by James Knapp
Revivors. A scan didn’t produce a signature from any of them. They were dormant.
Back in the office, the ’bot broke through security and a connection opened to the main computer system. I accessed the link and began scanning the files. Most of them were innocuous—medical records of patients coming and going, payroll, ordering and inventory—but one section was isolated from the rest. A list of names and dates had been recorded there. The last four were displayed:
Subject: Harris, Erica. Female. 42. 23042091.Subject: Janai, Ryu. Male. 30. 10052091.Subject: Uris, Henry. Male. 32. 13052091.Subject: Takanawa, Hiro. Male. 28. 14052091.Subject: Pu, Sean. Male. 41. 15052091. Sean.
The connection to the computer broke, and the stream of data stopped. When I tried to reconnect, I found it was completely offline. The power to the system had been cut.
“Gathering for iteration six-three-two,” a metallic voice said softly from behind me. I turned suddenly, aiming the gun, and saw that the bank of red lights on the electronic equipment had turned amber. As I watched, they began to flicker and turn green.
A loud snap issued from the back of the room, loud enough to make me jump. One of the bodies moved on its gurney, then another. The toes arched back slightly, and I saw the fingers flex. Information began streaming by on one of the screens.
“Hold.”
“Gathering for iteration six-three-two.”
I felt a low hum through the floor. The gurneys creaked as the bodies arched their backs; then I picked up a signal on the JZI. It warbled and snapped into the waveform of a revivor’s heart signature. Another one quickly followed, then another as the hum’s pitch increased.
“Active,” the computer said.
Back on the gurneys, several sets of eyes had cracked open, creating softly glowing slits in the dark.
Moving the flashlight beam, I caught the face of one of the revivors who had lifted its head off of its gurney. One of its eyes was missing, leaving only a dark slit between the collapsed lids.
“Sean.”
He didn’t answer. His eye stared up from the dark, not recognizing me.
He’d been turned, and there was no way he’d gotten wired for it willingly. Sean was like me on that score. If we hadn’t decided when we joined up, then a few years of dealing with those things settled it for both of us. Sean turned out to have a secret, but I knew the man and I knew he was afraid of revivors. He never voiced it, but something he saw when he looked at them scared him. Whoever took him wired and then killed him.
I looked in his remaining eye for some trace of Sean, but it wasn’t there. Unlike Faye, he hadn’t been processed at Heinlein, and it looked like a hack job. As he worked at the restraints, I watched and I couldn’t look away, even though it felt like a block of ice was sitting in my gut. I’d known Sean longer than anyone else in my life. He’d pulled me out of that hole back in the grind and saved my life. Even if he had lied, he’d …
“Sorry, Sean.”
I moved next to the gurney and removed the probe from inside my coat. Turning his head away, I pushed it through the skin near the base of his skull.
The system tree came up, but only partially. For some reason it was having trouble reading the components. For the ones it could identify, none were tagged with manufacturing codes.
I managed to isolate his JZI. I found a socket and opened a connection.
Link established.
The connection triggered something; a routine executed, sending a text message across the link.
If you’re reading this, they’ve taken me. I have verified; Fawkes will launch a major strike in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. I wasn’t able to learn specific targets, but he will attack on two fronts; part of his army will come by sea, most likely by way of Palm Harbor. I intercepted the ID of a ship, ISO 10927718240, and I believe the bulk of his forces are there. Find the ship and you’ll find them. The second part of his army is already here, inside the city. I have no idea where he’s managed to hide so many, but there are already hund—
The message ended abruptly. I felt Sean’s jaw clench underneath my palm. His skin was cold.
His heart signature drifted in the periphery of my vision. There was something different about it. It had an arc that was more elegant than the standard waveform.
Hundreds. It didn’t seem possible, but I knew Sean. Something made him believe it. If Fawkes really had hundreds of revivors already inside the city, with potentially thousands more coming in by sea, it was going to be a bloodbath.
I managed to locate Sean’s revivor communications array, and opened the spoke connection.
Link established.
Immediately, a rush of data came streaming in. Before I could react, half the JZI’s buffers had filled up. It was as if hundreds of individual data streams were bleeding back over the connection. My systems weren’t designed to handle an influx like that, and I struggled to abort the link before—
“And stop,” the soft, synthesized voice said. The connection broke, and the flow stopped.
What the hell was that?
The bodies all relaxed on their trays. The light in their eyes began to fade. One by one, their signatures winked out.
“Checking signature …”
“Signature is gone.”
“Commencing cool down.”
I removed the probe. The revivors had gone dormant again.
They’re being cycled over and over, between animate and inanimate. Why?
I checked the rest of the bodies. Besides Sean, there were four others. One looked well kept, a first or second tier. The other three showed signs of exposure and malnutrition. One had track marks in his forearm. One had a thick scar running along one side of its face, trailing from the chin, up over the cheek, all the way to the ear. It looked like a cut from a knife, maybe.
Wachalowski, head’s up; we just got a report of an explosion across town. They think it’s tied to your location.
What was it?
A free clinic was just bombed. Healing Hands, over in Dandridge. Second Chance runs that one too. They know we’re on to them and they’re covering their tracks. Get out of there now.
“Initiating download and purge,” the metallic voice muttered from off to the side. I looked over and saw the counters had all reset to zero. The data was no longer being collected. The green lights had turned red again, and I was watching when they all went dark.
Hang on.
Wachalow—
I cut the connection as an electric snap came from the bank of electronics behind me, and the low hum began again. The metal gurneys creaked under the bodies. One by one, the heart signatures reappeared.
“Active,” the computer said. Their toes began to arch, fingers curling into fists. The glow behind each set of eyes got brighter.
The lights on the equipment went dark, and the hum stopped suddenly. One of the revivors sat up on the tray, the electrode wires growing taut, then snapping. The one next to it sat up as well.
Keeping the flashlight trained on it, I fired a burst at the first one, and it crashed back onto the gurney. I managed to get the second one before it could get up, and caught a third as it placed its bare feet on the floor. It staggered, then fell into the rack of electronics before landing on a rolling tray and scattering surgical tools.
Sean and the remaining revivor were on their feet. They split up and moved toward me.
I backed through the plastic curtain, and Sean followed. The three revivors along the walls still weren’t moving, but the jittering of their eyes had gotten more frantic.
Through the gap in the plastic tent, I saw white smoke billow up from the floor. The revivors I’d put down were dissolving.
Sean took another step toward me and I fired, putting a bullet into the middle of its chest. He didn’t stop. There was no recognition in his eyes as he lunged, clamping one cold hand down between my neck and shoulder. With his other hand, he tried to grab my gun. Twisting the barrel down, I shot him in the
kneecap. Revivors didn’t feel pain, but the joint gave out and it started to fall to one side.
I lost my footing and came down on top of him. He tried to get up as the second revivor approached from my left.
I aimed and fired a burst. The first bullet caught it in one eye, and the next two tracked across its face, blowing out the back of its skull as it fell backward into a rack of equipment. Sean’s hand reached up, pawing at my face.
My JZI flagged a warning as it picked up heat signatures from around the room. They were sourced from the three revivors along the walls. In each one, a ton of energy was being rerouted to a component inside the torso. I fired several more shots as warning codes began spilling by. Sean’s hands slipped away as I staggered back from the body.
“Shit!”
The eyes of the three revivors began to glow brighter. Their faces turned dark, black veins standing out as pressure built up somewhere inside.
I stood up and scrambled past the chair, back out through the heavy door. Grabbing the handle, I pulled it shut as a set of fingers slipped through and the metal crunched down on them. Another hand wormed through the crack and began to pull it open. I stuck my gun barrel through the space and fired several rounds, then turned and ran for the fire exit.
At the end of the hall I hit the door and shoved it open. A gust of cold wind hit me, and my foot splashed down into a puddle. My heel slipped on a patch of ice and I fell back onto the blacktop, skidding toward a metal Dumpster.
I hit the rusted metal and rolled as a thud pounded through my chest and an explosion ripped through the wall behind me.
Calliope Flax—Wilamil Court, Apartment #516
I sat up on the couch and grabbed the pint bottle off the table next to it. I took a swig of hot whiskey and blew fumes out my nose. My right hand hurt like hell, and the left one kept ticking. I cut open the knuckles on both of them when I beat down that fat piece of shit the night before. The last thing I needed was another assault charge, but the cops never came.
The reminder to check my files popped up in the dark behind my eyelids. I pulled up the text from where I’d buried it. There were three notes:
Called Buckster. He’s coming over.
I remembered that one. The other two, I didn’t.
There’s a padlocked door behind the flag. Wooden door, three locks. It was here the whole time.
Started a JZI record.
I opened my eyes and sat up. I checked the JZI buffer. It was empty.
Son of a bitch …
If I didn’t remember it and the JZI record was wiped, then someone who knew I might be recording was fucking with me.
There’s a door behind the flag.
I could see the flag from the couch—black and red with a green shield on it. I’d ripped it off the wall of a bomb-shelled office in Juba after we took out a pack of rebels inside. I used it to wrap the naked girl when I took her out of there. It hung ceiling to floor on the wall right across from the shitter. I knew for a fact there was no door behind it.
Didn’t I?
I put down the bottle, then got up off the couch and walked across the room to the wall with the flag. After a minute, I pulled up the file and made a note:
I’m taking down the flag. I’ll move it somewhere else. I’m starting a JZI record. The next time you read this it should be moved, and if there is a door behind it you’ll know.
The buzzer went off at the front and I jumped.
“Shit!”
I stood there for a minute. My hand was still out, hanging there like I was scared to look.
This is bullshit. I grabbed the edge and moved it out of the way. There was no door.
The buzzer went off again.
“Keep your pants on!” I yelled. It had to be Buckster.
I let the flag fall back into place and went to the front door. When I opened it, Leon was there, wearing a rain coat with the hood pulled back.
“Hey, Chief.”
“Hey, yourself. Bad time?”
“No.”
He looked past me and smiled.
“Looks like you’re making yourself at home.”
“Yeah.”
The place they set me up had started to grow on me. The pipes worked and the heat and water stayed on. The people there weren’t a bunch of drunks and bums. After Bullrich and the grind, it was actually not half bad.
“You gonna let an old man in?”
“Sorry,” I said, opening the door. “You want a drink or something?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
He shut the door behind him, then shook off his coat and threw it on the hook.
“I gotta piss first.”
“Have at it.”
I hit the can and left the door open a crack while I took a seat. I made one last note before I shut the file down:
Buckster showed up. I’m giving him the Zombie Maker, and we’ll see if he knows anything that might help Wachalowski.
The flood gates let go and I cracked my back.
Incoming call.
Call accepted.
Cal, this is Nico. Have you seen Leon Buckster since we last met?
Yeah, the old fart’s here now. Why?
Outside, I heard the old man’s ass hit the chair.
“You on Second Chance time or your own time?” I called out.
“Mine.”
Keep him there. I’m arresting him.
Arresting him? Why?
Because this investigation just turned ugly, and his name came up. He’s officially a person of interest and I need to bring him in.
Well, don’t bust down my door and do it here. He’ll fucking know I was in on it.
Cal, don’t start. I just tracked down a dead friend and almost got blown to hell myself.
What? Where?
Rescue Mission and two other Second Chance-funded clinics were bombed tonight, Cal. Buckster’s name is connected to Rescue Mission. I’m bringing him in for questioning.
“Damn it …”
Right now you’ve got someone on the inside, I said. You grab him now and that goes out the window. Let him have his little visit, and pick him up when he goes home.
I finished up and flushed. When I came back out to the main room, I found him leaning back in my chair.
“Make yourself at home,” I said. Wachalowski was still idling on the other end of the circuit.
Look, you know I’m right, I said. Put him under watch in case he runs, but have your goons wait for him at his place so he doesn’t link it to me.
You’re not part of this investigation, Cal—
I can take care of myself, asshole. If this goes back to what happened before I shipped out, then I’m involved. I’m not some street punk for hire anymore, I—
Okay.
Really?
The team will stake out your place and follow him when he leaves. We’ll pick him up at home. Gain his trust and find out what you can, but don’t tip him off.
Roger that.
Be careful, Cal.
He’s an old man. I think I can handle him.
He might be associated with some very dangerous people. Even if he isn’t, he might be a target. Be careful.
I will. I’ve got to go.
I closed the link. In the kitchen, the sink was full of dirty dishes, but I had two clean glasses on the counter. I headed back out and used the whiskey bottle to fill the bottom of the glass I’d dripped the Zombie Maker into. I gave it to the old man and he took a swig.
“Place looks nice,” Buckster said.
“Thanks.”
“Got everything you need?”
“Everything except a damn job.”
“Anything pan out with your friend?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“Well, don’t worry. We’ll find something before the month’s end. There’s plenty of things you could do.”
“I was thinking maybe Stillwell Corps.”
“Not a bad option,” he said, “but not if you want t
hings to quiet down.”
“You got any better ideas?”
“Maybe Heinlein. We’ve got contacts there too. They might be able to use someone like you.”
“What is that, a fucking joke?”
“I don’t mean in development,” he said. “They use a lot of ex-military in the testing facilities for the next-gen stuff. Just think about it.”
It was as good an in as any, I figured. Buckster was halfway though his drink and the Zombie had to be starting to kick in.
“What is it with you and revivors?” I asked, and for just a second, his eyes flashed. He got twitchy.
“What’s that mean?”
“You send third tiers over to get wired up. You send first-tier vets to Heinlein …What, do they give you a kickback or something?”
He grinned at that, relaxing a little.
“I don’t work for Heinlein, believe me. Second Chance is about just that: a second chance.”
“So the bums you recruit end up second tier?”
“Homeless,” he said, “and some of them do, yes. I get them as far as I can—clean them up, get them blood tested, and get them basic inoculations.”
“You pay for that?”
“We run a series of free clinics throughout the city. It’s paid for by donations and fund-raisers.”
“How many clinics?”
“Three, on record.”
“On record?”
He seemed to think maybe he said something he shouldn’t have. “The point is, we don’t make anyone get wired. That’s a decision they have to make on their own.”
“What about scar-face, the guy I saw you with at the train station when I came in?”
“He …” The old guy drifted off. His eyes had started to look a little dopey.
“He what?”
Buckster shook his head. “He didn’t sign up.”
“No second chance for him, then, huh?”
“He’ll have his day,” Buckster said. There was something weird about the way he said it.
“What?”
He drained his glass, and gave a big shrug. “Every dog has his day, right, Corporal?”
