Tomorrow's Cthulhu: Stories at the Dawn of Posthumanity

by Scott Gable, C. Dombrowski

  DeWalt locks eyes with Chapman to make sure his mouth stays shut as he answers, “There is no evidence that the RPC system was to blame. Lieutenant Chapman, take us through your report.”

  Chapman clears his throat. “Yes, sir. Airman Bradley Atkins reported for his shift at oh eight hundred hours …”

  Atkins left the soft sunshine of Langley, Virginia and entered the dim corridors of a giant windowless hangar. He wore an olive green jumpsuit and clutched a tall coffee in his left hand and three energy drinks under his arm. With his free right hand, he snapped salutes to his shift commander and mission controller.

  He arrived at his operations cell, a cubicle with a large padded chair enclosed by a dozen monitors and a bank of elaborate controls. He methodically lined the drinks along the console and tossed Airman Reed a can.

  The young Reed, a pilot in the adjacent cubicle, cracked it open, took a slug, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jumpsuit.

  “I needed that. Hey, shift commander got word a high-value target crossed the border from Tajikistan. Mission controller has a new fish on the hook for you.”

  Atkins adjusted his chair while Reed spoke between slurps of energy drink.

  “You never told me you had a red-headed step-brother.”

  Atkins looked at a monitor streaming video from a concrete bunker in Afghanistan. Inside waited a young Pashtun man who, like him, had light skin and green eyes with the addition of a red beard. He wore a long, white kameez tunic and loose shalwar pants. He was inspecting the only thing in the bunker, a chunky helmet with a segmented desert-camo shell that bristled with antennae like a giant cockroach.

  Atkins skimmed a screen that detailed the mission objective. “Nuristan province? Shit.”

  Airman Reed laughed. “Don’t lose your head.” He dragged a finger across his throat.

  Atkins sighed and lowered a sleek black helmet from the top of the chair until it cocooned his head and face. A fine mesh of electrodes settled around his scalp, and an array of trans-cranial magnets hummed to life.

  “As-salamu alaykum.” Atkins’s voice projected into the bunker from the brown helmet’s external speaker.

  The Pashtun man looked into the camera. He spoke, and the helmet translated in an approximation of his voice. “Hello?”

  “Please put on the helmet.”

  The Pashtun man pulled off his flat, white cap to reveal an unruly head of red hair. He lifted the heavy helmet from the charging station and pulled it on.

  The combination of high-tech hardware and traditional clothing looked unnatural. The bulbous helmet grew from his shoulders like a fruiting spore that had usurped his body.

  Atkins tapped his screen and pulled up a wall of legalese. A liability waiver appeared in flowing Urdu inside the other man’s helmet.

  The airman read from a list of questions. “Name?”

  “Sahim Qayyum.”

  The name auto-populated several locations of the waiver.

  “Is this correct?”

  Sahim’s eyes glazed over. He was probably illiterate. “Yes, this is so.”

  Streams of data appeared on the screens of the operations cell. Clusters of sensors in Sahim’s helmet tracked heart rate variability, micro-expressions, eye dilation, and galvanic skin response. His breath was monitored for trace amounts of chemicals. The core of the hardware scanned and transmitted a wide spectrum of EEG activity including sensory, brain stem, and cognitive event-related potentials. Atkins was now tapped into Sahim’s nervous system.

  “What is your father’s full name?”

  Sahim’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What for?”

  “If you are injured, captured, or killed on your assignment, we will pay your father the standard condolence payment according to the Foreign Claims Act.”

  “My father is dead.”

  “Older brother?”

  Sahim blinked. “Dead. My sister and daughter live in Parun. You will provide for them?”

  “Yes. Speak your sister’s name, and it will be registered on the payment claim.”

  Sahim spoke the name and relaxed, resigned to whatever happened next.

  “Thank you, Mr. Qayyum. We are ready to begin.”

  Sahim’s green eyes went wide as Atkins’s own face was displayed inside the brown helmet’s visor.

  They stared at each other for a moment, unnerved by the similarity. Atkins felt as though he were staring into a mirror. The only major difference between their faces was that Sahim was freckled and bearded, while Atkins was pale and clean shaven.

  “My name is Bradley. I will be your operator for this mission objective. This helmet gives us eyes and ears on the ground. It will also enable us to speak privately. Try talking without opening your mouth.”

  Sahim attempted to subvocalize, half murmuring his words. “Hello hello hello?” The sounds conducted back through his skull, and he grunted.

  “That is much too … odd. I think I will rather speak out loud if this is acceptable.”

  “You understand that the helmet does much more than transmit pictures and sound?”

  “Yes, I have heard. You want to command my body.”

  “Think of it as a partnership. The process is completely painless. Just follow the arrows on your visor by turning your head.”

  The trans-cranial magnets in Atkins’s helmet pulsed with power, and his nervous system began to synchronize with Sahim’s. Atkins’s scalp prickled under the phantom heat of Afghanistan, and he started to sweat. He adjusted his MMI, the mind-machine interface, to dampen the sensation.

  “Now, I am going to repeat the pattern from my end. This will feel very odd, but you need to relax, or this may cause muscle strain.”

  The airman gently moved his head to the side, causing Sahim’s head to twitch in the same direction. Sahim’s hands flew up to his helmet.

  “Please relax, Sahim.”

  The Pashtun slowly lowered his quivering hands.

  Atkins remotely turned Sahim’s head in the synchronized patterns. Sahim’s heart rate and cortisol levels climbed. Atkins felt a corresponding flutter in his own chest.

  “Good, that was very good. I won’t need to use that unless you are in a combat situation. You know the terrain and people better than I do. I am just here to observe and advise you.”

  Atkins adjusted Sahim’s helmet display until the visor was transparent. Sahim’s heart rate began to settle.

  “There is a locker outside the bunker. You will find one AK-47 rifle and a pouch with three magazines of ammunition. There is also a package with eighty thousand Afghani bills.”

  Sahim loaded the rifle and grabbed the cash.

  “Congratulations, Sahim. You are now the tip of the spear for the most powerful army in the world. We are looking for a terrorist that crossed into Nuristan two hours ago. Can you get to Darwaza province?”

  Sahim nodded and began to hike up a steep trail. His helmet drank in the activity of his peripheral nervous system.

  “It will take a few days, but yes, I will do it.”

  “We need you to get eyes on this today. Do you have a vehicle?”

  Sahim shook his head.

  A surveillance photo appeared in Sahim’s visor. It was a tribal encampment in a green valley.

  “Head north for three kilometers to this location. Buy a truck.”

  “That is the Sarbani tribe. They will not sell.”

  Atkins sighed. “Please, tell me it is not a blood feud.”

  “Do not be concerned, Mister Bradley. I can buy a mule in my village. It is only a day’s walk.”

  “The helmet can conceal your face if you wish, Sahim. If they think you are a stranger, they must offer you hospitality.”

  A document on one of Atkins’s screens displayed the principles of Pashtunwali, the tribal code of honor. These rules had to be navigated, but they could also be used to influence behavior.

  “I will not hide my face from the Sarbani.”

  Atkins’s face replaced the aerial pho
tograph.

  “‘A Pashtun must defend his land, property, and family from incursions.’ These intruders from Tajikistan will attract soldiers and drone strikes in your province. We can stop them now, but you need to buy the truck, Sahim.”

  Sahim glared at Atkins and stomped off toward the valley. They followed a winding steel blue river until the tide of blazing sunlight retreated from the lush valley and swelled atop the mountain peaks in a wave of red gold.

  Sahim marched into the encampment.

  Atkins ran the faces of the men through facial recognition. There were no wanted terrorists in the group, but they did not look happy to see an RPC helmet.

  Sahim held his right hand over his heart and bowed.

  “As-salamu alaykum.”

  The circle of men sitting on rocks and cracked plastic lawn chairs picked up their AK-47s and glanced at the man with the longest gray beard. He stood and lightly touched his hand to his heart.

  “Waalaikum as-salaam.” His tone was neutral.

  Sahim kept his hand over his heart. “I am Sahim Qayyum of the Wazir.”

  The gray-bearded man spat. “It is no surprise that the Wazir would debase themselves to become lapdogs for the Americans.”

  Atkins felt Sahim’s pulse rise at the insult.

  The grey-bearded man grabbed his own rifle. “Did you think your master’s drones and bombs would protect you here?”

  The others stood and raised their weapons.

  Atkins switched on the helmet’s LIDAR system and bathed the valley with micro-pulses of wide spectrum light. A high resolution, three-dimensional point cloud map appeared on his screen.

  He leaned out of his chair and called airman Reed.

  “I need a Predator!”

  Airman Reed chuckled, “That was fast.”

  “Sahim, let me take over. I can perform evasive maneuvers to get you clear.”

  Sahim’s voice silently rumbled through the throat microphone. “No! I will deal with this.”

  “Today is not about vengeance,” Sahim said aloud. “I only wish to buy a truck. I will pay you a fair price.”

  The old man shook his fist. “What about a fair price for my great uncle, slain by your cowardly grandfather?”

  Sahim pulled out the thick wad of Afghani bills. “I will pay the traditional blood price of sixty thousand. I will throw in ten thousand more for the truck as I have no sheep to offer.”

  “No sheep? Then what of a girl to marry? Do you have any sisters or daughters for me?”

  Sahim’s adrenaline spiked.

  “Reed, buzz the valley!”

  The Predator drone swooped down and cast its icy shadow over the Sarbani. It pulled up at the last instant and wheeled around for another pass, trailing thunder in its wake.

  Sahim stepped forward and offered the wad of cash.

  The rattled elder took it and gestured for the truck.

  The drone escorted Sahim as he drove off, leaving the Sarbani behind in a thick cloud of dust. He smiled behind the visor.

  Reed and Atkins clinked their energy drinks.

  “Nice work. I need to pull the bird back for some border patrol,” Reed said.

  “Copy that.”

  The rusty old truck had no air conditioning, and despite the cooling night air, the temperature inside the helmet was climbing. Sahim fidgeted with the helmet’s collar, setting off proximity warnings in the operations cell.

  “Hands off the helmet, please. I need to watch the road. Check it out.” Atkins activated the night vision lenses on Sahim’s helmet, and the pitted road appeared in a wave of pale green fluorescence. “Sahim, is your beard getting itchy?”

  “You can feel that, too?”

  “Yeah. I used to have a beard myself.”

  Sahim chuckled. “My father said that American boys could not grow them.”

  Atkins laughed. “Your father was right. It took me forever. It itched like crazy in my motorcycle helmet. When we get to a safe spot, I can show you how to wrap your beard.”

  “I have always wanted a motorcycle.”

  “Oh yeah? After this, you’ll be able to buy a sweet bike. You’ll love—“

  An explosion rocked the cab of the truck. The world spun end over end in a hurricane of green dust and static.

  Atkins’s visor turned transparent.

  The chaos of Sahim’s overturned truck was replaced by alarms blaring from every display in his operations cell. The trans-cranial magnets clicked off, cutting the feed from Sahim’s nervous system; his pain had exceeded the tolerable limits.

  “Sahim! Are you okay? Sahim?”

  The mission controller walked over with a mug of coffee.

  Atkins looked out of the corner of his helmet.

  “IED, sir. Asset is down.”

  Airman Reed chimed in. “A dozen vehicles approaching. Two klicks east. Possible QRF.” He pointed to a screen streaming the black and white feed from a satellite.

  Atkins pounded out a string of commands on his keyboard. “I’m going to evade.” His visor went dark, and he switched his view back to Sahim’s helmet. “I have to override you, Sahim.”

  Sahim mumbled weakly. His EEG flickered in a semi-conscious state.

  Atkins seized control of the other man’s body and kicked the rusted door open. He clawed free from the broken steering column and lurched from the truck in an eruption of broken glass and torn upholstery.

  The glare of approaching headlights flooded the swirling dust and filled the night vision with a blinding green haze. Atkins toggled to the grey contours of the LIDAR map and scrambled down the mountain road.

  A group of grainy shadows moved up from the west to intercept him.

  “It’s the Sarbani. They set us up!”

  One of the Sarbani men raised his rifle.

  Atkins pivoted and ran for cover behind a boulder. A shot split the night, and Sahim’s body stumbled head first into the rock.

  Atkins’s visor turned transparent once more. The audio and video from Sahim’s helmet were gone. Even the alarms were silent.

  The mission controller slurped his coffee.

  “GPS still functional?”

  Atkins scrolled through the static-filled windows and flat-lined vitals for any remaining signals. “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep tracking it. If it goes down, hook a new fish.” He strolled off to check on other operations.

  Atkins pulled off his helmet and scratched his sweaty hair. The grey figures on the satellite feed dragged a limp body past the smoldering truck. The GPS dot followed them to their convoy.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Reed said. “Maybe we can track the helmet to our HVT. Drone strike. Mission accomplished. I’ll buy the first round.”

  Atkins rechecked for any signs of life. He was powerless to do anything but watch the GPS dot crawl deeper into the impossible terrain of the Hindu Kush.

  He crushed an empty energy drink can and stared at the static-filled screens. A sudden burst of radio activity lit up his system and then winked out of existence.

  “We lost him!”

  Focused on other operations, Reed murmured, “Helmet’s busted.”

  Atkins leaned forward and queried his systems. He examined the topographical map, satellite feed, and final milliseconds of the GPS log.

  “It didn’t die, it was obstructed. I think they’re underground.”

  Reed turned. “A cave?”

  The final signal burst from Sahim’s helmet flickered on the monitor. Inside the jumbled patchwork of pixels, they caught a snapshot. It was a stone wall engraved with strange markings.

  DeWalt interrupts Lieutenant Chapman’s report.

  “Our analysts say the engravings are in a North African script. It is a warning to stay out.”

  Director Shackley raises an eyebrow. “A warning to America?”

  DeWalt shakes his head.

  “Unlikely. It appears to be hundreds of years old. We also caught a snatch of audio. The Sarbani were trading the asset to another
group.”

  “The HVT from Tajikistan?”

  “Unknown. They spoke a Yemeni dialect of Arabic.”

  “Yemen? Do we have a line on these guys?”

  “The Sarbani called them Abd-al-Hazred. It means ‘The Servants of the Great Lord.’”

  Director Shackley whips through page after page in a thick folder. “Where is our intel on this group?”

  DeWalt clears his throat. “There is no chatter, sir. They don’t appear on any jihadi websites. They have no connections with any known terrorist organizations.”

  The director throws the folder. He rubs the bridge of his nose, and his voice quiets, “Do you know how many satellites we have over there just to support the RPC system? How many trillions of dollars we have invested? If we lose this program, we lose Afghanistan. The agency will be gutted, and Homeland Security will eat what’s left. Not on my goddamned watch.”

  He turns to the lieutenant.

  “Speak!”

  The lieutenant flinches and stifles an instinctive salute. “Sir! The, er, RPC came back on line at thirteen hundred hours.”

  Atkins yanked his helmet back on. Sahim’s EEG wavered into consciousness.

  “Sahim? Can you hear me?”

  A moan of pain drifted across the audio channel.

  “Don’t speak out loud.”

  “Where am I?” Sahim’s sluggish pulse began to rise. His cortisol and norepinephrine shot up, and his breath grew thick with blood.

  “I should know soon. Hang on, Sahim.”

  The visuals were pitch black, and night vision revealed nothing but a green blur. The proximity sensors indicated that something covered the helmet, probably a cloth bag.

  “I think my leg is broken. They dragged me underground for hours. We are deep now. Very, very deep …”

  Atkins felt a shadow of that pain in his own leg. If he resynchronized his nervous system with Sahim’s it would be agony, but there could be an opportunity for escape. First, he needed to get a handle on the surroundings.