First time in centuries, Ericho corrected himself.
The temperature was perfect, neither too hot nor too cold. He hadn’t done the calculations but had a hunch it was early spring.
The man’s voice was deep, pleasant. “Welcome back to Earth.”
He appeared close to Ericho’s age. The white hair was combed straight back and dangled across his shoulders. His ebony skin was a shade darker than June’s. His gray trousers and jacket bore a faint metallic sheen. A string necklace of alternating pearls and rubies reminded Ericho of a line of Helio Age jewelry he’d seen in a museum.
The man approached and halted a pace away.
“I am Glan Excelsior Lancelot Dupree, your reintegration facilitator. You may address me as Glan. My responsibility is to guide and assist your adaptation into our society, hopefully with as few hurdles as possible. I realize that you must be in a mild state of shock from the profound experience of being thrust eight centuries into the future. So, before we begin the next phase of our journey together, I will try to set your minds at ease by answering your most pressing questions.”
“We only have a few thousand of those,” Faye blurted out.
Glan smiled and held out his hands, palms up. “I am at your service. Be aware, however, that you may not fully comprehend all my answers. Rest assured that in time, clarity will come.”
“Why did we hear Jonomy’s voice?” Ericho asked.
“A simulation. It’s a common technique we use when reintegrating chronojumpers. A familiar voice is the best remedy for putting those long estranged from society at ease.”
“Kind of creeped me out,” Faye said.
“Reactions vary. I am sorry it invoked such a response.”
“What happened to Barstow?” Ericho asked.
“Two centuries ago, Greater Barstow and its population of one-point-three million voluntarily accepted a rokoloko epiphany into a fargo clusterization.”
“I see what you mean about not fully comprehending.”
“I sense your greater concern, Captain. Rest assured that the city’s disappearance was not the work of the Quad. The creature is still safely imprisoned on Sycamore.”
“And LeaMarsa?”
“She remains hidden somewhere on the planet, serving as its containment vessel, its jailer.”
“What about Jonomy, our lytic?” June asked. “Was he ever rescued?”
“Jonomy J. Jonomy returned safely to Earth. He became quite famous for his role in the events that transpired during your Sycamore expedition. He was offered numerous opportunities to use his lytic abilities, not only aboard premier starships but by interfacing with high-level planetary AIs. He declined all such offers and chose to retire from Pannis and cyberlytics to pursue the classical arts. He became a landscape painter of some renown as well as an amateur poet.”
“Who would have thought,” Faye murmured.
“Jonomy married and fathered two children, a boy and a girl. Neither of them was genetically modified in utero for lytic capabilities. Five generations of Jonomy’s family were at his bedside when he made his final transition.”
Ericho felt June flinch beside him and her features darken. Glan took notice.
“I apologize if my words trigger painful memories. I know there is sadness for the loved ones all of you left behind. Although it might seem small consolation at the moment, each of you has living descendants. Many of them are anxious to meet you.”
“You obviously knew when and where we’d be coming back,” Ericho said.
“The precise time and place of your time jump into Earth orbit was learned years ago from Jonomy, who was given the data by LeaMarsa. How she came by it remains one of the numerous mysteries related to her metamorphosis.
“The actions taken by the invader did not lead to a typical chronojacking, whereby a vessel is thrown forward to a random location and time period. The creature used scientific knowledge unknown to your era to modify the Alchemon’s Level One systems and pinpoint the spatiotemporal coordinates of the ship’s reappearance.”
“Why eight centuries?”
“It scanned your systems and realized the interstellar population was expected to peak in eight hundred years, according to Corporeal projections.”
“More people to attack and murder,” June whispered.
Glan nodded grimly then brightened. “Your Sycamore expedition has been studied in detail over the centuries and the anticipation of your return has sparked an upsurge of interest. Once you’re settled in, many researchers hope to interview you.”
“Are other people watching us right now?” Faye wondered.
“An audience of several billion citizens is sharing our exchange.”
The scientist gazed around her at the darkening prairie then craned her head skyward.
Ericho asked Glan if he knew of Renfro Zoobondi, whose sadistic actions had led to the chain of events culminating in their present conversation.
“I indeed know the name. An infamous criminal.”
“What happened to him?” June asked.
“He was about to go on trial for murder and other crimes. He escaped and managed to chronojack a starship. He has not been heard from since.”
“What about our ship?” Faye asked. “That Jonomy voice said we can’t return to it.”
“The Alchemon was purchased at auction decades ago and is already in the process of being moved to the moon. Because of your vessel’s fame, there was quite a bidding war for its acquisition. Once LOMAS refurbishes it, you may certainly return for a tour.”
“LOMAS?”
“Lunar Orbital Museum of Antique Starships. A renowned Corporeal institution for more than five centuries.”
“So, the Corporeal is still around,” Ericho said. “What about the megas?”
“Many of the same dynasties that flourished in your time are still with us, including Pannis. Today’s megas are larger and more extensive. They oversee many governmental services that were once handled by Corporeal agencies.”
Ericho didn’t know enough about this brave new world to discern whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. Had the percentage of those in the needful majority grown larger? Or had the balance of wealth versus impoverishment achieved greater equality across the intervening centuries.
“What about other cities?” Faye asked. “Do they still exist? Or did they go and do that weird thing you said happened to Barstow?”
“Numerous cities remain on Earth and throughout the settled worlds, all more vibrant than ever. However, the nature of urban environments has changed rather drastically. You will need to go through a lengthy orientation process before you’re able to function safely within one.”
On the autobed, Alexei stirred. Opening his eyes, he pulled off his breathing mask. He looked around in surprise.
“What happened? Where are we?”
“Not in Kansas anymore,” Faye said, clasping his hand in a reassuring grip. “Come to think of it though, we’re probably only about a thousand kilometers from Dorothy’s home.”
Alexei frowned, understandably confused. As June checked his MED monitors and Faye explained what had happened, Ericho turned back to Glan.
“Are there other psionics today with similar powers to LeaMarsa?”
Glan smiled. “There is only one LeaMarsa de Host. No one has yet come close to her. Numerous attempts have been made to replicate her abilities through genetic and other means of bio-intervention. But whatever unique blend of attributes composed her character and enabled such an extensive range of psionic mastery continues to be elusive.” Glan paused. “There are some who believe she was created by forces beyond our comprehension in order to save the universe.”
“Is that what you believe?” June asked.
“I think she is a good person forced to make the best of a bad situation.”
And facing an eternity of loneliness. Ericho recalled a saying from Pannis command school, once located near the very ground where he now stood: Abso
lute power corrupts absolutely.
Would endless years of enduring a sacrificial role someday turn LeaMarsa against her own kind, cause her to angrily lash out the same way the creature did?
June nestled up to his side, caught his eye. He could tell that her thoughts mirrored his own.
“If there are no further immediate questions,” Glan proposed, “I suggest we begin the next phase of your reintegration.”
“Lead the way,” Ericho said.
He took hold of June’s hand. Whatever future this strange new world offered, they would face it together.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My warmest appreciation for the passionate encouragement by Etan Ilfeld, and for the efforts of Eleanor Teasdale, Gemma Creffield and the rest of the team of operational overlords at Angry Robot, genre publisher extraordinaire. Dedicated literary agent Mark Gottlieb at Trident Media Group gets a shout-out for his tireless efforts, often against formidable currents, in channeling my stories toward print. And special thanks to Ilya Meyzin, who in the best tradition of editors, systematically applied macroscopic and microscopic lenses to the text, enhancing my own focus and ultimately helping produce a better story.
First Chapter of BINARY STORM by Christopher Hinz…
A hundred years ago this month, Nicholas had been nearly stabbed to death. He was pretty sure the three knife-wielding men ambling toward him weren’t here to toast his centennial.
Philadelphia was enjoying rare atmospheric conditions this evening. Its normal smog layers had been swept out into Delaware Bay and there was a deep chill in the air, uncharacteristic of late summer. The moon was nearly full. Pristine lunar light glimmered off the knives as the trio closed on Nick in the dead-end alley.
Six long blades, one in each hand. Seersucker hoodies embellished with human bone fragments. Camo pants stained with the blood of victims.
If those things weren’t enough to ID their gang affiliation, the flextubes running from belt pouches to nostrils clinched it.
Mokkers.
The pouches would contain mok-1, the sweet-smelling addictive vapor they inhaled with alarming regularity. Nick had snorted, swallowed and vaped more than a few illicit pharmaceuticals in his teen years a century ago. But he’d never understood the attraction of a drug that could transform even the most serene yogi master into a psycho with issues.
The mokkers moved slowly, deliberately, knowing he was trapped. The scenario had been similar a hundred years ago, back in 1995, the last time Nick had been bladed.
He glanced around. The alley lacked doors and first-floor windows. He could try clambering onto the ancient dumpster that pissed foul liquid from rusted cracks. But even if he found footholds in the brick wall, the upper windows were barred.
“Howdy,” he drawled, softening the word with a friendly smile as the mokkers closed to within two paces. They halted, eyed Nick like a pack of hungry megalions. The slashing, stabbing and screaming were imminent.
He’d known this was a cul-de-sac, having checked satellite scans of the area. Still, he hadn’t figured on a total lack of escape routes. It didn’t help that the sat scans had been made decades ago, well before clandestine jammers and AV scramblers thwarted nearly all forms of surveillance here in Philly-unsec. Even passive technologies like sat imaging weren’t immune to such electronic countermeasures.
The mokker in the middle stepped forward, signifying he was leader of the pack. A hairy giant, he had a diecast face molded from slaps, neglect and a hundred other catastrophes of poverty and abuse.
“Howdy,” Nick tried again. “Nice night, huh.”
“Suck twig, ya fuckin’ midget.”
“Technically, I’m a proportionate dwarf,” he said. “And not to brag, but I’m at the upper end of the range for the definition. If I’d been taller by only a few more centimeters, I would have avoided the label entirely. And consequently, you gentlemen wouldn’t be here sizing me up.”
He grinned with the pun. The leader glared and unleashed a wad of spit that splatted against Nick’s jacket.
It was a bit ironic that this South Philadelphia alley was just across the Delaware River from his old stomping grounds, site of his first stabbing. Back then he’d been asking for it, or at least taunting the gods to smack him down. An eighteen year-old punk, he’d been running with some Jersey gangbangers out of Camden, having proved to them that despite his diminutive size and white-boy sheen he could kick ass with the best of them, not to mention reprogram Duke Nukem 3D and other popular videogames of the era to make them faster and cooler – the real source of his street cred. But then a small-time dope deal in an alley not unlike this one had gone to hell and he’d been stabbed nine times by a raging meth freak.
He wiped the mokker’s dripping commentary from his chest with a sleeve and continued his spiel.
“I’m not averse to the term ‘midget’. Sure, some folks object to it, insist it’s not PC. But I feel there’s little to be gained by being small about the tiny things in our short lives.”
The leader’s face remained ironclad but the wingmen laughed. That was Nick’s intent. His humor had gotten him out of scrapes in the past. Putting at least two of the mokkers at ease gave him a shot.
His chances were slim. His neck implant was an encrypted attaboy, the most advanced com link available. But with this level of jamscram, calling for help was out of the question. He had some fight skills but he was forty-two years old, no spring chicken anymore. His only real weapon was his Swiss army first-aid knife. But the safak’s longest extension was no match for the mokker’s twenty-centimeter serrated blades.
He’d been forced to leave his handgun at the transit station where he’d exited the secure section of Philadelphia to venture into the “zoo”, the street name for Philly-unsec’s urban wilderness. Like all of the world’s gated cities, Philly-sec sought to keep projectile and energy weapons out of the hands of the zoo’s impoverished millions, who outnumbered them twenty to one. No guns across the border policies maintained an uneasy coexistence between sec and unsec realms, preventing those at the bottom of the economic pyramid from gaining access to technologies that might flip the status quo.
“What the fuck you doin’ here?” the leader growled, ejecting fresh spittle with every word. “You some kind of sec spy?”
Nick had dressed down for tonight’s excursion. But his tattered pants and jacket weren’t enough to fool the zoo’s more hardcore residents, who had a knack for spotting outsiders.
“Actually, I’m here on official business. I’m with ODOR, the Office of Dumpster Operations and Retrieval.” Nick gestured to the leaking receptacle behind him. “This one doesn’t meet code.”
One of the wingmen laughed hysterically. The other leaned forward and barfed a stream of bloody puke. Mokkers tended to throw up a lot, an unavoidable side effect of the constant vaping. The ones who survived gang life on the streets tended to die young of respiratory problems.
“Ya think you’re funny?” the leader challenged.
“Well, not comedy club, Jim Carrey kind of funny.”
“What the fuck’s a gym carry?”
The mokkers would take whatever cash Nick had on him and, either postmortem or premortem, cut off his fingers and slice out his eyes. His body parts would be put on ice until they could be sold to a poacher who would mule them across the border into the secured area of the city. There, some associate with a clean record would try using Nick’s digits and orbs at a terminal in the hopes that he had financial accounts worth emptying. He saw no upside to informing the mokkers that such efforts would be a waste of time, that his accounts were protected by far more advanced technologies.
The leader’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. Time was running out. Nick had to make his move.
“Prior to you gentlemen displaying your prowess with edged weaponry,” he began, “there is something of great value I’d like to willingly hand over. Consider it a token of peace and friendship.” He gestured toward his inside coat pocket.
“May I?”
“Real fuckin’ careful.”
Nick undid his overcoat’s flap, eased his hand inside and withdrew the small jewelry box. It was covered with bioluminescent weep fabric, an ever-changing array of dripping hues that resembled tears. Weep fabric looked exotic and expensive but was neither, at least not for someone with ready access to high-tech products.
But the way the mokkers’ eyes widened indicated they’d never seen such an item before, having probably lived their entire lives in the zoo. Enough clarity remained in their drug-addled minds to conclude that the box contained something of great value.
Nick took a step closer and extended the offering. “If you could just see it in your hearts to allow me to leave here in peace, I’m sure that this gift will more than compensate you for any troubles. Remember, it takes a big man to spare a little one.”
The wingmen laughed again. This time the leader joined in, although with a caustic brutality that made it clear what he really thought of Nick’s proposal.
Had he ventured into the zoo to meet any of his other confidential informants, he could have hired some off-duty Earth Patrol Forces soldiers to serve as bodyguards. But no one could know about tonight’s rendezvous with his most secretive and extraordinary CI, Ektor Fang, who’d set the time and location. If Nick had brought EPF into the zoo as muscle, Ektor Fang would have found out and wouldn’t have come within ten klicks of this alley.
Then again, he’s not here anyway. That was disappointing on a number of levels.
The leader eyed Nick suspiciously for a long moment. Finally he took the bait. Holstering his knives, he snatched the box. As he did, Nick eased sideways, slowly enough not to alarm the mokkers. He was now positioned in front of the shorter of the wingmen, the one with the maniacal laugh. The man didn’t appear to be wearing body armor and it was doubtful he had access to a crescent web or other energy shielding. Better yet for Nick’s purposes, his tight camo pants revealed only a natural male bulge and no hint of a groin protector.
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