The Unlicensed Consciousness

by Travis Borne

  “They’re not gonna make it!” Jim exclaimed, and he leapt out—but something grabbed him.

  Nelman used an extraordinary strength and tossed Jim back inside as though he was a sheet of paper—then—put a hand on his heart. He conveyed a single willing nod, and his gentile iridescent blue-green eyes blinked resolutely. Time stopped. Stillness, silence. Jim received the blink and the touch—like the hand of an angel. True goodness sunk deep into his marrow with an overwhelming warmth. His hope for mankind, faith in possibility and purpose, was completely restored in that second. He nodded in return, conveying a sincere thank you with his eyes.

  Nelman turned and time and the loud roar returned. He vaulted into the bay. Like a cheetah his leap was fast and magnificent. With a spin he lunged nimbly between the stretcher and the now focused swarm. The hit cracked his plastic chest and the force of the interception pushed him back hard enough to crash into Amy’s stretcher. Bertha became steel and thrust her weight to maintain balance and the docs helped to stabilize it.

  “Hurry, get inside to safety!” Nelman's voice was a megaphone.

  Bertha steeled and gave it her all. She had one end, the docs had the other. The extra second bought them just enough time to drive it in but the front wheels clipped the steps and the momentum flung it end over end. Amy flew out, plowing into Jim. He padded her fall, landing hard on his back. Bertha and the docs dove in behind the crash.

  Jim tightly held Amy’s unconscious body and yelled loud enough to make his lungs bleed, “Door!”

  Young Doc slammed the button and the door activated—but it crunched a lunging drone and couldn’t completely close. And the drone transformed right in front of their eyes, adapting; it sent out small arms that lit with an electrified blue light. Old Doc was up and quickly kicked at the deadly arms. Although it was damaged, its thrusters smashed, it wouldn’t give up and kept reaching for them. It employed a myriad of tools. Jim booted it from the floor while hugging Amy tight, then reached up to pass Young Doc the crowbar.

  Bertha assisted in stomping the intruder, while Young Doc started waving the crowbar to smash at others attempting to enter the breach. These were obviously not the drones of yesteryear: hordes of the manmade variety with upgrades; these were definitely, something else, something more, something terrible.

  Jim could see through the eight-inch opening. A selfless act, Nelman had saved Amy, Bertha, and the docs—maybe more. Alone out there, he fought for his life, and he fought for theirs. He was overwhelmed, his white plastic shell half melted, his face mostly burnt off, but he kept on. He was an amazing sight to see. His joints became unrestrained and he could move in fascinating ways: his wrists, arms, legs, torso, all of him could twist and rotate with a full range of motion far beyond the bounds of human capability. He was a force to be reckoned with. Nelman had speed, agility, and incredible power. His hands grabbed at the drones and crushed them like tin foil, tossing them off like minuscule ticks, mere annoyances, but there were just too many and he dropped to a knee.

  A small spider-like drone clutched onto the top of his head and lit a red drilling beam. A large chrome drone hovered above and behind him as he vigorously gave it his all, tossing and twisting. The large one, as though it knew the humans were watching, hesitated, and its red glowing eyes laughed in pulses. It reared forward, diving into Nelman who started vibrating vehemently. And the eight-inch drill burned its way through Nelman’s chest. Smaller drones clung to his body with their multiple attachments: burning and shocking, cutting and tearing, and weighing him flat to the floor. In a final attempt, he pushed upward and faced the group now safe inside—as if he wanted to tell them: NEVER GIVE UP.

  Their eyes met. Jim spoke aloud, “Thank you.” Nelman nodded as he went down and a hint of a smile formed on what was left of his mouth. He was buried.

  Then, a surprise. The small drones, even the large chrome beast backed away, as if being ordered by a collective. The drones formed a circle around Nelman—an audience. The opening in the door cleared. A tractor-tire-sized mower drone arrived. It spun above Nelman’s badly mangled robotic body, then descended, slowly, as if putting on a demonstration for the onlookers—as if saying: WE ARE COMING FOR YOU, AND THERE IS NOTHING THAT CAN STOP US!

  Nelman’s right arm protruded beyond the edge of the blade’s housing, jolting violently as the blending machine devoured him, and his fingers formed a thumbs up.

  A final boot to the drone stuck in the door, and it sealed shut.

  79. All In

  Purple craters, nearly the pitch of ripe plum skin. Her eyes were large, dark, sunken depressions with barely a bump of motionless eyeballs under her lids. And no longer was her skin its usual vibrant, healthy tan; it was pale, ghostly, stretched like dough around her bones. Amy didn’t resemble the spunky girl he had pizza with just last Sunday. She lay in Jim’s arms, and he on the floor. To him, she was as light as a pillow. Amy was skinny, frail, wearing a makeshift back splint. Such as Lia’s, the brace wrapped her torso—and still, she was in a coma.

  “Doc,” Jim yelled from the floor, holding her as still as possible. Old Doc quickly examined her. Young Doc and Bertha reluctantly kept nervous eyes on the door. The ferocious humming could be heard even through the one-foot-thick facility door. A muffled cutting noise reverberated into the steel.

  “She’s stable,” Old Doc said, “and with that back brace you can carry her. Can we get her somewhere secure to lie down?”

  “How long will this door hold?” Young Doc interrupted.

  “Not exactly sure, but this is the most secure place in town. This door and that of the safe room are made with very special metals,” Jim said, lifting Amy as if she was a delicate flower. And to Old Doc, “Yes. Come on, let’s go.”

  He carried her down the hall. The docs and Bertha followed. They gazed curiously at the colorful lights while hopping along the motion path to the broadcast room; Jim figured they could use a dose of calm after what had just happened. He pressed the intercom button when they arrived at the door; normally it would have opened in his presence. Devon noticed him on screen with Bertha and the docs and looked to Ted, who quickly returned the okay. He switched the manual override and the door swooshed open. Jim rushed in. He carried Amy into the break room. All of the lender beds had an occupant—something he’d never seen.

  Bertha and the docs tailed Jim. Like foreigners in a new world, the sights captivated their gaze, slowed their pace, and bloated their gaping peepers. The beds, the screens, people getting ready to—to sleep! And the grandness of the room in all of its curious splendor—technology!

  Jim gently laid Amy on the couch and Old Doc tended to her. Bertha caressed her hair and sobbed. He told the three of them to stay quiet and put and rushed over to the HAT to meet up with Ted.

  “Jim, we’re filling every bed,” Ted said, catching him halfway, then walking with him. “We have to get the feed up now. Can you switch with Myron?”

  “Sure, how bad is it?” Jim asked. “Actually, forget I asked. It’s—Ted, it’s fucked.”

  “Ron called us as soon as he got into the control room. He told us the long-range ships had set down, all of them. Perimeter defense is still operational. Wall lasers, inner and outer are firing at maximum. That’s all we know. The bad news, there’s only a small amount left in the—” Ted did a double take. “—wait, the buffer feed just climbed a notch. What do you make of that, Devon?” he asked, looking closer as if he was seeing things. He couldn’t tap the screen, although he had an urge to—it wasn’t a broken gauge. Ted just blinked his eyes because that had never happened before.

  “Not sure, sir,” Devon replied, “it’s like something just gave us back a good chunk of the feed. This will buy us much needed time.”

  Jim thought of Nelman. The vision of his death passed through his mind. His final gift.

  “Ted. Status report.” Rico came over the line with urgency. “The control room is now 100% secure, nothing damaged. We have full power. Twelve wall lasers are
down, eighty-four operational. Only two bay lasers still operational. Outer bay, all ten on each side, functional. Oh, and the forcefield is useless, they must have developed some sort of countermeasures. And by what we’re seeing here—we have about fifteen minutes until full breach. They’re overwhelming us. We must get the outer ships up. If we can, they’ll likely send one or more to assist. Wait a second, one of the outer ships just reactivated—a feed boost, great job.”

  “Rico, that surge in the feed wasn’t from us, everyone is logged out,” Ted replied, leaning to the panel still curiously studying the on-screen data. The numbers leveled off and once again began to decline. He turned to another screen. “We’re priming systems. We won’t be able to initiate login procedures for another—six minutes.”

  “It was Nelman,” Jim said flatly, leaning in.

  “Nelman? Jim, what happened?”

  “He saved us, Rico. We got Amy, Bertha, and the docs in here with us. The machines took the bay. He’s gone, but put up one hell of a fight—for us.”

  Five seconds passed before Rico answered, “Let his death not be in vain. Jim, Ted, everyone, we’re gonna need everything you got. And Ted, Abell is on his way over. You’ll need every high-level lender you can get.”

  “We’re on it, Rico,” Jim said.

  “Nelman?” Ted questioned, turning to Jim.

  “It’s a long story,” Jim replied, arms crossed; he looked like a new man, determined. “And if we get through this, everyone will know exactly who he was and what he did.” Ted stood up straight and put a hand on Jim’s shoulder. He offered a look of condolence and nodded.

  “Sir, stage three ready and operational,” Devon interrupted. Ted acknowledged and headed to the HAT.

  “Been a long time since we’ve coordinated a mass login,” Ted said under his breath. He began making the final preparations for it, moving assorted sliders and validating team pairs. With a three-finger swipe he rotated the HAT before him, working his way around each section.

  The lenders, thirty of them, lay in wait. They were calming and adjusting themselves on the beds while the system read the pairs and automatically picked the most efficient maps for each. Devon was making calculations to estimate when the feed would be back to green status—needed in order to revive all outer perimeter ships. Biting a thumbnail, he shook his head as the data continued to pour in.

  Jim stood above, still reluctant to move; he wanted to know if his body would be blown to bits while in dreamland blasting DCs.

  But, Devon knew the system well, he could read the data every bit as well as Ron—it looked hopeless and his countenance portrayed just that.

  “Jim, you better get to a bed,” Ted said. “Switch with one of the rookies. We’ll pull Myron and you can log in with Lia.”

  In the control room…

  They moved Chang’s body and covered it, and threw rags atop the dark-red puddle of blood. David was out cold, maybe dead; no time to waste on him now. Ron worked frantically with Rico but things did not look good. Because of the low feed status automation was at a minimum. They manually operated any inactive lasers, which worked well, they were immensely powerful, but each could only fire once every couple of seconds. Simultaneously, Rico handled power management and any other systems that now required a conscious decision.

  They were doing a fine job, taking out mostly the larger ones. Ron had one hand on his laser controls, targeting the pesky but deadly, and mostly never-before-seen drones, and the other at his information panel. He gathered statistics about the attack. It was bad. He knew. And the readings told him it would only get worse. He wired his data and visuals over to the broadcast room, giving them full access to his panel. To convey the urgency of the situation—in hopes they had an ace up their sleeves, or could make magic out of maximum tension—he wanted them to know exactly what was going on out there.

  Back at the BROCC…

  Devon, optimism level nil, continued with his own computations. He loaded the incoming visuals from Ron on the large screen above. The town appeared as a high-res vector diagram. Red shapes of various sizes populated its 3D view. Each was a drone—too many types and sizes to classify—eating away at their small town. Most were near the facility, chomping at the outer walls and inner bay doors, while others were performing a wipe-out sweep, grid-like about the town. In the distance they could be seen as swarms of red blips. The view interactively rotated as Devon motioned with his hand. Larger and more massive machines were incoming fast. There was a single, substantial green blip far away: one of the outer perimeter ships was up and fighting, equipped with lasers and other weapons the team probably couldn’t fathom; drones fell about and around it like flies. But, the machines were too numerous. It was taking heavy damage and a warning tag flashed above it.

  In awe, Jim stared at the screen; the sheer amount dizzied him. He said, “They’ve always been there, just waiting for our defenses to go down. For that one second—it’s all they needed. You should’ve seen them, Devon. Hackers, cutters, shockers, killers, anything you can imagine.” He shook his head in dismay then said slowly, “Okay, I’m going to head over.”

  “Wait,” Devon said. The result of his calculations populated his screen. “Jim, with these figures, the data coming in from Rico, combined with ours—it’s just no use. We wouldn’t be able to get the feed up in time. Even with all thirty lenders at once, it’ll still take nearly an hour to get it back up to a useful level.” Quieted by the seemingly inevitable dread of their situation, they both looked at the bright-yellow words on another screen above. Estimated time to hull breach: 14 minutes. Just as they looked it dropped, from fourteen, to only twelve minutes.

  Jim looked around. It can’t be over like this, he thought. He grabbed his chin like Ted so often did and gazed at the screen again. And when those larger ships get here in a few minutes, we’ve had it. Fuck. The larger ships were on the way indeed, with lots of company. His new imagination taunted him: fat fucking honey-covered pigs at a picnic, flying in the company of hundreds, if not thousands of small red blips, flies.

  “It’s no use, Jim.” Ted said. He’d already known, really. He knew how things worked better than anyone. Overhearing the conversation, he shook his head—then, just continued on with the job. What else? It’s what he does, had always, for so long.

  Jim looked around the broadcast room. “What a team we are, united like never before. All because of—” He bolted over to the break room.

  “Jim?” Devon exclaimed.

  “Amy!” Jim yelled excitedly. “Ted, get us prepped. Beach.” He carried her to the bed Myron had been on, by mere coincidence, it was the center pair, the ones he and Amy had used on their first day together. Jim motioned for Young Doc to get Lia and carry her to the break room; she’d been ready to log in with Myron. Then, thinking cautiously, he gestured to Old Doc, calling him over. He could keep an eye on Amy’s vitals while she slept; and he arrived carrying his med bag. Jim made a stop sign with his hand and halted Bertha, instructing sternly with his glare that she remain put. Then he mounted the bed.

  “But, Jim—”

  “Just fucking do it, Ted!” He surely didn’t intend to disturb the others with his louder than usual voice but in this case, well…

  Devon was surprised but quickly picked up on Jim’s idea, then began recalculating. Ted raced to get the beach map loaded.

  How much longer, Ted? Jim asked by tapping his wrist with his head tilted upward. Ted operated the HAT with renewed vigor and returned an answer with his hands, a full fingered flash, twice. Twenty seconds.

  Jim was the master of instant sleep. He’d never needed the stupid motion path, or the fucking pill. The sleep pad was enough. And he was more ready than ever. His new self was a blossoming flower, a whole fucking field of them. He was an exploding man of action, and intuition, emotion, and powerful dreams, and he knew it and was ready to use it, all of it, and he felt it clawing at the inside of his skull like a hostage who had waited so long to be freed. And
he knew she was in there. He’d changed so much and believed, he believed that together they could do something special.

  Ted lifted a single hand, not wanting to disturb the other lenders with even a peep: five, four, three, two, and one.

  Jim opened a single eye and looked over to Amy, then squinted with hope and clenched his fists, then relaxed. The sleep pad kicked in—all went dark. Ted pulled the master slider he’d linked to every pair; the hologram table was divided into fifteen slices, each with contrasting maps. In a few moments all thirty lenders, Amy included, began the login procedure.

  80. I Need a Cigarette

  The black bag fizzled into existence behind his chair, and Jim appeared on the beach. Same place, under the palms. He stood up and looked to Amy’s chair. Huh. He thought he’d noticed a blur while he materialized, but there was nothing there. He waited a few moments. Still, nothing. Her chair was empty. He sighed then looked around. A few DCs arrived—not bad for just him. Saddened, he had no other choice but to at least try, and go at it solo. What else can be done? He reached into the bag and pulled out two pistols and stuffed both behind his back then peered in again, looking for whatever could inflict the most carnage, and the fastest. A grenade-launcher should do just fine. And sorrowfully he trudged his way through the bleach-white sand, to the volleyball area where most DCs had gathered.

  “Jim!”

  He heard, but it didn’t quite register. Amy?

  “Jim, it’s me!”

  He turned around and there was nobody there—until he looked up. Amy was hovering in from the bright blue sky, just as spunky and alive as the first day they’d met. He dropped the launcher and ran to her as fast as his bare feet could take him, flicking white sand about like a first-time tourist. Amy landed and dashed his way too, and they hugged.