by Russ Linton
Hard to believe, but he didn't blame Spence. The firewall, working for the ruthless jerk, Xamse, no, nothing Spence did to react to Detroit would ever be too extreme or unforgivable. None of that was supposed to happen. Ever. Crimson Mask wasn't supposed to die.
"No. Leave the little shit alone."
"Pleeeease!" Chroma whined, chomping at her pretty little bits.
"No," Eric replied. "Leave him alone. Put the call through and triple wrap that bitch. Route him through the tertiary systems."
"I know the drill, boss."
"I told you, don't call me that. Ever." Whatever human inflection Chroma had learned to sense as she explored her way from lab rat to awakened internet, he knew she could read the seriousness in this request.
"I'm sorry."
A ":(" and a "BRB" appeared on his screen. The symbol of the Collective faded from his main monitor, replaced by Xamse, seated in his office. Eric briefly wondered if he ever left that chair. Not that he was one to talk. The ass-shaped indention of his own chair often became an unforgiving lump until he oozed into the right spot again. He needed to go on a run.
"How is my friend, Eric," Xamse asked, his blinding smile only serving to make him look hungry.
"You have one of those?" Eric quipped. Even in all the days at Whispering Pines, Xamse had mostly been interested in speaking to his “friend” Crimson and had little use for Eric. Underlings weren't worth his time until Spencer showed, but those two had history. "How's Spence? Is he there?"
Xamse warded off his question with a raised finger. "No, no, my friend." His voluminous eyes darted somewhere off screen. "Though I do know he is very busy. You will hear of his exploits soon enough."
Always teasing, trying to be intriguing and pretend he'd given something of value. It took a months-long education in statecraft and spy craft for Eric to comprehend the intent of weasels like this. Xamse was grooming him, slowly, loosening up resistance in the hopes of getting what he wanted.
Not that news about the formerly United States wasn't valuable. Eric had been cut off in the hinterlands. His former country had launched a War on Hacking and sworn to build their own unassailable network open only to the forty-eight states. With satellite communications trapped in the digital front and completely unreliable, Hawaii had become an exception to the third amendment as forces retreating from Asia took up residence. Alaska was going on its merry survivalist way. And Texas was, well, Texas. The Collective's network had been deemed a danger to Democracy. Had Spencer not helped shield FreedomNet from intrusion, Eric was sure he and Chroma could have overwhelmed the fledgling network in a matter of hours.
"What do you want?"
"Several clients have requested I make contact to you on their behalf."
"Right. Banks."
"The bank, my friend. They have consolidated as their own resources wither. They wish to negotiate access to your networks."
The request made little sense. Their government was the one cutting off any connection between OneNet and FreedomNet. All physical infrastructure had been destroyed or re-routed.
While a U.S. government run by some reality TV star had been quick to sever ties with the world, many of the giant corporations within their borders hadn't appreciated the change. Not a day went by Eric didn't see them trying to reassert control or circumvent their own government mandates.
"Get a pen. Write this down. Tell them the Collective is too big to fail. Salarium is the currency of the future. Banks? They are no longer necessary."
"I understand this. They...they do not."
"I know, which is why I asked what you want, Xamse. You wouldn't have gone to all this trouble to contact me if you didn't personally want something."
"Very well," he nodded, assenting to a concession he'd already planned to make. "You are no doubt aware of my project in Megalo, to bring your enlightened brand of civilization to the unfortunate people there."
Courtesy of Chroma, satellite photos popped up on Eric's screen unbidden. The town appeared more like a prison than anything. Hardened structures were being built at the center of what might be urban planning or military base, he wasn't sure. Video insets opened around the imagery. Xamse on site followed by meek crowds as if he were some sort of Messiah. Other times where he hadn't been present and public executions took place.
"I've seen your attempts at Apocalypse Now, and I'm not impressed. I don't believe you understand what the Collective is about. Whatever you want? No dice." Eric was done with this guy.
Chroma read Eric's every move, every fidget. The feed died, the Collective's logo returned.
More than ever, Eric wanted to push harder with his plans to wire the world. Due to Shortwave's work, plenty of dissidents in China had offered their factory capacity. He'd already ordered shipments of drones while others cranked out fresh cellphones, unlocked to the Old-World carriers. Sustainable energy systems, high-performance wireless routers, all were ready for the taking when the U.S. economy stopped gobbling up the world's productivity.
He would provide everybody with what they needed. What they wanted. Fuck FreedomNet. Fuck Nanomech.
"Why do you talk to him?" Chroma asked.
Human interaction was often still a mystery to his steroidal digital assistant. Stuff he'd also been deficient at his entire life. While there'd been plenty of reasons, Charlotte never picked up on those cues as a kid. After she'd shunted herself into an immaterial life as Chroma, she seemed to have become more human than less. At least she wanted to be human. She'd gotten to where she could mimic the right inflections in her digitized voices, put up the right emojis, but Eric wondered if actual eye to eye, skin to skin interactions were required to teach the final invisible lessons to her subconscious.
"I don't know why I talk to the douchebag, I just do." He slid out of his chair and stretched. "Going out for a bit. I need a run."
"Can I come along?"
The communications equipment dangling from his armrest blinked. He’d programmed it with a built-in, forward looking camera, a microphone, and speaker, so she could go anywhere with him.
"Naw, I just need to be alone. Time to think."
"Sometimes I wish I could be that," she said, stopping him halfway to the door.
"What?"
"Alone. Not like in space alone. But with you."
He didn't know what to say. "Want some work while I'm gone? Something to occupy you?"
"Yes, oh mighty Eric-san!" The prospect of helping him always brightened her mood.
"We can't keep having fuel delivered for the generators. Even as crazy as the world has gotten, somebody is bound to catch on. Maybe research a way for us to get the geothermal plant running?"
"Oooooh! I have ideas! Let me try and locate a couple people. Oh, and once we've got power I'll find a way for you to exercise inside with me! You can't catch cold and die, Eric."
Pleasant thought. Eric smiled and headed out the door, making sure the grin stayed fixed until he stood on the catwalk above the cavernous processing room outside the office. She had ideas. As much as he'd grown to care for her, the prospect always worried him.
CHAPTER 11
I GLADLY SLIP BACK into routine after my little Ted Talk ambush. Turns out all those cameras have been busy recording my every move, and the systems logging every line of code. Everything was being piped, real-time, to Nanomech's own dev teams. The firewall on the conference table hadn't been my prototype, but one built simultaneously alongside my own efforts. They've already got hundreds more headed to production.
Those awkward stares? They'd been watching their own bubble boy reality star, put off guard by seeing him in the flesh.
Trouble is, I don't care. I've been expecting Xamse to pull some kind of bullshit. And this is why I came to him with it. He's the guy who can get shit done and implement the firewall system wide.
Besides, my main goal is access to the Black Beetle armor. Maybe because I'm being so helpful, Xamse offered that right away, and access had been closer
than I imagined.
The blank wall in the lab conceals the entire flight of battle armors inside a sealed glass room. They occupy a conveyor belt of sorts which transfers the selected armor to a middle pedestal. A partition allows access to the armor. From there, it can also be recessed into the wall which revolves directly into the alcove in Xamse's office.
We start with a rebuild of the previous model. The same one in which I've logged some flight time. Xamse says I should prove my capabilities before moving to the latest prototype.
Some days, Xamse and I go through the diagnostics and the rebuild together. As socially awkward as he is, as dark as his so-called sense of humor tends to be when we're working side by side we share an undeniable sense of camaraderie. The dude genuinely wants friends. To his clients and the corporate world, he's a cold-hearted son of a bitch eager to do anything to get ahead. He seems to relish the spare moments he spends in the lab away from cutthroat competition.
More often though, Ayana is my lab assistant. Well, assistant would imply she does something helpful. She mainly lurks and stares. I've tried to engage her in conversation, but I have this way with women. Camaraderie is not the right word in those cases. Often, I pretend we're engaged in conversation to needle my way under that skin thicker than a Chicago-style pizza.
That's how, one day, I find myself staring at her face. Unlikely with any sympathy, because that internal comment was brutal. I didn't say it out loud, did?
"What?" she spits.
"Umm. Uh." I sputter a few unintelligible sounds mixed with a jerky display of expressions worthy of a plasticine android and not a fully functioning human. "Want to help?"
She snarls. "I'm here to observe and keep you from causing trouble."
Not much trouble being caused at the moment. I'm on week two of the rebuild. Drake's old battle armor is in pieces, and a disassembled arm occupies the closest table. Weapons systems are all inactive.
Once we piece everything back together without weapons, I could suit up and go full power armor melee. But I know for a fact Xamse has overrides. There's also the workstation Xamse accesses on the days he's here. Built-in holoprojectors can drape a shimmering interface in mid-air. I could hack that and from there, gain full access to Nanomech’s internal network. That's how I could do the most damage, but I'm not ready to launch an offensive. Plus, anything I do would be detected quickly. I had more privacy in prison.
If I had to choose between this shiny lab and solitary, I'd choose here. My soul freshly packaged, tagged, and inventoried, the simple buzz of the fluorescent lights helps me ignore just how bad life is on the outside. Every time I crack the battle armor open and lose myself in the tech, the situation becomes more bearable.
With all the surveillance built into the lab, I sometimes wonder if Ayana comes down here because she feels the same. That she secretly wants to be the one chosen to fondle all this sexy hardware. I've never seen the gearhead fascination in her, just the desire to do me harm.
I should work on that.
"You want to grab some..." As I wheel around on my chair, she's settling the mysterious canister she carries into the holster. Wonderful timing. I might've defused a sneak attack. "Lunch?"
Her face shows more than a touch of shock. Good to know I can surprise her and her omniscient perspective. A little unexpected wiggle in my petri dish of a life.
"You know where the cafeteria is," she says.
"I mean like us, both eating. You know?"
"Are you asking me out?" She's recovered from the surprise and her tone shifts. She's beginning to smile, a smile with zero comfort.
"A date? No! A...uh," While I squirm, her laughter grows vicious. "I meant like a professional, working...lunch...thing."
Whatever image she has in her head has sent her into hysterics. A high-pitched cackle. She might be crying.
Okay, so the idea of us being together in any sort of way is both absurd and not what I intended. As much as I want to be in on this joke though, I can't find the humor. I never dated much. I felt too awkward as a kid, and when I got old enough, well, a remote Arctic bunker isn’t the best place to pick up girls. My senior year girlfriend had been a pop diva's album cover on my mp3 player.
"Don't hurt yourself," I mutter, fumbling through the arm assembly pieces.
Her laughter fades into a revelatory sort of huff. "You've never been with a woman?"
Fuck. I mean, literally, fuck. My turn to pretend there isn't anybody else in the room. She closes in, her breath on my ear.
"You've inserted the linear actuator wrong," she says. More cruel chuckles.
She's right. I'm flustered enough I’ve got the mount upside down. She knows more about the technical side than she's letting on. This seems like a good enough way to change the subject. Reining in some serious aggression though, I can't help my normally snarky tone has been overclocked.
"Have you rebuilt one of the MANTIS armors before?" The question comes out closer to an accusation.
"I have found a nerve," she whispers. I keep trying to work, but my hands aren't in sync with my brain. "You, barely a man, will be your nation's virgin savior."
I launch out of my chair, headed to another station, and drop the parts harder than I intend onto the table. Part of the mount comes loose with the impact. Ayana hovers, arms crossed and exuding sweet victory.
"Damnit," I mumble.
I steady the assembly and pull out my multitool. Slipped from the makeshift sheath, I realize my mistake. She swipes Dad's mask.
A surge of something malicious and tainted strikes from a place outside rational thought. I smell gunpowder. Blood. The ashen layer of the mask. I face her, multitool in hand with a screwdriver head extended. She'll laugh more. Fine. Let her. I dare her.
"Give that back."
She almost loses her shit again, but when our eyes meet, the vicious laughter stops. Her lip curls upward into a sneer. "Ahhhh! But you've killed men before, virgin."
Once more she's got me off balance. As fast as the anger exploded, it fades, leaving me defenseless. Suddenly, looking her dead on is too difficult. I'm afraid tears are welling.
Xamse could've told her. He suspects I shot Shortwave, but he can't know for sure. Her surprise though, her triumph at having led me into even more wordless admissions, is too genuine. How long have I been such an open book to her? My every move in this prison? My love life, my motivations, my fears. She seems to understand them all too clearly. Expertly played and impossible to ignore, she's either a mind reader or a profiler on top of being the most intimidating person in any given room.
She moves closer, close enough the screwdriver presses into her stomach. Deep enough, it might pierce her skin. I don't relax my arm.
"But you have regrets," she says. "You feel for those you've killed."
I meet her eyes, once again determined not to shed any tears. "The mask is mine."
She raises her hand, letting the crimson and black dangle from her fingertips, pulling away before I can snatch it.
"Where I'm from, life isn't always the preference," she says. "Your country wants to grow old, die in their own feces with their minds ravaged by senility. Death is often a mercy. An obligation. Can you really handle this job?"
"Yes," I say through gritted teeth.
"Even if it means being disgraced like your father? Will you give that much to Xamse? To your revenge?"
She's mentioned Dad. I've tried so hard not to be sidetracked by the things I can't control. Stay on mission. Get revenge. Don't die. She's the one digging under my skin now, but could she know something?
"Where is he?" I growl. "Where is his body?"
The cruel sneer returns.
Vaguely, I hear the outer door to the lab slide open and the security panel beep. The inner lab door slides open and Xamse steps inside. "Ahhh, my friends! Good to see you working so closely together."
"My scores are all settled," she whispers. "Know that when I bury you, it will be nothing personal."
> Ayana offers the mask once more, and this time, I don't hesitate. She walks away with a deferential nod to her boss. They exchange a few words which can't penetrate the blood rushing in my ears, then she's gone.
"Ready for the simulations?" Xamse asks.
"Simulations?" I stutter. I don't quite have control over my adrenaline just yet.
"Of course. You would not expect me to send you into conflict with Augments unprepared, would you?"
I shake my head. Chin down, I go to flip the screwdriver back inside the multitool. A wet, scarlet stain tinges the end. I wipe it on my jeans before folding the parts together and stowing it in the mask.
Xamse takes up a position at my side and surveys the table. One quick glance and he begins re-assembling the arm, matching up the hydraulics and taking utmost care with the bundles of wire entwining the core like exposed muscle fibers. Deadened, numb, I play the role of assistant, handing him tools and acting as a spare set of eyes wherever needed which for him, isn't often. When finished, we lift the arm section into a mobile sling to ferry it to the armor.
The encounter with Ayana keeps replaying in my head. What I should've said or done. The only right answer is nothing. She should always be kept at snark's length. A single hint of an opening and she's the one who gutted me. This is no friendly game on any level.
"What's her problem?" I ask.
"Hmmm?" says Xamse. He's climbed atop a wheeled stepladder to finish reattaching the arm. An air ratchet in one hand, he drives a bolt with loud whine. "I explained, she finds you—"
"Petulant, yeah. But she's got a serious chip on her shoulder."
He considers me from his lofty position, drives a final bolt, and considers me yet again as he descends the stepladder. More glances come my way while he gathers the hose for the ratchet, coiling it neatly and moving toward the table.
"Her face," he says, and touches his cheek where her scar is before hanging the hose on a hook near the compressor. "Men did this to her. They threw acid at her uncovered face."