by Ryan Schow
“Marry our course settings to the uploaded flight plan,” Jagger said.
“Copy that,” Camila replied.
Turning, he looked at her and said, “What in the hell does puerile mean?”
She rolled her eyes and said, “It means trivial.”
He thought about this for a long time. His question to Page had not been trivial. To know the enemy, even by name, was the first step to understanding and overpowering them. This was not an enemy they’d ever faced before. Artificial Intelligence and the machines they controlled—they weren’t burdened by physical fatigue, hesitation, the computational limitations of the human brain, and they certainly didn’t possess the moral compass to show restraint. If AI decided humans were a target necessary for elimination, and that much was apparent, then Jagger trusted they would give no quarter to their enemy.
“We’re not getting out of this alive,” he finally said.
“I know,” she replied.
“Get the CJCS up here,” he told her. “Please.”
“He’s not crew,” Camila said.
He flashed her a look she understood. Leaving her seat, she collected the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who joined them without incident moments later.
“Take a seat,” Jagger said. He did. “It’s time you level with us.”
Jagger was thinking of Lenna at this point. Thinking of the kids, their city, the years, months or weeks they had left before the machines wiped out all of humanity.
“I wasn’t even supposed to be here, let alone have this kind of responsibility,” the CJCS said with a strange level of disconnect.
“With all due respect,” Jagger said, his patience exhausted, “no one gives a single crap about that right now.”
“We were assured safeguards were in place for this sort of thing,” the man said, clearly flummoxed. Easily sixty with all his good years behind him, CJCS Bartholomew Goddard’s face was not made of stone. He wore a fatalistic look if anything.
“What sort of thing?” Camila asked.
His eyes clearing, Goddard held her purposefully casual gaze with his, not an ounce of carnal interest to be found. “We’ve been cut out of the grid,” he admitted. “The machines control it now. At any minute they could crash it and send us into the dark ages.”
“Like…California’s grid?” Camila asked, now sounding a bit squeamish.
“No. Not just California. All of it. The entire United States of America.”
For more than an hour they flew without incident in near silence. It was an agonizing sixty minutes that felt more like sixty hours with the fatigue they shouldered. Camila dozed off a couple of times and he didn’t want to wake her. She finally woke up, looked around, then settled quietly into her seat as she tried to shake off the physical exhaustion.
“My wife lives in San Francisco,” Jagger finally said to CJCS Goddard, breaking the long silence. “She said they attack during the day. Not at night.”
“They’ve been hitting Sacramento at night,” CJCS Goddard said. “One of our sources who expired early on said the machines are now fully autonomous. They’re making weapons on their own while the AI god in charge of whatever region they’re in orchestrates strikes on multiple cities splitting them up between days and nights.”
“Won’t they run out of weapons?” Camila asked.
“We have the US Military,” Goddard said. “Our budget is beyond enormous. And when did we ever run out of weapons? Think about it. Most of our industry is now run by robotics. Human labor is fast becoming a thing of the past.”
A ringing cut Goddard off mid-thought. He fished a sat phone out of his jacket, said, “Excuse me,” and answered the call.
The CJCS didn’t say anything, he just listened carefully.
Jagger wished there was a way to eavesdrop on that call, but there wasn’t. He needed to be patient. Patience, however, wasn’t his strong suit. The closest he’d ever come to being patient was mastering the appearance of patience.
“I understand, Mr. President,” Goddard finally said, then he hung up.
“Well?” Camila asked, ever the inquisitive one.
Men could easily assert dominance over other men, but when it came to women, the right one could control a man of any rank. When it came to matters of the flesh, most men had a weak resolve. For being in her mid-twenties, Jagger was amazed at how Camila seemed to understand both the timing and the practical application of this tried-and-true approach to information extraction. If he asked her, Camila would most likely chalk it up to having a pretty face and nice boobs, and maybe she’d be right.
“Everything is fine,” he said, nonchalant, like she wasn’t even there. “We’re…getting the upper hand on things. Here in California anyway.”
“And Camp Pendleton?” Jagger pressed.
The man waved him off, remained silent. It seemed not all men were loose lipped around the company of an attractive young women. Camila looked at him, baffled; Jagger slowly shook his head, no. As in don’t bother.
They were fifty miles out from Sacramento when the CJCS’s sat phone rang once more. He answered, but didn’t say anything for a good minute. Finally he hung up the phone, then sat there in the most crushing of silences.
“We’re twenty miles out, sir,” Jagger said.
“Can we go any faster?” Goddard asked, like he was somewhere else completely.
The CJCS sat there looking so small, utterly defenseless. He had that look like Death was standing at his doorstep, a black rose in hand trying to decide the man’s fate. Live or die. Judging by the look on the Goddard’s face, however, it appeared he already knew the Reaper’s answer.
“We’re just under three hundred knots, sir. This bird is already at top speed.”
“On second thought, I think you’d better start dropping altitude now, and then brace for impact,” he said, chilling Jagger’s blood. He didn’t question the man. He dropped altitude fast, taking them to a hundred feet and cutting their speed. The CJCS checked his watch, then grabbed his harness and closed his eyes. A second later the Valor lost all power.
They were going down.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Rex was beyond nervous with Indigo. When society fell from grace and things like night clubs and social media and dating apps like Tinder hit the skids, the idea of there being plenty of fish in the sea was an archaic notion. He liked Indigo. He respected her skillset, her determination, who she was becoming in spite of who she was. The girl was hurting inside. Wounded. So when he held her hand, felt the warmth of her skin on his and their connection, he did not take it for granted. In fact, it felt like something he needed to protect.
They sat on the front porch sharing a blanket, talking. The sun had fallen, bringing the temperature down. They’d somehow scooted so close to each other that their bodies were touching.
“It’s getting late,” he finally said.
“I’ll give Atlanta my old room,” Indigo said.
“Where’s your mom going to stay?”
“In the spare bedroom.”
Reaching up, tracing the back of a finger down her cheek, he looked right at her, marveled at how beautiful she had become to him.
“Why are you telling me this?”
She tucked her face into his hand, put her hand over his, then smiled for only a moment or two before it faded and she pulled away. When she turned her gaze on him, it was somehow haunted, so sad, resolute.
“I’m telling you this because I know you’re going to go with Cincinnati and leave me here alone.”
He looked down. He’d been agonizing over that all day.
“I know you’re hoping you dad will get back,” he replied.
“I am.”
“Is that the only reason you’re staying?”
“It’s not,” she said. “It took me a long time to stock this place. The idea of leaving it all behind…it sort of makes me feel like all of this was for nothing.”
“You’ve done well,” he said,
“but you don’t know what they’ve got at the college. It could be nice. Certainly a lot safer than just hanging out indefensible in a neighborhood.”
“The college is a compound Rex, not a school or a house. I want to live in a house. This house.”
“Because it makes you feel close to your father,” he said, getting it.
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure what to say.”
“Say you’ll stay the night,” she said. Then looking away, out into the street at nothing in particular, she said, “And maybe pretend you’ll stay with me regardless of what your sister does.”
“I’ll stay the night,” he said.
Reaching out, he took her chin, slowly turned her face toward him. Her eyes held so much hope, her expression full of wanting yet low on expectation. When he leaned in and kissed her, she did not pull away, but there was something hesitant in her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Besides everything.”
“I’ve never been with a boy,” she admits, unable to look at him.
“Didn’t you tell me that already?”
“I guess.”
“It’s okay,” he said, tender, understanding. “If it’s any consolation, I haven’t been with a boy either.”
She laughed and smacked him, then said, “I’m sure you’ve been with girls though.”
“Maybe one or two.”
“Which one is it?” she asked.
“Two.”
“I want you to touch me, Rex.”
With that, he stood and took her hand, then he took the blanket and led her inside. It was quiet, dark, but by now she knew the house as much in the dark as she did the light. He followed her upstairs, then she said, “Wait here.”
He waited outside her bedroom door holding the blanket. A moment later Indigo and Atlanta came out. She walked the blonde girl down the hall, got her situated in her spare bedroom, then came back and said, “Well that was uncomfortable.”
“Yeah, right?”
“Don’t talk anymore,” she said, pulling him inside the dark room.
She lit two votive candles, letting him see her, the smaller details of her, the expression on her face: wanting, fear, curiosity, surrender.
He went to her, kissed her, slowly began to undress her. This was her first time and he wanted to make it special. He wanted her to feel everything.
At first he sensed her nervousness, her reluctance, but then he said, “I won’t hurt you,” to which she said, “I know,” and from there she began to relax, to lose herself, to let herself be swept away by his kiss, his touch, by the very nature of him.
When they were in bed, at the point where she could do something, or do everything, he said, “Where do you want me to touch you?”
“Everywhere,” she said, breathless. “I want you to touch me everywhere.”
In the morning, Indigo’s mother walked in the room, saw them and drew a sharp breath. Rex and Indigo both looked up at her.
“Oh, I…I didn’t realize you two…what are you two?” she asked.
“Mom, get out.”
“This was my room, never yours,” Margot said, making Rex very uncomfortable. He wanted to shrink under the covers, hide from her, from the consequences of their affair, from the fear that Margot would somehow make him pay for taking her daughter’s virtue, even though the girl had given it willingly.
“You room is at Tad’s house and Dad is gone, or dead. So this became my house and if this is my house, which it is, then this is my room and right now you’re being very rude.”
She just stood there, her mouth hanging open.
“Good morning, Margot,” Rex said.
“Shut up, Rex.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, feeling twelve years old.
“Before I realized this was your little love nest,” she quipped, but without an ounce of humor, “I was coming to tell you I’d like to go to my old house today, see about Tad.”
“What are you hoping to find?” she asked pulling the covers to her chin.
“Tad, of course.”
“I already found him when I went looking for you.”
“Oh?” she said, stilled.
The longer Indigo waited to give her an answer, the higher Margot’s breath seemed to rise in her chest. When she realized Indigo was holding onto bad news, the woman’s eyes took on the most incredible shine and something shifted in her stance.
“Where is he?” she asked on a shaky breath.
Rex thought of excusing himself, but neither he nor Indigo were wearing clothes under the blankets and the last thing he needed to do was make things more uncomfortable. So he stayed there. Wanting to hide. Wanting to not be a part of the conversation. Wanting to not hear the next words coming out of Indigo’s mouth.
“I found him in the kitchen,” Indigo answered, slowly, trying to give nothing away.
“Did he…” Did he make it? That was the question Rex knew she wanted to ask. It was the question she couldn’t bring herself to ask.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Indigo said, her eyes shrink-wrapped with tears. Rex wondered what Tad meant to her, but it was clear she was reacting to her mother’s pain, not her own.
“So he’s—?”
When Indigo didn’t respond, the agony of loss etched itself in Margot’s features quickly and with a tragic edge. A small sob escaped her before she could leave, causing her hand to come to her mouth. Before Indigo could speak, Margot turned and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Rex said, “You didn’t tell me that.”
Wiping her eyes, turning away, Indigo said, “He was a jerk. Besides, I couldn’t talk about it. Just thinking about both my parents being dead was too much for me to handle, much less talk about with you.”
“Now that you know your mother is alive, do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” she said, resolute.
He took her hand and said, “What happened to him?”
Her eyes were vacant, her soul tangled in the past, swept up in a memory she wasn’t anxious to return to.
“Half the house collapsed,” she said, her eyes looking at him but not looking at him at all. She was lost in that memory. “He was crushed to death in the kitchen.”
“You saw it happen?”
“No,” she said, her gaze clearing. “I found him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Be sorry for my mother, not me. And certainly not him. Tad didn’t deserve to die, but the man broke up our family, took my mother from me. There’s no love lost there.”
“It takes two to tango,” he said.
“I know.”
Indigo laid back down, pulled the blankets over her shoulders, then turned on her side away from him. He slid under the covers as well. Scooted close to her. He didn’t touch her though, because she was naked under the covers and this wasn’t the time. He reached out though, placed a noncommittal hand on her waist.
She flinched, but didn’t pull away.
“I want to be mad at her for what she did to me and my father. She broke his heart, which broke my heart. Plus…she was my mom. I needed her and, and…she…”
Rex didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. Besides, he had the feeling there was more she needed to say.
“I thought she was dead,” she finally said. “But then she showed up, and something hard inside of me softened, and I found I wanted to care about her again. I closed off my feelings for her, but now that she’s back, I look at her and think about how much I missed her, how much I love her. But I can’t forgive her for what she did to my dad, especially now that…”
He felt her body jolt and knew the emotions had overcome her. He scooted even closer to her, but not against her. There was still that small bit of distance he sensed she needed. He didn’t want her to feel alone though, so he said, “If you need me to stay with you, I will.”
He heard her sniffling, saw her nod her head ever so slightly because she couldn’t say the words. Not j
ust yet.
Then, in a voice choked with emotion, with a slightly stuffed nose, she said, “Thank you, Rex.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
The hitman who now ran The Ophidian Horde was born with the name Emilio Gustavo Francisco De La Fuente, and he now had a target: Indigo. He sat by the light of a candle, sipping brandy and eating a piece of fruit.
“First off,” the hardened killer said as he took yet another bite of an apple full of wrinkled flesh and small bruises, “I need to know what Indigo is, and then I need to kill it.”
“You need to kill it or you need me to kill it?” Gunderson asked. In matters of violence and death, Gunderson learned that clarification was better than consequence when it came to the hitman.
“To answer that question, I will need more information,” De La Fuente said. He’d eaten around most of the apple and was now eating the seeds and the stem.
“Gather your men, find me this Indigo.”
“You want us to go as the National Guard, or as The Ophidian Horde?”
“You decide. Just find them.”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
It was time to gather some men and get to the bottom of this Indigo nonsense. Gunderson left De La Fuente’s office, walked down the dark hospital hallway to what was once an employee lounge. Candles were going and the boys were either getting a little shut eye or playing cards and drinking.
He checked in on them, studying the group for a long moment before announcing his presence. He didn’t like this group of guys. In fact, he hated most of them. He said nothing. Mostly what he was trying to do was figure out how to be the way he was in this new world. Then again, he didn’t like who he was in the old world, or this new one. He might hate himself as much as he hated them.
Finally, he stepped inside the room, cleared his throat. Five of them were playing cards and two were asleep on the couch. A couple of the guys looked up.
The two sleeping didn’t even stir.
“I need three volunteers,” he said with more volume.
One of the two clowns on the couch woke up. Three hands shot up fast. It seemed no one wanted to be there, that playing cards and sleeping was what they did to kill the boredom.