by Todd McAulty
A man in uniform stepped out of the circle. He was tall and thin, and free of the heavy gear that encumbered most of the soldiers. He was directing the others with urgent commands. I could hear his voice from here as he shouted at his men.
“That is Colonel Hayduk,” said Jacaranda.
“Yeah?” I squinted at him, trying to get a better look. But we were too far away, and it was too dark to really make out his features.
On a command from the colonel, the soldiers opened fire on Hazel-rah.
Their weapons didn’t seem to do much, at least not at first. But Hazel-rah wasn’t standing still—he spun in place, lashing out with the pole. It struck the nearest Venezuelan soldier, breaking his arm.
“No!” I shouted, turning to Jacaranda.
She cocked her head at me. “I do not understand.”
“Don’t let him kill the soldiers!”
“Hazel-rah is only defending himself—”
“I don’t give a damn what he’s doing. Will he listen to you?”
“Yes—”
“Then tell him to stop hurting them. Now.”
Jacaranda turned to watch the battle. “They will destroy him.”
“Can he run?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell him to run like a son of a bitch.”
The instant the words were out of my mouth, Hazel-rah started running. He was badly impeded by the damage to his right leg, but he still moved with impressive speed and dexterity—far faster than the soldiers could follow. They continued to shoot at him as the robot bolted into the darkness, heading south. Moments later, Hazel-rah vanished into an alley.
There was a shouted command from Hayduk, and the soldiers began to give chase.
We waited in the shadows until the soldiers were gone. Only a skeleton crew remained in front of the lobby, alert and at the ready.
“Did he get away?” I asked Jacaranda.
“Not yet. He is out of range of the soldiers, but not the drones. They continue the pursuit.”
Damn. I’d almost forgotten about the drones. “Can he escape?”
“Certainly.”
“How?”
“I have directed him toward the lake. His exoskeleton is compromised, but not severely. He can submerge long enough—and deep enough—to escape observation.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank you,” I said. “I mean it. You and Hazel-rah both. I don’t know what you are, but thank you. For helping me get out of the building . . . and for not killing those soldiers.”
She seemed to study me in the darkness for a moment. “You are an unusual person, Mr. Simcoe. I find you full of surprises.”
“Was that you who did that magic in there, creating a fake military record for Capitán Damian Peters, with my face and retina scan?”
“Yes,” she said. “You didn’t give us much time to create it, but it seemed to be adequate. The forgery has served its purpose, and we have already scrubbed it from the data record.”
“Well,” I said, turning toward the stairs. “It seems I’m not the only one full of surprises.”
“How do you know about the Network of Winds?” Jacaranda asked me.
“Ask me again sometime,” I said. I suddenly felt very achy. My feet were sore, and I felt cramped and sweaty in the suit. And I still had a long walk ahead of me. “But not tonight.”
Halfway down the stairs, I turned and looked back. Jacaranda was standing at the top, looking down at me.
“Any suggestions on the best route to avoid the soldiers?” I asked her.
“I have no idea,” she said.
“Huh. I thought you knew everything.”
“Not yet,” she said. “Soon, but not yet.”
Then she turned and was gone.
I suppose she’s friendly enough, I thought as I reached the bottom. But that doesn’t mean she ain’t creepy.
I stepped into the street, headed for home.
XVI
Sunday, March 14th, 2083
Posted 3:51 pm by Barry Simcoe
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I met Sergei just after lunch. He was trudging down East Randolph, hands in his pockets, gawking in all directions at once like a tourist. I’d never seen him in civilian attire before, but he looked sharp. Black pants, a crisp white shirt, and a close-fitting leather jacket. He was clean-shaven for once, and his straight posture and close-cropped hair still gave him a military bearing.
I stepped out of the storage unit and gave him a wave. He jogged over across the grass, which was still wet from the morning’s rain. “What is this place?” he said.
I was watching the skies. They were still overcast, making it easy to spot the drones, black specks drifting against a cloudy white backdrop. There were at least a dozen that I could see, most of them at high altitude, but none of them seemed to be showing an unhealthy interest. “Get inside,” I said.
Sergei obediently stepped inside the unit. I gave one last look around and then pulled down the sliding metal door. It clattered to the concrete, leaving us sealed inside a ten-by-twenty windowless space.
The power was out, of course, but I’d brought a portable lamp, and it was burning brightly on a shelf in the back. It provided plenty of light.
“This used to be a public storage unit,” I said. “I spotted it on my walk back to the hotel this morning. There’s about sixty of these connected sheds on the property. I think half of them still have stuff in them. The owners are long gone, but the units are still secure, I guess.”
“Not this one,” Sergei said, looking around. There wasn’t much to see—bare metal walls, a concrete floor, and the trash barrel I’d rolled in from the parking lot.
“Yeah, not this one. The lock is broken. It was empty, and it seems perfect for our purposes. Did you bring everything?”
Sergei nodded. He unslung his backpack, and began unloading it. Inside were the clothes I’d given him last night after my trip to the Sturgeon Building. We both figured it was safer for Sergei to travel with them than me. My dress pants. My shirt. My dinner jacket, neatly folded. My scarf. My lucky socks. And one pair of leather shoes. I was going to miss those the most.
I nodded at the barrel. “Okay. Toss ’em in.” I picked up the only other item in the storage locker—a half-full can of lighter fluid.
Sergei was peering into the barrel. He sniffed in disapproval. “Too wet,” he said.
“It rained this morning,” I said. I knew that for sure, because I’d walked home in the rain from the Sturgeon Building, and it was goddamned cold. “I had to dump an inch of water out of the frickin’ thing.”
Sergei was shaking his head. “I saw two barrels by gate on way here. They were shielded from rain. They are dry. One of them would be better.”
“Yeah, I checked those barrels. They won’t work as well. You need a hole near the bottom, like this—see?” I kicked at my side of the barrel, where a three-inch hole had rusted out.
Sergei peered at the hole. “No. You do not need hole. Barrel should be dry.”
“Sergei, we’re going to start a fire in a barrel. It won’t matter if the barrel’s a little wet—this will take care of that.” I shook the can of lighter fluid. “But to really get a roaring fire, you need airflow. So you need a hole.”
“No. Top of barrel is plenty for airflow. You need hot fire, so everything destroyed.”
Honest to God, this went on for five minutes. Me and Sergei, arguing about whether or not the damn trash barrel was adequate. I finally got him to agree that we would try it, and that I would personally move the ashes to another barrel and try again if this one didn’t prove up to the task.
Sergei dumped everything but my shirt into the barrel, and I doused the lot wi
th fluid. I gave a single shake of the can over the shirt, then set it aside and used a match to light it. It was ablaze in an instant. I picked it up with two fingers and hastily tossed it into the barrel.
It erupted in flame. Within ten seconds, flames were shooting several feet out of the top of the barrel. Sergei and I watched with satisfaction.
At least, we watched with satisfaction for about twenty seconds. We two geniuses, busy arguing over excess water and airflow, hadn’t bothered to consider what a roaring blaze would do in an enclosed space.
The room filled with smoke—and quickly. One minute Sergei and I were contentedly rubbing our hands next to the barrel, happy for the heat, and the next we could barely see. Sergei stumbled for the door, while I covered my face and tried not to cough my lungs out.
Sergei got the door open, and we stood by the entrance, coughing smoke out of our lungs. My clothing continued to burn merrily in the barrel behind us.
“Where did you get oil?” asked Sergei when we could speak again.
“The lighter fluid? Randy Nguyen got it for me.”
“Fire seems adequate.”
“Yeah.” It was a good blaze and showed no sign of going out. I doubted I’d have to move anything to another barrel.
We stood in the doorway for a few minutes—not far enough in the open to be spotted by drones, but enough so that we could breathe.
This wasn’t the perfect spot to dispose of my “American terrorist” outfit—it was too easy for drones to track us coming and going, for one thing, and we didn’t have real control of the site—but it would do. When the fire burned itself out, we would seal up the storage unit, put a fresh lock on it, and walk away. Assuming we’d covered our tracks sufficiently, there’d be no reason for the AGRT to investigate. And if we hadn’t, then there’d be precious little left for them to find.
Burning the clothing I’d been wearing when I broke into the Field Museum hopefully brought an end to an ugly chapter in my life. At the very least, it was one less way for the AGRT to track that particular crime back to me.
I’d decided to use this storage locker to accomplish the deed for several reasons. Because it was close to the hotel, easy to get to, and screened from flying eyes. And also, it was a place where Sergei and I could have a long private conversation, without having to worry about eavesdroppers.
After everything that had happened last night, I had questions—a lot of questions. I was pretty sure Sergei wouldn’t have answers for most of them. But I needed to give voice to them anyway.
“Am I in the clear, Sergei?” I said, beginning with the most important one. “Has the algorithm stopped looking for me?”
Sergei nodded. “Yes. As expected. Your performance last night was entirely adequate to convince Venezuelan high command that intruder in Field Museum was American military asset. Search algorithm has been tasked with other duties. For now, Venezuelans have lost interest in civilian suspects. By the time they search hotel database—if they do—all images which could incriminate you will have been deleted.”
Some of the tension went out of my shoulders. “Hallelujah.”
Sergei’s tone had been satisfied enough. But I’d known him long enough now to know when he was being evasive.
“What’s the bad news?” I said.
Sergei looked pensive. “They have expanded search in other ways. They are now looking at previous incidents, attempting to establish connections between American intruder and recent military and paramilitary incursions against AGRT in Illinois and Indiana.”
“That’s good, isn’t it? This is what we wanted. If they’re off looking for me in Indiana, they’re less likely to find me in a hotel in Chicago. Especially if they’re getting me confused with some anti-Venezuelan guerrillas in the woods in Terre Haute.”
“Perhaps. But search has also become much more serious. Colonel Hayduk has become personally involved. Yesterday, intruder was suspected of theft of medical equipment and accused of planting bombs in medical laboratory. Routine domestic insurrection. Today, he is responsible for successful penetration of most secure building in Sector Eleven, untold damage to computer systems, destruction of high-ranking machine intelligence, and theft of critical data—and American combat suit.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Once you put it that way, it doesn’t sound so good.”
“No. This search will not end soon. And it will involve many resources.”
“You said ‘high-ranking machine intelligence’—you mean Standing Mars?”
“Correct.”
“What was Standing Mars?”
“Information on Standing Mars very restricted. But I uncovered basic facts. It had primary inception in Cologne in 2066 and was certified as Thought Machine in 2078. It was seconded to Sovereign Intelligence in Buenos Aires in 2080.”
“Do you know which one?”
“No.”
Shit. I had just helped lay waste to the property of one of the most powerful individuals on the planet. Hayduk and his goons could search for me all they liked; at least I’d see them coming. But if a Sovereign Intelligence decided it needed to know who I was, there was almost nothing I could do about it. It would find me. And I would never see it coming.
I was about to ask a question, but Sergei cut me off impatiently. “We have addressed your situation. It is time to turn attention to other pressing matters.”
“You mean the pathogen?” I said. “What’s the latest word?”
“There are now confirmed outbreaks in Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, and southern Illinois. Five deaths overnight.”
The relief I’d felt at being in the clear was quickly evaporating. “My God.”
“Military intelligence has restricted all travel in affected areas. War College has issued statement to high command.”
“A statement? What did they say?”
“They are . . . assessing the matter.”
“Assessing the matter? Goddamn it, Sergei! People are dying!”
“It is a political embarrassment. Poor decisions were made at high levels, and officials very slow to acknowledge.”
“They’re fools.”
“Da.”
“All right. Let’s focus on what we can do. What are your friends saying?”
“Unofficially, there is more hard data emerging. Dr. Thibault in Fort Wayne is now issuing daily updates to Venezuelan surgeon general. Pathogen has nearly eighty percent fatality rate. Incubation period is two to six days. Thibault suggests it will reach critical exposure levels in the next ten to fifteen days, after which it cannot be contained.”
“That’s almost precisely in line with what Jacaranda told us.”
“Da. Thibault is coordinating effort to create counteragent, but there is little progress so far.”
“This is a nightmare. What’s happening officially?”
“There is growing panic. There is no established protocol for this situation, and parties involved have issued contradictory instructions. Venezuelan Military Intelligence has taken charge of situation in Indiana, but they are not sharing information. We need to know details of outbreak at Columbus Regional Hospital, but there has been complete information blackout.”
“Okay. Now we get to the really juicy questions. Assuming our new friend Jacaranda is right, what was Colonel Hayduk doing with the data on the origin of the pathogen? Does that mean he knows where it comes from?”
Sergei didn’t answer. He clearly was not thrilled with this question.
“Sergei?”
Sergei stirred. “Jacaranda referred to pathogen as F5-117.”
“Yeah, I remember. So?”
“There are references to F5-117 in high-level communications, going back three years.”
“Are you joking?”
“No. I have been . . . very discreet with search. So I do not yet have complete information. But I have found several references. All are very cryptic. F5-117 was mentioned as part of contingency plan, in event of dramatic reversals during pacificat
ion of American heartland.”
“Whose contingency plan?”
“All references are in communications from highest level of Venezuelan government.”
That meant Thought Machines.
I remembered the handwritten note from Thibault, the one Sergei had burned after reading. The one that suggested that the pathogen may have been created by machine intelligences.
“Jesus. So Thibault was right? The pathogen was created by machines?”
“We cannot be certain.”
“Well, it damn well looks like it! Do any of these references point to any other likely source?”
Sergei shook his head, without meeting my eyes.
I slid down the wall, squatting on my heels. I watched the smoke from the trash bin curling around the ceiling, flowing out through the open door, where it was snatched by the wind. I’d been worried about the smoke attracting drones when we were planning this last night, but Sergei had assured me that there were so many small cooking fires in the ruins around the city that it would go unnoticed. So far, it looked like he was right.
I tried to think clearly and dispassionately about what Sergei had just told me. What would machine intelligences be doing creating a biological pathogen? A plague hardly made an effective weapon, especially when you had your own forces on the ground. Even if they had a good use for such a weapon, why use it in the occupied zone? What did they have to gain by unleashing a plague that devastated both sides?
I thought for a good long time. My mind went down several dark alleys. I remembered the dire predictions you used to hear from doomsayers when the earliest machine intelligences first revealed themselves. Prophecies of apocalyptic battles between machine and humankind. The kind that ended with man in chains.
Eventually, I stirred. “Did you ever get the chance to investigate the Bodner-Levitt extermination?”
“Da. I found nothing. What does it mean?”
“That’s a relief,” I said. It was a relief. Perhaps that portion of Black Winter’s delusional speech had meant nothing after all. “It doesn’t mean anything; it’s probably just gibberish.”