NANO Archive 01: The City of Fire

by Jason Crutchfield

  “Go away,” His words were a fast ball aimed right for the gut, but I stood in the batter's box of his potent anger rather often, so I was used to his pitches.

  “I'll buy you a drink?” I retorted as I reached into my pocket and fished out the pack of cigarettes I pilfered from Al after his demise. I motioned for the bartender, and when the short, pudgy man with a receding hairline noticed the miniature pack of smokes his eyes lit up like a child receiving a present.

  “Oh thank the stars that we no longer see! Ihlia you found some ciga… hey why is there blood on it? Oh I don't care, how many do you want for the pack?” The man was wringing his hands together in excited anticipation.

  With the invention of Panacea, narcotics with sticky tar build-ups classified as carcinogens ceased killing people. Panacea's healing capabilities included expunging both alcoholic and cancerous agents at an alarming rate. This was also the reason catching a buzz required one to drink the equivalent of diluted, new-age, synthesized diesel fuel.

  Unfortunately for smokers, shortly after the golden age of transcendence mankind determined that reliance on nicotine and oral fixations for temporary elation simply stunted our intellectual and spiritual growth. The fall of man ushered back in those vices, but while diesel fuel remained cheap and easy to synthesize, cigarettes remained an expensive consumption of resources and time. Oswald once explained that it had something to do with the difficulty of synthesizing a tobacco substitute as it was once a natural plant, but all it really meant to me was that cigarettes were a rare and expensive commodity sought after like gold in the olden days.

  “As many as it takes,” I responded plainly as I gestured to myself and Crelyos. The bartender snatched up the cigarettes and went to work filling two glass bottles with oily, black sludge. By the time he turned around to present them to us, the nicotine stick sat smoldering between his lips.

  “… Fine. What do you want?” Crelyos snatched the bottle and began gulping the thick ooze down his throat. I followed suit and within a moment we slammed our empty bottles against the bar top.

  “I want to go to Texas,” I dropped my rear onto the stool next to his and propped my elbows atop the bar.

  “So go?” He quirked a brow at me with a sidelong glance. I could tell he was tracking the conversation and knew its final destination.

  “I need a guide,” I sank my chin against my open palms and offered him my best impersonation of a puppy-dog stare.

  “Oh yeah? I need it to rain sludge for the next hundred years. Hm, that's strange, still looks like the same piece of shit wasteland it was before I said that. Imagine that.” His words were a stimulating clash of humor and fury. Most people considered Crelyos an angry drunk, but that simply was not true. Crelyos was always angry.

  “Crelyos, it's Bradich. I finally have a lead… and it's in Texas.” I could feel my eyes shimmer with a stern passion. Crelyos knew well of my ambition; he knew the grief and heartache that plagued my otherwise emotionless core. We would be horrible drinking companions if I had not divulged at least that much during a few of my various drunken rants.

  “Damn it, Ihlia. I just came from that way. I can't be movin' around back and forth like some kind of nomad.” His hands lifted in apparent dissatisfaction. I knew Crelyos, however. The emergence of excuses and the softer twinge in his voice meant he was caving.

  “Just came? That was over two years ago!” A soft chuckle leaked from my throat during my retort.

  “Exactly, just came from there. Don't wanna go back, sorry.” He spun on the barstool until his broad back was the only part of him I remained able to see.

  “Fine, if that's how it's going to be, can you at least tell me how to find a guy calling himself Raze?” I placed a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to at least evoke some sort of assistance from his stubborn demeanor. To my surprise, his entire body perked at the mentioned name, and he slowly turned to face me once more.

  “You would have to go and mention him. Fine… I'll go. Pack your shit, we're leavin' as soon as possible.”

  With those words, Crelyos abruptly stood and marched from the tavern into the darkness of the city streets. I had never before seen him move with such fluid purpose, and it piqued my curiosity as to the relationship between Crelyos and the man called Raze. While the prospect of pondering his past intrigued me, the pressing necessity to brief Doctor Oswald on my situation wormed its way into my head. After downing the last of my sludge, I hurried out the door and began my trek toward Oswald's mansion.

  File 05: The Old Codger

  Within ten minutes, I stood at the base of the steep hill leading to Oswald's home. The eerie shadows crawling along the contours of the house established a sense of foreboding; of course, the snakes of lightning slithering across a pallet of growling clouds hardly aided in dispelling that foreboding. The mansion itself stood a bastion in comparison to the town's humble construction. The melded steel sheets that formed the various walls lacked the rusted, hodgepodge colors of the common dwellings, and well-cut stone comprised the foundation of the estate.

  Various cylindrical towers spiraled up from the sides of the main structure like warped appendages protruding from the body of a miserable chimera. With the entire manor powered using a handful of generators, a dull orange incandescence radiated through the many windows haphazardly thrown among the four stories. At the base of the medieval structure, seemingly ripped straight from a historical documentary, a large pair of metal doors formed the only visible entrance or exit to the giant residence.

  I hissed a sigh as I gripped the thick rings welded as doorknobs to the gates. With a moderate amount of effort, I slowly pulled the squeaking iron doors ajar. Creating only enough space to allow my lithe frame passage, I invaded the doctor's abode with the stealth of a deadly predator. I engaged in the silent stalking partially out of habit, but mostly, I wanted nothing more than to scare the pants off the good doctor.

  The structure's impressive interior sparkled with polished knick knacks and forgotten artifacts offered to him as payment for nanite surgery by the various scavengers of Junction City. Moth-eaten rugs of old cotton and tattered silk curtains decorated the floor and hung from the walls in a questionable artistic array. In the center of the room, a large staircase fashioned from steel and stone ascended to a balcony leading to various corridors, rooms, and tower entrances. Those rooms bore no significant purpose and simply provided flair and reminiscence of the days of old, but the towers housed many of Oswald's scientific experiments and achievements.

  The room in which I stood served as the main reception hall. Small tables covered with shaggy colored cloth and crowned with cracked pottery lined the smooth walls in organized intervals. In the spaces on the wall unoccupied by pretentious decor, doors to equally extravagant, and wholly useless, rooms filled what would otherwise constitute unutilized surface area.

  Within the doors on the left wall were guest rooms outfitted with as many comforts from olden days as could be salvaged from the ruins of surrounding cities. Each room possessed a grungy bed crafted from various stitched cloth and filled with random soft material collected over the years. The doors to the right served as portals to the kitchen. Within, rusty pots and pans hung from metal spikes driven into the steel walls. The cupboards, crafted from the same metal materials that dominated the architecture of the age, contained various foods.

  While most were artificial starch bars or bottles of reinforcing vitamin pills, exciting cans of non-perishable food from long ago occasionally sat stacked next to the bland synthetics used to sustain society. A masterfully carved, oval concrete table claimed a far corner next to a shelf housing several bottles of purified water, and equally masterful stone stools surrounded it. Though I considered sneaking into the kitchen to grab a starch bar, I ultimately decided to forego my hunger in pursuit of Oswald.

  Back in the reception hall on the back wall,
on either side of the staircase, two separate steel doors leading to the same room hid within the shadows of the staircase's embossment. Moving with the skill of an assassin toward the door on the left, I wrapped my hand around the handle and pushed inward. The subtle screech as metal scraped against metal gave me only a moment's pause before I crept into the dim room. A vague orange glow, splashing dancing shadow puppets against the walls, emanated from a lamp placed atop a desk. The warm light flickered; it was designed to imitate an open flame through its artificial illumination.

  Aside from the large concrete desk and expansive floor littered with unorganized documents, several bookcases and filing cabinets lined the cluttered room. Ragged books lay scattered across the floor and strewn atop the shelves. Perhaps the last bit of paper or wood product on the planet, the neglected books elicited feelings of disappointment in me. I felt the doctor was irresponsible for treating the treasure he possessed with such blatant disregard. The disheveled room possessed little else, but along the back wall a set of stairs descended into what I knew to be a large basement.

  My feathery footsteps carried me deeper into the pitch black with only the flickering glow of more lanterns designed to imitate fire hanging from pegs in the wall like eerie will-o'-the-wisps. As I neared the substratum, I heard a conversation between two people echoing up the corridor.

  “Now Minette, in as much detail as possible, explain the theory for the hyped condition.” The first voice was clearly male, and with its elitist drawl it clearly belonged to Oswald.

  The voice that responded rang sweet and beguilingly innocent. Given its high pitch and airy tone, anyone listening would merely assume it belonged to a child. “Well Doctor, studies show that because nanites and their nano hubs utilize organic tissue combined with microcomputer virtual intelligences specifically designed with the ability to learn, the possibility exists that personalities develop within the AI once the nanites become exposed to the human neo cortex.”

  After pausing to take a deep breath, she continued, “At first, this personality is subtle and usually doesn't interfere with brain functions. However, as more implants are given to an individual the collective “voices,” if you will, begin having adverse effects on the psyche. This usually results in typical psychosis manifestations such as dissociative identity disorder, hallucinations, and violent tendencies.”

  “Hm, I suppose I can appreciate the brevity of your response given our current task. Overall, the content was accurate. How do you explain the wide variety of implants and their surprising effects? Implants such as superhuman speed, titanic strength, and other capabilities?” As I listened to Doctor Oswald administer some manner of test to his assistant Minette, I rounded the corner of the base of the stairs into the room in which their conversation took place.

  The old codger used the basement as his laboratory and workshop. The same flickering lights that lined the staircase descending into the basement also hung around the room's perimeter while high powered lamps focused an intense light on the various work stations. One such illuminated work station took the form of tubes filled with oddly bubbling chemicals moving from glass vial to glass vial before dripping into a mysterious beaker. The brilliant white of another light revealed a small work desk with innumerable microscopic parts and fine precision tools used to construct nanites. Finally, the last work station highlighted by a high powered bulb was the center of the room in which Oswald and his assistant stood.

  A raised surgical bed sat surrounded by buzzing computers and various machines designed to read vitals and assist the doctor in his operations. Atop the bed with his scalp removed and brain exposed, one of Junction City's citizens was in for a routine checkup and nanite maintenance.

  “The varying effects of nanites on the human brain stems from the unique manner in which they are created. This especially refers to some of Doctor Lesfort's, the late leading researcher and developer on controversial nanites, experimental implants. Nanites typically operate on segments of code programmed into the microcomputer designed to limit the nanites and keep them from reproducing or consuming too much bio-electricity. Doctor Lesfort, however, created a limited line of nanites that used that code to instead encourage the nanites' evolution,” Minette chirped excitedly.

  “Depending on the order of code and the parameters for learning combined with the aptitudes of the individuals implanted, those nanites can manifest a variety of interesting powers. From the simplicity of increased brain capacity for knowledge and understanding to more complexity such as the ability to access and infiltrate computer systems and networks, Doctor Lesfort's nanites' unique adaptation to traditional nanites has baffled modern medicine the world over!” Minette squealed.

  “Yes, yes.. Doctor Lesfort, of course. That answer is also satis—” Oswald tried to commend Minette, but she hardly allowed the doctor to begin before eagerly offering more information. I mused that even if I activated my Cognitive Accelerator, I would scarce be able to keep track of her lips' movements.

  “There are even speculations of supernatural manifestations of abilities such as psychokinesis which are usually attributed to the fact that we, as a species, have always possessed the potential to achieve such things but lacked the brain power to tap into them! In particular with psychokinesis, the ability to control and manipulate neutrinos into a tangible force is believed to be the cause. The nanites served to bridge that gap in understanding and capability. Why, I've even heard of someone who can channel lightning through their fingers and another who can generate magnetic fields!” Minette, the gabby assistant offering sterling responses to her mentor's distracted questions, stood atop a metal stool near the patient so she could carefully observe the operation.

  Another great mystery far more intriguing to me than the nature of superhuman nanites was that woman's stature. With all her intelligence, maturity, and even physical age, Minette possessed the height and build of a child. If not for the genius she expressed in nanite surgery and the tiny swell of her breasts, discerning her from one of the merry children playing in Junction City's streets would be an impossible feat. But despite her childlike figure, Minette carried a certain charm that prevented her from personifying exaggerated youth.

  Minette struggled to reach five feet tall and sported a white lab coat over a modest dress hanging down just beyond her knees. Her hair, a vibrant, gorgeous scarlet arranged in a beautiful wavy array, framed a pleasing face covered in sun-kissed freckles. Though faded with a global lack of sun exposure, her freckles added to the sense of adorability she already expertly exuded. On the bridge of her nose, a pair of small spectacles sat in front of a pair of captivating turquoise eyes. With her lower lip clenched expectantly between her teeth, as was her habit, Minette looked to Oswald for his approval.

  My abnormal mastery of stealth carried me into the heart of the room without so much as a shift in the grains of sand marring the stone floor. My target, Doctor Oswald, hunched over his patient with his back to me. The man was not physically striking save perhaps his height; he stood at six feet five inches tall with an unexemplary face and average build. His only other mentionable trait was his gleaming bald head which he spit-shined to the point of blinding radiance. A wiry brown beard started at the top of either side of his jaw and met at the base of his chin in a fluffy point. Upon his moderately lengthy nose rested a pair of glasses to assist his plain, brown eyes in their duties.

  As he examined the nanites of the patient in front of him with diligent attention, he nodded in response to Minette's answer to his former inquiry, “Ah yes, yes. An answer any mentor could be proud of. Except, of course, all that nonsense about superhuman abilities. Preposterous. Nothing more than youthful fantasy of the occult,” Oswald annoyedly waved his scalpel at Minette.

  “But Doctor, it's true! I heard it straight from—” Minette began.

  “One last question for now,” it was Oswald's turn to interrupt
his assistant, “why is the anonymity of our patients, and ultimately of all living beings on this planet, so important? And hello, Ihlia. Good to see you made it home safely.”

  I ceased my silent stalking with a disappointed sigh when Oswald uttered my name as a footnote to his test's final question. Despite my constant attempts to sneak up and surprise the old codger, I had thus far been unsuccessful in all ten years of our time together. The worst part was the dispassionate manner with which he continued his work as though I not only failed but never stood a chance. With a persistent pout I took my place at Oswald's side next to the miniature Minette. I folded both of my arms against my abdomen, “How do you always do that, old man?”

  “Do what, Ihlia?” The doctor paused for a brief second to quirk his brow in my direction. A genuine look of confusion clothed his otherwise stoic face. Before I could retort, he lifted his hand to shush me and realization brightened his face like a scientist's “Eureka!” moment. His words escaped him in concise statements, “Distraction. Minette, answer.”

  Minette's voice bubbled from her throat in her typical airy giggle. With her hand bunched into a fist near her mouth, the young assistant coughed as she prepared to recite her answer to the doctor's former inquiry. “After the creation of nanites that were capable of accessing networks, frequent incidents of neural hijacking led to identity theft, the ability to keep constant tabs on an individual's location, and in some extreme cases a hacker would utilize advanced implant technology to augment nanite behavioral programming. In effect, a hacker could steal who you were, find and kill you, or even change your brain in worst case scenarios. It was ultimately decided that a new network and a passcode would be placed on all neural networking. While the network superseded the Internet as the new highway of information, the world government applied the passcodes at an individual level.”