Ghosts of Tomorrow
Page 1
Also by Michael R. Fletcher
Beyond Redemption
The Mirror’s Truth
Swarm and Steel (August, 2017)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
GHOSTS OF TOMORROW Copyright © by Michael R. Fletcher. All rights reserved.
Publishing History: This book was first published in 2013 by Five Rivers Publishing as 88.
Cover Art by John Anthony Di Giovanni
Cover Typography and Design by Shawn T. King
Editors: Robert Fletcher, Barb Geiger, Lorina Stephens
ISBN 978-0-9953122-4-1
For my father, whose love of writing seems to have infected me.
Contents
INTRO FROM THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE: Wednesday, August 1st, 2046
CHAPTER TWO: Wednesday, August 1st, 2046
CHAPTER THREE: Wednesday, August 1st, 2046
CHAPTER FOUR: Wednesday, August 1st, 2046
CHAPTER FIVE: Wednesday, August 1st, 2046
CHAPTER SIX: Wednesday, August 1st, 2046
CHAPTER SEVEN: Wednesday, August 1st, 2046
CHAPTER EIGHT: Thursday, August 2nd, 2046
CHAPTER NINE: Thursday, August 2nd, 2046
CHAPTER TEN: Thursday, August 2nd, 2046
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Friday, August 3rd, 2046
CHAPTER TWELVE: Friday, August 3rd, 2046
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Friday, August 3rd, 2046
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Friday, August 3rd, 2046
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Friday, August 3rd, 2046
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Saturday, August 4th, 2046
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Saturday, August 4th, 2046
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Saturday, August 4th, 2046
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Saturday, August 4th 3034
CHAPTER TWENTY: Sunday, August 5th, 2046
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Sunday, August 5th, 2046
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Sunday, August 5th, 2046
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Sunday, August 5th, 2046
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Sunday, August 5th, 2046
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Sunday, August 5th, 2046
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Sunday, August 5th, 2046
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Sunday, August 5th, 2046
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Sunday, August 6th, 2046
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Sunday, August 6th, 2046
CHAPTER THIRTY: Sunday, August 6th, 2046
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Sunday, August 6th, 2046
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Sunday, August 6th, 2046
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: Monday, August 7th, 3024
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: Monday, August 7th, 3024
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: Tuesday, August 8th, 3024
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: Epilogue: Date Unknown
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
GLOSSARY
CHARACTERS
INTRO FROM THE AUTHOR
Back in 2008 I lived with my girlfriend and worked as an Audio-Engineer doing live sound and recording albums for Toronto bands. The itch to write a book was growing in me. I’d tried my hand at writing before, but had always been unable to finish what I started. This time, I decided, it was going to be different.
In 2009, as my soon-to-be-wife planned our wedding, I was finishing up the first draft of my near-future science-fiction novel, 88. After years of searching for a home, 88 was published by the awesome folks at Five Rivers Publishing in 2013. The few folks who read it seemed to like it (some rabidly so), but the book never really got noticed. Much of this is my fault. I knew very little about publishing and even less about publicity.
Life went on. My daughter was born, I left the music industry, I landed an amazing literary agent, and she sold my next novel, Beyond Redemption, to Harper Voyager. Somewhere in there I realized that if I wanted to have any chance at a career as a writer, I’d better start publicizing. Thanks to the awesome Kristopher Kneidecker I got a website, and then got my introverted self on all the usual social media sites.
In 2016 I realized I was going to self-publish The Mirror’s Truth, the sequel to Beyond Redemption. That’s an entire story in itself and if you buy me pints sometime, I’ll tell you all about it. But it planted an idea. I wanted to revisit 88. I wanted to edit and rewrite with what I’d learned over the last few years. There were a few new scenes I wanted to add too. Then, when I saw the work John Anthony di Giovanni did for The Mirror’s Truth, I knew I wanted a new title and cover art. I think you’ll agree that he absolutely killed it. So good!
I asked Lorina over at Five Rivers if she’d be willing to revert the rights to me and she graciously agreed. The folks at Five Rivers really are champions of indie-publishing in every way. If you’re looking for a home for your novel, they’re a great bunch.
The book you hold now is the author’s definitive edition of that story I wanted to tell back in 2008. It’s come a long way in the last nine years.
I hope you like it.
—Mike Fletcher
PROLOGUE
God opened Archaeidae’s soul and poured in light and exquisite pleasure. The boy saw heaven, shuddered in ecstasy until he thought he'd burst. God loved him, absolved him of all sins, took away every nightmare, every memory of spilled blood and spattered brains, washed him pure and made him whole. The light faded and Archaeidae’s thoughts once again coalesced into purest iron will. He awoke driven by a single purpose: Make god happy.
God, dressed in a black tailored suit, stood before Archaeidae, examining the boy.
Archaeidae bowed. “Uncle Riina.”
Uncle Riina quirked the slightest smile, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Archaeidae basked in the approval of almighty god.
“Do you like this chassis?” Riina asked.
Sleek and brutal, Archaeidae’s most recent body was built by Navistar for black-ops stealth and assassination missions.
Archaeidae did an intricate six-limbed dance to demonstrate his mastery of the chassis.
He’d been learning this body for six months, first practicing simple movements like walking and jumping. Later he taught himself how to use all six limbs simultaneously, his scanned mind bifurcating to make use of a body he hadn’t been born to.
Speeding the dance until the sound of his metallic claws on the floor became a constant hum, he drew the daishō, a matched katana and wakizashi Uncle Riina gave him. He spun the swords in a flawless machine-precise kata of death.
Riina nodded again and Archaeidae stopped.
He watched his uncle. Does he look happy or unimpressed? There was no reading the face of god. Maybe I shouldn’t have included the swords. Uncle Riina made a point of talking about maturity and how important it was and Archaeidae was pretty sure it had something to do with leaving your weapons sheathed. Most of the time.
“You like the swords?” Uncle Riina asked.
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Good.”
Riina examined him, looking over the struts of his torso, checking the universal-joints of all six limbs, and finally peering into the visual receptors mounted on his chromed death’s-head skull. “You look like hell spat out its most terrifying spider.” He grinned perfect white teeth. “I have a job for you.”
Archaeidae bowed low. A chance to prove himself in the eyes of god. There was nothing better in all the world. Screaming chaos and blood, broken bodies scattered across a filthy concrete floor. He shut that away. Nightmares were for the weak. Uncle Riina demanded perfection and Archaeidae gave it to him.
“James Schmidt,” said Riina.
&nbs
p; “A lieutenant,” answered Archaeidae, remembering the man. “He runs collections in Wichita.” Hookers and narcotics were a small but profitable aspect of Riina’s business network.
“Ran,” said Riina.
“Ran,” agreed Archaeidae.
“It seems he has a gambling problem. A sizable portion of the funds he collects each week have been going to support that habit.”
God was angry. Archaeidae stood motionless, waiting. Point me in the right direction. I shall be your wrath, the arrow of your vengeance.
“James is at home,” said Riina. “With his wife and kid. Make an example of them.”
Them.
Archaeidae bottled away his feelings. He would not let Uncle Riina down. “I will make you proud.”
“Not the kid,” said Riina. “We don’t hurt children.”
Archaeidae’s heart sang. His was a just god. Riina’s lieutenant stole from him and for that he must pay. The wife was collateral damage, part of the message to the others in the organization: Betraying Uncle Riina comes with a high cost.
He wouldn’t have to murder the child.
“Bring the boy to the crèche, said Riina. “We’ll take care of him, raise him as one of our own.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“James doesn’t yet know that we know.”
“He will soon,” promised Archaeidae.
“Damned right he will,” said Riina. “It will be the last thing he knows.”
An hour later Archaeidae cradled the toddler in his arms, sheltering him from the view. No one needed to see the corpses of their parents littered all over the crappy bungalow they called home.
He’d sent Riina’s message, loud and clear, to anyone in the organization thinking about betraying the Mafia Capo’s trust. He wrote his message in violence and blood, a language they understood well. A language he mastered at the age of twelve. Now, at fourteen, no one spoke it better. Archaeidae was an artist, a poet.
Archaeidae turned away from the chaos and destruction, keeping his body between it and the boy. “It’s okay,” he said. “Uncle Riina will take care of your now. He’ll have you scanned. You’ll shed this weak flesh,” claws retracted, he gently pinched a chubby arm. “You will be steel. He’ll give you meaning. He’ll make you matter.”
The toddler cried and Archaeidae cooed and soothed.
“Don’t worry. It won’t hurt. And later, after the flesh is gone, you’ll receive the best training. Weapons and martial arts. Stealth and evasion. Hacking and informational systems. Wherever your strengths lie, Uncle Riina will find them. He will make you the best you that you could ever be. You’ll see, you’re going to like him.” He leaned in to whisper into the boy’s ear. “He is god.”
It is done, he tight-linked to Uncle Riina. I’m ready for pick-up. I have the boy.
A van would arrive to collect him within the minute.
Archaeidae considered his own past. He remembered nothing before Uncle Riina. “You won’t remember anything,” he promised. “It’s best that way.”
CHAPTER ONE: Wednesday, August 1st, 2046
Crawling, 88 followed a long crack in the stained concrete. Where floor met wall, the crack fragmented like a splayed hand, reaching upward. The pain of the grit and stones on her hands and knees helped her focus. She couldn’t reach the wall; the tubes connecting her to the rear of the cell wouldn’t let her. Rocking back onto her haunches she picked at the scabs and scars in the crook of her left arm. The catheter in her right arm itched and burned, at odds with the random pulses of icy fluid it shoved into her veins. The feeling of that cold creeping up her arm and into her chest left her nauseated. She’d repeatedly yanked out the catheter until the men came and fastened it to her with fibrous gray tape. They’d said something about the veins in her left arm collapsing from abuse.
Ignoring the relentless emptiness in her belly, 88 studied the cracks in the walls and floor. The cracks were a system, a coded message from the universe, pregnant with information and sly in subtle hints. She leaned forward, face close to the floor as she stared at the microscopic clefts and crevices in the stone. They spoke to her, revealing all they could of the reality beyond this concrete box.
If only she could crack the cracks.
Cracks meant movement, change. Pressure. She watched. Nothing changed. She watched longer.
Voices echoed in the hall. A distraction. She glanced toward the door, listening. When she returned her attention to the cracks they were just cracks. Wait, what had distracted her? She’d lost something. An idea. Something important. Something to do with change.
The memory of a voice. Her voice. Mom. Soothing and quiet, her voice sounded like home. Belonging. Mom was never loud like the men who brought bright lights and pain and endless questions.
88 picked at a crack with a ragged fingernail, digging for clues. The stone resisted change. She crawled to follow it, squealing as a tearing pain in her arm stopped her short.
No! Further!
She examined her arm. Blood leaked from under the gray tape. She grunted in annoyance; the tubes shouldn’t have stopped her yet. There should be another body-length of freedom. Looking back she saw the Total Parenteral Nutrition tubes—as they were labeled where they disappeared into the wall—tangled in a jumbled knot.
Did I do that? She couldn’t remember.
Once the TPN tubes were untangled, 88 again followed the crack. The voices beyond her cell grew in volume. Men, loud and harsh. Go away. The sharp smell of sweet chemical residue, not unpleasant but overpowering. New. Go away! She cringed back from the door, dragging the hoses in the dust, careful they didn’t tear her arm any more than they already had. She bared teeth in a defiant snarl.
The door opened. Loud voices. Bright lights.
She forgot the men and the cracks, lost them in an avalanche of sensory overload. Metallic acid smell. The cell’s acoustics changed as the door opened and moist air flooded in. Gritty stone under her bum. Voices. The hose in her arm spewed ice into her veins. Too much.
Awareness returned one sense at a time. When 88 could again focus, two men stood in the cell with her. They talked, but not to her. Their tan clothes were different from those who’d taped the tubes to her arm. She’d seen men like this before. Her teachers called them Suits as though their choice of clothing defined them.
She picked at her diaper, the only clothing she’d ever worn. Does this define me?
The suits were a pale tan and hung loose on thin frames. 88 liked the color, it was quiet. The man on the left appeared soft, his face round and damp, his pale eyes wide and blinking too fast. The other looked hard, features chiseled and lean.
Mean. Bad. Hurt.
88 shuffled back from the door, putting distance between her and the men. She had to look away from their stares. Rocking helped filter the bombardment of sights, scents, and sounds. She watched the men from the corner of her eye, wanting to get back to examining the cracks but too distracted.
The hard one brushed the hair out of his eyes. “She don’t look like a genius, sitting in the dirt rocking like that.”
“This one was slotted for the crèches before birth,” said the soft one. “They increased the amount of prenatal testosterone, giving her a stronger interest in systems and increased attention to detail. It’s sort of a chemically/hormonally induced Asperger Syndrome.”
“Ass-burger?”
“Asperger. Apparently, it cripples her language and social skills a bit. She’s a high-functioning autistic. That’s probably why she’s rocking like that.”
“But she’s not actually retarded, right? If the kid’s a ‘tard, I come a long way for nothing and the boss is gonna be displeased.” He enunciated the last word carefully.
Displeased. She liked that word, it felt round.
“No. Well, not too much. More that she’s...different in the right way. She tests higher than any of the other kids in every field. Math and complex systems are her strongest subjects. I’m talking savant level scores.
”
Still rocking, 88 turned so she could see the men. “They’re going to kill you,” she blurted, repeating something Mom said before they took her away. They stopped talking and watched her. The silence helped her think.
Could the cracks in the floor be caused, or at least influenced, by the weight of the people walking upon it? She looked to the floor, contemplating the density of stone. When she returned her attention to the men they’d backed away and were again conversing in hushed tones.
She listened as they talked. The gritty dust on the palm of her hand distracted her. Much of what they said wasn’t interesting enough to make it past the other stimuli.
“Creepy...” They’d left the door open and across the hall, she saw another door, this one with a faded 87 above it. “...didn’t think...” She heard moaning from beyond that far door and the sound of tubes dragged across stone.
Someone like me?
“...aware of her surroundings,” said the hard suit.
“She’s forgotten...can be...strange.”
“...drooling...hacker potential?”
The sweet chemical smell came from the men but couldn’t mask the more sour odor underneath. Dark patches swelled from under their arms, staining their suits. Too much, she rubbed at the floor, feeling the sharp grit on her fingertips.
“Hacker god...girl’s scores aren’t human.”
A change in the man’s tone dragged 88 back into the conversation. It took her away from the stone.
“She gives me the shivers,” said the hard one. “Her eyes look dead.”
“Prophetic. Anyway, won’t be a problem for long,” answered the other, blinking rapidly.
“Suppose not.”
Something was going to change, but what? My eyes?
“The autism...makes her challenging...social skills...a problem. The kid’s already basically a computer.”
“They are going to turn you into a computer,” 88 said. They weren’t listening.
“Ain’t interested...social skills...we’ll take her. What’s the asking price?”