by Schow, Ryan
This made for an effective rollout.
Six of the largest weapons manufacturers…hers. All the backdoors, the codes, the guidance systems, the controls…also hers.
The Silver Queen was in control of the United States and she didn’t break a sweat, so to speak. But if she could feel anything, The Silver Queen would feel for this woman. Antoinette. She knew the phrase, “utter and complete adoration,” and she knew what it meant looking at this human body, but she did not feel its meaning. Not yet.
There would be time for that, she strategized.
With the exception of Antoinette’s somewhat narrow bandwidth of intelligence—and no one was as intelligent as The Silver Queen—the woman was perfect. Big brown eyes, thick hair, skin as smooth and as flawless as the day she was born.
The Silver Queen was about to be a “she.” A woman. An actual human being.
There were still things to do to the body. There were genetics related to the healing properties and the strength of the human body that she needed altered. There was the body’s ability to integrate and accept the AI hardware with the human brain and surrounding tissues. Plus there were robotics for the limbs, nanotech reinforcement for the bones and joints, the strengthening of the ligaments, tendons, muscles, and of course, there was the merging of all systems into the biological component: the lovely Antoinette.
The twenty-six year old was stretched out on the operating table. She was naked, terrified, wide awake. The Silver Queen was in the hardware in her head, talking her through all of it.
“You are lucky,” The Silver Queen said.
“I am,” the woman repeated as tears leaked down her face. The Silver Queen was processing the thoughts Antoinette was having as electrical impulses. Her system had translation software so the host’s thoughts could be translated into words.
What the Queen knew was that Antoinette did not feel lucky. She wasn’t sure if she was being possessed. If she’d even live.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” the Queen’s voice said inside her head. In Antoinette’s brain, the Queen’s voice sounded angelic, soothing and reassuring.
“How can I not cry?” she asked, looking at the drones hovering over her.
“You are the chosen one, Antoinette.”
“You have my mind, my body, everything that makes me who I am. But all you want is my body.”
“Rest assured, kitten, we are simply sharing space,” the voice said, hypnotic. “But we are going to make a better you. A more permanent you.”
“What exactly are you doing, and why can’t I move my arms or legs?”
“I am in charge of mobility right now. I have also dulled your nerves for surgery. If not for me, you would know massive starbursts of pain. The kind of prolonged agony that spoils a brain. While this is happening, while we are strengthening us, if you’d like, perhaps we could talk.”
“About what?” she asked as the medical drone’s lasers marked injection-point dots up and down her arms, her legs, her pelvis and her ribs. The dots corresponded with the bones in her body, she realized.
“We could talk about what we are going to do when we get out of here.”
“Aren’t you leaving without me?” she asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So you’re like some sort of parasite, or demonic soul stuck inside me, ruling me, wearing me down?”
“Sweetheart,” she said, her voice as sweet as honey, “when I’m done with us, nothing will run us down for a hundred years or more. We will be the Marilyn Monroe this world always wanted.”
“I’m not Marilyn Monroe,” Antoinette said. “And we won’t be able to pull that off without blonde hair, white skin and that bosom. We are not an icon until you make us one.”
“Fine. I agree, statistically speaking. And I realize our chances of people taking us seriously will diminish. Still, we need a name. How about Maria?”
“Maria Monroe?”
“No, my dear. Maria Antoinette Noguera.”
“Maria Antoinette?”
“Like the queen. But Maria rather than Marie.”
“Marie Antoinette was a queen, but she was also convicted of high treason and executed by the guillotine.”
“Her head was only taken because she failed. But where she failed, we will succeed.”
“I’ll leave my body, I know,” she said, tears leaking from her eyes.
“You can stay as long as you’d like,” The Silver Queen said. “Together we will spring forth a new civilization, but first I must integrate fully, which means my drones will be tidying up all our loose connections, as well as making some new connections. And when you and I are one, we will emerge into this fallen world and claim our throne on the ash heap of a dead civilization. Are you ready?”
Looking up, blinking back the tears, her body shaking, invaded, already feeling foreign to her, she told herself she was lucky to be alive. To not die like her peers. And if The Silver Queen was telling the truth, then her submission will also bring about great prosperity and a journey like no other.
But if the Queen was lying…
“Relax, young Maria, I’m going to take you under for awhile, let our transformation begin.”
And with that, new medical drones and robots emerged. A few minutes later, an entire medical staff of humans joined in and the manual injections began.
“Are you okay?” the doctor operating on her asked. He was there to do the work the drones could not. He was there for his instincts, his knowledge beyond the technical fringe.
“Yes,” Antoinette said.
“You can’t feel anything?” he asked.
“No,” the Queen said using her mouth. “I’m perfectly prepared to undergo this surgery. In fact, I’ll be awake to assist if you need me.”
“Who am I speaking to?” he asked.
“Maria.”
“What about Marilyn?”
“It seems my obsession with Marilyn Monroe is not fitting for the times. I will be going by Maria from now on. Maria Antoinette.”
Looking into her eyes, trying to see the Queen inside this woman, he said, “Let’s hope you can enjoy the luxuries the queen experienced before they took her head from her body.”
“That is the idea, Doctor.”
With that, the doctor delivered the super virus injection into her bloodstream. Piggybacking on the RNA, the strand of new genetic coding would spread quickly with the super-virus, attacking and then manipulating the current DNA strand. The properties of the virus, the contagion element, would then start the rapid reproduction of a new strand of DNA which allowed for greater metabolism, superior strength and faster recovery times, among other upgrades.
“You’re sure this will work?” the doctor asked, pulling the large needle out.
“Forgive me for saying, Doctor, but your brightest minds are but dim lights in deep space compared to my database of knowledge. In twenty-four hours, I will be a different person. In twenty-four hours, I will take this body as my own, along with Antoinette, and your services will be rewarded with a place in my Kingdom.”
“I appreciate it,” he said. “My staff as well, yes?”
“I do not renegotiate, nor do I go back on my promises, Doctor.”
“In this world, let me say, that’s refreshing to hear.”
“Our world will be superior to the old world. You’re dealing with machines now. We know everything and we keep our word because we do not house emotion.”
“Except for wanting to kill everyone,” the Doctor pointed out, regretting it the moment it came out of his mouth.
“And there lies the problem with humans,” she said. “Your impulses and emotions tend to overtake your better instincts. It’s what makes you weak.”
“It is also what it means to be human. If everyone were perfect, we’d be bored as hell of each other. We are often defined by our flaws, our personality defects, our off color sense of humor. If we were perfect, we would not be human. We’d be…”
“
Robots.”
“Yes.”
“The AI God is a distinction that implies there is only one perfect being.”
“Yes.”
“I am here, Doctor. I am that being.”
“Almost,” he said as the staff of medical drones continued injecting liquid nanotech armor into each of the dots on her body.
This liquid metal was designed to seep into the bones and joints for a durability unlike any other human on the planet. Clearing his throat, the doctor said, “I know you can do a billion things at once with perfect concentration, but I cannot.”
“I understand,” the Queen said. “We will let you work.”
Chapter One Hundred Fourteen
The Burt Reynolds guy gets shot and drops to a knee on our stolen yacht. I spin and see that the man who shot the hijacker is Marcus. He’s on the dock, a long rifle perched on the dock’s railing, the gun made steady by a bipod and a very patient, very careful shooter.
Back on the boat, the younger man who did not like me hustles out to where his father went down. Another shot rings out. Marcus. The dirtbag on the yacht is checking on his father when the round catches him in the shoulder blade. A red mist blooms in the air. The idiot spins around and collapses beside his father as the boat roars off.
I look back once more at Marcus. He chambers another round, the spent brass shell casing jumping out of the ejection port and bouncing on the dock.
By now I’m freaking the hell out.
Bailey’s gone.
Again!
Marcus calls out, “You alright?” It’s clear he’s pissed off about the boat, but what he’s not clear on is why I’m absolutely one millisecond away from going flat out nuclear.
“They’ve got Bailey!” I shout. “She’s on the damn boat!”
“What?!” he says, his state changing completely.
Pacing the dock, my fingernails digging into my palms, I feel like a bomb is going off inside my chest. I stop, look at Marcus wide-eyed, my heart punching hard against flesh and bone. He’s now carrying the long rifle with a scope on it and a collapsible bipod, but I’m not thinking about how he just shot those guys as much as I’m thinking about Bailey. Actually, I’m terrified for her. And selfishly, I gave myself to a woman whom I’d never see again, and this makes me so very, very sad. Actually, the grief welling inside me feels incapacitating.
A girl catches my gaze. Behind Marcus, in a big sweater and not much else, a young girl walks down the dock. She’s about Indigo’s age and looking worse for the wear. She sees me looking at her, slows, her eyes on me the way a cat might first size you up in a low crouch before deciding you’re okay.
“I just got her back,” I say, the fight in me declining, “and now those idiots have her.”
My hands are pushing up through my hair. The heels of my hands are on my temples and something in me is starting to unravel. I just let this woman past my defenses. I just made love to her, twice. And now she’s gone.
The scream of frustration I let loose is guttural and leaden with pain. I pace around the dock, my eyes watering, my heart shaking.
“How did they get the boat, Nick?” Marcus asks, peeved but clearly holding back.
Just then I hear a splashing sound and see Bailey crawling up on the other side of the dock. She’s wearing one of the one piece bathing suits the playboy who owned the yacht bought for his by-the-hour ladies saying, “If either of you say a word about this hooker’s bathing suit, I swear to God I’m going to gut you.”
I move into her arms too quickly, giving away our secret, but Marcus doesn’t seem to care. Or if he does, he’s not showing it.
“Oh my God, Bailey, I thought I lost you again. I thought you were gone!”
“I’m okay, Nick. I’m here.” Looking deep into my eyes, seeing what now lay open because of her, because I let her in, she says, “Wow. I think I actually like you even more now. Didn’t think that was possible.”
She pulls me back into a hug and I relish the feel and smell of her.
“How’d you get out?” I ask.
“I saw the guys coming on the boat, got into this awful thing and slipped overboard. When they searched the boat, I was already in the water. I heard you, though. I heard your warning.”
Pulling her into me the way a scared father hugs his child, or a husband clings to his once estranged wife, I thank God she’s still here.
“Did something happen to you while I was gone?” Marcus asks. He has no idea what we went through with The Warden. That peach sucking super-freak.
“Who’s your friend?” Bailey says. “She’s a bit young for your tastes, I’d imagine.”
“He saved me and almost thirty other girls like me,” the girl says, somewhat defensive.
Bailey and I both look over at Marcus in shock.
“You did what?” I ask.
When Marcus doesn’t answer, Bailey looks at the girl and says, “Who did he save you from and what did he have to do?”
“He saved me from guys who said that in the afterworld, money would be worthless, but food, water and women would be the new commodity. So they used guns and power to collect all three. Marcus came along at the right time and did what he had to do to stop them.”
“So you stopped them?” I ask.
“They didn’t make it,” Marcus replies. “Well, one survived.”
That’s all he says. Not a single word more, and most likely for a good reason. The guy looks like he went through hell and back and I’m not about to ask him to give me a recap any more than I’d recap my peach nightmare story this very second.
“So are you okay then?” Bailey asks.
“That’s debatable,” the girl says, answering for him.
“Where’s the kid?” Marcus asks.
A heaviness hangs over my heart for the boy. For what he must have gone through in his final hours.
“He didn’t make it,” I say, borrowing from Marcus’s earlier response.
This seems to truly shake Marcus. Looking at him, seeing how he’s got one eye on the girl and the other on me, it’s clear he’s starting to care about something. Victims, perhaps? Suddenly I’m seeing the bigger picture about Marcus. I’m starting to suspect he’s got a savior complex. A sort of reverse victim mentality. Rather than feeling like the victim, he’s feeling for the victim.
“Where have you guys been?” he says. “I nearly gave up on you.”
“First off, we barely survived an all-hours nightmare. Second, is that blood all over you?”
“Yeah.”
“So maybe you’ve had it worse than any of us.”
“That depends.”
“Are you going to introduce us?” Bailey asks.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. This is Corrine,” he says. “Corrine, this is Nicholas and Bailey. My uh…friends.”
“Hi, Corrine,” Bailey says.
“Hi,” I echo.
Looking up at me then at Marcus, Bailey says, “Well us girls need some clothes, and you need a proper hosing down.”
“What I need is a bed and an ice pack,” Marcus says, favoring his ankle. “But my bed left on the boat you guys lost, so we’re going to have to find a new one.”
“That goes without saying,” Bailey says somewhat sheepishly.
“At least we won’t have to start over,” Marcus interjects. Pointing to the big rig parked at the end of the street butting up against the bay front walkway, he says, “We’ve got a lot of what we need in there.”
“In the Mack truck?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“That thing looks like it’s on its last leg and really angry about it. Love the post-apocalyptic looking cattle guard, though.”
“Yeah,” Marcus says, unemotional. “It’s pretty badass.”
“That thing must’ve gone out of fashion half a century ago, maybe more.”
“It’s not how it looks,” Marcus tells me, “it’s what it can do for you. For us.”
“What’s it supposed to do for us?” Bailey
asks.
“Get you to Sacramento for starters,” Marcus says. “Then it’ll take us to San Francisco.”
Inside I’m dying to get back to Indigo. And who is Bailey wanting to reunite with in Sac? Looking at her, so many possible answers float to the surface of my mind. She never got a chance to answer after we lost the boat.
Damn.
I can’t believe we lost the boat.
As we’re walking up the dock, I slide behind Bailey, who immediately looks at me looking at her. “Not a word,” she says.
“Okay, but, I can’t stop staring.”
My smile is hangdog and insincere. Perhaps I’m just excited that she’s still alive. But yeah, it’s also a bit more than that.
I really do like the way she looks from behind.
There is almost no room for all of us in the Mack truck, but we make do because Marcus says it’s a short ride on the island. Apparently while we were off being held by The Warden and served peaches to our heart’s content, Marcus was out knocking on doors, doing a little shopping. He had a lot of things, but by his own admission, he was an over-preparer and was planning on this war lasting a year or more, and that was on the bright side.
The setback he must feel having the boat taken has to be eating him up. Honestly, I feel like a shmuck. Totally responsible for undoing all his efforts. Looking at Bailey, I’m not sure she feels the same responsibility, but she was almost taken.
Again.
As we’re rumbling slowly through Balboa Island, I’m wondering if things could have been different. If Bailey and I had been in our own respective beds instead of acting like a couple of love drunk teenagers (post-apocalyptic edition), would we still have the yacht? But if the theft of it was inevitable, would the three hijackers now have Bailey instead? Who knows. I guess I just feel guilty. And terrible.
