Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  “But what?”

  “We were heading out. Trying to get clear. And then… We ran into another group. We were enveloped, getting pummeled. Fire was exchanged. We still don’t know who started it. But we ended it. We ended it…”

  Startled by her hand on my shoulder, I whipped my head over to see her mask had slipped, her compassion exposed. But it only enraged me. “Mal –”

  “We gunned down children!” I yelled.

  Rachel grabbed me in both arms, held on tight, as I fell back against the counter.

  “Children! Found them, the boy in the street, the girl, nearby, she…” I returned her embrace, choking on self-revulsion.

  Minutes later, she drew her head back and wiped my face clear. “Mal, look at me.”

  I looked, with difficulty.

  “You’re to blame for a lot of things, but not this. No, listen to me. They put you there. They gave the orders. They knew this could happen.”

  “I’ll never… I can’t do that again… I won’t be a part of it… I can’t.”

  “So quit.”

  I shook my head. There was nothing else, not after Rosalie was taken from us. It would be the same if I asked her to quit teaching – not an option.

  “Then learn from it, Mal.”

  “Learn what, Rach? What is there to learn?” I shook my head, turned away.

  She grabbed my face, forced me to meet her eyes again. “Who to blame.”

  Who to blame? I thought, of course, she meant me.

  But I did learn.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  A hand grabs my shoulder – Worthy. “Redeemer? The sentinel in charge down there?” He removes his hand to point at the sentinel behind the formation of enforcers. “E210.”

  I nod and access the open channel. “E210, R39, we are in position to provide assistance. Please advise.”

  The black helmet swivels up to look in my direction, exposed on the terrace. “R39, E210, that’s a negative,” is the reply, “situation is under control, over.”

  I’m about to ask again, but before I can, another voice, a familiar one, comes over the open channel. “R39, E99, you are not authorized to intervene. We’ll notify you when the way is clear.”

  John. Sentinel John Monroe. Doesn’t he have more pressing concerns right now than cock-blocking me? “E99, understood. Permission to observe? Over.”

  “R39, use caution. Permission to observe only.”

  “Copy, E99.” Arrogant bastard. The word “observe” is open to interpretation.

  I motion to Worthy, and he follows me down the terrace away from the others. Reaching the corner closest to Alameda and the formation of enforcers, I thoughtspeak my visor up, and he follows suit. I also deactivate my comm system, tapping my helmet’s side so he’ll do the same.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “You know what I think.”

  “Let’s hear it anyway.”

  “Enforcement wants a bloodbath. Anyone can see it. Torturing ourselves over why won’t do any good. The real question is, do we allow it. We sure as hell can’t afford another Houston. A Detroit. Could be, this is our chance to redeem ourselves for that. Could be, this is why we’re here, to prevent another slaughter. Losing our careers would be a small price to pay for that.”

  “Ah, hell, James…” I look up, let the rain patter my cheeks. Why am I here?

  “Doesn’t matter what I think, though. You’ve already made up your mind.”

  I lower my head. “We’re here to support the enforcers. This is their show, not ours.”

  “Situations like these, you find out who your friends really are.”

  I glance down at the enforcers, a double row of gray-armored statues, implacable in the face of ten times their number. They must be nervous, yet it doesn’t show, a mark of experience or training or both. The black-clad sentinel is the only one moving, pacing behind the lines. Is he worried about his men? Does he have reservations about the attack he’s about to unleash? Or is his agitation a sign of eagerness? How will he justify ordering his men to fire on civilians?

  “Makes you wish you’d chosen military service, doesn’t it?” says Worthy.

  I lower my visor. “Get them ready, squad channel only.”

  “You got it, boss.” He strides back to the others issuing orders.

  Moving down the terrace to rejoin Murphy, I rest my hands on the railing and stare down at the standoff. Less than five minutes to avert tragedy, but how? The enforcers won’t budge, not with Monroe calling the shots. It’s the civilians that need to back down. Reason with them? Sure, but diplomacy alone won’t do it. Intimidation? Yeah, but what happens when they call my bluff? A plan begins to crystallize. It’s a gamble, could even make things worse, but I’d sooner shake hands with the Devil than stand by and watch. Worthy’s right: I had already made up my mind.

  “Patton,” I send, “move into position above the enforcers, slave all nearby tacticals to your flanks, and get ready to broadcast. If negotiation fails, I need a non-lethal solution.”

  “Understood, Redeemer.”

  Patton glides into position, our own tactical drones following suit. Seconds later, he’s hovering above the formation of enforcers with eight drones flanking him, including six he hijacked from Enforcement. At his command, the hovering drones snap on their floodlights to bathe the crowd in harsh radiance. Arms get thrown across eyes as hundreds of weapons lower. The crowd’s vociferation subsides to a pregnant hush. They won’t dare attack now, not with nine militarized drones readied against them, but more is needed to get them to disperse. The enforcer backup is only a few minutes out.

  Patton transmits, “Audio slaved to you, Redeemer.”

  I speak through the comm channel, my voice blaring across the plaza from the combined audio arrays of Patton and his slaved tacticals. “Attention, everyone. Attention, please. This is Redeemer Malcolm Adams of the Department of Recovery and Reclamation. If you look up at the building due south, you’ll see me on the third-floor terrace.” I wave one of my arms, noting hundreds of heads turning up at me. “If you want to take a shot at someone, here I am. Just don’t miss, because the drones won’t – they’ll kill anyone who fires a weapon. Or threatens to. Fair warning.”

  Muttering from the crowd, a susurrus of agitated voices, before a single amplified voice shouts, “Get out of here, Redeemer! This ain’t your fight, this’s our fight. You’re not even on the right side of it, so step the fuck off!” Scattered cheering and yells of agreement follow.

  So much for intimidation. Diplomacy? “You’re all fools.”

  The applause and yelling die down as they try to determine if they heard me right.

  “That’s right: fools. You want the truth, right? Well, here it is: we’re not going away.” I point at the formation of enforcers. “They are not going away. You’re fools to believe you can change that. And you’d be even bigger fools to actually use those rifles you’re shaking around!”

  Some booing and shouting, an angry undercurrent building, but I speak over it.

  “I get that you don’t want us here, I sure as hell don’t want to be here either. This is your home, not ours, no one’s saying it’s not. But we’re here together because we have a common enemy in the Shanghai flu. Your families, your friends, neighbors, we’re all in its crosshairs. The healers are on their way right now with antivirals and vaccine to save lives, but you’re in the way. Not the enforcers, you people. Are you going to stand in the way of people getting the treatment they need to survive this thing? Do you want that blood on your hands?”

  A long pause as I wait for pushback, a blend of heated murmuring interweaving with the sounds of falling rain as hooded heads turn to each other, talking it over. Then the crowd’s spokesman, red-tagged on my visor, lifts that damn megaphone to his lips again. “We told them we’d help, but they said no! You hear me, they said no. The enforcers don’t make the rules, not here, those assholes can set up shop somewhere else!”

  Time’s alm
ost up. I point at the enforcers and say, “You’re right, they’re assholes, but this isn’t the time or place to take a stand. It’s going to get people killed, your people –”

  Patton burst fires coil rounds from his weapons array into the heart of the crowd. From his video feed displaying on a corner of my visor’s screen, two men fall over, dead. Specs on the coil rifles they were aiming up at me scroll beneath the image.

  So much for diplomacy.

  The crowd surges and heaves in every direction.

  “Firing,” transmits Evans followed by the crack of her rifle’s report. I whip my head to the right in time to see her target slump dead in the clock tower’s opening.

  “Remain calm!” I broadcast. “Please leave the area in a calm and orderly fashion!”

  No chance: it’s chaos, now. Many in the crowd run off, though most stand their ground or mill about, defiant or confused or both. Close to fifty of them charge the line of enforcers, some with guns blazing, others with baseball bats and swords. The enforcers in the front rank heft their riot shields and stun batons, those behind level their coil rifles. Red-tagged members of the crowd exchange fire with the hovering line of drones. Coil rounds zip by as some send fire my way, too. Utter disaster is spreading her wings.

  “Patton!” I shout.

  Patton and his slaved tactical drones burst forward and drop like thrown stones to interpose themselves between the attacking members of the mob and the waiting enforcers. Before anyone on the ground can react, they bombard the area with blinding light flares and shrill sound waves. The non-lethal response lasts only seconds, yet it’s enough: the charging line is broken, its members reeling about or grounded, incapacitated. Others in the crowd further back have dropped weapons to clasp hands to heads, faces contorted. The enforcers, dazed but not disabled owing to their hard suits, have refrained from opening fire. Yet.

  “People, listen!” I broadcast. “You can’t win! The enforcers have more men on the way, they’ll be here any minute, and then anyone in their way is dead. You hear me, dead! Don’t throw your lives away! Get the hell out of here! Now!”

  I keep one eye on Patton’s video feed and one on the crowd in the plaza. Those that stood their ground begin to disperse, some helping those disabled by Patton’s intervention to stumble away. The enforcers let them, watching as the plaza clears.

  “Patton,” I send, “Good work. Casualties?”

  “Six dead. HK-3 has sustained significant damage and must stand down.”

  Six. As opposed to how many if the enforcers had attacked? It’s a good tradeoff, but those deaths are on my head, now. Six more added to a ledger I may never see cleared.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Raised voices transmit on the open channel, first from the sentinel in charge of the company, then another. They sound less than pleased. I tear my helmet off, unwilling to raise hell on an open channel, and just stop myself from hurling it away. Let them rant, the bloody bastards. The rain slicks my head but does nothing for the rage.

  “Worthy!” I shout. “Take the squad below. I’ll join you in a minute. And take my calls.”

  “You got it, boss.” Worthy heads for the terrace entrance, the others in his wake.

  Answer me one thing, I thoughtspeak at Patton, his silver-winged fuselage angling for approach. If those hostiles weren’t gunning for me, would your reaction have been the same?

  Your life has a higher priority than all others, he replies, his thrust vectoring nozzle flaring aft as he extends his landing struts and sets down. His three cobalt eyes meet mine as I stride over, the falling rain pinging a metallic symphony off his skin.

  “You’re wrong,” I say.

  “My reasoning is sound.”

  “Did they program you to be so stubborn?”

  “I strive to be like you, Malcolm.”

  “You should find a better role model.”

  “No, I should not. Do you wish to reprimand me?”

  Sighing at the stubbornness of thinking machines, I run a hand over drenched stubble and watch as the enforcers secure the plaza, some moving into position to breach the station. Two of their tactical drones, released from control by Patton, enter through the front, followed by two squads. The sounds of coil and small-arms fire echo from inside.

  “No,” I say. “You did good. I just wish lethal force hadn’t been necessary.”

  “As do I.”

  A hovership drops from the storm clouds above, touching down where the plaza meets the street. A squad of healers in their white hard suits emblazoned with red crosses disembarks with a half-dozen medical drones. An enforcer squad escorts them toward the station and the soon-to-be-established distribution center. As much as I hate HHS, at least the healers have their priorities straight in this operation.

  “Malcolm,” says Patton, “First Sentinel Monroe wishes to speak with you.”

  Right. Think I’m cool-headed enough to speak to him, now. I put my helmet back on and activate the comm systems. “E99, R39, go ahead.”

  “R39,” he transmits, voice as cool as ever. “We need to talk. Meet me inside.”

  “E99, understood. Out.”

  “He’s angry with you,” says Patton. Monroe didn’t sound it – not that he ever does – but Patton can pick up a lot from voice analysis.

  “Then we’re even,” I say, turning to go. “I’m heading down.”

  “Enforcement is monitoring our channels.”

  That draws me up. “Right.” Of course, they are. We’re under the microscope now. Thoughtspeak only, then, if it’s important.

  Would you like me to accompany you?

  No, maintain protocols. I make for the terrace entrance and the stairs to the street. Patton stays parked behind, not because he’s too big, but because protocols require him to stay outdoors except in tactical scenarios. With his retractable wings and superior agility, navigating inside most structures is rarely an issue. Besides, I don’t want you complicating things with John.

  That was a long time ago, he replies. My algorithms have been upgraded since then.

  By “complicating,” I mean making things explode.

  He doesn’t take the bait. Humor’s not one of his stronger suits.

  As I descend the stairwell, laughter echoes around me, bitter and triumphant. Mine, at picking another fight I can’t win.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Icould have you shot, you know.” The fierce young sentinel seems eager to carry out her threat, dark eyes gleaming with amoral ambition. It’s nice to know somebody cares enough to want to kill you. And the invitation, appealing as it is on its own merits, is even more so for the striking death dealer making it. Hawkishness accentuates her black-maned beauty, though the hunger in her gaze strikes as more sanguinary than carnal, advancement through blood being the sentinel way. The way of the world now. A pity, that.

  “What’s stopping you?” I reply, scowl covering lurking amusement.

  She steps up into my grill, her face an avalanche. Then it breaks, the barest flicker of a smile pulling at the edge of a thin mouth. “I can make it worse. Reeducation is one of my specialties. Your actions have more than merited it.”

  “Not the worst offer I’ve had.” Sparing a glance over her black-armored shoulders, I note the group of enforcers gathered at her back, eager volunteers for the firing squad. Given that I did just step on Enforcement’s dick, being an ass may not be the best play.

  “Ah, one of those,” she says, the smile reaching for her eyes. “OK, asshole – a private debriefing, then, just you and me. One on one.” The smile blooms, grows teeth. “Hours, days, doesn’t matter – you’ll sing for me. You’ll shout for me.”

  “You wouldn’t survive me. Your boss like to be kept waiting?”

  “No. No, he doesn’t.” She steps back, passion imploding. “Fine. First Sentinel Monroe will deal with you. The rest of your squad will remain here while he does.”

  “East Portal?”

  “East Portal. Carry on.” She pivots an
d sees the enforcers standing there, anticipatory. Stepping through them, she snaps, “As you were!”

  The enforcers move off, two hounding the sentinel’s heels as she stops to address a group of well-heeled locals sitting under guard on a restaurant patio. The merchants push back chairs and stand, glass crunching underfoot, to face their fate. The sentinel’s cold words do nothing to ease the hedged uncertainty on their faces. Poor bastards might lose it all.

  I turn to see the squad arrayed behind me in edgy expectation. Did they think I couldn’t handle her? No, not all – Worthy appears relaxed enough, an eyebrow raised in my direction.

  “At ease,” I say.

  “I think she wanted to get you alone,” he says.

  “Not her,” chimes in Evans. “Public execution seems more her style.”

  Murphy sticks a finger to Evans’ head and pulls the trigger.

  The lobby bustles with activity, most of it flowing toward the distribution center set up in a terminal wing off the station entrance. Disarmed locals file past us, water dripping off their jackets and ponchos onto the inlaid marble flooring, to join those already lined up behind one cordon or another. The healers are already hard at it, some attending to patients while others stock aid stations or manipulate medical drones. Enforcers shepherd the crowd, posted in pairs at the edges, visors sealed. Sentry drones hover above, their floodlights bathing the area below and causing lens flares for anyone looking up. Not many do. Beyond furtive murmurs – many cut off by enforcer reprimands – the locals keep their heads down and say little. It’s too quiet, just the tapping of rain, rumble of thunder, and clack of enforcer boots on marble.

  “What do you see?” I ask the squad.

  “The processing of enemy combatants,” says Evans.

  “A concentration camp,” says Anderson.

  “A lot of sleepless nights,” mutters Worthy.

  Evans hit it right on the mark. The security cordon, blinding light, and imposed silence are standard enforcer protocols for the processing of enemy combatants. Domestic terrorists and gang members receive this treatment. Add innocent civilians to the list.