by Gary Dejean
“David?” she mutters.
“Hm. Yep?” Hands in his pockets and a peaceful smile on his face, the father turns to her.
“You seem happy.”
“Look at this.” David laughs as he points to the virtual fight. Jake is having intense fun, throwing his arms around as they play and exchanging taunts with Malcolm. The proud rasta is refusing to yield, his health bar reduced to a tiny speck while Jake’s character assaults his fearlessly. Because of the loud cheering, David leans over to Chloe: “He’s back!” he says. “I never thought I’d see him like this again.”
She smiles, having really nothing to reply. David continues: “I really have you to thank for that… and those scientists like Morgan.”
Chloe’s anger dissipates. She’s profoundly humbled by his thanks, a rare feeling of meaningfulness warming up her heart. “You never told me…” she hesitates. “What happened?” She has delayed time and again to ask that question, her awkward attempts at writing about Jake remaining fruitless all these months.
“Oh, that’s right,” David ponders. He gulps quietly before retelling the events: “Well, we used to live in an apartment outside the platform, built before the rise of the sea levels. It was supposed to be stable…”
“Oh my God!” Chloe bursts, realizing the implication.
“When I came home from work, I could see the smoke from a mile away.”
“You lived in the Caloocan Plaza! I’m so sorry, I had no idea,” Chloe apologizes, remembering the press coverage of the catastrophe.
David acknowledges her compassion with a grim nod. “Police kept the whole area on lockdown for days,” he moves on. “I… I was certain I lost them both, and I drank my heart out. I slept wherever I’d fall down… and then I got a call, telling me my son had lived.” He lets go of a heavy sigh. “I thought it was a bad joke… but you see, we lived on the last floor. His mother shielded him, and they were among the first to be evacuated.”
Images of the disaster reminiscing as they talk, Chloe feels a vague vertigo. “So, you went to the hospital?” she presses on.
“After I sobered up, I went there, yeah,” David replies, his soft cheeks caving as he ventures into the confusing corners of memory lane. “They explained that the damage was severe, but that they managed to save most of the important parts of his brains…”
“You mean…” Chloe attempts to specify his phrasing.
“Well you know,” he interrupts, summing up, “those we can’t replicate.”
She nods, understanding the gist. Still, reminded of recent research, she raises a pedantic finger, adding: “Yet.”
“Sure,” David concedes, “anyhow, I work for an insurance company, we’re well covered. So the next day, there I am, with a son again.”
They take a moment to appreciate this unexpected turn of events. “You know,” Chloe digresses, “his life expectancy is off the charts, now.”
David nods quietly at the remark. “That’s what they told me,” he confides. “But… what kind of life? That’s what I wonder.”
More than a little jealous of the boy, Chloe dismisses this concern. “Give him some time,” she says. “He seems to be doing pretty well right now.”
She points at the virtual match, and Jake taunting Malcolm. David chuckles. “You’ve got a point,” he admits. “The past few months have been a blessing.”
Feeling their friendship grow, Chloe allows herself a more personal statement. “I’m sure he misses his mother,” she says, “but at least he’s made real friends here.”
That mention of his wife sends David’s thoughts drifting. “I wonder if it’s time to send him back to school,” he ponders out loud, a curious sense of guilt in the back of his mind.
“You know,” Chloe objects playfully, “I think he’s learning more here than he would in school!”
They share a laugh. Meanwhile, Jake tricks Malcolm into attacking and knocks him down by surprise. The rasta can’t believe his eyes: “Oh, no you didn’t!” he explodes.
“Oh, but yes I did! In your face!” The boy boasts, as people cheer and bets are settled. Standing at his feet, the robotic dog he’s befriended joins in on the celebration, skipping around joyfully. “Dad! Did you see that?” calls Jake, referring to his victory.
David gives him a thumbs up, a wide smile on his face, while Morgan’s drone rolls in, carrying a small suitcase marked with the H+ incorporated logo. “To the victor go the spoils!” she declares, opening the suitcase on a table.
Around the main room, lamps turn off and tone down, before a swarm of robotic flying insects takes off from the suitcase, shining like fireflies. They spread across the room with an odd precision, hovering in position and forming an elaborate fractal pattern. Morgan hands Jake the control device used to order the swarm around. As he connects directly to it and starts waving his arms, the cloud of miniature drones follow. In the relative darkness of the room, their hypnotic movements capture everyone’s gaze. Chloe and David smile at each other.
Troopers and technicians are having lunch in their automated self-service restaurant. The steady noise of platters sliding on aluminum railings fills the room, when suddenly an alarm blares. The troopers freeze, the voice of their commanding officer barking from the speakers: “Lunchtime over,” he growls. “We’ve got our first assignment. I want troopers suited up in fifteen minutes. Get moving!”
The lunchroom is emptied in a matter of seconds, the teams rushing to their respective stations while cleaning drones come out of theirs, discarding platters and dishes left behind.
An hour later, the six troopers are all geared up, hung to the ceiling of their dropship by outfitting armatures, getting ready to drop. The Major is wearing the bare-bones exoframe; he walks toward Angelo’s console from the back of the transport, inspecting his troops’ equipment. When he’s satisfied, he grabs the wire hanging behind Angelo to connect his own suit to the overseer’s interface.
Keeping the virtual reality headset over his forehead to address his troops, Hanzo starts: “We’re going after a band of pirates who have taken a group of tourists hostage.” His voice as loud and resolute as ever, he goes on: “The government is trying to stall, but these guys have a reputation for violence, and we can’t afford to wait until nightfall.” He pauses, letting the notion sink in of an attack in broad daylight. “You’ve been through this scenario a hundred times, so remember your training.”
Angelo brings in aerial images of a middle-sized yacht surrounded by a few zodiacs. Of the many silhouettes on board, the threat algorithm paints red those carrying firearms. On the exterior sections of his screen, pulled from the briefing material, Angelo displays pictures of the gang leader, both his forearms replaced by rusty submachineguns; the rest of his crew are, like him, shirtless Oceanian cripples with wooden legs, metal hooks for hands and scavenged cybernetics all around.
“They have seven hostages,” continues the Major. “Satellite imagery shows eleven boogies. Archangel, can you confirm?”
Angelo checks live infrared footage from the array of drones deployed out of the pirates’ sight. Kneeling in the ship’s hold, seven silhouettes get highlighted in green.
“Eighteen targets confirmed,” Angelo reads from the monitor. “Looks like they took them inside, sir.”
“The leader of this gang is on board,” informs the Major. “If you get the option, leave his head intact for the press.”
The dropship comes to a stop. Lowering the headset over his eyes, the Major barks: “Prepare to drop.”
In one voice, the troopers all reply: “Ready, sir!”
“Make me proud,” the Major orders without a hint of irony.
Angelo engages the airdrop sequence, pulling both lateral doors open while the ship starts descending rapidly.
The sun is shining brightly and pirates with binoculars keep scanning the horizon. Descending at high speed in the zenithal path of the sun, the dropship extends its mechanical arms like a set of wings; and when she sees th
e emptiness below her feet, Patti feels her heart skip a beat. A second later they all drop, slowed down only slightly by industrial-grade winches; and twenty seconds later they stand in the middle of a bloodbath.
The operation is a show of pure processing power and human coordination. Before their feet have even touched the deck, the troopers have neutralized half their targets, aiming their silenced rifles as they fall and letting the targeting system do the rest. Two slugs in the heart and one in the forehead is the only ransom paid to the pirates.
The heavy weight of the troops’ equipment sends the yacht shaking as they hit the floor, their footsteps muffled by soft materials. Quickly followed by their shielding units and a cohort of UAVs, the team deploys all over the main deck, Patti staying behind while Alpha team storms the inside of the ship and the rest of Bravo clears the sides.
She has locked onto one pirate, lucky enough to have been spared the first salvo, and who’s now hiding under a tarp at the front end of the yacht, behind the stacked anchor rope. Unbeknownst to him, three flying drones monitor his thermal signature. Shaking with fear after having seen his friends brought down in a flash, he’s arming a rocket launcher, a stream of urine pouring down his leg.
In her radio, Patti can hear the chatter of the team: “Sir, Target is using human shields,” says Ocampo, her only female coworker.
Using infrared, the Nigerian team member is aiming his rifle at the pirate’s head through the floor of the living room. The man is hiding among the hostages, both his Uzis pointed at them.
“I’ve got a clean shot,” says Owusu, “but I doubt the picture will look any good.”
The Major thinks fast: “Take it,” he replies.
The trooper shoots his twenty millimeters underbarrel rifle at the floor, blasting a hole through the thin structure. Hostages are jump-scared by the noise when the bullet bursts through the ceiling right over the pirate, entering his head from above. For an instant, silence falls, as hostages are holding their breaths. The pirate’s arms, still raised, limply fall, but only halfway before his head explodes, scattering brains and bone fragments all over the hostages, who scream in a panic.
“So much for the newspapers,” declares the Major with a careless tone. “Alpha One, check for explosives and get these hostages out.”
Speaking through his radio, the squad leader executes the order. “Acknowledged.”
“Bravo Three,” the Major moves on, “any word from your target?”
Patti takes a deep breath. “Negative, sir,” she replies.
“Try talking him out. Our job is done, here.”
“Roger that.”
From behind the waist-high wall of Kevlar erected by the shielding units, Patti speaks through speakers embedded in her shoulder plates: “This is the Police!” she yells. “Lay down your weapon and come out with your hands up!”
From the dropship, Angelo watches the scene nervously: “Don’t take any chances,” he invites, reading from live simulations, “you can hit him through those ropes.”
Down on the yacht, the pirate is panicking. Cornered and desperate, he decides to blind-fire his rocket launcher above the piled rope.
Angelo bursts: “RPG!”
Patti sees the rocket coming right for her face, in what feels like an eternity because she freezes solid. She would later remember seeing her entire life flash before her eyes, forever unable to tell if this isn’t a trick played by recollection, but for the short while when the explosive projectile flies through the few meters that separate her from death, all she can think about is that she’s not ready. Under the weight of her suit she curls down, letting the tip of the rocket fly above her shoulder, and pushes it upwards with her wrist.
She and her colleagues standing on the deck see the rocket fly high into a spiral before exploding in midair, damaged from the collision. Patti is forgetting to breathe, when the video feed of her muzzle camera pops up in her field of view. Her rifle is still aimed at the pirate, showing through infrared the man behind the stack of ropes.
Only then does she realize that the Major has just used – and released – the override system, effectively saving her life. Suddenly, her suit regains flexibility: the override is off. In her radio, she can hear the Major’s voice: “He’s all yours,” he says with a final tone.
Arms still stretched and looking at the fading smoke of the rocket, Patti shoots a burst of three, hitting the pirate through his cover, twice in the chest, once in the head.
When the night falls that day, the troopers celebrate with beer and loud music. The whole team of technicians are here too, along with the Major, everyone very happy with themselves. They cut off the music as a large TV reports on the successful operation, and the first official mention of the task force.
Angelo is leaning on the guardrail, looking at the colorful display of lights coming from the city. Patti joins in, her walk revealing a certain degree of inebriation; he is rather buzzed himself. She yawns, stretching her chest in a not-so-subtle manner, her sharp blue eyes reflecting the giant screens plastered on the skyscrapers.
“So, guardian angel,” she starts. “That was interesting, having you in my ears earlier…”
Angelo coughs his sip of beer: “Haha! Gross,” he laughs.
She leans over closer, bobbing her head so as to shake off the joke. “I mean it,” she insists: “I’ve never had a rush like that… It was a real turn on.” Angelo smiles meaningfully. Later that night, they would end up in her barracks, celebrating survival, and merit, and all virtuous things that one can get high on. They would ride each other until dawn, until exhaustion, until slumber would take them and they would sleep the sleep of the just.
Chapter 5
It’s Christmas 2039, Jake and David’s first Christmas since their life took a twisted turn, and they’ve decided to spend it at the Workshop, where Jake spends most of his days. With the help of his friends, he’s just finished installing a leaf-blower on the shoulder of the Behemoth. Funneling glitter and confetti through a large tube, they spray the room in colors.
Apart from the group, Chloe is lying on an old sofa, sorting through prosthetics manufacturers’ websites on her phone. Once they run out of confetti, Jake walks to her, glitter encrusted in his hair and clothes. He glances at her phone and asks: “You’re checking upgrades?”
“Hey Jake!” she replies, surprised in her solitary contemplation. “Nice work on the Behemoth!”
“Thanks!” The boy giggles. “It was really fun.”
She pockets her phone in a hurry, but when she sees the child raise his artificial eyebrows as a sign of interest, she changes her mind. The screen displays the specifications of a highly realistic eye prosthesis. “I’m just browsing…” she mumbles.
Jake looks over her shoulder. “This one looks really cool,” he says. “You should get it!”
“Well,” Chloe objects, “the optics aren’t that great… I like this one better.”
She switches to another tab showing a more sophisticated model. Unlike the other, this one looks nothing like a human eye, and more like the lens of a reflex camera. The web-page has a button to order; it’s an expensive model.
Jake snaps his fingers, amazed. “Oh, wow,” he exclaims, “it looks bad-ass! You gonna order it?”
“I don’t know…” She looks at him with melancholy. It’s very obvious she’s trying to speak, but nothing comes out.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, walking around to sit beside her. He’s never seen her like this.
“Oh, Jake,” she sighs. “You make it sound so simple… You know? You’re pretty lucky somehow.”
“Me?” the boy replies, incredulously sarcastic. “Lucky? Yeah, OK. Sure.”
Chloe’s immediately embarrassed by her remark. “I’m sorry,” she stutters, “I didn’t mean it like that… it’s just… You know…” She pauses, looking for the root of her indelible jealousy. “You’re gonna live a thousand years!”
This is not the first Jake has heard of
this, as during his reeducation the topic came up a few times. Still, not even halfway through his eleventh year of life, the boy can hardly fathom what that means. He shrugs in silence, seemingly unfazed.
“I’m not kidding!” she insists. “For someone like me to get where you’re at, that means a lot of surgery. Even just for this eye, I’d need an operation.”
“You wanna get the other one done?” the boy replies, confused by the young woman’s honesty.
“No! I…” Chloe quiets down. When she opens her mouth again, Jake finds her tone strangely serious. “Look,” she says, “I don’t want you to feel betrayed, but this has been weighing on me. I’m a fake.”
“What?”
“I’ve grown among people like this, but… I’ve lied to you Jake: my eyes are intact. This… this is a mask, I use it for my job…”
Chloe takes off her mask and looks at Jake with a sorry expression. He takes his time to react, dismissing the gravity of the situation by waving his hand. “I don’t see your problem, here,” he says, “you’re the lucky one.”
“I know,” Chloe admits, shameful. “You’re right.”
“Are you gonna order it, then?”
The boy’s instantaneous reply washes away her feeling of self-pity. “You know what?” she declares, with renewed enthusiasm. “I’m gonna do it right now, it’s Christmas for God’s sake!”
Jake clenches his fist as a sign of victory. “Yesss!” he approves, excited.
Chloe makes the order, the weight on her chest lifting up. Once she’s filled in all the required fields, she turns to Jake and wraps an arm over his shoulder. “You’re a good kid, you know?,” she tells him. He smiles in reply.
On the first floor of their barracks, the troopers are finishing their daily physical exercise. Under the supervision of technicians, they take off electrodes from their chests and listen to their trainers’ personal recommendations. Patti and Ocampo turn off their treadmills. The simulated uphill run has left Patti breathless, and she looks at her Filipina counterpart who didn’t break a sweat with annoyed envy. They both get relieved first out of professional courtesy and leave for the showers.