by Brad C Scott
I walk the line of drones, eyeing each. The two tactical models belonging to DRR, HK-12 and HK-15 by the markings, hover heedlessly on their lift fans. Bison, Aubrey’s SMART drone assistant with an airframe identical to Patton’s, rotates to face me as I pass, bobbing his nose down in salute. The last drone looks sidelong at me, an unfamiliar model probably brought in with the DOD team, the name Gypsy painted in bright pink cursive on its golden skin.
“Good morning, sir,” says the man at the control console, looking up at my approach. He has the frail look of a tech that hasn’t gotten either sun or exercise in some time, if ever.
“Malcolm Adams,” I say, stretching out a hand.
“Jeff. Jeff Peterson,” he says, taking it with a limp grip.
“What’s going on here, Jeff?”
The target range houses a variety of barriers and debris assembled to represent a typical setting in a reclamation zone. A decade ago, maybe. A series of crumbling concrete walls with openings act as building fronts, while a pair of old car frames and assorted chunks of rubble fill out the “street.” There’s even a pre-war vendor’s cart. From time spent watching Patton drill here, I know the range sports retractable hard targets and holoemitter-generated virtual targets.
“Just running a target acquisition drill, sir,” he says.
“I can see that.”
“We’re testing a new set of recursive algorithms installed this morning into the subroutines of tactical drone HK-15 – enhancements to perception and inductive reasoning processes associated with target classification and tactics. We’re hoping to minimize false-positive results with –”
“In English, son,” I interrupt.
“Right,” he says with an irritating smile. “It’s… Well, a problem we’ve seen in the field is the use of holoprojections to defeat semi-autonomous drones. The drones get confused by the projections, failing to recognize them and attempting to destroy them, sometimes over and over again. Or, in rarer cases, they enter a perception loop and freeze up. Enemy units can take advantage of these lapses.”
“That’s perception, right? What about inductive reasoning?”
“Well, we’ve gotten reports from Malaysia and the Philippines that some of the warlords there outsmarted our drones with holoprojections of their own soldiers. They use them over and over again, and when their real soldiers appear, our drones ignore them because their inductive reasoning subroutines fail even though their perception subroutines work just fine.”
“Schizophrenic drones? Wonderful. Is your boss around?”
Suddenly, a target appears on the range behind the hot dog stand, a figure in black riot gear holding a coil rifle. HK-12, the tactical drone that did not receive the upgrades, fires at it, the round passing through the holoprojected target, causing it to vanish. Without muffs, my ears are grateful they’re using practice rounds, though it’s still loud.
“Samantha? Oh, she’s on the range, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“Uh, is there a problem, sir?”
The same target appears on the range, a holoprojection of the riot-gear-clad figure, this time appearing behind one of the cars. HK-12 fires again, causing it to flicker but not to vanish. It fires again and again with the same results. After a few seconds, the projection fades.
“Are the safeties engaged?” I ask.
“Uh, no sir, the safeties are off, but we’re using practice rounds.”
“A TP can still do a lot of damage. End this. Now.”
“Keep going, Jeff,” says a cheerful feminine voice behind me.
I turn and see the strange drone Gypsy hovering there, its – her – three pink lenses focused on me. She’s the same size as a SMART drone, but the sleek lines and angularities have been upstaged by curves and crescent wings. Before I can say anything, she continues, “You must be First Redeemer Malcolm Adams. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’m Gypsy. Before you say another word, let me assure you that Samantha knows exactly what she’s doing.”
“Why does she need to be out on the range?”
“An accelerated deadline has necessitated more aggressive testing protocols. But not to worry, she prefers direct involvement whenever possible.”
I could end this, but what the hell – if the hotshot from DOD wants to get herself injured for the sake of the hands-on approach, that’s her business. I turn back to the range.
“There’s the signal,” says Jeff, looking at the console’s holodisplay. “Here we go.”
The range comes to life, targets popping into view all over the place, some real and some holoprojections. Gypsy hovers back to the line and begins firing along with the others. There appear to be three recurring holoprojections on the range, all projecting the same riot-gear-clad figure holding a coil rifle. The two SMART drones and HK-15 ignore them while HK-12 seems intent on the same image, firing into it, again and again, causing it to flicker but not vanish. After about ten seconds of concerted fire, HK-12 finally leaves off, switching to the hard targets. From that point forward, none of the holoprojections get fired upon.
“Alright, now for the money shot!” shouts Jeff, manipulating the control console.
The drones cease fire as all the projections disappear and the hard targets retract from view. A few seconds later, the riot-gear-clad figure with its coil rifle pops up in a different spot, framed in one of the openings of a concrete wall. This time, HK-12 does not fire at it, but HK-15 does, striking the figure in the chest. Rather than blink out, it falls backward.
“Cease fire!” I shout. “Cease fire!”
I vault over the rail onto the range and head toward the downed figure. I work my way around the side of the concrete wall and find her stretched out on her back, the sound of feminine laughter issuing from behind the helmet’s faceplate. She’s rubbing the spot on her chest where the round connected with the flak jacket, the coil rifle cast aside. I approach and stand over her, reaching down a hand to help her up.
“That’s going to leave a mark,” I say.
“The things that matter always do,” she says while reaching up to unclasp the helmet. She works it off, stretching one arm out to clunk the ground with it while continuing to rub at her chest with the other. “Ouch.”
My lecture regarding her recklessness dies unspoken. Sea-green eyes framed by tangled strands of blonde hair gaze up at me, iridescent with interest. The pain-induced grimace beneath her high cheekbones blooms into a fey grin, drawing me in. Feeling a hand in mine, I pull my eyes away and help her up.
“Thanks,” she says. “You must be Malcolm.”
“And you’re Samantha.” I realize I’m still holding her hand and let it go. “I was told you were unconventional.”
“Is that all?”
“Crazy was also mentioned. I don’t know about that, but reckless fits.”
“And I was told you like to cause trouble.” She tilts her head back and runs hands through her blonde waves. “Are you? Trouble?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to lecture me now?”
I say nothing, unwilling to incriminate myself.
Her smile blossoms, eyes laughing at seeing through me. She dusts herself off, and I take the opportunity to reach down and retrieve the gear she dropped.
“Would you like medical attention?” I hand her the helmet.
She takes it, a subtle curve to her lips. “No, but a massage would be nice.”
Speechless, I turn and tromp away. What the hell? When I glance back, she looks away. I’ll need to be careful around that one. Something about her seems familiar…
I almost smack straight into Gypsy, hovering right around the corner of the concrete wall. “Eavesdrop much?” I growl before stepping around her to continue on.
“I’m sorry, First Redeemer,” says Gypsy. “Samantha, why are you blushing?”
I hear the sound of flesh smacking polymer and look back long enough to see Samantha clenching her teeth and shaking her hand. She sees me looking and
turns away, but not before I notice the faint crimson on her pastel cheeks.
“Gypsy,” says Samantha, “shut up. We’ll talk later.”
Exiting the range, I note her admonishment toward Gypsy has gone unheeded, for the two of them remain out there for a serious discussion to judge by Samantha’s expression. She looks in my direction a few times as she’s speaking, so I turn my attention elsewhere. Bison is parked near Jeff, both looking at the data scrolling on the console’s holodisplay. I amble over.
“How’d it go?” I ask.
“Just as we hoped,” he says. “The control unit for the test, HK-12, was confused by the holoprojections at first, but eventually reasoned that it should ignore them. When Samantha appeared, it ignored her because it incorrectly deduced she was in the same category. HK-15, which received the subroutine upgrades, ignored the holoprojections from the outset and correctly identified Samantha as an enemy combatant. A complete success!”
“Congratulations.”
“Samantha deserves the accolades. She was team leader in developing the new recursive algorithms used to upgrade their subroutines. She’s a lot smarter than she looks.”
“I heard that!” says Samantha as she exits the range. “What, do I have to dye my hair before I get any professional recognition?”
“I prefer redheads,” says Jeff.
“You would,” she says, giving him a look. “Jeff, please compile the results and arrange for follow-up testing. I need to speak with the first redeemer.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, turning back to his console.
“Malcolm – you are OK with me calling you Malcolm, right? – let’s talk about Patton and what we can do to get him better.”
“Malcolm is fine, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? You’re funny, old man.”
Old man? I’ve only got about five years on her. She leads the way toward the diagnostics area as I fall into step beside her.
“Here’s the scaled-down version,” she says. “Patton is infected with a virus called Specter. I’ve encountered it before in tactical drones deployed in the Philippines that DOD shipped stateside for service. It’s an intelligent virus – adaptable, sophisticated, and top-shelf malicious. We think the code originated among third parties working for the Chinese. The good news is, it is curable.”
“What are his chances?”
“The virus was modded from previous versions, so it’s too soon to say. We’re still working out the differences.”
“Will there be any permanent damage?”
“It can’t be avoided,” she says, looking in at Patton as we stop outside the diagnostics area. Viewing her in profile, that sense of familiarity returns, conjoined with a sourceless dull pain. “Specter already corrupted portions of his neural network. Our goal is to minimize the memory damage while reconstituting his operating code. He’ll come away with some loss, but I’m confident it won’t be catastrophic.” She turns to face me, and the pain metastasizes with the realization of who she reminds me of. And why.
It’s the eyes that do it, always the eyes. For all their damnable beauty, hers have spent time staring into the abyss. The fervency lurking behind the lucidity in their sea-green depths, the alien yet familiar vigor of compelling insanity: for a moment I forget where I am, who I’m with. Rachel had that same look in the years before she gave up. Seems the world has had its way with Samantha, too. The drone techs were right: she is crazy.
“You’ll get him back,” she says, comforting. “You should know: I’m never reckless when it comes to the health of my patients.”
My hand twitches with the insane desire to caress her cheek. Balling my fists and crossing my arms, I tear my eyes away and glare at Patton, irrational anger churning my guts.
“I can provide references,” she says in a soft voice, “if you doubt me.”
Don’t be an asshole, asshole. With a deep breath to ease the hostility clenching my jaws, I focus on walling off the evidence of my turmoil. It’s not her fault that she reminds me so much of… Not her fault that this acid of feelings hollows out my guts for who and what she recalls. Wall in place, I look her in the eyes again. “No, that’s alright. I don’t doubt you.”
“You are trouble, aren’t you?” in that soft, almost reverent voice again.
The wall buckles but holds. “So are you.”
Unperturbed, her eyes probe deeper, and I get the impression she’s walking my inner hellscape, taking in the scorched and barren sights. So I’m surprised when she lets me off the hook to ask: “What is he to you? Are you willing to go all the way to bring him back?”
“He’s my partner. My friend. Do whatever it takes.”
“Good,” she says, solemn expression turned radiant in an instant. “I’m glad to hear that, Malcolm. Most people just consider them machines, but SMART drones are so much more. I’ll do everything in my power to restore him. My word on that.”
There is not a shred of insincerity in her words, her expression. “Samantha, thank you.”
“I’ll know more by tomorrow. Let’s sync up our comms – I’ll let you know as soon as there are any significant developments. Call me any time to check on his status.”
“All right.” We tap our holobracers together to sync comms.
“Any progress on hunting down his assailants?”
Something in the way she asks it… “Why do you want to know?”
“Interrogation could be helpful, maybe get technical details about the virus. Anything like that would help with Patton’s treatment.”
She’s not telling me everything. “What else?”
She gives me a speculative look, her eyes and lips narrowed, but says nothing.
“Tell me,” I say.
“It might also reveal his source. Anyone with access to such sophisticated malware is a serious threat. I’m interested in seeing those threats eliminated.”
“Professional or personal?”
She looks back toward Gypsy, chews at her lip. “Both.”
“So far, nothing. They’ve disappeared. I won’t give up on finding them, though.”
She gives me another long, appraising look. “One other thing: call me Sam.”
CHAPTER 20
Of all the times not to bring backup. Only an hour after dark, I’d thought to be early enough to beat the crowd. Say some hellos, have a drink, interrogate my target, have a few more drinks, slip away unnoticed. Too late, though – people already pack the place.
The two-story colonial estate’s been revamped into a macabre version of its sober self. A holoprojection of a gothic bell tower looms above it, shadowy figures moving behind its iron railings, decrepit banners stirred by an imaginary wind. Other holoemitters transform the place’s pristine white walls and fluted columns into cracked, mold-shrouded gray. The wide front lawn’s been turned into a mist-shrouded graveyard with leaning tombstones and a mausoleum. The elms flanking the walkway flaunt lifelike hanging corpses. The whole thing screams exorbitance.
Just like my last and only other time here, with Rachel, during a Christmas party three years back. A full-size Santa’s workshop, elves, thousands of blinking lights. The undersecretary for the Department of Education doesn’t do half measures. Only met him once, but Rachel told me enough about the kind of man he is. With any luck, I won’t run into him tonight.
“Take me for a ride on your big ship?” says a statuesque St. Pauli girl, blonde curls bobbing as she approaches along the sidewalk. Two redheads dressed in French maid outfits follow in her wake, flaring skirts flouncing over slim legs.
“Ladies,” I say, nodding.
St. Pauli girl slows to inspect me with a coquettish smile before her friends pull her along toward the entrance. They mount the steps to the porch and join the shifting herd of Halloween nightlife there. At least the scenery doesn’t disappoint.
Nothing for it, then – this won’t be the first losing battle I’ve joined. Adjusting the eyepatch and straightening my black sea captain’s coat, I
stride up the walkway and enter the menagerie, out of practice and out of my depth for this sort of social melee. Navigating through the throng on the patio, a tuxedoed bouncer checks my creds and then I’m inside.
Past the vestibule, a cavernous grand foyer spans two floors. Blacklight tints everything indigo and violet; a smoky haze of artificial fog taints the air. Gothic music admixes with the din of costumed partygoers crowding the floor, the second-floor landing, and the curving stairways that connect them. Even the ornate chandelier is occupied – a trio of animatronic skeletons in pirate costumes perches there, bottles raised. A stone sarcophagus rests atop a raised dais where a grand piano used to sit, its lid moving like someone’s inside trying to escape.
But escape will have to wait – time to get to it. I grab a whiskey sour from a cocktail stand near the back of the foyer, lean against the wall, and sweep my eyes around, a bored look on my face. In less than a minute, I’ve identified my newest tail, a woman in a skimpy devil costume glancing at me from across the chamber. Somebody’s agent, but whose? I raise my glass and give her a toothy grin. She walks away into the crowd.
I wander off into the mansion, keeping an eye out for my target through all the masks and face paint. And making it difficult for any tails to keep up, randomizing my route, backtracking often. The place is vast, almost palatial. I stop to make small talk with strangers, blending in and making the watchers wonder. Was the asshole in the monkey suit my contact? Or was it power girl? Who am I here for, and why? I start to enjoy myself, making them wonder, but the people sour the mood. Most of the partygoers are media types, politicos, or those that do business with them. A bigger gathering of self-absorbed narcissists would be hard to find.
◊ ◊ ◊
I acquire my target on the exterior balcony overlooking the front. Like the rest of the mansion, it’s occupied and lively, partygoers polluting the night air with lit cigarettes and cigars as they laugh and talk, but a silent, subdued pair have a corner all to themselves.
