Retaliate

by Alex Albrinck

  —11—

  MICAH JAMISON

  MICAH JAMISON SAT before the computer terminal in the sterile lab beneath the surface of the pristine island of Eden, lost in thought.

  At least that’s what any human observer would conclude based upon his physical movement… or, more accurately, his lack thereof.

  Micah’s eyes were closed. This was part of his effort to “look human” at all times. He’d shut down his video and audio input systems to devote added computing power to his current projects, allowing the island’s networks to watch for any threats on his behalf. He’d be “tapped on the shoulder” in the event of any actual threat, but since the island had no predators, and he was encased in concrete and Diasteel, and no living person knew the location of the island or had the means to get here outside the now-disabled portal system, the odds of an interruption were statistically zero.

  He’d built and maintained a direct link into his ship’s computer systems, bypassing the space station’s security via subtlety rather than brute force. They’d be on alert after “Will Stark” visited earlier, and after Oswald Silver’s embarrassing loss of control of the Ravager server. He was fine tuning the compression bomb, ensuring that the forces generated emanated out solely in the direction of the tractor beam system, rather than uniformly all around the ship. The latter approach would send pressure waves into the void of space, wasting energy better used in freeing the ship of its magnetic gravity captor. Once convinced he’d optimized the explosive capacity, he taught the computer system to stealthily access the space station’s network, tracking general communications sent to all station residents and personnel. Ideally, he’d access the private network exclusive to people like Oswald Silver—but he’d tried that when he’d had more freedom for such direct access. And he’d failed. They’d undoubtedly ramped up security for that network, but they’d left the general networks delightfully wide open. He added data compression and encryption code to his ship receivers to minimize the amount of data beamed back to Eden, then allocated computing power to tracking the communication and general alert systems for anything interesting… like news suggesting Sheila remained alive.

  Or confirmation of her death.

  The robot in him needed data to update his plan. The compression bomb solution could be accelerated if he knew she’d already died, for he needed his ship. Even if he knew she remained alive, he couldn’t delay this ship’s return indefinitely. The sooner the ship returned, the sooner he could activate the next steps in his plan for final retaliation against Oswald Silver and the rest of the true elites of Phoenix.

  He opened an application he’d perfected over the centuries, one which tapped the “octopus” robot in the lab to create new brains and body forms. He thought he might need another copy of the “Will Stark” model for a final confrontation with Oswald Silver; he couldn’t recall any details about a possible encounter aboard the space station, but the odds were that if he’d died, “Will Stark” had triggered a powerful reaction in the man. He’d use that mental advantage to advance his goals again.

  Given how often he’d been dying lately, having a few spare backup brains seemed prudent.

  The octopus set to work, grabbing the machinery and supplies required to “print” the body form and brains, which would later be fitted with necessary circuitry and firmware code. In the brains, the most current data from his ever-updating backups would fill the local memory modules.

  Maintaining an artificial immortality was hard work.

  He pushed those apps aside and pulled up the hacking session operating through rarely used and even more rarely monitored ports on the general information network in the West, which he’d used to crack into a highly private network operating on servers hosted in a secret chamber deep beneath the planet's southern pole, where Ashley and others once lived in peace and comfort. There were only two ways to get into that chamber now, and he was the only one who knew those approaches.

  And at the moment, he couldn’t use either of them.

  The machines there had operated with minimal human—or robotic—intervention since the Golden Ages, and collected data from machines floating in orbit around the planet, taking contact collections of photographs beamed back to the servers. Those machines, called satellites, offered him a technology that Phoenix didn’t possess at the moment, primarily because they’d done such a fine job funneling humanity into small population centers, where terrestrial cameras offered the same capabilities as the satellites.

  It also meant that the land areas in each side’s territory known as the Hinterlands weren’t monitored. Or, more accurately, they weren’t monitored by Phoenix.

  The masses were taught, since birth, that those areas teemed with vicious wildlife hungry for human flesh. They had hides impervious to spears, knives, and bullets. The masses came to fear travel between cityplexes even in the metal trains streaking across tracks protected by electrified barbed wire fencing against the fearsome creatures. Those who willingly lived outside the walls were believed to be suffering from deep mental issues; the worst punishment in any cityplex’s arsenal was banishment outside the protective cityplex walls, an effective death penalty for societies that had outlawed the direct practice.

  Micah, though, knew the truth.

  The Hinterlands were populated by those members of the Elite who feared living in space, but who also had no interest in spending more than a small sliver of their time among the teeming masses squeezed into the cityplexes. Though they'd wander inside the walls on occasion, they spent most of their time in Hinterlands communities populated by other elites and those recruited to act as servants.

  Many of the servants were those “banished” for commissions of various crimes in the cityplexes, “adopted” by Hinterlands communities that offered safety in exchange for servitude. A wise man had once warned of accepting such offers, but the Phoenix-adapted education plan made certain his entreaties never made it into current textbooks.

  The so-called “Hinterlands beasts” were wolves, creatures easy to paint as vicious killers due to the blood-chilling howls they’d periodically offer toward the skies. While there were ample packs of the creatures roaming around, they had little interest in human encampments, preferring isolation and the easy availability of the small game on which they fed outside the human population centers.

  In other words, the Elites had exaggerated a minor threat into a major scare to claim for themselves most of the territory in the world. And that was before they’d launched the Ravagers, destroying the cityplexes and any rogue human who dared to venture outside those walls—protective barriers or restraining prisons, depending on one’s perspective—to claim everything. Every resource, every view, every drop of water and breath of air. Most wasn’t enough. They wanted it all, and to share it only with people they liked.

  Even the robot Micah Jamison found that disgusting. And so he worked to sabotage those plans to the best of his ability. If those people were all humanity had left, he thought the world would be better off without humans.

  He tapped into the satellite network and ordered all of them to alter routes to provide a near-constant feed of the Western lands, focusing on the areas he knew Elites called home prior to the Ravager attack, and possibly after. Places like New Venice, but without the secret takeover by his allies. He wanted to know when the Elites began their terraforming of the scarred surface, the building of their private palaces on lands untarnished or reborn, and most critically, when those who’d fled to the safety of terrestrial fortresses and space stations made their returns.

  He had a Ravager-style surprise waiting for them.

  He knew those attacks wouldn’t get the truly Elite; Silver and his cronies—some known, some not—would let the others go first, to ensure nobody like Micah remained behind waiting to attack.

  They’d be doubly alert after his foray to the space station in the guise of Will Stark, wondering if it meant Stark had returned. Or if his old allies remained on the
surface, hiding, biding their time for some unknown signal.

  Micah knew they were there, people like Desdemona and Jeffrey who’d survived everything after the Golden Ages, and like Roddy and his wife, who’d pioneered means of reawakening the old magic once common among those like Will Stark. And Oswald Silver. Only a handful were as public as Jeffrey and Desdemona and their “traitor” son. Most stayed hidden. But they still communicated with each other, using the same servers farm beneath Antarctica, periodically sneaking into the more public human network for news. Most had given up believing they could do anything to thwart the “inevitable” progression of Phoenix and whatever ill plans the groups had for humanity, preferring to survive until some sign rekindled that hope and spurred them into action, to tell them why they should emerge from hiding and risk death that wouldn’t come to them in any natural manner.

  He’d been trying to reverse-engineer a gentle entry to that network, to arrive not as an attacking warrior but as a long-lost friend, one who could offer that message of hope to a group of people with wounded pride and damaged psyches, one who could rekindle the fighting spirit that had defeated the Phoenix equivalent in their heyday.

  And they’d be the only fighters he could get. Those who’d unknowingly aided Phoenix wouldn’t be able to overcome human guilt when they discovered the truth of their actions; those pressed into servitude would be unlikely to have any fight left in them.

  Those old warriors were the only chance humanity stood to wage a protracted battle against the powerful Phoenix elites.

  His communications channel finally opened, and, using his vast collection of written communications and data about how each had been received, he crafted the best possible message for persuading them to be prepared to act. He offered them something that only a fellow survivor of those times could understand, a gift he couldn’t personally deliver but could persuade away from those who could, the only gift they’d consider worth risking death over.

  He didn’t tell them that if they refused, or if he failed, the Ravager swarms he’d reactivate against the returning Phoenix of all levels of the organization would kill them. Remaining aloof and indifferent would be little different than siding with Phoenix in the battles to come.

  He might end up killing those best equipped to fight the very human battle to come. His simulations hadn’t found a better solution. Not yet.

  Micah the robot sighed deeply.

  Only humans could be so stubborn, so prideful, that they’d prefer to do nothing than fight for their very survival.

  He wondered if that might be another avenue to explore, and adjusted his simulations to include this new perspective.

  The fate of humanity depended on him to find a better answer than he’d located thus far.

  —12—

  SHEILA CLARKE

  SHE MADE HER WAY through the corridor, maintaining an airspeed that suggested she was swimming through molasses rather than gliding frictionless through the air. But she was on edge now, knowing that her presence had been widely communicated to the residents here who’d be on alert for anything strange. She’d soundproofed herself inside the invisible floating cocoon, but that didn’t mean her mass didn’t affect her surroundings. If she bumped into someone or moved too quickly and triggered an unexpected rush of air, she’d allow them to narrow down her location. She still wasn’t used to flying, either; it violated every instinct in her body, and she fully expected that, at any time, she’d find her weightless existence ended. She’d crash to the ground, injured and exposed, and the residents here would terminate her life. Her eyes flicked up to the vast emptiness of the void of space, and she felt a chill, wondering if they’d toss her outside and let her explode or implode. She couldn’t decide what would happen; after all, until a few days earlier, concerns about what happened to a body floating in the vacuum of space weren’t really a top priority.

  And Sheila remained haunted by what had happened the last time she’d flown at what she imagined to be her top speed, hearing the sickening crunch of the men killed by her action.

  Best to keep the speed down and her presence a mystery.

  From her review of Micah’s maps, Sheila learned that the station had three primary “streets,” cord-like corridors which wound their way around a central chamber to form the large circular “wheel.” That interior chamber housed all manner of systems: electrical, water, air, heating and cooling, data communication, waste disposal, and something called “internal transfers,” which she guessed was some sort of internal groundcar-like system for those traveling a distance they didn’t care to walk. Or perhaps they used it to move boxes of clothing, food, or other goods around. She didn’t find any entryways marked, nor did she find any of the connections among the three corridors allowing residents to change “streets.” It seemed everyone lived on the same street here.

  That struck her as unlikely, but nothing worth exploring. She’d found enough of interest on this current corridor to keep her occupied until she left this place in a few hours, one way or another. Everything went to the central core she’d just visited. That central section acted as the brain, heartbeat, and nervous system of the entire station. There were sections labeled “construction,” “armory,” and, ominously enough, “the brig.”

  Oddly, her mind went to Wesley Cardinal. She wondered if he’d survived the onslaught of the Ravagers and Micah’s compassionate murder of his suffering employees by a missile that didn’t exist. He’d been locked in the Bunker brig after his attack on Sheila, not long before everything went chaotic. She felt sympathy for him, having learned more about the cause of his madness, though not of his specific hatred toward Sheila.

  Focus, she told herself. She needed to let the dead rest in peace and out of her mind, or she’d join them all too soon.

  Her mind returned to the map. This “street” ended at a large enclosed space labeled “Noah’s Ark,” which made no sense to her. She wasn’t exactly sure what an Ark might be or the importance of the person called “Noah” who owned it. Whatever it was, it consumed a larger space than anything else on Micah’s maps. She didn’t have a huge amount of time, but it was one mystery she might solve, information that might lead to better ongoing plans in the fight against Phoenix. Micah didn’t seem to have made it inside, so she’d do her part, expose Noah’s secrets, and then begin the next phase of her plan, all while ensuring she’d be back at AA23 and Micah’s flying ship in plenty of time for her 2100 takeoff back to Eden.

  When she reached the end of the corridor, she noted with only mild exasperation the ever-present secured doors. That made her more curious; either this Noah person—or Phoenix leadership—didn’t want just anyone in there, or they wanted to be quite certain who did enter.

  If she forced entry, she’d be telling them exactly where she was.

  As she’d done before, she waited until someone came by so she could follow them inside, hovering just above the doorway, watching the empty corridor before her with deep interest and intent.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  And waited some more. The fatigue of the strain she’d experienced, the massive adrenaline rushes, and her general lack of sleep were catching up to her. Her eyelids started to feel heavy, and she had to shake her head to keep conscious. With no one around, she made herself fly toward the ceiling, then the floor, then opposite walls at high speed, stopping just before impact each time. The adrenaline came back, but she knew that would just increase her need for sleep. If she had time, she’d sneak back into Ashley’s room, set a loud alarm, and let herself catch a few hours’ sleep.

  In fact, that might be a better choice than waiting for someone to come and let her inside this place.

  She started to float away toward the blissful promise of sleep when she heard the distant noise, faint at first, but growing steadily louder as it neared her spot.

  Footsteps.

  Uncertain if she should be happy about the great luck or saddened that her last possib
le chance for sleep until the trip home had bypassed her, Sheila floated toward the sound, considering the possibility of continuing to Ashley’s room for the glorious nap she’d almost promised herself.

  She hovered over the people approaching and floated along with them as they approached the secured doors. Curiously, none of the facial expressions or body language of the three struck her as belonging to people concerned about the potential for attack by one or more fugitives presumed still loose, armed, and dangerous.

  She listened intently, curious as to what people responsible for the technology used to destroy the bulk of humanity for their own selfish ends might discuss in times of idle chatter.

  “—just starting to undergo the final predicted mutation. I didn't see it, but one of the guys in my pod told me he watched the virus literally chew its way out of one of the infected bodies.” The speaker shuddered, her lips pursing into a thin line. “And there were others who died in similarly gruesome manners.”

  A man shook his head. “It's hard to believe how our genetics turned against us like that. I'm just glad we had some with the foresight to identify the markers and remove those immune to the virus from the areas of highest infestation. That a virus could develop the ability to link itself together into something large and powerful enough to devour human flesh, and to do so in a way that is untreatable beyond the destruction of every non-immune host… I don't know why nature would mutate something of that sort. Or how.”

  The third speaker nodded. “We’re fortunate that there are enough proactive people to conceptualize the Cleansers, and smart people who could create them. If that virus was left unimpeded, we’d be looking at a completely dead planet in another generation.” He shook his head. “I’m the first to admit it’s a brutal solution, and the thoroughness of the destruction of the hosts borders on cruelty.”