Brainbox

by Christian Cantrell

  The Captain was working on his plasma glass. "Do you know how much power you'll have to generate in order to compensate for the resistance of cables thousands of kilometers long? What do you propose we build them out of?"

  "Not cables," Miguel said. "Fiber optics. The focal point of the parabolic mirrors will be a fiber optic channel rather than an array of photovoltaic cells. We won't send electricity across the oceans. We'll send the sunlight that's needed to make the electricity."

  The Captain looked up from the table surface. He watched the animation in front of him for a moment, then began to smile. "Christ, that just might work."

  "It will not work," the Brigadier General said placing his palms on the table. "There's one thing your calculations aren't taking into account, and that's human nature. The implication of what you're suggesting is that each of the three territories will essentially be responsible for keeping the other two territories alive. Think about that. These are territories that have been at war for the better part of a century. What in God's name makes you think they won't use this as an opportunity to win the war once and for all?"

  "Because it would be suicide," Miguel said. "If any one of the three territories is compromised, the other two remaining territories won't be able to defend themselves. We're not individual territories anymore. We're a tripod. If one of us goes down, we all go down."

  The Brigadier General's complexion was ruddy and bright against his white fatigues. He was about to respond, but the Fleet Admiral stood up and pushed back her chair.

  "Thank you, gentlemen," she said. "I think at this point, we need to run these plans by General Shannon. Please send your materials to General Edwards and myself only, and we'll be in touch."

  The rest of the table stood and saluted. The Brigadier General was the last to get to his feet.

  "Thank you, Admiral," the Colonel said. He turned to the other end of the table and nodded. "General."

  The Lieutenant across from Miguel rushed around to the hatch and began to spin the wheel. The Brigadier General followed the Fleet Admiral out of the room and the rest of the officers followed him. When Miguel and the Colonel were alone, the Colonel sat back down. Miguel swung the room's hatch closed and began to reseal it.

  "That could have gone better," he said to the Colonel behind him.

  "Miguel, there's something you need to know." The Colonel watched Miguel return to the table and begin running his fingers over the plasma glass in front of him. The images on the table faded and the volumetric plates dimmed as they began to cool. "As soon as this situation is stable, you're going to be arrested."

  "I know."

  "They're going to blame all this on you. Do you know what that means?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't know if I'm going to be able to protect you."

  "I don't want you to protect me," Miguel said.

  "You're going to be tried for treason, Miguel."

  "What I need you to do is protect yourself. I need you to blame all this on me. Do whatever you have to do to come out of this completely unblemished."

  "I can't do that to you," the Colonel said. "This is more my fault than it is yours. You warned me about this."

  "I knew exactly what I was doing," Miguel said. "My job is almost finished, but yours is just starting."

  The Colonel peered at Miguel from across the table. "What do you mean?"

  "These towers are a temporary solution. As soon as the ASRAs can't get to us anymore, they'll start using their stem cell cultures to reproduce, and eventually they'll figure out a way to get past the perimeter."

  "How long will that take?"

  "I don't know. Probably no more than six months."

  "What do we do then?"

  "We can't wait for that to happen. We're going to have to attack as soon as we can."

  "How can we attack when most of our forces will be committed to defensive positions?"

  "You're thinking like the General," Miguel said. He leaned back in the leather chair and laced his fingers together behind his head. "The only way to do it is to not do it alone."

  PART SEVEN

  There was only one form of execution in the American Territories for traitors. Nobody wanted to waste power on electrocution, and there was a general shortage of pharmaceuticals that could be used for lethal injection or to create poisonous gasses. In the past, executions had been carried out by firing squad, but a common belief arose among the soldiers that if they had to risk getting shot to death doing their duty, that was far too honorable of a way for a traitor to die. And why waste even a single bullet on a traitor that could be put inside the skull of a Chinese or Russian soldier? But death didn't have to be complicated in the AT. There was a constant and lethal threat that was almost so simple and obvious as to be overlooked. At the end of the third day of Miguel's trial, the judge swiftly and unceremoniously sentenced him to death by exposure.

  Before the sun came up on the morning of the attack, Miguel's clothes were removed in his cell and he was led outside by three soldiers. The cold soaked into his naked body and traveled up his bare feet from the hard frozen ground. He expected there to be witnesses, but there was nobody waiting for him outside in the dark. He was placed against a wooden stake on the side of the main road dividing Macapá City, and his hands and ankles were bound. When the knots were tight, his three escorts jogged away in different directions as through Miguel's execution had been an imposition on their morning schedules and they now had precious time to make up.

  As the sun rose, Miguel could see the silhouettes of the towers down the road, the long barrels of their gatling guns pivoting just perceptively as they conducted their sweeps. He was shivering uncontrollably when the sunlight reached him, but the sun felt as cold to him as the darkness. His ears and head ached and the burning numbness in his legs and arms traveled into his core.

  By the time he heard the sounds of the joint forces approaching on their way to the mouth of the Amazon, he had stopped shivering. He knew his body was tricking him into feeling warm and at peace so that he could die more easily. His lifeless eye was frozen, but out of his good eye, he could see the well-structured battalions approach. The soldiers' white uniforms were all identical, but their helmets identified them as Chinese, Russian, or American. The Russian trackers in front were considerably larger than their American counterparts, and the Chinese Shuey Baw trackers were small and nimble.

  A cacophony arose among the soldiers as they noticed the limp body hanging from the post. Miguel could pick out at least half a dozen languages among the violent derision focused on him. Some of the soldiers briefly left their ranks to spit on Miguel's limp body, and a few kicked at the frozen ground in front of him with their heavy boots. Miguel looked up and could see that the commander in charge was not calling them back or ordering them to hold their ranks. Instead he stood impassively at the turret of an American tracker, and as the troops around him screamed their contempt, he silently raised his hand in a crisp and decisive salute.

  Table of Contents

  Title

  License

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  Part 6

  Part 7