by John Conroe
I had my personal AI run a special filter first, then one for positive emails and anything that might be really important. Those numbered only a handful, so I was done in no time. The news was full of stories about the Drone Wars show disaster and had far too many replays from my interview with Cade.
Mom called, worried about the pain I had shown on television. The whole fam had watched it, and I spent the better part of an hour chatting with Mom, my sisters, both grandmothers, and my grandpa. Everyone was supportive, even the twins, which I took to be a sign of the apocalypse. Mom in particular needed a lot of reassurance. I felt bad because I wanted to tell her that Rikki would take care of it, but I couldn’t tell her about Rikki, or Zone Defense would know too. Instead I had to do the best I could to convince her that I would be okay.
Then, fifteen minutes after that call, I got another one.
“Hey… you scared me tonight,” she said.
“Hell, I scared myself. I’m not gonna lie: It kinda hurt pretty bad.”
“Ajaya, what are we going to do?”
“Well, that was a warning, obviously. But I’m working on it. Got an ace up my sleeve, as Dad used to say.”
She was silent for a few seconds, processing my words. It might take a second, but I was certain she’d get my meaning. I couldn’t wait to hear her speak again. I love her voice, although I hated to hear the worry and fear in it.
“Really?” She sounded just slightly hopeful.
“Yes. In a different suit than my old ace.” See what she made of that.
“Well, an ace is an ace. The suit doesn’t matter, unless you’re playing with trump cards?”
“Yeah, then an ace in the trump suit is top card.”
“Yes, true. That’s… interesting.” The fear was gone. We were best friends long before we were a couple. Best friends can usually communicate whole reams of information with very few words.
“Isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she said, her tone firm. “Speaking of dads, mine has been talking to people he knows.”
“That’s a broad field, Astrid. The guy knows a ton of people.”
“True. But he’s been talking to people who have the inside scoop. Seems your old pals have been hunting the Zone, looking for what you left behind.”
“I should think so.”
“Yeah, seems they’re coming up empty.”
“Not surprised. It’s a big area. Lots of great hiding spots.”
“Apparently they’re catching shit for not looking in the right spots. Lots of tension these days.”
“Well, they caused it, they oughta fix it. Save me the hassle.”
“But you can’t fix it. You’re locked out… Ajaya? You know you’re locked out, right?”
“Am I? Locks are meant to be picked, Astrid. And if they can’t find the prize, someone has to.”
She went silent again.
“You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
“Hey, I like help as much as anyone. But I’m kinda on my own here. And you know me… I work pretty well by myself.”
“You do and you have, but you’re way behind the eight ball, as my dad says. Even with an ace.”
“True. We’ll see. Gotta do something. It’s getting worse out there.”
“Yeah, we heard there’s been some military incidents that haven’t made the news. Close calls between different forces all over the world. A lot of these things are being hushed up.”
“Can’t rock the boat. They gotta keep the status quo.”
“There won’t be any status at all if it all goes to shit,” she said. The worried tone was back.
I asked about her family to change the subject. Then she asked about mine. I told her how much I missed her, and she reciprocated. Not going to report the rest of our conversation, because it was for her, me, and, of course, whatever bored government spy was listening in.
After we hung up, I thought about maybe watching a movie.
I was an hour and a half into an old Marvel Avengers film when I heard a sound. Tapping. On glass.
About time.
I went to my bedroom and sure enough, the carbon black delta-winged form of the Decimator drone was hovering on the other side of the glass.
“Hey Rikki Tikki,” I said as I slid the window up. Speaking out loud was okay as long as he was on site, his ability to intercept the signals my only hope for a future.
“Hello AJ. Have you recovered from the pain impulse transmitted through your implant?”
“You know about that, huh?”
“I monitor Zone Defense transmissions with special attention to the watch drone that follows you and feeds signals to the chip imbedded next to your carotid artery. I also monitor any television show that you are scheduled to be on.”
“Yeah, it hurt.”
“I have modified the programming of your implant. It will no longer produce such a response. If fired again, it will produce a result analogous to an insect bite. You will have to act convincingly to avoid Zone Defense learning that the chip is no longer under their full control.”
“You can change the chip’s programming? That’s new, right?”
“Correct. Zone Defense IT sent new programming to the watch drone in order to create the pain effect you experienced. I copied all access codes. In addition, I have adjusted the communications protocol to ensure that future signals will go through my CPU before they are transmitted to the watcher.”
“Can you defuse the bomb?”
“Not until the detonation code is sent. Part of that data byte will have the access codes for the explosive portion. At that time, I will defuse it.”
“So basically they have to decide to kill me before you can stop the bomb?”
“Correct. As I control the transmission feed to the watcher, I will intercept and change the coding. At that point, you will be able to surgically remove the chip.”
This was good news. Terrifying news, but ultimately good. If I trusted my AI companion to intercept and change the kill code, then I could be free of the chip. Until they came along and either put a new one in or just killed me outright.
“This will require some careful planning.”
“Correct.”
“Then let’s get started.”
The next morning, I hopped out of bed and went for a run. With no one around and nothing to do, I had been filling my time with exercise. Dad was always a huge proponent of conditioning and he’d started me at such an early age that I’m afraid I might be a little OCD about it at this point.
Morning runs were normal, but the distance had doubled. On this morning, for the first time in a while, I had a real spring in my step. And lots of thoughts to process. Thinking while moving is, I think, common to most people. After all, we only had our feet for travel for most of our existence on this planet. We’re probably wired for dual movement and contemplation.
So I ran through the streets of Brooklyn and thought about Rikki’s revelations and the steps I needed to take. There were many, and I had to get them in just the exact right order. One step out of place and I would die. Actually, a lot of people would die. Maybe all people would die.
I capped the run at a little short of twelve kilometers, my loop bringing me back to the apartment building. My planning continued as I took the stairs down, instead of up. A year or so ago, the building superintendent, Lee Hudson, had taken up a collection from interested residents and put a decent bench and set of weights into an unused storage room in the basement of the building. This time of morning, during the work week, I usually had it to myself, and today was no exception.
My build is lean, inherited from my father. It is built for endurance, agility, speed. Trying to train myself to be a bodybuilder or a football player would be a waste of time. Extra muscle mass would only slow me down in the Zone, and my metabolism would just burn it off anyway. So I train for strength without mass. The strength to carry weighty ammunition, a heavy sniper rifle, to retrieve valuable items from the Zo
ne.
Heavy weights, at least heavy for me, with low reps. Big movements like deadlifts, squats, bench press mixed with bodyweight exercises that help with climbing, like pull-ups, dips, and various rows.
Since I follow a schedule, my routine was already set, so again I was able to think and plan while I lifted, my body almost on autopilot.
Gradually, over the course of the morning, a picture formed, the framework of a plan. First, the broad strokes—the scaffolding, so to speak—then, bit by bit, a series of smaller steps layered into, and over, the rest. Examining each piece, I rejected the most complex, the ones with the lowest probabilities of success. And finally, by the time the last rep of the last set clinked down on the concrete floor, I had something that just possibly might work.
Basically, I had five main issues.
First, equipment, well, specifically weapons… as in: I had none. Zone Defense and the police had denied me access to my weapons. I still had my stealth suit but other than my 9x23mm pistol and my kukri, I was naked. No rifles, no explosives, no booby traps. Once I got into the Zone and made my way to a cache or two, I would be set, but no way was I gonna travel from entry to cache with just a pistol.
Second was access. Zone D controlled all entries and exits to the Zone. The few weak points that I knew of had been hardened and sealed when I showed them to Major Yoshida. So I needed to figure out a new entrance and exit point for my personal mission.
Third, Plum Blossom. As in where the hell was it. Did it still hang out at the NSA Longlines-slash-Titanpointe building, or the Western Union building, or was it in a new location somewhere in the eighty-eight square kilometers of the island? I mean, how many places could a black, self-propelled sofa hide in the Borough? Once I found it, I’d need to kill it while avoiding the thousands of drones that were still protecting it. Just a minor detail.
Fourth, the little matter of the bomb in my neck. Theoretically, Rikki would take care of it, but that required me pissing off the powers that be to the point where they sent the kill signal. Then, if Rikki really did intercept it and managed to change it, I would have to perform a little self-surgery with a sharp blade near my own carotid artery. Nothing to it. The only bright point was that getting them to fire the weapon would likely be easy. Pissing people off seemed like a skill that I might just have been born with.
Fifth, I had to then achieve peace with the people controlling my neck bomb… after I pissed them off bad enough to attempt to blow my head off, or, better yet, expose them to the rest of the world. Making peace with people I had pissed off didn’t seem to be in my wheelhouse. I had less experience with that than exposing bad guys. So it seemed like whistleblowing might still be in my future.
Oh, and do all this before Plum Blossom ended the world.
Chapter 4
Egan’s Army-Navy store was hopping when I got there. Prepper supplies were flying off the shelves like crazy. Cases of freeze-dried food, medical kits, tools, survival kits, basically almost everything in the store was disappearing and long lines had formed at the checkout registers.
At first no one noticed me, just another body stepping in to a very New York-type struggle for resources. But then a couple of people did double takes and suddenly it spread across the big retail space like a wave.
All the grabbing and snatching stopped as everyone turned their eyes on me, including the staff at the registers and those helping in the aisles. The store went quiet for a moment before side comments started up.
“It’s him…”
“That’s Ajaya Gurung!”
“The Zone Sniper really does shop here.”
“He’s smaller than I thought.”
Suddenly Egan himself was bustling out from behind the main counter, moving his stocky body in a direct line for me.
“Yo, Ajaya. Good to see you, my friend,” he said, much louder than necessary. Or perhaps just exactly as loud as he intended.
“Hey Egan, can we talk… somewhere?” I asked, eyeing the crowd that was starting to circle around.
He nodded, grabbed my elbow, and spun me toward the back wall, hustling me past a campsite display that included a full field tent, outdoor shower, and a fake fire pit with flickering LED lights. Behind the pop-up shower cubicle was a door in the wall that said PRIVATE: MINEFIELD BEYOND and featured a large graphic skull and crossbones decal.
Egan punched a code into the lock and popped the door open, dragging me through after him.
He shut the door almost in the face of a curious shopper who had tried to follow us.
“Pushy creeps,” he said with a growl, turning and leading me down a hallway to what had to be his office.
“Aren’t they your customers?” I asked mildly as I looked around. He didn’t bother to answer.
The wall behind his desk was almost completely occupied by a full-size US flag with a plaque underneath that indicated that it had been flown over Zone Defense headquarters on Roosevelt Island for Egan Christopoulos.
Mounted on a swiveling rod, suspended over a wooden board on one corner of his big government-issue wooden desk was an empty AT-4 anti-armor missile tube. The open muzzle of the disposable rocket launcher had the words Smile–wait for flash stenciled around the arc of its gaping maw.
A reproduction Greek-style xiphos sword occupied a stand on top of the bookshelf to my right as I sat across from Egan, who settled in behind his surprisingly neat and tidy desk.
“They’re still weirdos,” he said, and it took me a second to realize he was finally answering my question. “Now Ajaya, what can I do for the man who single-handedly gave me the best sales month ever? Do you know I made more money in the last month than I did over all of last year? It’s crazy!”
“Ah, that’s great, Egan. I had no idea that would happen. I didn’t think anyone was paying attention to what I said. Most of my emails these days are hate mail.”
“Well, that’s because the believers are all too busy rushing around getting ready for the world to end to take the time to send you messages. Although I have to think that there are at least a few good ones buried in your inbox somewhere,” Egan said. “But you came down for a reason. What do you need?”
“Weapons. I’ve been blocked from all my personal stuff,” I said.
“And you need at least the basics to make it to your stashes in the Zone,” Egan finished as he leaned back in his chair. “What are you looking for?”
“I’m not super choosy at this point. I need a light rifle to get me through the first stage of entry. Semi-auto at the very least, intermediate cartridge, high capacity, and reliable. No electronic sights. Also, some explosives would be useful.”
“Ajaya, I don’t generally sell firearms… just ammo and accessories. And I’ve never dealt in more dangerous stuff.”
“Yeah, but didn’t you tell me your friend Tony could get stuff?” Tony was a hard case, ex-military with connections.
He nodded slowly, not speaking, eyes locked on me but his mind still elsewhere.
“Yeah… he can. Wait! You’ve got that thing in your neck! It’s listening right now!”
I held up a hand. “No, it’s not. Right now… and for the next…” I glanced at the time in my contact lens, “seventeen minutes, it won’t be.”
“You’ve found a way to block it?”
I held up one hand, palm down and waggled it in a so-so motion.
“A little. I’m able to program a block of time in order for it to be out of commission.”
“Cutting it pretty close, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Traffic was a bitch getting here. Glad you were available,” I said.
“Me too. So this puts a kink in things. We’ll have to see if there’s any help to be had and then work out a way to get that help to you,” he said, emphasizing his code word help despite my assurance that we were still safe from listeners.
“I’m sure we can work something out.”
Fifteen minutes later, I left the building by a back door that led out in
to an employee parking lot, a small bag of seemingly innocuous purchases under my arm. Keeping my head down to avoid the customers, I headed out to finish the rest of my errands. A glance behind and above me showed a black dot in the sky, one of many drones on errands, although this one seemed to be keeping pace with me.
My next stop was the Brooklyn Public Library. The black dot in the sky got closer, but it couldn’t come inside with me as I entered. With everything being digital these days, most people forget about all the resources in a good old regular library. Lots of annual government reports filed away on dusty shelves. My mother has always been a fan of libraries, and she made sure that her children were familiar with this old style of research. The best part is that unless someone is watching your every move, there is no record of what you look at inside the walls of a library, especially if you just browse the stacks and don’t search the computerized index.
My neck bomb could listen in but it couldn’t see what I was looking at. The looped program of sounds that Rikki had programmed into it for my visit to Egan’s Army-Navy had long since run out and the device had switched back to real-time audio. Between the looped background sounds and now the quiet library, it must have made for some seriously boring surveillance duty.
Once inside, I didn’t even have to ask a librarian for assistance, instead going right into the stacks, as I already knew where my information was kept.
Every year, the MTA (that’s Metropolitan Transport Authority for those of you not familiar with the Big Apple) files reports on the subways. When Drone Night went down and the government sealed off Manhattan, the subways were a major issue. All of the tunnels into the island had to be sealed and protected and the subway lines rerouted in new directions. It took five years for most of the rerouting to get done, and the result was that there were lots of new maps, old maps, and boring reports from those years.