by Russ Linton
“I felt obligated to their legacy. The business had been running for years without me, but there was always this standing offer to take the helm. Stocks, trading, pretending a bunch of numbers had actual value, never interested me.”
“So, med school?”
“Yeah.”
“Why not a pilot? You seem to know this stuff,” I ask, thinking that getting my hands on a plane would be much more interesting than getting my hands on somebody’s appendix.
“Well, sure. I’ve always loved flying. I’d hate to do it for a job, though. Shuttling people like you around the country would get old,” he says with a smile.
I return the smirk but hold off on the normal Spencer-sized helping of snark. We silently watch the clouds float by, scanning an empty, endless sky together. After a few minutes and a few false starts, Martin breaks the silence.
“I know this is maybe a weird question, Spencer, but did you ever go flying with him?”
“Yep. Lots of times.”
Martin stares into the clouds. “That must’ve been… awesome.”
I turn back to the windshield and nod. Up here, the world looks so small and vast at the same time. Yet, you’re always aware you’re in a different place where the aluminum fuselage around you is the only thing keeping you here. It isn’t like you’re actually flying through the sky, more like you’ve scooped out a piece and forced yourself into the gash.
But when you’re flying in someone’s arms, you are a part of the sky. A part of something greater.
“Yeah, it was awesome.”
Once. Only once.
Chapter 24
Drake sat fuming behind a holographic display projected from his desk. He swallowed his rage and called calmly into the granite office, “Xamse, my office, if you please.”
“Yes, sir,” Xamse’s anxious voice floated down from the intercom.
The film footage of the delivery confirmed that the drone escort had indeed reached Killcreek with Crimson Mask, so Drake should have been able to relax. But now, this. He stabbed the air where a rewind button hovered. From the projected image, a chaotic scene of gunfire and airy pink blobs retreated into a rather mundane view of an aisle inside a hardware store.
He flicked the play button and watched the video as the drone’s claw grasped a shelf, slowly bending it down. The contents tumbled toward the screen, but a backpack stuck stubbornly in the middle of the crease. A flashing triangular beacon on the drone’s HUD illuminated the backpack. Digital gun sights flickered on and chased after each item that careened off the shelf.
Drake jabbed again, his hand passing unnecessarily through the pause button. He pinched at the edges of the floating image and spread his hands to enlarge the view. The backpack’s shoulder strap was hooked on a tennis shoe attached to a scrawny leg. Flexing his jaw, Drake resumed the video.
Next, from behind the bales of insulation, a trembling arm and a can of paint emerged. The can dropped flush with the shelf and slid to the middle. A foot lashed out, kicking the can toward the camera. An amorphous white blob spattered and obliterated the view. Drake tented his fingers and pressed his chin to his thumbs while glowering at the hologram as it looped again to the beginning.
A soft tap at the door, and light sliced into the office in a harsh wedge that slowly narrowed again as the door closed. Xamse called out, “You wished to see me, sir?”
“Yes, do come in.” Reaching into a drawer, Drake placed a small black box in the center of his desk. Xamse walked hesitantly into the vast office, where dark granite walls absorbed the hallway’s light. The hologram’s feeble luminance provided a glowing beacon in the center of the room. Drake peered through the hologram as he addressed Xamse, “Have a seat.”
Xamse settled onto the edge of the chair opposite the desk.
“What is this?” Drake spoke smoothly, gesturing to the animated image that floated between them. Xamse’s eyes glowed in the coruscating light as he examined the hologram.
“Video feed from Unit 324, sir,” replied Xamse, slowly.
“And I see the retrieval of the information was unsuccessful,” Drake said.
“Y-Yes, sir. I performed exactly as asked, sir. I let your programming control the task. Your programming is always the best alternative.” Xamse squirmed and awkwardly added, “The boy has lucky spirit. Next time…”
Drake’s eye twitched and he slammed his fist on his desk. Too late, Xamse noted the box and his white eyes became haunting specters floating amid the blackness as he cried out, “No, please!” Flicking the switch on the box with his thumb, Drake calmly rose while Xamse clawed at the band around his throat, arching his back with such violence that the chair shot out from underneath him and he collapsed to the floor.
“’Lucky spirit’? You want to return to your land of absurd superstitions?” Drake spat.
No answer came as Xamse wailed.
Drake’s voice was smooth and clinical as he asked, “Tell me, how did that feel? Your throat being slit ear-to-ear by your commanding officer?”
“No!” Xamse sobbed.
“Watching them rape your mother? Your sister? Hack your brother to pieces and feed him to the hyenas?”
“No! No! Please!”
Eyeing the button as Xamse writhed, Drake sat in his high-backed chair and swiveled to face the rear wall. “Computer. Open vault.”
Amid tortured cries, a section of the granite wall slid open. Bathed in a muted red luminance stood an ebony juggernaut. Multifaceted globes peered into countless horizons. The jagged claws were poised to crush. Every visible surface was sleek and precisely angled to deflect radar, high explosive rounds, and even larger projectiles. Sensor arrays gave near omniscience on a battlefield, and hidden weapons, capable of dicing opponents into tiny hunks of metal or flesh, lurked behind shuttered ports.
The screams continued.
Drake admired the armor, his first invention. An attempt to level the playing field. Battle armor which could make any normal human the equal of an Augment. Originally, he had hoped to secure his fortune by selling it to the “lesser” nations of the world; those who needed a response to First-World Augment technologies.
But a different opportunity had arisen instead.
Drake missed the days when he’d suited up to personally prove his plan which was indeed the only way to disarm the Augment nuisance. He’d been a wiry scientist who had no business taking on men and women with the powers of gods. But he’d succeeded beyond even his own expectations.
In the end, the use of an automated drone force was ideal. Operator weakness and hesitation to pursue the necessary action could be eliminated. Drake’s own will and determination could be imposed on each drone. Unfortunately, some human oversight was still necessary. A deeply flawed human oversight.
Xamse gurgled from the floor.
Fighting wars was costly, dangerous. True security and fortune, Drake mused, rested in the private sector. With his talented, complex, industrious nanomechs.
But now that security seemed to be in constant jeopardy. Earlier, the shock of finding the Crimson Mask’s hiding spot after two years of searching had forced Drake to adjust his strategy. He’d been concerned that perhaps his clients at Killcreek had set an elaborate trap. That matter settled, now a boy was roaming the streets with a collection of sensitive documents that could potentially derail his plans yet again. Was there ever an end to such inconveniences? If only he wasn’t surrounded by incompetence.
Another strangled cry interrupted his thoughts and Drake swiveled, tapping his finger on the edge of the black box. Xamse’s pleading face strained upward and his twisted hand reached out. Casually, Drake flicked the switch. Xamse collapsed.
“I remember finding you that day while searching out my fallen drone, to figure out how it had gone so far off course. And there you were, impudently digging through its delicate components.”
A soaked, wretched mass, Xamse breathed heavily and pulsing clouds of condensation collected on the granite flo
or.
“Fate, Xamse. A week later, and I would have already signed a contract that left my ‘decommissions’, my cleanup, to our client. I would have had no concern about a downed drone. Even so, I was going to vaporize you, you know. It was an important mission and these were secrets for which you had no clearance and no reason to lay eyes upon.”
“I’m sorry…” Xamse’s thick reply crept along the floor. “I did not mean to fail you.”
Deaf to the pleas, Drake continued. “You sat there. Staring. You didn’t run. Here was a boy savage, staring down Death incarnate. You didn’t even bother reaching for your rifle.” Drake stood and paced around the desk. He knelt, placing his lips close to Xamse’s ear. “I let you live. I saved you.”
Barely mobile, Xamse’s head twitched.
Drake stood and looked into the darkness wistfully. “You showed promise. You’d actually figured out a few basic repairs. It reminded me of myself.” Drake half-smiled. “Do you remember what you said to me?”
“’Help me kill them’.” Xamse’s words were a whisper of pain.
“Yes,” Drake hissed softly. “That’s right. You couldn’t have done it on your own. I repaired the drone and sent it to your camp, even though my mission lay elsewhere. I killed the man who’d put the gun in your hand. Who’d slaughtered your family.”
Xamse nodded, rubbing the skin beneath the collar, his forehead still planted against the floor and his breathing becoming steady.
“This is only so you remember the pain I saved you from.” He reached down and gently took Xamse’s arm, lifting him to the chair.
“Xamse never forgets, sir. Never,” sputtered the boy as Drake stepped away. “I always remember. How you made my dream real. Stopping the murderer. Bringing me here. Letting me help you do your work for this great country. Xamse is grateful. Please, no more of the pain.”
“I do this to remind you, because often, I feel you forget. Only you are to blame. Do as I instruct, and all goes well.” Words of protest formed on Xamse’s lips and then died as Drake turned and stared through him. “We need to retrieve whatever information this boy has. It is very important. You do understand?”
“Yes. I will do my best for you, sir.”
“No, not your best. You will succeed. So far, I’m ahead of schedule. The number of drones have dwindled faster than my calculations, but they have served their purpose. I assume you have not?”
“My purpose is to repay my debt to you.”
“Good. I will give you one more opportunity, Xamse. Then I will have to see to the matter myself. It will interrupt my business negotiations and jeopardize the future of the Nanomech Initiative. That is unacceptable. If that happens, well, I’m afraid I will know then that you have completely forgotten all I have done for you.”
Drake turned to the alcove, red light spilling out like an open wound. The battle armor’s only flaw, in his eyes, was the anthropomorphic configuration. Inefficient and vulnerable, a human bipedal form was his last choice of design. Drake’s earlier designs had been more influenced by the deadly efficiency and grace of the insects he loved, but his client had insisted on more human designs for reasons they refused to disclose.
However, one of his earlier prototypes was still in storage.
“Retrieve the Mantis from the warehouse. Prep it. Find the boy, dispose of him, and secure the data. We cannot have any links between this corporation and the Black Beetle out in the open, understood?”
Xamse departed the room with his head bowed. “I will make you proud, sir.”
As the door closed, Drake muttered, “I should hope so.” He backhanded the holographic screen and it collapsed into a bright vein of light.
Chapter 25
Not sure how long Abercrombie and Bitch will be arguing at the rental car kiosk before they notice I’ve bailed. They’d been giving each other the cold shoulder ever since the conversation in the cockpit. Pretty sure Martin figured out that bullshit with Emily and Dad, too. No way Mom knew. Just goes to show I’m in this alone. Ditching them was easy. They didn’t stand a chance. I almost feel bad.
Melting into a crowd was as easy as curling up in a coatrack. Hopping on a bus to a random remote lot. Hotwiring the little pickup I found. None of it took much time. I’ve never done any hotwiring before, but it turns out to be an extremely simple hack.
Stealing a truck, that’s what I should feel bad about. I don’t even know this person and here I am, in their truck. They shouldn’t have left the parking gate ticket on the dash for the world to see. Either that, or maybe I should feel bad for the twenty bucks I borrowed from Martin to “get a bite to eat” when I wandered off. Nah, he’s loaded. And hey, when the owner finds their truck, at least their parking ticket is paid.
But I can’t help remembering how on that private jet something strange happened in the universe. The Earth’s poles reversed, the moon landing turned out to be a hoax, or maybe Justin Bieber wasn’t all that bad. Some sort of complete meltdown of the laws of nature. Over the course of the flight, Martin had ceased to be a tool.
In fact, I sorta figured out I wanted exactly what he has. Sure, his parents died, that’s pretty horrible stuff, but I can only think that would make my life easier right now. I wouldn’t be hauling ass down the 101 in a stolen pickup, for starters.
Besides, they’d died but they’d also left him millions of dollars, an estate, a private jet and a functioning company that keeps lining his pockets. Now he runs around actually saving lives and not ruining them. My parents leave, and I’m left dodging bullets and picking up the pieces.
It’s been a long time since Eric showed me how to do donuts in the school parking lot. Driving isn’t so hard though. So far, a few angry horns and a couple one-finger salutes from other drivers are the worst of it. I’m getting the hang of it again and have avoided any cops. I should be in the clear. Emily will keep Martin from telling the police, at least for a while, and whoever dropped this truck off, there’s no telling when they’ll get back to the airport and find it gone.
Anyway, Martin was a liability, I’ve got to remember that. Every time he looked sideways at the TSA guys at San Francisco International, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. He was dying to dump this problem on the “proper authorities” from the start. They can’t be involved just yet. Dad might’ve been lying to me and Mom, but I’m pretty sure what he told Emily is right about not trusting anyone. He should’ve given me the same option and let me decide who I wanted to trust.
More honking. I salute like a pro and swerve back into my lane.
The exits slip by. No flashing lights. No helicopter blades humming in the fog overhead. No sign of Emily and Martin in hot pursuit. No drones, yet, either. In the clear as I take my exit and wind toward the old neighborhood.
An urge to cruise the block stops cold at the mental image of my house, ripped open to the sky. I pull into the Qwik Stop right outside the neighborhood entrance. This place is the exact same rundown dump it always was. Dingy stripes run the length of the building, the colors borrowed from a popular national chain. Faded cardboard cutouts of big-breasted girls hold beer cans and smile toward the empty sidewalk. A few cars sit at the pumps with people talking on mobile phones or riding out the foggy day in their vehicle while they fill up. I edge toward the corner by the ice machine and the payphone.
I almost have to pull out the seat to get it all, but there’s nearly three dollars in change spread around the truck, mostly in the ashtray. Eric’s phone number is burned into my memory, more than my own. I blow out through pursed lips and grab the phone before plunking in a string of coins.
“Hello?” Eric’s voice is a ghostly echo from the past. I could almost hang up now, I’m so relieved to simply hear him. He’s half-asleep and the annoyance at being woken sometime before noon is obvious.
“Hello?” he repeats, alert and cautious now.
“What up, Jint?” I manage.
There’s a pause so deep, I check the receiver.
&
nbsp; “S-man, that you?” He doesn’t have a trace of excitement in his voice, so I bury mine.
“Yup.”
“Really, who is this?”
“It’s… it’s me.”
The line goes dead.
I press the phone painfully to my ear and listen closely. Maybe bringing him into this was a terrible idea. This Augment bullshit is dangerous. Martin said it, the random guy interviewed on the street in Mumbai said it, even that gung-ho cameraman filming the destruction in London would’ve agreed. Good for ratings, shit for sanity.
But there’s Mom. Those aren’t just weird dreams. They’re way too real. I’ve got to follow this through to the end, and I need his help for the next move. I feed more change into the phone and dial. It rings. It rings again. Again. I don’t plan on hanging up and I let the ringing go until I think I’m about to get that operator timeout.
“Who are you?” Eric hisses.
“You know who this is.”
“I’m not falling for it.”
“Seriously, it’s me.”
“And who might that be, huh?” I hear a faint beep on the line.
“C’mon, you suck at this spy game shit. Now you’re going to stall me and trace the call?”
“You aren’t who you say you are.”
“I’m the dude that hacked the Diablo’s scoreboard at the homecoming game to make it say ‘Mr. Ennis is a Pennis’. Remember that?”
“Too public. Anyone could’ve heard about that.”
“Yeah, but no one ever figured out who did it. Just you and me knew, that’s all.”
“And you were the prime suspect. Your parents went ape-shit.”
“Yeah, see!”
“No, I meant to say Spence was the main suspect. All you have to know is he liked to tinker with stuff and you can put two and two together.”
“C’mon, man.” Another beep.
“Frak!”
“Yeah, I’m up the street, I…”
Again, the call drops.
I slam the phone down and turn toward the truck. I left the driver’s door wide open and the engine running. Not that I care, but I didn’t even notice when I hopped out to make the call. The idea was to ditch the truck here anyway. Stolen truck, friend’s house, maybe not the best combo. But I suddenly don’t feel like walking.
