading him up now. Afterwards he’ll come and find you.” The kids stare up at me as their dad shushes them into silence by explaining who I am.
“Good.”
“The Hercules Project had a Narrow AI. A military one.” I let Alex know. “It may still be active. Besides that, they may have other equipment and contacts. Those are what Phillip and Bransen are looking for.” When the dad isn’t looking, I make a face at the youngest kid. Her eyes go huge and she returns my goofy look.
“I see.”
“How’s Jimmy settling in?” The doors to the lift open and the family debark. The little girl and
I exchange a wave.
“Lexi has his software combing through footage from all the locations we accessed. They haven’t found any trace of Bransen.”
“He’s in orbit?”
Jen adds, “The L Four station matches with the information you received from Baylen about the last known location of the old government.” She continues, “The LEO that crashed lifted off from Manila. Lexi utilized Jimmy’s image scanning software and found this.”
A brief clip of cam footage starts on my optics, I watch Raven casually dismember a heavily armed and armored guard in a hallway. I know our Raven is in Eastern Europe with Brios. It sinks in that there may be an army of her out in the wild someplace….
After it plays Jen continues her report, “We have surmised that this clone was captured a few minutes later. There is evidence that a medical tube is loaded into a freight box and then into a ground transport. We tracked it to the lift pad, but the cam resolution is either interfered with or is low grade and we can’t get a clean visual. The craft lifts a few minutes after that.”
“So,” Alex interjects. “The clone breaks out during the lift and the pilot triggers self-destruct.”
I would do the same.
“The question is,” he adds, “Who sent this clone? Phillip?”
“That would be my guess.” I answer him. “It explains why Bransen was there so quick. Maybe he was hoping to recover her.”
I scrub at my face. My skin feels grubby as the stim runs its course. I don’t even bother to subvocalize. “Did Bransen make orbit with Maggie?”
“He booked via a regular shuttle under an assumed identity,” Jen replies. “He was travelling with a young girl who he has listed as his niece returning to the station after a medical procedure earthside. It explains her lack of activity and resistance at the platform. She could be drugged.”
“Don’t tell Baylen that. As soon as he’s ready to lift, Alex, you get him up there.”
“Da.”
“Jen. I’m out. I need bunk time.” The maglift opens directly to my private rooms. I’m not surprised that she made up my mind for me and brought me here. “Alex. You’re in charge.”
“Understood.”
3.16
Unforgiving
The VTOL we’re in is as plush as the last one was sparse. The seat wraps comfortably around me and eat a good prepack meal.
I see the ruins of Old Core flash below the windows as we fly. I remember hearing on the Infotainment channels that the name was changed. The Ganglands is what everyone calls that area, and given how many anarchic mobs gather there, it makes sense. The VTOL accelerates even more.
Picasso says, “Eat up. We’ll have to hustle when we’re on the ground.”
I haven’t thought about how far out the tribe must be. “Why? We’re being dropped off at the camp, right?”
“We can’t fly there direct. The boss thinks someone might have eyes on us, so we fly, get dropped off, and then go overland.”
“We’re walking?” The idea of hiking around in wild country doesn’t sit well. I look at my shoes.
The pilot announces five minutes to the landing zone.
Picasso chases one water with another as the VTOL settles in. “Walking? Out here? That’ll get us both killed.”
“What about my drink? I’m not done yet.”
He takes my drink and downs it in a mouthful. “You’re done. Let’s go.”
I jump out of the side door with him into a moist heat and follow him to the rear of the craft. Three flight crew I had no idea were on board have dropped a ramp and are pushing a huge motorbike out onto the crumbled roadway.
“It’s ready to ride, sir,” one of them says. “Fully fueled, detailed and kitted out as per your spec sheet.”
Picasso nods his thanks and begins checking out the bike.
“That thing actually runs on fuel?” I ask. Everyone’s seen motorbikes but this one looks like a replica or an antique.
“Sometimes, yeah. Nothing burns miles as fast. Put these on.” He under-hand’s me a bag. “But duck down a little first.”
“What?” That’s as much as I manage. I figure it out quickly as the VTOL rumbles to life; throwing dirt and slagging roadway everywhere as it lifts off. I do more than duck.
He ignores my cry of protest as the VTOL boosts away from us.
“You could have warned me sooner than that.” I shake debris out of my hair. “You know … told me what the plan was….”
“You’re a big girl.” He laughs. “And I don’t have to tell you shit. Get changed. We got some miles to put on and I hate sittin’ still in the open like this for long.”
The clothes in the bag as some kind of biker gear. “Where am I supposed to change?”
“I don’t care. Trust me, Doc, what you got, I’ve seen before so don’t get all offended. Just hurry it up.”
I walk a dozen yards or so away to a low cluster of bushes. The greenish blue fingers of trees and wiry new growth are too far away for me to get to easily.
I strip and pull on the armored outfit. It’s snug, pushing and pulling on parts of me that I prefer less constrained. I push on the boots and spend a minute carefully folding my CitOne garments. I slide them carefully into the bag.
As I walk back, Picasso stops his task, and stares at me. “That’s an improvement.”
“Pig,” I say as I get closer. “You just like this type of woman.”
“No.” He snorts. “I meant that you’re less likely to get killed, or kidnapped, or fucked-with dressed like that. Out here, your CitOne stuff makes you a target.” He ignores my expression and throws me a helmet. “Get on.”
˜˜˜
The wind races past the helmet’s edge. I yell, “How far do we have to go?”
I’ve never ridden on a motorbike before. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the vibration this high up between my legs or having to hold onto him as hard as I am.
The rest of it’s exciting.
“We left the city because the boss wants you to clear your head,” he says over his shoulder. “He figures you being in New White Sands won’t help.”
“Dragging me out of New White Sands is his solution?”
“Yup.” He hardly slows as he weaves around rubble scattered on our path. “It’s safer too.”
“How does that work?” I ask. “Coming out here seems counter intuitive.”
“If we did it right, no one will know we’re out here. No one will expect us to be here.” The road becomes a mix of broken concrete and gravel, still he guns the bike forward down a long slow decline. “Besides, he put me in charge of keeping you safe. I’d rather not worry about a bunch of plate-glass and expensive cars if I start shooting. Out here there’s less collateral around us to damage.”
I try to get a look at his face as I say, “Worrying about collateral damage doesn’t sound like your style.”
He looks back at me. “I hate the idea of messy kills,” he says with a grimace. “I don’t give a fuck if I blow up a building full of civilians just to kill a sniper. But I’d rather go in and hunt the mother down, kill him hand-to-hand. But I won’t let my strap get twisted up if I can’t do it my way.”
“If there were no other way, you’d blow up the building?” I remember the warehouse, Baylen inside, billowing flame and debris.
“Yup.” There’s no hesitation in his answer. He laughs, and his tone becomes mocking. “So how does that make you feel?”
I almost start to answer him before I realize he’s being a dick. I’m not about to let go just to punch him.
“The boss though, he likes things as clean as he can keep them.” His nods tightly. “He and I make a good team.”
We rumble across a river channel bridge that looks a hundred years old. A small rivulet of water is winds its way between rocks at the bottom of the old water course. “Why do they call you Picasso?” I ask. The air changes, becomes humid, and thick with decay.
He doesn’t answer me. I wonder if I hit a ne
rve. I press my face against the synth-leather of his jacket and feel the armor weave subtly shift under my cheek. We drive for another half hour before we start to slow, carefully picking our way between thickening clumps of trees, snaking ground cover and patches of mud.
I peek around his arm. I wasn’t sure what I’d see but what I do see, surprises me. Nestled here and there under tall wild looking trees are dozens of vehicles, pop up shelters, tents. There’s even plain tarps covering collections of bent branches shoved into the ground. Distantly there are tumbled ruins of what may have been homes empty and grown over with vines. A dense looking mangrove is to our south and the community rest on a raised spit of forested land.
Barking dogs lunge at us at the ends of long chains. Children run forward, wearing patched and faded clothing. Behind them comes a wave of adults some of whom at least are smiling at the scene, some others come carrying guns.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“This is Baylen’s tribe.” He looks at me. “This is where Maggie comes Tuesday to Thursday every week.”
I can feel the panic rising. She isn’t here. Basillio and Baylen are going to rescue her. “Why would you bring me here?”
“You need to see this.” He shuts the bike down. “This is part of who she is. Aw fuck, Doc, just get over yourself, go, and meet some people.”
The children have reached us and my angry retort stays in my head. Picasso has gotten off the bike and is wading through the small sea of humanity at his knees. It is obvious by his movements that he isn’t a children kind of person. After a second of him ignoring them they turn the tide of their attention to me.
I have to be careful getting off the bike as they crowd in close and stare at me. I smile at a few of them and suddenly they all blossom to life. I get nowhere quickly as question after question comes at me in a babble of squeaky high-pitched voices. My heart aches. Maggie isn’t here among them. She’s been stolen away by a desperate mercenary. I try not to imagine her fear.
Even as I smile I’m crying. My distress is echoed by twenty or so little faces around me.