The Final Wars Rage

by S A Asthana

  Frank’s shoulders drooped. Blood drained from his face. It was all over — the magic act, the deception, everything. The Frankenstein monster and the artificial intelligence, all creations of man’s ambitions, were aligned in their malignance toward him. Not surprising. Human machinations veered out of control often enough for that calamity to be a certainty, like those green fogs. The holograms’ eyes became prominent within their nebulous construct, and they appeared red as if they belonged to demons. Their glares speared Frank.

  Alice took even steps towards him, her face eerily peaceful. No smile, no frown — nothing but blank expression. A lump formed in his throat. In a last act of desperation, he reached for his holster, but trembling hands made it difficult to pull free the revolver. Alice, though, had no such difficulty. When she pulled her handgun and shot him in the face, her hand never wavered.

  CHAPTER 27: BASTIEN

  The darkness had a strange smell, like a pungent chemical spill. It cloaked Bastien and gnawed at his skin as if rodents had been unleashed all over his body. He wanted to scream but nothing came out. Overwhelming pain consumed him. It shook his limbs. He thrashed against his surroundings — there was nothing but a dark, bubbling liquid. Floating in place, he quivered in agony. Still, there was air to breathe. There was that silver lining.

  A voice cut through the dark. “Bastien.”

  He blinked open his eyes and a speck of white light greeted him. It hovered above like a firefly in the night. The voice had come from the light, he was sure. Reaching out, Bastien strained to touch the brilliance with unsteady fingers. His arm ached, as did his chest. A pounding punched his temples. That light just had to take the pain away, or so he imagined.

  “My child.” The voice was louder this time. There was a soft texture to it as if the words were stitched together with cotton. “Come to me.” The man sounded familiar.

  Heat permeated from the light, like it belonged to a sun deep within space. Bastien’s skin warmed some and his insides stopped quaking. He reached out once more and this time, his index finger contacted the brilliance. A surge of energy rushed through his naked body, arching his back. Muscles tightened and teeth chattered. Soon, the light had enlarged to consume everything.

  White, fluffy clouds spread away against a blue backdrop. Their wisps stirred lazily and held an ethereal quality. The dazzling sun peeked out from behind a mountain of cloud and pushed a warm breeze along with its shine. Bastien stood upon a cloud, its swollen surface buoyant. Land was hard to discern — there was nothing but a patchwork of cumulonimbi as far as the eyes could see, their rolls and falls all encompassing.

  Finding himself dressed in a silvery, loose fitting tunic, Bastien snapped his stare from right to left and back. The place was foreign, but still, there was a strange familiarity. Wind wafted through his black locks and caressed his clean-shaven face. The air smelled as if it was laced with honey. And a feeling of calm massaged the folds on his brain.

  Is this heaven? Am I dead?

  A figure stood not so far away. It too was dressed in a slivery tunic. Long, grey dreads covered the head, and the man’s black skin shone in the sunlight, its pigment’s contrast stark against the clothing. Bastien rushed to the man, his feet kicking up cloudy curls. It was like running over a soft mattress.

  “Father Paul?”

  The man turned slowly. A smile parted the familiar face. He stretched out his arms and Bastien melted into his embrace. All the pain and the burden washed away. The old priest’s touch comforted. And after a very long time, Bastien smiled. “I’m sorry for shunning you, Father.”

  “It is all right, my son,” Father Paul said. “You were just angry with your circumstances.”

  “But I should have never desecrated your memory.” Bastien sniffed like a child.

  “Let bygones be bygones.” He held Bastien’s face in his hands. “You have seen much since my death. Gone through one ordeal after another. Experienced true horror.”

  Bastien nodded.

  “But I still see the soul of that six-year-old boy I found. A righteous being. Resilient to the core. A savior.”

  Bastien gently pulled away, taking slow steps back. His head hung. “I have tried to remain as you remember me, Father — as you taught me to be. But there have been compromises.”

  The old man nodded knowingly. “You have killed.”

  Eye contact with the man was hard. Bastien’s stare remained on the clouds swirling about his feet. There was so much shame. Exodus 20:13. Thou shall not murder — a lesson forgotten.

  “I tried my best to not turn into a monster,” Bastien confessed. “Gave it everything I could. But the world…” His words trailed into silence. Gritting his teeth, he continued after a few short breaths, “But the world made it hard for me not to.” It was an excuse. The world made me do it — so much for resilience.

  Silence settled in. Bastien didn’t know what else to say. If this was judgment day, he wouldn’t be staying much longer up here. The fires of hell awaited him.

  “Come take a walk with me, my child.” Grabbing Bastien’s hand, he led for some distance. White, wavy curls kicked up around their feet and danced before dissipating into thin air. A cloudy plume loomed large just ahead, its curves shining bright in the sunlight.

  Father Paul held up his hands and slowly parted them. The mountain of a cloud did the same, its swirls giving away like cotton candy. A gust blew forth, and Bastien put up his hand to shield his face. He spied a grey, lean spacecraft within the separated plume. It was dated, its sharp angles speaking of design preferences several decades old, and rust coated much of its exterior, blunting the shine. An artillery cannon sat atop the vehicle. Given the spacecraft’s condition, it most likely served pirates.

  “Yes, it’s a pirate craft,” Father Paul confirmed as if reading Bastien’s mind.

  “What’s it doing… here?”

  The old man chuckled. “Well, it is only a memory.” He smiled, his eyes roaming the craft from rear facing exhaust pipes to front facing cockpit windshield. “It’s my memory.”

  “When did you see pirates?” Bastien’s eyebrows raised.

  “My child,” Father Paul stared back, “I was a pirate myself once.”

  The revelation shook Bastien. “I-I don’t understand.”

  There was a soft chuckle. “I wasn’t always a moral man. There was a time when I too hunted and killed.” His eyes wavered, and a faraway look overcame them. “I used to be known as Blackhawk, the marauder of space.”

  The name rang a bell. Bastien’s mouth gaped. Blackhawk was a legend and his exploits were part of children’s action-filled tales. The pirate’s brazen adventures were mimicked often by Bastien and the other orphans. He had vivid memories of pretending to be the man in Bastille Market on several occasions. And all along, that very man had been his caretaker. The disclosure startled.

  “Yes, I was Blackhawk and I led the Barbarys once. We would raid every Nipponese cargo hauler we could get our grubby hands on. And we killed.” It was Father Paul’s turn to hang his head.

  A younger version of the good father, a shirtless, muscular man, poked out of the spacecraft’s narrow door. There was a youthful confidence in his coal-black eyes. He jumped out with a long staff in one hand and a gun in the other. He arched his back with a yawn, allowing his long, black dreads to hang nearly to his boot heels.

  “Just look at me there,” Father Paul said, his eyes now thin with admonishment. “Not a care in the world. Filled with selfishness. A lost soul, wandering the emptiness of space.”

  The young man took a battle-ready stance and enemies dressed in red uniforms rushed out of the surrounding clouds. There must have been at least ten opponents. They came for the pirate like a storm descending. A melee ensued. The man systematically took apart the group, either with bullets or the staff. There were somersaults along with high kicks. His skill was obvious. Bastien glanced at the old, feeble man standing next to him and let his stare snap back to the combat.


  “You fought the Martians?” he asked.

  “Yes. They were peacekeepers, after all and we were disrupters. Such clashes became all too common.” The pirate they watched swung his staff hard, cracking a woman’s neck. She fell limp alongside the rest of her team. “Look at him rejoice.” Father Paul’s nose crinkled at the sight. His younger self punched the air and hooted with glee. “Blackhawk, the marauder of space. Blackhawk, the murderer. Long ago I lost count of how many I killed.” Turning to Bastien, he continued, “That’s when you know you’re in trouble — when you lose count. When you stop seeing your kills as fully-fleshed humans, you have lost your own humanity.”

  The spacecraft disappeared along with the pirate. “The emptiness of it all made me rethink myself. I was tired of who I had become. But there was a path to redemption — there always is.”

  Bastien’s ears perked up. Redemption, the ever-present human need.

  “I decided to give it all up,” Father Paul said, “and I walked away from it. I gave into Jesus Christ and he revealed a path back to righteousness. I became his servant in everything I did from that fateful day onward.”

  “And this turn brought you to New Paris? Made you open up the orphanage?”

  The old man nodded. “I found my path to redemption and saved myself. You too can find yours. It is not too late, my child. Remember, a wise man once said every sinner has a future, just like every saint has a past.”

  Bastien turned away. A grimace contorted his face. “It is too late for me, Father.” Shutting his eyes as if to forget all those he’d killed in cold blood, he cried, “I tried redemption. But… I failed miserably.”

  “Taking a life to redeem oneself from a life of killing. It seldom serves as the path back up the mountain of virtuousness,” Father Paul had a point. “Even if you meant well, killing more would not clear your conscience. If anything, it would drag you further down the path you were already on. Is that what you really want?”

  Bastien shook his head and blinked away tears. The priest’s words made sense, but what was the use? Bastien felt dead already. And judgment would come soon. He spied pearly gates standing tall in the distance, their arch glinting golden bright against the sun.

  Father Paul shook a fist. “You were meant to be a savior. That was always your calling. Not killing.”

  Bastien knew this was right, that he had excelled at saving those around him when he was only an enlisted soldier. Whether it was boosting morale, or physically bringing a team member to safety, it had always been about inspiring others and keeping them from harm. He was a selfless leader.

  “That’s your path to redemption, my child.” He put his hands on Bastien’s shoulders. “The world has fallen into disarray. War and anger have consumed it. What it needs more than ever is a savior — someone who can guide the people to a better place. A man of virtue amongst the monsters.”

  “But… I’m dead, aren’t I?” How could he save anyone now?

  Father Paul smiled, the wrinkles in his face curving gently. “Your time hasn’t come yet. There is much left for you to do, my child.” A light brightened all around and its brilliance washed over Bastien. Father Paul dissipated into the clouds, his dreads mixing in with the white swirls. The familiar smile melted into the blue sky. And a cloud came over the golden gates, shrouding them within its plume. Bastien’s feet gave way and he fell.

  The old man’s voice echoed from above, “Onward and upward.”

  ∆∆∆

  Bastien flailed his arms and kicked his bare feet. He found himself floating within a water tank, tubes shooting away from his muscles and attaching to strange machinery all around. An oxygen mask cusped tight about the lower half of his face, and bubbles escaped it and trailed to a light up above. The light glimmered, fractured through the rippling surface.

  The tubes tugged at his skin and pulled him upwards. A gentle throbbing rushed over his bald scalp. He took a deep breath and let himself be heaved up. Breaking water, his eyes squinted under stinging luminosity.

  A familiar voice instructed him, “Relax, Bas.” The thrashing gave way to soft treading of water. A face presented itself at the edge of the glass tank — it was Dr. Bala.

  “You can take off that mask,” he said. Bastien did as told. Then he swam to the edge of the tank. “What are these tubes?” Bastien reached for one extending out of his shoulder — there was steel where there should have been skin. The left pec was encased within shiny plating in entirety, and a robotic arm connected to a protruding socket. Machinery intertwined with wires running the length of the bicep, and it all disappeared within a smooth sphere that was his forearm. A grey skeletal hand attached at the end, its motorized fingers curling and uncurling.

  “What’s this?” Bastien splashed in shock as Dr. Bala insisted he remain calm. But it was all too much to take in — the steel and its circuitry overwhelmed him. “What’s happened to me?” Bastien’s eyes darted from right to left. Multiple kiosks lined black walls, their screens littered with colorful diagnostics.

  “You almost died.” Dr. Bala held out a hand. Bastien grabbed it. “Several key arteries were destroyed by shrapnel. The left side of your torso was nearly decimated.” A piercing pain stabbed Bastien’s chest as he pulled himself out the tank. Grimacing, he landed on his feet but nearly slipped in a puddle of water. Someone draped him with a towel — it was Greg.

  “You’re okay now,” he said with something reminiscent of a smile.

  “How… l-long was… I o-out?” Bastien labored to speak. The water’s warmth had given way to the room’s machine cold. A computer buzz filled in the space between his words.

  “Almost twenty-four hours.” Dr. Bala studied a row of diagnostics. “The first several were touch and go, but you finally turned the corner.”

  Greg added, “The good doctor is too humble. You turned the corner as a result of his efforts.” He eyed Bastien’s mechanics.

  Putting the pieces of information together, Bastien asked, “I had to undergo cyborfication in order to stay alive?” A strange whirring played within his chest. It was as if gears and processors spun wild with his every breath.

  “That’s correct, Bas,” the doctor replied. “Luckily I had the necessary equipment gathered here in the medical room.”

  Bastien studied his chest plate again. Its smooth exterior reflected Dr. Bala’s puffy cheeks. “How much of what’s me is still inside this thing?”

  “Your organs are still present — the heart included, although there was some damage, but the extra parts have course-corrected the biological decline. Bones remain intact. The skin and tissue, on the other hand, are mostly gone. I had no other choice.” His infectious smile was now absent. Seriousness etched the wrinkles deeper around his eyes. The man resembled a wise old owl.

  “You must be careful with this new gear, Bas. I gave it to you to save your life but…” he paused as he took Bastien’s hand, “… this is carbon steel. It is one of the strongest steel alloys around. One strike with this arm can cause serious damage.”

  Bastien curled his fingers and studied the fist. There was no feeling, and yet he was able to manipulate the hand as if it was a natural extension. His squinted in confusion.

  “The part connecting to your chest has several hundred sensors, little fiber hairs, and each was molded to your natural physiology using the tank’s liquid chemistry. Your brain’s commands can travel the length of the arm without issue.”

  “But I don’t feel anything in this arm, doctor,” It was amazing how advanced the field of cyborfication was — so much could be created in just twenty-four hours. “Or on the left side of my chest, for that matter.”

  “And you won’t, because there are no sensors on the exterior to absorb sensation. So, you see, about twenty five percent of your body is now incapable of feeling pain from the outside.”

  “But what about—” A sharp pain cut Bastien short. It slashed inside, bending him at the waist. He fell to the floor covered in a film of swe
at. “Wha-what’s happening?”

  “The after-effects of cyborfication.” Dr. Bala administered two injections into a vein on Bastien’s neck. A cool sensation rushed through his face, relieving some of the pain. But his insides remained engulfed in a blizzard of needles.

  “It will take time to recover. The entire process of creating a cyborg takes a day at most, but it’s the recovery that spans months.”

  Bastien curled into a fetal position and trembled. Father Paul’s words echoed once more. “There is much left for you to do, my child.” Had it all been a vivid hallucination, conjured by medication and surgery? Or had he really visited the good father, somehow by God’s grace? Another sharp pain struck his chest.

  “While your steel is incapable of transmitting pain on the outside, your body’s insides can still hurt because of molding the materials to your natural nervous system.” Dr. Bala said.

  “Your recovery demands rest,” Greg said. He kneeled beside Bastien’s side with a look of concern.

  Bastien took a deep breath to steady his quivering limbs. “I can’t rest.” He sprang upright. “I must save.”

  Dr. Bala blinked in befuddlement.

  “I must save,” Bastien repeated, a wince across the face giving away the agony within.

  Hani burst into the room. “You all need to see this!”

  ∆∆∆

  A Nipponese newscast played on the datacenter’s television. Bastien and the Collective sat huddled around the screen, their faces painted with the screen’s bright light. Ota delivered the news with a stern face. “Nipponese citizens — I bring you an important announcement. In light of the recent tragic events, our new, dear leader, Emperor Yukito Honda has officially declared war on Port Sydney. His aim is to deliver a strong response to the assassination of his father and elder brother. Reo Honda is being held in Fuchū Prison and awaits trial for his involvement in the massacre.”