by James Maxey
The doctor arched his back and opened his jaws. He looked like he was screaming, but no sound came out. Pit dragged himself closer to the ape, sucked in, and the ape's hairy belly vanished as a tornado of entrails and organs spiraled down Pit's throat. Blood and bile and things Pit didn't want to think about flecked his cheeks.
He closed his mouth. The stupid ape was now gone from the rib cage down. Everything that should have been inside the hollow of his ribs had vanished. Pit sat up, wiping his face on his shirt.
His back grew hot as Sunday baked off the foam that had smothered her. He looked back, squinting, and found her staggering to her feet, her hand clamped over her injured shoulder.
"Just sit still," he said. "You're hurt. One of them monkey doctors upstairs can stitch you up."
"Give me the disintegration pistol," she said.
"What---"
"You just ate it!" she screamed. "I don't have time to argue! Give me the damn gun!"
Pit reached in and grabbed the gun, with the black leathery hand still attached.
Sunday's whole body was now glowing, save for her right hand, which was a dark spot against her radiance. She reached for the gun. Her hand was thin and wrinkled. Blood oozed from around her nail beds.
"Your hand---" he whispered.
"Will you just shut the fuck up?" she cried as she snatched the gun away. "I've got to stop an army of cyborg Sundancers from destroying the world!" She ran toward the door her duplicates had left through. "You start eating computers! Something down here must be guiding them!"
She jumped into the air and flew through the door, leaving behind only a tornado of sparks.
* * *
Sunday burst from the tunnel she'd followed for half a mile to find herself in bright sunshine. She'd completely overestimated how much time had passed; she thought by now the sun would have set.
Spinning around, she found the moon in the sky and realized it was night. The false day was being created from the hundred duplicates of herself who stood at attention on a low hilltop off to her right. The headless women looked like some cryptic modern sculpture as they stood aligned in ten perfect rows of ten, each precisely one arm's length away from each other. They were pumping out enough heat that the hilltop beneath them had fused into black glass.
Sunday didn't know what they were waiting for. She didn't care. She suspected that no amount of heat and radiation she could throw at them would have any effect. Her own powers had never even made her sweat, though she was sweating now. Her heart was beating like she'd run up the tunnel rather than flown. Her fight or flight instinct had kicked in at full power.
So she did both, flashing toward the grid of bodies, firing the disintegration pistol almost blindly. Bodies began to topple as she swept the beam across the cyborg army. In seconds, she'd killed or seriously maimed over half. Could things really be this easy?
Then, the remaining bodies lifted their arms to her, and suddenly there was nothing in the world but fire. Sunday felt as if she was suffocating as the combined blasts of the assembled drones tore the molecules of air surrounding her into a slurry of elemental particles. She raced upwards, out of the blast zone, gasping as she reached breathable air. She looked down at the army and pointed the ray gun. When she squeezed the trigger, it was like squeezing clay that oozed between her fingers. The barrel of the gun drooped like a spent penis. Whatever its melting point had been, the drone attack had gone over that line.
She looked down at the remaining drones. They had stopped targeting her and now stretched their arms out stiffly to their sides. The dust and dirt flew up in a ring around them as fire shot out from their palms and feet, thrusting them heavenward like rockets. They lifted slowly at first, but accelerated so swiftly that they reached Sunday, hovering a quarter mile above them, in only a second. She shook her hand to clear it of the molten gun, then clenched her fists, braced for their attack.
Only, they weren't attacking her. They flashed past without even seeming aware of her. One passed less than a yard away and on pure instinct Sunday kicked it in the gut. Her stomach tightened from the impact; she'd somehow expected the guts to be hard, filled with robotics. Instead, it was warm and yielding, disturbingly . . . human. But, human or machine, the fortunate effect of the kick was that it knocked the drone off its trajectory, causing it to crash into a sister drone that rose only an arms length away. That drone spun out, and in a game of aerial dominoes, three more drones were knocked off balance by the veering bodies. As the naked women bounced off one another, green lights on the cameras atop their heads turned red. The affected drones went into tailspins as their robotic navigation systems lost control. They raced down to messy endings on the ground below, but Sunday had no time to waste watching them. She pushed herself higher, in pursuit of the surviving drones. She didn't pause to count, but there were still close to thirty.
Then, BOOM BOOM BOOM! Sunday was hit in the chest by a shockwave as the drones above her accelerated past the speed of sound. Now it was her tail in a spin. The ground raced toward her with sickening speed. But, she clenched her teeth and took control of her fall, leveling off a few feet above the ground, leaving a trail of burning earth behind her as she raced toward the chimp city of Goodall. She blazed down the main street, setting convertibles aflame, then whipped down the side street where the lemur sushi bar had been situated. She was doing 200 miles an hour when she neared the restaurant, crowded with dozens of chimps having dinner. The chef in his leather apron had his arm raised over his head, the cleaver gleaming with reflected light. She grabbed his apron and his arm as she sped past him. Unleashing a blast, she ripped the monkey's torso apart, leaving her holding a hand holding a cleaver, which she pried loose. She had the apron draped across her arm. She turned toward the sky as she fished the white ceramic carving knife free.
Years of experience had taught her how well certain materials held up to heat. The cleaver would warp and turn to putty at a paltry 2500 degrees Fahrenheit, but the ceramic knife could take twice that heat, maybe even three times as much depending on its specific makeup.
The drones were spread out in the sky in a straight line, just little dots of light. How could she ever catch them? She'd never been able to go past the speed of sound. Or had she just never had the courage to go past the speed of sound? Those were copies of her up there. Anything they could do, she could do.
With the knife in her hottest hand and the cleaver in the hand she'd cooled to carry the gun, she inhaled deeply, and felt tightness build in the pit of her stomach. If she flew that fast, the wind would peel the skin from her face, the way poor Pit had been flayed when the elevator exploded. If she flew that fast, she couldn't breathe. She bit her lip until it bled, clearing her mind of fear, and, more importantly, hope. She was still clinging to the tiniest fingernail ledge of optimism that she'd survive this. Exhaling, she let go, and shot off like a white-hot bullet.
* * *
As Sunday raced up the tunnel, Pit ran to the computer terminal Dr. Trog had used to activate the drones. He stared at the screen, then stared at all the cables around him. His orders were to destroy everything.
But he couldn't. These computers held everything there was to know about Sunday's body. She seemed ready to die, but couldn't they just build her a new body, then swap her brain into it? It seemed like an idea from B-movie science fiction, but he was on an artificial island of talking chimps with robot servants, and the woman he loved was out doing battle with an army of headless clones. No idea sounded dumb at this point.
He tried tapping the computer keyboard. Dr. Trog had left the screen up, so he didn't need a password. The only thing Pit needed was a genius IQ and about a decade of advanced training in robotics and genetics, and making sense of what he was looking at would be a snap.
Either he hit something or Dr. Trog had planned to watch his army launch, because the screen switched to a camera shot from the top of the hospital aimed at a nearby hilltop where the army was gathered, glowing brightly. He
watched as Sunday charged, and cheered as she mowed down the army with her disintegration ray. Then his voice caught in his throat as the drones fought back. He watched as, a few seconds later, the remaining drones launched like rockets, rising above the frame of the shot. Then, for reasons he couldn't guess, a half dozen of them rained back down from the sky and smashed into the burnt ground.
Without him pressing a button, the monitor went black and a scroll of white words rolled up the screen.
Tokyo: Aborted
Seoul: Aborted
Mexico City: Aborted
New York City: Active
Mumbai: Active
Jakarta: Aborted
Sao Paula: Active
Delhi: Aborted.
The list continued. Pit didn't even recognize half these cities. A handful of American cities stood out to him: Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, San Francisco, Washington, Dallas, Detroit. All were active except for Houston and Washington.
Pit left the terminal and ran up the tunnel. He emerged beneath a darkening sky with a row of glowing stars spread out above him. An even brighter light raced up from the center of Goodall, blazing like a comet. He squinted but couldn't tell if there was a human figure at the center of the light, let alone whether or not it had a head.
All around him were severed body parts. A woman. Lot's of women, actually. Bloodied tits and asses everywhere he looked.
No heads.
Sunday wasn't part of this field of death.
He ran back toward the hospital, taking the above ground path. "Space donut!" he cried out, panting. "Space donut! Eleven!" That was right. "Eleven!" But, there was no answer. Hope that the alien thing that was turning him into a space ship might help him lift off and chase after Sunday began to fade.
He made it into town. Robotic fire trucks were rolling down the main drag. A dozen convertibles were on fire. Burnt chimps were sprawled on the sidewalks. Pit leaned against the wall of the parking deck catching his breath.
There was a kind of a whistling sound from somewhere, followed by a thump. He lurched forward but didn't fall. He couldn't feel his legs. He looked down and found he was now pinned through his middle to the concrete wall behind him by a four-foot-long shaft of steel a quarter inch around. He looked like a bug pinned to a board.
Without warning, a shadowy form that almost looked like a man grabbed his right arm and pressed it up against the concrete wall. Ffffip! Thump! A second steel rod now emerged from his wrist, trapping his arm.
The shadow man punched his hand under Pit's chin and slammed his head back into the wall. Fffffip! Thump!
"Ow," said Pit, going cross-eyed as he tried to see what had happened. He couldn't move his head at all. His thoughts felt scrambled. Was there really a long steel rod jutting out of the top of his forehead?
His eyes focused on a woman floating in the air a hundred feet away. Skyrider? She was holding an enormous rifle. She squeezed the trigger and suddenly he couldn't move his other hand.
"God!" the woman shouted. "This job is so much easier when you have the right tools!"
"End Shadow Mode," said a voice he'd heard before. He could just see the top of Ap's head.
"Pit Geek, the vessel known as Pangea has just entered American waters. We've been authorized by the proper authorities to seize this ship."
"Ship?" Pit was confused. "This is an island! And the Chinese are gonna go to war to defend it!"
"Even the Chinese will recognize our rights to defend our borders from trespassing vessels. Pangea's made of plastic and it floats. It has anchors. I believe that any court of law will accept the argument that this place is little more than an oversized garbage barge. Everyone on board will be taken into custody until the finer legal matters have been resolved. You will be treated a little differently, however. For the crimes you've committed against humanity, you're under arrest. You have a right to remain silent."
"I'll talk," Pit said, firmly. "You listen. A couple of dozen copies of Sunday just rocketed out of here like bats out of hell and are going to explode over the most populated cities on earth. A couple of hundred million people are gonna die if you don't stop them."
"Sundancer is next on our agenda," said Skyrider, floating closer.
"No, dammit!" Pit shouted. "Sunday ain't the problem. Dr. Trog has sent a whole army of copies out to wipe out humankind. Stop them first! I can show you where to find a list of their targets!"
Skyrider looked at the stars. The Sundancer legion was now very far off. "I wondered what all those lights were," she mumbled. Then she turned to Ap. "I'm going to give chase."
"They're pretty far away," said Ap.
Skyrider nodded and said, "Simpson, can you cut and paste me about twenty miles due west and about a mile straight up? I need to catch up to some fleeing suspects."
Suddenly, she was gone.
"Double-density mode," said Ap. He yanked free the steel rod holding Pit's head to the wall.
"Christ almighty, that smarts," said Pit, squeezing his eyes shut.
"You're going to show me the list of targets," said Ap. "These rods are coated in nanite tracers. Simpson can now fix on their signal and grab you with the space machine any time he wants. Fuck with me, and he'll drop you inside a volcano. We clear?"
"Clear," said Pit, rubbing his wrists as Ap freed his arms. "I won't be no trouble. I need . . . I need your help. Sunday's dying. Dr. Trog said he'd used your belt technology to make the copies of Sunday. You're supposed to be a hero. Save her! Make her a new body!"
"Hold on," said Ap. "I'm not following you at all. Who's Dr. Trog? What does my belt have to do with anything?"
Pit explained it as best he could as they ran back to the tunnel. Ap nearly tripped and fell when Pit said the name Code4U.
"She was a chimp?" he screamed, recovering his footing to keep up. He shook his head. "Man, you can't trust anyone in a chat room."
Back in the basement, Ap whistled as he looked around the room. "You know, it's been something of a mystery why used game systems cost so much these days. I think I just figured out where all the old boxes are going to."
"These are just old game boxes?" Pit asked.
"I'm sure they've been modified," said Ap. "But they're nothing to sneeze at. The graphic card on one of these has more computing power than was available to NASA when they put men on the moon. String together a couple of thousand like this, and you can crunch some serious numbers."
Ap plopped down in front of the system. Enough time had elapsed for the screen to go blank. As he tapped the keys, it asked for a password.
"Try 'banana,'" said Pit.
"That's racist," said Ap. But he gave it a shot anyway.
"Ha," said Pit as the screen returned to the list of cities.
"Simpson!" said Ap. "I just activated my retinal camera. You've got a list of a dozen cities in front of you that are being targeted for destruction by individuals who have the same powers as Sundancer. Like her, they're small enough and fly low enough that most traditional defenses won't spot them. We need jets in the air defending every target ASAP!"
Pit couldn't hear Simpson answer, but Ap gave a nod that looked as if he'd just gotten confirmation of his orders.
Pit said, "There were more than a dozen."
Ap said, "Well, now there's only eleven. Skyrider doesn't mess around on this saving the world stuff. She's been doing it a long time."
"So have me and Sunday," said Pit. "Except. You know. On the opposite side."
She hasn't moved since I got here. She just hangs there, a little sliver of the sun, shining down on us goats and chickens and fools.
Used to think that one bullet was for her. But, I'm starving. So thirsty I've drank my own pee. I've been here so long even my pubes have turned white. I bet I'm a hundred years old. Hell, maybe older.
Nothing rots here, but I age. I age because I'm human.
And so was she.
And she's dead. Starved or died of thirst, or maybe her air burned up. She went all
alone, a long, long time ago.
The revolver is cold and heavy in my hands.
Typing out these little scraps of memory used to keep me from blowing my brains out. We all want our stories told.
But my story has come to an end.
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
Burn Baby Burn
SUNDAY'S CLEAVER had long since melted. Her arms ached. Her hands were numb. She had trouble feeling the ceramic knife in her hand.
She wasn't keeping count. She wasn't even thinking now. She was flying faster than she'd ever flown, far too fast to think, outracing sound in utter, eerie silence, all the whispers of doubt long since left behind.
She climbed back toward the stratosphere. She wasn't sure how she was still breathing. The shockwave of compressed air that had formed when she'd gone supersonic had spared here from her most morbid visions of wind ripping off her flesh. The high-pressure air seemed trapped even when she pushed up to the very edge of space to find her next target. They were getting harder and harder to spot, both because they were fewer in number and because they were now back in daylight.
There.
She dove, pushing to speeds she couldn't even estimate. Mach six? Mach seven? Mach eight? Photons were flying out of her at the speed of light. Was there any limit to her speed beyond the one Einstein had written down?
She slowed as she raced up behind her target. She readied her knife and went in for the kill.
At the last second, the drone spun and pushed Sunday's arm away. A few of the other drones had spotted her and shown similar rudimentary defenses, but she'd fought those before her arms turned to lead.
