The Northern Star Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by Mike Gullickson

  “The theoretical is different than the practical, General,” Cynthia said. “We’ve capped their bandwidth to 300 megabytes-per-second, only spiking it for specific projects.”

  At the ground floor, a man so obese he couldn’t walk rode a scooter over to them. The tires on his Rascal screamed for mercy as he approached.

  “Dr. Marin,” Cynthia said.

  “Great timing, Cynthia. We’re about to fire it back up.”

  “Any issues?”

  “A fiber line was damaged, but we’ve routed around it. We should be 100% in another twenty-four hours.”

  They followed Dr. Marin to the control deck right at the Core. It was an immense structure, more so because the giant tube was so dark. It was like a black hole caught in a bottle. Dr. Marin nodded to a group of technicians and two pulled down levers while the others typed quickly on keyboards. A sound erupted from the Core like a cold engine turning.

  The entire tube crackled blue . . . then black . . . the engine turning . . . electric blue . . . black . . . the engine turning . . . BOOM! The entire tube filled with a coursing, electric blue, as if lightning had been trapped in a bottle. Everyone’s hair stood on end and arcs of static electricity danced between the Core and the electronics at its base. Dr. Marin saw the concern on WarDon’s face.

  “It’s completely safe. Everything’s grounded.”

  WarDon nodded but he was unconvinced. He took a few steps back. Evan did the opposite: he walked around the Core as if it were an alien artifact. He immediately recognized its components. A huge bundle of fiber lines—tens of millions—ran the length of the Core. At its center was a thin metal plate that separated the two segments. That thin plate was the Data Crusher and how Sleepers could do what Evan had told WarDon they could. That benign piece of metal blotted out in the sea of pulsing blue was the key to Nostradamus and beyond.

  = = =

  “It’s all very impressive,” WarDon said. They were now at a conference table adjunct from the Core. Sabot poured water for them. Evan noticed that his forearm was as big as his own thigh.

  Cynthia pulled out a joint. “Do you mind? I’m losing focus.”

  It was the opposite. Cynthia was, in fact, gaining focus. Without medication, she had almost uncontrollable obsessive-compulsive disorder. For programming and research, it was an incredible strength. She would get off the pills, get off the weed, and her genius would be paired with laser-like focus. But day-to-day it was crippling and without medication she had extreme difficulty communicating effectively. Sometimes she would speak in English and computer code, as if they were one.

  WarDon put on his best, I’m-fine-with-it, smile. “Of course.”

  She sparked up.

  “Why are you really here, General?” Cynthia asked.

  “I guess we can cut to it. The U.S. is losing on two fronts right now, Cynthia, and both have major consequences that exacerbate the other,” WarDon stood up and paced the room. “I was going to come to Chicago before this happened but it emphasizes our failure at home.”

  “The Terror War is getting worse and the Coalition is falling apart. We thought one of the few benefits with the oil shortage would be that our enemies couldn’t get over here. But we were wrong. As soon as we invaded, many of them traveled to Canada and down. We have no proof, but we think some of our national enemies may have funded this emigration. There were also cells already planted in the U.S. that we didn’t know about.”

  “I know these things. What does it have to do with me?”

  “Nostradamus,” Evan said. “Because we have no access to your software, we can’t implement it effectively.”

  “The software is mine,” Cynthia said flatly. “As is the technology behind it.”

  WarDon put his hands up.

  “We’re not saying it’s not, quite the contrary. It’s yours, Cynthia. MindCorp saved the modern world. Who knows where we’d be without you. Worse, for sure. But if we had access, true access, this software could follow trends. It could save lives.”

  “It’s an invasion of privacy,” Cynthia said.

  “So are your Sleepers,” Evan replied coolly.

  “Sleepers are programmers, simple as that. They maintain the system,” Cynthia said.

  “Evan seems to think otherwise,” WarDon said. It was clear they had pulled their trump card.

  “Theoretically, yes. Early on we tested quite a few theories, many with government involvement. You should know that, Don. But they were deemed unethical, unnecessary, and dangerous. We cap the bandwidth on the Mindlinks to limit any . . . transgressions.”

  Evan interrupted. “There are five Sleepers in Chicago you don’t restrict and they are gathering information that is privy only to you.”

  Cynthia turned to WarDon. “Are you spying on me?”

  WarDon shrugged.

  “You haven’t been forthright, Cynthia, and the world relies way too much on your technology without understanding how it works. You’re a privately held corporation and you are doing espionage. I have the list, I can show you.” WarDon pulled it out of his coat; Cynthia waved it away. “This information would not be good going public. We are in dire times.”

  WarDon sat down. He continued. “I’m not asking you to stop. In fact, we are providing you a tool to do more. We’re asking you to do more.”

  The room was quiet. Cynthia finally spoke up.

  “I understand how granting access to Nostradamus on our network could help with the Terror War, but what does this have to do with the Coalition?”

  “There’s never been a true oil shortage before, Cynthia. As much as we’ve hemmed and hawed in the past, we’ve always found more. But those days are gone. If there’s only enough food for two people, and three people are eating, sooner or later, two of ‘em are going to realize that it can’t go on . . . and every one of them wants to survive. Contrary to popular belief, I like peace. I want peace. But my job’s to prepare for the worst. No one acts rationally when they’re hungry and scared. Not people, sure as hell not nations. That’s where your untethered Sleepers come into play. I need to know what our Coalition partners are thinking.”

  “If they found out, it could destroy my business.”

  “So would World War III.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Cynthia replied.

  WarDon raised his eyebrow, but the rest of his face remained like stone. He was.

  “Let me think about it.”

  WarDon stood up and Evan followed.

  “Of course.”

  = = =

  That night on their private train back to Chicago, Cynthia lay naked next to Sabot, pondering the meeting with WarDon. Sabot had been her bodyguard for five years and her lover for six months. He was the anchor that kept her reasonable in a sea that bent to her every whim, around people that would ‘yes’ her off a cliff and follow after her, just to be in her good stead.

  As her influence overshadowed governments and changed the global culture, death threats would surface in the bowels of extremist blogs. A stalker was arrested and sentenced. Abduction attempts thwarted. And Cynthia knew she had high level enemies around her—both government and corporate—that sought her opinion and joked with her, that complimented her. But when she turned away their smiles vanished and they glared at her with emotionless, chestnut eyes: the eyes of the hungry and jealous and wanting.

  She lit a joint and pulled. She held the smoke until it burned and let it go. The smoke rolled over itself in the moonlight.

  “What’s up?” Sabot asked. He had woken. He pushed himself up on his elbows.

  “My mind’s racing. How dangerous is WarDon?” Cynthia asked. While Sabot never said it straight out, he had hinted they had crossed paths during his service.

  “Politically?”

  “Everything. Political, military, any way he could hurt me.”

  Sabot didn’t hesitate. “If things get dire, they’ll do to MindCorp what they did to the Middle East and Venezuela.”

  “No
. They couldn’t.”

  Sabot let out a short laugh.

  “So you think they’ll invade countries but not take over a corporation?” he said.

  “Without me, it would fail.”

  Sabot raised an eyebrow. Cynthia realized that Sabot thought they would abduct her.

  “No, they wouldn’t. I’m too high profile!”

  “Who would know anymore, Cynthia? MindCorp controls all the information. If they controlled it and you, they could say you moved to Antarctica to study penguins. They would rationalize it for the greater good. Things are easy for governments to justify.”

  “Really,” she said, less surprised than she should be and not nearly scared enough. This was good weed.

  “I’m glad you’re taking it well,” Sabot said. He rolled over and fell back asleep.

  Cynthia almost turned in, thought ‘fuck it’ and smoked the rest of the joint. Sabot was right. WarDon was dangerous. He and the other politicians and officers put up brave fronts, but they were scared, fanatical in their fear of unimportance. Cynthia’s invention had helped solve a global crisis among the developed nations with the dwindling oil reserves. But it didn’t solve the national crisis. It, in fact, accelerated what policy had begun one hundred years before. Free trade. Global conglomerates. U.S. companies with their factories in China. German companies with their manufacturing in Mexico. Shoes made in sweatshops across Asia. Countries bailing out other countries, because each relied so much on the other. Nations had become states. And each of these states was governed by the global economy. The Mindlink caused further withering of nation relevance because in the digital space, location meant nothing. MindCorp had created a better world with less pollution, that offered limitless choices, and that they controlled completely.

  Cynthia put out her joint and pulled the blankets up. She watched Sabot sleep until her eyes grew heavy. She knew she came with baggage and she loved him for carrying it.

  The governments had become landlords and nothing more. But they still had guns. And they still had bombs. And they still had soldiers. They would not go quietly into the night. She decided to play along. If they were to become enemies, it would be better that they were close.

  -Venezuela-

  Hugo was being hunted. They all were. When the Coalition had invaded Venezuela five years before, the military aristocracy and the politicians surrendered for amnesty. They handed over Venezuela to save their hides. But Hugo—a General—and a few hundred other soldiers did not. They took to the mountains near the oil fields. That was what it was about, after all, the oil. In the years that followed they had grown in number. The Coalition had cordoned off cities and didn’t allow travel. But Hugo and his renegades broke out many, and their numbers climbed to almost five hundred.

  The refineries were heavily guarded, but the rebels knocked one out for a month. Battleships surrounded the oil pipeline to the sea, but they still blew it up. And the mountains were theirs. The U.S. had its fill of guerilla warfare and wanted none of it. The intruders kept their crosshairs on the mountains from the comfort of their citadels, but they didn’t come hunt. It was not their land.

  Except for him. Twelve Coalition soldiers had been dropped at the top of the mountain to find and assassinate Hugo. In a two-week span, Hugo and his patriots had killed all but one. They were high in the mountains, too high for the Coalition to send reinforcements and he knew the soldier was on his own. So Hugo spread his army out like a net in search of the final soldier.

  That was one month ago and that lone soldier still haunted them. Camps would wake up to ten dead. Scout parties would never come back. And then he’d pick one off, two off—be quiet for days—and then strike again. He avoided the mines. He avoided the snares. He avoided feints to lure him out. They called him ‘el fantasma.’ The ghost. And it had begun to feel like he was a part of the forest and not a man.

  Within the last two weeks, three hundred of Hugo’s men had defected. They didn’t ask, they just disappeared in the night. And while Hugo knew they had left on their own volition, others attributed it to the ghost. The ghost (quit calling him that, Hugo said to himself), the MAN—he was a MAN—had killed fifty men since they had chased him up into the mountains.

  Hugo was down to twenty men under his command. As quickly as his power had risen, Hugo saw it fall. The Coalition had won. They would think it was their battleships and tanks and helicopters, but for Hugo, it was this one man that had done it.

  “Carlos has been gone too long,” a lieutenant whispered. It was night and they sat around a small campfire at the mouth of a cave.

  “Go find him,” Hugo said, absently.

  “No,” the lieutenant replied. Hugo looked into his eyes and he saw the fear. The ghost.

  “He’s just a man, hermano.”

  “Maybe we did kill him . . .” the lieutenant said. A few pair of wide eyes nodded in agreement.

  So this is what happens. Hugo thought. We lose our country, we lose our dignity, and then we lose our minds.

  Hugo rose to his feet.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find Carlos.”

  The lieutenant stood up. “I’ll go with you.”

  “And what, have you shoot me in the back when you hear an owl?”

  The men around the fire laughed uncomfortably.

  “I’ll go alone, thank you. It’s late, he may just be asleep.”

  Hugo walked out of the cave and made his way up the mountain. The view from here was spectacular. At night, nothing was wrong. The city lights twinkled, the shadows hid the sins. But in daylight, the land was carved into boroughs, the dust trail of the tanks easily spotted. Ahead, he saw Carlos asleep against a tree. He could hear him snoring. Hugo took a stick and threw it at him.

  “Carlos!” he hissed.

  Carlos shifted around in his sleep. Hugo rolled his eyes. Carlos was the laziest of his soldiers, but also his bravest. He was drunk much of the time. Hugo stood over him.

  “Carlos!” Carlos rose up and then slunk back to the ground. It took Hugo a second to see that the tree behind Carlos was looking at him. Mike Glass, in full ghillie suit, separated from the pine. He aimed a silenced .22 Ruger at Hugo’s head. The subsonic rounds were as quiet as a BB gun.

  “El Fantasma,” Hugo said. And then the bullet entered his eye.

  Chapter 2

  Justin McWilliams finally had enough money. He looked online at his bank account “like poor people do,” typing in his username and password, seeing the balance on a flat screen monitor. He lived in DeKalb, Illinois. When he was born, the population was over thirty thousand people. Now it was two hundred. The other thirty thousand had left during the Great Migration when the government offered to move and place them in homes in Chicago. All that remained were farmers. His father farmed corn and soy and he was paid directly by the government. Not a lot, but like his father said: “In these times, at least we’re paid.”

  Justin closed the browser and gathered himself. He heard the television downstairs and he could picture his father stretched out on his recliner, absently itching his junk. His mom would always say “Frank!” and his father would reply, “I can’t help it the dang thing is so big,” and throw a wink at Justin. It always made Justin laugh.

  He heard the clanging of pots and dishes as his mom washed up after dinner. Justin took a big breath. It was time. He walked downstairs, his heart racing. He turned into the living room and caught the tail end of another one of his father’s nut grabs.

  Frank McWilliams saw Justin out of the corner of his eye and turned his head back.

  “Hey J, are you done with your homework?”

  Justin nodded that he was, but it was assumed. Justin’s IQ was 190. He formed sentences at eighteen months, and he could solve advanced calculus problems by age four. Soon after, he was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome. He had difficulties in crowds and relating to people. Even at home, he connected with his dad but only communicated basics with his mom. He was twelv
e now.

  “I have three hundred and fifty dollars,” Justin stated.

  His father smiled. “That’s a lot of prairie dogs.”

  Four hundred and sixty-seven rounded up, Justin quickly calculated. Justin got seventy-five cents a prairie dog on the neighboring farms. He used a bolt-action, 22 magnum with a 4x Tasco scope. “You said if I saved up, I could buy a Mindlink.”

  “It costs three fifty?”

  “Three hundred and ten with tax.”

  His father chuckled. “Mom can buy it online for you. Charlene!”

  “I want to go into the city,” Justin said.

  Frank turned off the television. Charlene quit doing the dishes and leaned in.

  “Justin, you don’t have to,” Frank said. “We get shipments every week.”

  “But if we go in, then I can get it tomorrow.” Justin looked pained. When he was frustrated he’d pat his right hand on his thigh like he was keeping a beat.

  “The city is very crowded, and noisy,” Frank said slowly. He looked to his wife. He wanted his son to go, he wanted it to be his decision. But he had to know the facts. In the last year, they had seen Justin begin to open up. It was a fraction of what other children would, but it was enough to see the sweet boy inside. Before he would act out with tears or rage, but now he would try to explain himself. One of the reasons Frank sat in the chair and watched TV was that it was easier for Justin to communicate without direct eye contact.

  “I want to go. That’s why it’s three hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Two round trip train tickets are twenty dollars apiece.”

  Frank roared with laughter.

  “I want to see MindCorp,” Justin said. “I read that Cynthia Revo is like me.”

  = = =

  Mohammed Jawal was sixty-three years old, broad shouldered and lean. Younger, he had been a striking man. Clean-shaven, he had the hard lines of a sheik. But his welcoming brown eyes played against his otherwise intimidating appearance. He had no problems meeting women.

  That was twenty years ago. Before. He now had hair down to his shoulders, the black streaked with gray. His beard ended mid-chest. He had turned over his life to Allah and in doing so, he had turned his back on Western conventions, ones that he, much to his dismay, had once embraced.