by Nick Thacker
Myers decided to turn around and face his enemy. He may have been unarmed, but at least he would be able to stare down his murderers and look them in the eye.
He wasn’t afraid of death, not anymore. Fifteen minutes ago, sure. Funny how that worked. Up until about fifteen years ago, or up until his working memory left him, he knew he’d feared death. He’d assumed it was a natural human reaction to the unknown waiting for them all. The one constant that no one on Earth had yet escaped from.
But now, out here in the middle of the end of the world, Myers Asher turned to face Death head-on and laugh in its face. Sure, there were three actual faces to choose from, but he figured the laughter would be the easy part. He prepared a sneer, a true bomb of a smile, and got ready to aim it at the open door that would soon be rotated around to face him.
Wong was there, pointing down at him. Myers hated him for that, possibly more than he did for killing Ravi. He felt like something had been taken from him, given back, then taken again. It didn’t matter. He had a plan, and he raised his head to accept his fate, sneer and all.
And then Wong fell out the door. The sound of the shot followed.
Another shot, and Myers tried to duck. He missed the ground and ended up just taking a knee, which would have been a feat to celebrate under other circumstances. Wong seemed dead, lying on his back looking up the heli.
The heli danced to the right, its pilot compensating for either the sudden attack or the loss of weight on the starboard side, possibly both. It righted, but continued swiveling around so that its rear end was facing Myers.
Myers shot a glance behind him. Just outside the gates of Istanbul, he could see a man running toward him, a long stick-like object slung over his shoulder. The shooter from the city.
He no longer had a plan, but he immediately felt the urge to create a new one. His mind raced through the options. Stay and fight. Turn and run — where? Hide… behind what? As soon as they popped into his mind, somewhere in his subconscious they were thrown out as useless. He was left with only one. Stay and fight. It meant almost certain death, as he was now surrounded by attackers, Ravi was likely dead, and there was absolutely nothing to fight with. He wasn’t about to start throwing rocks.
The sneer came back, with a vengeance. Myers aimed it toward the heli, waiting for the counterattack. It came, and it came fast. The heli launched something from both sides of its hull, streaks of smoke emanating from holes Myers hadn’t noticed before. The streaks screamed over his head and toward the man, and he turned to watch them land just in front of his position. The explosion sent a wave of air rushing back toward Myers, followed by a flash of heat.
He squinted and saw the silhouette of the man, still running. He used the smoke clouds that had formed in front of him as cover to gain another thirty yards. Myers knew what would come next, and he formed a quick plan. The heli was either reloading or reacquiring its target, but he didn’t care to know which it was. He just needed the time to get to Wong.
He hoped the man was dead, as his plan didn’t include ‘get into a fistfight.’ He reached the area where the short bald man had landed and found what he was looking for.
The gun was rough, as if it had been machined on an assembly line that cared more for quantity than it did for quality. He picked it up and felt its weight. He wasn’t sure if he’d fired an assault rifle before — at least not in the last fifteen or so years — but it felt comfortable. Either they were made to fit well into a man’s hands or he’d just gotten lucky.
He wasted only a second examining the rifle before turning to face the heli. As he’d expected, they were aiming for the running man again, leaving the open door on its side directed toward Myers — the non-threat. He lifted the rifle, hoping Wong hadn’t flipped on the safety or somehow disabled the gun as he’d fallen to his death.
He hadn’t. Myers flicked his finger quickly, allowing a single round to pop through the barrel and out into the open air. It sailed generally toward the heli, but must have been too low — he saw a bubble of dirt in the distance fly upwards as the round struck a rock. He tried again, and again.
After the fourth shot, someone — either Yuri or Grouse — had reached the open door and he aimed again. He’d grown accustomed to the relatively minor kick of the rifle, and his next shot flew through the man’s left leg. The monster wailed in agony and disappeared back into the heli’s interior.
He didn’t wait to see if he’d return. Myers turned the rifle to the running man, but it was a much smaller target. He fired the rifle another three times, trying to place the shots on the tiny silhouette, then another seven or eight. The gun clicked and he looked at it. He couldn’t tell if it was out of ammunition, overheated, or broken. Somewhere in his mind he made a mental note that if he ever got out of this hell, he’d take a gun safety course and do a lot of target practice.
Now what?
The portion of his brain he’d dedicated to planning and organization was drawing a blank, and he felt helpless. The heli had reloaded, or found its target, and fired another shot. One rocket this time. It flew toward the man, but at the last second he dove sideways. The shot was high, aimed at his head, so it flew another ten yards or so and exploded into the ground. This explosion was closer, and every inch of his weak and tired body shook with the impact. The heat wave was a moment of unbearable, searing pain, but it passed quickly. Myers couldn’t imagine the man surviving the explosion from that proximity, but he did. He saw him stand again and continue running forward.
The stick, the man’s rifle, swung back around and Myers watched as he ran toward the heli and aimed. He saw the flash of a gunshot, then another and another. The man’s gun was far stronger than Wong’s had been, no doubt the same long-range weapon Myers had been accosted with back in the city. The next shot struck something important on the heli, and Myers saw a line of black smoke start to trail out from the heli’s roof.
It spun wildly, the ship not able to keep itself steady enough to line up another shot. The man was closing the distance between the heli, Ravi’s body, and Myers, but he was still firing shots. Another struck the heli, and Myers caught a quick glimpse through the open door inside the craft. One of the men was trying to tend to the other’s wounds, but was being flung about as the heli sunk closer to the ground. The shooter from the city was now at Ravi’s body.
Myers watched as the heli hit the ground, a deep thud cracking through the hard, sandy ground. It didn’t explode, and he wondered if its occupants had survived the impact. The man had cleared Ravi’s body in a single lunge, conveniently dodging the falling heli as well, and landed just in front of Myers.
Myers could see the intense look in the man’s face, the stubble around his high, sharp cheekbones. He was much younger than he’d expected him to be — probably a little more than half Myers’ own age. He had bright blue eyes, currently focused singularly on Myers. The man wasn’t stumbling, and he wasn’t shifting as he ran. He kept a straight line on Myers and ran full-speed ahead.
Myers took a step backwards, not sure what to make of the man running at him. It wasn’t enough to deter the man from his path, and Myers only had time to suck in a quick breath before the man hit him directly in the sternum, wrapping his arms around him as Myers’ feet left the ground.
They sailed together for about ten feet and then landed, and Myers realized that the second impact, the one he’d just made with the ground, would have knocked the wind out of him if that hadn’t already happened when the man tackled him. He sucked a deep breath, trying to get oxygen into his bloodstream, but the man bounced back up and sat on his stomach. The man pressed hard on Myers’ chest with the butt of his gun.
“Myers Asher,” the man said. He wasn’t even out breath, Myers realized.
He nodded, once.
“My name is Solomon Merrick.”
RAND
“RAND, HEADS UP.” THE MOST grating voice he had ever heard resonated down the hallway and into his open office, alerting Jonathan of
three things:
First, that it was Felicia Davies, his boss, ready to pounce on him with another projection she’d come up with about how the System was ‘going to save them all’ or a recent news clipping about how ‘great the System was handling X or Y in X or Y shitty country he didn’t care about.’
Second, he realized how little he missed her. The grating sound of her voice was caused by one of two things, in his opinion. Either she had smoked most of her adult life, precluding her from the vocal enhancement technology that had entered the market a few months prior, or — and Rand tended to lean toward this option — she was just simply that annoying.
Third, he now knew that her catchphrase was the (admittedly catchy) ‘heads up.’ He and Roan had had a long-standing bet on the nature of the phrase, and whether or not it was her phrase of choice from something she’d read or heard, or if it was just a ridiculous-sounding way to make her seem more approachable to her underlings. They’d never determined the exact origin of the two-word callsign, but he was now sure that it was, without a doubt, based on something she’d read. And Roan wasn’t here to argue, so he decided it was a settled bet.
Her monstrous legs were the first thing to round the corner into his office, and only then did he notice that he’d been staring down at the floor just outside his door. The legs, thankfully, were the most unsightly part of the woman that followed, but not by much.
A fact he was soon reminded of.
Her girth, alone, wasn’t something that ignited the jokes and jabs the office staff typically engaged in while visiting each other or standing around in the cramped rest area, but it didn’t help. While she wasn’t “fat” by anyone’s standards, she was certainly overweight. But it was the way in which she carried herself, and the simple fact that she had one of the most abrasive personalities of almost anyone Jonathan had ever met, that had earned her the reputation she carried with her through Vericorp’s forgotten offices.
Her voice was like an old-school train braking before it entered a station.
In short, it was terrible. She had the loud, piercing wail of an operatic soprano, without any of the nuance and control.
The sound of it, combined with the immediate knowledge that it accompanied one of the worst parts of working for Vericorp, was almost too much to handle.
Jonathan found himself searching for an exit strategy that bypassed the only reasonable entrance to his office — the door. Finding none, he sat up and waited for the barrage of pain that was sure to come.
“Rand — you hear me?” The Voice shouted.
Everyone can. Shut the damned door.
She shut the door. I changed my mind. You only shut the door when it’s bad news. Open it back up.
She didn’t listen to his psychic pleadings this time. Instead, she shuffled through the office and smashed herself down into the unfortunate chair placed in front of Jonathan’s desk.
“So, Roan.”
And that was it. The beginning of a no-bullshit conversation he was hoping he’d never have to have with another living soul, especially one that lived inside this woman.
He nodded once, slowly.
“What do you think about it?”
“It?” He would cooperate, but he wouldn’t make it easy.
“Come on, Rand,” Davies said. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“Well, what do you think about it?” he asked.
She sniffed, another of her little “quirks” that made the rounds as an intraoffice joke. “Can’t say I like it too much.”
He nodded. “Well, there you go. Now, I, uh, probably need to get back —“
“To what? To applying updates and server patches one at a time? Shit, I tell you, if this place was anything at all like it used to be…” her voice trailed off, an audible clue that she was talking only to fill space, not because she actually had something to say.
Jonathan wondered why she didn’t spend as much time in other offices as she did his. Sure, he was her senior team leader, but he could never shake the feeling that there was more to it. She knew he had a girlfriend, and she knew who she was. If only I could get them to meet, then she’ll back off…
He looked back at Davies. She was still there, those huge stupid eyes staring blankly back at him.
Go. Away.
He was feeling more snarky today, ready to have it out with anyone who screwed around with his time. He wondered why. Roan? The “project” he was working on?
Maybe it was Diane. He hadn’t seen her in what — six months? Maybe she’d already moved on to someone else.
No, that’s crazy. She’d at least have the decency to have her assistant send his terminal a calendar update canceling their dinner in a week.
He sighed, as loudly as he could. “Davies, what’s up? I really need to get back to work.”
She shifted a bit in her chair. He had to hand it to her — she had a knack for physically stating a change in subject. Whether it was purposeful or based on an incredible level of awkwardness was one of the world’s greatest mysteries.
“Roan was deactivated.”
The words, spoken from someone else, stung. Jonathan silently spoke them, one at a time, in turn. Roan was deactivated. He tried to recall the last thing he’d said to the guy — his friend — but couldn’t.
His friend was gone.
“Got it. Thanks, Davies. Now —“
“Why deactivated, and not reassigned?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. It came through yesterday, and we —“
“You knew about it yesterday.” It wasn’t a question. Jonathan tried to decipher the meaning behind it. It was impossible to see through those gigantic, lifeless eyeballs.
“I did. We were friends, you know. We hit Niels’ after work, and he told me there.”
“But I didn’t even see the notice until this morning. I usually get updates on my terminal.” She raised her pudgy hand, revealing a hand terminal, as if Jonathan had never seen one before.
“Yes, the System usually emails them out to necessary staff. I didn’t get one either. Maybe there was a problem with the internal mail server.” Now he sounded like an idiot, so he shook his head, as if that would negate his last statement.
“No, there wasn’t. I checked. Why are you trying to build a cloaking device?”
Holy shit. That was probably the most straightforward, to-the-point subject change he’d ever heard. He really had to hand it to her: now he was the one shifting in his seat.
“I — what?” He started. He cleared his throat and started again. “Sorry — what? A cloaking device?”
“Cut the bullshit, Rand. You’re the smartest dev we’ve got here, and it’s not an accident. You’ve been quiet for three years, but I can see right through it. You and Roan were working on something.”
“We were?” Rand couldn’t help but take a slight offense at the insult that he and Roan were working on something together.
“He said you were. He emailed this morning. That’s how I found out about the deactivation. He said he was sorry for the rest of us who had to stay behind — that was always his brand of humor, you know? — and that he was proud of you for figuring out the cloaking device. He wished you the best, and said he was sorry he couldn’t help you more.” She leaned back in the chair, a satisfied smirk revealing itself on her face.
Jonathan couldn’t believe it. How — when — had Roan sent the email? They were together the entire night, and after…
“Did you run a trace on the email?”
“I’m sorry?”
“A trace,” he repeated, “did you run a trace on the email? So we know it was sent from Roan?”
“Rand, what are you talking about?” Davies said, leaning forward again. “You don’t think he sent the email?”
Jonathan thought for a moment. “Never mind. It’s just… just odd that he would. Don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about that little thing about a device. Just an idea we had.” He hated bringing his friend
into it, but if what Davies was saying was actually true, his friend had brought himself into it.
“Never mind? You’re kidding, right? And all of the parts that have been walking out of the lab? You expect me to believe different people have been grabbing all the pieces they’d need to build two station consoles? I talked to Roxanne this morning, the last name on the request list. She hasn’t even been down to the lab in three weeks!” Davies was beginning to get worked up, judging by the small amount of spittle that had already collected on the corner of her mouth. In Jonathan’s mind, any amount of spittle was too much spittle.
He waited for her to continue, sensing that a tirade was about to begin. He only hoped it wouldn’t be loud enough for the others to hear.
“And I wouldn’t even really mind you building a station for personal use, or whatever it is you’re trying to do with it, but lying about it on the request form?”
She paused for a moment and cocked her head sideways, confused. Like she’d just realized she’d lost her train of thought and changed the subject accidentally. She quickly jumped back on the train. “Never mind. That’s not what I’m here for. You are working on a device that is exclusively designed to bypass the security and intelligence systems we currently rely on to keep us safe. The audacity of what you’re attempting is… is…” he watched the spittle build up even more, and decided to rescue her.
“We’re not — we weren’t,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. “It was an idea, one that we canned. Just a tech-guy joke between us.”
She shook her head. “I don’t buy it. His last email to anyone was about that? And you’re claiming it’s ‘not something you’re doing?’”
He shook his head. It’s not something we’re doing, it’s something I’m doing. Subtle difference, but he could live with a little white lie.
“It’s not.”
She stood up and turned to leave, finally displaying a small window of freedom for Jonathan. “I’m tracking you, just so you know. I get it, Rand — you’re the genius around here, and I’m the joke. But you don’t get to my position, System-chosen or not, without a little of that fire that we have in common.”