Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  “Can you look into it?”

  “Aye, already planning to. We’ll see how good I am at it, then. I’ve already peeked at the source code – quite extraordinary! Hacking it will take some doing.”

  “Do what you can,” I say, stepping toward the door. “But keep it quiet.”

  “All very hush-hush, how exciting! Nooo problem, I’ll be a wee field mouse.”

  At the door, I pause and look back. Cato looks about, bemusement on his face as he rubs at his chin. Was it a mistake to bring him into this? Because whatever this is, it’s proven lethal to the people I care about.

  CHAPTER 14

  The deep-throated crack of a rifle shatters the forest calm, silencing the sounds of birdsong and breeze-rustled leaves.

  Stalking the shooter up a winding path some thirty miles southwest of DC, I have to admire her choice of locales. As federal land, this wooded region is pristine for miles around, though rarely used due to exclusive permitting. Internal surveillance systems are nonexistent – no cameras, listeners, or sensors of any kind. As for the satellites, there are plenty of trees to stand under. Oak and maple varieties fill the forest canopy overhead with greens and reds shifting in the cool breeze, the afternoon light rarely penetrating to the brown loam at my feet.

  Another loud crack reverberates off the valley walls. That makes six shots since I left my car a half-mile back. She’s taking her time, a good sign. Maybe she’s worked it out. I’ve mostly left her alone since LA, giving her the space she needed to sort through things on her own, but duty waits for no one – I’m here to bring her in. Whether she’ll need help getting her head clear though...

  Don’t tell her I’m coming, I thoughtspeak.

  She does not appreciate surprises, responds Patton.

  A short time later, I crest the rear edge of a rocky ridge and see Patton parked atop it. Some battle scoring from LA’s still evident – none of us came out of that unscathed – but our service techs repaired the worst of the damage to his airframe and polymer skin. Stepping carefully, I reach the top and pass him by, a finger to my lips to ensure his silence.

  And there she is, lying on her belly on the rock shelf’s edge while looking through her rifle’s scope at the forested valley below. Reclaimer Second Class Kari Evans, the only human member of my squad to survive Los Angeles. She avoided any physical injuries, but it’s the invisible wounds that leave the deepest scars. I’d bet my gun hand that her resilience will prove a match for them.

  When she interviewed for a spot on my team nine months ago, there wasn’t any brown-nosing or boasting. She asked for a shot and, if I wouldn’t give it to her, told me I could go to hell. A whole parade of short cards wearing their eagerness on their sleeves, and here’s this brat telling me off, cool as clean ice? It was the first time I cracked a smile after Rachel died. She’s been bringing out the best in me since.

  With her resume, she didn’t need to boast. Her father was a marine recon sniper who taught her hunting, sports shooting, and forestry; with that pedigree, she could’ve fast-tracked into any military service she wanted. Instead, she got her BS in radioecology at a private school, graduating with honors. She was working toward her doctorate when she hit the pause button to join DRR, delaying lucrative private-sector lab work in favor of federal field service. Not a wise move, though she’s not lacking in brains. Once, when I asked Kari about her career choices, she replied: “Some people have a need to be shot.” I got the close-to-the-bone answer later, after a fistful of whiskey shots: “My father would twist in his grave that I’m wasting my life like this.”

  I approach her position as quiet as I can.

  “Enjoying the view, sir?” she says without looking around.

  Anderson knew a good thing when he saw one. Big Red – the nickname she earned at the Academy. Lots of reasons for that, among them her mane of auburn hair and the deafening clang her balls make. With her fierceness and low bullshit threshold, it’s easy to miss the head on her shoulders. And she fills out her camo pants and tank top very nicely.

  “Yeah,” I say, pulling my gaze downrange as I move up beside her and go down to my haunches. “A beautiful day for shooting.”

  “Right,” she says, head tilted to eyeball me sidelong.

  “I’m not dead. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Unlike the others,” she retorts.

  I stare into the blue distance. Dusky clouds gather in the west.

  “Care to spot for me?” she asks.

  “You sighted in?”

  “Yep.”

  “All right, hand it over.”

  She retrieves a spotter scope and spare muffs from her pack and hands them to me. I put a knee down, pull the muffs on, and sight downrange. There they are – the closest dummy at four hundred meters within a small copse of trees, the next at six hundred hunched over a log near a stream bank, and the farthest at eight propped beside a stump and screened by brush. It took careful setup to ensure line of sight through the intervening tree cover.

  “Let’s start with four hundred,” I say. “Has Patton been behaving himself?”

  “I have behaved normally,” states Patton behind us.

  “You didn’t need to assign him to me,” says Evans. “I can look after myself.”

  “I know. I needed a break from his incessant prattling.”

  “I do not prattle,” says Patton.

  “Four hundred ten meters. Elevation… two mils, six clicks.”

  “Five,” she corrects. “How’s the head?”

  “Still hurts. Post-concussive syndrome – that’s what they’re calling it. Headaches are nothing new to me. Wind… your ten, about five knots. Eight clicks?”

  “Six at most. Haven’t lost your edge, have you?”

  “Too soon to tell. Take the shot.”

  There’s a loud crack as the rifle bucks in her hands. One of the dummy’s arms gets torn off. A hit, though not dead on.

  “Good,” I say. “Again, this time a headshot.”

  “Are we still on mission?”

  “The Director denied my request.”

  “I had a feeling about that,” she says, reaching up to adjust her elevation and windage turrets. “You should’ve let me arrange transport.”

  “You’re as subtle as a brick wall. We’ll have to be patient, let the wheels turn.”

  “How do you think the committee will rule?” she asks. “Can we expect justice?”

  “Not from official channels.”

  She takes the shot. The dummy’s head gets perforated.

  “So how do we get it?” she asks. “Who’s going to pay, Redeemer?”

  I lower the spotter scope. A good question. My silence provides the only answer.

  “They betrayed us, Malcolm. DSS murdered us.”

  “Someone at DSS was in on it,” I say, pulling off my muffs.

  “Who?” she asks, tribal-tatted shoulders clenched.

  “Patton, give us some privacy.”

  “Done,” he replies. “Scrambling regimes engaged.”

  “Who’s responsible?” she asks again, pulling off her muffs.

  “Is that the right question?”

  She looks over at me as if I’ve gone mad.

  “Why were we attacked? Why would someone at DSS go to such lengths?”

  “Politics,” she says, clambering up to sit facing me, forearms resting on her knees, eyes glittering green in the afternoon light. “They wanted it to seem like another incident of NDL terror-cell violence. That rogue operator bullshit they’re peddling works too. Gives them an excuse to take over and edge us out. Because it also made us look weak. It backfired, though.”

  “Because we survived.”

  She looks away. “Yeah.”

  “Why do they need us out of the way, though?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I have some ideas.”

  She snorts. “This again? The Administration needing a heavy hand in the zones to beta test some new IDs? IDs that use nanotech, right
? That’s thin, Redeemer.”

  “When did I? Ah, yeah, I should only drink alone.” We met up last week at a dive bar in Anacostia. I wanted to check in, see how she was doing, but the need for companionship and booze turned out to be a two-way street. We were in the same damn hole but failed to drink our way out together. What else did I say over one too many whiskey shooters? By the smirk on her face, more than I should have. I hold up a hand to forestall the commentary. “Cato confirmed it. He tested our V5s – they make nanobots somehow.”

  She rubs at the back of her neck. “Jeezus, that’s creepy.”

  “Whether there’s a link between the new IDs and what happened in LA is just a hunch. Cato’s looking into it, but it’ll take some time.”

  “I still think you’re being paranoid.”

  “You’re probably right,” I say. “But if there is a link and we rattle the right cages…”

  “The assholes who ambushed us might reveal themselves. You have a lead?”

  “We’ve got some hunting to do.”

  “That figures.” She settles back down on her belly and resumes firing position.

  “There will be a reckoning, Kari.”

  “Just tell me who to shoot.”

  I reach out and grip her rifle’s handguard. Her head snaps up, eyes filled with a miasma of unresolved rage. I’ve seen that look before, in the mirror.

  “The persons responsible will face justice,” I say. “Our justice. My word on that.”

  She doesn’t respond at first, instead reading me like a hawk, pupils roaming over every part of my face, searching for deception. Finding none, she finally replies, “Your word is all I need, Malcolm. Just promise me I’ll get to pull the trigger.”

  “If it comes to that, I will. Let me be the judge of who and when. Is that clear?”

  “Clear.”

  I let go of her rifle and we put our muffs back on.

  “OK,” I say, putting the spotter scope to my eye and sighting downrange. “Range six hundred and change. Elevation... Five mils. Wind’s the same… One mil, four clicks.”

  Kari has a particular attachment to her weapon, a designated marksman rifle produced long before the war, an old MK14 variant. The DMR was passed down from her father and is older than he was. No one disputes her claims that it’s more accurate and reliable than our standard-issue coil rifles. I’ve even seen her outshoot other pros using the new railgun rigs, though those pack a much bigger punch and have ranges measured in kilometers, far beyond what we engage at. Still, within eight hundred meters, she just doesn’t miss.

  “Send it when ready,” I say.

  She takes the shot, and I see dirt fly up from the stream bank just to the left of the target. A near miss. I stand corrected.

  “Half a meter to the left,” I say. “Adjust windage… one click?”

  She sights in again and fires. It’s another near miss on the opposite side.

  “You’re overcompensating. Same distance right.”

  She fires again, this time missing high.

  “Settle down and focus. You’re –”

  “Ahh, fuck!” she shouts, tearing off her muffs. Jumping to her feet, she begins pacing. “Goddamnit! God damn it!”

  I remain on my haunches, head tracking her. Good, she’s finally letting it out. I know what’s eating her. What she needs to hear. And she needs to hear it from someone else, someone she trusts, because shame never goes away at our own urging.

  “Malcolm, I ran away. I ran away! Everyone was dead or dying, you were gone… And Jimmy… Jimmy just took one in the chest. His last words were… He told me to run. He said to get out of there. Then he died. And I ran. I ran!”

  “You did what you had to. If you didn’t, you would’ve died with the rest of them.”

  “What does it matter?” Eyes shining with unshed tears, she stops pacing and shakes a fist at me. “I should have died with them!”

  “Maybe so.” I stand and face her. “Maybe not. In your shoes, I would’ve done the same.”

  “Bullshit!” she shouts. “That’s bullshit! You would’ve stayed and fought and died! I know you have a death wish, I’m not blind.”

  “All right, so you’re right about me. Just calm down and listen. Before the rescue team blasted the door, I was in a standoff with Krayge. You read the report. He had me dead to rights, would’ve killed me for sure. Do you think I wanted to give myself up? I surrendered anyway – it was the right call. Just like yours was.”

  “Kari,” says Patton, “your actions were tactically correct under the circumstances. It was not cowardice. A withdrawal was the only rational course of action.”

  “Do you think I deserve to go on living,” she says, “when the others are gone?”

  I probe the wound: “And because you failed to save them?”

  She whips her head up, clenches her jaws. I can tell she’s fighting hard to keep the tears in, with limited success. She steps over and places a hand on Patton’s fuselage, bows her head. Finally, she admits what’s really eating her: “Fuck you.”

  “Kari,” says Patton, “there is a high probability that I would not have survived if we had stayed. You ordered a coordinated withdrawal, thereby saving us both.”

  “That was all you, Big Guy,” she says, resting her forehead on Patton’s skin, “bringing down the tunnel to prevent pursuit. How can you stand it, Malcolm? How are we… How am I supposed to function after this? I shouldn’t be… It would be so much easier…”

  “This isn’t about what you or I deserve,” I say. “This is about what those fuckers who killed our friends deserve. Are you going to help me get them or not? I can’t do it on my own. I need you with me on this. All the fucking way to death’s door.”

  Evans swipes a hand across her eyes and turns to look me dead on. “You’ve got me.”

  I look to Patton.

  “And I,” he says. “They were family. I could not remain in service knowing I did not risk all, including my own existence, in seeking to avenge them.”

  “Alright, then. All right.” I nod at her rifle. “Hop back on it.”

  Evans wipes her face again and then settles back down onto her stomach.

  “You don’t need me to spot for you,” I say, donning the muffs and sighting in downrange again. “You’re the best shooter I know. So quit fucking around and hit the target.”

  “Any other sage shooting advice you want to share?”

  “Pistols are more my thing. I do know why you’re missing your shots, though.”

  She fires, hitting the dummy at six hundred with a body shot.

  “OK, Big Red. Range seven hundred ninety meters. Elevation… eight mils, five clicks. Windage… same crosswind as before… Hell, three mils?”

  “You suck at this.”

  “Yeah, I know. Let’s see it.”

  She adjusts her turrets again. “So, are you going to tell me?”

  “Sure – unfocused anger. You’re not sure who you’re shooting at. Yourself? Or the ones who murdered our brethren? You can’t hate both, not when you’re behind the trigger.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “You can school me once you’ve figured it out.”

  She nails the head on her second shot.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “You have any intel on our target?” she asks, zipping up her rifle’s soft case.

  “You did ask who.” Grabbing the field chair she never used, I set it in a shady spot next to Patton. “Take a seat.”

  When she plops down, I pull out the datastick and hold it up. A hatch on Patton’s fuselage slides open and I plug the stick into one of his interface ports. A moment later, we’re looking at a holoprojection of Conry’s dossier file.

  “Randall Conry, aka Krayge,” I say.

  “The asshole that tortured you?” she asks.

  “Turns out, he was at the ambush. Jace provided the lead.”

  “Wasn’t he NDL?”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Now…” I shr
ug. “He was a ranger, did spec ops overseas before moving over to DSS.”

  Evans leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes roaming the data.

  “The picture’s old,” I say. “He must have gone under the knife. I’ve reviewed what’s there, and it’s not much. Most of his work’s been classified, meaning wet work, intelligence, or both.”

  “Impressive service record,” she mutters. “Scroll up. Slower.”

  “Patton, analysis.”

  “The DSS service records fail to account for most of Randall Conry’s activities during over two-thousand days of active service. A comprehensive search of relevant private and public-domain databases has revealed no additional data pertaining to the nature or specifics of that service. Your conclusion that he was involved with black operations and intelligence gathering has merit, though without more inputs –”

  “Cato’s working on that,” I interrupt. “What about his DOD service records?”

  “Accessing now… Randall Conry’s service records are accessible, though data on twelve of the nineteen operations he participated in is protected by top-secret classification.”

  “So, this is the guy?” asks Evans.

  “One of two we know about. Jace is working on the other.”

  “And you want to bring him in alive?”

  “If we can. He wasn’t working alone.”

  “Malcolm…” She gets to her feet, stares off into the distance. “My father would’ve invited this guy in for a beer. With that record... This doesn’t add up. Either there’s a lot more to this than we know, or something happened to him, something bad enough to turn him inside out.” She squints back at his mugshot. “He had a scar on his face, right?”

  “So?”

  “So maybe… Maybe it means something. He’d have to have a good reason to keep it. He had the face job, why leave the scar? Dermal regeneration can fix almost anything.”

  “Huh.” I’ll be damned – she may be on to something. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  She snorts. “So why am I still hanging around with you?”

  “Thanks. By the way,” I say, handing her a water bottle, “it’s First Redeemer now.”

  She grabs it with a speculative look before taking a swig.