Final Battle

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “A political base in China that defied their country’s mandate of world trade,” I said. “It divided China into pro- and anti-American rivalries. And then rebels within other countries across the world began to identify with the Manchurian movement. The World United Federation is not allowed to interfere with internal difficulties of any country. The Manchurians won a brief civil war within China and now call the shots there.”

  I grinned at Cannon’s raised eyebrows. “Hey, homeschooling is a big deal on Mars. And I was the only student on the planet. So I had to learn everything.”

  Cannon grinned back, then got serious. “To both China and the U.S., the goals of the World United Federation are far too important to risk open war. Yet beneath the surface, the Americans are locked in battle against the Manchurian movement for dominance. It’s like the Cold War that took place between the United States and Russia for 45 years after World War II. We have our spies. They have theirs. And if the Terratakers succeed, it will shift the balance of power to the Manchurians.”

  “You’re saying the Terratakers are backed by the Manchurians?”

  “Exactly,” Cannon said. “And all the other countries that would openly side with the Manchurians if they ever thought the Americans would be defeated in a world war.”

  “I think I understand,” I said. “Publicly, all countries stay in line with the World United Federation because of the power of the United States. But the ones waiting for the slightest chance are working with the Manchurians. And now you’re telling me the Manchurians and Terratakers …”

  “The Manchurians didn’t form the Terrataker political movement. But once it happened, the Manchurians took advantage of the terrorist organization. After all, they already shared some of the Terratakers’ philosophy on population control: to limit the number of children a family could have. And they had openly supported the United States’ Human Genome Project, which began in 1990.”

  “The Genome Project?” I asked, curious.

  “It began as a way to identify genes and map human DNA, so that humans would know if they were carrying a genetic disease or not. But soon it was being used to identify and convict criminals and to test not-yet-born babies for genetic defects. Now scientists in the Terrataker camp are arguing that everyone in the world should be routinely tested and the results kept on file. It frightens me to think of how they might use that information—to abort any babies with genetic defects, for example.” The general cleared his throat. “Yet we can’t openly accuse the Manchurians of supporting the Terratakers. It would be too easy for them to deny it and too easy for them to use those charges to swing world opinion in their favor. But we know it’s happening. For example, Luke Daab and Dr. Jordan—”

  “Terrataker agents! You mean they’re not only running this robot-control program, but with Manchurian help?”

  “Yes,” the general said calmly. “Without the money and resources made available to them by a military superpower, those two men wouldn’t have been able to accomplish anything. Instead …”

  General Cannon didn’t have to say more about that. Both men had come very close to killing me on Mars and on the journey from Mars. Both men had engineered the assassination attempt at the Summit of Governors.

  “Let me put it this way, Tyce. In the end, whoever controls Mars will control the power on Earth.” The general paused.

  That was a pretty scary thought. With the Terratakers in control, human life would become disposable. Like diapers. People like me with disabilities wouldn’t be around. Old people would be killed. Babies with genetic defects wouldn’t be allowed to be born.

  My brain spun with the possibilities. The DNA you were born with would control whether you lived or died, your right to attend college, even what job you were allowed to have… . A doctor’s simple test of your DNA could determine not only your life, but the quality and length of your life. But did other humans have the right to choose what was really in God’s hands?

  “Within the Federation,” Cannon continued, “the United States government is working hard to keep the Mars Project a neutral one, governed by all countries. But the Terratakers want to have it all to themselves. It’s a strange balancing act in public perception. On the surface the Terratakers seem passionately opposed to space exploration and expansion. But what they really oppose is Federation control of the planet. They want it for themselves. The Manchurians want it to publicly appear as if they support Federation control of Mars, but secretly they want it for themselves too. Because if they ever gain control of Mars and its resources, they will openly try to take over the Federation on Earth. And if that happens, the solar system will be theirs. That’s why the Terratakers and Manchurians are so willing to work together. The Manchurians have structure and political control but must keep a respectable appearance. The Terratakers have a dirty reputation and are willing to do the dirty work, but they need the power and resources of the Manchurians.”

  I kept staring at the photo that showed robots beneath a warehouse building on the Moon. “If the warehouse on the Moon is in the Manchurian Sector, it’s protected, right?”

  “According to Federation structure, yes. Countries have individual rights. On Earth, the Manchurian military can’t enter the United States without permission. Nor can they enter our sector on the Moon. The same is true, of course, in reverse. Their sector has total immunity, which extends even to their orbit stations in space. It’s a prime example of how the Manchurians are able to help the Terratakers.”

  General Cannon clicked again. The next photo showed an extreme close-up of a robot.

  “Some time ago, a Federation agent managed to sneak in as a worker and send these photos by satellite. But we’re guessing he was caught. At least we haven’t heard from him since. At the time, we thought China had extremely sophisticated robots. But now, because of you, we know better. The only thing that makes sense is that the robots are controlled by human brains.”

  “So that’s why you think the last pod of kids is on the Moon?” I thought of what I’d seen four days ago in Arizona for the first time. Kids trapped in huge jelly tubes, in 24-hour-a-day life support. Unable to move and hooked to computers under the control of Dr. Jordan.

  “I can’t answer that,” Cannon said. “All we know for sure about the operation is what the public knows. Great quantities of tantalum are shipped from the Manchurian Sector on the Moon to Earth. That means massive amounts of money are transferred to the Manchurian coalition, which in turn is able to finance more Terrataker action against the Federation. This money has also attracted other countries to unofficially back the Manchurians. We’re talking far more than a China power base.”

  He scratched his head. “And the worst part is that we have no way of proving our theory: that those robots are controlled by the last pod of kids. We can’t get into that warehouse. But if we could prove to the world what’s happening, the Manchurians will lose most of their support.”

  He paused. “I believe my son is among those slaves. So what I’m about to ask is for more than the Federation. It’s for me personally. Tyce, will you go into that warehouse in the Manchurian Sector and bring us back the proof we need to help those kids?”

  CHAPTER 5

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Although the blinding light made no sound, my head hurt so badly it seemed like I could hear each flash from each camera. I’d only been back in New York for less than a day, and I hadn’t been out of the hospital long enough.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Cannon kept a hand on my shoulder, walking beside me as I rolled my wheelchair toward dozens of photographers gathered below the front of the enormous stage for the morning’s press conference. Boom mikes hung in the air above them. Television cameras were mounted on each side.

  “You’re right,” I told Cannon.

  “Right?”

  “When you said that they look like a—”

  He squeezed my shoulder hard. “Not here. You never know what their recording equipmen
t will pick up.”

  I’d been about to say they looked like a pack of hungry jackals. Because, of course, that had been the general’s description in the back room five minutes earlier as we went over the news conference material.

  “You ready?” the general asked in a low voice. “We can always turn back. Even now.”

  We neared the front of the stage. A set of microphones had been placed at a lower level so I could answer questions directly from my wheelchair.

  I was tempted to turn back. How could anybody be ready for this? Cannon had explained that the conference was about to be broadcast live on every major television network in the world. With translations from English into every other major language. I was about to be presented as the first human born on Mars. Someone who could control robots by a hookup to his brain. Billions of people were about to see my every nervous twitch and hear my every nervous stutter. Both the mysterious nurse and the general had warned me that my life would never be the same after this.

  Soon the world would know about robot control. The secret would be out. Would it be worth the risk to me personally? I wondered. Yet somehow I couldn’t help but hope that letting the secret out to the world would buy my father’s safety and allow him to come out of hiding. If what the nurse had said was true and he was alive.

  “I’m ready,” I said.

  We reached the microphones as murmuring grew louder among the dozens of media people. Lights kept flashing from different cameras.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Cannon began in his deep voice, “I will begin with a prepared statement. Any questions following will be directed to me first. Those that I find suitable I will allow Tyce Sanders to answer.”

  “Why not let him decide for himself?” a raspy voice called. It came from a skinny man with a wispy gray beard who wore a tweed sport coat with blue jeans. “We heard rumors he’s the reason the nuclear plant didn’t blow. Like he’s some kind of freak!”

  The general smiled at the man. But it was a cold smile, and I was glad it wasn’t directed at me. When he pointed at the man who had shouted out, a soldier walked up to the man, tapped him on the shoulder, and then escorted him out of the room.

  “As you might guess,” Cannon said as the door closed, “I intend for this to be a civilized event. Tyce hasn’t spent much time on Earth. So we will be respectful of him and make his transition into public life as dignified as possible. Am I clear?”

  Silence hung among the group of grown men and women, as if the general were a strict teacher addressing a classroom of young children.

  “Thank you,” the general said after a weighty pause. “Let me begin.”

  Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a pair of glasses and placed them carefully on his face. Then he leaned forward and read from a sheet on the podium in front of him. “As you all know, two days ago a nuclear plant near Los Angeles, California, came within a half hour of catastrophic meltdown. Millions of lives were at stake. Millions more would have been affected for generations by the DNA mutations and cancer of radiation poisoning. The environmental disaster would have been one of this century’s greatest tragedies. Yet the meltdown did not happen. I know there has been intense media curiosity on how the disaster was prevented. Today you will get the answer.”

  Murmuring began again, growing louder and louder.

  Cannon waited, as if he knew there was no way to prevent the murmuring.

  I’d read some of the headlines. Little had been revealed to the public yet. The Combat Force officials had decided to wait until they knew I was in good enough health to hold this conference.

  Cannon resumed speaking into the microphone. “Essentially we were able to send a robot into a situation where no human would have survived. And at the same time, we were able to send a human in where no normal robot would have had the intelligence or flexibility to handle the situation. How did we do both at the same time?”

  Another pause.

  “This young man in front of you is able to control a robot with a hookup that links his brain and a computer. The computer in turn transmits his brain waves to the robot, so that it moves the way a body moves as commanded by the brain. The computer also sends information from the robot back to his brain. In short, it is virtual reality taken one step further.”

  Now the murmuring became open, excited conversation among the media members. I understood. It had only been a little over nine months since I’d learned about robot control myself, even though I’d practiced virtual-reality simulations as far back as I could remember.

  “Our press secretary will give you handouts at the end of the conference,” the general said. “These handouts detail many of the technical aspects involved in robot control. Let me say now, however, that it took old-fashioned human courage for this young man to prevent the nuclear plant meltdown. And to counter any critics of this new technology, let me be very quick to add that this is the philosophy of the World United Federation’s approach to robot control. The robots themselves are no different than any other tool we use—from a hammer to an airplane. It is the human behind it who matters.”

  General Cannon stopped to take a drink of water from a glass under the podium. Then he removed his glasses, folded them neatly, and slipped them back into his pocket. “And now, let me introduce to you the first human born on Mars. Tyce Sanders.”

  With that, the eyes of the entire world turned upon me.

  CHAPTER 6

  I did what any normal human would do in front of billions of people.

  I froze. Except for a smile that felt like someone was putting a finger in each side of my mouth and pulling. I didn’t know if I was supposed to speak, so I just kept smiling at the reporters. I hoped I didn’t have any particles hanging out of my nose.

  “General, with all due respect to Tyce Sanders,” one reporter said, “we can plainly see he is in a wheelchair. Was this a result of the nuclear plant accident? Did anything go wrong during his handling of the robot? Was he injured as a result?”

  “No, it wasn’t the result of the nuclear plant accident,” Cannon stated. “No, nothing went wrong during his robot control. And no, he wasn’t injured as a result.”

  That was true in one way. But in another way, I was in a wheelchair because of robot control. For when the pioneer operation had been done to my spine to allow the computer hookup to my nervous system, something had gone wrong. And because it took place on Mars, the doctor didn’t have access to the specialized equipment he needed to fix the mistake immediately. That mistake left me in my wheelchair. I couldn’t remember ever walking or running. It used to make me angry. But I was slowly learning how to live with it.

  “Yet we heard he was hurt,” another reporter said. Her white-blonde hair and red dress stood out from the pack. “We heard he’s been in a hospital and—”

  “Recovering from an exhausting rescue effort,” Cannon said. “Tyce is in perfect health. Just tired.”

  “General,” a taller man said, “I would guess until today this has been top secret. How much money has been spent on this robot-control research?” He chewed on his pencil while waiting for a response.

  “It’s in the report.”

  “Did the Federation approve this money, and if so, why wasn’t it subject to public debate?” the man threw in quickly.

  Cannon had warned me this type of question would arise. He took it without flinching. “Surely you understand that every government has issues of national security. This was one of them.”

  “Did Tyce Sanders have a choice in the operation?” the pencil chewer asked.

  For a moment, Cannon paused. It was a moment too long. Because his brief silence said everything. I had not had a choice.

  “The operation that allows the spinal hookup to a computer must be done before the child is three years old,” Cannon said slowly. “Otherwise the neuron connections won’t grow into place. We had the consent of his mother, who is involved in the Mars Project.”

  I coughed discreetly. Ca
nnon looked at me.

  “May I answer?” I whispered.

  The general nodded.

  Barely enough moisture remained in my mouth to swallow back my nervousness. What would I say in my first words to the world?

  “Because of the operation,” I said, “I’m able to see and hear worlds that no human has ever been able to explore. Outer space. The surface of Mars. I don’t think there’s a person alive who wouldn’t want to have the chances I’ve been given as a result.”

  There was more to say, but I kept it to myself, because it was private. Dad had been off on a flight to Earth when my mom had to make the decision. Because the Mars Project hadn’t counted on babies in its early stages, my mom was given a choice. Either she could send me back to Earth on a spaceship and risk what the g-forces would do to a baby, or she could allow me to have the operation and stay with her on Mars. So she made the best choice she could. No one guessed that something would go wrong during the surgery and that my legs would be paralyzed as a result. What’s helped me deal with it is knowing that there’s a God and that even when things look bad, he’s still in control. He can make good things happen from bad things. Like the ability to travel the universe through controlling a robot with my brain… .

  “General! General!” an African-American woman in black pants and a black sweater interrupted.

  “Yes, Ms. Borris?”

  Ms. Borris! Earlier Cannon had told me that Ms. Evangeline Borris was the most feared reporter in New York City. As a young reporter, she’d broken a story that overthrew a presidency. She was a legend now and not even that old, Cannon had said grimly. But Cannon had not described her to me. And when I saw her now, I gripped the arms of my wheelchair and tried to hold back my surprise.