by A J McKeep
The pod was closing underwater. In a moment it would blast for the shore at high speed. The option of the tug was the chance to be dragged through the water, fast for about seven minutes. Why USMilCorp or the bounce operator couldn’t arrange for the rafts to at least be towed backward was one of many military mysteries.
The tug-ride was unlikely to be fatal. But, as all grunts agreed, it was the most unpleasant fifteen minutes of any tour of duty.
Terrorists
GARRISON NEEDED A BUDDY and a beer, and he had nothing but a tube pass. He sent a oneline message to Murphy. “Got beer?”
Almost immediately a oneline came back. “They let you out? I got more than you can handle. Come by.” It had a holopic attached of a box of beer cans.
On a bounce pod, nobody carried anything more valuable than their phone and their ID chip. In theory and by law, grunts were allowed a token amount of luggage. In reality, anything you took that you weren’t actually wearing was bound to be crushed, soaked, obliterated or inexplicably lost. And anything you were wearing that was harder than putty or bigger than your thumb would be embedded into your flesh on the trip and would be a part of you from then on. The slot in the side of the seat was big enough for a keychip and a small phone. Anything else was best left behind.
He should have taken time to decompress and dry off before he rode a tube, but he didn’t want the wait. The tube journey to his home in the Survivor City of LubArc was rough. Like a boxing match with a blubbery giant when you have your arms bound at your sides. He couldn’t bring himself to check the news, but a presidential election was due and Garrison tried to take an interest in politics. He knew a little about both of the talk show hosts who were competing. He thought he should at least log into his democracy account and find out how his vote was likely to be cast.
The debates seemed like slanging matches to him but the DemoTrak AI commentary told him which parts were relevant to his interests. Bars on the sides of the screens showed when each point the debaters made brought them nearer to getting his vote or took them farther away. Trying to follow it made his head feel tight, but it took his mind off the discomfort of the tube journey.
The other passengers who stumbled out onto the dusty platform at LubArc all looked messed up. Groggy, pasty. Dazed like they’d been smacked about for ninety minutes. Garrison figured he must have looked like them.
Rods of dirty rain hammered down in shafts where renovations of the curved roof were incomplete. The familiar rusty, acrid tang of the rain that dripped on his tongue let him know he really was back home. Through the shuffling crowds and the thick dust, and mud where the rain pooled, the ancient terminus was even more of a wreck than he remembered it.
It looked like somebody started to renovate it, but halfway through they decided it needed gutting and completely rebuilding, so they began stripping it down. Then they gave up and left the ladders and poles where they were. And they left all of the hole. The station was crowded. Much more than the tube had been. Garrison figured there must be a lot more people trying to leave LubArc than traveling to it. That could have made sense, although he couldn’t think where they would all be so eager to go.
The concourse was dominated by the glow from a holo projection screen three stories high. It was the only thing in the whole terminus that seemed to be clean and working. Polished graphics delivered a slick message with heartwarming pictures and cute amicons. “Why wait for your legal age of retirement? Think of your family. Think of those who love you.” Two small children, a little girl and a younger boy, smiled. Their faces glowed in the soft light and hazy focus.
“What they love about you, your true essence, some say that’s what makes you you. Why not preserve that? For them. Take iMortality one year before your terminal age and stay with them forever.” The children looked down, toward the crowd. They chuckled, and their eyes shone. “They can keep in touch, keep you up to date. Anytime,” The children were on a beach now, looking at a tablet. “Anywhere. Long after your recovery or salvage.” The little boy pointed at the screen. A holo image rose up from the screen. From the smiles on both of the kids’ faces, the smiling angel was clearly their mom. “After your body has been of use to others, you still can be there for them. To hear their news, to guide them.”
Close up of Mom’s face. Smiling. Wise. “To guide them as only you can.”
On the dusty concourse a child howled. Garrison looked around to see the toddler’s mom, absorbed with her phone. The candy-colored amicons danced in the sheet of light above the phone. She was animated. She gestured, shouted, apparently not hearing or even watching the blond child as he jumped and stamped with both feet. He raised dust clouds and made as much noise as he could with his blue boots on the dirty tiled floor.
Behind them a very old mech strode into the crowd. A two legged stomper. Nine and a half feet of creaking rust, it looked a lot like an out of date USMilCorp exo frame. Although they were called ‘Stompers,’ the first generations’ long feet and jerky bent-kneed walk was more like a loud and overweight creep than a stomp. The flat, wedge-shaped cab on top had armorglass wrapped in a steel mesh. Like the kind he walked on his first tour. He wondered if USSecur was using them for policing. That didn’t seem right, but what ever did these days?
Then he saw the bot hunker, spreading its arms wide as it crouched. Garrison knew that move. Instinctively as he ran to the side he shouted, “Everybody! Take cover! Get out if you can!”
People looked around. Slow. Dumb.
“Now!” he shouted as he reached a wall. Sluggish and resentful, passengers scowled as they looked about them. Some men, maybe vets, got the message and tried to usher people away. Then, when the idea took hold, panic set in. People ran in all directions. There were scaffolding poles and gantries, behind the big screen and in the roof where the refurbishment was supposed to be progressing.
Garrison had no weapons on him at all. The mech turned, preparing to fire. Through the scratched and dirty armorglass hood he couldn’t see if the bot was manned or not. He guessed not, as it didn’t seem to be targeting, just readying weapons. Without an obvious target that was a bad sign. Garrison looked for a way to climb to the roof.
That kind of a mech, he spent enough time inside them to know, the only safe way to attack was from above. The weapons were sweeping aim across the crowd. This was terrorism for sure. A rickety ladder was the only way to the scaffold and exposed steelwork above.
As he climbed, the mech began to fire. People screamed. He cursed his enhanced eyes. Without ChemDrive, they were slow to adjust to the flashes of the mech’s weapons and the darkness in the roof space. Slower than they would have been without the upgrade.
Climbing and crawling along shaky lattices of scaffold at the top of the terminus, Garrison knocked over a paint can as he clambered toward the mech. Choking on the dust he searched for anything he could use against the assault bot. For a moment he wondered if it was a bot, or if there was someone in the cab. Even as old as it was, it was still heavily armed and armored. Dropping heavy objects on it, even if he could find any, wouldn’t do it much damage.
Far below him, the mech fired cannons. Randomly as far as Garrison could see. People ran in wild panic. The clouds of dust made them hard to see, but not to the mech. It would have infra-red enhanced vision. Men and women stumbled through the gray clouds. Figures blundered and stumbled into each other and tripped on the injured.
The big screen was still announcing the benefits of iMoratlity. “Think of the family. No recovery cost. Any salvage benefit will go right to them. The little girl looked at her tablet screen. A colored flash said, “JUICED!” and she giggled.
Garrison saw an overhead fuel line. If he could break the line and use it to hose the bot, there was a chance that an internal spark would set it off. It was a long shot, but he couldn’t think of another way to ignite the fuel. One thing at a time. Working his way fast toward the fuel line, he found a stack of paint cans. He tipped and dropped them onto the
mech.
One bounced right on the mesh over the cab. The lid popped and light blue paint cascaded out and over the mech. The paint could obscure its visual sensors. Garrison hurled down the rest of the cans. The clatter dropping on top of it might distract the monster.
Most of the paint splashed uselessly. The cans that clattered onto the mech did get its attention. It turned to fire upward at Garrison.
He made a jump for the fuel line. He caught it, but the bot fired at him. Trying to swing out of the way his grip got loose. The fuel line creaked, but it didn’t give way. It held and he hung onto it, dangling as the mech swung its weapons again to bear on him. He was a hanging target.
He bounced his weight on the fuel line as hard as he could. The mech fired. As he swung, the canon fire ripped past his leg. It shook into the roof above. A jagged hole opened up. Slate and masonry fell past him. A hefty jagged triangle of broken stone hit the mech and threw it off balance. As the roof of the terminus shuddered, the fuel line cracked.
Still holding on, Garrison plunged. Fuel gushed around and over him. It splashed onto the mech and sprayed over the tiled floor. He got the hose directed at the mech and he landed feet first on the mesh over the armorglass hood. His weight added to the dents the masonry had made. The mesh dented but it held but the armorglass cracked beneath it. A big triangular piece fell into the cabin, leaving a dark, gaping hole. The cabin was unoccupied.
If there was a way through the mesh, he could get in and stop the machine. The mesh was tough, though. Garrison slid off and fell as the bot hobbled back up to its feet. It fired blast in an aimless circle before it steadied itself and pointed the weapons at Garrison. He skidded on all fours between the bot’s huge feet and over a pile of rubble.
From the rubble, he grabbed some heavy pieces of slate. When he judged he was far enough away, he turned and whirled one wedge of slate at the mech’ middle. It stuck there. Then backing away, he aimed another piece at the first. He missed. The bot had turned its torso and was ready to fire when he threw the last piece of slate. It glanced across the first. It made a spark and abloom of flame engulfed the bot.
Garrison was ready to make a hasty exit when he spotted the blue boots, bouncing and stamping on the tiles in a wet finger of fuel. He ran and dived, and the flames seared his camo as he tackled the child out of the puddle.
Naturally his momma whirled around and immediately started to scream. She beat her phone on Garrison’s head and rained a rapid hail of blows on his neck and shoulders. Garrison caught a glimpse of the sad resignation in the blond boy’s eyes before, ducking under the momma’s pummeling fists, he got away as far from the terminus as he could.
Towers
IT WAS STILL RAINING in LubArc and even darker than he remembered. It seemed like that whenever he came back after being away for more that a couple of weeks, but it was more striking than ever now. Whether the pouring rust-colored sky was obscured by more solar kites or if rain sloshed and streamed off more infill shafts between the tall buildings, he didn’t know. In his two tours of duty in the MidEastFed, whatever hell there was on the ground, the sky was bright. In the heat of the day, the sun was often clearly visible.
Murphy’s crib was in an infill shaft between two of the dozens of remaining towers. Gray relics from before the reset. The long gray bony fingers had been built with pre-reset power lines and services, useless now and impractical to adapt. The one remaining useful feature the towers still had was the windows, on the sides that faced the sun. All of the glass had been replaced with solar panels. Cells to collect the juice and ducting to carry it filled much of the interior space. Adaptable as ever, resourceful humans defied local ordinance to hang shafts of steel, mesh, or wood across the spaces between the towers.
Almost everyone in the protection of a Survivor City like LubArc lived illegally. Which in turn meant USSecur could search, turn over or round up whoever they liked whenever they liked. Current service personnel and qualified vets had some exemptions. As did some protected professions. And anyone with juice, obviously.
The elevators in one of the towers were actually functioning. Somebody must have rigged them with hydraulics and clockwork. The line to get a car was only about fifteen minutes. Up on the twenty-second floor Garrison had no torchlight of his own. He moved slowly between the thick cables and pipes and the debris. At the end of the hallway where a window had been, he climbed out to the mesh shaft.
The mesh meant there was light. Much more than there was down at street level. The shaft creaked but it didn’t sway too much and there was just about room to stand. Like most of the cribs, Murphy’s hung below the shaft. Garrison buzzed, and Murphy unlocked the hatch for him to climb down the short ladder.
At the bottom of the ladder, when Garrison turned, Murphy had actually stood. He gave Garrison a hug with real feeling. Even through Murphy’s mech hand and forearm, Garrison felt it. The side of Murphy’s face that was still him smiled and the mech eye on the other side whirred as it focused. Murphy stepped back to look at him. He knew what it took for his buddy to stand. He knew juice it cost to him to get out of the chair. And the effort to cross the crib on his one and a half mech legs. Shoving mech enhancements with reduced or no power was tough.
Virtu
INSIDE, THE CRIB WAS light. It too was mostly mesh. The Turkish rug in the center of the main room was surrounded by mesh over the twenty-floor drop. If you took the drop, though, there were at least fifteen more shafts you could easily snag on the way down. Air blew through the mesh. Murphy had clear plastic windbreaks he could roll up, the walls and the floor but he always said he preferred the light. The air was cool. It carried a tang that seemed like burning iron to Garrison, though he didn’t know if iron actually burned.
Murphy said, “I saw the thing at the terminus. That was you, right?”
Garrison was not thrilled. “Where did you see it?”
“All the feeds carried it. It was even on some of the national wires.”
“Was I identified?”
“No. ‘Authorities want to contact…’ it said.”
Garrison was encouraged. “Not ‘urgently’ want to contact?”
“No.” Murphy grinned, “You’re not a wanted fugitive yet.”
The whole of the crib was strewn with a litter of tech and mech. The sides and corners of the room were piled with out of date arms and hands, eyes, a couple of old-style sloppy biceps and Achilles tendons in zip bags with shin-pad batteries. A box of eyes, all dark green. Dismantled targeting boards, guidance gyros and tracking sensors were mixed alongside the haphazard heaps. The place was like the wreck of a museum of military enhancement.
Murphy also had the best audio-visual system. Top of the line sim-stim suit jackets and gloves for gameplay, VR and AR. And weapons. Murphy had enough firepower to start a civic insurrection. Or stop one. maybe.
On the rug were two projections. One was the side of a snowy mountain. A dozen figures in white snow gear and heavily armed stood, poised. Paused. Murphy offered Garrison a controller. He made a face. Murphy grinned. The mountain and figures crumpled, balled and disappeared with a Gloop noise when he shut the sim off.
Murphy handed Garrison a chill-stick of beers. He took one for himself before he clambered back into the chair. Like all USMilCorp comp chairs, it was state of the art and powered in every orientation. And, like almost all the beneficiaries, Murphy had removed everything he possibly could from the thin titanium and nanofiber frame. It was skeletal and bare. Motors, rotors, sensors lifts and extenders were stacked in the corner behind the chair.
Murphy wouldn’t want to spend the juice powering it. Anyway, pushing himself around was academy-grade exercise. Especially with the weight of his enhancements.
Garrison slumped in the familiar couch and they raised a stick to one another. Garrison drank, breathed, talked and relaxed, for the first time in eight weeks.
The other 3D on the rug bustled. Like a chaotic, teched-up bazaar in the MidEastFed. Murphy power
ed that Virtu down, too. As it closed, a tag saying, Hope’s glowed and winked off.
Murphy said, “I’m getting a guy there to mod the operating system for my legs.”
“Is that in the MidEast?”
“No. It’s pure Virtu.” Murphy grinned. “It’s everywhere and nowhere, baby.”
Garrison thought that was line from a song. Then he frowned, “Uncertified though, right?” Murphy’s shoulder’s lifted. Garrison asked him, “You run your limbs with unCert code?”
“Wait till you’ve got more enhancements than your biobod can carry. Just the software on standard issue code burns juice so fast, I’d never be able to power my arm and legs up at all.”
As they drank, Murphy asked him about the incident in the terminus.
Garrison said, “It felt good, you know.”
“Being in action? Wishing you were back in the field already?”
“Hell, no. No, this felt completely different. Like I knew what I was doing and why. Not like stomping some total strangers’ villages.”
Murphy waved a hand, “Look, USAi tells USMilCorps what to do, they tell you, you do it. Then you get juice. Don’t start getting philosophical.”
“Okay, you’re right. You don’t seem too surprised by it, though. Is that kind of thing happening a lot lately?”
“Terrorism in public places? I guess it is on the up, yeah,”
Garrison rolled his stick around before he took another pull. “This one seemed strange.”
“How so?”
“For one thing, the mech looked like it was one of the field bots from a couple of years ago. You remember the ones with the high, flat cabs?”
“With all of the weapons on the arms?”
“Exactly.”
“Did you see if it was manned?”
“It wasn’t.”
“Mm. Terrorism by wire.”