“Alert indicated,” Lexic-88 said calmly. “Proceed with caution to Imprintation center.”
“Flunk, clarify: what category of alert?” Whiteman hacked up a gob of green.
“Hostile biologic threat.”
Bitchmurder and Sabotage both dived for the only two breather masks.
“What, like Anthrax-4?” Whiteman asked. “I saw Chicargo hit with that stuff. Path of Light or Eire Rouge or someone did it.”
“Unknown,” the droid said.
“Gimme that mask, ganz!” Americano dragged one of the ventilator masks away and tried to cram it on his face while Bitchmurder tried to keep it.
“Give it a rest you two flunks!” the sub-officer snapped. “These masks are not going to be enough and we’ve only got two of them. We need an equipment locker. Now. Full hazmat gear.”
“I’m sorry Sub-officer Whiteman.” Lexic-88 replied, its voice approximating sorrow. “Protocol indicates Imprinting must immediately follow bio-genetic enhancement before any equipment may be issued.”
“Then just send two of us for suits,” Bitchmurder snapped, voice muffled under the breather mask. ”The rest can go to the next thing.”
“I’m sorry agent Bitchmurder but-“
“Straight axe to your blinghole!” the woman kicked the bot in its midsection with one heel. She was the one who collapsed, yelping in pain, cradling her foot.
These 23rd century clones really couldn’t take a hit.
For a moment Jacob thought the mechanical guide would go down as it staggered backwards but some sort of internal gyro took over and it deftly swung back upright and remained standing. It twitched once and a spark fired from the hip joint but it appeared unharmed.
“Please follow,” the bot continued and exited the room.
“Sub?” Americano turned to Whiteman.
“No choice,” the sub-officer said, stepping to the open door. “We finish imprinting as quickly as possible. We move on. We can do this-“
As soon as he stepped over the threshold, Whiteman was tackled into the doorframe by another naked man and went spinning out of sight into the hall. By the time they figured out who was who and dragged them apart, Squad leader Goliath T Cockfiend has smacked Whiteman’s head on the floor hard enough to crack it. Or would have if his bones hadn’t been recently augmented to virtual unbreakability. Still, Whiteman lay stunned.
The squad leader produced a scalpel from somewhere and slashed one of the female clones across the arm. Milan, possibly, and she staggered back clutching the blood-jetting wound.
“Make it stop!” she wailed in horror. “I want to pass out! Why don’t I pass out?”
Jake suspected it was the recent body upgrades, but he was too busy to say anything. Sabotage Jones rushed the leader and the madman stopped her dead with a punch in the neck; the clone choked a moment before receiving a heel from the officer that put her all the way down. The bruised and beaten former leader staggered to his feet, swinging his scalpel in a ‘fuck you I will cut you a new asshole’ kindof way, spotted the bleeding Milan nearby and turned on her.
“Screw this,” Jake said.
Taking the dropped metal prybar he advanced quickly and attacked. The first swing batted the scalpel out of Cockfiend’s hand and left mangled fingers behind.
“Sorry sir,” he said and swung for his head.
There was a meaty thock, like chopping wood, and he had to brace a foot on the squad leader’s hip to lever the hooked end of the prybar from his cranium. This time the man went down and twitched as his blood pumped energetically across the pristine white floor.
“Alright Milan? Jones?”
“No!” Milan said, one hand clamped to her arm curled on the floor in agony.
“Be brug by bose,” Jones swore, blood running down her face and dripping.
“Don’t worry, the blood’s already slowing down. We must heal really fast now.”
Jake knelt next to the woman who had been cut and examined her arm. “See. Blood vessels seem to be sealing up by themselves. Does it still hurt?”
“Yes!” she shouted. But clearly not as much as before. She was able to stand, wiping away tears and streaking blood on her face.
“So much for hostile biologic threats,” Bitchmurder scoffed, standing over the dead officer.
“What do you mean?” Jake asked.
“Well, obviously the threat was only him,” she gestured to the commanding officer who got cryo-psychosis. “We had to put him down. Problem solved.”
Jake stared at her a moment, wondering if she could be that stupid. “Wait, you think this was the thing that killed me?”
“Pfft, yeah.”
“No, you don’t understand, whatever killed me the first time was… was fucking huge. It was big. And like a monster.”
“Oh, yeah, sure, tell us another one, Test Pattern,” Bitchmurder rolled her eyes. She turned to the other clones. “He’s probably just trying to make himself not sound like a whiny little narl glypnor.”
She made a weird hand gesture that seemed to be the 2297 equivalent of ‘talk to the hand’. The other clones seemed to agree with her, and all chuckled at Jacob dismissively. Only Milan gave him a halfway sympathetic look, like she wanted to say something. Maybe even thank him for saving her from being gutted like a fish. But before she could speak, Jones had turned back.
“You coming duPont? Or did you want to keep grooming nits with your pet cave-man?”
“Quit staring at me, you creepy old throwback,” Milan said to Jake, making the others snicker, and turned away.
Damn! For a moment there he had almost felt like he wasn’t trapped in time all alone.
“May I say, you handled that situation very capably. Please proce-eeeeeeeee-uuuuuu-eeed this way further up the corridor, agent,” Lexic-88 urged him.
Great. At least the fucking robot liked him. The team strolled up the corridor, if not carefree, at least bored, but Jacob hesitated a moment. The orange alert lights were still on.
***
Chapter 4
: Bug in the System
The Imprinting equipment turned out to be a type of padded crucifix where team members were strapped down and then the entire apparatus was lifted to a matching circular hole in the ceiling, just big enough for a head and shoulders to fit inside. Jacob wondered if whoever had designed this place has enjoyed reading about the Spanish Inquisition or Guantanamo Bay. He took his turn like everyone else and the mystery of the six discs in the back of his neck was revealed. Six flat metal probes extended to contact each one and his mind was updated.
Holographic menus formed in front of him. A slowly pulsing red crosshair appeared and darted back and forth wherever he looked. Eyeball movement tracker.
“Welcome to the skills and trainings center of the Nevermore Tomorrow Program,” the familiar male voice spoke to him. Altered now with a different vocabulary set. “You will be presented with a wide selection of mission-critical skill packages across several areas of expertise. You are allowed compression stream for six choices: Social, Hard Science, Engineering, Language, Soft Science and Survival. Please make your first selection now.”
“How do I-“ Jacob began, looking at the different menus.
“You have selected Geology: tectonic and thermal. Thank you.”
“What? No. All I did was-“
“You have selected BDSM: basic submissive role. Thank you.”
“Hey, stop!”
“You have selected Russian language. Thank You.”
“Ah fuck. Will you just stop!”
“You have selected Home Economics: seamstress.”
“Fuck you. Seriously. Just go fuck yourself.”
“You have selected Hydraulic Engineering: Heating and Cooling Systems. Thank you.”
He squeezed his eyes closed. “Great, I’m an air conditioning repairman.”
He tried to picture the location of the various skill icons. The only one left was Survival. It had a submenu for combat skills.
If he tried really hard he might be able to target it. But what then? He was just as likely to get archery as he was krav maga. Or thermonuclear missile silo technician as he was sniper school. He focussed. All that time in stage 3 Huntington’s and he’d perfected the art of staring at things while his body was locked in spastic tremors.
He opened his eyes already looking towards the icon for Survival. Blinked. It opened the submenu. Blinked again and it opened the weapon skills section. It was working. He blinked through menus below that and decided ranged weapons were better than martial arts and barely managed to select the file for solid projectile firearms.
“Thank you,” the voice said in a self-satisfied way. “Initializing.”
It was like being terror-fucked by a university library while a wilderness survival guidebook and small arms manual held you down. Jacob wanted to scream while his mind was forced full of years worth of expertise and skills. Just as suddenly it stopped, and he felt like throwing up, mind racing, unable to process it all. Like a fever dream he couldn’t wake up from.
As he was lowered back down Jacob heaved dryly and released from the crucifix he curled into a ball and shook. He wasn’t alone; Milan and Owem Gee were both still on the ground from their turn in the Imprinter.
He crawled out of the way and managed to sit with his back against the wall. His head was full. Swirling with images and knowledge. Like being wired on Christmas Eve and not being able to get to sleep because you couldn’t stop thinking about the next day.
“Mission imprinting, it’s a bitch.” Whiteman said. “Like biogenetic upgrades, it’s intended to implant skills to supplement our team’s work.”
“You done it before?” the shivering Sabotage Jones asked.
“Once, that’s how I got my sub-officer training.”
“H-how many missions have you been on before this?” Bitchmurder asked carefully.
“Thirty-eight… simulated” Whiteman said. “This is my first live action.”
“That’s gossblume great,” Milan muttered.
Jacob was less worried about their leader’s lack of experience than he was about whatever work, exactly, the team was supposed to be doing. He still had no idea who these people were.
“On your feet, you little mobs,” Whiteman ordered. “Mission priorities don’t include puking your wormy little guts out.”
“Yeah, go on, tell me about the mission again,“ Bitchmurder grumbled.
As if on cue, the illumination strip at the base of the floor went red. A horn began to wail on and off. It sounded like a coast guard launch’s alert horn Jacob had heard on vacation once.
“Lexic-88. Hey! Hey droid!” Americano yelled over the noise. “What’s going on?”
“Agent Dean Junior, I’m happy to assist you. The current alert status isssss….” The droid’s voice trailed off to machine noise and it froze.
“Oh great. Where’s the manual reboot on this model? Hey, droid! Wake up!”
Americano wacked it in the side of the head like a malfunctioning vending machine. But the robot remained motionless for a long moment. As he was about to turn away in disgust the bot came alive again.
“- and under no circumstances should you do otherwise. Is that directive understood?”
“Wait, what? gossblume toaster! What directive?”
“Directive? Why the Biological Containment protocol,” the droid said innocently. Unaware of its malfunction.
“Biohazard!” Milan shouted. “Let’s get out of here!”
She grabbed the prybar from Jacob and ran for the door. She pounded on the release button but it chirped and refused to open. Set the prybar to it but couldn’t make it budge. She turned wild-eyed on Whiteman.
“Your multipass!” she pointed at his wrist. “Open the gossblume door!”
Whiteman crossed his arms and stood in the middle of the room, staring them down. “Calm down, agent. Not like that we’re not. Our newly enhanced bodies are immune against even high levels of contaminants for short periods of time. We do this methodically and by the book.”
For a moment Jake thought he might have misjudged the man. His calm in the sea of panic was actually reassuring. The other agents stopped to listen.
“One,” Whiteman began. “We gather intel on the threat. Two. We assess the threat. Three. We apply out solutions to the threat immediately. Make it react to us, not the other way around.”
What the hell is he talking about? Jake wondered. This was a crisis and he wanted to… what? Make a graph report?
“And the first thing we start with is right in this room,” Whiteman concluded.
Jake and the other clones took nervous glances around them. Was there something in there with them?
“I’m talking about you, dirtworm,” the subofficer stared Jake down.
“Me?”
“Don’t act innocent.”
“I’m not the threat!” Jake snapped. “The real threat is out there and every moment you waste it could be getting closer!”
But some of the clones seemed to take Whiteman at face value.
“What did he do?” Americano said, standing next to Whiteman.
“It’s not what he did, it’s what he is capable of. He’s a dirtworm, a non-citizen. And that means he’s almost certainly an agent of a terrorist group. I think he’s walking, talking enemy action.”
“Fuck you, Whiteman, I don’t even know where I am. I woke up in this nightmare just like you! Worse! You at least seem to know where the hell we are.”
“What’s it saying?” Milan asked.
“Mating insults. Just like a dirtworm with their primitive organic bodies.”
“Or like a cave-man. Remember he says he’s from the past. Back then they all did that sort of disgusting biologic things.”
“Enough!’ Whiteman shouted. “He’s a virus program put into the system to cause havoc with our mission, and he must be eliminated.”
“It might be a virus,” Jones said. “And might not even know what it is.”
Jake stepped back, hands forming into fists. He didn’t like where this was going.
“Take it easy on yourself, dirtworm,” Whiteman said. “Give up peacefully. Once you do we can proceed slowly and in standard scouting formation to the equipment locker. Two, we obtain hazmat gear and any other supplies necessary to complete this mission. Three. We secure the dirtworm so it can’t cause any more trouble.”
“Are you going to listen to this idiot?” Jake shouted, appealing to the others. “He’s not even supposed to be in command. How do we know he didn’t rig the commander so he went insane so he could take over? Who else benefits from that? Only him!”
For a moment Jake thought he might have got through to them.
“What about it, sub?” Jones asked.
Whiteman was furious. Filled with cold rage. “I will not stand here and be accused of treason by a traitor! I have intimate knowledge of our mission guidelines. Me. Not you. As ranking officer I am going to–”
The ventilation grate in the ceiling directly above Whiteman slammed open and he looked up into the segmented chitinous head of some massive creature as it unfolded from the air shaft.
And just like that, Jacob finally had an answer to what type of apocalypse had ended civilization: atomic superbugs.
One moment the squad-leader was there, the next moment one hugely long forelimb, like a massive serrated sickle, blurred downward and slammed through his chest and out his back. Now Jake knew what had killed him the last time.
As Whiteman was hauled upwards to the mandibles in the horse-sized triangular head, the sub-officer screamed. Screamed until the mandibles snapped together around his neck instantly scissored into a pulp of blood and shredded flesh.
Blood and body fluids fountained downwards. Splashed in gore, everyone in the squad screamed, running in circles to try to get away from the murderous creature in the confines of the small chamber. Milan beat on the door with the prybar in both fists.
Good luck
! Jake thought. There was only one key and right now it was probably passing through that thing’s stomach. Then Jacob remembered. The robot had opened the door.
He shoved his way past the others and drove the unresisting bot to the door.
“Open it!” he screamed.
Lexic-88 obligingly raised its right arm to the door control. “You may now proceed to requisition equipment.”
The door panel chimed and it slid aside. During the panicked flight out of the room the bot was smashed against the wall and went down.
“Grab it,” Jacob said and to his surprise it was Milan who stooped to pick it up with him while everyone else ran for their lives.
Ahead of them the other agents were unsuccessfully trying the next door in the hallway. Neither violence, nor threats nor pleading got any result. There was a ratcheting thud in the ceiling, and a series of pounding and scraping sounds that got closer.
“Next one!” Americano shouted.
Around the next bend was one more doorway and Milan helped Jacob prop the bot upright. The gyros placed it swervingly on its feet.
“Let me assist you.” Lexic-88 again swiped his arm across the door control and it opened.
“Thanks ganz,” Bitchmurder said and snatched the prybar from Milan to swing at the robot’s elbow joint.
Sparks sizzled out and the arm went limp. She swung again and this time the hooked prong at the end caught between the exposed metal bones of the limb. With a wrenching twist she ripped it loose and the lower arm came with it. She kicked the bot out into the hall and when the clones had all retreated inside the room, she waved the dismembered limb at the door control to shut it. Jake was last man in and for a moment he expected the other agent to slam the door shut in his face.
But instead he stumbled into the big, dimly lit space. The room was big. Like a warehouse. But instead of open racks there were rows of bulky metal units the size and shape of library shelves but sealed and divided into smaller shelves like a safety-deposit vault.
“Face link. Computer? Face link!” Americano yelled.
The hologram bird reappeared. Flashing red like the illumination strips, bathing them all in red light. It made the splatters of Whiteman’s blood on all of them look black like chocolate syrup.
How to Beat Tomorrow Page 4
