Guardian Angels and Other Monsters

by Daniel H. Wilson

  I think this over a second.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear we’re not related. It’s families like mine that keep the callouses on gravediggers’ hands.”

  “You refer to the Internecines. Pathetic. A broken family borrowing money and making promises to strangers so they can arm themselves to murder each other. The late Dr. Arkady had amazing prescience to build the Executor. He knew the calculating avarice of so-called family and he sought to avoid it.”

  A trace of anger ripples over the man’s face. It’s like spotting a shark fin out of the corner of your eye. Something’s hidden under the surface here. Something with teeth.

  “I take it you’re not a family man?”

  “I am not, Mr. Drake. I believe achievement is the only measure of a man. And each man will be measured on his own before the eyes of God. Everything I have accomplished was achieved on my own merits. Only I taste the fruit of those labors.”

  “So what do you leave behind when you’re gone?”

  “A legacy of triumph. And preferably, as small a gang of squabbling vultures as is possible. Think of the pharaohs, Mr. Drake. They left behind pyramids to shine brightly through the ages. Their descendants fell into madness and despair long before time could ravage the beauty of those monuments.”

  “Sounds lonely as hell in there.”

  Masterson shoots those gray bullets at me again. Then the padded shoulders slump. “You are not the best version of yourself and thus you cannot understand. You are only capable of taking commands. Very well, do not approach the Executor. Do not ask why. And do not interfere with me again or you will learn what pain feels like.”

  The screen fades back to dark polished glass and I notice the auto isn’t moving anymore. For a second, I’m staring into my own flat, faded reflection. My face looks wooden and blank—a goddamned toy soldier on the march, drink in hand.

  Then a shadow falls across the window and the driver yanks open the door with a thunk. Blinking at the sudden blazing sunlight, I step out of perfumed ozone and into hot reality. I don’t hear the driver slam the door shut. I’m busy grasping the fact that I’m standing in front of the capsule daycare—the word pain still ringing in my ears.

  * * *

  —

  The Guardian plasma lock is sliced, lying on the ground next to the capsule. I pick it up and the dribble of melted metal is still warm from whatever industrial torch ate through it. With shaking fingers, I drop the privacy screen and unlock the capsule.

  Inside, Abigail is lying on her back, watching the vidscreen with one eye and working on putting her foot into her mouth. She’s fine and dandy—a cog in this efficient coffin-shaped machine. I exhale and then take a deep breath, realizing that I’ve been gut punched since I saw the lock on the ground. Message received, Mr. Masterson.

  But some things you can’t change.

  * * *

  —

  I sit on the curb outside the capsule daycare with Abigail on my lap and watch the street for an older-model auto. The old ones are made of metal instead of plastic, and they cost less. I hail the first likely suspect and direct it to stop off at a Japanophile store. There, I drop the last of my cash on a portable impact shell. The hot pink pod is hard outside and padded inside—gyro-stabilized and designed to keep an infant safe at ultrahigh speeds. Hard to believe that in some places there’s no stigma attached to taking your baby on a turbo-bike.

  I shrug the shell onto my chest and slide Abigail into it. She’s like a chubby pearl inside a clam. The glistening hull is rated for everything from impact to puncture to temperature and pressure fluctuations. With a couple of sharp yanks, I secure the impact shell to my chest, straps cutting into my shoulders. Then I close the breather lid on top and listen for the gyros to engage. A soothing blue light spreads across the top of the shell, forming a happy face. Very Japanese.

  The auto waits for us patiently, like a dog. An upgrade job, it has a vestigial driver compartment with a steering wheel and everything. The auto is doing its part in this clockwork city. All of us are doing our part. Not because we want to or even because we have to, but because it’s the only way there is. You don’t pick where the highway goes, you just keep one eye on the horizon and hope you’re headed someplace nice.

  I peek into the driver’s-side window and notice a layer of dust on the front seat. The hunk of metal was never designed for this, but all of us have got to adapt. I drum my fingers on the roof and sigh, then grab the door handle and yank it open. I crawl inside the doomed auto and buckle myself in and roll down the windows so the glass won’t cut me when it shatters.

  * * *

  —

  There are more suits outside the offices than I expected. I catch at least one with the first jump over the curb. He has a confused look on his face and a gun in his hand for a split second. Then he is gone. Under the auto somewhere or maybe he dove out of the way.

  Nobody ever drives an auto on manual anymore—surprise.

  The rest of the lookouts scatter as a ton of screeching metal gallops over the curb and plows into the front door of the Executor’s office. The safety belt catches me hard, dislocating my shoulder. A spray of red light slashes my face and the impact shell emits a warning shriek. The front door of the building explodes, spraying splinters into the dark corridor leading to the Executor’s office.

  It’s quiet for an ear-ringing five seconds after impact. Dust from the pulverized office door floats in my open windows. I glance down at my chest and see a bright red sad face on top of the impact shell, fading back to a safe blue.

  Breathing in ragged gasps, I try to unclip my safety belt and hiss in pain. I wrap my good arm around my hurt shoulder, hold my breath, and ram the auto door a couple times. The joint pops back into the socket and I’m underwater for a second with my pain. Tires screech and men shout as other autos arrive.

  “It’s Drake!” shouts somebody.

  I kick the dented door open and clamber over the hood of the auto, stepping through the splintered door frame into the dark corridor. At the end of the hallway, I draw my piece and turn back to aim it at the crashed auto wedged into a rectangle of fading evening light. A dark face peeks in but disappears quick when it sees me coiled up in the shadows like a viper.

  One hand over my baby, I squeeze the trigger until I see a ball of fire.

  * * *

  —

  I stagger just inside the door to the Executor’s office before my joint-stabilization field fails. I crumble to the floor and I can hear Abigail crying but my eyes aren’t working for some reason. I try to hug the impact shell tight against me but my arms won’t listen to my brain.

  An explosion rocks the hallway on the other side of the door.

  I realize that I’ve really failed now. It was always a long shot. Strong out of the gate but faded on the stretch. In the end, no threat.

  Then, the shell gives off a soft blue glow.

  My eyes still work. It must be dark because they’ve cut the power to the building. My joint stabilizers failed, but now they’ve flipped to local batteries instead of leeching the ambient power supply. The stabilizers quiver—they’re having trouble pulling out a pattern to offset the noise coming from my diseased nervous system.

  I’m able to drag myself into a sitting position and flip the lid on the impact shell. Abigail is inside, angry and fussing but not hurt. And of course, looming over me, watching without expression, is the Executor. The ghost of the old man himself, standing in the blue-tinged darkness.

  “Why didn’t you listen to Mr. Masterson?” asks the machine.

  “Who?” I ask. “The spook?”

  That gives the Executor a pause.

  “To what are you referring?” it asks.

  I drag myself onto my feet, using the wall. “I’m referring to the fact that Holland Masterson was nothing but a hologram, cooke
d up by another hologram. The only one I know. You.”

  I make sure the door is locked. As secure as it’s going to get.

  “And what made you aware of this fact?”

  “Choice of subject, pal. A legacy of triumph? I’m no genius. But that’s a conversation I could have had with old man Arkady two hundred years ago. That and the decor in Masterson’s little drawing room. Out of date. Some things even you can’t change, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “How long have you been doing this, Executor? Playing my family off each other?”

  “Why, ever since I was created, I suppose.”

  “You tried too hard. That’s what gave it away. If you weren’t worried, you wouldn’t have tried so hard. And I figured out why.”

  “Please enlighten me,” says the machine, eyes half-lidded, confident. A distant thud rocks the building. I figure this means they’ve reparked my auto. Won’t be long before this room is flooded with very angry men.

  I don’t say anything to the Executor. Favoring my busted shoulder, I pull Abigail out of the impact shell. She is small and warm and squirming in her pajamas. She’s been crying. I wipe her face with my shirtsleeve and set her gently down on the speaking stone. The Executor drops the confident act and stares, eyes glittering like beetles.

  “When a legal descendant touches the stone,” I say, “the process begins.”

  With that reminder, the Executor’s automatic behavior kicks in like the last second of a magic trick. “Review process initiated,” it says. “Answer the following question: What is inside you and all around you; created you and is created by you; is you but not you?”

  “Your answer is sitting right here,” I say.

  On all fours, Abigail cranes her neck to look up at me. She gives me a slobbery grin and tries to reach for me. I give her back half a smile and my index finger and then I throw a glance at the Executor.

  “Family,” I say. “The answer to your riddle is family. Old man Arkady never had one, really. Maybe that’s why he booby-trapped the lives of everyone who came after him. Started the Internecines by creating you and keeping his wealth around forever, like poisoned bait. He was brilliant and maybe more machine than man and he didn’t realize what was important until it was too late. You were the closest thing the old man ever had to family, sad and pathetic and wrong as that may be. Family is what he feared most. Family is what he always wanted but never had.”

  The Executor is silent for a few seconds.

  “Claim approved,” it says. “Until Miss Abigail Drake is of age, the Arkady estate will be held in abeyance. Upon her aetatis suae eighteen, all goods and chattels shall be conveyed to her as sole inheritor. However, at this time you have no claim to the monies—”

  “I’m not after your money, pal.”

  “Very well, then—”

  “But I’ve got one more thing to say to you. So listen close.”

  The Executor stands very still, watching me like a predator.

  “As her guardian,” I say, “you’re part of her family now. And if you are called upon, my friend, you will give her a life not imaginable to a person like me. A life of wealth and travel. Knowledge. You’ll protect her. You’ll bend every twisted circuit of your will to guide her, to help make her a strong and good and just woman. And in due time, she will become the matriarch of our line and your successor. When that day comes you will step down, Executor. And Abigail Drake will carry on our family name in peace. Understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. Drake. I understand.”

  “Good,” I say, ignoring a foreboding rumbling coming from the hallway. “Now I’ve got to go out there and settle this before they come in here and settle it for us.”

  “Are you sure that’s safe?”

  “It’s as safe as anything.”

  “I’m afraid they’ve cut off my communications. I’m not able to cancel my previous orders. However, the police will arrive in less than four minutes—”

  The machine is cut off as something big and loud happens just outside. But I’m not watching the machine. I’m putting Abigail back inside the impact shell. I tuck her in and set the shell on the speaking stone with the lid open.

  “We don’t have four minutes. If they get in here, they’ll shoot everything that moves.”

  “I’ll simply talk to them, order them to stop.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to help much, friend. I made a messy entrance. They’re understandably upset.”

  I check my revolver and holster it under my left arm. The knife I secure in the waistband of my pants, in the small of my back. I juice my stabilizers to full power, until my arms and legs hum with strength. Should last about five minutes. Plenty long enough.

  Only then do I allow myself one last look. The pink shell rests on the stone. Inside it, the world’s wealthiest individual is blowing spit bubbles at me. I press my sagging holster against my chest so the gun won’t bump her and lean down and kiss Abigail on her forehead. I close my eyes for a second, just a blink, and inhale her smell. Her skin is soft as rose petals on my stubbled chin and I remind myself to try and remember this detail for later—for when things get bad.

  Somehow, later is always closer than you think.

  I close the impact shell and stride over to the quivering door. With one hand I check the knife again to make sure I can draw it fast. I give the machine a stern look but the Executor knows the score.

  I grab hold of the doorknob and put my head down. Take a breath. Flex my arms until the joint stabilizers are singing.

  “You’re a good father,” says the Executor.

  I hear the thugs in the hall outside, shuffling past each other, body armor clinking. I feel a cold spot on my chest where my daughter is missing. I know that each of us has to do our part in this city, like clockwork.

  “No, I’m not,” I say to the Executor. “But you better be.”

  And I step through the door.

  HELMET

  My little brother Chima sleeps with his mouth open. He has for a long time, not that he’s got a choice. He was seven years old when the Helmet caught me off guard. A corrugated metal wall exploded and hot shrapnel tore through Chima’s face. Fuel-accelerated flames ate his cheeks and mouth. Only my brother’s wide, round eyes were left untouched, glittering with intelligence behind a mask of flash-welded flesh.

  The Helmets. Those baby killers. They always come at dawn.

  Heat hits the Ukuta fast in the morning. Rays of sunlight splinter the horizon and needle into the slums. The sterile kilometers around our sprawling shantytown, where the old radiation lives—those hills dance and sing and remain still at the same time. And our valley of trash, with its labyrinth of crumbling walls and shacks and dirt paths, is trapped, groaning under the weight of that great wavering lump of heat. The sun beats down upon us as if it bears a grudge. Like it was angry at us for our very existence.

  In Ukuta, you see, we must defy men and gods to live.

  The election cycles come four times a year. Our votes are our own. But a careless vote can make the gray hills dance with more than heat. A wink of light from golden armor. The Helmets. Always a team of two. Vaulting through the dead wastes that have long divorced Ukuta from a place once called Africa. Those shivering hills will not suffer life to pass, but the Helmets bound through it unheeded, immune to the ancient poison.

  Crossing the veil of death to guide us.

  The Triumvirate rules the city-state of Ukuta. Their propaganda flyers drop from the sky, fluttering down like dying sparrows. During the night, images appear painted on walls. In the morning, we fear to remove them. Always the same image: Three old men, squatting like vultures behind a soaring judge’s bench. Three wrinkled faces scowling down at us. “Follow our guidance,” command the signs.

  Without words, the Helmets appear and show us the strengt
h of the Triumvirate. We do not question the filthy water or the smoke-filled factories or the invisible ring of death that surrounds Ukuta. Violence guides our vote. The faceless Helmets stamp out our phantom uprisings before we realize they have begun.

  Chima stops breathing. I count to four before the rangy twelve-year-old snorts. He wakes up scrabbling at the plastic tarp he uses for a blanket.

  It is early and he does not yet have his rag over his face. His pink hole of a mouth gapes like a rotten tree hollow. Rubbing his eyes, he frantically scans the miles of shanties that climb the horizon. He runs his fingertips over his face and moans at me in alarm.

  “Ajani,” he says, and I see the glint of shrapnel embedded in his cheeks. I have to concentrate to make out the words hidden inside his grunting whimper.

  “My face hurts,” he says.

  My pulse quickens. Sometimes, when the Helmets are near, the shards of metal buried in Chima’s face come alive with pain. The boy told me the aching comes from the silent talking between the Helmets. He says it is their radio antennae. I do not understand this, but Chima is a very clever boy. When his face hurts, especially at dawn, it can only mean one thing: we are in danger.

  Standing, I put a hand to our chalky cement wall and listen. The world is still this early. Distantly, someone coughs and hawks phlegm. Two women talk quietly, headed to the well with empty plastic jugs. One of them carries a pocket radio in her hand, quietly squawking drum-laced music. Chima winces as the radio grows nearer and then recedes.

  “Radio,” he says.

  I take a relieved breath.

  Then, I feel a vibration. Followed by a twin vibration one second later.

  Chima sees it in my face before I can speak. He scrambles out of his cardboard bed and crawls through the refuse toward our one solid wall. There is a hole carved in the base of it that he still fits inside. He disappears, curling into the gap, knees to his chest and head folded down.