He felt himself being picked up and roughly forced toward the door of the machine. They walked sideways on the hill toward the craft, until he reached the end of a descended walkway and stepped on. A sharp metal object — some sort of gun, he assumed — poked him in his back and forced him forward.
“I’m not going anywhere with you —“ he stammered. A lancing blow from the gun hit him behind his right kneecap, and pain shot through his lower body.
“Keep talking.”
Myers got the point, so he didn’t try again. Instead he examined the strange floating machine while he walked up the ramp.
It was some sort of helicopter, except there was no rotor — nothing that Myers could see that would keep a craft this size hovering. The black object floated, yet moved slightly in the air, as if still being controlled by a pilot, or somehow stabilized automatically. It was the shape of an arrow. Long and straight, the front of the craft came to a dull point, gently curving outward into the wider shape of its bulk. The rear of the craft was blunt, as if the object’s designer had given up when it reached the end. In all, the craft was probably ten meters from front to back.
It looked like an extremely efficient mode of transportation. Myers recognized how useful its shape would be in any sort of weather — long and straight for fast travel, yet a wide, flat base for steadying itself in wind or rain. It was, he had to admit, a perfect design for its intent. His detail-oriented, analytical mind immediately wandered to thoughts of engineering and creation — how did it hover on its own? Who designed the propulsion system, and how did it work?
Most importantly, as Myers walked up the plank into the belly of the metal beast, still awed by the technology, he realized that it seemed as though he had been asleep for far longer than fifteen years.
RAND
JONATHAN’S BACK AND ENTIRE LOWER body was sweaty. He awoke cursing, his forehead covered in a cool perspiration as he sat up in bed. He’d had far too much to drink, and his body was punishing him for it.
What time is it? He groaned, shifting his weight to see the terminal sitting on the nightstand table next to his bed. His eyes tried to adjust, an involuntary evolutionary trait that only took precedence for the briefest of moments until his retinal enhancements took over and artificially brightened the room. The mechanical and electronic enhancements shifted the terminal’s screen into focus, and immediately scaled the vibrance of the image down to a comfortable level of brightness.
4:26.
Too early to get up and go to work, too late to get any useful sleep. He swung his legs out over the bed and stood up. He made a beeline for the tiny bathroom off to the side of the main living area and flicked on the light.
When the lights pierced sharply into his eyes, he immediately felt the recognition of last night’s conversation. Did I really say all of that? He wondered. He relived the conversation with Roan again. Drinking too much — both of them — led to a conversation about what? Some sort of device he was going to build?
And how much did I say about the other project? The project?
Jonathan shook his head, trying to clear the clutter. It only gave him a splitting headache.
Oh, man, if only she could see me now, he thought. His girlfriend wasn’t much of a fan of the late-night benders, even if it was in the safety of a local nerd-bar. They’d argued about it once, the last time she was here. He tried explaining the depravity of feeling like there’s nothing worth working for, and that’s why they hit the bar after work.
She’d written it off and told him it was an excuse to waste Current and destroy their heads. If he wanted to make a difference in the world, like he always said, he should spend more time working toward that, not wasting away in a dive bar.
He smiled, remembering it. She was always looking out for him, leading him along in some ways. He was a driven person, but in an artistic sort of way. When he fixated on something to build, or create, he couldn’t be stopped. But when he wasn’t working toward a defined goal that excited and interested him, he was the laziest person he knew.
Opposite of her. She had a self-described “Type-A” personality, an antiquated way of looking at someone’s predisposition toward working too many hours a week, hating the idea of losing or failure, and a constant strive toward achievement no matter the cost. She had racked up a number of personal, professional, and political victories during her career so far, including ex-first lady to President Myers Asher.
When they’d met four years ago at a tech conference in Paris, Jonathan found her grating, almost abrasive, in her forward demeanor and fiery personality. She was a widowed political powerhouse ready to take on the next level of career dominance, and as keynote for the biggest biannual technology summit in the world, she had a great platform to secure a job anywhere she wanted.
He was a lowly developer, ready to take a new assignment at Vericorp, and their paths crossed at a dinner after the keynote address. They sat apart from each other due to a strange mixup in the seating arrangements, and spent the entire night laughing at each other as she shared memories of White House life and corporate takeovers and he responded with twisted, pessimistic humor at the state of technology in the world.
They had a wild night in the hotel room after the dinner, one he only vaguely remembered. They were close immediately after the conference, seeing each other on weekends until he shipped out to Vericorp and Umutsuz. She’d flown in a few times between speeches and consulting gigs, and tried his best at entertaining an extremely wealthy woman in a city of cubicle dwellers, telemarketers, and no entertainment district.
But Diane was every bit as stubborn as she was strong. She’d chosen Jonathan, and there was nothing he could do to change or ruin that. It was scary, really, when he thought about the trajectory they were on. He hadn’t ever married, but she’d already been married twice. He constantly wondered if he had a choice in his own future, or if she’d already planned it out somewhere. He’d love to see it if she did.
The morning continued to creep up on Jonathan as he readied himself in the bathroom, thinking about the disdain Diane would have felt toward him in his current state, as well as the conversation he’d had with Roan.
Could it really be possible?
Roan had said yes, in fact it could be done. He trusted his friend, especially since there was nothing for him to lie about. Roan was the most glass-half-empty guy he’d ever met, so to say something was possible could never be misconstrued as false hope.
I can do it. He suddenly looked up, finding a tired, bleary-eyed middle-aged man staring back at him.
This is it. Do it. He psyched himself up, trying to ignore the severe consequences that simultaneously flooded his mind. It would be the end of his career. At best, he’d be reassigned to a job miles away from technology, probably out on a farm somewhere.
No, that wouldn’t do. Most farms these days were as technologically advanced as major media conglomerates. He thought again, but couldn’t decide on any career path that would be sufficiently removed from anything tech-related.
So, at best, he would be deactivated.
But it might be worth the shot. To be able to fly under the radar, to keep the System at bay as he maneuvered — that had to be worth the shot. He had to admit, it would certainly help him with the current plan. Even if he never used it after everything was over, he could find someone who would. Someone he could trust would use it properly, and well.
He nodded to himself. He pushed his hair around in a way that made it look as thought its unkept quality was purposeful and flicked off the light above him and exited the bathroom.
He needed to source the parts, but most of it could be done inexpensively and without drawing too much attention to himself. He sat down at his station and started drafting the design. He opened a design program Vericorp used for hardware and case manufacturing and opened a template file the program included for drafting basic plastic enclosure components. He laid out a plan for his home printer to work on. It was
crude, basically a rectangle with rounded corners, about two centimeters thick and five times as long. Similar to one of the generic disposable terminals that were sold over the counter at any store and loaded with Current.
The printer woke from sleep and began working on the three-dimensional object. Twelve separate heads whirred into action, each spraying a foam-like chemical created from melted plastic and silicon into specific areas to build the case.
It would finish in less than fifteen minutes, cool in less than thirty, and be fully functional as a hardware enclosure in a mere hour. In the meantime, he needed a plan to acquire the other pieces of hardware he would need.
Jonathan did a quick search on his personal terminal to find a nearby store that would provide him with a cheap, single-board processor. It needed to be fast enough to run the software he was planning to write in sufficient time, without causing a timeout on whatever local machine he would plan to “bypass.” No small feat, but he found one that he thought would be suitable and checked the store’s hours. Before the shop’s information page opened, a dialog box showed up asking Jonathan if he would like the terminal to place a hold order for a time during his day he’d be available to pick it up.
Damn, these programs. The System was everywhere, and it was often hard to imagine a world without it. AAI sure made things like online purchases, flight or travel booking, and basic communication a breeze. Digital control was merely an extension of human thought.
They weren’t open until much later that day, which meant he would need to stop by during lunch or after work. That would have to do. He confirmed, knowing the terminal would automatically send a hold order into the shop’s database, be automatically fulfilled when the store opened, and be waiting for him to pick up the motherboard later that day. He made sure the terminal was using his Vericorp employee ID number, a false layer of security that made him feel only a bit more comfortable.
He ran through the mental plan and blueprints again. Any of the wiring would either come with the board or could be found in his office or lying around in the apartment. The enclosure would be ready in less than an hour, and the only thing left would be to acquire a fingerprint scanner.
The fingerprint scanner would be a bit more of a challenge but still possible. Since fingerprint scanner components were used almost exclusively for allowing access to secure databases, which meant they were impossible to find for sale individually, and were considered almost contraband by law enforcement and local officials.
Vericorp had these on hand, but they were used in bulk for major manufacturing projects, or individually for prototyping certain designs, but either way they were scrutinized and tracked as closely as pIDs were on campus. He considered it for a moment. Other than “borrowing” a few necessary computer components from the lab, he was no thief, and a heist to secure a minor component worth no more than 5C wasn’t his idea of a great take.
He needed something else. He could see if there was a device he could buy or find that had a fingerprint scanner installed and reverse engineer it, but it was still a long shot. The System would know as soon as he turned on —
Of course. He was being stupid. If he bought a simple Current upload control station, a 15C piece of hardware that allowed users to program automatic transfers quickly and conveniently, did not activate it, and took it apart, he might be able to separate the board from the scanner and install it into his hackware. He did a few terminal searches to see if it was an idea worth pursuing.
The scanners in these devices — at least the cheaper ones — were all Class-A technology. They would work as advertised but weren’t equipped to interface with the new trend of human enhancements that had flooded the market in the past five years.
That was fine — he didn’t need to initiate a brain-to-device confirmation, nor did he need to remotely access it. He just needed the fingerprint scanner. Again, a dialog box alerted him to his decision before he’d even come to it: We noticed you have a scheduled pickup for later today. Would you like to also place a CA14-Scanner on hold at this location?
He shook his head.
If the System didn’t already know his motives, it would. He was confident this was just a social game, one he was destined to lose, but he played along. I’d rather die knowing than just waste away on this rock.
He confirmed the purchase — 17.4C — by making a quick stabbing motion with his finger.
His mission, for the moment, complete, he stood and prepared himself for work. The same white Oxford shirt he wore every day stared at him from a hanger next to his bedroom, and the same black slacks he’d worn every day for almost three years beckoned to him from a dresser installed into his wall.
He sighed. This would be a different day. No Roan, no Diane, no one with whom he could confer. No one with whom he could share this little breakthrough — revel at the genius of it all if it worked, or laugh with him at the sheer audacity of it if it failed. He was alone.
For the millionth time in three years, he was alone.
And he felt alone.
MYERS
THE INSIDE OF THE MACHINE was bleak. Rough metal siding led down to an aluminum floor, and painted black metal chairs on swiveling bases were mounted in the center of the tiny room. Myers walked toward one of the chairs but was pushed back into the corner. He found the cold metal wall and floor quickly as he was shoved backwards into the small space.
“Stay there, Mr. President. This won’t take long.” Birdman, the seven-foot-tall hand-crusher, turned to leave.
“Wait!” Myers shouted. His voice reverberated much louder through the metal bulk than he’d expected.
Birdman turned back around, his head cocked sideways and his eyebrows raised. Make it good, he seemed to be saying.
Myers prepared his speech. “I — I’m much more — you know how valuable I am,” Myers started. “It must be, uh, what — 75,000 Current by now?”
Myers hoped his use of the vernacular he’d been picking up would help a little.
Birdman’s eyes squinted, staring Myers down. He smiled, flashing a grin of perfect teeth. “75,000? We don’t get out of bed for less than 80k, Mr. President.”
“Okay — right, I got it. Big score. Listen, I can help you —“
“You can help us?” Birdman seemed legitimately amused. “What can you offer us? More Current?”
“No. Freedom.”
At this, Birdman reacted strangely. He pulled his full height up to the ceiling, his head barely scraping against the cool metal roof. Then he charged.
Myers flinched, closing his eyes as he waited for the massive man to crush him into a permanent corner furniture piece.
Instead, Birdman stopped inches in front of Myers’ face. His breath was fresh, matching his perfect teeth, as if the only type of hygiene the man cared for was dental. He spoke to Myers in a chilling whisper, his squinted eyes staring directly into Myers’.
“How long have you been awake?”
“I — I’m sorry?” Myers muttered.
“How long? How long have you been stumbling around out here, Asher? After you were scraped?”
Myers understood, and complied with the questioning. “Three days. Not sure when, exactly, I ‘woke up,’ but —“
“And in three days, how many other hunters did you see?”
“Uh…” Myers considered telling them about the person who’d tried to shoot him in the city. Maybe it was these guys, was a thought that drifted quickly through his head. As soon as he’d had the thought, another portion of his brain began arguing with it. No, you would have seen the heli-thing. You would have at least heard it. Plus, you haven’t seen any long-range weaponry onboard.
“Myers?” Birdman was waiting for him to respond. Actually waiting, as if he had all the time in the world. Myers remembered the game — the longer I’m out here, un-‘logged,’ the more valuable I am.
“None.” Myers looked up at his attacker. “You — you’re it.” He needed to buy time. Make a plan. For that r
eason, it seemed as though these hunters’ goal and Myers’ were strangely and ironically aligned: keep the mark alive as long as possible.
“Right. You are correct, Mr. President.” Birdman grinned. “We are the only Unders with the same capabilities of an Advance Remote Unit. He swept a hand around, showing off the insane heli-thing and smiling a wide grin of perfect teeth. We are the only hunters able to move through this region uninhibited, and we are the only hunters you need to actually worry about.”
Myers listened, taking it all in. Some part of his mind filed it all away, logging it for future use. For a plan.
“So, you’ve been out here for three days or so,” Birdman continued. “And you’ve picked up a little of our shorthand, I see. But what makes you think…” Birdman paused. His nostrils flared.
I pissed him off, Myers thought. Birdman seemed to be considering his next move.
“What makes you think… that we need something like freedom? What makes you think we want it?” He yelled the last part, a shout so loud Myers thought his head was going to explode.
“I — I guess…”
“What makes you think we didn’t choose this for ourselves?”
Myers didn’t respond. Instead, he looked out the window.
Across from Myers in the floating heli-machine was a small window, like a porthole. He could see the top of their hill and a few scraggly-looking trees surrounding it, as well as Ravi, still splayed out on the ground, the strange spider-like machine pinning him down and rendering him motionless. He watched the other three — Yuri, Wong, and Grouse — discussing what to do with Ravi. He couldn’t hear the discussion over the sound of the engines, or whatever was powering this miraculous machine, but he could see it was hopeless.
Birdman didn’t push any further. He turned around and walked over the to the open doorway — one and a half strides for his ridiculously long legs.
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