by Rick Partlow
His image split and split again, multiplying into an army of cybernetic cherubim that filled the plain before me, each raising high a flaming sword. I didn't waste words with the simulacrum, nor did I bother with duplicating my analog...such things were psych warfare, designed for virtual combat between equals. On this field, I was so much the superior that I could have been alone.
The dark ghost that was my analog elongated into a thread of nothingness, spearing through the angelic ranks and directly into the core of his headcomp's defenses. Battles were fought in the cyberspace between us, battles as violent as the taking of Canaan and just as real to the two of us. But these battles were fought in nanoseconds, as bloodless cybernetic soldiers sought to block my way into Fourcade's headcomp and my own virtual warrior slew them. His angelic guardians evaporated in the swath of my shadowy talons; and, in the end, the Dantean gateway to the memory core was before me, lacking only a notice that any who entered should abandon all hope. A gentle nudge pushed it open, and I was in.
Suddenly, everything that was in his headcomp was in mine, a flood of data that took my own processors long seconds to sift through...but it wasn't enough. Oh, there were all sorts of interesting tidbits about the times and places for weapons and drug deals, items for which I would have sold my soul not twenty-four hours ago, but not what I was looking for. I'd have to delve a bit deeper...
This was the tricky part---the part only a handful of people knew was possible. Technically, you can't penetrate a person's mind using their headcomp...but if you can get control of the implant, you can order it to download a section of memory into the hard drive. How far back to go? That depended on how far back this whole thing went. I decided on a year, since that was when Kara had made her find. Instructing the headcomp to download the section of memory, I then brought the data down the link to my own implant and into my own memory...
A flash of harsh, white light coalesced into the noonday glare of Tau Ceti and I found myself as Kevin Fourcade, an out-of-work loaderjock, a psych-burnout from service in the war, living on the dole on Aphrodite. I/he wandered the streets of Kennedy City, sometimes resorting to petty crime to relieve the mind-numbing boredom and the recurring stress attacks, until finally I/he found the local temple of the Church of the Ancients, and lost myself/himself in the first cause I/he could believe in since the Marines had cast him aside, finding a way to make sense of my/his senseless life.
First a brutal initiation, followed in close succession by the operations, the implants, the indoctrination---losing our face, our identity, our soul. It seemed endless, but I/he finally worked my way up from acolyte to priest, doing things I/he'd never dreamed of before, things I/he would have once considered horrifying. Murder, torture, rape, computer brainwashing... anything was justified in the service of the Ancients.
After months of faithful and rewarding service came the great opportunity, the opening to take the truth of the Predecessors to the unknowing on Canaan as a high priest---it had seemed so fast to me/him, but the Cult was a new religion, and opportunities were many. I/He'd been handed this challenging honor in the morning, and the same afternoon had been shuttled to an orbital station where, before catching a ship outsystem, had been introduced to the Hidden Allies of the truth, to the Great Friends of the Faithful...
Sonofabitch.
I shook my head to clear it of Fourcade's memories, wishing I could scrub my brain clean. But I had what I wanted...more than I wanted. I took one last look at his face. He seemed less preternaturally calm now and more of a preprogrammed robot. I shook my head in pity, unplugged the `face jack, and stepped out into the anteroom. Jason was already there, looking at me curiously. I guess the strain of the penetration showed on my face.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said. "What's wrong?"
"We've got some big trouble," I told him. "I need to talk to you somewhere safe."
"This isn't safe?" He looked around in confusion.
"No," I told him emphatically. "This isn't safe at all."
Before he could voice the questions evident in his face, the paging tone signaled from the room's comlink. I hit the control to accept it, and an image of Roland Gutteriez, our watch deputy for the night, sprang to life above the projector.
"Sir," he said, seeming decidedly uncomfortable, "there's a call online for you from Inspector Kurisawa. He seems, uh, rather upset."
"Shit's going to hit the turbines now," Jason muttered.
"That martinet's the least of our problems now. Go ahead and patch him through, Roland."
Gutteriez's face shimmered away, momentarily replaced by the unpleasant visage of everyone's favorite Patrol officer. Judging by the scowl on his face, I doubted whether I really wanted to hear what Shoto had to say.
"What can I do for you, Inspector?" I asked businesslike, as if the confrontation at the cult compound had never happened.
"Hand him over, Mitchell," Kurisawa snapped perfunctorily. "No games, no backwoods stonewalling, just hand him the hell over. Or I'll send in an assault squad to haul him and you up here in restraints."
"No need for that." I shook my head, deciding I had everything Fourcade could give me already. "Where would you like to pick him up?" A look of mild consternation came over Shoto's face, as if he'd expected more resistance out of me.
"Have him at the spaceport in an hour," he ordered. "Berth 3-A. One of my people will take him from there. But don't think you're getting away with interfering with a federal investigation, Mitchell," he added, his tone becoming harsh. "I haven't forgotten what happened, and after I finish cleaning up the mess you've left, I'm filing formal charges against you."
"Whatever turns you on, Shoto. But you'd best remember, your authority over me extends only to this investigation. We're not an enfranchised colony here, and we technically fall under the jurisdiction of the military, not the Patrol. If we didn't have a Corporate presence, you couldn't even set foot on this planet without my permission. I'll cooperate with you as far as I think is required by law, but if you ever try to pull another grandstand stunt like you did back at the compound, I'll call in the StarFleet Sector Commander and have him haul your ass into the Commonwealth Circuit Court." I cut off the transmission before he could reply and turned to Jason. "Have Fourcade delivered to the Hardhats at the port. I'm going back to my house...I want you to meet me there in no more than two hours."
"Okay, Cal," he agreed. "Anything else?"
"Yeah," I said, heading for the door. "Have the guard on my property doubled, and changed every four hours. And I want them carrying the heavy stuff."
"You think the cultists have more people?" he asked me curiously.
"I wish the cultists were the worst of our worries," I told him. "I'll see you in a couple of hours."
* * *
I took my personal hopper out of the station garage and flew it out of the city as fast as the turbines would take me. My stomach was turning more RPM's than the engine...I felt disoriented, like I wasn't quite sure what was real. I found myself fervently longing for the days when all I had to worry about was trying to get out of daily prayer meetings so I could sneak out to the caves with Rachel.
Hell, even in the military, it had been simpler than this...I went where they told me, killed when they told me. It hadn't been much of a life, but at least it had been simple. Now everything was tangled up, I didn't know what to believe, and there was no easy answer.
I was so lost in thought, I hadn't registered the scenery passing beneath me until my hopper was over the Old Growth. That's when they hit me. My hopper's proximity alarms went off like a slap in the face, and I had about a tenth of a second to look at the radar screen before the air around my cockpit went bright and the craft shuddered violently. G-forces threw me against my restraints as the hopper went into a spin, and I fought to regain control, trying to ignore the dizzying view outside my cockpit.
I grappled with the wheel like Jacob wrestling the angel in the desert, finally received the blessin
g of stabilization, and got a very clear view of the stubby trees about twenty meters beneath me before my hopper plowed into them belly-first. There was a sound like God farting as metal and plastic was sheered away from the body of the hopper, and then I was jerked up short against my restraints. Without my bone lamination and the cyborganic webbing that circumscribed my innards, I would have died quite thoroughly right there, every major organ in my body ruptured and my neck and spinal cord shattered like an emigrant's dreams.
As it was, I wasn't going to be doing cartwheels anytime soon, and if my pharmacy organ hadn't been pumping me with endorphines, I'd have been in some serious pain. I shook my head clear, pulled the quick-release on my harness and hauled my abused body out of the pilot's seat. The hopper had crashed at about a forty-five degree angle to my right, and I dropped out of the seat, slammed against the opposite hull. I had to get away from the wreck fast, before they came back around to finish me off.
Jason, I transmitted as I wrenched the hatch open. Jason, this is Cal. I've been shot down. Do you read me?
I didn't receive any reply as I fell through the open hatch, rolling on my shoulder to the soft ground two meters below. I paused for a moment, looked back at the hopper, and whistled softly. Whatever they had hit me with had torn off the aft three meters of the flyer, and both rear directional fans with it. The metal there still glowed hot, steam hissing off it in the moist night air.
I turned my attention to the sky, but saw nothing until I switched to infrared. Then I spotted the glowing disc of another hopper, running without lights, arcing around toward the crash site. If I'd had a heavy Gauss rifle, he'd have been toast, but my sidearm couldn't do much more than scratch his paint. My best shot was getting to the farmhouse.
The Old Growth rose up thick around me, the gaps between the trees filled in by Tangleweed. Normally slow going, but I didn't have time for the conservative approach. Extending my talons, I threw myself into the brush, slashing like a human machete, following my integral compass toward the farm.
As I went, I kept trying to contact Jason or Rachel, but whoever was after me must have laid down a wide-spectrum jam. At least, I figured, I would be safe from air attacks. There was no way they could pick up my body heat through the trees, and even if they did, it would be almost impossible to get a clear shot at me. I'd be okay unless they landed some ground troops.
Barely had that thought passed through my mind when a crackling burst of laserfire exploded against a tree trunk not ten centimeters from my head, sending steam and scaly bark flying like grenade fragments. I cut to my left, not hesitating to get a look at my attacker, just picking up my speed. I ran a serpentine path through the trees, slashing my way through the Tangleweed, ignoring the thorns and sharp spurs of bark that snagged at my jacket and fatigue pants.
Why? I suddenly wondered. Why come after me now? If it was the Patrol, they would simply have arrested me. If it was Wellesley and the CSF, wouldn't they try to capture me alive, try to force me to tell them where Kara was? Unless...they already knew where she was.
God damn it! They'd be hitting the farm, too! I pulled up short, ducking behind a tree. They had to have a vehicle, and I had to find it. There was no way I could get there in time on foot. I took a deep breath, slowed my respiration, stayed perfectly still and just listened. I could hear the cracking of brush underfoot not three meters to my rear, and similar noises all around me, though farther away. I shut them out, shut out the hum of the hopper buzzing overhead, and tried again.
There. About...three hundred meters ahead of me and slightly to the right, I could just make out the whine of a turbine. Either a grounded hopper or a high-capacity cargo truck was laying in wait very near the edge of the Old Growth, where it gave way to the farmland.
I switched my focus back to the brush-breaker close behind me, and found him to be a little closer now, coming up on my left. I sheathed my talons---this would have to be a clean kill if I was going to use his clothes to get me to the vehicle. Two more steps...just about another meter and he'd be past my tree. He was being cautious; I could tell by the long periods between footsteps. I'd have to be quick.
Another step and I could see the muzzle of a pulse carbine protruding about three centimeters past the tree...I'd want to time my jump just as he began his next move forward. I watched the muzzle of that pulse gun like a hawk watching a snake, waiting till it dipped almost imperceptibly with his step forward...then I lashed out with a front snapkick that tore the weapon from his gloved hands, threw myself into him.
I barely had time to register the key tactical data in my headcomp---visored helmet, soft duraweave fatigues, ceramic tactical vest, no sidearm, no melee weapons---before we were both on the ground, my knee coming down in his solar plexus, driving the wind from him in an explosive burst. I wrenched the helmet backwards, exposing his neck, and chopped down on the throat with the blade of my right hand.
The strike caved in his trachea, and he began silently choking, thrashing beneath me as I held him. I stopped his struggling with another blow to the jugular vein, letting him fall limp. Scanning the area to be sure no one had heard, I pulled off his helmet. He was a solid, stocky human male, with a wide-boned face, twisted grotesquely in the mask of desperation that he'd died with. He was just a bit leaner than me, but the helmet was adjustable and I managed to pull it on and fasten the chinstrap. I jerked the armored vest off of him, deciding I could wear it if I left its velcro chest straps loose. I figured my brown fatigues could pass for his grey ones in the dark, so I grabbed his weapon, quickly covered his body up with brush and dirt and headed at a brisk walk through the woods toward the vehicle. The Machine raged at me from within, eager to hunt through the forest and slaughter every last enemy troop, but I beat it down with the image of Rachel. If I was going to help her, I needed to be in control.
It took me almost five minutes to locate their ride; they had parked it behind a rise to hide its heat signature from the woods, and I had to use audio sensors to lead me to the general area. No use trying to sneak up on them---either they'd buy my disguise or they wouldn't. I hesitated for just a moment, then strode casually out of the dense trees and around the rise of grassy earth. I was a bit disappointed to find that it was a wheeled cargo truck modified to carry personnel. I'd been hoping for a hopper; but hell, I suppose beggars can't be choosers.
The engine was idling and the lights were off, but I could see, using infrared, that the driver still sat behind the wheel, his door cracked open. Noticing me approaching the driver's side, he levered himself out of the seat and waved genially with one hand, his other filled with a heavy pistol. I waved back, leveled the pulse gun and shot him through the chest. He slumped against the door, slamming it closed before he sank to the ground, leaving a streak of blood on the side of the truck.
I ran up to the truck, kicked his body aside, pulled the door open and jumped behind the wheel. Throwing off my borrowed headgear, I quickly examined the controls, put the vehicle in gear and gave it a shot of the power from the accelerator. It bounced away from the hill with a whine of protest from the turbines, and I fought with the steering wheel to head it toward the farm.
As I took the truck across the rolling farmland, rocks and ruts jouncing it around like a child's toy, all I could think was that I sent her there. I was the one who'd put McIntire in my home, with my wife and brother. I'd thought the only threat was from the Cult...I'd thought we could handle them. I never thought that Wellesley would risk a direct attack. We'd all lost so much during the war...I don't think any of us could take losing any more.
A dull, red glow on the horizon was the first sign that told me I was too late. I gave the truck all the power the turbines had, slamming across the hills at over a hundred klicks an hour, desperation gnawing at my guts. I kept seeing my brother Isaac's face as the Tahni slugs slammed into his chest and head. I saw the scratched-out graves of my parents and sister beside the smoldering ruins of their house. All the people I loved who had died aro
und me...
God, I couldn't stand to see it happen again.
It looked even worse when I came within sight of the house. Half the building was gone, blown to bits, its wreckage burning wildly. What remained upright was the local stone we'd put up by hand, standing in solitary memorial like a grave marker. I heard the low moan of a dying animal, not immediately realizing that it had come from me. I was so transfixed by the sight of my destroyed home that I didn't, at first, notice the grey-hulled shuttle sitting behind it, its belly hatch gaping conspicuously open. I had actually stopped the truck, dropped numbly out of the cab before I saw the bodies.
Most of them were CSF mercenaries, Trina Wellesley's goon squad, just like the ones who'd attacked me in the Old Growth---same gray fatigues, ceramic armor and laser weapons. They'd been shot by Gauss guns, and pretty accurately, too. There were at least a dozen of them sprawled out across the yard in the front of the house, and three more bodies near the building that I recognized as my deputies, all killed by laserfire. Shamir, Nielsen and Hammond. Pete must have called them out after I left. Ari Shamir, who'd named his first son after me; Carrie Nielsen, who'd gone out with my brother for a year before she married someone else; and Noryuki Hammond, the oldest deputy on the force---he'd been with the constabulary since before the war, had fought beside me when we took back Canaan from the Tahni. Two men and a woman, all with families, but all I could think of then was my own family.
"Cal?" The voice was tentative, weak. My head snapped around toward the shuttle, and I saw Pete coming out from behind the nose gear, a Gauss rifle held limply in his right hand. His helmet was off, revealing a face twisted with pain and drained of emotion, and the left side of his fatigues was soaked with blood from a laser wound in his side, and another in his leg.