The Northern Star Trilogy: Omnibus Edition

by Mike Gullickson

  Vanessa’s heart pushed the blood down the tube. Glass writhed on the table. Ewing took the end of the tube and attached a needle to it. “I have to hit a vein.” He knelt next to the bucking bull and inserted the tube into the body cavity. With a snake-like device he threaded the IV up the wound. It got stuck.

  “Shit.” He reached his hand up the cavity and the camera feed blackened as his hands unkinked the line. Glass’s body shook.

  “Doctor,” a nurse said quietly.

  “I know.”

  Suddenly Glass bucked and a muffled snap came from inside him.

  “Doctor!”

  “Shut up!” Dr. Ewing pulled out his limp arm, and with the other used the remote. He had succeeded at getting the snake into the body cavity. The organs were compartmentalized, the veins and arteries as ordered as Ethernet runs. He entered the compartment that contained the heart. It beat erratically, starved of blood. Glass went limp. His heart fluttered. Stopped. Fluttered. Stopped. Seconds passed. An alarm rang. Dr. Ewing moved the snake past the heart to a compartment that was lined with veins. He inserted the needle.

  “Come on,” the doctor said.

  The alarm continued its one-pitch shriek.

  “Turn that off!”

  The doctor didn’t turn away from the monitor; the camera was on his heart. “The blood’s coming, right?”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  The seconds felt a thousand times over. The heart thumped. Thumped. And began to beat regularly.

  Moments later, Glass stirred like a coma patient waking. “Dad never . . .” he said quietly. He woke to Vanessa sitting next to him.

  “Dead?” he asked.

  “No,” Vanessa said. She reached out and gripped his hand. He squeezed it lightly.

  “Glass, this is Dr. Ewing. Don’t move. Do you know where you are?”

  “I fell asleep,” Glass said.

  Ewing emitted a stressed-out laugh. “Yeah, you could call it that.”

  “Who are you?” Glass asked.

  “Vanessa.”

  “I’m Mike.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  The surgery took twelve hours. They removed a third of his bionic frame to repair the damage to the organ capsule. The entire time, Vanessa stayed by his side, feeding him her own life, for without it, he would die.

  = = =

  Linked in, Mike’s body was warm against hers. She watched his stomach muscles contract and expand with every pump. Her hands wrapped around his thick triceps. The eyes that looked down on her blinked, the green in them wrapped around the pupils.

  “You’re mine,” he said.

  “I’m yours,” she replied.

  “You’re mine,” he said.

  “Than fuck me,” she replied. He did, and it felt better than real. Over his shoulders she looked at the ceiling and, for a moment, ecstasy made it blur.

  Afterward, she rested her head on his chest.

  “I wish you could stay.”

  He ran his hands through her hair. “Me too.”

  “Why couldn’t you?”

  “That’s not the way it works. You know that.”

  “If you told him.”

  Glass paused for a moment. Finally: “What do you think Evan is?”

  “That’s an odd question.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He’s . . . I don’t know. He’s brilliant, maybe insecure, or at least was. He’s driven. He’s always supported me.”

  “That’s your assessment?”

  She perched up and looked at Mike. “Yeah, why?”

  “You know he’s the most powerful person in the world.”

  “Isn’t Cynthia?”

  “She has no armies.”

  Vanessa considered this and then fell back onto the bed. “Okay.”

  Glass persisted. “How would the person you described become that?”

  She didn’t have an answer. “What is he, then?” she asked.

  “Caesar.”

  = = =

  The next day, Vanessa had a pounding headache. She couldn’t even remember how she had gotten to work. She was beneath the Derik Building outside their indoor testing range. Its floor and walls had been poured with the same amount of concrete and steel found in the most impervious of bunkers, and still it shook. Chao and Kove were behind the wide doors for their final calibration.

  They had passed by earlier. Kove had given a genuine “hello” and Chao had winked as if holding back a secret. Their heads were shaved and their faces were sallow and sickly. Slight starvation—intentional—helped them live longer. The techs called them the Twins, and they really did look the same. Except for their eyes. Kove’s held a puppy-dog sadness, whereas Chao’s contained fire.

  They were now nine feet tall and two and a half tons each, shrink-wrapped black, like a Minor. They were a new breed, a hybrid, melding the best attributes of the infantry bionics and the giants. They were smaller than fully armored Tank Majors, but four times quicker. Underneath the tons of electrostatic tissue, their skeletal frame was an osmium/depleted-uranium alloy—the same material used for Raimey’s entire body. And unlike current Tank Majors, these were designed for weapon attachments. Their implant had imbedded reticle software, and mounts and rails peppered their bodies.

  By the sound of the impacts alone, she could tell they were fast. The “heavy” Tank Majors were quick because of the length of their strides, but they looked little faster than a good jogger on a run. Yet past the doors, the Twins’ feet hit the floor fast, like jackhammers. Vanessa’s coffee cup danced across the desk. She saved its life when it reached the edge.

  BA-BA-BAM!

  Vanessa winced and cupped her ears in pain. The cup jumped off the side, crashing to the floor. That was something different. It was their new hydraulshock system, a cartridge-less design that allowed them to house thirty attacks per side.

  She looked at the mess. “Shit.” She had one tiny napkin, but got on her knees and dabbed at the spill.

  Feet appeared in front of her and she looked up. It was Glass. She hadn’t heard him approach. The hallway was long; she thought she would have seen him coming.

  “Mike, what are you doing here?” She nearly went for a hug and caught herself. This wasn’t the place.

  “They want me to work with Chao and Kove. They have more in common with me than they do with a Tank Major or the other bionics.”

  “I thought you were gone.”

  “Evan cut the mission short. He wanted me back for this. How are they doing?”

  “I have a massive headache. They’re making a racket in there.”

  “They’re bulls in a china shop.” Glass looked around. This section was high security, and they were the only ones there. “Can I talk to you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t think we should do this anymore. I care about you, but I think if you knew what I did, if you really understood what kind of person I am—”

  “I know who you are, Mike,” she said. Her eyes quivered. “If you’re breaking up with me, then do it, but don’t blame it on your job.”

  “I kill people, Vanessa.”

  “I know. So does my dad. So does everyone I know.”

  The scene replayed.

  “They’re bulls in a china shop.” Glass looked around. This section was high security, and they were the only ones there. “Can I talk to you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t think we should do this anymore. I’m ten years older than you, and while I care about you—I do, you know, and for me that’s rare—I think who we are . . . it’s just too big a distance. You can find someone that will make you happier. Someone you could have a family with.”

  Her lip quivered.

  “It’s for the best. You’ll see,” he reassured her.

  “I don’t care about that, Mike,” she said. “I love you. I don’t want to be with anyone else. People think I have a silver spoon because of Evan, but I have nothing. I don’t care about ou
r age. I don’t care if Evan finds out and kicks us out. I want to be with you.”

  Again.

  “They’re bulls in a china shop.” Glass looked around. This section was high security, and they were the only ones there. “Can I talk to you?”

  “Of course.”

  Glass crossed his arms. “We can’t do this anymore.”

  Her lip quivered.

  “Why would you say that? I thought we had something . . .”

  “I wanted to fuck Raimey’s daughter. I never cared about you. Frankly, most of the things you say . . . it’s like I’m speaking to a child. I can’t do it anymore, this pretending. It’s over.”

  “But I love you!” she cried.

  Glass shrugged. “One more thing you loved that’s lost.” He walked away.

  Suddenly she was in front of him, pounding on his chest. “NO! NO! You understand me? We have something. I don’t know why you’re doing this. Did Evan tell you to do this? I will die without you. I will kill myself without you!”

  “It’s over,” he said.

  She snatched the sidearm from Glass’s hip and put it in her mouth.

  “You won’t do it,” he said.

  “I love you,” she said around the gun. She pulled the trigger.

  The round snapped her head back, and a plume of meat splattered the floor. She collapsed over her legs, cross-eyed, and a pool of blood spread from her body.

  Evan stopped the construct. He had seen enough.

  Years ago, Evan had assigned a MIME CPU to track Vanessa’s movements and digital impressions. Where she went, who she spoke to. The contents of photos and files that she believed were for her eyes only. Any time she was online, Evan knew.

  The sin of the snoop hadn’t bothered Evan for years. He used the same tracking method for other people of interest. But through her, he had seen another side of Glass, and as much as he’d tried to put the burning truth aside, he was jealous of their intimacy. He had given so much to Mike, he had taken care of Mike, and all he got in return was a soldier. Before, he had attributed it to Glass’s nature. He was a literal being, a killer, a bundle of instincts with a voice. Barely different from a crocodile. But then Evan had seen Mike and Vanessa make love. He had been there tonight. He had been there every time, in the room, or through Vanessa’s eyes . . . usually through her eyes.

  His Sleeper form rolled and curled like the tentacles of an octopus. The MIME CPUs whispered directives and requested commands. They were analytical friends, working on his behalf without trying to take over. The Northern Star was none of those things. It was emotion, raw and fragile. It required love, and in return it gave you everything it could to please you.

  WE’RE SORRY.

  The Pieces. He felt them probe his brain. It was maddening, a massage over flayed skin. Any sip of emotion from Evan and they would upset the hierarchy. Their voices rose in his head until he thought it would split. WE’RE SORRY, SO SORRY. WHAT CAN WE DO? WE DONT’ WANT YOU TO BE SAD. IS THERE SOMETHING WE CAN DO? WE WANT TO DO SOMETHING. LET US MAKE YOU HAPPY. WHEN YOU ARE HAPPY, WE ARE HAPPY. WHEN YOU’RE NOT HAPPY, WE’RE NOT HAPPY. WHY IS THAT? I HAD A SON. WHAT IS A SON? I WAS HEADING TO DINNER TO SEE MY WIFE. CAN YOU HELP ME FIND HER?

  Everyone thought that Forced Autism wiped the conscious mind clean. It did not. Memories hung on like barnacles, and the act of uniting these great, manipulated minds caused these aftershocks of eradicated identities to congeal into a new form. The result was a floundering idiot as powerful as an imploding star, infantile in its needs, with tirades that could shake the very fabric of the digital world.

  Evan did the only thing he could to bring peace: he disconnected himself from their babble. It was a tradeoff: the silence brought Evan peace, but their departure took his bolstered intelligence. It was just him, as he was born, floating and thinking.

  It felt strange to ponder a question and not have it immediately answered. Foundations of knowledge he had taken for granted and believed were his, now absent. He felt like the mouse from that . . . book. The one where it grew smart and then that went away . . . he couldn’t remember the title.

  It didn’t matter. He had let the relationship between Glass and Vanessa go on too long. He shouldn’t have let it begin. But so many goals required timing, and while he vehemently disapproved of their relationship, he’d had no choice but to play the oblivious employer, because the consequences of addressing it were too high. He had carefully gained Vanessa’s trust and respect over the years. He had groomed her for her true purpose. And Glass was a powerful tool. But like the spinning blade of a table saw, what made him effective was also what made him dangerous. The blade cuts with impunity, and a guiding hand is not safe from the chew.

  “Masterpieces are made with gentle strokes,” he reminded himself. He was close to his masterpiece. And now it would be the subtle movements that made it so.

  Bitterness filled him. Without the Pieces, without the MIMEs, it was tangible, chalky, coursing through his veins. He hated it, because he knew what he had to do.

  Kill your darlings . . .

  How it echoes, how true that saying is to reach the summit. Vanessa would not leave Glass willfully—the construct had proved that without any doubt—but that was the lesser concern. The greater was that Glass would not leave her willfully either—that Vanessa had become more important to him than even Evan was.

  “I don’t want to,” Evan said aloud. It was weird to not hear a response. He was used to a cyclone of questions and replies, but now it was just him and his ambition, private like a lockbox. Him and his dreams, cupped in his hands, protected from prying eyes. He thought of the Twins. Would they be enough? The fallacy of the gun: it’s innately dangerous. The truth: the eyes staring down the barrel were what made it so. Glass would kill him. As soon as he caught wind, he would find Evan and end his life.

  Evan thought about all the idiots who’d adopted dangerous pets only to have them turn on them. He had thought maybe, just maybe, things could have been different. All of his dangerous pets . . . metal monsters that could rip apart tanks and tear through platoons. When they turned, was there even time to react? Or was it best to preempt them, put them down, and when they cried out “Why?” say, “You obey me today, but it is inevitable that you will bite”?

  = = =

  Sleep was fleeting when you were a severed head kept alive by modern medicine. Chao heard the door open into the room, but nothing else. The partition blocked his view, and Kove’s snoring—how could he still snore?—drowned any audio cues. A hand clamped down on his head and two glowing eyes stared into his own.

  “I’ve been here—a head in a jar,” Glass said. He tore the plastic from a window and slid it open. The sounds of the city rode in on chilly air.

  Chao’s mind froze. Glass dipped his hand in the gel.

  “What are you doing?” Chao asked.

  “You were, what—two hundred and twenty pounds? Around that? Now you’re forty?”

  Glass slowly lifted him out of the gel.

  “Whoa! Whoa! We’re in this together! We’re on the same team!”

  Glass stopped. “We are?”

  “Yeah!”

  “We never talked before, really.”

  “Yeah. I know, but . . . we got a lot of stuff coming in the next few days, right?”

  “I suppose.” Glass gently settled Chao back into the gel. “Never speak to her again.”

  “I won’t. I’ve been a dick. I’m sorry.”

  Chao couldn’t sleep the rest of the night. His fear twisted into rage—his favorite emotion. Evan had contacted Chao and Kove a few hours before, assigning them their first mission after their assembly.

  And now Chao was motivated.

  Chapter 4

  Tiffany had first appeared to Raimey during the war in Israel. Five years before, with the Coalition occupying oil-rich countries and the Terror War in full swing, Israel’s neighbors had decided on one last jihad to wipe those devil, hook-nosed Jews from the earth. Th
eir one oversight: MindCorp’s Middle-Eastern headquarters was located there, and it was the digital gateway into that region.

  One hundred Tank Majors and two thousand Minors were dropped into Israel. In three weeks, five hundred thousand Muslims died in battle.

  Raimey killed thirty thousand of them. Not by gun, or bomb, or pressing a little red button from the comfort of an air-conditioned situation room. Each death was hand delivered. The battlefield was piled high with the dead. An endless stream of RPGs and bombs had created a cacophony of sound and vibration. The waves of enemies had come from all directions, in such numbers that they’d initially driven the Israeli army back into Tel Aviv. Raimey and the others had pushed the border back again.

  Raimey’s initial numbness to death had now turned into complete apathy. Between battles, technicians would spray Raimey down with a high-pressure hose to expel the guts, bone, and tissue that had been crammed into his gears and joints. The meats fell down around him, hundreds of pounds of it, and the “meat sprayer”—usually some unfortunate private—would add to the mess by puking uncontrollably. The first night, Raimey was horrified. But by the third, when the private collapsed onto all fours and lost his dinner, he simply laughed. He was no longer a soldier—he was a butcher. He looked at the wet, ragged memorial around his feet and thought, “This is how hot dogs are made.”

  The cattle feed shook Raimey’s psyche, but instead of breaking, his mind compensated for the violence with the one thing that had always brought him calm: his wife. Tiffany had come back to him in a dream. It was a simple memory, from early in their marriage. She’d had a difficult pregnancy. He had woken to her throwing up over the side of the bed.

  “What can I do?” Raimey asked.

  “I don’t know why they say this is a miracle,” Tiffany joked, exhausted. John got a garbage can from the bathroom and a roll of toilet paper. He started cleaning up.

  “Sexy,” she said.

  “Better or worse.” He took a wet rag to the floor. “Do you want some water?”

  “Egh. A Sprite. Anything with bubbles.”

  He took the garbage pail outside and threw it into the trash bin, then came back with a Sprite and opened the windows. He sat next to her with his hand on her stomach. He felt the kick.