Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  I focus back on his grave. “You picked a hell of a time to lie down. Don’t worry, I’ll pick up the slack here… It should’ve been me… Give God a shot in the face for me, would you? No, forget my last, don’t get yourself in any more jams on my account, all right?” Birds sing from the branches of a big elm providing shade nearby. Car doors get closed somewhere nearby. “I’ll get them, James. There will be a reckoning.”

  Empty words without action. I pull out my lucky charm, spin the dented .45 round over my fingers a final time. My moment of weakness, that darkest of dark nights, barrel kissing my temple, pressure on the trigger and… the phone rang. I set the gun aside. Been carrying the round ever since. I kneel and place it among the other tokens gilding the grave.

  God wants me to live, but for no reason approaching benevolence. He’s just not done with me yet. Fair enough, I’ve got things to do now before I go.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  There’s a sizzle and clatter behind me as the spy drone gets zapped. Time’s up.

  “Malcolm,” says my boss in his soothing baritone, “I hope I’m not intruding?”

  Director Johnson steps up beside me, his presence a benediction. Hands clasped before him, he frowns down at Worthy’s grave, the alert brown eyes so capable of conveying command fixing on the family photos with compassion. There’s no artifice involved, nor any mistaking the provenance of his composure. The tailored charcoal suit and slicked-back hair can’t hide the gray streaks, worry lines, and faded scars of a man who’s spent his time in the trenches.

  I stand and face him. “Of course not, Director.”

  “Men like him are rare these days,” he says. “Dedicated. Brave. Self-sacrificing. He will be remembered. And his legacy will live on in you, Malcolm.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “We need to talk. Are you up for a walk?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He leads the way onto the access road as I fall into step beside him. To either side, gravestones of identical size and whiteness rank themselves with military precision over the vast green lawns, an army of the honored dead. Wreaths and flower arrangements adorn many, the splashes of color telling of recent visits. Here and there, small parties gather among the markers to pay their respects. Other visitors roam the access road or the footpaths, most having the look of tourists. These give us a wide berth owing to our escort.

  The Director’s SMART drone, Maximillian, hovers behind us, his three hunter-green eyes roaming for threats. It was his doing, zapping that spy drone, a routine precaution against surveillance. Patton would’ve done the same, but he’s busy elsewhere. Maximillian’s airframe is identical to his, though with less accumulated battle scarring, but it’d be a mistake to assume its pristine condition is due to a lack of combat ability. The Director doesn’t get paid to be shot at like I do, but he’s had ample experience with surviving assassination attempts.

  “The leg seems healed,” says the Director. “How’s the head?”

  “Good, sir.” Good enough. Post-concussive trauma is a bitch – headaches, dizziness, disorientation, ad nauseam. When I was discharged from the hospital a week ago, it took all I had to walk out on my own power without falling into a wall. As for the chronic headaches, the pain meds they’ve prescribed are top-shelf stuff.

  “Counselor Drew says you’ve rescheduled your last two sessions. Are you planning on abandoning your duties, Malcolm?”

  I limit my complaint to a deep sigh. The first and only session I attended was a torturous litany of well-intentioned lies. “I’ll attend the counseling.”

  “Good. Your emotional commitment to your men does you credit, but you can’t let it interfere with your duties. Counseling can help with maintaining perspective.”

  I keep my eyes forward lest he read the truth there. I got them killed – Worthy, Murphy, Anderson, Rollins, Bennett, Hawkins. I did that. And Evans only survived because of Patton, not anything I did. But that’s not the perspective he wants me to maintain. No, just the opposite, that I shouldn’t blame myself. No chance of that. “As you say, sir.”

  “You’re as hardheaded as your father.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You think that’s a compliment? Accepting one’s limitations is not a sign of weakness.”

  “I’ll accept everything once I’m dead.”

  The reverent intonation of words draws my gaze to a military funeral underway on the green. Beneath great maple trees splendid with autumn gold, a vestment-clad priest leads a group in formal military and civilian attire surrounding a flag-draped coffin. It’s too far off to make out the words of the eulogy, but the somber mood, the expressions of the onlookers, is familiar enough. How many have I attended over the long, weary years? And every one bringing me back to the nine-year-old boy attending his first, my father’s.

  “Don’t make me attend yours,” he says. “You’re no good to me dead, Malcolm.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  Director Johnson stops, turns to face me, and grabs my shoulder. “Do you think I don’t hold myself accountable for the reclaimers that died on my watch? You lost six men in LA.” He captures my gaze with a look to soften metal. “So did I. Duty before all else, though – vengeance is a trap we can’t afford. Now’s not the time to go off half-cocked.”

  “A reckoning is required. I made an oath –”

  “So did I,” he interrupts, “but that’s our responsibility, not yours alone.”

  He knows. “You reviewed my itinerary.” Of course, he knows.

  He lets go my shoulder, resumes our walk. “You won’t be going to LA – I denied your request for a leave of absence. You’ll remain in DC until your next assignment.”

  “Sir… Let me help with the investigation. Don’t make me sit on the sidelines.”

  “You’d be more a liability than an asset. Interdepartmental scrutiny on this is exhaustive. Everyone’s watching everyone else for the slightest misstep, so we’re playing it by the numbers. And Malcolm – that’s not one of your strengths.”

  I clench my jaws on a storm surge of rage: does he expect me to accept the cover-up spearheaded by the Department of Justice? Before the bodies of my brethren were even cold, their lawyers claimed jurisdiction and restricted our access to the crime scenes, evidence, and persons of interest. Worse still, they’ve written off the slaughter as a terrorist attack carried out by the New Dawn of Liberty with the support of two city aldermen. Despite my testimony and Patton’s recordings, they’ve produced no indictments of any DSS personnel. Not one. And all we’ve gotten from DSS is the admission that some of their people may have gone rogue. Rogue operators all conveniently dead, their paymasters a mystery, because the lawyers running the circus are keeping us from them.

  “So that’s it, you’re shutting me down?” I finally bite out.

  “Redeemer Adams,” he replies coolly, “have you forgotten your oaths?”

  Deep breath. “No, Director. My apologies.” He’s every right to be disturbed by my rebellious anger. Though he must be used to it by now. I haven’t been myself since LA. Hell, for the past year, since Rachel died. There was no justice for her, but for Worthy and the others?

  “It’s in the department’s best interests,” he says. “And yours. Or do you disagree?”

  “With all due respect, I do.”

  “You’re not looking from the heights. You’ve garnered a lot of attention on the Hill, Malcolm. Your name is on the lips of some powerful people. Unless you’re running for office or pushing for policy change, that’s never a good thing.” A wry smile ruins his stoicism. “Good performance at the committee today. Your testimony was refreshing.”

  “Sorry,” I say, head down but eyes forward. “Will I need to make any apologies?”

  “I handled it. Next time, try not to shout at the senators.”

  “They didn’t seem interested in the truth.”

  “They’re politicians,” he says. “They shoot messengers – unless they’re theirs – bu
t you held up well. Fortunately, we do have our advocates on the Hill. Your testimony has given them much-needed ammunition to push the ongoing investigations.”

  “Which are going nowhere.”

  “Only DOJ’s – it’s politically-motivated, so it’s unlikely we’ll get justice from that quarter. Our investigation is ongoing, as is FBI’s, despite their impediments.”

  As the access road curves along the base of Victory Rise, a hillock reserved for the internment of the dead from the Great War, Maximillian surges past us. A group of tourists scatters as he bears down on them. Something’s up.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “Should I call it in?” I ask, hand on my SWAT pistol, eyes sweeping over the gravestones ranked up the hill. Twisted evergreens and elms stand vigil among the markers, more cover for potential shooters, their green and saffron crowns casting twining shadows down the rise.

  Maximillian converges on a monument ahead, gaining elevation to hover over its top. Bronze soldiers on pedestals flank a curving wall of dark stone inscribed with honorifics, the memorial for the Battle of the Aleutians, the turning point of the Great War when we pushed the last of the Chinese invaders off our territory. The statues are sculpted wearing battle suits, the bulky predecessor to modern-day hard suits. One soldier takes a knee, head down and face palmed, while the second stands tall, an outstretched arm pointing toward Beijing and the other clutching an upright flagstaff with the Stars and Bars stirring in the breeze.

  “No.” Director Johnson has a far-off look in his eyes – he’s communicating via thoughtspeak. “It’s nothing serious.”

  A pantsuit-clad woman scrambles out from behind the memorial wall, herded by Maximillian. A service drone with a prominent camera lens follows on her heels. She spots us and hustles in our direction, but Maximillian interposes himself.

  “You will leave the area immediately!” threatens Maximillian.

  “You have no right to stop me!” exclaims the reporter, trying to dodge around him without luck. “Quit… Get out… Seriously?”

  The service drone flies around Maximillian and orients its camera lens toward us. Then it depowers and drops to the grass.

  The reporter stops in place. “What’d you do?” Ignoring the big SMART drone in her way, she shouts, “Gentlemen! Maxine Weathers, Free Beacon! Can I have a statement?”

  The Director sighs. “This concerns your testimony, I imagine.”

  “Director Johnson!” she shouts. “Do you care to comment on the testimony given today before the Senate Select Committee?”

  The Director remains silent, communicating via thoughtspeak.

  “Redeemer Adams!” she calls, “would you care to comment on your testimony today? Is it true that enforcers were involved in the attack on your men? Redeemer Adams!”

  Maximillian hovers aside, leaving the way clear for the reporter. She hesitates before approaching at a gesture from the Director.

  “Bravery should be respected wherever it resides,” he says.

  The reporter – a fox-faced young brunette wearing a purple eyeblade – walks up to us despite the anxiety pulling at her features.

  “Miss Weathers,” he says, hand out, “good afternoon.”

  She takes it. “Thank you for agreeing to an interview, Director Johnson.”

  “You misunderstand,” he says. “We’re not authorized to speak to the press about an ongoing investigation. If you have questions regarding some other matter?”

  “Director Johnson, the people have a right to know about infighting within their own government. Was DSS complicit in ordering the attack that led to the death of six reclaimers in the LA Metro Terror Attack?”

  “I can make no comment on that,” says the Director, unruffled. He hands her his card. “Please contact our press office to arrange an interview. I’ll make the time. Does that suffice?”

  The young reporter looks ready to begin firing questions again, but something stops her. It’s the look in the Director’s eyes, easy to interpret – he’s playing it polite and professional, but if she pushes him, that will change. She takes the card. “Alright, Director. I’ll be in touch with your press office. Thank you for your time.”

  She turns and walks off. As she does, her service drone reactivates, lurching up from the ground to hover after her.

  “Smart woman,” I say. The news media knows better than to be disrespectful of any prominent government officials. Director Johnson shows more restraint than most, but some reporters have been detained for overstepping their bounds. Or worse, disappeared.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “You’ve got a gift for stirring up trouble,” says Director Johnson.

  “Should I stop?”

  The Director does not respond at once; in fact, he’s smiling when I look over. He meets my eyes and says, “You should ask yourself that question.”

  “You’re referring to more than my testimony.”

  “Sharp as a tiger’s claws. Certain interested parties tell me you’ve been making inquiries into the newest generation of interface devices. That won’t do – the security of information must be respected. Elements of the ID system are classified for good reason. If you persist, you risk clearance violations that could lead to a felony offense, possibly even charges of treason.”

  “Just who are these interested parties?”

  The Director remains silent.

  “Sir, you’ve read my reports on LA – my captors made some claims that deserve looking into. And previous ID models have never had this level of secrecy attached to their specs. Unless you order me to stop –”

  “Redeemer, stand to!” he growls.

  I stop and stand stock-straight, shocked by his sudden severity. The Director steps into my grill, vivisecting me with his eyes. Maximillian begins circling our position, keeping any potential bystanders at bay.

  “You’re on dangerous ground, Redeemer, let me help you. As Director of the Department of Recovery and Reclamation, it’s my duty to order you to cease and desist any and all inquiries into classified information beyond your clearance level. Am I clear?”

  “Would you consider having my clearance level raised?”

  “Just let it go. You’ve made powerful enemies, Malcolm, all eager to have you retired at the first misstep. You know what I mean by retired, don’t you?”

  “I do, sir.” Dead – if my luck turns. No reason to think it would, though – indictment for treason and indefinite incarceration would be more likely.

  He steps back and raises an eyebrow at me. “During the LA operation, you overstepped your authority. Your actions merited sanction. Fortunately for you, First Sentinel Monroe was lenient. Another first sentinel would have brought you up on charges no matter the outcome.”

  “Choose my battles wisely?”

  “Choose your enemies wisely. If you pursue your private inquiry into the IDs, you make the federal government your enemy. If, however, you pursue justice for our murdered brethren, you only make enemies of those impeding justice at DOJ and elsewhere.”

  Is he..? “Sir?”

  “Prioritize your pursuits, Malcolm. You won’t accomplish anything if you’re sitting in a cell for violating clearance protocols.”

  “Sir, are you authorizing –”

  He holds up a hand, forestalling me. “It’s clear you’re too stubborn to stop.” He nods, frown fading. “You’ll need that. I can’t authorize any extra-legal activities. But neither can I watch injustices go unreckoned. Speak with Jace – she’ll point you in the right direction. She can use your help, just not in any official capacity.”

  “I understand. Assuming the worst, how should I deal with the guilty parties?”

  He reflects a moment, then says, “Do what you think is best.”

  “That covers a lot of ground.”

  “You’ll be outside the gates on this, alone in dangerous territory. You’ll act at your own discretion, but your actions cannot be seen to reflect on this department or have any bearing on the official inve
stigation. Understand, my hands are tied – I won’t be able to help you nor protect you, not openly. I’ll even disavow this conversation took place. But whatever you discover, whatever results from that discovery, I trust you’ll do the right thing. You are your father’s son.”

  “I appreciate your trust, sir.”

  With a nod, he walks on, and I fall into step beside him.

  It’s the only way – Director Johnson can’t afford to be implicated as a whistleblower or be seen supporting one. DRR would take a big hit in return. Scandals have a way of hurting all involved, not just the wrongdoers. Should I turn up damning evidence linking DSS to the deaths of my reclaimers, only I will take the hit for it. Fair enough, it’s my bill to pay.

  “Your father disobeyed orders, Malcolm. It got him killed.”

  What? “Sir?”

  All I know after years of research thwarted by walls of classification is that my father’s ship, USS Intrepid, was one of six amphibious assault ships lost during the Battle of Bohai, the largest naval engagement of the twenty-first century. The seventh fleet had pushed into the Bohai Sea to engage China’s first fleet, the ultimate goal being to take Beijing. The offensive failed. More than ten thousand Americans lost their lives, among them, my father.

  He says: “You know the Intrepid went down while supporting amphibious operations in Laizhou Bay. She took critical damage from a torpedo strike and missiles from coastal defenses. But the official record doesn’t tell the whole story. Your father was in command when she went down.”

  “Sir?”

  “Captain Reynolds, his CO, was killed with most of the bridge crew. By that time, the offensive had stalled and fleet command had already issued a general withdrawal order. Your father could have kept to those orders and limped away, but he didn’t. He chose to stand and fight instead.”