by Travis Borne
“Shit,” Jerry said. His eyes rolled up in thought and a new perspicacity incubated by his temporary merger with Boron delivered a jolt. “And you met Herald and Amy after the attack?”
“Yes, why?”
“Never mind for now. Ted, if we can get to you we may be able to help. Boron knew much of what the machines had been planning—just a second, I’m digging through archives of his mind—” Jerry shook his head and rolled his eyes; his curls were lustrous and floated like a brand-new wig. “—yes, here it is. Although Boron split from the destructive machines before they began implementation of what is affecting you now, he saved everything so he knew everything the horde mind knew. I uncovered rough plans, one of many things they had been working on and it is extremely complex. Perhaps, if we can merge our machines—you, Martin, and Boron—we can devise a cure using this data he has archived. Now, can you send me the coding for Herald’s lending program. We already lost 2,000 people, almost half of the humans here are dead forever and more are being sacrificed every minute in order to keep the systems online just long enough to out-process the other half.”
“Sacrificing that many!” Rob said. “Jerry, do you know someone named Kim, Kim Mills?”
Jerry’s face answered, but it didn’t look good. He knew her all right. They tore up the town together only a short while ago. “She’s your woman?” Rob nodded. “I knew her, Rob. But I do not know if she is okay. She was killed on the inside when we—” Jerry, even with the power of the system at his command, could not find the right words to describe what really happened while the others left on the expedition, and what he and Kim had done in the bar for nearly two hours. He saw Rob’s face and knew he’d just make things worse. “Rob, I can find out later, but for now we need that program or others will continue to die—possibly Kim.”
“I cannot give it to you,” Martin said. “Even if I wanted to, Herald’s system will not let it be transferred from me in any way. There’s a destruct mechanism.”
“Then we’re all dead.”
94. Ruck Bodgers, Turnips, and the Volunteer
“How y’all doing back there?” Fran yelled. She pushed on the yoke and stomachs punched throats; like a bottle rocket powered by nuclear fusion, the hover-jet lunged from the 20,000 feet they’d just reached. And they blasted past the outer perimeter defenses, enjoying clear skies above what seemed an interminable desert.
“Take it easy, Fran,” Nanny said, gripping the co-pilot seat to her right. Then she uttered, “Why did I agree to this?”
“I heard that! Because I wasn’t doing it without ya, you old bag. Now, I’m still gettin’ a feel for the old gal. Rafael, you were right—” She cocked her leather-wrapped red head and yelled to the back. “—the damn thing’s got pep. Are the lenders going to be okay back there?”
“If only you could wake them, Fran,” Rafael said at the rear control station, “but Nanny is right, take it easy. We must limit unnecessary maneuvers from here on out. Even with the upgraded blocker we can still be detected indirectly, which could be as bad as a spot-on lock. And our volunteer is more susceptible to outside interference that could affect her transitory environment, at least until I get her deeper.”
Another upgrade had been two extra lender casings, and all four were full: one with a good mind, the other three might as well have contained turnips from the gardens. And Rafael was gardening. He was interfaced with the same station Jon had commanded over twenty years ago, monitoring the comatose rutabagas: Jim, Jon, and Lia, employing his newly constructed program in order to bring the volunteer, at possible cost of her own sanity, to a level where time nearly stood still—in her mind. The volunteer was the only one channeling the feed so systems were running at minimal. Rafael was attempting to sync her mind with that of the three vegetables. It was a long shot, but if he could ascend her to the same high state of mental activity, he could not only use her to get them back, he could also channel their magic juice through her, enabling full exploitation of the feed, in turn enabling many of the ship’s newly upgraded, feed-hungry features.
This way, the original four who’d learned the plans in Marlo’s map could still make the trek, and as long as all went as planned they could do it among the living. It had taken him three days, and he was still convinced he could decipher the enigma that was three twisted minds—and ultimately bring them back. But, they had no choice but to take off before he was able to finalize anything, so Rafael had moved operations into the ship, and the volunteer logged in at take-off.
Circumstances had said, “Go, go now!” People were getting sick; they’d surmised it was cancer in those who were genetically prone to it, all because of the revert. The terrible realization, and Rico’s rapidly deteriorating condition, set the hourglass on its end. They couldn’t waste another minute.
Minutes. Hours. Two roller-coaster hours in and a dark reddish gauze became filaments clogging the skies ahead. Fran brought it down, lower and slower, according to an order by the acting commander, while Nanny put her hand across her bosom, at least somewhat relieved.
By virtue of Fran’s past experience, she was chosen to pilot the hover-jet, and Rafael agreed to the cascading selection of teammates from both her and the other highly capable enlistment, Alex Pennington. Along with Ted and Rob, Rafael had reviewed Fran’s previous sessions—when she was allowed to use the few dream maps which had flyers: besides the hot-air-balloon map, one they still allowed her, they watched as she maneuvered a biplane in the air-show map, in ways that made the old wooden wonder resemble a new fighter jet; and she took her best friend for a stomach-twisting flip using a bubble news chopper in the mega-metropolis map (causing Nanny to coat the inside with what appeared lemon-flavored ice cream). Although she caused unexpected logouts because of a few crashes, the problems stemmed mostly from her special ability to push the maps beyond their limits—or push Nanny’s stomach out and onto the windshield, killing the view.
And Fran had said, “No way, Jose!” She wouldn’t touch the wheel without her best friend by her side. Reluctantly, Nanny accepted; currently she sat clawing the other front seat as tight as her old fingers could, and the both of them appeared at least twenty years older than they had only weeks ago, but only on the outside. Two old ladies: Fran was driving the ship like a twenty something—and Nanny was panicked like one. Strapped in and swaying the ship, gently now, and ready for another burst of speed as soon as her superior gave the order, Fran loved every second.
Alex shook his head, grinning. As the acting commander, he sat behind Fran, because she’d insisted Nanny take the front. She’s some old bird, Alex thought, give her the keys and she’s already transformed into Ruck Bodgers.
Trixie looked over at him; knowing him well she guessed what was sneaking around in his brain.
And Alex continued on, using one of the ship’s upgrades: a swing-out station which he’d been taught to operate over the past few days, by none other than Rafael.
Trixie sat across the aisle from Alex. Her freckles were warning lights, made brighter because her smooth, light skin had gone pale; she did not like the loops and flips just as much as Nanny. Abell sat next to her; the giant filled two seats. He was quiet as always and his hulking mass moved like a redwood diverting a breeze. And behind the black, shiny and smooth coffins, Rafael coded like Herald, inside his head, as well employing the capabilities of the ship’s systems.
“Swarm ahead, Fran,” Alex said. His words jolted nerves; it wasn’t the first but eyes agreed, it was the largest. “Uploading your route now.” And the genius physics master who was Alex, bolstered by a repaired mind thanks to Amy, planned the route like a mastermind magician, for he was surely well dressed like one. He wore his usual wooden bow tie, and had put on the least faded of his black suits.
Alex had absorbed the plan, which was told to him using old-fashioned, plain and simple words. Among all who Rob, along with Ted and Rafael, had screened, Alex was just as Ted had metaphorically described: a secret agent who cou
ld calculate his way into an enemy fortress, or strategically confuse then kill his DCs by cleverly using any resources at his disposal, or send opponents on a wild-goose chase like discombobulated mice in a booby-trapped labyrinth, even blast off and escape space pirates through an asteroid minefield that had been disturbed by a close-swinging black hole. Ted highly recommended him based on all he’d witnessed from the hologram table while he and his short partner Trixie used the black-bag program in ways never intended. They’d exploited intricacies to their advantage ingeniously—with success rivaled only by Jim’s and Lion’s sadistic rampage, and of course, Amy and her gift.
Since the purple status, Alex, the suave, sophisticated gentleman, and Trixie, his longtime easygoing, nature-loving partner, had taken their relationship to new heights, and love was an aura bleeding out from the second row. He’d chosen Trixie—but she wouldn’t have let him go without her.
They navigated the swarms for hours, blocked. And it was working, and working well. Alex and Fran made for an idiosyncratic powerhouse. Fran was red tomato juice with too much Vodka; Alex was fine wine aged to perfection. They were an incongruent, but oddly capable duo. Tirelessly they headed for Vallecito, Colorado. Being able to fly directly would have made for a relatively quick journey—and stomachs wouldn’t have been twisted into Gordian knots—but the swarms, and other massive floating dangers, had them zigzagging and even backtracking a considerable amount.
“I hadn’t thought it would take this long,” Trixie said. She was wavering side to side, and appeared nauseous.
“Surely, more than we’d planned,” Rafael said. “Alex, you are doing an excellent job. I calculate at this rate, without any more back tracking, we should arrive in less than one hour.” Alex was a machine and didn’t remove his eyes from the screen. It was filled with what seemed winding roads of ants: drone swarms, and, there were those ships. Ships as large as a city were like aircraft carriers, supporting millions, billions of drones. Manufacturers of the sky, they vomited any contrivance imaginable, and the drones made for a 3D webbing not unlike the clustered fibers of a universe.
“New route,” Alex said for the umpteenth time. “Fran, drop now!” Fran plunged the ship and throats were maws chomping on stomachs.
“Oh shit, oh—” Trixie’s vomit pegged the ceiling like a water balloon filled with coagulated glue. As the ship leveled out it rained on Vlad and Vincent (Vinny), the two builders who’d also joined the mission. “So sorry,” she uttered. “I hope they’re not mad when we power them up.” Another upgrade was a firm casing, and the builders fit into it like an Olympic-swimmer’s custom-made ear plugs into ears—the black behemoths were meshed into the rear starboard side, secured, and now, covered with biscuits and gravy.
Rafael was immune to distractions, though, jolting like a puppet riding the teacups in the State-Fair map; his focus an entrepreneur’s passion. “Now,” he said, and with his mind the lever on screen, finally, sent the volunteer into the one place no one wanted to be for even another millisecond; she was about to spend at least a decade there—but most probably, much, much longer.
95. The Bunt
She arrived. Jessie had pleaded for the chance and desperately wanted to make up for what she had done, at any cost. She had volunteered. Upon seeing the place her second thoughts became the chilled fingers of sneaky poltergeists.
It was cold, gray, barren. A peep escaped her and the sound was hollow, as if she was imprisoned within a sound-proof booth. Rafael explained that he had to mimic the conditions with a precision equal to a mirror universe where even the strings within the atoms within their neurons vibrated at the same frequency. And damn if he didn’t come through. It was just as he’d described it.
Lia was clawing at Amy from the inside, distorting Amy’s skin and bones as if she was possessed and being chased out of a rubber suit by an exorcist. Jim saw none of it, and Jessie lost her breakfast too, right there. Not biscuits and gravy, she’d had pancakes with strawberries. The gobs fell from her mouth slowly, then zipped to the ground after passing her knees. Splat! A faint odor from the smoothy touched her nasal passage then fell away in the same snapping manner, as if the poltergeists haunting her had suddenly inhaled, stealing her breath. And Jessie wobbled a few steps back.
It took her almost an hour to build up the courage to approach Jim. She’d learned enough from Rafael about what happened, and was worried about being sucked in like Lia had been—if she was even successful at getting his attention. But finally, and as per standard log-in habit, Jessie reached behind her head and collected her long blond hair, then put it into a pony tail.
“Just another map,” she said, then shivered. Her left foot picked itself up and imitated a poor excuse for a step forward. “He’s not going to suck me in. He’s not going to suck me in. He’s not going to suck me in. Damn, I wish Rafael could’ve given me some sort of help, superpowers or something.”
But Rafael had explained that everything had to be the same, that a cloned world would infix their minds to the exact level they’d failed to depart properly. And if she could get Jim to relax, and realize where he was, and, accept a standard logout, then Rafael could use his modified program to pull him out the right way. Then, off to help the others: Jon and Lia; they would be the easy part. It was his latest theory, devised shortly before they no longer had any choice but to depart Jewel City. So, he purposed the hover-jet, and by killing three birds with one stone he hoped it could, one, repair damaged minds, two, merge the old block-chain of a plan to their new situation, and three, feed the hover-jet in the meantime.
She walked toward Jim, still reluctantly, slowly. “I’m probably the last one he wants to see. And it’s all my fault, all of this.” Jessie sucked it up and stood tall. She thought of George…
It’s his fault, all of this. I didn’t know what he was going to do. But…I did. Deep down I knew he wanted to kill her. And there she is again, willing to sacrifice herself to save everyone. It’s just, things happened so fast. I ended up in that sick fucker’s apartment. David, ugh. And I couldn’t go through with it. I just couldn’t.
I closed my eyes and let him touch me. I thought, maybe he’ll just go off quickly and I could leave. The noises he made while he rubbed on my breasts made me feel like puking all over his small cot for a bed. Then he lowered his hands and tried to get into my pants. And just like what had happened near the bridge, time kept on. It pushed and pushed just like it always does, unless there’s follow-through action. It really is just about the actions—thoughts mean crap.
What I did for George? Why, why, why, Jessie? And David’s beady eyes went crossed like when he eats. He always looked at me like that, and now, then, there I was actually letting him put his hand in my pants.
I pulled it out and said, “No! I can’t do this David.” And I felt my breakfast bullying the back of my throat.
She vomited right there, all over David’s floor. Taken aback, he shook his head, and his eyes, which had locked on to her like a tractor beam coming from a melted wax figure, fell away. David began to cry and Jessie stood frozen, huffing.
“Nobody loves me,” he said, in the cement-block, chilly room that passed for his apartment. “Can I at least—see you? Then, I’ll do what George wants.”
Jessie stood, unmoved. But she did feel bad for him on at least one level. She had someone, her best friend Kim had the mayor, Rob—and she knew about the affair with Jim too. But Jim had changed, and he had—Amy. But not really. Yet Jessie knew they would probably end up together, everyone did. The age difference was one thing but everyone saw how they were together, joking, playful—they were opposite magnets who had found each other. Everyone had someone. Well, maybe not Ted, but he only cared about work. She could then, picture even Ted ending up with someone, maybe Bertha.
So, everyone had someone, mostly. Yet not this sad, cross-eyed freak in front of her. He was downright ugly. But combined with a fear of George—a fear that Jessie now realized was the reason she could never
take action, exactly why time always ran her over like a train—and some compassion—from where, she didn’t know—she gave in. Jessie took off her shirt.
David looked up. He wiped his eyes with his arm like a little boy who had just taken a few licks from his dad’s leather belt.
She released the shirt and it fell from her right hand, right next to the puke. Then she put eight fingers under her bandeau and rolled it up, slowly. She didn’t take it off, though, not completely; it banded above her exposed breasts, squishing them down. David’s eyes went crossed again when they locked onto her unrivaled, perfect pink nipples, and her breasts that looked as if Prometheus had conspired with Chronos, managing to convince him to halt time, henceforth using an eternity to balance and mold them.
Jessie unbuttoned her pants and worked her tight, blue lending uniform down, each side at a time. The right, an inch. The left, two inches. Then they became more loose and she slid her pants down. They stopped at her knees—and she stood in front of David, staring blankly.
Was it compassion, or was it weakness? She thought about George looking at her shaved body, but somehow, then and for the first time—no not the first time… And she looked at the drooling man before her. David. Somehow, she was in that moment, less sickened by David than George. Jessie nodded, and David unzipped his pants.
He pulled it out, pleasured himself, then Jessie put her clothes back on and walked out.
“I'm not going to allow time to run me over again. I am going to do this.” With an idea, she walked over to Jim and said, “Jim, it’s me, Amy.” But Jim was locked into his loop. She tried it again, yelling louder, right after he released the Amy who had Lia inside screaming, stretching Amy’s skin. But Jim still didn’t hear her words. He turned around as Amy fell.
Crack. The sound of Amy’s death.
