Anti-Hero

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Anti-Hero Page 17

by Jonathan Wood


  I open my eyes, look at her. And it seems a little too early in the morning for a look that mocking.

  “So far,” I say, “I am responsible for more casualties on our team than Version 2.0. I am not feeling so heroic today. Is there any chance I can have some slack?”

  She sits up, looks down, ruffles my hair. “Will Version 2.0 give you any, or will he press the advantage?”

  “I’m not dating Version 2.0.”

  “No.” Felicity’s voice is without humor. “He’s trying to kill you.”

  I groan. Right now that sounds like another good reason to stay in bed.

  Felicity’s hand runs down through my hair, over my cheek. Her skin is soft. “Bad things happen all the time, Arthur. And I don’t mean general bad things out in the big wide world,” she gestures with her hand, “but very specifically things that happen to us. And they’re terrible, awful things. But do you know the reason why we keep on winning? Why MI37 saves the world?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “Because we keep on going. We keep pushing. That’s why I recruited you, gave you the position I did. You keep on pushing.”

  I glare at her through slitted eyelids. Don’t like it. Just deal with it. I lick my lips. “‘Keep on pushing,’ doesn’t happen to be a sex reference, does it?”

  She bats at me with her hand. “Get out of bed,” she says.

  There’s nothing really to do but comply.

  AREA 51

  The newspapers are full of the wireless internet news. Pundits rage on television. People camp out in downtown parks. They curse and spit at Big Brother governments. The right and left are finally united in the single point of view: this sucks.

  From the Area 51 conference room we watch the head of Homeland Security sweat through a speech he didn’t write to defend a policy he didn’t come up with.

  “Afraid this isn’t making us totally popular,” says Gran, clicking off the screen.

  I would answer but he’s holding Tabitha’s hand and that makes saying anything that isn’t, “You’re holding Tabitha’s hand” rather difficult. I preferred it when the TV was on and there were moving pictures to distract me.

  “So,” Felicity says from across the table, “your policy makers would prefer a psychotic artificial intelligence attempted to kill all of humanity just so they can watch cat videos on YouTube?”

  Gran shrugs. “Depends who the psychotic votes for.”

  Maybe there aren’t so many cultural differences between the US and England after all.

  “People will comply?” Tabitha asks Gran. “You seriously think?”

  Gran shrugs. “No choice, dudette. We really are going a bit Big Brother on this one actually. Dudes are stringing up this network of wireless signal blockers all over the country and stuff. Cellphone reception’s going to be for shit too.”

  Tabitha looks at him, quizzical. “Network of wireless things to stop wireless networks? Seriously?”

  Gran goes with a second shrug. “Mad DARPA genius science, space, alien technology, magic doodad. Maybe.”

  Tabitha shakes her head.

  Honestly, I find that answer makes about as much sense as any of the ones I usually get. And personally, I don’t care how it’s done, or how many awkward speeches the head of Homeland Security needs to make. My concerns remain closer to home.

  “How’s Kayla doing?”

  “She’s stable.” A Clyde appears where the Homeland Security bloke was a few moments before, and answers before anyone else can. “Though I was very good about not peeking at her medical records. We all were. Very conscious of the whole good behavior thing, I promise you. No psychotic killers in this crowd. Which, now I come to say out loud makes me sound exactly like a psychotic killer. Well, maybe not exactly like one. That’s probably more of a grunting, knife-wielding sound. Maybe some mad gibbering. At least that’s if The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is accurate. Which I concede, now I think about it, it might not be. Not exactly documentary footage, I suppose. And now I probably really do sound like a psychopath. Probably tell you about my mother next. Not that I will. Because she was a charming woman with nothing… Oh wait, doing it. Stopping now.”

  To be fair, it would probably be much more worrying if the Clyde versions didn’t babble like lunatics.

  Felicity flicks a quick look in my direction. Checking to see how I’m holding up. I give her as reassuring a smile as I can manage. It is good news about Kayla.

  “OK, let’s refocus,” she says. “Version 2.0’s stated intent is to wipe out all of humanity. And right now he hasn’t given us much reason to doubt him. So how is he going to do it?”

  “Well, we know the weapons at the evil dude’s disposal,” Gran states, apparently deciding to exert a little bit of leadership since he’s the one on home turf. “Mind wiping and golems.”

  An unpleasant thought crosses my mind. “Wait…” I say, “there could be something else.” I look over at the Clyde versions. “Were there any doomsday devices in the DARPA files?”

  “Surprisingly few,” one version says to my great relief. “And none of them really viable either.”

  “Would a supercomputer be able to fix them?”

  The version winces as he scans his databases.

  “Honestly, man,” Gran interjects, “we really aren’t into the whole doomsday thing anymore. Very passé from a security point of view. Mutually assured destruction is totally uncool. When we find them we’re more into the destroying-all-evidence thing these days. We’ve got a whole branch for just, you know, assassinating evil mastermind scientists and stuff. Not the most fun people for dinner parties, but, like, all over the ruthless-efficiency thing.”

  Tabitha seems to think this is the moment to lean over and kiss Gran on the cheek.

  God, if government-sponsored scientist death squads are one of Tabitha’s peccadillos, then I think maybe the Clyde versions’ affection is misplaced.

  They, for their part, stone face it through the kiss. Possibly more successfully than I do.

  Felicity takes it upon herself to rescue the situation, bless her. “Mind wiping all of humanity in one fell swoop feels a little cumbersome,” she says. “And shutting down the wireless networks will have put a crimp in any plans along those lines. So I think that’s the less likely option. On the other hand we’ve seen him use golems to great effect. And in large scale.”

  I try to picture the scenario. New York, the city above us, suddenly filling with faux-men. All the blowing trash rising up against the citizens. They could be everywhere immediately. It would be chaos.

  I know it was my suggestion, but a doubt crosses my mind. “Summoning that many golems would require ridiculous amounts of electricity,” I point out.

  “Dude was looking at a lot of infrastructure shit, though,” Gran points out.

  “Power grid?” Tabitha asks. Gran nods.

  Felicity’s head swings up and down in time with the CIA agent’s. “Any sort of operation on the scale Version 2.0 was talking about would require massive amounts of planning.”

  I think back at the sheer amount of information Version 2.0 sifted through in the week leading up to this. And it’s too much to grasp in one go. We need a way in.

  And then I see one. “What about Mercurio?” I ask.

  “Trap,” Tabitha snaps, disengaging from Gran’s cheek. “Sprung. Escaped.”

  I think about that. And to a point she’s right.

  But only to a point. “But why him?” I ask. “Clyde knew how to create golems before he hooked up with Mercurio. Winston is proof of that. It could have been anyone he picked. Why Mercurio?”

  “Well.” Gran looks unsure. “Mercurio was like all into golems and stuff. Maybe he had all the junk and stuff he needed to make them right there. You know, like, not somewhere else.”

  Something rattles in the back of my mind. “You said something about weaponizing vegetation though, right?” I look up at the versions.

  “Oh yes,” says one. “But really the focus of his resear
ch was harrying troops. Nothing massively offensive. Unless he was experimenting on Brussels sprouts. That would be offensive. No idea why anyone would go near those things without a hazmat suit, to be honest.”

  Which seems like an excess of information.

  “But weaponized vegetation does tie into this whole green environmental thing, right?” I say. This suddenly feels solid to me.

  Felicity is nodding. Even Tabitha leans her head in grudging assent.

  “Will he talk to us?” I ask. “If we get him out of his coma.”

  Gran shakes his head. “Had some psych boys come and talk to him. Didn’t go spectacularly well. I’m pretty sure the written evaluation actually contained the word batshit at one point. We’re kind of still working on the whole professionalism thing with our psych guys though.”

  Tabitha seems to be about to say something, then hesitates. It’s not usual for her to show reluctance to speak her mind.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  Tabitha hums and haws for a moment. “Debug him,” she says, not meeting anyone’s eye. “Could try to do that.”

  Her code. She’s been working on code to get Clyde out of people’s heads. Which could be perfect.

  “Would he remember anything?” I ask.

  Tabitha shrugs. “Untested code. Might kill him.”

  Oh. So there are less than perfect outcomes here too.

  Felicity leans forward on the desk. “Do we really have any other options where Mercurio is concerned?”

  No one has anything to offer.

  Felicity meets everyone’s eye in turn. “Then we have our next move.”

  AREA 51 LAB

  Mercurio lies as I saw him last, flat on his back on a table, arms and legs restrained, head covered in electrodes. There is a little more stubble on his cheeks, perhaps, but otherwise he is not much different. A man reduced to a science experiment. What an awful way to end up.

  Tabitha bends over her laptop, typing madly, occasionally cursing out the Clyde versions.

  Is this the right thing to do? But I don’t know. Maybe it’s close enough. To quote Felicity, it is a call I can live with. We just have to wait and see if Mercurio can live with it too.

  “OK,” Tabitha says. “Ready.”

  She doesn’t wait for me to quiet my qualms or my conscience. She just hits a button on the keyboard.

  Mercurio’s body convulses. A great shuddering of the limbs runs down his body. His torso twists, bucks. His head smashes back against the table. Again. Again. Again. Leather restraints strain and creak.

  Then he stops. Lies rigidly, back arched, balanced on heels and skull.

  “Is that meant to happen?” Felicity asks. She is looking a little less certain of this plan now. I take a step toward her, but as much because her physical proximity comforts me as vice versa.

  Tabitha shrugs. “Pioneering science. Breaking boundaries, and shit.”

  I think hanging out with Gran is starting to affect her vocabulary. Still, it does seem a bit of a cavalier attitude. “This is a man’s life,” I point out.

  “No.” She turns on me, eyes fierce. “Mercurio’s dead. Only Version 2.0 in there. This isn’t medicine. It’s resurrection.”

  Which rather reframes things for me. It also fills me with the urge to shout, “It’s aliiiive!” at the ceiling, but I restrain myself.

  Tabitha’s computer emits a loud ping. Tabitha punches another button. Mercurio sags back against the table. His chest rises and falls fast, the air rushing in and out of him.

  “What now?” I stare. He’s definitely alive. But as Clyde has proven there are different degrees of that.

  Tabitha steps forward, peers at his face. “Mercurio?” she says. “Doctor?”

  And maybe having Tabitha be the first person this guy interacts with isn’t the kindest thing on earth. I step forward, hoping others come with me. “Doctor, can you hear me?”

  He lies there, panting, eyes flicking back and forth, wide and panicked. They come to rest on me.

  “Doctor Mercurio,” I repeat, speaking slower and louder. “Can you hear me?”

  His brows furrow, but his panting relaxes, some of the tension goes out of him. He works his jaw, seems to be trying to say something.

  Tabitha, for a fraction of a second, glances up at the Clyde versions on their hanging monitor. “EEG,” she snaps.

  “On it.”

  The wall monitor flickers and a vast image of Mercurio’s brain appears. He turns his head in that direction, stares.

  “It’s OK,” I say to the doctor. “You’re with friends.”

  Gran raises his eyebrows at that one. I shrug back. It’s not like I’m going to tell the man the truth.

  Mercurio rolls his head to look back at me. His eyes are big, almost innocent. His jaw works again.

  “Uffle?” he says.

  There is a moment when we all just look at each other.

  “I’m sorry?” I say. That doesn’t seem like it’s the sort of thing anyone intends to really say.

  “Urf marr?”

  I am reduced to squinting and looking puzzled. Felicity shrugs at me. “You got any translation software?” I ask the versions.

  “Oh,” says one. “Good thinking. Should have been on that. Pulling up the interface. Give me a second. Settings…” He hums and haws as a new window opens on the wall monitor.

  “Auto detect,” says another.

  “Funny phrase that,” comments the third. “Makes it sound like some sort of Sherlock Holmes derivative. Deer stalker hat and a fine command of French. Not like that at all, of course.”

  “Murfa wal?” Mercurio asks. His eyes still have that large innocent look. “Wetto?”

  “Erm,” says the first version. “OK. That’s giving me…” He puts his head down; reams of code appear on the wall monitor, disappear again. He shrugs. “Nothing.”

  The version looks up at the assembled crowd. “Well,” he says. “I am not the world’s largest fan of absolute statements. Operating in the field we do, one is likely to find that the sky—having previously been declared to be blue—is now an off-shade of maroon. But that aside, as far as I can tell that’s not a language.”

  “Oogle,” says Mercurio.

  I look over at Tabitha. “OK,” I say. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Tabitha’s bile levels seem to be unusually low. She regards Mercurio with a slightly worried look. “Brain scan,” she snaps to the versions. A yellow, green, and red portrait of the man’s brain quickly appears on the wall.

  “Flerp?” Mercurio asks.

  “Well,” says one of the versions, “if one wants to focus on the positive—and I always think that a sunny disposition can cheer up a room—I’m pretty sure he’s not Version 2.0 now.”

  “He’s a fucking vegetable.” Tabitha steps forward and pokes Mercurio with what seems like an unnecessary amount of aggression. Her jaw is clenched in frustration.

  “Urf,” Mercurio says.

  “If we could avoid obviously derogatory statements…” Felicity sighs and glances at Gran.

  “Well.” I stare at Mercurio rather sadly. “We have kind of made him stupid, haven’t we?”

  Felicity sighs again. “I would rather not jump to any snap conclusions. This could just be the result of some damage to his verbal structures. We have no idea what else could have been left intact.”

  Mercurio is repeatedly putting his finger in and out of his navel while making soft cooing sounds.

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  Felicity blanches. “OK,” she says. “What the hell went wrong?”

  “Now?” Tabitha asks. “Less than a minute in? Full experiment analysis? Just pioneered new science. Might take me a moment.”

  The versions huddle, seem to disagree on something. It’s a muttered affair that seems to mostly involve the word, “sorry.” It takes me a moment to realize this is the first time I’ve really seen them not be in total unity about something.

  One version breaks free o
f the others. “I’m sorry,” he says, “and first I would just like to fully acknowledge the enormous difficulty of achieving what Tabby was aiming for. In fact, that this went as well as it did and didn’t end up with the good doctor’s head detonating like a claymore is rather a testament to her prodigious skill.”

  “Shut it,” Tabitha snaps, not looking at them. “Before I format you.”

  “But there’s a chance the code needs a little work,” the version finishes under the stern gaze of his compatriots.

  “Duh,” says Tabitha.

  “Duh,” repeats Mercurio. He plunges his finger into his ear, pushes, winces, and removes it, wearing a sorrowful expression.

  “Is there any chance,” Felicity says, “that we can recover any of what he knew?”

  Tabitha doesn’t immediately reply.

  “I see,” Felicity says. Her voice is tight.

  “Good learning experience,” Tabitha says without looking up. “Work out the kinks. Next time: fail better.”

  “Yes,” Felicity breathes, her eyes on Gran, “but if we could skip the failing altogether, that would be great.”

  ONE LEVEL DEEPER IN THE AREA 51 COMPLEX

  “OK,” I say, holding up a large pencil sketch, “this is kind of upsetting.”

  Mercurio now being off the table as a source of information, Felicity, Gran and I have decided to take a look through the possessions recovered from his lab and apartment. Meanwhile, Tabitha and the versions are trying to work out where they went wrong.

  Hopefully they are having more luck than us. So far our biggest discovery has been that the good doctor was really into cat pictures.

  It appears to be a slightly unhealthy obsession. There are cat calendars. Cat one-a-day calendars. The saved pages of cat one-a-day calendars. Printed out pictures of cats. Doodles of cats. Posters of cats. And in my hand now is one extremely unsettling and frighteningly detailed sketch of a cat stretched out on a beach wearing a bikini.

  It is while I am transfixed by this distressingly large image, and realizing that it is not only supernatural horrors that one cannot unsee, that Gran taps me on the shoulder.

  I flinch violently, and then screw the sketch up and fling it away from me as if it’s a live grenade.

 

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