Retaliate

by Alex Albrinck

  As the dream world replaced the conscious one, the smile on her face remained.

  —14—

  RODDY LIGHT

  THE GLUE HE’D PICKED from his hair, the soft, slightly tacky substance that kept the electrodes adhered to his head, clung to the tips of his fingers. He’d spent quite a bit of time trying to work the excess from his hair since the memory download process completed, and even a half dozen showers with hot water and shampoo hadn’t finished the job. Rather than drown himself, he’d just started running his fingers over his hair in a compulsive manner, seeking out the sticky clumps and pulling them away, wishing he was pulling away at least some of the memories that now occupied his head.

  He’d seen the videos before he’d undergone the procedure and knew the basics before the full memories gushed upon his conscious mind like a tsunami, wiping out any hint of peace he’d felt about his personal life. He’d accosted his parents as they’d stabbed the electrodes to his head. He’d snapped and snarled at them over their decision to let him forget he wasn’t available for a romantic relationship. He’d screamed at them about the hurt they’d let him inflict upon his only true wife, who’d allowed him to go on his Trojan horse-like journey, and already ached with the knowledge that he might never make it back. It hurt more that they didn’t justify it, didn’t even try to say that the technology wasn’t quite so precise, that they couldn’t leave a wisp of a memory there to guide his behavior. They repeated the line he’d heard in the video he’d watched, that for him to act normally, he couldn’t forego a relationship that naturally developed. Eschewing romance was abnormal, and the suspicious types watching him would pounce on that, ferreting out what little remained of the images of his wife and children.

  With even vague images, technology would find them.

  And then he’d be a widower, losing a wife he couldn’t remember, unable even to visit the graves of the children he’d never met.

  The memories clashed now, and the hurt grew deeper. He could see the pain on Mary’s face as she watched the wedding ceremony where her husband vowed fidelity to one woman even as he snapped the bond with another. It had scarred him before; now, it gutted him, and he struggled to push each breath through the ragged tears he held back.

  He’d seen the hurt before; now, he felt it, felt it with every fiber of his being.

  The memories spread. They told him everything got dumped back in and then his brain filed everything away where it belonged, filling slots previously vacated, and then linked everything together. Waves of understanding hit him every few minutes. It was a different love, a pure love that he’d experienced with Mary. They were aligned, of a similar spirit, a desire to do good and do right, to raise their child in a manner reflective of that and to live their lives in pursuit of their ideals. He could now realize that the Roddy who’d been stripped of that memory didn’t know how to love; his relationship with Deirdre had been mutual lust, a desire to possess what each found desirable, to show off the prized possession to the world in an effort to seem more powerful and desirable to others. He’d felt protective of Deirdre, but theirs wasn’t a relationship filled with philosophical discussions and pursuit of humanitarian, altruistic aims; it was a relationship filled with lust and the pursuit of power and possessions.

  It was little wonder that he’d been suspicious of Deirdre for so long, less wonder that she’d given into temptation. He was a possession, not a soul mate.

  They’d left him with most of his moral compass intact, but chipped away the most critical piece. His wife had suffered for it. And now he did as well.

  They tried to tell him he hadn’t really cheated on her, and that Mary knew that. But logic didn’t work well in matters of the heart. Anyone could say it wasn’t really Roddy; he didn’t even look like the man in the videos any more than she looked like the love of his life.

  He did his best to compartmentalize it all away, to return his focus to finding them in a world torn asunder by the incarnation of an idea that the other woman voiced. That was all that mattered now. He could put the emotions inside that box and deal with them later, after his new mission finished.

  That’s what he told himself, though the exploding light bulbs in his prison cell suggested he was thus far struggling in that plan’s execution. The return of his memory brought the return of his full understanding of his power. His strength had grown over time, increasing despite small restraints in his mind against displaying too much too soon. With those mental tethers removed, he now didn’t know his own strength, nor how his emotional states tended to wreak havoc on the environment—and light bulbs—in his proximity.

  His prison cell had one advantage: it kept him from wandering the corridors here, a place where he’d spent years helping his parents establish and operate perimeter and interior security. He’d never lived inside the cells he’d helped build, which kept more memories at bay.

  Especially the lies they’d told the residents here.

  Once they’d gotten the place built and security established, he moved to an operational role, which basically meant that he kept the place working and ensured newcomers knew the “truth” about why they were there, spinning illusions like truth that kept the new ignorant masses in the dark. The story went that a rapidly mutating virus had been proven to spread from host to host through the air, through skin contact, through touching something an infected person had touched. You couldn’t avoid it. You wouldn’t feel anything for years, not until the virus grew. It grew inside you, doubling on occasion, not enough to notice… not until it was too late. And then it woke from its hibernation with sudden ferocity, consuming the host upon which it fed, free to infiltrate the next host.

  There were a select few who were immune to the virus, who repelled any effort to establish residency inside their bodies. But it was rare, perhaps ten percent of the population, perhaps less.

  But that was a temporary situation. The virus could mutate again. And then the immune might not be immune any longer.

  The only solution, horrific as it seemed, was to quarantine the currently immune inside sterile buildings capable of filtrating out the virus… and then exterminate the infected. If they did nothing, humanity—and everything else living on the surface—would be extinct within a few decades, maybe longer, maybe sooner.

  They owed it to the unknowingly sick to remain alive and exterminate the virus, and then rebuild the earth from the virus-free ashes. Like a mythical bird of the ancients, the Phoenix, that self-immolated its aged, sickened body to ashes and rose anew, healthy and alive.

  He could remember now, staring into the horrified eyes of the newcomers, the intensity of his gaze demanding acceptance of his lies as truth, accepting their role in the ghastly but necessary business, and to admit the pivotal role the altruistic Phoenix group was playing in thwarting an extinction-level event.

  He’d converted many, which was why they’d all reacted so strongly when his parents tearfully told of his escape in the night, his abandonment of his wife and unborn children, and his acceptance of a treasonous cult that claimed Phoenix was the creator of the virus. Not the group working to contain and exterminate it.

  His parents had persevered, had weathered the temporary hit to their credibility. They’d used the systems he and his wife had built in his security and operational roles—before she’d moved into a research job and he’d moved into his new body—to monitor Internet searches, listen in on conversations thought private, and view body language to find those open to hearing the real truth, to know that Roddy’s departure was meant to throw the truly evil of the world off the scent of those working in silent, desperate opposition to minimize the damage of their intended actions.

  And they were persistent; he’d give them that. The mental powers he’d rediscovered pre- and post-memory refill were unleashed in him after his parents spent centuries trying to find a “cure” for powers lost at the end of the war that helped usher in the Golden Ages, when the leaders of the winning side decid
ed those powers were too much for any human to possess, that it provided an accelerated means for tyranny to rise to power.

  They’d watched it happen several times after, wishing they had those powers to stop the tyranny. And while they weren’t back to the levels they’d once enjoyed, they could still do things normal people couldn’t.

  It meant they’d know with certainty who might betray them if told secrets about the past, about Roddy, about the elite leaders of Phoenix.

  It also meant they’d know with certainty that when a stranger arrived at their facility during the “cleansing” purge meant to wipe away the supposed virus, they’d need to react with extreme suspicion. All who knew of the purge were to be safely tucked away until it ended. Those who didn’t know… well, they were supposed to be dead, not showing up at New Venice’s front door. Such new arrivals would be suspected to be members of Roddy’s “cult,” sent here to do harm at a time when New Venice’s alert levels for human attack would be running lower than usual.

  And that’s why they treated Roddy as a prisoner, nudging him along with a rifle pressed against his spine, a blindfold over his eyes so he couldn’t see and learn the landmarks that made navigating the maze of hallways a simple matter. And that’s why his hands were cuffed in front of him, where he could do little more than pick at stray bits of electrode paste stubbornly clinging to fingertip pads.

  His mother poked him in the back with the tip of her rifle, and he could feel the regret flowing from her. But her voice remained stern, even a bit cruel, and he knew the few who saw the prisoner transfer would have no cause for suspicion about her motivations. He stumbled slightly and slowed down, and felt the rifle jab him again, a bit harder this time. “Keep moving!” Mona snapped.

  Roddy obliged, forcing a snarl upon his face, as if he desperately longed to tell the insane woman shoving him along exactly what he thought of her. He could snap the cuffs with his reawakened powers, or just melt the metal, and be free of his shackles. But instead, he kept up the ruse, kept his head bowed, and moved forward as commanded, following the sounds of his father’s footsteps before him.

  He heard the cell door unlock, felt the slight gust of stale air whoosh out, felt the final nudge of the rifle. “Inside!”

  He moved through the door, banging his shoulder against the frame before shifting aside, and entered the room.

  Mona operated the controls; Roddy could hear her hands against the digital palm print scanners here. The door shut and the electronic locks engaged.

  Jeffrey pulled the blindfold off, and Mona released the cuffs with her key. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  “Nothing to be sorry about; I know why we had to do that.” He didn’t say that he still hadn't forgiven them for letting him violate his marital vows, because they already knew that. Rehashing that conversation would solve nothing. He switched to a more pressing topic. “Any news from Micah?”

  “He's confirmed that the people he encountered in the Lakeplex after the Ravager activation were indeed Mary and the twins,” Jeffrey told him. “Since Mary knew of the Ravagers’ aversion to water, he’s concluded that they took the ground car to the dock, commandeered a boat, and made their way as far from shore as possible.”

  Roddy glanced back and forth between his parents as his memories of Micah and the man’s unique skills pushed to the forefront of his mind. “He ran simulations on where they'd most likely make safe landfall given the type of boat they'd find at the dock, weather conditions, and the tidal movement in the lake, didn’t he?”

  Mona nodded. “Micah had set up a fully-stocked residence on an island in the middle of the lake maintained by a robot staff in which he and any he rescued could survive the Ravagers. Had he known who they were, he would have taken them there to wait out the Ravager infestation himself. Fortunately, the simulations suggest a very high probability that that's where they ended up anyway.”

  Roddy looked at them. “Then I need to go there.”

  Mona smiled and moved to one of the interior walls. “I thought you'd say that.” She placed her palms against the wall. “Open.”

  A panel slid aside. Roddy arched an eyebrow. “You’ve updated this place since I left.”

  Mona chuckled. “As you would have demanded.” She moved through the opening, followed by Jeffrey. He heard metal clanging, and as he moved through the opening, he saw a tightly twisted, winding metal staircase leading down into the unknown, the lighting before them faint.

  The opening back into his cell slid closed. Roddy shrugged and trotted down the steps into the abyss.

  He reached the landing, where the lighting was a bit better. He saw another palm reader on the wall before him, which Mona opened as well. The three walked through the new opening into the pitch-black space beyond. The echoes of their footfalls told Roddy he was in a large, open space. There seemed to be motion detectors inside as well, for he heard clicking sounds around him as lighting systems gradually came to life, lifting the shroud of darkness.

  Roddy let out a low whistle.

  It looked like the ship he’d piloted for Oswald Silver, but different. Sleeker. Smoother. The surface was a silvery color that seemed to move without moving, like silvery lava flowing inside the outer shell. It was a sphere, no obvious entry points, no obvious instrumentation, no obvious means of propulsion, not even anything that looked like air vents that would let passengers breathe.

  The only reason he knew it flew was because it already was flying. It floated three feet off the ground… and didn’t make a sound.

  The expert pilot nodded his appreciation, a nod that conveyed his understanding. He was to use this… this… whatever it was to head away from New Venice and find his family and bring them back. He’d do it alone. His parents couldn’t leave; they had a fortress to run, had to make sure that the incorrigible new prisoner stayed in his room.

  He forced his eyes away from the beautiful machine to his parents. “How do I get inside?”

  Jeffrey handed him a thin metallic disk, tinted to match the hue of the ship. “This. It’s a remote that provides full control of the ship. There’s a touch screen that will operate intuitively for you, but most will use voice commands.” Roddy felt the disk, cool like burnished steel. “The ship operates on voice controls and an autopilot; give it the name of a place it knows, or coordinates for a place it doesn’t, and it’ll handle the rest.”

  Roddy felt a bit of his excitement wane. “I don't get to pilot it?”

  Jeffrey chuckled. “Not this one. But worry not; there are other ships out there like Silver’s that will require your unique skills.” His face fell. “But that’s later. Go. Find the island. Find my daughter-in-law and my grandchildren. And bring them back here, where they can be safe. From any threat.” The man's voice trembled as he spoke. Roddy understood; he felt guilty for driving Mary away, and would consider it his fault—his and Mona's—if they'd not survived the Ravager's infestation.

  Roddy nodded, pursing his lips tight. “I'll find them.”

  Mona clenched his shoulder tightly. “Good luck, Roddy.” She handed him a slip of paper. “The island's coordinates. Tell the ship. It will do the rest.”

  Roddy held the remote control up to his face. “Open up.”

  A section of the sphere opened, dropping down like a ramp to allow him easy access inside. Roddy stepped onto the panel and climbed aboard. The ship understood he was the only passenger and resealed everything once he was safely inside.

  Roddy cleared his throat. “Ship, I have coordinates. Can you fly me where I need to go?”

  Of course, Roddy.

  Roddy smiled as he rattled off the string of numbers.

  He couldn't wait to see his wife—his real wife—again. And to hold and hug and kiss his children for the first time.

  He just hoped that Micah's simulation on their current whereabouts proved accurate.

  And that no tragedy had befallen them after they’d left the general’s house.

  —15—

&
nbsp; WESLEY CARDINAL

  IF IT WAS HIS TIME to go, he decided, then there was no real rush to succumb to the inevitable. Might as well hold out as long as he could and hope for a miracle. He couldn’t move his arms or legs as they’d gone numb, and while his core muscles seemed to work, he couldn’t think of a way to use them in a manner that would keep him afloat and breathing without his arms or legs.

  He’d give it a minute, he decided, feeling the water cover the top of his head. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on nothing, while ensuring he didn’t open his mouth and try to breathe in air that didn’t exist. He let the scant air in his lungs trickle out through his tightened lips a few bubbles at a time. He’d forgotten to start counting to sixty. Should he start now? Estimate how long he’d been below the surface and start from there?

  He wondered how far he’d sink in sixty seconds.

  His shirt, saturated with the salty water and clinging to his skin, suddenly constricted. His sense of direction told him he was moving up, toward the surface.

  His head breached the surface and he exhaled quickly and inhaled again, wondering how close he’d come to sixty seconds. Whatever had grabbed his shirt hadn’t let go, and he felt himself surging out of the water, into the air that felt cooler now that he was sopping wet.

  He grunted as he hit solid ground. No, not ground. Some type of alloy or plastic polymer. It was a boat. He’d been pulled out of the water and tossed into a boat.

  He gasped again, felt tremors in the floor that protected him from the water that had nearly ended him, and sensed he was moving. Quickly. He heard the throaty roar of engines, getting louder and louder. In some distant place, he heard a deep roar, another engine, probably several, moving something much bigger than he was in now.

  He felt pain in his arms and legs; the numbness was fading now, replaced by pain that he found oddly comforting. He flexed his fingers and coughed, then managed to roll over.